buddha’s hand citron salt

My first inclination was to dehydrate the preserved Buddha's hand puree but some long forgotten piece of knowledge— an elemental fact, in fact— kept knocking at my logic, insisting that it would not turn out the way I thought.

It was the salt.

Salt does not evaporate. I learned that in third grade science class while standing over a pot of boiling salted water, watching the water vaporize and leave behind a film of salt clinging to the bottom of the pot.

Common salt is an ionic bond of sodium (Na) and chloride (Cl). When it is dissolved in water, the Na and Cl atoms pull apart and seem to disappear. Take away the water and the atoms reunite because they are electrostatically attracted to each other.

Remembering this put a spin on my intentions for the puree. Looking at it anew, I estimated that it was roughly 70% solids suspended in 30% water but there was no way to evaluate how much salt the preserved citron had absorbed. Judging from the taste— quite a bit. I had every reason to believe that if I removed the water from the puree I would be left with dehydrated flavor solids clinging to re-formed salt crystals, or an inherently flavored salt.

I would risk scorching the solids if I evaporated the water on a stove top. And I couldn't wait for the slow process of low temperature dehydration to find out. So I turned to the microwave.

After trying to heat a mass of the puree in the microwave, I quickly remembered something else I had forgotten: molten salt conducts electricity. Alarmed by the sparks flying around my 2-month-old microwave, I quickly removed it and thinly spread the puree on silpat and returned it to the microwave. It sputtered a bit, but no sparks. Ten seconds later, the puree had transformed to lacy fragments of crunchy, lemon-infused salt.

After my brain stopped reeling from possible uses, I was left with some questions:

Could the process be hastened by simply dissolving salt in a puree and dehydrating, or did the six-week-long preserving affect the outcome?
Did the acid in the lemon juice (used in preserving) come into play?
Did the re-formed salt crystals trap the solids or are they clinging to the crystals?
What is the yield point of a salt solution (i.e. how much salt can be added to water before it will cease to dissolve)
How much salt is necessary for the product to qualify as a flavored salt instead of a salty crisp?

buddah’s hand citron

If a squid and a lemon had a love child, I imagine it would look like a Buddah's hand citron.

The visually striking Buddah's hand citron (Citrus medica var. sarcodactylis) is an ancient species of citrus, a genetic mutation that originated in Northeastern India or China. It's fragrance is sweet and floral— like lemons and oranges, kissed by violets— and so powerful that in China it's used to scent rooms and tucked in with clothing and linens.

Buddah's hand citron has no pulp or juice— just a fragrant rind, laden with essential oils, and a mild, sweet albedo (pith), devoid of the bitterness found in other citrus.

I purchased a pair of them in early December and after admiring their forms and fragrance on display around the house, it was time to bring them into the kitchen.

Buddah's hand citron is most commonly used in sweet applications, but I wanted to explore its use as a savory component. Knowing that I wouldn't have time to work them into a dish, I cut them into fingers and preserved them in salt and Meyer lemon juice. Nearly six weeks later, they were ready— and so was I.

Preserved in their salty and acidic bath, the rind of the Buddah's hand citron appeared darker and slightly shriveled, while the spongy albedo had softened and condensed. Like preserved lemons, they were fiercely pungent— salty and puckery, but underneath that was their characteristic sweet, floral aroma. Straight out of the brine, they would've made a distinctive accent to nearly anything from seafood to lamb, if used sparingly.

In an attempt to tone them down, I cooked them in a pressure cooker with water and just a spoonful of the brine. They turned out mellower in flavor with a melting soft texture that easily turned into a smooth puree in the food processor.

Now what?

thai pie

With the last of the kaffir limes I wanted to make a variation of Key Lime Pie. Have you ever wondered what prompted the use of sweetened condensed milk in this classic American dessert? I have. Apparently, the first pie was made in the Florida Keys in the late nineteenth century, shortly after Gail Borden introduced the product in the US in 1856. Before modern refrigeration, cooks in the hot climate of Key West had to rely on canned milk as fresh milk was not readily available. The rest, as they say, is history.

Although there are many applications for sweetened condensed milk, I can recall only ever using it for two things: Key Lime Pie and dulce de leche. See where I'm going?

Despite the warnings on the cans, I still make dulce de leche by boiling the sealed can in a pot of water. It's so easy. Unless you let the water boil away and the can explodes. Years later, I'm still cleaning that mess.

The caramelized flavor of the dulce de leche reminded me of the palm sugar in the Nahm Jeem Plah Poa Ubon sauce of the previous post. Along with the kaffir lime juice, I had the base in which to build the flavor profile of the sweet, tart, salty, spicy sauce that I so love. Don't worry— I left out the garlic and fish sauce. The salt is in the pastry crust and the spice, along with coconut powder, is in the meringue topping.

Download recipe: Thai pie

thai shrimp cocktail

I've always poached shrimp in the conventional way: in a pot of simmering court bouillon. Sometimes I poach it in butter or olive oil, but then, that's confit, isn't it? Same with sous vide.

Recently, I was shown a different method by a culinary student at the restaurant, who learned it from another chef. His way is with residual heat. Instead of cooking the shrimp in the simmering broth, boiling broth is poured over the shrimp that's been spread out in a hotel pan. The pan is immediately covered tightly with plastic wrap and set aside. Depending on the size and quantity of the shrimp, it takes 10-15 minutes until they are perfectly cooked. What I like about this countertop cooking is that they are never tough or overcooked.

Peeling and deveining shrimp is a time consuming task. Sometimes, I buy them already deveined, but always with their shells on for flavor. Decapods (ten-footed crustaceans) carry their intestines on what appears to be their backs, but are actually their bellies. To remove the intestinal tract, the flesh along the belly must be slit open, leaving thin flaps that I find visually distracting when presenting them whole. These long, thin filaments peel away easily and are tasty morsels, though they rarely accumulate in quantities that would comprise a meal. These trimmings— the rare and esoteric by-products of cooking— are the cook's reward.

I think what I like best about Thai food is the balance of sweet, salty, tart, spicy and umami. Nowhere
is this best exemplified than in the sweet-sour garlic dipping sauce Nahm Jeem Plah Pao Ubon— a lively combination of lime juice, palm sugar, thai chilies, garlic, and fish sauce. It's an alarm clock of a sauce— it awakens the senses, makes you sit up and pay attention. I prefer it over cocktail sauce as a dip for poached shrimp. It's delicious poured over hot, grilled fish or steamed rice. In hot weather, I drizzle it over icy-cold watermelon or freeze it and rake it with a fork for a refreshing granita. It's so good that I could drink it, and I do—diluted with sparkling water and sometimes in a sake cocktail.
Using kaffir lime juice brings it to a whole other level, adding complex floral notes along with a bracing acidity.
I wanted to use it with the shrimp bellies and rice noodles in a cold salad, but because it is so thin, I was having a hard time getting the sauce to cling to it. It's not such a bad thing having a pool of it in the bottom of the dish to slurp up, but I was looking for a cleaner presentation. Of course, I could've thickened it with xanthan or ultratex, but looking at the rice noodles, I realized that they were the perfect vehicle to carry the flavor. With a nod to an entirely different cuisine— Italian— and the dish Spaghetti All'Ubriaco, where pasta is cooked in red wine, I cooked the rice stick noodles in the sauce. Infused with the flavor of Nahm Jeem Plah Pao Ubon, the noodles 'dressed' the salad neatly and cleanly.

Nahm Jeem Plah Pao Ubon
parts are by volume, not weight

3 parts nam plah (fish sauce)
2 parts water
2 parts palm sugar (or brown sugar)
1 part finely minced garlic
1 part minced fresh thai bird chili, or 1/2 part dried
3 parts fresh kaffir lime juice

Place all ingredients except for lime juice in a saucepan and bring to a simmer. When the sugar is dissolved, remove from heat and add the lime juice.

kaffir lime

Why— in the dead of winter— do I crave bright exotic flavors? I suppose it's a countermeasure to the bleakness of January; a physical reminder that somewhere on this planet the earth is producing things that are juicy and ripe.

Many food trend lists for 2010 include eating locally and seasonally. Admirable goals, certainly, but I live in the frozen tundra Northeast, and if I were to adhere strictly to that, I would be starving right about now. And even worse, there would be no citrus fruits of any kind.

I never fully realized how indispensable citrus is in cooking until I had to do without it, as the Native Americans did— who ONLY ate locally and seasonally. It forced me to analyze why I relied on lemon and lime juice— or any acidic medium. I concluded that it is not merely a crutch, but an essential element of flavor balance that is supported by many of the world's cuisines. Lemons, limes and other sour citrus have distinct aromas that can define or enhance flavor, while acid is a great equalizer. Like salt, it opens up flavors and makes them bloom. A small addition of acid can balance a dish; saving it from being too sweet, too rich, too flat. Relearning all of this makes me more mindful of its role and all the more grateful that I have access to products that don't grow in my climate.

I'll never forget my first encounter with kaffir lime. It was one of those moments that left an indelible impression on my sensory bank. I was eating Thai food— for the first time— at an authentic Thai restaurant. The perfume of kaffir lime leaves was woven through course after course of the most sensual and aromatic food that I had no point of reference or vocabulary for. It was wonderfully exotic.

The first thing I did was to buy a Thai cookbook to better understand the cuisine. 20+ years ago, I had never even heard of things like galangal, nam pla, and kaffir lime leaves, let alone know where to source them. But that didn't stop me from cooking it— substituting ginger for galangal, lime zest for kaffir lime leaves— fully cognizant that it was not authentic. Instead, I focused on learning technique— how to pre-soften dried rice noodles for Paht Thai in warm water, how to make an incendiary and aromatic Krueng Gaeng Kua in a mortar & pestle, how to thicken coconut cream until the surface glistens with oil before adding the curry paste and coconut milk when preparing Choo Chee Goong. When the ingredients finally became available, I was prepared to do them justice.

As I recall, the kaffir lime leaves were the hardest to source. It was a hit-or-miss item at Asian markets. With the advent of the internet, I found a supplier/grower in Florida who was willing to ship small quantities of fresh leaves. Eventually, I became curious about the fruit, made inquiries, and was told that because there wasn't a market for kaffir limes in the US, they stripped the trees of fruit buds to direct its energy to producing leaves. Undeterred, I ordered a dwarf tree that I would grow indoors. It died before setting fruit, along with my hopes of ever tasting a fresh kaffir lime.

Fast forward to last winter. The chef at the restaurant hands me a pair of green knobby fruit that Sid Weiner had dropped off as samples of a new product. One intoxicating whiff and I instantly knew what they were. I had waited over a decade to experience them. Were they worth it? You bet.

This was one of my favorite hors d'Oeuvres from this holiday season. They're so simple that a recipe isn't neccessary. Just mix impeccably picked-over crab meat with a little mayo, minced shallots, scallions, cilantro and kaffir lime zest (or minced leaves) and as much red curry paste as you can handle.. The avocado bases were cut a few hours ahead and kept in diluted kaffir lime juice (or just lime juice with a few kaffir lime leaves tossed in for flavor).

honeysuckle

This is my third attempt at writing this post.

In the first, I told you about my childhood friend's flower garden and how she introduced me to the concept of flowers-as-food when she showed me how to suck the honey out of honeysuckle.

In the second, I told you about my struggles to find flavor pairings that would do the honeysuckle justice, and how I found inspiration from a bottle of yuzu juice.

Then, I wondered if the backstory was necessary when all I really wanted to say is that these flavors made me happy. Very Very happy.

Third time's a charm.

earl grey junket

yuzu curd

whipped honey

malted meringue

honeysuckle

asparagus rose

prosciutto asparagus olive oil lemon rose

I once worked for a chef with an exacting standard for detail. His mirepoix were perfectly uniform 1/4" dice and his mise en place were works of art, craft, and geometry. Besides his knives, which he wielded with the precision of a surgeon, his favorite tool was a ruler.

I learned a lot about OCD from him.

He must have seen some of those same tendencies in me because I was given some of the fussier tasks that he normally did himself. When he wasn't there to walk me through it, he would leave detailed notes– complete with drawings– of components or new dishes that he wanted me to work on. Eventually, as I became more familiar with his aesthetic, and he with mine, I was just given a list of dishes and left to interpret them.

On one of those lists was a dish that I fixated on: Fresh pea risotto with prosciutto rose. I immediately saw the dish in my head; a pale green mound of risotto topped with a loosely coiled ribbon of prosciutto. I couldn't figure out how prosciutto rose even fit into his style so I proceeded with my vision.

When I showed him the dish, he glowered at it. He insisted he had specified prosciutto lardons. I showed him the list and he conceeded that it had been his mistake but he never did explain how someone confuses lardons with roses.

In the end, he liked the dish as I had made it. My reward for pleasing him was to make 150 more just like it.

asparagus risotto

robiola bosina

prosciutto rose

deep-fried rose petals

asparagus salt

A recent job took place on a privately-owned modern villa here in Northwestern Connecticut. Hidden behind 8'-high stone walls was the most extraordinary vegetable garden that brought to mind the gardens of Monticello, Versailles, and Villa Borghese.

Highly ornamental, yet fully functional, it featured symmetrical parterres edged with clipped boxwood in elaborately knotted patterns; the pockets planted with herbs and vegetables. Red and green lettuces were planted in alternating blocks to form edible checkerboards. Iron trellage towers supported beans and tomatoes. Antique terra cotta cloches protected tender seedlings. Gurgling fountains, imposing sculptures– there was so much to admire and draw inspiration from that I quickly went into sensory overload.

In that formal setting, herbs and vegetables were treated and displayed with a deference that is usually reserved for ornamental plants and flowers. One stunning border featured roses interplanted with asparagus. The slim stalks of asparagus rising out of the ground echoed the thorny stems of the roses tipped with tight green buds. The gardener revealed that there was a beneficial logic to the pairing, but I was too distracted to take note.

I can however tell you about the logic of pairing the flavor of roses with asparagus. They are united by several aroma compounds, most notably alcohols and aldehydes and also some ketones and esters. Among them are:

Valeraldehyde (warm, winey, slightly fruity, and nutty)

Phenylacetaldehyde (earthy-sweet, fruity, floral)

Octanol (fresh orange-rose, slightly herbaceous)

Vinylphenol (vanilla extract)

Nonyl Alcohol (floral-citrus, slightly fatty, bitter)

No matter how much research I do on these compounds, the scientific names always shock me. They serve as a reminder that everything we perceive as wholesome, natural, and organic is, in fact, a complex composition of chemicals.

daffodil

There's a place just up the road from me that I make a point to visit at this time of year.

It's the kind of spot that embodies the bucolic scenery of rural New England.

There are pastoral rolling hills…

…moss-patinaed stone walls…

…ancient gnarled trees…

…steep stone steps…

…and a lake with tiny islands.

It's a magical place at any time of year, but for a few weeks in April it becomes an enchanted land of earth, water, stone, and daffodils.

Daffodils have an alluring aroma with sweet notes of honey, citrus, warm spice, and exotic fruit. However, they contain the alkaloids galanthamine and lycorine that render them highly toxic if consumed. Even deer won't touch them.

mango

whipped honey

passionfruit souffle cake

orange blossom ice cream

pandan glass

ginger honey crystals

calendula buds

Download recipe: Daffodil

crab mango spruce pomelo vanilla

In my mind, mango and pine will always be tangled together. I have Luciano to thank for that.

Luciano was a dishwasher at the first restaurant that I worked in. He could rip through stacks of dirty dishes faster than any machine, work any station where he was needed, fix anything that was put in front of him. He also made the most delicate pasta that I've ever tasted. All this, he did with the demeanor of a pit bull, alternately growling and cursing like a sailor, then laughing and smiling like an impish boy. He held everyones respect with his consummate badassness.

He was a man of many talents and just as many peculiarities. For one, he had a habit of chewing on pine twigs, of which he kept a fresh supply in a freezer. When questioned, he explained that it kept his teeth clean and it was Nature's breath freshener. I had to agree as he did, indeed, have a dazzling-white smile and always smelled forest-fresh.

Luciano also introduced me to the mango. He brought one in for me one day when I expressed an interest in the fruit that he spoke of with an exaggerated fondness that made his eyes go soft. He showed me how to peel it with a paring knife, then cut away the flesh from the flat seed that he kept for himself, scraping it over and over between his teeth, because–as he put it–"It is the sweetest part…Nature's candy."

My first impression of the mango was favorable–a nice balance of sweet and tart, exotic aromas, buttery texture–yet there was an underlying flavor that intrigued me. When I identified it as pine and relayed this to Luciano, he burst out in a belly-laugh, explaining, "To me, everything tastes like pine"

It came as no surprise when, many years later, I confirmed that there is a concentration of the hydrocarbon, terpene, in the flavor profile of mangoes. Among these are limonene (citrus), pinene (pine), carvone (caraway, dill), myrcene (bay, verbena, myrtle), and ionone (violet, vetiver).

While playing with the flavor of pine (here, in the form of spruce) and mango, I found vanilla to be a nice bridge with both flavors, rounding out the sharp pitchyness of the pine and enhancing the floral aroma of mango. Pomelo, an enormous citrus that tastes like grapefruit without the bitterness, has a fragrant peel with tones of bergamot that played along well with these flavors.

Recently, in an email exchange with another chef, I mentioned this relationship between mango and pine. He was quick to reference a dish in The Big Fat Duck Cookbook. Sure enough, Heston Blumenthal had uncovered this relationship and composed a beautiful dessert around it.

king crab

mango

spruce

pomelo

avocado

vanilla

Although Luciano was in his fifties when I knew him, he was one of the fittest people I knew. He attributed this to a daily regimen of weight lifting and mango power shakes.

I think that he would approve of this mango lassi with a head of spruce foam, scented with a split vanilla bean.

Spruce (Picea) proliferates throughout Northern temperate zones. It is distinguished by its symmetrical conical growing habit, making it a prized landscape plant as well as a favorite Christmas tree. Spruce contains a good amount of vitamin C and its sap was used by Native Americans to make a gum, which later became the inspiration for the first commercially produced chewing gum.

Addendum: an interesting bit of information from a reader via email:

"…I lived on Kauai for four years where people with property have varied and excellent cultivars of all sorts of mango trees and one of my neighbors took me to his 'special' tree to harvest a basket load of perfectly luscious golden mangos. Then he showed me his personal quirk – mangos will bleed sap from the stem when they're picked and that was one of his favorite parts. I tried it and found it to be totally piney in flavor and from then on, I really taste the terpenes in the mango's I eat quite clearly. So fun. He believed it to be particularly healing too, though he didn't have any concrete thoughts about why specifically.
I recommend looking near the stem end of the mangos you find in the market for a shiney, dried drip of sap somewhere on the skin. You can usually peel it off and chew it like gum. It will be totally piney and delicious.
Thought you'd find this a fun bit to know…"

trout quinoa tangerine fir

fir-infused trout

crispy quinoa crust

fir oil

tangerine

black olive dust

If you've ever belonged to the Scouts of America, or have been camping, then you surely know what a hobo pack is. Maybe you don't. Or you need to be reminded.

A hobo pack is a self-contained meal where a square of foil serves as both pan and plate.

When my boys were young and had polar tastes in food, both of which conflicted with my husband's and mine–hobo packs saved my sanity. With very little effort, I could assemble fresh and nutritious meals that were customized to our individual tastes without destroying my kitchen. In the dog days of summer, vegetables and herbs went directly from the garden (with a brief pause under the faucet) to awaiting packs by the grill–no kitchen involved. In the winter, the packets were cooked on glowing embers in the fireplace and eaten on plates while sitting on the floor in front of the fire. These meals always felt effortless.

But if it was just convenience that I was after, there were other alternatives. What appealed to me about hobo packs was the cloche environment that allowed for infusing flavor. Here, there was plenty of room for play. Virtually any ingredient(s) that performs well in a steamy, hot environment is a candidate for this method, with herbs, spices, liquids and/or fats added for flavor.

What distinguishes this method from other forms of vapor cooking is that it is performed on a very hot heat source, which introduces the element of caramelization in the bottom layers that permeates the rest of the contents. One adjunct to this is that when using dried woody herbs as a bed, they will burn and impart a smoky flavor.

That smokiness was what I was going for when placing rainbow trout (a good choice for sustainability) on a bed of dried fraser fir needles. The result is a stunning sweet, resinous aroma that infiltrates the fish. If terroir, or 'a sense of place' can be captured in a dish, this one certainly does, conjuring up memories of sitting around a campfire in a fragrant forest, with a well-stocked lake nearby. In this context, food really does taste better when kissed by the great outdoors.

A thick layer of fresh fir needles are arranged on a square of heavy-duty foil. A deboned filet of trout is rubbed with olive oil and seasoned with salt and pepper. Thin slices of tangerine are arranged over top. The foil is tightly sealed around fish, leaving some airspace for heat circulation. The packet is placed on a red-hot cast iron skillet (it's ready when drops of water immediately evaporate) and cooked for 3 minutes, then removed and allowed to steam for 5 minutes before opening.

Fraser fir (Abies fraseri) is the quintessential American Christmas tree, known for its fragrance and ability to retain its soft needles for weeks after cutting. It has one of the strongest terpene scents among conifers.

To make fir oil, blend fresh needles in a high speed blender with olive oil. Strain and store in an opaque container in the refrigerator.