bbq cornbread

The step from bbq grits to bbq cornbread, while by no means a leap of imagination, was simply another exploration of the marriage of bbq sauce and cornmeal. I was curious to see what a sweet and acidic medium would do to a product that is typically coarse and dry. The flavor was predictably good, the reward came in the moist and tender crumb that I have not been able to achieve with dairy products alone.

I also wanted to explore the notion of folding chips of dehydrated sauce into a batter. This worked out quite well as they rehydrated in the moisture released in baking and formed soft, melting pockets of flavor that were well defined– not unlike chocolate chips. In that context, the doors of extrapolation have swung wide open.

Download recipe: bbq cornbread

caramel corn donut

In the last post, Larry P. left a comment describing Johnny Iuzzini's deep-fried chocolate ganache "doughnut". I assumed it was from his book Dessert Fourplay, which I own, but have only read cursorily. Sure enough, I found it on pages 170 & 171. I really need to get to know this book better.

As Larry pointed out, Johnny Iuzzini's doughnut features a creamy ganache blended with methylcellulose to hold it together while frying, and sodium alginate to allow it to be encapsulated in a calcium bath. The doughnut are then dipped in egg, coated with panko, and deep fried. Larry successfully executed the doughnuts in this post.

After succeeding at producing a cake with the frosting baked inside, my thoughts immediately turned to an old donut fantasy. One of my most gratifying achievements in baking was making a yeast donut that rivaled those found in donut shops. For awhile, I became a bit obsessed with the idea of making a filled ring donut. I abandoned the idea when I couldn't achieve the desired results.

Revisiting the idea with new hope and armed with a viable technique, I set out to encapsulate the filling and layer it between yeast dough. Then I reasoned that encapsulating might not be necessary as the dough itself would act as a capsule, and that adding methocel to the filling would stabilize it and help it keep it's shape.

The good news is that it worked.

The bad news is that the textures suffered in the process.

The filling– popcorn-infused cream and fresh corn juice, reduced and enriched with butter– lost it's fluid creaminess and became more of a custard. That's not necessarily a bad thing, but I preferred the texture before heating. The yeast dough, which is very soft and wet and a challenge to work with, but produces the most ethereally light and fluffy donuts, turned out sodden and heavy. I suspect that the weight of the filling inhibited the final rise and that the moisture that escaped during cooking became trapped inside the dough.

As a control, I fried a round of dough (without the hole) and filled it with the cream (without the methocel) post-cooking by piping it in through a hole poked in the side. The textures were notably better: thin, crisp crust gives way to pillowy-soft dough; creamy filling spills out. This is the recipe that I am including here because, at least for now, I can't improve upon it.

Download recipe: caramel corn donuts

inside-out cake

I've been toying with the idea of a cake with the frosting baked inside. I haven't had much luck using a conventional method of layering the frosting in the batter. Invariably, it would sink or create irregular pockets. Further attempts at lightening the frosting caused it to be partially absorbed by the batter. I was holding out for a clean and neat delineation.

In an unrelated experiment, I was heating an orb of butter that had been reverse-spherified in an alginate bath and realized that it withstood a fair amount of heat before the membrane ruptured. You can guess the rest.

This carrot cake was still warm when I cut into it, causing the cream cheese frosting to flow, but it was centered and well-defined. It took a little trial-and-error to get it to this point.

In the first trial, I scooped balls from the firm, chilled frosting and dropped them into an alginate bath (5g sodium alginate/ 1 litre water) for 30 minutes. The alginate reacts with the calcium present in the cream cheese and butter– forming a clear membrane around the frosting. Muffin tins were filled halfway with batter, a frosting sphere was embedded in each, then covered with another layer of batter. As they baked, the spheres rose up and broke through the surface of the batter and the membranes ruptured. Fail.

In the next trial, I flattened the frosting into a disc and repeated the steps, using a broader ramekin as a mold. This worked, I think, because it created more surface tension, keeping the frosting submerged.

I can't deny that it was satisfying to succeed, but I am far more excited about the possibilities that have opened up.

brown butter

Place a knob of butter in a pan.

Heat until it turns golden brown and smells toasty and nutty.

This is how brown butter has been made since Medieval times.

During any given day, ideas ebb and flow through the recesses of my often-tired brain. Rarely do I commit them to paper–trusting my memory to retain, file, and recall them at will. I'm delusional that way.

Take, for instance, last year when I showed you how to make mascarpone and experimented with 'caramelizing'* dairy products in sealed mason jars in a pressure cooker. Though the results varied (lebne and sour cream turned out a curdled mess), others, like heavy cream, took on a toasty, nutty aroma that inspired a slew of products. Some of these (whipped cream and butter) I even recorded in black and white in case my recalcitrant memory failed me. Still…

One would think that when I went on to show you how to make butter and played with endless variations of infusing flavor into heavy cream, that I would have remembered the fragrant complexity of the brown cream. But no…

Sometimes it takes a spark of inspiration from someone else's brain to awaken mine. Looking at this gorgeous garlic bread sauce connected the dots and called me to action.

Now, with brown cream, buttermilk, and butter in hand, my oscillating brain is resolute with possibilities. I'd write them down, but notes get lost and posts are forgotten. Nor will I leave these to my delusions. If I've learned anything, it's to move when inspiration strikes.

*Referring to the browning of dairy products as 'caramelizing' is inaccurate as pointed out by Robert L. Wolke in his book What Einstein Told His Cook, "the word caramelization should be reserved for the browning of sugar- any kind of sugar- in the absence of protein. When sugars or starches occur together with proteins as they do in onions, breads, and meats, the browning is mostly due to the Maillard reaction, not caramelization."

To make brown cream: Fill a mason jar with heavy cream, leaving a 1/2" of headspace. Seal tightly with a lid and band. Place in a pressure cooker and add enough hot water to the pc to come halfway up the side of the jar. Cover and lock the pc. Cook at 10psi for 2 hours.

To make brown butter: Follow the directions here: Download Cultured butter, replacing the heavy cream with brown cream and skipping the ripening & ageing step, starting at churning.

The miracle of milk [1 ingredient = 4 products]: brown cream, brown whipped cream, brown butter, brown buttermilk. All that, without even mentioning cheese.

crispy asparagus

If food is a form of art [and by definition, I believe it is]— it's an exceptional one. Food has the distinction of engaging ALL of the senses. In food there is beauty, taste, aroma, texture, and sound.

The most beautiful sound that food makes is 'crispy'. Crispy and crunchy are often used interchangeably, but there is a difference. Crispy is when a dry food meets the teeth, it offers little resistance and shatters into a brittle cadenza, while crunchy implies a thicker, denser product with a deeper resonance.

Crispy is a lilting violin; crunchy is a rotund cello.

crispy asparagus rose yogurt

I've been chasing the elusive crispy, trying to coax it from vegetables. Oh, I know there are ways…

The makers of snack foods know its addictive powers. They have the technical and practical knowledge to achieve it, but their processes and equipment are not available to the average cook.

Of course, there is always deep frying, which is 'dry boiling' in fat at an accelerated temperature that dehydrates, browns, and ultimately crisps. While I love the texture, flavor, and aromas that hot fat lends to food, it wasn't what I was after.

I was chasing the type of crispy that comes from lyophilization, or freeze drying, a process that draws moisture from materials by converting the water in its cells to a solid frozen state, bypassing the liquid phase, to produce a product that is visibly unaltered and intact. Without access to this sexy beast of technology, I had to achieve the fragile crispness with only the tools available in my kitchen.

I knew the key was dehydration. In its pursuit, I moved thin shavings of asparagus from the low temperatures of a dehydrator to the higher temperatures of an oven, to no avail. In both cases, the drawing of moisture collapsed and compacted the cells, resulting in a product that I can only obliquely refer to as crisp. They had the right 'snap', but that was followed by an unpleasant papery chew.

Going back to square one, I restarted the process with shaved asparagus, but this time I attempted to soften the cell walls in heavily salted (1 1/2 Tblsps per quart) boiling water. Next, I spread them out on parchment and (oven) dehydrated at 150F for 30 minutes. Analyzing the shriveled, dry asparagus at this point, I wished for a fast, hot,and dry heat source to expand and puff the collapsed cells. A veil lifted, and 30 seconds later, the most underutilized and misunderstood appliance in my kitchen showed me some of its hidden potential.

Thank you microwave oven.

p.s. Crispy asparagus taste suspiciously like pistachios.

p.p.s. Beware— they are just as addictive.

spring onion granola

Spring onions begin to appear in late February. They look like pregnant scallions but are actually immature onions, harvested before the bulbs are fully formed.

The best spring onions are of the sweet Vidalia variety. Their sugar content mimics that of an apple; sweet enough to eat raw, but infinitely better when caramelized with just a bit of butter and a sprinkle of salt.

Because of their high water content, my preferred method of caramelization is dry heat. I split them in half lengthwise, lay them out in a single layer–but crowded together–on baking sheets. A sprinkling of salt draws out their moisture, while a brushing of melted butter keeps them from drying out. After a half hour or so in a 350F oven, and a few turns, they come out as a contrast of textures: soft and unctuous at the bulb, crisp and brittle at the tops, all of it sweet as candy.

Sometimes, when I want a more melting texture, I cook them on top of the stove, slowly sweating them until they release their moisture, then turn up the heat to caramelize the sugars.

This time, I've combined the methods, starting them on top of the stove until soft and golden, then spread them out on silicone and baked at 200F until they dried into nutty-sweet clusters and flakes that can only be described as granola-y.

Now, I'm wondering what else can be granola-ized.

peas parmesan prosciutto

My kitchen is beginning to look like a dairy lab with containers of cream at various stages of infusion and ripening. Fortunately, the local grocer stocks pasteurized cream, so I don't have to go far when inspiration strikes.

fresh peas

parmesan

prosciutto

lemon thyme beurre monté

The first of the infusions– lemon thyme, was made by gently warming the cream to 125F/52C to more readily allow the release of essential oils from the herb, then chilled and infused overnight before culturing. It occurred to me while churning this butter that I could perhaps have saved a step by letting the infusion take place simultaneously with the culturing. It's back to the store to test that idea. Of course, I could have skipped the ripening stage and churned the butter directly from the chilled, infused cream, but I am currently enamored with the plangent and resounding flavor of cultured butter.

Infusing at the cream stage is, so far, turning out to be an effective way to introduce other flavors into the butter. Here, lemon thyme, whose terpenes can be assertive and overwhelming to more delicate flavors, mellowly haunts in the background of the finished butter, which is turned into a beurre monte for this dish.

Beurre monté was brought into modern cuisine by Thomas Keller at The French Laundry. It is an emulsion in which cold butter is gradually whisked into a small amount of hot water and can be heated up to 180F/82C without breaking. While it is typically made with water, I've used a lemon thyme and wine stock in a 1:4 (stock:butter) ratio to reinforce the flavor and lighten the richness of the sauce.

This dish also reflects another current fascination with pliable Parmesan , an emulsion of cheese

sherry, and sodium citrate. In the Umami burger, I used sake to boost the glutamates. Here, sherry was used to test Heston Blumenthal's groundbreaking discovery of diketopiperazines (DKPs), a compound unique to sherries that are produced by yeast activity during secondary fermentation and enhance glutamate-rich foods. Anyone who has nibbled on a well-aged cheese while sipping sherry will recognize and appreciate this symbiotic relationship. As always, flavor is what grabs my attention, but the consistency of this product also appeals to my sense of play. At room temperature it is as soft and malleable as playdoh. I can tell you about the restraint that it took to roll these pea-sized balls, but I'll spare you of the inner-child-induced 'sculptures" that took place after.

The effect of salt on dry-cured meats such as prosciutto di Parma or serrano ham is purely chemical but the transformation is so profound that it seems supernatural. Opaque muscle filaments are rendered translucent, flavorless proteins break down into concentrated glutamates, and muscle fats fragment to form a kaleidoscope of aroma compounds that range from fruity, herbal, grassy, floral, to nutty and buttery. Again, one couldn't ask for more in terms of flavor, but these hams also possesses a silky suppleness that allows it to be molded by compressing finely chopped or thinly sliced pieces. One advantage to breaking down and restructuring prosciutto is that it can be presented in playful forms that retain a resilient bite without all the chew.

Prosciutto di Parma and Parmesan cheese share not only an indelible terroir, but also similar aroma compounds. Another connection is that the pigs, whose hind legs are destined for prosciutto, are often fed the whey from the production of Parmesan. The trinity of cheese, ham, and peas is rooted in the advent of spring, when the harvest of peas marks the end of lean winter months and the beginning of the celebratory feasting season, an apt time to break out ripe-and-ready hams and cheese.

I can't say that my winter months have been lean, but I'm ready for some celebratory feasting.

Bring on the peas!

tangerine gingerbread coconut black sesame

Gingerbread– a western invention inspired by eastern spices– makes perfect sense when paired with other asian flavors: coconut, tangerine, and black sesame. Although lemon verbena is not widely used in the east, its exotic flavor fits in with the aromatic cuisines of Southeast Asia and provides this dish with a lilting high note.

An interesting synergy developed with the tangerine component. It had started out as a whipped gelatin where sweetened juice was blended with 3% gelatin. Upon whipping, it felt thin. In an attempt to raise the viscosity, I decided against xanthan and opted for methocel. In the initial test, 0.5% of methocel F50 showed a marked improvement in texture. In a subsequent test, increasing the amount to 1% resulted in a dense foam with a rich mouthfeel reminiscent of a fruit curd…definitely something to play with.

And so, with ginger bread returned to its home (and in high spirits), this journey ends.

I think I hear the forest calling…

preserved parsley

I don't remember when I first began preserving leaves with glycerin. As a gardener, it was just something that I did to prolong the fleeting life of flowers and foliage.

I do remember introducing it to my boys when they were young. In the autumn, we would gather branches of oak, beech, and maple leaves just as the colors began to turn and submerge them in vases filled with a solution of equal parts of water and glycerin. Over the next week, we would watch the color metamorphose as the chlorophyll ceased production, triggering the release of pigments. The glycerin, an emollient, would fill the cells, rendering the leaves supple and leathery. They would last for years this way, more so if pressed. Undoubtably, I still have some hidden between the pages of old books.

Last week, as I was preserving some blue holly cuttings this way, it occurred to me that I've only applied this procedure for decorative purposes, when all along, I've ignored its role as a food preservative. It was time to rectify that.

Within three days, a few sprigs of parsley were visibly transformed by the glycerine. The color darkened and the leaves appeared denser and heavier. The taste is sweet up front, which is surprising in a pleasant way, followed by the fresh flavor of parsley. Even after a week of sitting on the counter, loosely wrapped, the leaves are still supple and appear fresh.

Now, the obvious question arises: How can this make food better? Is the answer in its ability to preserve… or transform…or both?

whipped apple caramel gel

Whipping air into the caramel gel changes its appearance from translucent to opaque and lightens the texture. Although it now resembles a creamy caramel, the impact on the palate is lighter and cleaner, leaving only an impression of creaminess. The real surprise is the tartness that wraps itself around the sweetness,(the acid concentrates along with the sugar) and plays out like an agrodolce.

I can see savory as well as sweet applications for this product, but first, I had to play with some plating variations.