the three friends of winter

The Three Friends of Winter
a dessert

serves 6

winter: kasu amazake

This is a variation of amazake that introduces yeast via the kasu (sake lees), aligning it with Chinese jiuniang. Traditionally made with glutinous rice, it can be made with any variety (I like using fragrant jasmine and basmati). Served warm and flavored with yuzu zest, it is sweet, wonderfully aromatic, and mildly alcoholic— an adult version of rice pudding.

rice                                1/2 cup              90g
water                           1 cup 235g
kasu                               2 Tblspns          35g
koji                              1 cup                  180g
microplaned yuzu zest 2 tsps 4g

Bring the water to a boil in a small saucepan. Add the rice, stir, cover pan, and reduce the heat to low. Cook for 15 minutes or until tender.
Sterilize a bowl, a spoon, and a 1-qt glass jar with boiling water. When the rice is cooked, transfer it to the bowl and cool to 55C/130F. Crumble the kasu over the rice, add the koji, and toss mixture with the spoon until well blended. Transfer mixture to jar and cover. Incubate in a water bath at 55-60C/130-140F for 2-3 days, gently shaking the jar every 6-8 hours. After 24 hours, the kasu amazake should be mildly sweet and smell yeasty. It will continue to get sweeter and headier— remove from water bath when it reaches a pleasing flavor and aroma. If not serving within a few hours, stop fermentation by placing the jar in a boiling water bath for 5 minutes and store in refrigerator for up to a week.
To serve, gently warm the kasu amazake and stir in the yuzu zest.

Bamboo: candied black sesame

When black sesame paste is cooked in sugar syrup and brought to the firm ball stage, the oil and solids create a product with the texture of brittle fudge. Here, young bamboo shoots are first impregnated with the light syrup, then coated with the reduced syrup and left to dry.

black sesame paste               2 Tblsps                 40g
hot water                                           1/4 cup                 60g
sugar                                 1 cup                     200g
liquid glucose                                     1 Tblsp                21g
18 young bamboo shoots

Pour the hot water over the sesame paste in a saucepan and whisk to dissolve. Add the sugar and glucose, stir to combine. Cook over high heat to 104C/220F. Remove from heat and add the bamboo shoots to the hot syrup, submerging them. Cover pan and set aside for at least 6 hours at room temperture. Remove shoots from pan and set on a rack to dry. Return pan to high heat and cook the syrup to 121C/250F. Remove from heat and, using a fork, carefully dip each bamboo shoot in the thick syrup to evenly coat, then place on a sheet of parchment to dry. If syrup begins to harden, rewarm gently until fluid before proceeding.
Candied bamboo shoots can be kept in an airtight container for up to 3 days.

Pine: genoise, meringue

Both the cake and meringue are made with pine infused sugar. To heighten the flavor, a drop of pine essential oil was used in the syrup that moistens the genoise, and in the meringue. When buying essential oils for culinary purposes, look for 100% pure therapeutic grade.

pine sugar

sugar 1 cup 200g
pine needles 1/4 oz 12g

Place the sugar and pine needles in a blender and blend on high speed for 2-3 minutes until pulverized. Let stand 5 minutes and blend again for 1 minute. Sift the sugar through a medium sieve to remove pine chaff. Sift again through a fine sieve to remove small particles.

pine genoise

sifted cake flour 1/3 cup              44g
cornstarch 5 Tblsps              37.5g
eggs 4 whole                200g
pine sugar 1/2 cup              100g
cream of tartar                  1/4 tsp               .75g

Preheat the oven to 350 F. Grease and flour a 9" cake pan. In a small bowl, whisk together the flour with the cornstarch. With an electric mixer, beat the eggs with the sugar on high speed for about 5 minutes, or until thick, fluffy, and about tripled in volume. Sift half of the flour mixture over the eggs and fold in with a spatula. Repeat with the remainder of the flour mixture. In a separate bowl, whip the egg whites just until foamy. Sprinkle on the cream of tartar and continue whipping to stiff peaks. Fold the whites into the batter, then pour into prepared cake pan and level off the top. Place in the oven immediately and bake for 20-25 minutes, or until the top springs back when pressed, or a cake tester comes out clean. Remove from oven and allow to cool for 15 minutes before turning out of pan to finish cooling.

pine yuzu syrup

pine sugar 2 Tblsps              25g
water                                  1/4 cup              59g
yuzu juice                          2 tsps                  10g
pine essential oil               1 drop

Bring the sugar and water to a full rolling boil. Remove from heat, cover and let cool. Stir in the yuzu juice and essential oil. Evenly drizzle all of the syrup over the cake.

pine meringue

egg whites                          1/4 cup 60g
cream of tartar 1/4 tsp              .75g
pine sugar                          4 oz                  115g
pine essential oil 1 drop

In an electric mixer, beat the whites on medium speed until frothy. Add the cream of tartar and continue beating on medium while gradually adding the sugar. When approximately 1/2 of the sugar has been added, raise the speed to high and gradually add the remaining sugar until meringue is stiff and glossy. Remove a heaping spoonful (about 1/4 cup) of the meringue to a small bowl and fold in the drop of essential oil until well incorporated. Return the meringue to the mixing bowl and beat for 1 minute.Transfer the meringue to a piping bag fitted with #7 (small round) tip. Pipe long lines of meringue onto a silicone sheet. Bake in a 93C/200F oven for 1 hour, then turn off oven. Let meringues sit in oven until they release easily. To make 'pine needles' run the blade of a thin, offset spatula under each line of meringue— they will break off in short segments. Store in an airtight container for up to 5 days.

Plum: umeboshi puree, preserved ume

umeboshi plum puree

When making fruit purees, I like to freeze the fruit for a day or longer before processing. The freeze/thaw cycle releases flavorful juice by rupturing cell walls, allowing better control of solids:liquids ratio. It also allows the skins and pits to be easily removed. For this sweet/salty puree, I used deep red elephant heart plums and umeboshi (ume fermented in salt, then dried).
Ultratex is a tapioca-derived modified food starch that has the ability to thicken without applying heat. I used it here to tighten the puree, while retaining the fresh fruit flavor.

juice from frozen and thawed plums                  105g
solids from frozen and thawed plums                  80g
umeboshi, pitted                                              22g
yogurt                                                              50g
honey                                                              30g
ultratex 8 8g

Place all of the ingredients except for the ultratex in a high speed blender and blend until smooth. With motor running on medium, drop the ultratex into the center vortex and continue blending until thickened. Transfer puree to a squeeze bottle.

ume leaves

Ume, aka Japanese plums, are not a type of plum, but a distinct species in the subgenus Prunus that include plum and apricot. Even when ripe, they are at least twice as acidic as plums. Although fresh ume are difficult to find in the US, Kanjyuku Ume No Mi (preserved plum produced by Choya foods) can be found in markets like Mitsuwa that specialize in Japanese ingredients. Essentially, they are ume preserved in sugar, but they are unlike any candied fruit I've ever tasted: crunchy, gelatinous, barely sweet, fragrant, puckery, and addictive.

5 preserved ume

Cut each ume into 8 wedges, removing the flesh from the pit. Trim the underside of each 'leaf' so that it sits flat on the plate.

To assemble dish

Place a 7.5cm/3" ring mold in the center of a warmed serving plate. Spoon approximately 3 Tblsps on warm kasu amazake in the center of ring mold and spread in an even layer with the back of the spoon. Lift mold off of plate. Trim the candied bamboo shoots to 7.5cm/3" in length and arrange 3 on top of the kasu amazake. Break the cake apart into small, irregular pieces and arrange 3 pieces at the base of bamboo shoots. Scatter some of the pine meringue needles over the top of cake. Arrange 6 of the ume wedges around the base of the cake to resemble bamboo leaves. Pipe clusters of 5-dot circles on either side of candied bamboo to resemble plum blossoms and single dots to resemble buds. Repeat with remaining plates.

elderflower

I once found elder growing on our property. I came upon the single straggy specimen while clearing a patch of the hillside to plant fruit trees. It was struggling in the dense overgrowth and I had hoped that its new situation of light and air would help it along. But the following summer, and the one after, when our lives filled with other priorities, the wild reclaimed the orchard and swallowed up the elder.

After that, I considered cultivating elder on a more hospitable part of the yard— there are many ornamental hybrids with unique characteristics for the home gardener and elder enthusiast. For now, I'm happy to harvest flowers and berries from the naturalized specimens that grow abundantly along the roadsides of Northwestern Connecticut.

For most of the year, elder's dark green foliage blends in with the understory and is hard to spot. But there's a two to three week window, just after the last of the June strawberry harvest and just as the first blueberries ripen in July, when elder bursts into bloom, and elderflowers become like beacons to bees and foragers alike. That's when I stop to pick flowers from the dozens of mature trees that I pass on my daily travels, leaving enough behind to return for ripe berries in late September.

Elderflowers have a musky honey aroma that is both fruity and floral. Picked early in the morning (when most flowers have a heightened scent), they smell to me of muscat grapes. That may be why I like my elderflower cocktail with moscato wine instead of champagne, and certainly what inspired this bavaroise, served with St Germaine-glazed blueberries and honeycomb candy.

elderflower ambrosia

Ambrosia often refers to an orange and coconut concotion, but can also be used to describe something that is particularly delicious and nectar-like— a fitting description for this dessert.

elderflower moscato bavaroise

250g moscato
60g sugar
2 egg yolks
40g St Germaine
60g creme fraiche
1 sheet gelatin, softened in cold water
200g heavy cream, chilled and whipped to soft peaks

Cook the moscato and sugar to 100C/212F. Whisk together the yolks, St Germaine, and creme fraiche. Slowly drizzle the hot syrup into the yolk mixture while whisking, then transfer to saucepan and cook over medium low heat until bubbly and thickened. Remove from heat and whisk in the drained gelatin until dissolved. Cool to room temperature, then fold in the whipped cream. Pour mixture onto a parchment lined sheetpan and spread to an even thickness of 2.5cm/1". Chill for 2-3 hours, until set.

elderflower white chocolate shards

100g white chocolate, melted
2.5g freshly picked elderflower blossoms, plus more for garnish

Spread the white chocolate on parchment or silicone in a thin, even layer. When it has cooled, but not yet solidified, sprinkle blossoms over top of chocolate, pressing lightly to adhere. Chill until chocolate can be peeled from parchment and broken into shards. To preserve the color/integrity of the blossoms: do not freeze or assemble more than 30 minutes in advance of service.

St Germaine glazed blueberries

65g St Germaine
25g unsalted butter
150g blueberries

Bring the St Germaine to a simmer and whisk in the butter. When the mixture returns to a simmer, add the blueberries. Toss well to coat berries and continue cooking over gentle heat for a minute or two, just until they are warmed through. Keep warm until ready to serve.

honeycomb candy (see recipe here), broken into shards

To serve: Using a long, offset spatula, and a single motion, cut and scoop up a 2.5cm/1" wide slice of the bavaroise. Drop onto a serving plate, right of center. Embed upright shards of the elderflower white chocolate alternately with the honeycomb candy. Sprinkle the blueberries to the left and over the top of the bavaroise, then drizzle some of the glaze over the top of berries. Garnish with a sprinkle of fresh elderflower blossoms.

beet roses

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

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

candy cane beet chips on Bonne Bouche (goat)

microwave beet chips

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

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

burrata peaches agastache

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

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

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

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

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

a living soup

Milkweed is a useful plant, entirely edible in its early stages. The young shoots are a delight when they emerge in the spring. Later, the tender young leaves are worth seeking out, but it's the reproductive parts that start out as buds, then open into sweet-scented flowers, and develop into tender-crisp pods that interest me most.

By mid-summer the plant toughens as it directs its energy into producing seeds. Though the mature pods are too cellulosic to consume, they're beautiful to look at. Pulling one apart, I am reminded of the recurring motifs found in nature: the seeds, perfectly shingled like feathers and fish scales, the 'cobs' composed of lustrous filaments— finer than silk— that unfurl into ghostly flowers to carry the seeds into perpetuity. Genius!

Although I had managed to harvest and pickle some flower buds while they were in season, I thought I had missed the window for the young pods until I found a stand of stunted plants growing in deep shade. The pods must be blanched to draw out their milky sap. I served them as crudites with a kefir-based dip and made some new milkweed (and kefir) converts. I saved a few to garnish a cold soup that I'm excited to tell you about.

All summer long my blender had been busy making raw, green gazpacho-style soups. Packed with good flavor and nutrients, they were a savory on-the-go alternative to smoothies, yet with some prudent garnishes they easily transitioned to more formal meals. Mostly, I made them with whatever was fresh and on hand, with variations of the basic components. Here's my framework recipe with percentages based on weight:

45% english cucumber, unpeeled
20% liquid– water, white wine, veg broth
15% fruit– green grapes, melon, avocado, white peach
8% fat– evo, almond oil, avocado oil
3.5% greens– lettuce, herbs, arugula, spinach, sorrel
3% nuts– almonds, macadamia, pistachio, sunflower seeds
2.75% acid– citrus juice, vinegar
2% aromatics– garlic, shallot, scallion
.75% salt

A few weeks ago, I made what would likely be the last cold soup of the year. I packed the blender with cucumber, nasturtium leaves, Crenshaw melon, almonds, garlic, scallions, and olive oil. I didn't have any open white wine or vegetable broth, but I did have a lot of fresh kefir whey left over from making kefir cheese. Since it was more than moderately acidic, I used it to replace both the liquid and the acid in the soup. In doing so, I realized that I was adding an ingredient that was alive with lactic acid and yeast, and that if given the right conditions (time and temperature), they would be capable of fermenting the soup. After consuming part of the soup, I put the rest on my front porch on an 85℉ day. Four hours later, the soup was notably transformed. The texture had lightened, almost to the point of being 'fluffy'. The sharp edges that I remembered from the soup that I had consumed earlier had rounded out (except for the acidity), yet the flavor had amplified. The difference was like listening to a CD versus a attending a concert; the raw soup was good, but the fermented soup tasted alive.

soft shell crab in a white garden

A light dusting of seasoned flour. A quick saute in a hot pan replete with butter, nutty and brown. A benediction of lemon.
Prepared this way, soft shell crab has no rival.

The exquisite crunch of shell. The burst of sweet meat, so soft and moist that it's nearly a gel.
It's a startling affirmation of the transcendence of pristine product, simply prepared.

But I know you don't come here to see a soft shell crab on a plate. In fact, that's not why I come here myself. My mission— now, as always— is to explore.

After exploring other preparations for soft shell crab, I had to concede that the legs are nothing without the crunch provided by hot fat. But the claws are meaty enough to benefit from a post-frying marinade of aromatics and acid, aka escabeche. Turning to the body, I was surprised by how effortlessly the raw nuggets of meat could be extracted from the flexible cartilage. With the help of lime juice, banana pepper, shallot, and green coriander seeds, they were turned into ceviche.

To unite the three preparations, I turned to a dish that I once saw at a Chinese banquet: cold steamed crabs on a bed of white orchids. Many years later, I still draw inspiration from the stunning contrast of ruddy shells swimming in a garden of alabaster petals.

happy mother’s day

flowering teas

I woke up to snow again today; anathema to the three feet that's already on the ground. I spent the morning looking through seed catalogues; at technicolor pictures of lush vegetables and cheerful flowers, dreaming of the exuberance of summer. "If you plant us", they seem to say, "it will come."

Despite their promise, I know summer will eventually come. And though it's far too soon to look for signs; in winter, hope springs eternal.

I first discovered flowering teas at Pike Place Market in Seattle nearly 4 years ago and have been collecting them since. Sometimes called blooming tea, or art tea, the bundled balls are made of select white tea leaves (unfermented Camellia senesis) bound together with silk thread. Inside, they hide flowers— lily, jasmine, chrysanthemum, carnation, calendula— delicately stitched to the leaves. When dropped into hot water, they slowly unfurl to reveal their hidden beauty; burlesque in a tea cup.

The tea is not the finest or most complex that I've tasted, but on a day like today, watching something bloom before my eyes is visual therapy.

summer pasta

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

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

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

I'm in denial.

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

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

Still… I hate to see it go.

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

But it's not over yet.

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

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

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

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

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

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

infusions: a revolutionary technique

On the days when I work at home, my morning starts with reading emails over a cup of coffee. Today, though, I took some extra time to catch up on blog reading.

One of my favorites, Cooking Issues, put up a post this morning about infusion that, quite frankly, changed my life. No joke. When your life and your livelihood revolve around food, and your obsessions include plants and aroma, then this post was truly life-altering.

Extracting flavor and aroma from plants has long been a source of frustration for me. Without a rotovap or chamber vacuum, I've had to resort to conventional methods of infusion that can take days, sometimes weeks. That's all changed now, thanks to Dave Arnold and an isi whipper.

Dave's revolutionary infusion method involves packing aromatics and liquid into an isi whipper, charging it with N2O, waiting 60 seconds before opening the canister and straining. The depressurized gas disrupts the cells, releasing aroma into the liquid. The beauty of this technique is that it is simple, quick, and inexpensive.

After I calmed down, I tried to work. Really, I did. But I was too distracted. I had to take inventory of my chargers and figure out how soon I could get more. And I kept thinking of all the herbs, flowers, and seeds in my garden, pantry and refrigerator.

Despite a crushing deadline, I took a few hours off to play. My reward is a refrigerator stocked with a dozen or so jars of brilliant infusions.

It's nearly midnight as I write this, and I have hours of work to make up. It's gonna be a long night, but I had to take a few minutes to share this with you. Maybe it will change your life, too.