corn cake

Autumn always catches me off guard.

Summer lulls me into a false sense of permanence. The world feels right and full of possibilities when the days are filled with warmth and sunshine that extends late into the evening. I'll certainly miss the seamless transitions from indoors to out and the sound of birdsong in the morning and crickets at night. My feet will miss the freedom of flip flops. Most of all, I'll miss the flavors of summer.

For today, at least, there are ears of corn from the farm up the road. There are oxheart tomatoes from my mother's garden. There are blackberries from the brambles in the woods. And there is a bushel of peaches from a generous tree. Summer's last hurrah.

microwave corn cake

peach pudding

tomato meringue

brown buttermilk

blackberry

calendula

Download recipe: Microwave corn cake

caramel corn donut

In the last post, Larry P. left a comment describing Johnny Iuzzini's deep-fried chocolate ganache "doughnut". I assumed it was from his book Dessert Fourplay, which I own, but have only read cursorily. Sure enough, I found it on pages 170 & 171. I really need to get to know this book better.

As Larry pointed out, Johnny Iuzzini's doughnut features a creamy ganache blended with methylcellulose to hold it together while frying, and sodium alginate to allow it to be encapsulated in a calcium bath. The doughnut are then dipped in egg, coated with panko, and deep fried. Larry successfully executed the doughnuts in this post.

After succeeding at producing a cake with the frosting baked inside, my thoughts immediately turned to an old donut fantasy. One of my most gratifying achievements in baking was making a yeast donut that rivaled those found in donut shops. For awhile, I became a bit obsessed with the idea of making a filled ring donut. I abandoned the idea when I couldn't achieve the desired results.

Revisiting the idea with new hope and armed with a viable technique, I set out to encapsulate the filling and layer it between yeast dough. Then I reasoned that encapsulating might not be necessary as the dough itself would act as a capsule, and that adding methocel to the filling would stabilize it and help it keep it's shape.

The good news is that it worked.

The bad news is that the textures suffered in the process.

The filling– popcorn-infused cream and fresh corn juice, reduced and enriched with butter– lost it's fluid creaminess and became more of a custard. That's not necessarily a bad thing, but I preferred the texture before heating. The yeast dough, which is very soft and wet and a challenge to work with, but produces the most ethereally light and fluffy donuts, turned out sodden and heavy. I suspect that the weight of the filling inhibited the final rise and that the moisture that escaped during cooking became trapped inside the dough.

As a control, I fried a round of dough (without the hole) and filled it with the cream (without the methocel) post-cooking by piping it in through a hole poked in the side. The textures were notably better: thin, crisp crust gives way to pillowy-soft dough; creamy filling spills out. This is the recipe that I am including here because, at least for now, I can't improve upon it.

Download recipe: caramel corn donuts

carrot cake

Back when I was baking full time, I had a customer consult me about a dessert to complete a special meal for a houseguest. He explained that the guest was foreign and he wanted to serve him a classic American cake. I made suggestions, and after some deliberation he decided to order a carrot cake. Just before he left, he felt inclined to inform me that the guest was a world-renowned French pastry chef. When he dropped his name, I nearly fainted dead away.

In the ensuing days, I became obsessed with carrot cake. It occupied my every thought. It infiltrated my dreams and became fodder for nightmares.

I knew that I had to hit this one out of the park and that the bakery's recipe that I inherited was not going to cut it. The frosting was easy– it had to be cream cheese and butter, lightly sweetened and brightened with lemon juice. The cake was the crux. I gathered and analyzed every recipe that I could find, looking for the je ne sais quoi that would make it distinct. I made small test batches using various additions of nuts, coconut, pineapple, and even chocolate chips. These, I decided, were perversions and only distracted from what I wanted to achieve: a refined cake with a fine, moist crumb that tasted of sweet, caramelized carrots. It was back to square one.

I started with the basic structure of the cake: fat, starch, sugar, liquid, eggs, leavening, flavoring, and looked at their ratios. While oil (typically used in carrot cake) ensures a moist product, it makes it… well, oily. I opted for the flavor and texture of butter– putting it into the butter cake category where butter, flour, and sugar are used in equal amounts (by weight), liquid makes up about 2/3 and eggs about 1/3. The ratio for a basic butter cake looks like this: 3:butter 3:flour 3:sugar 2:liquid 1:eggs (plus leavening and flavoring). The tweaking of these ratios would be largely dependent on the form of liquid, or moisture used. In a typical carrot cake recipe, some of the moisture comes from the grated carrots as they cook in the batter. Not wanting the coarseness of grated carrots, I tested a recipe using carrot puree, but I didn't like the diluted flavor of the precooked carrots. Freshly extracted carrot juice provided the bright color and flavor that I was after.

After adjusting the ratios to produce a soft, moist cake, I examined the flavor. I dropped the amount of spices (cinnamon, nutmeg, ginger) so that they were a mere whisper in the background. I replaced some of the sugar with brown sugar, then Muscavado (Muscavado has a purer flavor because the molasses isn't removed in processing as it is in brown sugar) in an effort to deepen the flavor. Overall, I was satisfied with the cake, but something kept nagging at me. It was the deep, buttery, caramelized flavor of a fine dark rum that my brain kept referencing. I wished that I could've added caramel without seriously affecting the texture. Then I remembered a 'trick' I used with creme brulee, where the sugar was cooked to a deep amber, allowed to harden, then ground to a fine powder. I simply replaced the sugar in the recipe with this pre-caramelized sugar and I had a superlative cake that I could be proud of, not only because I was confident that it would please a discriminating palate, but also because it was uniquely my own and it pleased me.

I left that restaurant shortly afterwards and never did get any feedback on the carrot cake. Years later, I read an article in a food magazine that asked international chefs for their favorite American foods. A certain world-renowned French pastry chef was among those interviewed. I think I remember his list containing chocolate chip cookies and key lime pie, but I will never forget that on that list, in black and white, was carrot cake.

Download recipe: Carrot Cake

brown butter biscuit

When I was learning to bake, I was limited to my mother's repertoire of eggy desserts and cookbooks from the local library. These were either the Americana "Joy of Cooking"/Betty Crocker genre or the French Julia Child/Jacques Pepin variety. Unlike savory cooking, baking humbled me with its exactitude and thrilled me with the unlimited variations that could be coaxed from a few common ingredients: butter, sugar, flour, eggs, leavening.

It also confounded me with its nomenclature.

It took me awhile to figure out that beignets, fritters, crullers, and churros were all essentially the same thing. Or that a profiterole is a petite cream puff, which has nothing to do with puff pastry. Or that a torte is just a cake with a pedigree and a galette is a free-spirited tart. And one that confuses everybody– macaron/macaroons— though they differ by just one letter, they are worlds apart.

What really boggled me is the distinction between a biscuit, a scone, and shortcake. In Britain, a biscuit (from the Latin bis cuit, meaning twice-cooked) refers to what we know is North America as a cookie or cracker. In the US, particularly in the South, a biscuit is a round scone or a shortcake (to "shorten" a dough is to make it tender and flaky by the addition of fat, unlike bread, which has long glutinous starch fibers). A shortcake is a biscuit (or scone) that is split and filled with berries and cream, not to be confused with the sponge-like "shortcakes" that are sold in grocery stores.

Don't even get me started on shortbread.

To add to the confusion, Wiki defines shortcake as: a sweet biscuit (in the American sense: that is, a crumbly, baking soda- or baking powder-leavened bread, known in British English as a scone), and a dessert made with that biscuit.

See what I mean?

What I'm not confused about is why I like biscuits and their ilk. First, there's the contrast between the dry, crunchy exterior and the soft, moist interior. It's like eating cake seamlessly wrapped in pastry. Then there's the flavor alchemy of butter and flour, boosted by buttermilk– sweet and tangy inside, toasty and nutty outside. In the past, I've made biscuits with conventional brown butter (beurre noisette) in an attempt to exploit the toasty flavor. While the flavor was good, the texture seemed to be missing something– the milk solids, no doubt.

And, there was certainly no confusion over what to do with the new brown products: butter, cream, buttermilk. In fact, they seemed custom-made for my favorite buttermilk biscuit recipe that I have tweaked over the years. While I was at it, I fully committed to the power of brown by toasting some of the flour (toasting destroys the starch molecules in flour, leaving it inert) and incorporating piloncillo (deeply-flavored unrefined brown sugar). I was sure that after building such a strong team of Maillard players, that they would tackle the taste buds upon contact.

They didn't.

What they did was play slowly and methodically, overtaking me when I stopped looking. And long after the game should have ended, they were still playing on and on and on…..

Download recipe: Brown butter biscuits

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.

green beans fried shallots

Emerite beans

fried shallot cheese

potato broth

fried shallot emulsion

pickled shallot

marjoram blossoms

Green beans are one of the most satisfying plants to grow. They're not fussy about soil, sun, or location and they only require regular picking so that they can continue to do what they do best– produce.

For many years I've exclusively grown a french filet bean variety called "Emerite", a pole bean that must be grown vertically with support. This is a trait that I prefer over bush beans because they are easier to harvest (no stooping), they stay clean and don't rot from contact with wet soil (a big concern this year), they produce continuously until frost (bush beans have a short, concentrated harvest), and they require less real estate (a 10" wide x 10' long row produces an ample supply of beans for my family of four).

One of the advantages of growing green beans (or any plant) is access to their various stages of growth. When Emerite is in full production, I pick handfuls of the immature pods when they are only 1 to 2 inches long and briefly saute them in butter and a sprinkle of sea salt. These are a rare treat, resembling a mound of green angulas. Late in the season, I let the beans mature and dry on the vine. Within the shriveled, papery pods lies next years crop.

Mostly, I harvest Emerites when they are 4 to 6 inches long, At this stage, they are still slim, straight and tender, their delicate flavor fully developed. One favorite preparation is to saute thinly sliced shallot rings in olive oil until browned and crisp, then toss blanched beans in with the shallots and flavored oil.

Here, I've made fresh cheese infused with the flavor of fried shallots by heating a quart of milk to 135F and adding a half cup of well-drained and crumbled fried shallots, then covering and allowing the mixture to infuse for about 30 minutes. The shallots are then strained from the milk and the milk is reheated to 100F. A tablet of rennet is dissolved in a teaspoon of water and added to the milk. Once the rennet is added, it should be stirred in gently and briefly as any agitation at this point will disrupt coagulation. Cover the pan and allow to sit undisturbed for 30 minutes. Once the curds form, they are scooped into a ring mold lined with blanched Emerites, which act as a case for the cheese. As the curds compress and the whey drains away, the level of the cheese will sink and more curds can be added until they reach the desired level. The cheese will be firm enough to unmold and hold its shape after about 4 hours.

patchouli beets

baby beets roasted in patchouli sugar crust

bocconcino di pura capra

Villa Manodori dark cherry balsamic

I've posted about roasting in a sugar crust before. The technique, introduced by Pierre Gagnaire and Herve This, replaces the salt in a traditional salt crust with sugar. The process caramelizes the sugar during roasting and infuses the contents with the aroma of caramel.

The technique worked beautifully on bananas and though I never took it any further, I always thought that I would like to try it on root vegetables– particularly beets.

Beets were the first thing that came to mind when tasting fresh patchouli leaves and a subsequent sampling of roasted beets with chopped patchouli proved to be a good pairing. The next progression of thought was to bring the two together in a sugar crust.

Taking advantage of the enclosed environment of roasting in a porous crust as a vehicle for aroma-infusing, I incorporated patchouli leaves into part of the sugar. To optimize the meager harvest from my few plants, I limited it to the layer of sugar that is in direct contact with the beets, then covered that with the remaining sugar/egg white mixture.

The beets, when cooked this way, seemed to condense in texture and flavor, like inspissated versions of themselves. The patchouli did not ambush their flavor, but gave them a mysterious edge; haunting them with an earthy aura.

Sugar crust: Mix 3 pounds (7 cups) sugar with 3 egg whites until well blended. Lay down a 1/2" thick base layer of mixture on a silpat. Press to compact. Lay food on top of base, leaving at least 1" in between. Cover with a thick layer of remaining mixture, pressing well on all sides. Bake at 275 F. Test for doneness by inserting a skewer through the crust and into the food. Allow to rest for a few minutes after removing from oven and breaking open the crust.

cheddar corn chives

snacks:

ice cream float

Sweet corn ice cream with cheddar beer. Yep, that's right: cheddar beer. It's better than I expected and it keeps getting better with age. The real gem here is finding a use for chive flower stems– their rigid cellulosity renders them inedible, but makes for fantastic straws.

corn krispies treat

Ethereally light and crisp freeze-dried corn kernels and chives, bound with buttery isomalt syrup. More like a sweet/savory popcorn ball. Eminently addictive.

funyun

OK, so it's really an onion ring. But it's kinda fun, and definitely 'yuniony' courtesy of chive blossoms, thinly sliced Vidalia onions and ground, dehydrated onions in the tempura batter. The batter gets an extra boost from cheddar beer. I thought of making an onion beer for this but even I wouldn't go there.

pixy stix

Remember these? The sweet/tart powdered candy-in-a-straw goes savory with freeze-dried corn, chive, and cheddar powders. The straw (cheddar water with Ultratex) is edible, too. Break it open, use it as a dry dip, sprinkle it on the float–or better yet–directly on the tongue.

Download recipe: Cheddar corn chive snacks

the meadow

"No voice calls me to order as I enter a dream of meadow, kneel to earth and, moving east to west, second the motion only of the sun…. Clouds form, dissolve, withhold or promise rain. In time, outside of time, the unkempt afternoons fill up with flowers."

"Planting the Meadow" by Mary Makofske

Dame's rocket (Hesperis matronalis) is a biennial wildflower that is often confused with phlox. The most obvious distinction is that phlox blooms later in the season and the flowers have five petals whereas Hesperis has only four.

Because of its tendencies to self seed and escape cultivation, it's considered an invasive species in parts of the country where it has crowded out native species. In my state of Connecticut, it is illegal to move, sell, purchase, transplant or distribute Hesperis. And, because I always follow the law [ahem], I resist the temptation to transplant them to a more conspicuous part of the garden. For now, they live on an unmown patch of earth that I call "the meadow", where they happily coexist with sumac, asters, mullein and goldenrod.

Dame's rocket belongs to the Brassicaceae family of plants that include cabbage and mustard.

The flowers throw off a sultry vanilla scent that intensifies as the sun goes down (Hesperis means evening in Greek) and has a two-part flavor that starts as honeyed pears and ends with a mild sting of mustard.

This dish, built on a foundation of peanut butter ganache and peanut brittle-enrobed roasted banana, covered with elderflower and green tea whip displays an intriguing juxtaposition of harmonious flavors.

It looks a bit wild and unkempt. Just like the meadow.

Download recipe: The meadow

spruce rhubarb cooler

The new growth on the spruce trees is worlds apart from the mature needles that I worked with last winter. These are so tender and brightly flavored that they might as well have come from a different plant. As with the peach leaves, this serves as a reminder to taste and enjoy plants at different stages of growth.

Now that the peach leaf beer is nearly gone, I thought I would give spruce beer a try.

Spruce beer is nothing new–it's an old-timey beverage enjoyed by past generations in the northern US and Canada. The recipes that I found called for adding spruce to malted barley and hops or for sweetening with molasses, which I was sure would distract from the fresh flavor that I was trying to preserve, so I stuck with the sugar, citrus, yeast and infused water method. Again, the results were more like a dry soda than a malty beer and strangely reminiscent of gin and tonic. Actually, not so strange–juniper and spruce share piney terpenes.

Revisiting spruce in the spring calls for an entirely new palette–one that's as fresh and crisp as the feathery young tips. Rhubarb rose to the occasion.

The first spring after we moved onto our property, I was delighted to find a patch of rhubarb growing in the deep shade under a Catalpa tree. I held out for a big harvest, imagining a procession of pies, crisps, and cobblers, but the stalks never reached more than a foot in height or grew any thicker than a pencil. I knew that they were stunted by lack of light and thought about transplanting them, but I've come to love the unique tender snap of these slender whips that are not too puckery–even when raw.

I've always thought that the secret to a good cocktail is balance. That's not to say that I haven't had my share of cloy drinks– I have. They served their purpose but when I want something more than an alcohol buzz, I turn to luminous flavors.

Rhubarb, with its citrus-like tartness, cooked with a judicious amount of sugar, makes a balanced syrup that when combined with gin and spruce beer produces an agreeable and refreshing cocktail. The colors may look like they belong to a winter holiday, but it tastes like the threshold of summer.

Notes:

When harvesting spruce tips, keep in mind that essentially you are pruning the plant and encouraging branching. Prune evenly, around all sides of the plant, to maintain symmetry.

Rhubarb leaves contain toxins and should not be consumed.

Download recipe: Spruce rhubarb cooler