ginger pumpkin cake

More play with dehydrated flavor sheets in batter.

This time— dehydrated pumpkin in a fresh ginger root cake. This sheet, because it contains solids, is more of a chewy leather than a brittle crisp and converts to a soft, melting texture in the moist environment of the batter.

On the left are random strips embedded in the batter. On the right, strips were layered horizontally. Notice how the as the cake rose, it broke and disrupted some of the sheets. Interesting pattern, but I was going for a layered cake look. Next time, I'll try laying them in vertically.

Besides adding visual and textural interest, I think the true merit of this technique is in producing a cake with a baked-in filling. Now, to figure out how to get the frosting in there too.

Download recipe: ginger pumpkin cake

bbq cornbread

The step from bbq grits to bbq cornbread, while by no means a leap of imagination, was simply another exploration of the marriage of bbq sauce and cornmeal. I was curious to see what a sweet and acidic medium would do to a product that is typically coarse and dry. The flavor was predictably good, the reward came in the moist and tender crumb that I have not been able to achieve with dairy products alone.

I also wanted to explore the notion of folding chips of dehydrated sauce into a batter. This worked out quite well as they rehydrated in the moisture released in baking and formed soft, melting pockets of flavor that were well defined– not unlike chocolate chips. In that context, the doors of extrapolation have swung wide open.

Download recipe: bbq cornbread

smoked butter

When you start at the source, the possibilities are endless.

Heavy cream smoked over hickory chips.

Smoky butter and buttermilk: two products for the price of one.

Full, deep penetration of flavor: priceless.

A few tips that I've learned about making butter:

cream must be thoroughly chilled before churning– overnight is best.

after churning, turn cream out into sieve and let drain thoroughly at room temperature (the fat globules will stick together easier when soft).

tossing and pressing on the fat globules while they are draining will also make it easier to cream and eliminates the "washing step". With infused cream, washing with water seems to dilute flavor and wastes buttermilk.

perfect apple pie

A standard of perfection is as fluid as the emotions that define and measure it. Because it is an arbitrary judgement, it evolves with time and varies from person to person, with no one being wrong.

I thought that the very first apple pie that I made was perfect because it looked like the picture in the cookbook. It came out of the oven all golden and full of promise. Everything but its appearance was a disappointment.

I had piled the apples high in the center and carefully draped the top crust over them, but when I cut into it, the top crust collapsed into the cavity that was left by the shrunken apples. And although the crust was crisp on the outside– inside, it was pasty from the steam created by the cooking apples (even though I had cut vents in it). The filling, too, was a disaster. I had used the wrong apples (this was before I understood the difference between a cooking apple and an eating apple) and had sliced them too thin, causing them to break down into mush. And even though I had followed the recipe precisely, the juices turned into starchy glop.

In all of my subsequent attempts at achieving my vision of pie perfection, I came to the realization that tossing a bunch of ingredients into a sealed crust, with no way of adjusting the texture and flavor as it cooked, was a leap of faith.

At one point, I thought that I had found the perfect apple pie when I tasted Tarte Tatin: crisp, flaky pastry; crisp-tender caramelized apples, cooked only in butter and sugar. It set a new standard in texture and flavor, but it wasn't really a pie– not in the American-as-apple-pie sense.

Later, I discovered that blind-baking the bottom crust ensured that it would be crisp and flaky all the way through, and that caramelizing the apples separately allowed me full control of their texture, But then there was the problem of the top crust. Not wanting to compromise the perfectly cooked apples with further cooking, I topped the compressed apple filling with pre-baked streusel crumbs. By my standards, I had created the perfect apple pie, but it was a Dutch apple pie– not the double-crusted, golden-domed, All-American apple pie.

I don't know what took me so long to figure out that the top crust could also be pre-baked and then 'glued' to the bottom crust to produce the iconic form with all of the components cooked separately to their respective states of perfection, but I'm glad that I did. It reinforces my belief that techniques are sometimes perpetuated because of tradition, not because they are perfect, and in the search for perfection– everything needs to be reexamined.

inside-out cake

I've been toying with the idea of a cake with the frosting baked inside. I haven't had much luck using a conventional method of layering the frosting in the batter. Invariably, it would sink or create irregular pockets. Further attempts at lightening the frosting caused it to be partially absorbed by the batter. I was holding out for a clean and neat delineation.

In an unrelated experiment, I was heating an orb of butter that had been reverse-spherified in an alginate bath and realized that it withstood a fair amount of heat before the membrane ruptured. You can guess the rest.

This carrot cake was still warm when I cut into it, causing the cream cheese frosting to flow, but it was centered and well-defined. It took a little trial-and-error to get it to this point.

In the first trial, I scooped balls from the firm, chilled frosting and dropped them into an alginate bath (5g sodium alginate/ 1 litre water) for 30 minutes. The alginate reacts with the calcium present in the cream cheese and butter– forming a clear membrane around the frosting. Muffin tins were filled halfway with batter, a frosting sphere was embedded in each, then covered with another layer of batter. As they baked, the spheres rose up and broke through the surface of the batter and the membranes ruptured. Fail.

In the next trial, I flattened the frosting into a disc and repeated the steps, using a broader ramekin as a mold. This worked, I think, because it created more surface tension, keeping the frosting submerged.

I can't deny that it was satisfying to succeed, but I am far more excited about the possibilities that have opened up.

eggs benedict

Some dishes have stood the test of time by honoring tradition. Innovative chefs seek to redefine these classics by examining the flavors and textures that make the dish appealing and attempt to give us a purer, focused version. When successfully executed, the new dish feels like a rarefied distillation of the old. I think this is called refinement.

Eggs Benedict certainly falls prey to this category and I have yet to taste a better interpretation than the one served at WD-50. So good, in fact, that I had it twice on the same day.

Every component on Wylie Dufresne's plate is beyond reproach: Wafer-thin slices of crispy Canadian Bacon. Toasty English Muffin crumbs holding together a mind-bending cube of liquid hollandaise. But it was the egg yolk that did me in. Cooked sous vide at 70C for 17 minutes, egg yolks are transformed to the texture of soft, dense fudge that coats the mouth and leaves the tongue happily lapping over and over it like a dog with peanut butter. (OK, that was just me. That, I'm certain, is not called refinement.)

left: seasoned and whipped egg white quenelles, poached in barely simmering water.

center: seasoned egg yolks in sealed piping bag, 70C water bath.

right: piping cooked yolks.

Eggs Benedict v.1.1

70C egg yolks

brown butter hollandaise

whipped egg whites

crispy serrano ham

bacon curls

crispy ciabatta

plantago

Eggs Benedict v.1.2:

egg yolk wrapped in serrano ham "cooked" in dehydrator at 150F for 45 minutes.

brown butter hollandaise

mini English Muffin

plantago

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.

crispy asparagus

If food is a form of art [and by definition, I believe it is]— it's an exceptional one. Food has the distinction of engaging ALL of the senses. In food there is beauty, taste, aroma, texture, and sound.

The most beautiful sound that food makes is 'crispy'. Crispy and crunchy are often used interchangeably, but there is a difference. Crispy is when a dry food meets the teeth, it offers little resistance and shatters into a brittle cadenza, while crunchy implies a thicker, denser product with a deeper resonance.

Crispy is a lilting violin; crunchy is a rotund cello.

crispy asparagus rose yogurt

I've been chasing the elusive crispy, trying to coax it from vegetables. Oh, I know there are ways…

The makers of snack foods know its addictive powers. They have the technical and practical knowledge to achieve it, but their processes and equipment are not available to the average cook.

Of course, there is always deep frying, which is 'dry boiling' in fat at an accelerated temperature that dehydrates, browns, and ultimately crisps. While I love the texture, flavor, and aromas that hot fat lends to food, it wasn't what I was after.

I was chasing the type of crispy that comes from lyophilization, or freeze drying, a process that draws moisture from materials by converting the water in its cells to a solid frozen state, bypassing the liquid phase, to produce a product that is visibly unaltered and intact. Without access to this sexy beast of technology, I had to achieve the fragile crispness with only the tools available in my kitchen.

I knew the key was dehydration. In its pursuit, I moved thin shavings of asparagus from the low temperatures of a dehydrator to the higher temperatures of an oven, to no avail. In both cases, the drawing of moisture collapsed and compacted the cells, resulting in a product that I can only obliquely refer to as crisp. They had the right 'snap', but that was followed by an unpleasant papery chew.

Going back to square one, I restarted the process with shaved asparagus, but this time I attempted to soften the cell walls in heavily salted (1 1/2 Tblsps per quart) boiling water. Next, I spread them out on parchment and (oven) dehydrated at 150F for 30 minutes. Analyzing the shriveled, dry asparagus at this point, I wished for a fast, hot,and dry heat source to expand and puff the collapsed cells. A veil lifted, and 30 seconds later, the most underutilized and misunderstood appliance in my kitchen showed me some of its hidden potential.

Thank you microwave oven.

p.s. Crispy asparagus taste suspiciously like pistachios.

p.p.s. Beware— they are just as addictive.