beet roses

If asked, I'd say that the rose is my favorite flower, but my husband knows better than to bring any home today. It's not that roses on Valentine's Day is a cliché… something so classic and eternally beautiful can never be that. I guess my objection is the mass-marketed, factory-farmed, ridiculously-priced aspect. Yet, as symbols of love and romance, they are undeniable. So, while there will be no long-stemmed, hothouse-forced, All-American Beauties in my house today, there will still be roses!

bull's blood beet chips on Couer de Bray (cow)

candy cane beet chips on Bonne Bouche (goat)

microwave beet chips

beets
1 quart water
1 Tblsp kosher salt
olive oil in a mister bottle

Slice the beets thinly on a mandolin so that they are slightly thicker than a credit card. (If your beets are round and you wish to make roses by embedding them in cheese, they will need to be tapered on one end like a rose petal.)
Add the salt to the water (yes, it's a lot of salt, but neccessary for proper dehydration) and bring to a boil. Drop in about a dozen beet slices at a time and boil for about 3 minutes, (adding more water to maintain the level or it will become too salty as it evaporates) or until they become flexible. Remove beets with a slotted spoon and spread out on paper towels. Blot the tops dry with additional towels. Transfer slices to a sheet of parchment paper on a flat, microwave-proof dish in a single layer. Spray the tops lightly with olive oil. Flip them over and mist again. Place beets in microwave and cook on high power for 1-2 minutes, depending on the wattage of your microwave (run a trail with a few beets to confirm the time— they should become crisp within a minute of removing them from oven). Repeat with remaining beets. Store in an airtight container at room temperature.

venison pepper banon

I adore spice cookies with cheese… cream cheese sandwiched between two wafers of thin gingerbread… blue cheese spread on gingersnaps… soft molasses cookies with melted taleggio (and beets!)… toasted lebkuchen and almond crumbs scattered over burrata…. these make me very happy.

And so,when this liquid-ripe banon crossed my path, it could not escape its destiny with the naked pepper cookies. Nor could the gamey venison tenderloin, a gift from a hunter who generously gave up what he considered the best part of the animal. Add to that: bittersweet ginger shards, roasted persimmon caramel, and tiny green peppercress seeds, and I'm very happy indeed.

burrata peaches agastache

To a cook, food is a kaleidoscope of things: art, science, history, identity, religion. Sometimes food is just fuel; sometimes life itself. Every once in a while we encounter a food that is pure magic.

Take burrata, for instance: an impossibly thin skin of mozzarella encapsulating a filling of cream and curds. Surely (I thought), it's the work of an otherworldly being; the conjuring of a generous sorcerer, or a sleight of hand by a milk magician with an enormous heart.

I said as much (or something like it) to a complete stranger upon tasting a particularly ethereal specimen, to which he replied with a humble "thank you". It took me a moment to understand that he was telling me that he had made the burrata himself, perhaps because his earthliness threw me off. But after listening to him describe the process with reverence and passion, while the whole time his deft hands traced the motions, I knew that I was at least half right.

If a mere mortal can make burrata, can we cooks do anything to make it better? To subject it to temperature or tools would only destroy its texture— and burrata is all about texture, the flavor is only as good as the milk from which it's made. No, the best we can do is to pair it foods that will act like magician's assistants, whose role is to enhance the performance of the magician.

My peaches were a disappointment this year. The ones that didn't rot on the tree weren't even worth picking. After the magic of last years harvest, I want to blame it on the incessant rain but that wouldn't explain why the local peaches weren't so affected. In fact, the ones I picked up at the farmer's market displayed remarkable balance and aroma for such a wet year. They made a wonderful fresh peach and mascarpone tart, flecked with spicy, citrusy Agastache "Desert Sunrise" flowers, but paired with burrata, as they are here, the dish was enchanting.

kefir

I have a friend who claims that regular consumption of kefir will provide her with a long, healthy, disease-free life. I hope she's right.

It seems that most kefir enthusiasts drink it for the health benefits (which are substantial) but almost apologetically claim that the flavor is an acquired one. Sure, if you're not open to the taste of sour milk, kefir can be offputting. But, by making it yourself, you can control the degree of sourness— from mildly tangy to sharp and effervescent.

For the uninitiated, kefir is fermented milk, cultured with kefir grains. The gelatinous grains are a matrix of sugar, protein, fat, and ash that harbor a garden of yeast and bacteria. It is the yeast that sets it apart from other milk cultures that are predominately bacteria.

Making kefir is as simple as adding the grains to milk (about 1 tablespoon of grains per 2 cups of milk) and allowing it to ferment at room temperature for a day or two. When the desired texture and flavor are achieved, the grains are strained from the kefir and recycled to start a new batch. If those directions sound vague, they are intentionally so. Even with careful weighing and control of temperature, the results are not always consistent. I've come to believe that this is because kefir grains are living organisms that operate with dual microbes and that the speed and efficiency with which they culture a new batch of kefir is largely dependent on their active state at the time of introduction. For example, I've found that after straining the grains from a completed batch of kefir and immediately adding them to fresh milk, fermentation (detected by the onset of a sour flavor) begins more rapidly than when a batch is started with grains that have been stored in the refrigerator between batches.

With so many variables, I no longer bother with weights and temperature, I just set it out on the counter and let it do its thing. Sometimes I catch it when it turns creamy and just begins to acquire a tang. Sometimes I let it ripen until it curdles and precipitates whey, at which point the curds can be drained to form a soft, tangy cheese. My favorite thing is to cover it tightly while it ferments to trap the CO2 released by the yeast until it gets fizzy. Milk champagne is a wonderous thing!

seasoned puffed pasta

Seasoned puffed pasta makes a great snack. I like to keep cooked, dehydrated pasta in ziplock bags to fry and season for last minute munchies, cocktail snacks and soup garnishes. They're really good tossed in salads, too.

The potential seasonings are infinite. Here are two of my current favorites:

Quintessential Mac 'n Cheese: Cabot makes a product called Cheddar Shake— a sharp white cheddar powder that has enough moisture to cling to and thickly coat puffed pasta. These really are The Cheesiest.

For something more exotic: I toast fenugreek and coriander seeds, grind them with grains of paradise (melegueta pepper), fennel pollen, meyer lemon zest, salt, and a touch of citric acid, and sprinkle it onto the pasta as soon as it comes out of the fryer. The spices cling better when the pasta's surface is still wet and the heat releases their essences.

Note: Virtually any sauce or paste can be spread thinly on silpat and dehydrated along with the pasta (to save energy), then ground and used as a seasoning. I've had success with (reduced) marinara sauce, bbq sauce, mole, and curry pastes.

grapes cheese bread

I keep a running list of plants that I'd like to breed. I do so because I have this fantasy that one day I'll have the time and space for an experimental garden where I can play with plants in the same way that I play with food.

Somewhere on that list is purple peas (merely for the novelty), but it looks like someone 's already been there, done that.

Elsewhere on the list is champagne grapes. I'm besotted by their diminutive size (tiny ones look like caviar, big ones like the aforementioned purple peas), but their one-dimensional flavor needs some work.

Champagne grapes, or Black Corinth, are an ancient seedless variety of Vitis vinifera. They are not used in the production of Champagne (that's just a marketing ploy), though they were once used to make wine in Ancient Greece. I can't imagine that the wine was of recommendable quality because they are so overtly sweet (sweetest grapes on the market) and low in acid. In terms of flavor, they aren't even very good table grapes (but they make good currants). They do, however, have other redeeming qualities: their size is irresistible, their skins are thin and burst pleasantly in the mouth, their stems are edible, and (best of all) they're seedless. These grapes are primed for cross-breeding with a foxier variety— I'd choose Concord (Vitis labrusca).

But until I (or someone else) can alter the plant, at least I can alter the product.
Champagne grapes infused with Concord grape juice, in an iSi whipper, charged with N2O.
Now, that's a great grape!

Vitis vinifera x labrusca • taleggio
flavors of bread: malt, yeast, almonds, mushrooms

(Apologies for all of the asides. Somedays I can't figure out how to blend facts with thoughts without parenthesis. Or italics.)

gouda fries

One of the things that I like about the Parmesan pasta is its versatility. Because there's no starch to cook through, it just needs to be heated enough for the methocel to gel and the cheese to fuse. This means that it can be cooked directly in a sauce, braise, or roasted. I assume that it can also be grilled or deep-fried, although I've tried neither. Cut into batonnets and pan-fried in a nonstick skillet, they form a thin, crisp shell around a soft melted center.

Curiously, the recipe only works with Parmesan. Even other hard cheeses, like an aged Pecorino, causes it to lose its definition, turning into puddles of melted cheese. I've found that the problem can be solved with the addition of a relatively small amount of starch. Both cornstarch or potato starch will work and still keep it gluten free, though I prefer the flavor and lightness of rice flour.

gouda fries

75g water

3g methocel SGA150

112g grated aged gouda

40g rice flour

Add methocel to water and disperse with immersion blender. Chill solution for 4 hours to hydrate.

In a bowl, toss together the gouda and rice flour until well blended. Drizzle 64g of methocel solution over mixture in bowl. Stir mixture until it forms a uniform dough.

Turn dough out onto a sheet of plastic wrap. With fingers, pat into a rough rectangle, about 2cm thick. Cover dough with another sheet of plastic wrap. With a rolling pin, roll out to even 1cm thickness. Remove plastic wrap and cut dough into 1cm x 1cm x 8cm batonnets.

Heat a nonstick skillet over medium-high heat. Lightly grease the bottom with butter. When the butter sizzles and begins to brown, add the batonnets to the pan, turning until they are evenly brown and crisp on all sides. Serve immediately or hold in a warm oven.

gouda fries

peach ketchup

lovage

parmesan pasta

I developed this pasta analog last year for a client who was diagnosed with Celiac disease.
It contains no gluten— only Parmesan, water, and methylcellulose.
The recipe was featured in an article about Molecular Gastronomy written by Peter Barrett for Chronogram Magazine.
You can find the recipe here.

summer pasta

In these, the last days of summer, autumn encroaches clever and lithe.

I try to ignore the signs, but it's worse than that.

I see the chlorophyll drain from the leaves and tell myself it's just the sun. I notice the flowers looking dry and wan and say it's because I didn't give them enough water. And… isn't the goldenrod blooming extra early this year?

I'm in denial.

It's not because I dislike autumn. I don't. But because I will miss summer.

It's not even that it's been a good summer. It hasn't! Losing my father cements it as one that I will poignantly remember forever.

Still… I hate to see it go.

I think what I'll miss most is the bounty at my fingertips.
The joyful sight of fruits on the vine.
The perfume of herbs baking in the sun.
The many colors of ripe.
Nature, in all of her white-hot intensity.

But it's not over yet.

As the sun arcs lower in the sky and night grows longer and cooler, summer vegetables rush to put out their last flush. It's a well known fact that leafy greens, crucifers, and root vegetables taste sweeter when nipped by cold, but I would swear that late-season tomatoes and corn are the best of all. They are only sweeter in memory.

Colors and flavors, the icons of summer, are arranged atop a swath of emulsified tomato milk like notes on a scale. A seasonal keyboard.

Tucked in between are tubes of parmesan pasta. I'll tell you about those next time.

These are covered by a strip of reduced corn juice, thickened by its inherent starch and bursting with flavor. Its form is controlled by freezing, then tempered to a fluid sauce.

Just for this dish, I ignore my tendency towards minimalism, my carefully managed urge to over garnish. I lay it all out. Let nature play all of her notes at once. A crescendo of flowers and herbs.

This is my tribute. An homage. A celebration.
The swan song of summer.

three little figs

Once upon a time, not so long ago or far away, there was a very special fig.

Figgy [as she liked to be called] was no ordinary fig. She was a fig with aspirations.

Indeed, all figs have aspirations; they all want to be immortal. In the glory of their ripeness, they put on their dusky makeup and most alluring perfume in hopes of attracting hungry birds and beasts to spread their seed.
But our Figgy wanted something different for herself. She wanted to go out in a blaze of glory and to live on as a fond memory.

To this end, Figgy placed ads in dozens of newspapers. She received many replies, but thought none earnest. [She was convinced that they were all just greedy bluejays.] Then she received a call from a chef who seemed genuinely interested. Figgy followed her instincts and agreed to a formal meeting.

The meeting was held at the chef's restaurant. Chef greeted her warmly and seated her at a table in the kitchen, then proceeded to present her with dish after dish of the finest food she had ever tasted. After dinner, Chef joined Figgy for a glass of Port and asked her about herself.

Figgy told Chef that her ancestors had come from a faraway land that was once called Persia, but is now known as Iran. They had lived there for centuries in the most splendid gardens that the world had ever seen.
"Did you know that the word paradise is from an ancient Persian word for walled garden?" asked Figgy.
From there, they migrated west to Egypt, then north to Greece, where figs were held in high esteem by both slaves and royalty.
"My forebears were among the figs that concealed the asp in Cleopatra's basket and flourished in King Alcinous' orchard during Odysseus' visit."
"Fascinating", said Chef and begged her to continue.
"Successive generations continued westward along the Mediterranean: Rome, Provence, Andalucia, and finally the Algarve, where my grandmother settled. When my mother was just a sapling, she was packed in a box and shipped across the Atlantic to New England. That's where she lives now; in a pot on a terrace during the bearing season and winters in a heated greenhouse. She is happy and well cared for."

"And you?" asked Chef, "Tell me why you're here."
"I was born in the greenhouse and moved onto the terrace when I was still very young. The family that cared for us would gather there every night for dinner. From high up on one of my mother's boughs, I would watch them feast on the most sumptuous foods. With every bite, they all agreed that it was the best they had ever tasted and that they would remember it forever. It was then that I realized that I didn't want to be gobbled up by a hungry bird. I want to be savored, to be lingered over, to be remembered! I'm hoping that you can help me with that."

"I will do my best, but tell me… what would you like me to do with you?"
Figgy had thought long and hard about this. It's true; she was a dreamer, but she was also a sensible fig. She understood that in order to make a lasting impression, she needed some enhancement. In her haste to fulfill her destiny, perhaps she had left her mother too soon and was not as sweet and ripe as she could have been.
"I can fix that with a bit of honey." said Chef.

Figgy's mother had taught her many things about her history and her anatomy. She often lamented that figs are mistaken for fruit when they are actually flowers. She had explained that inside herself were hundreds of flowers that looked like long, thin filaments, and that each one held a seed. These seeds, she had said, were what perpetuated their species and held them in regard as an ancient symbol of fertility. But they were often cursed by humans for getting caught in their teeth and interrupting the sensual experience of eating figs.
Chef listened to her concern and suggested that a blender would break down her seeds, if she would allow it.

Figgy was not afraid of the blender or what it would do to her, she was ready to sacrifice herself fully. But she was adamant about retaining her form, of which she was fiercely proud, despite it's phallic shape that has been a source of embarrassment to both men and women throughout the ages. So much so, that the original Arabic word for figs is now considered an obscenity.
"No problem" said Chef "I can mold you so that you will look exactly like yourself, but better."

This pleased Figgy and she was anxious to get started, but Chef was hesitant.
"I think that to make you truly memorable, you will need to share the spotlight with other flavors. If we do it right, they will not rob you of your glory, but make you more delicious. Will you trust me?"
When Figgy seemed amenable, Chef continued, "Great! I'd like to introduce you to some of my friends that I think you will get along with very nicely."

Chef rushed into the kitchen, swept things up off the counter, and laid them out in front of Figgy.

"First, I'd like you to meet Onion Caramel. She may look cloyingly sweet, but she's surprisingly sassy."
"Yes, I like her." said Figgy taking a taste "She's got lots of personality!"

"Next, there's Dark Chocolate. He's smooth, suave, mysterious and seductive, but with a bitter edge to balance your sweetness."
"Oh my, I'd better stand my ground with him or he will sweep me off my feet."

"And, finally" said Chef, lifting the lid off a round, wooden box "there's Epoisses."
Figgy shrieked and stepped back, holding her breath.
"Now don't be afraid. I know Epoisses seems offensive, but I assure you, it's only skin-deep. If you take some time to get to know her, you'll find that she's full of character and actually sweet and mild on the inside."
Figgy watched Chef cut through the rind and expose a pale, creamy heart. She tasted carefully and found Epoisses agreeable and lovely.

"So, when do we get started?" asked Figgy.

The next morning Chef entered the kitchen to find Figgy and her friends engaged in a lively conversation.
When Chef asked Figgy if she was ready, she pulled Chef aside and said in a hushed tone, "I really love my new friends. We couldn't get along any better, but I'm worried. They are all such wonderfully memorable characters, how can I stand out among them?"

Chef understood and said reassuringly, "Figgy, I promise you that when I present your dish tonight that it will only be you that they see. And from then on, when they remember your dish, it will be you that they reference."

Chef and staff worked steadily throughout the day in preparation for the special meal. Every seat for both sittings were full and expectations were high. Course after course of Chef's carefully planned and executed meal was dispatched from the kitchen with only a few minor glitches. Figgy's dish was the final course.
When the last plate left the kitchen, Chef congratulated the staff, cleared the pass, hung her apron, and entered the dining room.

Late that evening, Chef was alone in the kitchen writing menus, taking inventory, and listing orders for the next day's deliveries. Intermittently, she paused to reflect on the evening's accolades. There had been so many kind words from her guests: enthusiastic bloggers snapped photos and offered praise, critics hinted at rave reviews. There was even conjecture of a Michelin star. But the words that pleased her most were: "…the fig dish…", followed by various adjectives, " fantastic!… delicious!… brilliant!… memorable!"

As Chef turned the lock on the restaurant for the night, she felt overwhelming gratification.
For giving her best.
For pleasing her guests.
For making her staff proud.
But most of all, for keeping her promise to Figgy.

left to right:
dark chocolate-covered epoisses
onion caramel
Figgy