cornu copiae

The symbolism of the cornucopia as a font of abundance is attributed to classic mythology, most notably to the goat Amalthea, who was Zeus' foster mother and nursemaid. The story goes that young Zeus, after breaking off one of Amalthea's horn, atoned for the accident by endowing it with his divine power to provide, in an endless supply, any fruit that she desired. As fantastical as the myth may be, at its core is a loving compensation of nourishment, and a promise of an eternal feast.

gingersnap pecan ✢ pumpkin pie mousse ✢ chocolate

pumpkin pie mousse

120g cream cheese, softened
120g pumpkin puree
20g sugar
1g cinnamon
.75g ground ginger
.50g ground nutmeg
200g cold heavy cream

Beat cream cheese until light and fluffy. Add pumpkin, sugar and spices and beat until well blended. Stir in heavy cream until mixture is smooth. Pour into a .5 Liter iSi whip canister and charge with 1 N2O cartridge. Invert canister and shake vigorously. Chill for 30 minutes before dispensing.

In this season of gratitude and feasting, may your horn always overflow with plenty.

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.

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.

pumpkin oven

The final week of November is, without doubt, the busiest of my year. Between filling orders at the restaurant and cooking for clients, the cooking marathon known as Thanksgiving passes me by in a blur. Even though it's stressful, I enjoy the process, knowing that I am contributing to what is perhaps the most nostalgic— thus, emotional meal of the year. As always, organization keeps things flowing smoothly, but there are always glitches— forgotten ingredients, malfunctioning equipment, etc. The real drama, though, plays out when I shut down at night. The stress and anxiety that I have no time for during the day manifests itself in my dreams— or, more accurately— nightmares.

One perennial nightmare that perplexes me is when the entire turkey vanishes into thin air after being loaded into the oven, never to be seen again. In another, dessert turns into a calamity of events that begin with a pumpkin souffle that sinks like a battleship and ends with flambeed cranberries that set the dining room on fire. Then there's the one where I spill a cup of hot coffee down a guest's back. Oh… wait… that one actually happened.

Mercifully, whether in reality or the imagination, Thanksgiving does not only induce visions of disaster; sometimes there are glimpses of perfection: crackling golden skin, moist juicy flesh, fluffy potatoes, flaky crusts, flavors that produce smiles and make memories. And, in the most traditional of holidays, it is only in the nocturnal world that I am allowed flights of food fantasies like this one:
A colossal gilded pumpkin , pulled from a cavernous oven, placed on a carriage and escorted into the dining room by a pair of footmen dressed like dandy pilgrims. Guests gathered round as the lid was lifted off the pumpkin, releasing a cloud of enticing aromas. The footmen, standing on tufted stools, reached in and pulled out a golden brown turkey large enough to feed a crowd. They reached in again and each pulled out a pumpkin, one filled with potatoes, the other with chestnuts. They reached in yet again and pulled out more pumpkins, these filled with brussels sprouts and cranberries. This went on and on like clowns coming out of a Volkswagen until the sizable table groaned with pumpkins filled with all manner of fruits, grains, and vegetables.
An entire meal for the masses cooked in a pumpkin!

Cooking in a pumpkin is nothing new. Indigenous North Americans used hollowed-out pumpkins and gourds as cooking vessels. They would fill them with soups or stews and drop in hot rocks or cook them along with their contents, buried in hot embers. Early European settlers adopted this method by filling them with a custard made of eggs, milk, and honey. Although there is no documentation, there is speculation that this dessert appeared on early Thanksgiving tables. Similarly, in Thailand, Sankaya is a popular street food that consists of a pandanus-scented coconut milk custard, steamed in a small kabocha squash. You can find a recipe and video here.

Now that the holiday has passed (without incident), my waking life, as well as dreamland, can calm down. Inspired by the fantastical dream, I created my own private feast from my very own personal pumpkin oven.

Remove breast and backbone from quail. Stuff cavity with fresh lemon balm.

Cover quail with aromatic paste: Mix together 10g microplaned fresh ginger (1" piece), 10g microplaned garlic (2 medium cloves), 3.5g ground long pepper (1 tsp), 1g ground dried bird chili (1/2 tsp), 4g ground sumac (1 1/2 tsp), 16g extra virgin olive oil (1 Tblsp), 6g kosher salt (1 tsp).

Cut the top off of a medium-sized sugar pumpkin. Scrape out pulp and seeds. Bake in a 176C/350F oven for 30 minutes to heat the cavity. Meanwhile, bring 103g (1/2 cup) apple cider to a boil. Add 42g (1/4 cup) wild pecan rice and a pinch of salt. Return to boil and remove from heat. Immediately pour into warmed pumpkin. Lay a few sprigs of lemon balm over rice. Place quail on top of lemon balm. Cover pumpkin with lid and return to oven. Turn oven temperature up to 232C/450F and bake for 45 minutes, or until rice is tender and quail reaches 74C/165F.

Bring pumpkin oven to table and admire.

Lift lid and inhale.

Serve quail and rice with autumn bbq sauce and a scoop of the fragrant roasted pumpkin flesh. Enjoy.

potatoes halibut garlic

earthy potatoes the color of an Aegean sky
silken paint spread on a porcelain canvas

piquant bulbils strewn across a Skordalia triptych
like stray pearls from a necklace that has come undone

Poseidon offers fish from the depths of a torrid ocean of oil
they emerge blistered and weightless as ghosts

caught up in the fantasy I imagine
[only for a moment] that I've made something new
something original

foolish me it's only fish and chips

skordalia

200g red bliss potatoes, peeled and cut into 1/2" dice
200g purple potatoes, peeled and cut into 1/2" dice
100g extra virgin olive oil
7g garlic, thickly sliced
salt
50g french bread, trimmed of crust and soaked in milk
25g white wine vinegar
25g red wine vinegar
garlic bulbils

Place the red bliss potatoes in a bowl and drizzle with 10g of olive oil. Add half of the garlic and a sprinkle of salt. Toss well, then pack into a bag and vacuum seal. Repeat with purple potatoes. Sous-vide at 85C/185F for 45-60 minutes or until very tender when pressed.
Empty the contents of the red bliss potatoes into food processor and add half of the remaining olive oil. Process until smooth. Squeeze excess milk from bread and add to processor along with white vinegar. Process until smooth and fluid, adding some of the milk if too thick. Season with salt. Repeat with purple potatoes, using the remaining ingredients and the red vinegar.
To serve, screen the skordalia through a stencil onto plates or serve in separate bowls. Sprinkle garlic bulbils over top.

halibut crisps

115g halibut, cut against the grain into 1/4" thick slices
rice flour
salt
peanut oil for deep frying

Season halibut with salt on both sides. Lay out a sheet of plastic wrap on a flat surface. Cover with a thick dusting of rice flour. Place a slice of halibut over top of rice flour and generously dust top with additional flour. Cover with another sheet of plastic wrap and pound until paper-thin, adding more rice flour if necessary. Repeat with remaining fish slices. Cut pounded slices into 2" discs with round cutter.
Heat a pot of oil for deep frying to 190C/375F. Fry discs for 1-2 minutes, or until crisp but still pale.
Serve with skordalia. If desired, sprinkle with dehydrated, pulverized kalamata olives and cinnamon basil stems.

happy spring

yuzu

I've been yearning to get my hands on yuzu— the fresh fruit, that is.

I've been using the bottled juice, which is easier to source, for some time now but I suspected that it lacked the vitality and edge of fresh juice— kind of like champagne without the bubbles. I knew that the liquid in the bottle wasn't telling the whole story of yuzu.

Even more than the juice, I was curious about the zest. Citrus zest is where the essential oils are found and the yuzu, I'd heard, was full of piney, floral aromas.

Now that I've gotten my hands on fresh yuzu, I can attest that all of the above is true. The bottled juice is, indeed, but a whisper of the fresh. And the zest is a scratch 'n sniff teleportation into a garden of jasmine hidden deep in a coniferous forest.

But now, I'm curious about the leaves since I've learned that they're as fragrant as Kieffer lime.**

And the flowers! Well, I can only dream about experiencing the yuzu flower.

It could happen, though, as I've also learned that yuzu is among the most hardy of citrus trees, capable of surviving temperatures as low as -10F. That makes them a borderline candidate for Zone 5. I have a perfect spot picked out where they'll be protected from late and early frosts and kept warm by the radiant heat from a stone wall.

Who knows— with some luck I may one day have a windfall of yuzu. And— if I should ever find myself with more than I could cook with (impossible?), I would treat myself to the ultimate luxury; a Toji yuzu bath, as they do in Japan.

Wouldn't that be an embarrassment of riches?

** It's been brought to my attention that the term 'kaffir' is offensive and derogatory in some parts of the world. Henceforth, I will refer to this type of citrus by its alternate name: Kieffer lime. Won't you do the same?

broccolini flowers

Something extraordinary happens when deep-frying broccolini flowers:

At first, they sing [some would say hiss].

And then they dance [look out for the high kicks].

For the Grand Finale, they burst open in bloom.

Delightfully entertaining, they are.

[I'm easily amused]

deep-fried broccolini flowers

buddha's hand citron salt

autumn leaves

I sometimes find myself out of synch with the seasons.

Like last week when I had to talk myself out of making spaghetti with jalapeno tomato sauce— a simple, summery sauce of barely cooked ripe tomatoes— because it was November.

Or, like yesterday, when I booked a holiday cocktail party and my head filled up with visions of sugarplums and other wintry fare.

Today, the rake calls. It's all about the leaves.

Raking leaves is definitely not my ideal of fun. But like all chores, once I find a rhythm, it becomes meditative. Not today though— I'm too preoccupied with cocktail parties… and hors d'oeuvres.

Cocktail parties prevail in the weeks between Thanksgiving and New Years. To my clients, a few hours of drinks and passed hors d'oeuvres means that they can entertain without the stress of formal dinner parties. There are no expansive (or expensive) menus, multiple place settings, or seating arrangements to deal with— just a well-stocked bar, a tasty selection of finger foods, and a capable staff to serve and execute.

I've seen a lot of hors d'oeuvre trends come and go in 20 years of catering. The once popular notion that anything wrapped in pastry or made in miniature was de rigueur is long gone. Modern tastes favor lighter fare with clean, bright flavors. (That said, I welcome the occasional request for pigs-in-a-blanket and sliders)

Presentation, too, has come a long way. I remember etched silver trays with elaborate floral arrangements complete with trailing ivy that the servers carried around like bouquets. The food became lost in these. Nowadays, I aim for vibrant food, simply arranged on white porcelain platters. When the food lacks visual interest, I don't hesitate to add something to the plate— but only if it makes sense and adheres to the philosophy that nothing belongs on a plate of food that is not edible, functional, or relevant.

As I tackle the leaves, I think about canapes and how they're a fitting model for the perfect hors d'oeuvre.

Canapes cover a broad range of foods that we eat with our fingers. They run the gamut from basic cheese and crackers to the old-school French vol-au-vents and barquettes. In between are smörgås (open-faced sandwiches), crostini, and savory tarts. Their common denominator is a dry, crisp base that makes them neat and easy to pick up and eat, and a moist, often creamy, topping. The textural contrast between the two— dry and wet, crisp and creamy— are a basic gustatory pleasure and primed for an update.

Cheese & Crackers

goat cheese on carrot-beet-parsnip crisps

And as the leaves pile up, I think, again, about crisp.

How to reinterpret cheese and crackers?
Start with the cracker and add flavor.

Crackers are basically flour, water, and fat. Certainly, doughs can be flavored with concentrated liquids or with dried flavor in modest amounts, but these introduced flavors are often muted by the large ratio of flour that is required to produce a crisp product. If the ratios are thrown too far off, we lose crisp.

Pure flavor can be extracted from produce with a juicer into liquid flavor and can be further concentrated or distilled, or the solids can be dehydrated and ground into powder. Potentially, these flavor-packed products can replace water and flour. But, of course, it's not that simple.

Juice is not just flavored water, it contains fine solid particles and compounds. Fruit juices may also contain acids, pectin and reactive enzymes that effect texture. Ground dehydrated solids may resemble flour but do not possess the gluten that will allow it to behave like milled wheat. Luckily, we are not limited to wheat flour— or even starches from grains— to produce crisp.

There are other starches that gel liquids. They are so effective that only small amounts are needed. They don't interfere with base flavors because they are odorless and colorless. The gels, when dehydrated, form flexible films that turn crisp when heated. Technically, these are called glasses.

Unlike raking leaves, glasses are fun to play with.

Ultratex is a tapioca-derived modified food starch that thickens liquids much like cornstarch, but does not require heat to activate. Adding 2-3% of Ultratex to a cold, thin liquid will instantly tighten it into a sauce. Thicker gels (5%) are quick to dehydrate and form crisp brittle films that are slightly papery.

Tapioca Maltodextrin is also derived from the cassava root. It is a mildly sweet polysaccharide. TM is best known for its ability to stabilize fats and transform them into powders. It forms slightly stickier films than Ultratex. When the two are combined, (at a rate of 18% TM to a 5% Ultratex gel) they form sturdy glasses that when baked at a high temperature during the final stage of dehydration (while they are still flexible) they make the most stable glasses, even in the presence of humidity.

Methylcellulose (A types) and Hydroxypropylmethylcellulose (E, F, and K types) also form films that dehydrate to glasses. Methocel glasses differ from Ultratex and TM in that when they are finished at a higher temp (100C), they turn from shiny and transparent, to matte and opaque.

Texturally, all of these additives produce thin, brittle crisps.
Visually, the methocel crisp looked most like a cracker, albeit,a fragile one.
It needed more bulk.
Aeration gives the illusion of bulk without actually adding any.
Methocel F types are used to create and stabilize whipped things.
Problem solved.

making a mold of autumn leaves out of silicone plastique

Juice crackers:

Bring 230g juice and 80g sugar or isomalt (isomalt is less sweet) to a full rolling boil. If the juice is not acidic, up to 10g of lemon juice can be added for flavor and balance. Remove from heat and allow to cool completely. In a small bowl, blend together 6g Methocel F50 and 8g Ultratex 8. Drop the powder blend into the center of the juice mixture. Cover the clump of powder with the blades of an immersion blender and blend until dispersed. Hydrate in the refrigerator for 4-6 hours, or overnight. With a mixer, blend until light, foamy, and opaque. Spread on silicone sheet or molds and dehydrate until film can be peeled off in one piece. Return to silicone and bake at 225F (100C) for 10-15 minutes. Immediately remove and bend or form into desired shape, supporting until it cools and hardens. Crackers can be made ahead and rebaked briefly to crisp.

To be clear, I use the term 'cracker' loosely. These are not crackers in a conventional sense— they lack flakiness. More accurately, they closely mimic the texture of a tuile or gaufrette wafer, but with the pure flavors of carrots, beets, and parsnips, un-muted by starch.

I'm dreading the acre of leaves that still need to be gathered and disposed of.
In joyful procrastination, I've created another pile of leaves in the kitchen.
The irony is not lost on me.

As always, nature inspires.

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.