Category: dessert

kumquat tomato cilantro

I've always loved the combination of tomato and orange. One of my go-to sauces for cheese ravioli is a simple reduction of tomatoes and orange juice, emulsified with fruity olive oil. The sweet and acidic fruits bring out the milkiness in the ricotta. 

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Although tomatoes and oranges are available year round, their seasons aren't concurrent. In the Northeast, the only fresh tomatoes worth eating in the winter are the small sweet cherry and grape varieties. This year, I've been enjoying baby Romas; indulging in their rich, concentrated tomato flavor. It didn't escape my notice that they are the same size and shape as kumquats and I'd feel remiss if I let citrus season pass without bringing the two together in a sweet preparation. 
Cilantro and coriander, which taste to me of orange, adds herbal brightness and warm spice. 

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kumquat and tomato confiture
   coriander gel
 olive oil pastry
cilantro ice cream
  

clementine marmalade pudding

When looking at the rind as vessel and component in a sweet preparation, cooking in a syrup became an obvious choice.
Clementine rinds are already sweet and tender; candying renders them kidskin supple.
The addition of marmalade and a steamed cake made with the pulp utilizes every bit of the fruit.
A sticky sweet confection wrapped around orange-scented cake.
Fruit cake turned inside-out. 

Marmalade pudding
  

 
clementine marmalade pudding

candied rind:
6 clementines

Hollow out each of the clementines by running a teaspoon around the perimeter of the pulp, separating it from the rind. Scoop out a section at a time, being careful not to tear the rind. Reserve the pulp. Place the rinds in a saucepan and cover with cold water. Place pan over medium high heat and bring to a simmer. Simmer for 8-10 minutes. Invert rinds on a rack to drain.

450g water
375g sugar
96g glucose or corn syrup

Place water, sugar, and glucose in saucepan and set over medium high heat. When syrup reaches 46ºC/115ºF, add rinds, submerging them so that their hollows fill with syrup. Cook until syrup reaches 108ºC/227ºF then remove the rinds and invert them on a rack to drain. Reserve syrup.

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marmalade:
1 clementine
1/2 of the reserved syrup from above (reserve the other 1/2 for glazing)

Peel the clementine and slice into thin strips. Roughly chop the pulp, discard any seeds. Add the rind and pulp to the reserved syrup. Cook over medium high heat until it comes to 104ºC/220ºF, stirring often. Remove from heat and cool.

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steamed pudding:
 reserved pulp from hollowed clementines 
 50g muscovado sugar, or brown sugar
 50g unsalted butter, softened
 1 egg
 80g flour
 3g baking powder
 1g baking soda
 pinch salt

Place pulp in bowl of food processor and process until pureed. Scrape out puree and measure 80g for pudding. Reserve remaining puree for sauce.
Place sugar and butter in bowl of food processor and pulse until well combined. Add egg and pulse until incorporated. Combine flour, baking powder, baking soda and salt in a small bowl. Add to food processor along with the 80g puree and process until well blended and creamy.
Place a teaspoon of marmalade in the bottom of each of the clementine rinds. Fill with batter to just below top of rinds. Place on steamer insert or basket, leaving 1-2" between each clementine. Steam, covered, over boiling water for 5-7 minutes or until surface springs back when pressed. Remove and allow to cool slightly. While still warm, brush the top and sides with the remaining reserved syrup. Serve warm or at room temperature with clementine sauce.

Marmaladepudding2

clementine sauce:
230g reserved puree
85g sugar

Place puree and sugar in a saucepan and bring to a boil. Cook for 2 minutes and strain sauce through a fine mesh sieve. Serve warm or at room temperature.

nesselrode pie

One of my clients, an elegant elderly woman, has an insatiable sweet tooth. Seriously— how she has survived as long without developing diabetes should make her a medical curiosity. Because her disposition is as sweet as her tooth, I made her something special for the holidays: marrons glacés. I knew she would like them because of her fondness for all things sweet and French.

Making marrons glacés is a labor of love. It's a four day process that requires an investment of time and careful attention— though not the kind that one would lavish on creating one of the Great Gateaux. The bulk of the labor is in peeling the pellicle from the chestnuts— a tedious task that I have yet to find a shortcut for. I did experiment with microwaving them in 10-second intervals, with mixed results. While some of the nuts peeled easily and cleanly, one out of five turned out hard and dry. But once they're peeled, the rest of the process requires little time and effort. Twice a day, a sugar and glucose syrup is brought to an increasingly higher temperature and viscosity, then poured over the chestnuts for a twelve hour soak. The process is repeated six times, followed by a drying period. Impregnated with sugar, the chestnuts become a denser, silkier version of themselves. 

As I'd hoped, Ms. Sweet Tooth loved them. She ate her way through the box while recounting stories of childhood holidays in Paris, where her mother treated her to the candied chestnuts. Curiously, she stopped in mid-sentence, her attention clearly swept away by another memory, turned to me with wide eyes and whispered "Can you make Nesselrode pie?"

Not knowing what else to say, I told her the truth: I had no idea what Nesselrode pie was.

Apparently, I wasn't alone— the internet is full of people who were as much in the dark as I was. And some of those who knew what it was confessed that they had never laid eyes on one. And yet others waxed about it in mythical proportions. Was Nesselrode pie the unicorn of desserts?

Further searching led to several articles in the New York Times. One, from 1988, stated the following: "While for years it was a popular American Christmas dessert, Nesselrode pie left our collective culinary consciousness about 30 years ago and has hardly been heard from since."  Another, on thefoodmaven.com, Arthur Schwartz claims "It's extinct now— no restaurant serves it, no bakery makes it— but this old New York dessert still lives vividly in the taste memories of many." 

So, Nesselrode pie isn't a unicorn after all. It's more of a Javan tiger. But what exactly is it?

In the 1988 edition of "Larousse Gastronomique", Nesselrode is described as "The name given to various cooked dishes and pastries, all containing chestnut purée, dedicated to Count Nesselrode, the 19th century Russian diplomat who negotiated the Treaty of Paris after the Crimean War." It goes on to describe a salted chestnut purée, served with sauteed sweetbreads or roebuck steaks or used to fill profiteroles that are served with game consomme. Larousse makes no mention of Nesselrode pie, but says of its predecessor Nesselrode pudding "It consists of custard cream mixed with chestnut puree, crystallized fruit, currants, sultanas, and whipped cream." This edition of Larousse doesn't mention that original versions of the recipe include maraschino liqueur and were served frozen.

By most accounts, Nesselrode pudding was created by Count Nesselrode's chef, Monsieur Mouy, although that claim was contradicted by Eliza Acton and Mrs. Beeton, who both give credit to the French chef Antonin Careme in the recipes that are published in their books. In fact, Careme himself accused Mouy of copying his chestnut pudding and was outraged that he named it after a [non-French] foreigner. The feud was put to rest when E. S. Dallas published Mouy's recipe in "Kettner's Book of the Table" in 1877, pronouncing it "the most perfect of iced puddings."

In the late nineteenth century and early twentieth, Nesselrode pudding was a fashionable holiday dessert in Europe and then in New York. As was popular at the time, iced puddings, or coupes, were molded into fanciful shapes by skilled pastry chefs. The pudding did not freeze hard because of the liqueuer, challenging Victorian pastry chefs to devise ways to prevent them from melting on the table. In "The Royal Pastry and Confectionery Book" (London:1874), Jules Gouffé illustrated a meringue cloche modeled after a thatched beehive that he designed to slip over an iced pudding to act as an insulator. 

Nesselrode 

Because of the skill needed to make and serve an iced dessert, Nesselrode pudding was exclusively available in restaurants and hotels that catered to the upper classes or in private homes that employed a capable staff. It was just a matter of time before a creative and enterprising baker adapted the challenging iced version into a more approachable pie. 

Enter Mrs. Hortense Spier, credited with serving the original pie at her restaurant on the Upper West Side of New York City. The restaurant closed before World War II, but Mrs. Spier continued to make the pie for many of the city's leading restaurants including Lindy's and Longchamps. According to Bernard Gwertzman in a NYT article, "My memory [of Mrs' Spier's pie] is of a lot of whipped cream, chocolate shavings on top, candied fruits in the custard of the pie, and a rum flavor throughout. The original Nesselrode had chestnut puree; later recipes omit this ingredient." Sounds delicious, doesn't it?  So, what happened?

Like all things popular and trendy, Nesselrode pie ran it's course. As the neighborhoods surrounding the restaurants where the pies were served changed, so too did the tastes of the residents. Unceremoniously, Nesselrode pie faded from our tables and now lives in the realm of forgotten dessserts alongside Baked Alaska and Charlotte Russe. I'm told that they're holding a place for Molten Chocolate Cake.

So now that I know more than I ever thought
I'd care to know about Nesselrode pie, I could answer Ms. Sweet Tooth's question; "Yes, I can make Nesselrode pie". And I did.

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But I did one better. I made my version of Nesselrode— with marrons glacés, and candied buddha's hand citron, and real maraschino cherries (sour cherries macerated in simple syrup, cherry juice, maraschino liqueur, and some toasted cherry kernels tossed in for a boost of benzaldehyde). 

For Ms. Sweet Tooth, I made a traditional pie, based on the the description of Mrs. Spier's, with a creme bavaroise base in a pastry crust, studded with the candied chestnuts and citron and the maraschinos, crowned with whipped cream and a dusting of chocolate shavings. She was very grateful.

For myself— well, I just played around with the components in a modern design.

And— I made Monsieur Mouy''s recipe for Nesselrode pudding* (it's actually just a very decadent ice cream), mainly because I wanted to taste its origin, but also because It provided me with an excuse to dig out my vintage jello molds. Abandoned and forsaken— the Nesselrode, just like the molds— were begging to be unearthed. Dusted off and polished up, they look shiny again. 

*Monsieur Mouy's (Mony) original recipe can be viewed in Kettner's Book of the Table. Scroll to page 312 for Nesselrode Pudding. (note: 1 gill= 142g/5oz) 
Caremes recipe (from Mrs. Beeton) can be found here. Scroll halfway down the page for Nesselrode Pudding.

Download recipe:  candied buddha's hand citron

Download recipe:  marrons glaces

Download recipe:  real maraschino cherries

Download recipe:  nesselrode pie

thai pie

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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?

Thaipie 

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.

 

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Download recipe:  Thai pie


 
 

Indian Summer :: the woods :: oak maple hickory

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     The day had started as any other.
     Onatah was the first to wake. She gathered wood to revive the dying fire, choosing the hot-burning oak logs for the cooking fire. In the dim morning light, she watched her tribe as they slept, covered with bear and buckskins, on the ground. Since their retreat into the woods, they had taken to sleeping under the stars for as long as the weather held. It had been warm and dry since leaving their village, but with autumn coming to a close, winter was not far behind. They hoped to reach their brethren tribe at the edge of the Great Plains before the first snow.    
    Her sisters and aunts would wake soon to tend the fire and prepare the morning meal. There was enough corn to get them through to the new moon, but only enough acorn meal for this day. There was a sack of dried acorns that needed to be peeled, pounded, and leached of their bitter tannins. In another sack were hickory nuts, gathered just before their departure from a stand of shagbark hickory trees that grew behind their longhouse. She loved the sinuous texture of the bark almost as much as the sweet oily nuts. She would miss those trees and savor their last offering. 
    There were more sacks and baskets of roots and tubers, both fresh and dried, maple sugar, sumac, mushrooms, dried venison and pumpkins, smoked fish, chokecherries, beans, and tallow. All of their food, save the fresh sunchokes and mushrooms that they had foraged along their journey, had been gathered from their storage pits and packed in haste.

     On the last full moon, the elders from coastal tribes had come with stories about them.
     The salty people.
     They came from the Great Sea in large vessels, pushed by the wind caught in white sheets. There were many of them and more came with each moon.
     The elders took turns telling stories of how their tribes had shared their food and taught them how to forage and grow The Three Sisters. They made houses from logs, stacked one upon the other on their sides. They had brought with them hoofed animals that they kept in pens. They drank the milk and used it to make butter as their people did with nuts. They made a fine bread from a grain they call wheat. 
     They also brought with them illnesses that spread through their people and that medicine men could not cure. Many had died in their tribes. 

     The elders came to warn Onatah's tribe. They said that the salty people wanted to possess the rich fertile land along the rivers and lakes; the land where their ancestors had lived and where their children were living now. 
      Onatah's husband had laughed then, saying "Don't they know that land can not be owned any more than the stars or the sky?"
      An elder shook his head and said "No, they live by different ways than ours."
     "Then we will fight them!"
     "Their diseases will kill many of you and others will die by their weapons, which are more powerful and deadly than ours. My ancestors have come to me in dreams. They revealed that a Great War is coming and that we should warn others and seek protection in numbers so that our people and our ways will persevere. "

Continue reading “Indian Summer :: the woods :: oak maple hickory” →

autumn pudding

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from behind cascading leaves
the sun emerges like a sleepy child

heavy eyelids
blink
fractals of gilded light
a gentle yawn
exhale 
a universe of scent
both familiar and exotic

leaves drift
fall
rustle a lullaby

I bid it sweet dreams
and eat my way across the autumn sky  

 

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parsnip vanilla pudding
butternut squash, autumnberry, kaffir lime gelee
candied pumpkin

Download recipe:  Autumn pudding


ginger pumpkin black sesame yuzu

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I often get questions and comments on plating. It's not a process that I over analyze or can easily define. Composing a plate of food is just one of the many creative processes involved in cooking.

When working with a pre-conceived plating design, the challenge is in finding the right flavors and forms to flesh out the concept. Sometimes this approach works, sometimes it evolves into something else. When the flavors and textures aren't right— even when they fit the concept— the entire dish is scrapped. This happens more often than I care to admit.

Mosty, I'm working with components that I want to bring together in a dish. In this case, I had ginger pumpkin cake, sweetened cream cheese with fresh yuzu juice and zest, black sesame paste emulsified with cocoa butter, and sandy brown butter crumbs. The flavors and textures captured the rich and mysterious tones of autumn; a mood that I wanted to express on the plate.

When it came time to plate, I didn't have a clear vision of the finished dish. When this happens, I look to the forms and colors for guidance, using intuition and experience through a filter of personal aesthetics. I'd like to say that I am always mindful of the creative process, but sometimes I just play around and hope for the best. Either way, regardless of what I tried, this dish was not coming together on the plate. I needed to step back and take a break. 

I woke my dog from one of his power naps and headed out for a walk. My neighbor had just taken down a birch tree in his front yard where I found him splitting logs. We chatted about the majestic birch and the splendid fires he would have. Later, I returned home with my head clear but I still had no direction for the dish. Yet, just minutes later, I was snapping the photo that you see above.

I wish that I could tell you how it came together, why decisions were made in the process, but the truth is that although my hands did the work, there was no logic or reason guiding them. Or so I thought…

When I uploaded the photo, it looked alien yet strangely familiar like something I had dreamt. "Did I really create that?" asked my left brain. The right brain replied, heckling, "Throw that log on the fire, will ya!"  I recognized the voice— it was the sound of my preconscious mind cracking open to reveal the path from a crisp autumn day, a pile of pale wood and dark twigs, the promise of a fire— to a composition on a plate. It was the voice of creativity.

What is creativity and where does it come from?

Anyone who has flirted, courted, or slept with it has surely asked this question. We all want to contribute something to the world that did not exist before and carries our unique imprint. It's why we procreate and generate ideas and art. But creativity doesn't fall from the sky and land in our hands— it is the manifestation of our collected experiences, from the banal to the transcendent, that weave through our conscious and subconscious minds, gestating, waiting for the trajectory of expression in order to find new life outside of ourselves. Is it then an attempt to immortalise that which is mortal?… a longing for eternity?

According to Juan Mari Arzak, "Creativity comes from where it can". It was not an answer to a question, but an off-the-cuff remark that substantiated how an ordinary event inspired the creation of a dish. Chef Arzak's observation resonated with me because it hinted at the wonder and mystery of the elusive force, and, also because it is a simple truth— creativity does, indeed, come from where it can.