happy spring

Indian Summer

We had our first frost earlier in the month. It was a tentative one at best, gone by midmorning and taking with it only the tenderest vegetation. The remainder of the month has been unseasonably warm— some days hot and perceptibly hazy, as if the charged atmosphere, in its hurried march towards winter, stalled in the heat and vibrated in idleness.

In the USA, wherever there is a true winter, this period is called Indian Summer.

Indian Summer usually occurs after the onset of cold, when the weather double-backs upon itself. The provenance of the phrase dates back to the 18th century and refers to the American Indians, who used this period to harvest and hunt in preparation for winter.

On a daily basis, I travel roads that have been designated 'scenic routes', passing landscapes that remain largely unscathed by the hands of man. In this setting of fields, woods, lakes and forests, it's easy to imagine the indigenous way of life that was tethered to nature and governed by the elements. In November, when the riotous autumnal landscape turns stark with the impending severity of winter, the challenges become more evident; the struggles more acute. The austerity captures my imagination.

In Indian Summer, with the evocative scenery and Thanksgiving on the horizon, it's no wonder that November— more than any other month— has me contemplating the influence of the Native Americans.

At no other time is their influence more evident than on our Thanksgiving table. Turkey, oysters, cranberries, pumpkin, squash, sweet potatoes, beans, maple syrup, nuts, and berries are all indigenous foods that were quickly adopted by the European settlers, often saving them from starvation. And, of course, there was corn— the staple of the Native American diet, referred to in some native languages as "mother" or "life"— a benevolent sustaining force and once sacred crop that agribusiness has exploited into the monster that it is today.

Some time ago, I researched the Native American diet for a project. While I found it historically interesting, I admit to being uninspired by the limitations of food and cooking methods. I realize that this was because my cooking relied heavily on the abundance of food and ingredients from around the globe that was readily available to me. Recently, I was given the opportunity to cater an event at The Institute for American Indian Studies in Washington, CT, which was to focus on food that is native to North America. As I delved into it, I was surprised by how liberating it was to be given such tight parameters. The event, itself, was magical— listening to Native Americans tell stories and speak with pride about the past, present,and future, surrounded by fascinating exhibits and artifacts, learning first-hand about the customs and traditions that made up a lost way of life. There, I found the inspiration that I was after.

I'm putting together a series of dishes— a virtual tasting menu, if you will— that will occupy the next several posts. My intention is to temporarily step back from the complexities of modern cooking in order to explore the simplicity of primal food and native ingredients and to celebrate the beauty of the natural resources that surround me. I can't promise to completely exclude modern techniques, but by visiting another extreme, I hope to find a balance that makes sense and appeals to the way that we cook and eat today.

ginger pumpkin black sesame yuzu

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

What is creativity and where does it come from?

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

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

bbq sheet

This is a 12" x 20" sheet of dehydrated bbq sauce.

Sweet Baby Ray's– straight out of the bottle. Spread on silpat, 130F. 8 hours.

Pliable when warm, brittle when cool. Fun stuff.

I'd love to see what an artist/sculptor could do with this.

ICC 2009: the dishes

The 4th annual Starchefs International Chefs Congress took place last week in NYC. Once again, it has proven to be a fountainhead of creativity for chefs, mixologists, and industry professionals. I could wax on at great length about the ideas and inspiration presented there, but instead, I'll let you see for yourself.

Richard Blais Workshop: Breakfast, in B Minor

smoked corned beef hash sausage, buckwheat pancakes, whipped maple, iced coffee, brown butter.

David Bouley Paris to Tokyo: French Cuisine, Japanese Techniques

miso black cod, black onion powder

Yoshihiro Murata The Quest for Umami

Modern kaiseki; an homage to autumn.

vegetables with kuzu jelly and aromatic kombu dashi.

April Bloomfield Pig, Pig, Pig

slow poached St-Canut suckling pork belly, onion puree, deep-fried garlic confit, fried pig ears, puffed skin.

Pierre Gagnaire Creativity a la Minute

Le maitre de Cuisine takes on a mystery basket of American ingredients. He prepares 3 dishes plus 3 alter-dishes from leftover components.

top: duck and shrimp sauteed in duck fat, teardrop tomatoes. alter-dish: langoustine bouillion, kale, beet and asian pear puree, micro-greens butter. bottom: almond and toasted flour crumble, salmon belly, scallions, pequeno cucumbers, fresh dates, thyme, honey.

Johnny Iuzzini, Sam Mason, Alex Stupak Three Men and a Dessert

Actually, three men and three desserts.

top: Alex Stupak's "Apple Pie" (sauteed apple mosaic tiles, pecan shards, whipped cider, vanilla ice cream with liquid caramel center. bottom: Sam Mason's "Jello Shot" (bbq sauce-infused whisky, watermelon) missing: Johnny Iuzzini's "Dirt Pot" (chocolate pudding, soil, and agar noodle 'gummi worms')

Jose Andres American Cuisine Through a Spanish Lens

"Tom Collins" carbonated spheres

Masaharu Morimoto Hook, Line, and Sinker

raw fluke, cooked eel

Rohini Dey and Maneet Chauhan The Deal with Fusion

India meets Latin-America

Tandoori Skirt Steak, sauteed spinach, fried plantains

Juan Mari Arzak Techniques From Arzak Laboratory

top: seared tuna with blackened tuna skin emulsion. bottom: "Lunar Rock" orange, passionfruit, milk chocolate, black sesame, red wine. Last picture shows the dish glowing on a custom LED-lighted plate.

Sean Brock Getting Down with Lowcountry Cuisine

top: "the garden" bottom: "hoppin' john"

Rick Tramonto The Birth of Modern American Cuisine

lavender lamb loin with toasted almond espuma and chocolate-red wine sauce

Nils Noren and Dave Arnold High-Tech Delicious

Mokume-Gane fish and lamb, pumpernickel ice cream, curried apple and fennel

The descriptions of the dishes are from memory (which sometimes fails me). I would appreciate any corrections/clarifications.

For a day-by-day wrap up, go to starchefs.com

For more photos and descriptions, check out docsconz's blog. John photographed everything.

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.

the winter garden

Exactly one month ago, I took a walk on a snowy day to pick sage. I was making butternut squash soup for a client and toasting a garnish of tiny cubes of gingerbread brioche in brown butter. I knew the soup would need an herbal note to break the monotony of sweet and spice. I thought of sage; the only thing harvestable in my dormant winter garden.

Leaving the comfort of my warm kitchen on that cold day, even for a short jaunt, required effort. My psyche needed psyching and my body needed insulating. Motivated by the promise of soup, I went about the ritual of piling on the layers; the whole time longing for those other months and the seamless transition from indoors to outdoors. At times like that, I question the wisdom of living in a climate that robs me of that freedom, but Home is more complicated than weather and geography.

And so, on that snowy cold day in January, I set out to the garden, psyched and insulated. My intention was to make a quick exit and a quicker return, but I am easily distracted.

Snow has a way of slowing down time. Everything is muted and blurred, like going under anesthesia. Even the pain of cold eventually subsides. The act of walking on ten inches of ice-crusted snow feels awkward and surreal; every step calculated. That was the first distraction.

The next was the compost heap, which I neglect as soon as the weather turns cold, letting time and microorganisms do their job. Making compost is a lot like making lasagna–it involves the layering of carbon (dried material) with nitrogen (fresh material), controlling moisture, then letting it cook. And cooking it was; while everything else around it was white and frozen, the heap remained dark and soft. Even in the nose-numbing cold, I could smell warm humus–dark, rich, bittersweet, and mysterious–like the heart of the earth. It stood in stark contrast to the astringent and metallic scent of snow.

Satisfied that the compost was happy, I turned to the stand of behemoth pines that live behind a pair of sheds on my property. Those trees have been the bane of my gardening existence, their imposing height and girth forces the better part of my garden to grow in their shadow. I've considered cutting them all down, but I knew that I would regret the loss of their scented boughs and the void of green in the dead of winter. Having just removed my Christmas tree, I was missing its scent, so I broke off a few boughs to bring indoors.

I located the sage by their flagging tips that stuck out of the snow. I love the word "sage" and its connotations to age and wisdom. It perfectly fits this plant that is at least twenty years old and has been transplanted numerous times, yet it always adapts and still thrives. I used the broken ends of the pine to break through the ice that surrounded the sage, picked what I needed and headed back to the house.

At this point, you may be wondering why I am telling you about these ordinary events. If anything, they are a map that led me to what happened next:

I raised my hand to my nose to smell the sage, but I could only smell the oil and resin of pine on my gloves.

That's it, that's the climax… I expected to smell an herb, but instead I smelled pine and that simple act set off a synaptic storm that connected the two and made them interchangeable.

I've played with the flavor of pine and other conifers before, but with some trepidation. Until that moment, I thought of it as a distinct flavor in its own category; neither herb nor vegetable. In the context of an herb, it became approachable– friendly even. This revelation set off a month-long exploration that produced a dozen posts about conifers and extended to other aromatic trees. It took me on a journey through time into the history of salt, cod, beans, and spirits. It allowed me to revisit flavors from my childhood in a new light. It prompted me to delve deeper into the fascinating and complex world of aroma compounds. It introduced me to a delicious new product. It helped me to face the dire situation of seafood and use my power as a consumer and chef to implement change. It was a true inspiration.

Recently, I've received a number of emails asking about inspiration and how to acquire it, to which I rarely know how to respond. I apologize if my replies are inadequate. I am no authority on this, but I will say that inspiration is not exclusive and does not belong to the realm of the creative elite. Like grains of pollen that float through the atmosphere unnoticed, unless you are sensitive to them, they will not effect you. Sensitizing ourselves is simply being open to the myriad ideas, thoughts, and experiences that we encounter at any given moment and making a connection and expansion to what we already know about ourselves, our interests, and our perceived world.

I want to leave this exploration of conifers with a dish that is inspired by that significant walk to my garden on that snowy day. I hope that it reflects my connection to the earth and all of the wonderful food and inspiration that it provides– even while dormant in the dead of winter.

mushroom matcha balsam yuzu

There's something about the austerity of conifers that captures the Japanese aesthetic.

Or maybe that's just me.

The connection might be rooted in my fascination with bonsai and how an artfully sculpted tree can freeze time in a miniature landscape. (And I think that I might have told you about miniatures and me)

Or it could be that they remind me that I once wished that I could travel the world on a ferry. Such was the pleasure of gliding through the Strait of Georgia in the Pacific Northwest on a drizzly day, watching the mist rise up around the Gulf Islands, shrouding the jagged black silhouettes of ancient pines with the Zen atmosphere of a sumi-e landscape.

Or maybe it's that I recently read "Snow Falling on Cedars" and it evoked the poetry of that place.

I contemplated all these thoughts as I sat by the window this morning, drinking tea and watching the snow swirl over the pines in my backyard. They all loomed and murmured, but the salient voice was the matcha that spoke softly but urgently of balsam.

matcha balsam flan

480g soy milk

50g balsam needles

12g matcha

5g agave nectar

pinch salt

4 egg yolks

Heat soy milk until it just comes to a simmer. Add balsam, cover and infuse for 1 hour (or use a chamber vacuum for instant infusion). Whisk in matcha, agave nectar, and salt.

In a separate bowl, whisk the egg yolks while drizzling in the infused soy milk. Pour into ramekins. Bake in a loosely covered bain marie in a preheated 325 F. oven for 15-20 minutes or until set.

And, because I know you'll ask…

The raviolo is made from thin slices of Portobello caps that are lightly sauteed and softened in olive oil. The filling is a concentrated mushroom jus seasoned with shoyu and kecap manis, molded in demi spheres and frozen. The frozen filling is encased between two slices of Portobello (using a smaller one for the bottom) and the margins glued together with tapioca maltodextrin, which bonds the oil in the mushroom, forming a sort of gasket around the filling. It can then be tempered at room temperature or gently heated to melt the filling.

matcha balsam flan

mushroom raviolo

maitake

mushroom floss

yuzu cube

black sesame powder

candied white pine

Balsam fir (Abies balsamea) grows widely throughout the northeastern United States and Canada. Other trees that exhibit balsam aroma are Balsam poplar (Populus sect. Tacamahaca), Balsam of Mecca (Commiphora opobalsamum)- native to Southern Arabia, and Peru Balsam (Myroxylon)- native to South America, though only the Abies is a conifer.

Balsam is a derivative of the word balm and refers to the soothing aroma that makes it an effective scent in aromatherapy and a popular filling for sachets. In ancient times, as well as modern, balsam oil is mixed with olive oil as a chrism and used in the administration of sacraments in the Catholic church.

Incidentally, balsamic vinegar does not refer to the plant source or the aroma, but to the use of vinegar as a healing substance, or balm.

ginger bread

I'll be the first to admit that I am easily distracted. This trait sometimes frustrates those around me when they require my attention. Oh, I recognize when it's necessary to focus on a task at hand–lest the cookies burn and the cakes turn out dry, but there are times when doing menial things (like separating eggs or sifting flour) that I allow my attention to wander and ask questions.

For instance: Why do we call it gingerbread, when it's actually cake?

The answer can be found in the rhizome ginger root, and its introduction to Europe.

Medieval Europeans quickly developed a passion for ginger and other spices when they proved to mask the odor and flavor of meat that was preserved without the benefit of refrigeration. Fortunes were made and lost as spice merchants, spurred by the frenzy for spice, charged exorbitant prices. Ginger was highly prized and commanded the highest price, second only to black pepper. But, as with all financial markets, what goes up, must come down.

When spices became accessible to the lower classes, cooks became more creative. The early forms of gingerbread were unbaked confections consisting of ground almonds, honey, ginger root and spices that were pressed and molded. These were called gingerbread by the English, after the Latin zingebar, meaning preserved ginger. Eventually, stale breadcrumbs were added to bind the mixture. Later, the additions of flour, eggs, and butter transformed the dense paste into the lighter and refined versions that we now know and love as lebkuchen (from Germany), pain d'epices (from France), and panforte (from Italy).

Today, in North America, gingerbread is commonly known in two forms: cookies and cake. Though both honor their origins with a blend of spices: ginger, cinnamon, nutmeg, and cloves, neither contain yeast or can be classified as bread.

Which leads me to ask: Why do we not flavor bread with this evocative blend of spices?

This question never crossed my mind until it first crossed my nostrils. This is what happens when you bake brioche alongside of gingerbread cookies and you allow yourself to be distracted.

ginger bread

(spice brioche)

makes 1 loaf

starter

30g (2 T) lukewarm water

39g (3 T) molasses

70g (2.5 oz) unbleached AP flour

.8g (1/4 t) dry yeast

1 egg

Blend all ingredients together in the bowl of a stand mixer until the consistency of a thick batter. In a separate bowl, mix together:

180g (6.4 oz) unbleached AP flour

4g (1 1/4 t) dry yeast

3.5g (1/2 t) salt

38g (3 T) microplaned fresh ginger root

7g (2 t) ground cinnamon

5g (1 1/2 t) freshly ground nutmeg

2g (1/2 t) ground cloves

Sprinkle this mixture on top of the sponge. Cover tightly with plastic wrap and let stand at warm room temperature for 2 hours.

With the dough hook, mix the dough briefly, then add 2 eggs, one at a time, while beating at low speed until they are incorporated. Raise the speed to medium and beat for about 5 minutes, or until the dough is smooth and shiny, but soft and sticky.

With the mixer turned back to low speed, add 113g (4 oz) unsalted, soft butter, bit by bit, waiting until each addition is incorporated into the dough, until all of the butter is added. Cover tightly and let dough rise at warm room temperature for 2 hours.

Deflate risen dough by rapping sharply against the counter. Transfer dough, tightly wrapped in the bowl to the refrigerator. Let chill for at least 6 hours or overnight.

Prepare an 8 1/2"x4 1/2" loaf pan by lightly greasing. Scrape the chilled dough out onto a floured surface and deflate by pressing with hands, while forming a rough square. Fold the dough in thirds, like an envelope, rolling into a cylinder that is about the same length as the loaf pan. Tuck the ends under and transfer the dough into the loaf pan. Grease the underside of a sheet of plastic wrap and cover the loaf pan. Set aside at warm room temperature to rise for 1 1/2-2 hours, or until it has risen to the top of the pan. Preheat the oven to 425F. Whisk together 1 egg with 1 t milk to make an egg wash and brush it lightly over the top of loaf. Place in preheated oven and bake for 30-40 minutes or until a digital thermometer, inserted into its center, reads 190F.

chicken biscuit

Inspiration can come from anywhere:

A scent can trigger a delicious memory.

A crackly sound can instigate a refined texture.

A neat stack of fallen leaves can rekindle a technique.

A written word can invoke comfort and pleasure.

:: Biscuit ::

Thanks John Paul and Nathan. This one is for you.

Flaky Chicken Biscuits

makes 12 2" biscuits

Save the rendered chicken fat when roasting the skin for the croquant to flavor the butter. This is a wet dough that results in a tender biscuit. Use only enough dusting flour to prevent the dough from sticking. It's supposed to be messy–have fun with it.

3 oz (85.5g) rendered chicken fat

3 oz (85.5g) unsalted butter

8 oz (228g) unbleached all-purpose flour

1/2 tsp (3.55g) salt

1 tsp (4.75g) baking powder

1/8 tsp (1.15g) baking soda

6 oz (170.5g) cold buttermilk

2 oz (57g) chicken skin croquant powder

Melt the butter with the chicken fat and pour into a small plastic container. Freeze until solid.

In a large mixing bowl, combine the flour, salt, baking powder and soda. Toss together with a fork to combine. Pop the butter/chicken fat out of the container and cut into 1/2" cubes. Add to the dry ingredients and toss to coat. With your fingers or a pastry blender, cut or rub the butter cubes to half of their size, constantly tossing and blending into the dry ingredients. Pour in the buttermilk and combine just until a rough dough has formed. Turn dough out onto a lightly floured surface and pat into a rectangle. Lightly flour the top of the dough and roll out into a 1/2" thick rectangle. Fold top third of dough over, followed by the bottom third. Turn the dough 45 degrees clockwise. Repeat rolling and folding. Wrap in plastic wrap and chill for 20 minutes. Unwrap and repeat the rolling and folding 2 more times for a total of 4 turns. Re-wrap the dough and let chill for 20 minutes more.

Preheat the oven to 400F (205C). Unwrap the dough and roll out into an 8"x6" rectangle, about 3/4" thick. Cut into 12 2" square biscuits. Spread the chicken skin croquant out on a shallow dish. Place each biscuit, bottom-side-down, onto the croquant and press firmly on the top to adhere. Place each biscuit, croquant-side-up, on a baking sheet that has been lined with silpat or parchment, about 1" apart. Chill for 20 minutes.

Bake for 12-15 minutes, or until golden brown.