lime basil tomato martini

There is transient beauty in a dying garden; an intimacy that is gained by observing its natural progression.

Looking around at the tracery of brittle stems, shriveled leaves, and the determination of fruit clinging to withering vines, I see the loveliness of imperfection, the quiet dignity and grace, the stamp of passing time.
The Japanese call this wabi-sabi.
I call it the poetry of decay.

There is, however, nothing poetic about cleaning up all of this decay. It's hard work. It merits the reward of a libation.

It seems that anything can be called a martini these days. I'm not a purist, but to me, a martini is not defined by the vessel that it's served in, but by the inclusion of gin and vermouth. Beyond that, any added flavor is fair game.

lime basil tomato martini

2 oz. lime basil-infused gin, chilled
1/2 oz. dry vermouth, chilled
1/2 oz. filtered tomato water, chilled
2 cocktail tomatoes, speared on a sprig of basil

Place liquids in chilled cocktail shaker with 2 cubes of ice. Shake and strain into chilled martini glass. Garnish with cocktail tomatoes.

To make lime basil infused gin: Pack an isi whipper with fresh lime basil that has been lightly crushed. Half-fill the canister with gin. Cover and charge with 1 N2O cartridge. Shake slowly for 1 minute. Rapidly discharge gas. Uncover and allow to stand for 3 minutes before straining. Chill.

To make tomato water: Cut Ripe tomatoes in half horizontally. Set a sieve over a bowl and squeeze out the seed sacs and liquid from tomato halves. Reserve the tomato flesh for another use (if you peel the tomatoes beforehand, the flesh can be diced into concassé). Press on the solids in the sieve to extract as much liquid as possible. Pass the liquid through a micro filter or a coffee filter, without pressing, to produce clear tomato water. Alternately, the sieved liquid can be allowed to stand until the solids settle to the bottom, and the clear liquid can be spooned from the top.

To make cocktail tomatoes: Cut a small, shallow slit in the stem ends of cherry tomatoes (I used Sungolds and Sweet 100s). Drop them into a pot of boiling water for 5 seconds, or until the skins rip open. Immediately remove to a bath of ice water. Slip the skins off each tomato and layer them in a sterilized glass jar with coarse salt (1 teaspoon per pint). Pour in enough dry vermouth to cover the tomatoes by 1/2". Let the tomatoes cure in the refrigerator for 2 days before using.

gouda fries

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

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

gouda fries

75g water

3g methocel SGA150

112g grated aged gouda

40g rice flour

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

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

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

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

gouda fries

peach ketchup

lovage

tomato milk and cornflakes

More bottom-of-the-bowl goodness: tomato milk.
Tomato milk is the lovely elixir that occurs when tomatoes mingle with bufala mozzarella and basil.
It is liquid essence.

Late-summer native corn has no peer.
When we're not eating it straight off the cob, I'm juicing it for sauces and soups.
As is often the case when juicing vegetables, the remaining pulp is dry, flavorless fiber that is discarded. A wonderful by-product of juicing just-picked corn is that the pulp is juicy, tender, and full of flavor.

corn flakes

Note:It is important to use the pulp from corn that has been juiced on the same day that it is picked, before the sugars convert to starch and the pellicle toughens.

After juicing corn kernels, remove the pulp from the juicer basket and saute it over medium heat with 1 Tablespoon of butter for each cup of pulp until it just begins to brown. Season with salt and scrape pulp onto a baking sheet that has been lined with silpat. Compress corn pulp into a 1/4" thick even layer, using fingers or a spatula. Dehydrate at 65C/150F for 2-3 hours or until uniformly dry. Break off a segment of dried pulp and gently crumble into flakes with hands, letting flakes fall back onto silpat. Repeat with remaining dried pulp. Spread flakes evenly on silpat and bake in 82C/180F oven for 30 minutes-1 hour, until crisp and lightly toasted.

infusions: a revolutionary technique

On the days when I work at home, my morning starts with reading emails over a cup of coffee. Today, though, I took some extra time to catch up on blog reading.

One of my favorites, Cooking Issues, put up a post this morning about infusion that, quite frankly, changed my life. No joke. When your life and your livelihood revolve around food, and your obsessions include plants and aroma, then this post was truly life-altering.

Extracting flavor and aroma from plants has long been a source of frustration for me. Without a rotovap or chamber vacuum, I've had to resort to conventional methods of infusion that can take days, sometimes weeks. That's all changed now, thanks to Dave Arnold and an isi whipper.

Dave's revolutionary infusion method involves packing aromatics and liquid into an isi whipper, charging it with N2O, waiting 60 seconds before opening the canister and straining. The depressurized gas disrupts the cells, releasing aroma into the liquid. The beauty of this technique is that it is simple, quick, and inexpensive.

After I calmed down, I tried to work. Really, I did. But I was too distracted. I had to take inventory of my chargers and figure out how soon I could get more. And I kept thinking of all the herbs, flowers, and seeds in my garden, pantry and refrigerator.

Despite a crushing deadline, I took a few hours off to play. My reward is a refrigerator stocked with a dozen or so jars of brilliant infusions.

It's nearly midnight as I write this, and I have hours of work to make up. It's gonna be a long night, but I had to take a few minutes to share this with you. Maybe it will change your life, too.

clementine marmalade pudding

When looking at the rind as vessel and component in a sweet preparation, cooking in a syrup became an obvious choice.
Clementine rinds are already sweet and tender; candying renders them kidskin supple.
The addition of marmalade and a steamed cake made with the pulp utilizes every bit of the fruit.
A sticky sweet confection wrapped around orange-scented cake.
Fruit cake turned inside-out.

clementine marmalade pudding

candied rind:
6 clementines

Hollow out each of the clementines by running a teaspoon around the perimeter of the pulp, separating it from the rind. Scoop out a section at a time, being careful not to tear the rind. Reserve the pulp. Place the rinds in a saucepan and cover with cold water. Place pan over medium high heat and bring to a simmer. Simmer for 8-10 minutes. Invert rinds on a rack to drain.

450g water
375g sugar
96g glucose or corn syrup

Place water, sugar, and glucose in saucepan and set over medium high heat. When syrup reaches 46ºC/115ºF, add rinds, submerging them so that their hollows fill with syrup. Cook until syrup reaches 108ºC/227ºF then remove the rinds and invert them on a rack to drain. Reserve syrup.

Marmaladepudding1

marmalade:
1 clementine
1/2 of the reserved syrup from above (reserve the other 1/2 for glazing)

Peel the clementine and slice into thin strips. Roughly chop the pulp, discard any seeds. Add the rind and pulp to the reserved syrup. Cook over medium high heat until it comes to 104ºC/220ºF, stirring often. Remove from heat and cool.

steamed pudding:
reserved pulp from hollowed clementines
50g muscovado sugar, or brown sugar
50g unsalted butter, softened
1 egg
80g flour
3g baking powder
1g baking soda
pinch salt

Place pulp in bowl of food processor and process until pureed. Scrape out puree and measure 80g for pudding. Reserve remaining puree for sauce.
Place sugar and butter in bowl of food processor and pulse until well combined. Add egg and pulse until incorporated. Combine flour, baking powder, baking soda and salt in a small bowl. Add to food processor along with the 80g puree and process until well blended and creamy.
Place a teaspoon of marmalade in the bottom of each of the clementine rinds. Fill with batter to just below top of rinds. Place on steamer insert or basket, leaving 1-2" between each clementine. Steam, covered, over boiling water for 5-7 minutes or until surface springs back when pressed. Remove and allow to cool slightly. While still warm, brush the top and sides with the remaining reserved syrup. Serve warm or at room temperature with clementine sauce.

clementine sauce:
230g reserved puree
85g sugar

Place puree and sugar in a saucepan and bring to a boil. Cook for 2 minutes and strain sauce through a fine mesh sieve. Serve warm or at room temperature.

citrus gama

My first inclination upon opening the box of citrus was to sit down and have myself a citrus feast, but that would have been purely indulgent and more than a little irresponsible. After all, it's not everyday that I have access to such rare and exotic jewels with at least one, the malaysian lime, of ambiguous origin. Gene Lester tells me that he planted it many years ago from seeds brought back from Malaysia and speculates that it may be an Egyptian lime.

I felt it was important to document their characteristics, if only for my own reference, as that has already been done to a greater extent over at Citrus Pages. Many of the photos and much of the information on the website is based on the fruit that Mr. Lester grows. After photographing, collecting data, and preliminary tastings, I was ready to get cooking.

New products, especially those of exceptional quality, always incite my creative monkeys. But with so many avenues and so little fruit, I had to reign them in and focus on a preparation that would capture the essence of the individual cultivars— not just the flavor of the juice, but also the rich aroma of the rinds.

Ever since stumbling on yuzu gama, I've been fascinated with the concept. I'll admit that using citrus as a kettle is a romantic notion. But it's also a practical one: the porous rind insulates, breathes, and permeates the contents with aroma.

The first thing I learned was that not all citrus make suitable cooking vessels. Those with bitter albedos— lemons, limes, grapefruit— impart unpleasant bitterness.

And yet those with thin, tender rinds— kumquats, clementines, mandarins— are surprisingly palatable and can be eaten along with the contents. Many of the fruits that I was given were petite— just the right size to snugly hold a scallop.

The Thomasville citrangequat (below left) is a cross between an orange and a kumquat. Like the kumquat, it has a sweet rind and tart pulp, though the fruit is larger (about 2" diameter), and the pulp is sweeter. After cutting off the top and bottom and removing the pulp, I steamed the rind for a few minutes to soften it. A scallop was stuffed into the citrus band and seared on both sides. The cintrangequat juice was reduced with saffron and blended with egg yolk and olive oil to form a mayonnaise that accompanies the scallop and steamed baby artichoke. The bright, fresh rind cut through the richness of the scallop and brought to mind the evanescence of spring.

The Silverhill mandarin (below right) is an Unshu satsuma with a rich, sweet flavor and aroma. It was hollowed out (an easy task as the pulp separates easily from the rind), stuffed with a scallop, seasoned with salt, szechuan pepper, a dab of butter and a sprinkle of its juice, then sous vide at 50ºC for 40 minutes. The scent escaping from the opened bag was incredible. It was glazed with a sauce made from the juices in the bag, reduced with the rest of the mandarin juice and mounted with sweet butter. Served with crumbled, dehydrated Cerignola olives and pureed black garlic, it made a sweet and resonant autumnal starter; rind and all.

Over the winter, my quasi-obsession with citrus has been interlaced with an increasing interest in old-school terrines, though up until now nothing has materialized.
For this terrine, I chose the Temple tangor, a cross between a tangerine and orange, because it was the largest specimen with a sweet rind. The hollowed out tangor was filled with a cylinder of foie, surrounded by black truffles folded into prepared sweetbreads (soaked, blanched, cleaned, pressed, seasoned), and bound with transglutaminase. The terrine was cooked sous vide at 65ºC for 90 minutes, pressed overnight, and sliced. Again, the mingled scents of foie, truffles and orange was not to be believed.
Other components are: pickled beet with tangor sections, brioche crouton, and a leaf of liquid salad made from watercress fluid gel, finished with olive oil and lemon juice.

Note: Although the rind of the tangor was sweet, it was a bit leathery. I had hoped that it would have softened more than it did in the sous vide process. If I were to repeat this dish— which I intend to (perhaps with a pate de campagne), I would precook the rind. Alternately, the rind could be used as a scented mold.

*Admittedly, foie, truffles and sweetbreads were rather decadent ingredients to experiment with, but these were left over from a job.

I don't recall the last time that I made a proper cassoulet, but I remember the first. It was after reading Paula Wolfert's "The Cooking of Southwest France" sometime in the mid 80's and feeling an overwhelming need to be connected to that place and its food. It was my introduction to duck confit, pork braised in milk, and the wantonly rich cassoulet. For years, I looked forward to the winter ritual that began with making lamb stock on a Friday night and culminated with a liberal topping of bread crumbs and duck fat on a Sunday afternoon. The crust was always the deal-breaker.
This cassoulet-inspired dish features Gigante beans cooked in duck stock, duck confit, and Cara Cara orange* segments, layered and baked together in the orange rind. The crust is a variation on chicken skin croquant, substituting duck skin, and dusted with orange zest and parsley.

*Cara Cara is a navel orange, a mutation that naturally occurred on a Washington navel orange tree, with sweet pink pulp. It was not in the box of citrus that chef Kinch sent me but I needed a fruit large enough to hold an entree-sized serving. Unlike the other dishes, this rind is used for aroma and presentation, not to be eaten.

yuzu miso

"At night with the 'kettle' of yu-miso on the fire I hear it reproaching me"
—Ryota

The Japanese Tea Ceremony is a a way of life that transcends rituals and customs. Throughout its four hundred year history, it has inspired philosophies and aesthetics that have come to define the Japanese culture. One aesthetic principle that arose from the Zen influence is wabi-sabi.

Wabi-sabi is an intuitive appreciation of the transient beauty that exists in the humble, modest, imperfect, and even in decay. It is finding refinement in the unrefined.

It might be said that wabi-sabi is seeing a flower in a dying bulb.

Or, maybe even, finding poetry in a citrus kettle.

Yuzu miso, as the name implies, is a yuzu-scented miso from the Shizuoka and Nagano prefectures in Japan. It is typically used in Dengaku, an ancient form of miso cuisine, where various foods are lightly grilled, glazed with miso, then finished grilling.

Commercially prepared yuzu miso is made by simmering white (shiro) miso with sugar, then blending in yuzu zest. The ancient preparation, yuzu gama (literally, yuzu kettle), where the seasoned miso is cooked in a hollowed-out yuzu, is far more romantic in concept and exemplary of the Japanese approach to cooking.

To make yuzu gama miso: Blend together 150g shiro miso, 38g sake, 50g mirin, and 17g sugar. Slice the tops off of 4 yuzu. Remove all of the pulp and membranes from the insides, leaving only the rind. Pack the seasoned miso into the hollowed-out yuzu and replace the tops. Place on a baking sheet and roast for 30 minutes at 350F/178C, or until miso is bubbly. Will keep in refrigerator for up to a month.

Over the years, I've attempted to grow nearly every type of allium that I could find seeds for. Shallots and cipollini are perennial favorites because they require little space to grow and will keep throughout the winter when stored in a cool, dark place. I'm still experimenting with garlic, looking for a variety that will flesh out into plump heads instead of the paltry ones that I've been getting. And with onions being so readily available, I don't usually grow them unless I find an interesting variety.

Last fall, a friend gave me a bag of a sweet onion variety called "Candy", which I promptly deposited in a makeshift root cellar. Months later, I found they had begun to sprout. Sweet onions, because they have a higher water content, are not great keepers.

When bulbs sprout, the new growth draws on the energy that is stored in the parent bulb. In the case of alliums, the quality of the edible flesh becomes compromised and, eventually, consumed. Instead of composting them, I decided to force them like hyacinths, if for no other reason than to watch something grow.

Many flowering bulbs such as hyacinth, tulips, and narcissus can be forced to flower out of season, provided that they have been exposed to temperatures between 35-45F for a minimum of 12 weeks. I buy bulbs in the fall and store them in bags of peat moss in a spare refrigerator to force after New Years. To start them growing, simply place in a vessel with a mouth that is just narrow enough to allow only the base of the bulb through. A glass with tapered sides is perfect. Fill the glass with just enough water to cover the base of the bulb (left image). Submerging the bulb will cause it to rot. Alternately, bulbs can be supported by filling bowls with small stones and maintaining the water level. After about a week (center image) the roots begin to emerge and the shoots start to take off. After 2 weeks (right image) the bulb sends out multiple roots to support the vigorous growth. Bulbs forced in water can take 3-5 weeks to bloom.

I had intended to watch them grow— perhaps to flower— but upon tasting the new shoots, I found they were mild and sweet and begging to be braised with yuzu miso.

buddha’s hand citron salt

My first inclination was to dehydrate the preserved Buddha's hand puree but some long forgotten piece of knowledge— an elemental fact, in fact— kept knocking at my logic, insisting that it would not turn out the way I thought.

It was the salt.

Salt does not evaporate. I learned that in third grade science class while standing over a pot of boiling salted water, watching the water vaporize and leave behind a film of salt clinging to the bottom of the pot.

Common salt is an ionic bond of sodium (Na) and chloride (Cl). When it is dissolved in water, the Na and Cl atoms pull apart and seem to disappear. Take away the water and the atoms reunite because they are electrostatically attracted to each other.

Remembering this put a spin on my intentions for the puree. Looking at it anew, I estimated that it was roughly 70% solids suspended in 30% water but there was no way to evaluate how much salt the preserved citron had absorbed. Judging from the taste— quite a bit. I had every reason to believe that if I removed the water from the puree I would be left with dehydrated flavor solids clinging to re-formed salt crystals, or an inherently flavored salt.

I would risk scorching the solids if I evaporated the water on a stove top. And I couldn't wait for the slow process of low temperature dehydration to find out. So I turned to the microwave.

After trying to heat a mass of the puree in the microwave, I quickly remembered something else I had forgotten: molten salt conducts electricity. Alarmed by the sparks flying around my 2-month-old microwave, I quickly removed it and thinly spread the puree on silpat and returned it to the microwave. It sputtered a bit, but no sparks. Ten seconds later, the puree had transformed to lacy fragments of crunchy, lemon-infused salt.

After my brain stopped reeling from possible uses, I was left with some questions:

Could the process be hastened by simply dissolving salt in a puree and dehydrating, or did the six-week-long preserving affect the outcome?
Did the acid in the lemon juice (used in preserving) come into play?
Did the re-formed salt crystals trap the solids or are they clinging to the crystals?
What is the yield point of a salt solution (i.e. how much salt can be added to water before it will cease to dissolve)
How much salt is necessary for the product to qualify as a flavored salt instead of a salty crisp?

thai shrimp cocktail

I've always poached shrimp in the conventional way: in a pot of simmering court bouillon. Sometimes I poach it in butter or olive oil, but then, that's confit, isn't it? Same with sous vide.

Recently, I was shown a different method by a culinary student at the restaurant, who learned it from another chef. His way is with residual heat. Instead of cooking the shrimp in the simmering broth, boiling broth is poured over the shrimp that's been spread out in a hotel pan. The pan is immediately covered tightly with plastic wrap and set aside. Depending on the size and quantity of the shrimp, it takes 10-15 minutes until they are perfectly cooked. What I like about this countertop cooking is that they are never tough or overcooked.

Peeling and deveining shrimp is a time consuming task. Sometimes, I buy them already deveined, but always with their shells on for flavor. Decapods (ten-footed crustaceans) carry their intestines on what appears to be their backs, but are actually their bellies. To remove the intestinal tract, the flesh along the belly must be slit open, leaving thin flaps that I find visually distracting when presenting them whole. These long, thin filaments peel away easily and are tasty morsels, though they rarely accumulate in quantities that would comprise a meal. These trimmings— the rare and esoteric by-products of cooking— are the cook's reward.

I think what I like best about Thai food is the balance of sweet, salty, tart, spicy and umami. Nowhere
is this best exemplified than in the sweet-sour garlic dipping sauce Nahm Jeem Plah Pao Ubon— a lively combination of lime juice, palm sugar, thai chilies, garlic, and fish sauce. It's an alarm clock of a sauce— it awakens the senses, makes you sit up and pay attention. I prefer it over cocktail sauce as a dip for poached shrimp. It's delicious poured over hot, grilled fish or steamed rice. In hot weather, I drizzle it over icy-cold watermelon or freeze it and rake it with a fork for a refreshing granita. It's so good that I could drink it, and I do—diluted with sparkling water and sometimes in a sake cocktail.
Using kaffir lime juice brings it to a whole other level, adding complex floral notes along with a bracing acidity.
I wanted to use it with the shrimp bellies and rice noodles in a cold salad, but because it is so thin, I was having a hard time getting the sauce to cling to it. It's not such a bad thing having a pool of it in the bottom of the dish to slurp up, but I was looking for a cleaner presentation. Of course, I could've thickened it with xanthan or ultratex, but looking at the rice noodles, I realized that they were the perfect vehicle to carry the flavor. With a nod to an entirely different cuisine— Italian— and the dish Spaghetti All'Ubriaco, where pasta is cooked in red wine, I cooked the rice stick noodles in the sauce. Infused with the flavor of Nahm Jeem Plah Pao Ubon, the noodles 'dressed' the salad neatly and cleanly.

Nahm Jeem Plah Pao Ubon
parts are by volume, not weight

3 parts nam plah (fish sauce)
2 parts water
2 parts palm sugar (or brown sugar)
1 part finely minced garlic
1 part minced fresh thai bird chili, or 1/2 part dried
3 parts fresh kaffir lime juice

Place all ingredients except for lime juice in a saucepan and bring to a simmer. When the sugar is dissolved, remove from heat and add the lime juice.

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.