tortured pear

Tortured.

We've all felt that way at one time or another. Right?

It's not that I'm feeling particularly tortured myself. Well, maybe just enough to write this post in response to a conversation with someone who accused me (specifically) and modern cooking (in general) of torturing food.

"Why all the manipulation? Why torture food? Why make cooking so complicated? You take a solid, turn it into a liquid, then make it solid again. Why denature something just to make it look natural?

They were valid questions— certainly ones I've heard before— and they were asked out of genuine curiosity. But they were designed to provoke a defense, so she looked a little letdown when I nodded in agreement and told her that she was absolutely right.

But I wasn't letting her off that easy— I pointed to the sandwich that she was eating during our conversation and told her that it was a very tortured thing indeed. In explanation, I took her along the path that put it in her hand. I think I used words like thrashed, crushed, pulverized, whipped, beaten, fermented, and intense heat. And that was just addressing the bread. I started in on the pastrami, cheese, and mustard, but stopped short because she was looking a little tortured herself.

Regardless of what we put in our mouths, its inception was to rob something of its vital force. All food was once alive. Is it more honorable to pluck food directly from its habitat and eat it raw, letting our teeth grind and pulverize it into something that can be digested, or to use our wit and skill to render it delicious and magnificent? Isn't that a decision we must all make for ourselves?

Cooking is violent. We casually violate food with knives and fire and think nothing of it. Is chopping less of a crime than juicing? Poaching less brutal than sous-vide? In an alternate universe where the plant and animal kingdoms ruled, wouldn't we all be accused of torture?
To cook is to transform. When we claim to cook simply, we deny the complicated processes that we initiate and fail to acknowledge the everyday miracles that take place in our kitchens. A loaf of bread, a bottle of wine, a pound of butter are wonderfully complex things.
We coax,manipulate, torture, because it makes food better; more palatable and enjoyable.

If we could just cook and let cook, maybe we could all relax, explore, and enjoy.
And stop feeling so tortured.

rooibos- poached pear
tonka bean brioche
candied bitter orange
smoked bourbon buttermilk

jelly ice cream

"His ideal of dessert is a peanut butter and jelly sandwich." She offered that as an explanation right after she said there would be no birthday cake.

"Maybe ice cream and cookies… something we can stick some candles in."

So I set out to make a special birthday dessert for someone who doesn't like cake, but likes peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and, apparently, ice cream and cookies. Easy, I thought, I'll make peanut butter cookies and grape ice cream sandwiches. As luck would have it, I had a concord grape puree in my freezer that would serve as the base for the ice cream. And I had a recipe for killer peanut butter cookies that I had refined over the years and recently tweaked to include miso. But you know what they say about the best laid plans…

Unpacking in the client's kitchen, I had a sudden vision of the grape ice cream… still sitting in my freezer at home! I wanted to panic but there was no time. My schedule was tight even before I was asked to move dinner up a half hour.

As I began preparing dinner, my attention turned to a replacement for the ice cream. With a kitchen full of professional appliances, but no cooks in the house, I knew there was little chance of finding an ice cream maker tucked away in a cupboard. I had plenty of cream, but nothing for a flavor base or sugar. A search through the kitchen produced neither, but I did find three jars of grape jelly. I assessed the situation: no equipment to churn— but I had cream and a sweetened flavor base. A plan was quickly put in place: melt the jelly, blend in the cream, freeze in a shallow tray, whisk often, hope for the best, and pray that I wasn't turning into Sandra Lee. I got the base in the freezer just as the first guests arrived. They were hungry. And impatient. And I had to focus on dinner.

It wasn't until dinner was on the table and I returned to the kitchen that I remembered the neglected ice cream base. I opened the freezer expecting to find a solid block of grape-flavored ice crystals. To my surprise (and relief) it yielded easily to a spoon and out came a scoop of creamy smooth ice cream!

Since then, I've made this ice cream several times with both commercial and homemade jellies. I've tried churning it in an ice cream machine to test the difference. It was slightly creamier, but not dramatically so. I've even kept it uncovered(!) in the freezer for 4 days with no loss of texture or ice crystal build up. I believe this works because jelly is largely invert sugar and pectin, a combination with a high freezing point that stabilizes texture by preventing it from freezing solid and forming ice crystals.

While it may not be the most refined of ice creams, it comes together with only two ingredients and minimal effort. That alone (and that it saved my ass) is worth adding it to my emergency food kit.

stupid-simple jelly ice cream

measure by weight:
7 parts jelly
10 parts heavy cream

Melt the jelly until it is completely fluid. Add the heavy cream, a little at a time, while whisking. Pass through sieve into a bowl or container. Freeze thoroughly.

autumn glory kimchi

Fiesty. Fragrant. Fiery. I love kimchi in all of its funky fermented forms

Koreans make a hundred different kinds of kimchi and perhaps a hundred more that are undocumented. They range from familiar varieties made with common ingredients like cabbage and radishes to wildly esoteric regional specialties such as Doraji kimchi, made with bellflower roots. Fruits, vegetables, seaweed, fish, meat— you name it— anything can be (and probably has been) made kimchi.
In addition to the bulk ingredients (or 'so'), kimchi's flavor is defined by the traditional seasoning of garlic, ginger, scallions, and the burn of hot chili pepper. But it was not always the fiery condiment that we know today. Early versions were simple pickled vegetables— a process that Koreans adopted from the Chinese.
During the Josean Dynasty that began in the late 14th century, Korea was swept by a culinary renaissance that stemmed from an agricultural boom. As cultivated crops became abundant and varied, new vegetables and spices were introduced from other countries. But no other ingredient produced such a profound change in the Korean diet as red hot chili pepper.

Pumpkins and sweet potatoes were among the newly introduced vegetables and it wasn't long before they each found a place among the expanding repertoire of kimchi— pumpkin in Hobak kimchi, and sweet potato in Kogumajulgi kimchi. Here they are united with asian pear and kale in a deliciously seasonal version.

autumn glory kimchi

1 liter boiling water
215g kosher salt
300g pumpkin, sliced 6mm thick and cut into 7cm long leaves
150g sweet potato, sliced 6mm thick and cut into 2.5cm x 7cm rectangles
100g asian pear, sliced 6mm thick and cut into 5cm rounds
80g kale leaves, roughly chopped

40g thinly sliced scallions
20g microplaned garlic
20g microplaned fresh ginger
5g ground dried bird chilies

Pour the boiling water into a large nonreactive bowl. Stir in the salt until it is dissolved. Cool completely, then add the pumpkin, sweet potato, asian pear, and kale, pressing down until they are completely submerged. Set aside in a cool place for 4 hours.
Pour the brine out of the bowl and refill with fresh, cold water. Set aside for 5 minutes, then drain thoroughly through a colander. Return vegetables to the bowl. Add remaining ingredients and toss gently until seasoning is evenly distributed.
Pack mixture into a glass jar or ceramic crock. Press firmly until exuded liquid covers the solids. If necessary, insert a weighted plate into the jar or crock to keep the contents submerged. Cover and set aside to ferment for 3-4 days in a cool (10C/50F) spot, then transfer to the refrigerator, where it can be stored for up to 1 month. Kimchi can be consumed after the 3 day fermentation, but the flavor will continue to develop in storage.

green squash

Squash belong to a family of plants known as Cucurbitaceae which also includes pumpkins, gourds, melons, and cucumbers. Unlike their summer counterparts, winter squash are harvested when they are fully mature. The fruit of cold weather varieties start out green and are ready to pick when their leathery skins turn uniformly orange or yellow. However, color is not a reliable indication of ripeness with varieties that remain green, such as acorn, hubbard, and some turbans. Regardless, pumpkins and winter squash will continue to ripen during the curing stage, when the fruits are stored at warm temperatures to develop flavor and thicken the skin.
Properly cured, pepos are notoriously long keepers. I once displayed an enourmous Hubbard squash, its skin like ceylon porcelain, as a piece of sculpture for nearly a year before it eventually rotted from within. My parents kept an offspring from their compost heap in a corner of their living room for well over two years before it succumbed to the same fate. True story.

Over the decades of cooking in restaurants and catering, I've processed more than my fair share of winter squash, but I can't say that I've ever encountered an unripe one before this particular hubbard, grown in a heritage squash garden. It's unclear whether it was picked immaturely or not properly stored— I'm guessing it was a combination of both. Of course, I had to taste it.

The inner ripe layer was creamy and sweet, with typical squash-like vegetal flavor (why are there no studies on the aromatic properties of winter squash?). The outer green part was where it got interesting— it was denser in texture and also sweet, but in a fruity, estery way that instantly brought to mind a ripe honeydew. Not surprising, I had to remind myself, considering their close relationship. And then it got fun when I realized that through carefully calculated cuts, I could control the play of fruity and vegetal flavor in the distinct layers. Slant the knife one way and I'd get a bite of melon-on-squash, slanted the other way, and I'd have squash-on-melon.

I chose a decidedly fruity slant for this dish: green squash, asian pear, watermelon-sumac, pine nut milk, pumpkinseed oil, calendula petals, and a final flourish of grated long pepper.

autumn bbq sauce

Autumn is a great time to fire up the grill. Not for the flash-in-the-pan type of grilling, but for low-and-slow, smoke-licked barbecue. The aroma alone will cause you to linger over yard work, drive your dog into a frenzy, and you'll meet neighbors you never knew you had.

Outdoor cooking in autumn is an entirely different sensory experience than in summer. With a seasonal bbq sauce to finish it off, it tastes just as unique.

autumn bbq sauce
Bbq sauce is not about pure clean flavor—it's a potpourri of smoky, savory, sweet and piquant. This sauce gets its acidity from sumac. If not available, substitute 50g (3 Tblsps) cider vinegar for the sumac berries.

12g (1 Tblsp) vegetable oil
180g (1 medium) sweet onion, chopped
12g (2 medium cloves) garlic, chopped
270g (10 oz) winter squash, peeled and cut into 1/2" dice
30g (1 oz) whole ancho chilies, cleaned of stems and seeds, torn into large pieces
2 small chipotles, coarsely chopped
2g (1 tsp) smoked paprika
2g (1 tsp) five spice powder
5g (1 tsp) kosher salt
450g (2 cups) apple cider
180g (3/4 cup) pomegranate juice
50g (3 Tblsps) soy sauce
375g (1 3/4 cups) boiling water
40g (1/2 cup) sumac berries
50g (3 Tblsps) maple syrup

Heat vegetable oil in a large saucepan over medium-high heat. Add onions, sauté 3 minutes, or until golden. Add garlic and squash, continue to sauté until they take on color, about 3 minutes more. Add anchos, chipotles, paprika, five spice, and salt. Stir until well blended. Add cider, pomegranate juice, and soy sauce. Stir until mixture comes to a boil. Lower heat to maintain a simmer, cover and cook for 15-20 minutes until vegetables are very tender. Let cool slightly and scrape mixture to a blender. Blend until smooth. Transfer mixture back to saucepan.
Place sumac berries in a heat resistant bowl and pour boiling water over. Allow to infuse for 5 minutes. Strain, first through a sieve to remove berries, then through a micro filter or several layers of cheesecloth to remove fine hairs. Add infusion to mixture in pan along with maple syrup.
Return pan to stove and cook over medium heat, stirring occasionally, for about 10 minutes, or until mixture is reduced, darker in color, and glossy. Remove from heat and allow to cool. Pack into jars or storage containers. Seal and refrigerate. Makes about 3 cups.

crispy lemon verbena-infused sticky rice
sumac-brined pulled pork • autumn bbq sauce

berries and cream

The imagination is a fascinating landscape. But sometimes there are strange, scary things lurking in the corners.

Today started out innocently enough. As with most fond childhood memories, it began with a recollection of food.
If you were around in the early 70's, you might remember Jello 1-2-3, the magically self-separating 3-layer dessert. I have vivid recollections of watching my mother dump the box of powder into a blender with water… pouring out the cloudy liquid into stemmed glass parfait cups… the torture of waiting… waiting… waiting… opening the refrigerator every few minutes despite the scoldings… the layers forming, separating slowly… slowly… too slowly… a spoon skimming the pale froth from the top… then onto the creamy middle layer… digging deeper into the clear, gelled bottom… the sound of the spoon scraping the empty glass… anticipating the next one.
I don't know what triggered the memory, but once it gripped me, I had to work through it. The result is this parfait— not a magically separating one, but deliberate layers; an exploration of variously textured soft gels. Even without the magic of chemistry and memory, I'm certain that the flavors and textures were better than that dessert-in-a-box. But the presentation wasn't doing anything for me.

After recreating the layers, in the same order, in a shallow bowl with a wide rim, I was satisfied. On the surface, it looked innocuous, clean, minimalist. Perfectly simple. Maybe too perfect. A perfect parfait? Redundant, n'est pas?

And then I started thinking about surfaces, skins, shells, and how they conceal. I wanted to reveal.

Remember the strange, scary, lurking things?
I blame them. And the change of season (that always unsettles me). And the lack of sleep. No doubt, the late-night Dexter marathons are not without blame.
Whatever it was, I found myself cutting, gashing, spraying, dripping, staining.
Now, perfectly imperfect.
Now, hideous, even.
Still… delicious.
Dexter would be proud.

Hungry?

Happy Halloween.

grapes cheese bread

I keep a running list of plants that I'd like to breed. I do so because I have this fantasy that one day I'll have the time and space for an experimental garden where I can play with plants in the same way that I play with food.

Somewhere on that list is purple peas (merely for the novelty), but it looks like someone 's already been there, done that.

Elsewhere on the list is champagne grapes. I'm besotted by their diminutive size (tiny ones look like caviar, big ones like the aforementioned purple peas), but their one-dimensional flavor needs some work.

Champagne grapes, or Black Corinth, are an ancient seedless variety of Vitis vinifera. They are not used in the production of Champagne (that's just a marketing ploy), though they were once used to make wine in Ancient Greece. I can't imagine that the wine was of recommendable quality because they are so overtly sweet (sweetest grapes on the market) and low in acid. In terms of flavor, they aren't even very good table grapes (but they make good currants). They do, however, have other redeeming qualities: their size is irresistible, their skins are thin and burst pleasantly in the mouth, their stems are edible, and (best of all) they're seedless. These grapes are primed for cross-breeding with a foxier variety— I'd choose Concord (Vitis labrusca).

But until I (or someone else) can alter the plant, at least I can alter the product.
Champagne grapes infused with Concord grape juice, in an iSi whipper, charged with N2O.
Now, that's a great grape!

Vitis vinifera x labrusca • taleggio
flavors of bread: malt, yeast, almonds, mushrooms

(Apologies for all of the asides. Somedays I can't figure out how to blend facts with thoughts without parenthesis. Or italics.)

peach ketchup

peach ketchup

2250g (5 lbs) peach puree (see below)
500g (17.5oz/2.5 cups) brown sugar
432g (15.25 oz/2 cups) cider vinegar
6g (1 Tblsp) ground ginger
2g (1/2 tsp) ground cloves
2g (3/4 tsp) fresh grated nutmeg
50g (2 1/2 Tblsps) shiro miso

To make peach puree: wash 3 kilos (about 6.5 lbs) of ripe peaches. Cut each in half lengthwise, remove and discard the pit and lay them out, cut-side down, in a single layer on silpat or parchment-lined baking sheets. Bake in 350F/176C oven for about 20 minutes or until skins wrinkle and they begin to release liquid. Remove from oven and allow to rest until they are just cool enough to handle. Slip the skins off the peach halves and transfer to a food processor. Save the clear, flavorful juices for another use (I froze mine in ice cube trays to add to iced tea). Process the peaches in batches to make a smooth puree.

Place all of the ingredients in a large bowl and whisk together until well blended. Pour into a large roasting pan (about 30.5cm x 40.5cm/16"x12"). Bake in a 149C/300F oven for 2 1/2 to 3 hours, until it has reduced by nearly half, deepened in color, and the flavor is rounded and balanced.
Wash and sterilize seven 1/2-pint canning jars. Pack them with the hot ketchup, leaving 1/2" headspace at the top and seal tightly. Fit a deep pot with a rack, or place a folded dishtowel at the bottom. Place the sealed jars into the pot and add boiling water to come halfway up the sides of the jars. Set pot over medium-high heat and process the jars in boiling water for 15 minutes. Carefully remove the hot jars from pot and allow to cool completely. Label and store for up to a year.

a good year for peaches

I don't know what happened to the peaches this year.
Did the stars and/or planets align just right? Or were my unwitting prayers answered by a peach fairy?
I have no explanation, but I'm convinced that something super natural took place.

My peach tree is now seven years old. It was just a whip with roots when my father gave it to me; no thicker than my thumb or longer than my arm. Looking at that stick-in-a-pot, it should have taken an elastic imagination, or a leap of faith, to believe that one day it would produce bushels of fruit, but I knew better. I had seen him nurture these things; spent a lifetime watching sticks turn into trees.

I planted it even though I had given up on growing fruit. The loss of a half dozen fruit trees, along with the dream of an orchard, was still painfully fresh.

It was three years before the tree bore fruit. Just enough for a few pies at first, the yields continued to increase with each passing year. Quantity was never an issue, but if I'm being completely honest, the quality of the fruit has been unremarkable in flavor. Last year, they were insipid, at best.

If anything, gardening is an investment of hope. I take the time and effort to grow plants with the hope that they will produce something extraordinary. When they don't, I assess the circumstances, make adjustments, and try again. Or, if they require something beyond my control, I move on.

A tree is different.

Trees take years, sometimes decades, to hit their stride. When there is so much time and effort and hope invested, it's not so easy to just start over.

Last fall, after the disappointing harvest, I was pruning the tree and considered taking a saw to the trunk and starting anew. But I didn't. I confessed my intention to my father, hoping he wouldn't be offended. He just shrugged and suggested I waited another year.

I was acutely aware on the day that I picked the first of this year's peaches that it was the two month anniversary of my father's passing. I won't get into whether I think that he, in spirit, had anything to do with the transformation. I won't even get into whether I believe such things are possible. I will only say that every peach that I picked off my tree this year was extraordinary: intoxicatingly fragrant, embarrassingly juicy, a flawless balance of sugar and acid. They were everything I hoped for.

popsicles

I'm always looking for uses for plant materials that are often overlooked or discarded because they're too fibrous to eat.
Wild carrot stems may appear thin and fragile, but are rigid and strong enough to support these popsicles.

Layering is one way to control progression of flavors.
Usually, in the context of a meal, flavors progress from savory to sweet.
Here, they move from sweet to savory, starting with wild carrot syrup, then on to naturally sweet casaba melon, and ending with fig leaf tea.

The popsicles were molded in silicone plastique molds made from test tubes.
Don't try freezing liquids in thin glass molds. Trust me.