Saveur, a five year anniversary, and a new kitchen

Just over two years ago I received an email from Steven Stern, a food writer, who asked if I was interested in being featured in an article for Saveur magazine. The proposed story would take a behind-the-scenes look at how I use my kitchen to prepare the foods that I post here on Playing With Fire and Water.

Over the past two decades, Saveur has inspired and fueled a passion for world cultures through the lens of food, consistently delivering quality content without relying on trends. In this shifting landscape of cuisine in a rapidly shrinking world, it has been a source of stability and perspective.

Of course I was interested!

But there was a major obstacle. At the time, my kitchen looked like this:

As luck would have it, my kitchen was in the process of remodeling and it would take months to be presentable. I explained to Steven and he assured me that the story would wait.

Then I worried about his expectations— was he hoping to find a kitchen, a laboratory, or a hybrid?

Although the new kitchen's footprint had doubled in space, there was still no room (or budget) for a chamber vacuum, CVap, rotary evaporator, or any other laboratory-cum-kitchen equipment. My cooking had always relied upon a few basic appliances that could be found in any serious cook's kitchen and, for the time being, would continue that way. I hoped that was not going to be a deal breaker.

Steven Stern's reply was affirmation that we were on the exact same page and that he was the right person for the story:

" I love that there's this online world of people sharing information and ideas, and it totally cuts across the usual boundaries of amateur and professional. And what's so appealing about your blog is that while you're working at this very high level of craft, everything you do seems approachable and personal and idiosyncratic. It really broadens the idea of "home cooking." So, yes, I think the idea that you're not working in some sterile lab with liquid nitrogen tanks and a centrifuge is precisely what we want to stress."

Predictably, the remodel ran behind schedule, but Steven was patient and finally came to my home in early summer. We passed a lovely afternoon chatting about food. I cooked for him, eager to introduce him to some of the fermented foods that I was working on. His questions, backed by genuine curiosity, felt like getting acquainted with a new friend, never like an interview.

Months later, I received a message from Penny De Los Santos informing me that she was coming to photograph my kitchen. It felt like I won the lottery and was acutely aware on the morning that she arrived of how fortunate I was for the opportunity to observe her at work and to pick her brain. She is as sweet and real as she is talented.

The story was written, the photographs taken, the waiting began. Right from the start I understood that the article, because it had no seasonality, could be published at any time. Or not at all. Even if it never saw the light of day, I was beyond grateful for the opportunity to have met two immensely talented people whose work I admired.

In November of 2012, word came from Saveur that they had decided to feature Playing with Fire and Water in their Saveur 100 issue with a blurb from Steven's story. I was delighted that its release would coincide with the 5 year anniversary of this blog and honored by the recognition of the love and work that went into it.

If I have any regrets, it's that I never got to read Steven's full story, or see more of Penny's images, and that you, dear readers, never got to see my new kitchen. Just like this blog, I put a lot of thought and love and work into it and it deserves recognition, too. I'd like to share it here— not to show it off (OK, maybe a little of that)— but with hopes that it will inspire you in organizing your own workspace.

To introduce you to my new kitchen, it would be fitting to begin with a backstory and images of the old kitchen, but that seemed redundant since those were already published in a previous post that you can read/view here.

Design: giving form

When I cook casual meals at home for my family, food is often served directly from the stove or oven, and everyone helps themselves. For formal meals, or when I'm being paid (or paying) for food, I spend more time on presentation, making it as significant as the flavor. In design terms that translates to form equals function.

My years of working as a private chef and caterer have placed me in countless kitchens, both residential and commercial, that have exposed me to the full spectrum of form vs function. On one end are the picture-perfect home kitchens where, upon closer inspection, functionality took a back seat to aesthetics. At the other end are the commercial kitchens, optimally organized for performance, but in the cold light of day appear sterile and soulless. Both of these situations have redeeming features, the challenge in designing my new kitchen was finding the sweet spot where these two elements intersect.

One example of form equals function is the sink faucets that were chosen both for their look (modern profile/vintage patina) and commercial features (pull down head with one-touch spray/stream control, and single temperature lever). I liked them so much that I bought two— one for the main sink, and one for the island sink that is indispensable for foodhandling tasks such as washing hands, produce, and filling and draining pots.

Another example is the 'apothecary' that utilizes the wasted space between wall studs by framing it and fitting with shallow shelves that make ingredients accessible. While I love to see collections of things on display, open storage can often look cluttered. Using uniform jars and labels makes them look cohesive and tidy.

Aesthetically, the goal was to assimilate my predilection for modern design with the character of my 93-year-old house. To achieve this, I relied on contrasting shades, textures, and surfaces, juxtaposing contemporary with vintage. A lot of contrast can become jarring to the eye— to soften the effect, the color palette was limited to warm earthtones, and pattern to the granite countertop. I couldn't be happier with how it turned out.

Organization: making it function

The first thing I do when working a private kitchen is to clear the countertops and organize the space to function like a restaurant by defining stations for prep/mis en place, cooking, plating, and cleanup. Ideally, the first three are staged within reach of each other and the cleanup area is segregated to hold the dirty dishes and clutter that can't be dealt with while the clock is ticking.

Using this model as the starting point for the new kitchen's floor plan, I placed the main sink and dishwasher at one end of the room, and located a second sink on the island for food handling. In the cleanup area, it made sense to store dishes, glassware, and flatware near the dishwasher and dry goods near the refrigerator.

With the cleanup area situated at one end of the kitchen, and the dining area at the other, there was no question that all of the food preparation would take place in the center of the room. For this, I designed a nine foot long island with a stove and sink, and separated them with a span of counter workspace. I spent a considerable amount of time on the cabinet layout so that all of the necessary tools and equipment would be stored where they were most needed. The island storage provides cutting boards and knives for prepping, and utensils and pans for cooking, all within arm's reach.

I find it hard to function or think around clutter— it disrupts organization and focus. Eliminating countertop clutter, particularly on the island, was mandatory. But, then, where to put the small appliances and paraphernalia that are needed when prepping?

I gave them an accessible home in a cabinet, located directly behind the island, where the appliances are always plugged in and ready to use, then quickly tuck away behind a folding door. To accommodate the inevitable spills and splatters, I finished the inside surfaces with four coats of polyurethane for easy cleanup. (Note: all of the paints, stains and finishes used were water-based. Generally, they are more expensive and harder to work with because they dry so quickly, but the payoff was less fumes and toxic emissions).

The wall unit also houses a trio of baking drawers, situated beneath the mixer, that make baking a breeze. The middle drawer was designed for two flip-top containers (each holds a five pound bag of flour or sugar) whose lids snap shut when the drawer closes. Having everything at hand, I can whip up a batch of pancake or muffin batter in the time it takes to brew coffee.

Next to the appliance cabinet is the skinniest spice rack (I've) ever seen and one of the design features that delights me the most. It was meant to be dead space that enclosed a support beam, but at the last minute I re-imagined its potential and changed the faceboard to a door and fitted it with shelves. It's only 5" wide and half as deep, but it stands floor to ceiling and holds 28 jars of spice!

Designing a wall cabinet to be flush with the refrigerator gave the appliance a built-in look that made it less prominent in the room and made the storage more accessible. Divided vertical storage is the most efficient use of space for storing flat and shallow wares such as cutting boards, sheet pans, platters, and racks.

Construction: making it a reality

Long before the design and layout were finalized, I began looking for the most important element that would become the kitchen's backbone of both form and function— the cabinetry. After years of searching and indecision, our cabinets found us when our good friends Phil and Roxanne generously offered a set that they ordered for their own kitchen and then decided to go with another finish. They were perfect, really— well constructed with clean simple lines— but they were only enough to fit the cleanup area. The remaining cabinets (the island, refrigerator and wall units, and bookcases) had to be custom made to match and fit. For these we relied on another good friend, Ron Pronovost, master cabinet maker, whose impeccable craftsmanship we knew would bring them to life. In fact, the entire kitchen was built with help from a circle of friends and acquaintances with the specialized skills that extended beyond our own.

When we were ready to proceed, the demolition began. Curiously, this was the only stage that my sons wanted to be a part of. Over the course of a few days, we removed the old cabinets and windows, stripped the plaster walls and ceiling to bare studs, and took down a wall that divided the kitchen from the dining room. It was simultaneously exhilarating and terrifying.

With the kitchen gutted, my husband and I ran electrical wires, installed new windows and ductwork for the exhaust. We sub-contracted the aforementioned friends and acquaintances to make electrical connections, run plumbing, put up sheetrock, and refinish the wood floors. After the cabinets were installed, I spent weeks painstakingly staining and painting them, putting up the tile backsplash and light fixtures, and stripping, refinishing, and installing the original millwork. It was truly a labor of love.

I'm often asked if there is anything that I would have done differently. It is then that I consider the things that I wished I had more space for: a larger refrigerator, a CVap oven, and always, always more storage. But those desires pass quickly when I think of the life-changing efficiency and profound pleasure that it has brought to the thing I love most— cooking.

Peter Hertzmann’s floating island: the evolution of a dish

One of the most gratifying aspects of blogging is the private interaction with readers through emails. I love reading your thoughtful questions, comments, and ideas. It's these interactions that often become fuel for the fire.
Two years ago, I worked with a young cook who had mentioned a book that had helped him to advance his knife skills: Knife Skills Illustrated by Peter Hertzmann. Imagine my surprize when a few days later I found mail from Peter in my inbox!
Peter Hertzmann* and I have exchanged dozens of emails since then and I've always found his insights stimulating. Last month he began sharing a misozuke project (complete with photos) that was particularly inspiring and I asked if I could share its evolution here on the blog.
This is how it began:

Hi Linda,
You've created a miso-zuke monster—me.
I've now done oysters, scallops, endive, radishes, and cucumbers. I originally was interested because of your article where you pickled some egg yolks. I wanted to do quail, rather than chicken eggs. I was never able to get the eggs cooked just right, so I sort of gave up. Then a couple of weeks ago, I started playing with peeling eggs with acetic acid. In the case of quail eggs, an overnight soak in white vinegar leaves a shell-less egg with both of the membranes intact. The egg feels a bit like a full water balloon. I threw a few of these eggs in shiro miso and nothing happened, or so it seemed. After two weeks, they appeared for all intents and purposes the same as when they have been first immersed in the miso. So I'd thought I break one and look inside. The membrane was a bit tough, but I was able to pick a small tear in one end with some forceps. The white came gushing out—not quite as fluid as water, but not really a jelly. Inside was a firm, pickled yolk that I could carefully pull and then wash all the white away from. The taste was definitely that of a yolk, but the presence of miso was also pronounced. With a light sprinkle of ichimi, the task was marvelous.
A new dozen is now pickling to see if this was a fluke, or not. Thanks again for turning me on to this technique.

Several things interested me about Peters process:
1. dissolving the shell with vinegar allowed him to pickle the whole raw egg much more efficiently than waiting for the miso to penetrate the shell. This step alone opened up many ideas.
2. the texture of the cured yolk.
3. the miso-flavored egg whites.

A few weeks later, I received the following email:

Here's an update on the quail eggs. Like before, I removed the shells by soaking them in white vinegar (6% acetic acid) overnight. The following day I rubbed off any remaining shell with my fingers. The eggs, minus their shells, were immersed in shiro miso for two weeks. After rinsing they looked like…

Other than appearing a bit browner than originally, their appearance and firmness was unchanged. I used a pair of small 45° forceps to tear a small hole in the tapered end of each egg and drained them into a bowl. The "white" was as viscous as water and brown in color…

After removing from the membranes and rinsing, the yolks, which were firm but not hard, looked like…

I decided to cook the whites. I placed them in a small glass bowl and covered it with plastic film. This was placed in simmering water until the whites no longer jiggled. After cooling, the texture of the cooked whites was similar to a grainy custard. They tasted very much like the miso they had soaked in. I had hoped that they would cook hard so that I could sieve them for the final dish, but that was not to be.
About 4 hours later I plated the eggs…

As you can see the yolk weeps. (The flower is a rosemary blossom.)
I'm intrigued by your suggestion to make a meringue with the whites. These eggs didn't produce much white to work with so I'm going to try the same process with a chicken egg so I can get more white.

Then a few weeks later I received the following update:

Here's the followup on the previous email. I used vinegar to once again remove the shell from an egg; this time a chicken egg. I started with two but one broke with moderate handling during the shell-removable phase. The remaining egg was covered with shiro miso for 21 days. At the end it looked like below.

I should have measured the size after the shell was removed because I think it was then it grew. I should have weighed it also. Oh, well. It's obviously larger, but I can't say why.
I opened the egg onto a plate.

Normal eggs have four layers of albumin, two thick and two thin. It now appeared to have three distinct types of albumen.
The yolk was similar to an egg cooked at 64°C (and I did roll, freeze, and cut this into ribbons). In the picture I had already crushed it a bit with my fingers.

The white beat fairly normally in a stand mixer.

And they seemed fairly stable, at least for an hour before they were all destroyed.
I tried doing two things with them. The first was to make sort of a floating island in dashi. As soon as the egg white hit the hot soup, it started to collapse.

The final texture was similar to a kitchen sponge, but the flavor in the dashi was quite nice. It would be interesting to see if a little xanthum gum or versawhip would help stabilize them in the heat. I also tried some meringues, but they were a complete disaster. Besides collapsing most of the way, they turned brown like a cookie and tasted very salty. Maybe if they were stabilized they would have fared better. IN their plain form they weren't stable enough to pipe, but if they were, it would be interesting to make soup croutons out of them.

In a followup email, I asked Peter some questions about his experiment:

L: I'd be interested to know why the egg grew, or swelled.
P: I would too. I wonder if the hydrostatic pressure of a normal egg is slightly positive so that it expands once the restraint of the shell is removed. I guess it would be possible to conduct a small experiment, but I'm not ready to sacrifice a dozen eggs at the moment.

L:You said you made meringues, but they weren't stable… I'm assuming that you didn't use sugar because of the savory application. I like the idea of a salty/sweet meringue. Or perhaps a macaron?
P: Yep. No sugar, or anything else for that matter. Give the salt and sweet meringue a try and let me know how it is. I was thinking just savory, since the miso flavor is pretty pronounced.

A short while later, I received another email from Peter expressing a desire to use methylcellulose to stabilize the 'floating island' and he asked about ratios. I made some suggestions, and he responded:

I started with your suggestions and, as is normal for me, went my own way a bit. I also downloaded the Methocel tech sheet. It sounded like hot hydration would work better for me since I'm working in very small quantities.
I hydrated 1g of Methocel F50 in 20ml of simmering water, water that was boiled in microwave and then measured with a syringe. I stuck this in the frig for a few minutes. It was about 18°C when I pulled it out. I separated 1 extra-large egg white, about 30g. When i whisked the egg white and Methocel/water together is seemed to foam fairly rapidly so I decided to try whipping it in the KitchenAid. This took about 15 to 20 minutes to form soft peaks. I spooned this into hot hon-dashi to cook. I tried Chang's method of a 30-second steam followed by basting. I also tried a 60-second steam with less basting. The later was easier to do since I wanted to cook four at a time. In either case the linear shrinkage was about 50%, but still acceptable. I added ao-nori to the mixture part way through to give it a bit of color. I shot the picture quickly with my iPhone so the color is a bit off.

The final mouth feel of the island was similar to a spongy hard-cooked egg white. Not the same as a floating island made with sugar, but very interesting. I feel good about the results, at least enough to drop a couple more eggs into a vinegar bath and start the pickling again. I'd like to eventually serve the egg white in a double-strength chicken consomme and load the egg white with a fresh herb, maybe oregano. Everything should be ready by May 6th. I already have some guests scheduled for dinner that night. Little do they know…
As always, thanks for your help.

*Peter's bio: Cooking for Peter is a serial obsession. After spending 25 years studying Chinese cooking, history, and culture, in the mid 1990s, Peter started applying the same energy to French cookery. Over a period of 15 years he taught himself to read French, studied the history of dishes back to the 14th century, and worked in eight different restaurant kitchens in France to hone his skills. In 1999, he started an e-zine about French gastronomy and in 2011 added a weekly blog of amuse-bouche and mignardise to the site. In 2007, Peter wrote the book Knife Skills Illustrated: A Users Manual, now used for teaching in a number of cooking schools and restaurants. He has taught knife-skills classes around the country and in Canada. He has made many television appearances, including The Martha Stewart Show. He recently demonstrated knife skills for four hours at the Exploratorium for their After Dark: Gastronomy event. Nowadays, besides teaching recreational classes, he teaches knifes skills and general cooking twice a week at the San Mateo County Jail and twice a month at JobTrain, a vocational training center specializing in providing job skills for the underprivileged. As a charter member of The Butchers Guild, Peter is currently editing the official Guild Butchery Glossary. In July, he once again will be presenting a paper at the Oxford Symposium on Food and Cooking. The subject for this year’s Symposium is Wrapped and Stuffed Foods, and Peter will be addressing how Modernist cuisine relates to the issue.

salmon hot dog

There's a virtually untapped world of specialty malted grains made for the beer brewing industry that can be used to add unique flavor to baked goods. Two stand-outs are: smoked barley (gives Rauchmalz its smoky aroma) and chocolate rye (contributes nutty, caramel notes to dark stouts and Porters). Over the past year, I've tested them in everything from laminated pastries* to cookie doughs** with great effect, but it is the realm of yeasted doughs where they seem most at home. The robust complexity that chocolate rye adds to pumpernickel makes the original pale in comparison.

The virtue of making condiments lies in customization and enhanced flavor. Commercially made Dijon mustards taste flat and boring in comparison to the ones you can make yourself. The process starts with shallots and garlic simmered in Chardonnay. The reduced infusion is strained and blended with brown mustard powder, olive oil, and a few drops of honey. Sometimes, I customize it with various herbs and aromatics, but I always let it sit at room temperature for at least 2 weeks to ripen the flavor before storing in the refrigerator, where it will keep for three months or longer. It's a small effort for a big flavor; too big, it turns out, for my delicately flavored salmon hot dog.

Coincidentally, I was working on an orange horseradish*** puree for a pork dish that needed a nudge in the flavor department. A whole orange and peeled horseradish root had been steamed in a pressure cooker with white wine, then the whole lot pureed. Pressure cooking removes the acridity from the horseradish and softens the bitterness in the orange's pith, producing a puree with a mellower flavor than you would think possible from the raw ingredients.

For the salmon hot dog, I punched up the puree by blending it with an equal amount of homemade Dijon, and— because I love citrus with salmon— I added microplaned orange zest. Mixing horseradish with mustard made sense because they both belong to the Brassica family, a simple observation that opened a new pathway to a great condiment.

salmon sausage in leek casing
chocolate rye roll
horseradish orange mustard
kefir fermented daikon
fennel sprouts

* croissants made with smoked barley flour and smoked butter are revelatory.

** see pepper cookies

*** please, no comments about the horseradish root. I only photographed and cooked the thing, Nature did the rest.

fruit tart

Once, my friend Judy gave me a rudimentary lesson on throwing pottery. I can still remember how the clay felt between my fingers as it turned on the wheel. Supple. Lithe. Obsequious. A gentle pull would make the clay rise like a tower; a push would flatten it into a slab. Up… down… out… in… I delighted in the responsive dance of force and symmetry.

I went into the pottery studio that day with a project in mind: a shallow bowl with thin walls that tapered gently outward. Tried as I did, my inexperienced hands couldn't make the clay dance that way. Later, it was decided that the best way to build the bowl was from a molded slab. The process involved rolling, cutting and molding. THESE were motions that my hands understood; it was the dance of pastry.

There are two types of molds used for clay slabs: slump and hump. In slump molding, the clay is laid inside the mold, much like pastry dough is fitted inside a pie or tart pan. In hump molding, the clay is draped over the outside of the mold. This was how I formed my bowl because: 1) it was the only type of mold available at the studio, and 2) it allowed the inside of the bowl to remain smooth and free of blemishes while modeling the slab to the mold. The process made me question why we build pastry crusts inside the confinement of pans and overlook the outside.

Wet clay is made up of fine mineral particles that float in thin layers of water. When clay is rolled, the particles line up in the direction of the force. If a clay slab is rolled in only one direction, the particles line up to form a grain that will cause the object to shrink against the grain when dried and fired.

I've often wondered why recipes for pie crusts insist that the dough should be rolled from the center out, and why they sometimes shrink unevenly when baked. I've wondered, too, about the turns in laminated doughs. I never expected to find the answers in working with clay, but I'm glad I did.

freeform pate brisee bowl ✢ yuzu curd ✢ meringue
rambutan ✢ lychee ✢ myoga ✢ ume
ground cherry ✢ black sesame

pea prosciutto peanut

late night cravings for wasabi peas and peanut brittle… sometimes both together.

rereading a childhood fairytale… a terrible giant (who grinds the bones of Englishmen to make his bread!), redemption, and golden eggs.

revisiting a classic trio… fresh peas, cured meat, hard aged cheese.

observing nature in high summer… the race towards the sky.

random inspirations are often the inception of a dish.

english pea pudding ✢ pea sprouts ✢ prosciutto
manchego ✢ wasabi pea powder ✢ peanut brittle

amazake strawberry kinome

It was on a blustery winter afternoon that I first sampled amazake. It came in the form of a traditional Japanese beverage, served warm with a sprinkle of grated ginger. Learning that it was essentially just fermented rice and water, I was amazed at the depth of flavor and sweetness that koji had coaxed out of the rice. And there was a richness about the way that it felt in my mouth that reminded me of dairy. It was, I was told, the vegan eggnog.

Recently, I had a visitor come to my home to see my newly remodeled kitchen. Because he writes about food, I wanted to cook for him and was eager to showcase some of the products that I had fermented. For dessert, I made an amazake ice cream based on the beverage, using coconut water for added flavor. It was really an experiment, as I was curious about the texture of churned and frozen amazake. The result was not as creamy as I had hoped and the inherent sweetness had muted to a mere whisper— which typically occurs with freezing. We both agreed that it showed promise, but needed work.

We also agreed that the flavor of strawberries and kinome with the amazake was quite special, so that part of the dish would remain intact.

Days later, I made a new ice cream with pureed amazake, cream, and sugar. It was a vast improvement over the original, but I couldn't help but feel that I had missed an important opportunity.

As someone who cooks customized food for a living, the upsurge of food intolerances is a salient concern. Coeliac disease, lactose intolerance, and food allergies are serious conditions that I have learned to make allowances for. Then there's an ever-increasing number of people who choose to refrain from entire food groups such as dairy or meat, or follow 'lifestyle diets' that exclude white powders and saturated fats. Add to that, the political eaters who prohibit foie gras, veal, unsustainable fish, factory farmed proteins, and unorganic produce; or picky eaters who refuse to eat (for example) anything with garlic or onions, and you can begin to see why chefs are so frustrated— some to the point of choosing to make NO allowances.

I don't have that luxury.

When a guest at a dinner party unexpectedly announces that there is something on the carefully planned menu that they can't or won't eat, I have to accommodate them. No excuses.

The upside is that when you feed someone with special dietary needs a delicious and satisfying meal that doesn't offend their bodies or minds, they are exceedingly grateful. Altruism aside, a happy client is always a boost to the ego.

Over time, I've learned to make adjustments to fit most diets, but vegan desserts continue to challenge me. In a pinch, I can turn to fresh fruit and sorbet or granita, but that often feels like a copout. So I reexamined amazake's potential to add texture, natural sweetness, and moisture to desserts that otherwise rely on dairy products and refined sugars, and I decided that an ice cream was a good place to start. To the pureed amazake, I added coconut milk for richness, rice syrup for added sweetness, and guar gum to improve the mouthfeel. The addition of sichuan pepper was specific to this dish to enhance the flavor of strawberries and kinome.

While I'm pleased with how the amazake ice cream turned out, if I were given a choice between the sweet cream version and the vegan one, I would invariably choose the former.

I'm grateful that I have that luxury.

amazake ice cream ✢ puffed forbidden rice
strawberry ✢ sake ✢ kinome

vegan amazake ice cream

400g coconut milk
260g amazake
20g rice syrup
5g vanilla
4g lightly toasted and ground sichuan peppercorns (optional)
3g guar gum

Place all ingredients in a high speed blender and blend 3 minutes, or until very smooth. Scrape mixture into an ice cream freezer and proceed according to manufacture's directions.

miso adaptations

Spontaneous fermentation is the oldest form of 'cooking'. Long before man understood the chemistry of how microorganisms preserved his food and heightened its flavor while making him healthier, he learned to control and manipulate the process. Each culture developed their unique specialties based on indigenous ingredients. Early travelers borrowed techniques from their neighbors and assimilated them to what was available back home.

In this spirit, I've taken the time-honored process of making miso and adapted it to the bounty of ingredients that are available in the modern world to make these trial batches. The choices were not arbitrary— they needed to fit the protein/starch profile that koji requires to feed upon. In some cases, soybeans were added to the base ingredient to boost the protein content. Many borders were crossed, but no bridges were burned.

No doubt, some will fail, and some will succeed, but that's part of the fun of discovery. Ultimately, flavor will dictate which ones will be pursued.

kimchi pork belly

We bought our house in Northwestern Connecticut on the cusp of the new millenium. At the time, there was a housing shortage that left the pickings slim and prices high. We considered waiting it out, but once we made the decision to move there was no turning back. We listed and sold our first house and moved into the second within 28 days. It all happened so fast.

Even before moving in we had a five year plan— part and parcel when you buy a house that's considerably older than you. Being intrepid do-it-yourselfers, my husband and I were prepared to do as much of the work as our skill set allowed. The plan was to start with the kitchen which had not been updated since the 50's, but other things took priority. There was a quirky bathroom to expand and modernize. There were drafty windows and a leaky roof to replace. There was a porch to rebuild from the ground up and rooms to turn inside out. There was plumbing to upgrade and electricity to put in where there was none. There was a relic of a furnace to replace— and while we were at it— central air to install. Outside, there were gardens to build and plant, a driveway to blast and resurface, a massive stone wall to dry stack, and an old leaning potting shed (with too much character to take down) that I fought to rescue. It's only when I look back at everything that we've accomplished that I can cut myself some slack for having let ten years pass before getting around to my kitchen.

Early on, when the projects grew out of control and funds were stretched thin, I accepted that the kitchen would have to wait. I consoled myself by painting words of inspiration on my cabinets. Mostly, they were strung-together bits of poetry and proverbs that were meaningful to me. I think I did it as an act of defiance— if I couldn't make a new kitchen, I could at least make it different. I thought I would soon grow tired of the word-filled room, but instead it grew on me, embracing me like a warm, cozy blanket of complacency.

I firmly believe in blooming where you are planted. Life doesn't always present us with perfect circumstances and I try to never use that as an excuse for not fulfilling a potential. Shouldn't a good cook be able to produce good food under any conditions? As a caterer, that's an idea that I've had to uphold every time I walk into an unfamiliar space, whether it's a magnificent state-of-the-art kitchen or a makeshift cook tent in the middle of a field. But gardening has taught me that organisms thrive under ideal conditions— I am no different. Being a visually susceptible kind of organism, I draw inspiration from environments and stimulation from space, color, light, texture, design.

Like gardening and parenthood, my kitchen taught me patience. Every morning, when I reached for the coffee, I would stop and read these words: "To every thing there is a season, and a time to every purpose under the heaven". I don't think that wiser words have ever been written.

Kitchen season began abruptly after Thanksgiving. Cabinets, ceilings and walls were torn down until all that remained of two small rooms was one large empty shell. This, I thought, is my ideal condition where creativity thrives: a blank canvas and a flexible plan.

The new kitchen is still taking shape. My intention is to make it more streamlined and modern, while honoring the old character of the house. Though it will be another month or two before it's complete, I hope to have a sink by the weekend so that I can cook Christmas dinner for my family (I know they'll forgive my disheveled house). In the meantime, when I can't bear to look at another pizza or carton of Chinese food, I've been utilizing some seldom-used small appliances. My crock pot has become a good friend.

The Autumn joy kimchi has also been a good friend. It transformed leftover take-out rice, re-fried in an electric skillet into something exotic and delicious.
A practically effortless meal came from slow cooking pork belly in chicken stock, kimchi, and sliced kieffer lime, served with sweet potato spaetzle and crispy fried kale. Prepared in my dim, dusty cellar, using a crock pot, electric skillet, and deep-fryer propped up on a washing machine and dryer with a laundry sink nearby, it was the most un-ideal of conditions in which to produce such a luxurious meal.

ICC 2010: the dishes

Once again, Starchefs gathered together some of the most talented chefs from around the world to share ideas and techniques at the 5th Annual International Chefs Congress.

The event kicked off with a panel discussion on this year's theme: Art vs. Craft. Present on the panel were chefs Dan Barber, David Kinch, and Thomas Keller, with Michael Rhulman moderating. The discussion brought up some thoughtful points about intent and perception. While Barber and Kinch were willing to entertain the notion of chef/artist, Keller adamantly stated that he was a craftsman, not an artist. The consensus seemed to be that it was hubris for chefs to label themselves as "artists", though it was OK for the consumer to do so. The lack of a radically opposed point of view, which would have added another dimension to the conversation, became apparent when Barber admitted that the panel was mostly ''vanilla' on the subject.

Here are most of the dishes prepared on the main stage over the course of three days:

Continue reading “ICC 2010: the dishes” →

earthy potatoes and magic ham

After two years, this blog still challenges me to poke and prod and go places I haven't been before. It reminds me that despite what I think I already know, the only thing I really know is that there is always more to know.

I'm grateful for that.
I wouldn't want it any other way.

I'm also grateful to those of you that take time out of your busy, busy lives to drop me a line. To ask questions. To say hi. To send encouragement. To take me to task. And sometimes, after I respond, you respond back. And so on. And the next thing I know, I have a new friend.

I'm grateful for that, too.

Sometimes, my new friends send me things. Special things. The kind of things you can't buy in a store. Or anywhere else for that matter.
Sometimes, they send me inspiration. Or boxes of sunshine. They even send me magic.

And just in case there was any doubt, it was clearly labeled POP'S MAGIC HAM.

Uwe's pop is a magician. On his farm in Texas he transforms pork loin into something not of this world. Uwe and Chad describe the magic far better than I could. I can tell you, though, that with a smoke whisperer for a father, Uwe has a lot to be grateful for.
And so do I.

If you've ever received food that promises magic, you'll know that the first thing you want to do is eat it. And if it's good, you'll want to eat it all. That's part of the magic.

And if you, like me, showed heroic restraint and stopped yourself short so someone else can enjoy it too, then you know that magic is meant to be shared.

Some time later, you may find yourself with a few handfuls of tiny fingerling potatoes that are intended to share a plate with the magic ham. And you wait patiently to roast them because your oven is currently full of dirt (after all, it's early spring and you need sterile soil to start your seedlings). And as you wait, your nostrils fill will the smell of roasted earth, and you look at the potatoes and slap yourself upside the head (gently, of course) and think DUH. And you grab a trowel and head for the garden and fill a casserole dish with damp earth.

Back in the kitchen you bury the potatoes in the earth and it just feels right. You put them in the oven and set a timer. You hope against hope that they turn out tender and fragrant, but they don't. You look with despair at the shriveled hard pucks and realize that they are victims of the hygroscopic properties of silica. You try again with a fresh batch of potatoes, this time soaking the soil thoroughly, and you smile, remembering how you used to make mud pies as a child and you realize that you've come full circle.

They turn out perfect: soft, tender, earthy by design. You give them a quick rinse in hot water, sad that you had to do so because you like the way they looked with bits of soil clinging to them. Then you remember the crispy cream and crumble some over the hot potatoes with a pinch of salt and a grind of pepper. You toss them and watch the bits of toasted milk solids soften and melt, coating the potatoes with butterfat and you are satisfied.

You arrange the potatoes on a plate and shower them with ultra thin slices of the magic ham (because it came with clear instructions: SLICE ULTRA THIN). You taste and think that the flavors of earth and smoke need something to bounce off of. Something fresh. Something green. You scan the herbs that you have growing on a windowsill and under lights. Thyme (nah)… mexican oregano (maybe)… nutmeg geranium (could be interesting)… oxalis (probably not)… ram rau (definitely not)… tahoon (bingo!). You taste the tahoon, just to be sure. Green. Herbaceous. Sun-warmed earth. Oily beechnuts. Perfect. You pick a handful of leaves and whirl them in a blender with olive oil and a pinch of ground sumac, working quickly before the potatoes cool.

You eat the earthy potatoes and magic ham and come to a sudden realization. It is this:
In your entire life, you've cooked with fire. Sometimes with water. Sometimes with air. And now you can add earth to the list.

Somehow, that makes you feel complete.