Solanaceae: the incredible [sometimes] edible nightshade family of plants

Have you ever cut into a plum tomato and [for a moment] thought it was a pepper?
Or had a similar moment with the seed patterns of eggplant and tomatillos?

Have you ever roasted peppers over an open fire or opened a bag of sun dried tomatoes and caught a whiff of tobacco?

Maybe you've walked through a vegetable garden and noticed how certain flowers resemble each other?

You have? Well, you're very observant. And you probably already know that these observations are not random but just some of the threads that link together the nightshade family.

Solanaceae, commonly known as nightshade, is a fascinating and diverse family of plants comprised of 102 genera and 2800 species, many of which are globally significant sources of food.

Popular edible genera and species:
Solanum: potato (S. tuberosum), tomato (S. lycopersicum), eggplant (S. melongena)
Capsicum: bell pepper and chili pepper (C. annuum)
Physalis: tomatillo (P. philadelphica)

lesser edible species:
ground cherry/cape gooseberry (Physalis peruviana), goji berry (Lycium barbarum), tomarillo (Solanum betaceum), pepino melon (Solanum Muricatum), naranjilla (Solanum quitoense), wonderberry/sunberry (Solanum retroflexum), Morelle de Balbis (Solanum sisymbriifolium).

Nearly half of all nightshade species are found in the genus Solanum, including two important foods: potato and tomato. The potato species, with over 4,000 varieties, is the world's fourth largest food crop, surpassed only by rice, wheat, and corn. It possesses all of the vitamins and minerals necessary for human survival with the exception of vitamin A and D. Think about this the next time you add butter, milk, or sour cream to potatoes: you're creating a nutritionally complete food.

The potato tuber seems an anomaly in this large, varied family of predominantly fruit (tomatoes, eggplant, and peppers are botanically fruits, but for culinary purposes are considered vegetables). That's because the plant is genetically programmed to direct energy to forming tubers instead of fruit. Only 8% of the potato's genes are responsible for this trait, the other 92% of its DNA is shared with the tomato.

Economically, the tomato can give its tuberous cousin a run for the money— 2 billion dollars worth in the US market alone. Not bad for a fruit that started as a wild green berry in the mountains of Peru (also the birthplace of the potato) and thought to be unfit for human consumption for a span of its existence. Even after domestication in Europe, it was regarded as a mere curiosity to some, while others thought them (as a Paduan physician declared in 1628) “strange and horrible things”. But that was a long time ago and we no longer find the tomato so disagreeable. Well, at least not all of the time.

From July through October, homegrown and small farm raised tomatoes are celebrated with cult-like vehemence. For the rest of the year, when our only choice is commercially grown fruit, we are left with… strange and horrible things. How are these even related and, for the love of Flavor, if we can (insert any modern technological advancement), why can't we buy a tomato from November through June that isn't an abomination? For an age-old lament, you would think that the answer is more complicated than it actually is— what it really comes down to is money. The commercial farmers in South Florida, who grow 90% of out-of-season supermarket tomatoes in the US, don't get paid for flavor, they get paid by the pound. In this monopoly, flavor is inconsequential— profit comes from yield, uniformity, shippability, and shelf life. It's a grim laundry list that the other stakeholders— the commercial tomato breeders— must fill in order to get their piece of the pie. In doing so, they have bred the flavor right out of the tomato.

But there is hope…

Earlier this year, two separate papers were published on tomato genetics that could have a positive impact on commercially grown tomatoes by satisfying the consumer's yearning for flavor and still maintain the grower's bottom line.

The focus of one paper, published in the journal Science, is a random gene mutation in tomatoes that turn them uniformly red. Older varieties, like the heirlooms, turn red from the blossom end to the stem, some even remain green around the stem when fully ripe. Although the mutation was discovered 70 years ago and has since been deliberately bred into modern varieties to make them more attractive to consumers and easier for growers to determine ripeness, it was the authors, led by Ann Powell, a plant biochemist at UC Davis, who discovered that the missing gene inactivated by the mutation is responsible for the alluring aroma and flavor of a ripe homegrown tomato.

In another paper, the genome of the tomato was decoded for the first time by an international consortium of 300 plant geneticists from 14 countries. Shortly after it was published in the journal Nature in May, a surprising discovery from the study— that tomatoes possess a whopping 35,000 genes— made headlines. That's about 7,000 more genes than you or me but it doesn't mean that tomatoes are more complex, they just manage their cells differently.

The monumental work, nine years in the making, illuminates a cheaper and speedier path to improving every aspect of the tomato— from flavor, to disease resistance (lacking in heirloom varieties), to nutrition, to yield— and the ability to isolate these traits separately. The information about the evolution and pathways contained in the genome sequencing also has implications for other fleshy fruits that share tomato characteristics.

All of this groundbreaking information may seem like it's clearcutting the way for genetically modified tomatoes. That's been tried already, back in the 1990's, and failed due to consumer confidence. Instead, it facilitates the selective breeding of new varieties, both for the home garden and commercial farms. But when will we see change? According to a member of the consortium, Professor Graham Seymour of the University of Nottingham, in a BBC article:

"I only work with a couple of companies but I know that they are putting through some of these new traits and they are going to their elite lines – but all tomato breeding companies will be taking this up now so you would expect to see a number of new products over the next 3-5 years."

Godspeed.

tomato poached in lime basil oil
stuffed with mozzarella curds and mascarpone
tomatine sauce: fermented green tomato and tomato leaf

More than tomatoes and potatoes and other good things to eat, nightshade has a dark, unsavory side that begot its name. Meet the shadiest members:
datura (Datura stramonium)
belladonna (Atropa belladonna)
henbane (Hyoscyamus spp.)
mandrake (Mandragora spp.)

These genera played a prominent role in early medicine and continue to be important today. During the Renaissance, Venetian courtesans dilated their pupils with belladonna, the source of the alkaloid atropine, to make them appear dreamy and seductive. The vain application of the past inspired the more practical modern use of atropine in routine eye exams.

The superstitious minds of Medieval Europe shrouded nightshade in mystery, magic, and the occult. Mandrake, whose forked root sometimes resembles a human form, was believed to release a deadly shriek when pulled from the earth and was only harvested through a complex ritual that involved tying the plant to a dogs' tail on a moonlit night. The witches of the time inhaled henbane smoke to induce hallucinatory trances necessary to cast spells and summon spirits. Many of these plants were included in their legendary flying ointments for the sensations of lightness that they produced.

Earlier still, datura was revered as a sacred visionary plant by ancient civilizations of the world and used ceremoniously to induce prophesies. Henbane was commonly used in Druid and Viking rituals, as evidenced by the seeds found in their graves.

History, folklore, and literature are all guilty of romanticizing deadly plants, but nightshade's deadly aspect is no joke. These genera are host to a potent chemical soup of psychotropic alkaloids that in the right dose can treat a variety of ailments from motion sickness to Parkinson. In the wrong dose, they are capable of inducing hallucinations, comas, and death. Solanaceae plants produce these alkaloids and other compounds as chemical defenses against predators and environmental threats. but if you think they are limited to the medicinal species, think again.

the many colors and shapes of Solanaceae

Everything we eat has consequences. The most blatant example is chili pepper, a food that we willfully eat that causes us both pleasure and pain. The pleasure comes from a release of endorphines. The pain comes from the volatile compound capsaicin that, in a twist, has the ability to relieve pain.

Though not a food, tobacco (Nicotiana tabacum) is an important cash crop that produces the alkaloid nicotine, whose harmful and addictive nature has been well documented. But how many abstainers know that it is also present (in lesser degrees) in eggplant, tomatoes, and potatoes?

Have you ever experienced an itchy or burning sensation on your tongue after eating eggplant? That's oral allergy syndrome, caused by protein histamines that affects sensitive individuals.

And those green spots on potatoes? Those are harmless chlorophyll, but they indicate something insidious just under the surface: the presence of solanine, a poisonous alkaloid that can cause severe nausea, and even death.

Just as science shines new light and understanding on naturally-occurring plant compounds and their implications to our health, it also exposes myths.

The strange and horrible tomato, once feared for its association with the dark side, is now known to contain beneficial phytonutrients, even as an increasing part of the population sensitive to their alkaloids is choosing to exclude them, and all nightshades, from their diet.

Solanine has been long believed to be the culprit that kept us from consuming tomato leaves. But as Harold McGee pointed out in a 2009 article in the New York Times, solanine belongs to the potato species, while the tomato's is tomatine, which "appears to be a relatively benign alkaloid". So, while it may not be a good idea to indulge in a heap of tomato greens, a few aromatic leaves used as an herb is likely harmless.

Perhaps the most misunderstood and controversial members of Solanaceae belong to the Solanum nigrum complex. Solanum nigrum, commonly known as black nightshade, is a morphologically distinct species and there are at least 30 other distinct Solanum species that are bundled into this complex. To quantify them all under the dark umbrella of black nightshade taints them with the perception that they are all deadly poisonous when, in fact, they are not. At least, not all of the time. And that's where the confusion begins.

Here, too, solanine seems to be the problem— or more accurately— the varying degrees of concentration among the species. Many (too numerous to list) have a long history as significant food sources, primarily in Africa and Eurasia. Most often, it's the leaves that are gathered and cooked as greens. In some cases the ripe berries are consumed as well. Unless we are willing to sift through a maze of mind-numbing toxicological data on the individual species, there is very little practical information available. Even so, conclusions given by plant scientists are typical to this:
"the development of toxic levels of these alkaloids is dependent on their growth under certain conditions or in certain localities, and even on the age of the plants concerned. Other reports suggest that the amounts of poisonous 'principles' vary greatly with climate, season and soil type." (Edmonds and Chweya,1997)

Could this be a case of poisonous terroir?

The fear and uncertainty surrounding black nightshade, at least in North American, prevents even the adventurous from gathering and consuming wild species— every field guide lists S. nigrum as toxic. But there is a cultivated species that was introduced in the early 1900's by plant breeder Luther Burbank, whose ripe berries are reputedly safe to eat.

Burbank claimed to have hybridized his 'Sunberry' by crossing S. guineense with S. villosum , and created Solanum burbankii, “a new food plant from a poisonous family”. In 1909, Burbank sold the rights to the seeds to John Lewis Childs, who rechristened it 'Wonderberry' and promoted it with extravagant claims as "the greatest garden fruit ever introduced ". Suspicion was cast when horticulturists claimed that it was nothing more than common S. nigrum. Controversy raged until the 1950's when the wonderberry was proven to be a distinct species native to South Africa. It was never known whether Burbank was aware of this or if it had been inadvertently introduced to his experimental gardens. Nevertheless, the damage was done and fear of black nightshade cast the wonderberry into obscurity. In recent years, wonderberry has been resurrected by seed companies and gardeners interested in 'new' heirloom varieties. Sometimes it is listed as the hybrid S. burbankii, sometimes as the correct species S. retroflexum, but by all accounts it is safe to eat the black ripe berries (green are recognized as poisonous), and by many accounts, they are delicious.

roasted eggplant and smoked potato custard
fire-roasted pepper petals
nightshade relish

Ever versatile, Solanaceae contributes more than food and drugs— it enriches our lives with beauty and scent through these ornamentals plants:
petunia (Petunia spp.) most widely grown ornamental nightshade • 35 species • flattened tubular flowers • available in many colors from white to black (dark purple) • spreading habit makes them popular in hanging baskets.
flowering tobacco (Nicotiana spp.) various flowering species of tobacco • small tubular star-shaped flowers open at dusk • older varieties are more scented than modern.
datura (Datura spp.) aka: angel's trumpet, moonflower, thorn apple • large erect trumpet flowers • produces spiny seed pods • highly toxic.
brugmansia (Brugmansia spp.) closely resembles datura, but with pendulous flowers and woody stems • grown as trees in the tropics • strongly scented • highly toxic.

The etymology of Solanaceae is unclear— there is conjecture that Sol- refers to their preference for sunshine and heat. Most genera originated in warm climates, where they grow as perennials. In cold climates, unless protected, they must be treated as annuals. Although they love growing in the sun, the flowers of these ornamentals only release their alluring scent at night. This trait allows them to attract nocturnal pollinators and, perhaps, contributed to the naming of "nightshade".

husk-covered nightshade: tomatillo, groundcherry, Morelle de Balbis

Among the edible species, tomatoes, peppers and eggplant are the most widely cultivated by home gardeners. They're certainly omnipresent in my vegetable patch, along with tomatillos. They are easy to grow if you provide them with rich soil, room to breathe, and at least 6 hours of sunshine a day. Potatoes require a little extra care as they need to have additional soil hilled up around them as they grow to allow tubers to form along the stem and to protect them from sunlight that triggers solanine.

I've always allocated space in the garden to experiment with new plant varieties. This year, it was occupied by three nightshade: purple tomatillos, groundcherries, and Morelle de Balbis.

The purple tomatillos got a late start and didn't fully ripen before the first frost, but I was able to harvest a decent crop of the green variety before they succumbed to the same fate.

Groundcherries were a delight (for the squirrel and slugs too). When ripe, their papery green husks turn brown and they fall to the ground. The berries within are edible when green and taste similar to tomatillos. They turn yellow when ripe and become sweet with a flavor reminiscent of pineapple. They'll definitely be on the roster next year.

The Morelle de Balbis were formidable plants to grow— the stems, leaves, and husks are covered with fierce thorns that like to grab onto clothes and hair, and prick exposed skin. The husks surrounding the berries make them appear to be physalis, but they belong to the genus solanum. They break open when the fruit ripens, exposing red berries that taste like a blend of tomatoes and plums, and take on sweet cherry notes as the fruit ages.

pineapple honey glazed groundcherries
cherry honey glazed Morelle de Balbis
lime tomatillo tuile sheeps milk gelato
sweet cicely chamomile

Even as I put my garden to rest for the year, I'm already thinking ahead to next.

I already know that nightshades will take up most of the real estate. I'll put the tall tomatillos towards the back, the low-growing groundcherries in the front, where they'll have room to sprawl. The potatoes will grow in a row along the wall that will retain the soil that I'll pile on them as they grow. There will be peppers, both hot and sweet, and petunias in hanging baskets on the porch, flowering tobacco in the border by the back door to perfume the night air.

I look forward to growing two new-to-me varieties: wonderberry, an edible member of black nightshade (see above), and naranjilla (Solanum quitonense), a shade tolerant plant that produces acidic orange berries, reputed to taste like pineapple and lime.

And yes, there will be tomatoes, as many as I can fit. They'll get the spot with the best soil and the most sun because the tomatoes that grow there will likely be the best that I eat all year. Maybe someday, with a push from science, that will no longer be true.

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.

butternut squash fusilli

There's an hors d'oeuvre on our fall/winter catering menu that we refer to as "the squash box". It consists of a hollow cube of roasted butternut squash, filled with goat cheese and crushed pistachios. When we serve them inverted and lined up on trays, they appear to be simple bite-sized blocks of squash— the hidden filling comes as a surprise. The squash boxes exemplify the combination of appealing flavor and clean presentation that we strive for in our passed hors d'oeuvres, so naturally, we were pleased by their popularity. But back in the kitchen, they were a real pain in the ass to make.
At first, we hollowed them by scoring 1/4" thick walls with a paring knife, then meticulously removed the centers with a melon baller. This was manageable when making a few dozen, but when the numbers stretched into the hundreds, we had to rethink the process.
Chef Martin is a great thinker, a creative problem solver, and a lover of tools. His first attempt at a solution was to have a square metal die fabricated to score the inner wall. In theory, it should've worked perfectly, but in reality, the metal was too thick and split the walls of the boxes. Undeterred, he pulled out the power tools— specifically, a drill fitted with a Forstner bit. It was a beautifully quick and effective solution to a previously tedious task.
Here's a short clip of Martin in action. Please excuse his parting gesture—apparently, his hands are not a fan of the camera.

Delighted as we were by this streamlined solution and the clean holes, I was more interested in what came out of them: long, coiled ribbons of butternut squash that looked identical to fusilli pasta.
Here's a closer look:

In this by-product of the squash boxes, I saw an elegant alternative to vegetable pasta. But cooking the butternut squash fusilli posed a critical problem. I tried every possible application of heat: wet, dry, slow, fast, but in each instance, just as it passed into a palatably tender stage, they would go limp and lose definition. I knew the solution was somewhere in the folds of my memory, ready to access, but there I failed, too.
Memory is a curious thing. Sometimes it's as direct and linear as a gunshot, sometimes it's like fishing in a labrinth.
I felt a tug on the lure while reasearching nixtamalization for a pickling project. It bit down in my memory of the 2011 Star Chefs Congress. When I reeled it in, at the end of the line were 2 gleaming nuggets of information.
The first was courtesy of Andoni Luis Aduriz, who, in a workshop, demonstrated a fossilization technique where salsify was soaked in a lime (the mineral, not the fruit) solution to firm the surface before cooking. From my memory, his claim that "any fruit with pectin will react with lime to make calcium pectate".
The second nugget was from Paul Liebrandt's mainstage presentation from the later that day. In a similar technique, he used calcium lactate to form a skin on the surface of jerusalem artichoke, allowing it to keep it's shape while the interior cooked to a creamy texture, without loss of moisture.
So, it seemed there were two possible solutions that produced parallel results. One, alkaline and caustic, the other a neutral salt.
I went with the calcium lactate. In the photo below, you can see the results. In the foreground is the squash that soaked in a 1% calcium lactate solution for 2 hours, then air dried, and roasted— tender, but still defined. In the background is the untreated squash roasted on the same pan— limp in comparison.

Solutions, like a great catch, are worth waiting for.
That's an easy one to remember.

butternut squash ✢ black kale ✢ goat gouda ✢ kale stem

kefir

I have a friend who claims that regular consumption of kefir will provide her with a long, healthy, disease-free life. I hope she's right.

It seems that most kefir enthusiasts drink it for the health benefits (which are substantial) but almost apologetically claim that the flavor is an acquired one. Sure, if you're not open to the taste of sour milk, kefir can be offputting. But, by making it yourself, you can control the degree of sourness— from mildly tangy to sharp and effervescent.

For the uninitiated, kefir is fermented milk, cultured with kefir grains. The gelatinous grains are a matrix of sugar, protein, fat, and ash that harbor a garden of yeast and bacteria. It is the yeast that sets it apart from other milk cultures that are predominately bacteria.

Making kefir is as simple as adding the grains to milk (about 1 tablespoon of grains per 2 cups of milk) and allowing it to ferment at room temperature for a day or two. When the desired texture and flavor are achieved, the grains are strained from the kefir and recycled to start a new batch. If those directions sound vague, they are intentionally so. Even with careful weighing and control of temperature, the results are not always consistent. I've come to believe that this is because kefir grains are living organisms that operate with dual microbes and that the speed and efficiency with which they culture a new batch of kefir is largely dependent on their active state at the time of introduction. For example, I've found that after straining the grains from a completed batch of kefir and immediately adding them to fresh milk, fermentation (detected by the onset of a sour flavor) begins more rapidly than when a batch is started with grains that have been stored in the refrigerator between batches.

With so many variables, I no longer bother with weights and temperature, I just set it out on the counter and let it do its thing. Sometimes I catch it when it turns creamy and just begins to acquire a tang. Sometimes I let it ripen until it curdles and precipitates whey, at which point the curds can be drained to form a soft, tangy cheese. My favorite thing is to cover it tightly while it ferments to trap the CO2 released by the yeast until it gets fizzy. Milk champagne is a wonderous thing!

amazake

Making amazake is perhaps the most overt example of saccharification that I've ever witnessed.

Take some cooked rice, blend it with koji (about 2:1 by volume), embrace them in warmth (100-140F), and in less than half of a day the koji will have efficiently digested the rice's starch, converting it into simple sugars. The result is stunningly sweet and full of character.

Traditionally, amazake is used as a sweetener or blended with hot water and served as a warm drink, but I'm just starting to investigate its potential in other arenas.

koji

Do you know koji?
If you don't, you should— it's responsible for all kinds of deliciousness.

Koji is an unsung hero among molds. If you enjoy products like soy sauce, shoyu, mirin, miso, and sake, then you can thank Aspergillus oryzae, the filamentous fungus that transforms beans and grains into umami-laden powerhouses of flavor. It does so by producing enzymes that break down starches, proteins, and fats into simple sugars, amino acids, and fatty acids, preserving them, while making them more digestible and delicious. It is the same process that transforms milk into cheese, wheat into bread, grapes into wine— the elegant and complex miracle of fermentation.

peanut butter miso cookies

Some time ago, I mentioned adding miso to peanut butter cookies on twitter. I received a number of requests for the recipe/ratios, which I promised to post.

You wouldn't know that it's miso that makes these cookies special unless you were privy, but you'll notice the difference in the rounded flavor. Sweets that are nuanced with savory and salty are always a winning combination in my book.

peanut butter miso cookies

makes 24 7.5cm/3" cookies

106g unsalted butter, at room temperature
130g peanut butter
40g shiro miso (light miso)
88g dark brown sugar (preferably muscavado)
80g granulated sugar
8g glucose
53g egg
5g baking soda
10g boiling water
175g all-purpose flour

Place the butter, peanut butter, miso, brown sugar, granulated sugar, and glucose in a mixer bowl. Beat the ingredients with the paddle attachment at medium speed until light and creamy. Add the egg and beat just until incorporated. In a small bowl, dissolve the baking soda in the boiling water and add to the mixer bowl along with the flour. Mix on low speed for 2 minutes until all of the ingredients are well combined.
Preheat oven to 163C/325F, or 157C/315F if using convection. Using a 3.80cm/1.5" scoop, lay out level scoops of dough on a silpat or parchment-lined baking sheet, leaving about 5cm/2" between cookies to allow for spreading. Chill cookies for 20 minutes to firm dough. Scoops of raw dough can also be frozen for future cookie cravings, then packed into ziplocks. Remove cookies from refrigerator and press with the tines of a fork in a cross-hatch pattern, if desired. Bake for 10 minutes for a softer cookie, or 12 for a crisper cookie.

Miso and peanut butter are so similar in appearance and texture that I'm surprised I haven't made the connection before. In addition to improving a classic cookie, the peanut butter-miso connection captured my imagination for another product: peanut miso.

Most people don't realize that peanuts are in fact legumes. Culinarily, we use them like nuts, but botanically they belong to the plant family Leguminosae, or Fabaceae, and are more closely related to peas and beans. This connection begs the question: if miso is made from soybeans, can it also be made from other beans?

I do know that [I] can't make miso from citrus rinds, though I gave it a good try. During the 10 month fermentation, I had hopes of transforming all sorts of products by fermenting with Aspergillus oryzae(koji mold), the fungus used in the production of miso, soy sauce, and sake. In my haste to make a new product, I failed to follow two fundamental tenets: understanding of product and process, and groundwork. Had I started with a time-honored traditional soybean miso, I would've had a map for when it was on course and where it veered off. Had I done my research, I would have understood that pectin-rich citrus pericarps were not an inviting environment for the enzymatic reaction that koji forms with protein.

Still, I'm hopeful and excited about roasted peanut miso.
And spicy black bean miso.
And fermented hummus.
But first— I'll start with the basics.

gouda fries

One of the things that I like about the Parmesan pasta is its versatility. Because there's no starch to cook through, it just needs to be heated enough for the methocel to gel and the cheese to fuse. This means that it can be cooked directly in a sauce, braise, or roasted. I assume that it can also be grilled or deep-fried, although I've tried neither. Cut into batonnets and pan-fried in a nonstick skillet, they form a thin, crisp shell around a soft melted center.

Curiously, the recipe only works with Parmesan. Even other hard cheeses, like an aged Pecorino, causes it to lose its definition, turning into puddles of melted cheese. I've found that the problem can be solved with the addition of a relatively small amount of starch. Both cornstarch or potato starch will work and still keep it gluten free, though I prefer the flavor and lightness of rice flour.

gouda fries

75g water

3g methocel SGA150

112g grated aged gouda

40g rice flour

Add methocel to water and disperse with immersion blender. Chill solution for 4 hours to hydrate.

In a bowl, toss together the gouda and rice flour until well blended. Drizzle 64g of methocel solution over mixture in bowl. Stir mixture until it forms a uniform dough.

Turn dough out onto a sheet of plastic wrap. With fingers, pat into a rough rectangle, about 2cm thick. Cover dough with another sheet of plastic wrap. With a rolling pin, roll out to even 1cm thickness. Remove plastic wrap and cut dough into 1cm x 1cm x 8cm batonnets.

Heat a nonstick skillet over medium-high heat. Lightly grease the bottom with butter. When the butter sizzles and begins to brown, add the batonnets to the pan, turning until they are evenly brown and crisp on all sides. Serve immediately or hold in a warm oven.

gouda fries

peach ketchup

lovage

parmesan pasta

I developed this pasta analog last year for a client who was diagnosed with Celiac disease.
It contains no gluten— only Parmesan, water, and methylcellulose.
The recipe was featured in an article about Molecular Gastronomy written by Peter Barrett for Chronogram Magazine.
You can find the recipe here.

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.