tree peonies

I have the good fortune to live near a peony farm. It's no ordinary farm and their peonies are anything but ordinary. In fact, at this time of year when the plants are in full regalia, the gardens are aptly referred to as "Peony Heaven".

Cricket Hill Garden is a world-renowned grower of rare Chinese tree peonies (Paeonia suffruticosa). The owners Kasha and David Furman were among the first to import the plants into the US and have grown hundreds of cultivars over the past twenty years on their seven acre farm. In conversations with David, it's apparent that he is a man completely fulfilled by a career that grew out of his obsession with the Chinese culture and a passion for their national flower. He speaks freely of his travels through China and the political tribulations of gaining permission to import the plants from a country that– at the time– was embarrassed by the sensual nature of the flowers.

Tree peonies do indeed arouse the senses. They unfurl their luminous petals slowly and luxuriously to reveal their flamboyant centers. The flowers are as large as a dinner plate, smell heavenly, and bear fanciful names such as "Purple Butterfly in the Wind" and "Green Dragon Lying on a China Ink Stone". At about 100$ per plant, they are expensive, but as they are known to live hundreds of years, I see them as an investment in the future.

One of my favorite salads involves shaved bulb fennel, fresh herbs, and olives, simply dressed with lemon juice and walnut oil. The addition of silky wisps of salami or a fresh tangy chevre rounds it out to a meal.

The ether anethole is responsible for the sweet (up to 13 times sweeter than sugar) anise flavor of fennel. Many of the tender annual herbs are united by this aromatic: basil, dill, tarragon, chervil, and hyssop all partake in anise love. Anethole is widely used as a flavoring for liquors. Because it is less soluble in water than in ethanol, it will produce a spontaneous microemulsion, a phenomenon known as "ouzo effect" when water is added– turning a clear solution milky white.

A deli slicer makes shaving fennel a breeze. I'm always fascinated by the forms that fall off the slicer. A cross-section of the heart, with its long gangly arms attached, look like alien sea creatures. The end-cuts reveal a succession of delicate petal shapes.

Typically, the shavings go directly into an ice bath to keep them crisp and hydrated. The swelling that occurs when their cells fill with water further distorts the shapes.

I knew what I was hoping for when I submerged a handful of the petal shavings into chilled rhubarb juice, but I wasn't sure that it would happen. A few hours later, I nearly squealed with delight as I lifted the petals and watched them fall onto a plate.

Pale pink. Curled and cupped. All I could see was peonies.

rhubarb fennel spruce tempura

rhubarb and fennel tempura

humboldt fog ripened goat cheese

rhubarb fennel spruce consomme

While considering other worthwhile applications for flavored beer/soda outside of the beverage realm, tempura batter became glaringly obvious.

Tempura batter is all about texture. It should be light and shatteringly crisp. The best way that I know to achieve this is with a dry mix that consists of 1 part baking powder (10g), 1.5 parts cornstarch (15g), and 10 parts flour (100g) mixed with 20 parts (200g) carbonated water.

The carbonated water, which can be club soda, seltzer, or even beer, is mixed in at the last minute for three reasons:

1- The carbonation (carbon dioxide) bubbles inflates the batter but dissipates quickly.

2- Liquid activates the alkaline and acid in the baking powder to produce carbon dioxide gas that further lightens the batter. Part of the reaction takes place upon mixing and part is activated by applying heat.

3- The batter should be cooked before the flour granules fully absorb water molecules (gelation), which would inhibit crispness.

For these reasons, tempura batter should be mixed just before dipping and frying to produce optimum crispness. Keeping a dry mix on hand and being familiar with the proper viscosity of the batter makes it practically effortless to mix a fresh batch for each order.

Tempura was introduced to Japan by the Portuguese and adapted from the Portuguese "tempero", meaning "to season". Contrarily, tempura batter is typically neutral in flavor. Using spruce beer in place of the carbonated water was an opportunity to introduce flavor into the batter. The spruce flavor was not as pronounced as I had hoped– starches have a tendency to mute flavor– but it did push through and produced a more dimensional tempura.

I was curious if the yeast in the spruce beer would have an effect on the batter. Logically, it shouldn't–yeast is slow to activate– but there was something irresistibly brittle about this batch of tempura that warrants further exploration.

This also got me thinking about all of the commercially available sodas that could be used to flavor tempura.

Limonetto/shrimp… Orange Slice/carrot… Dr Pepper/duck… Root beer/Vidalia onion… anyone?

spring onion granola

Spring onions begin to appear in late February. They look like pregnant scallions but are actually immature onions, harvested before the bulbs are fully formed.

The best spring onions are of the sweet Vidalia variety. Their sugar content mimics that of an apple; sweet enough to eat raw, but infinitely better when caramelized with just a bit of butter and a sprinkle of salt.

Because of their high water content, my preferred method of caramelization is dry heat. I split them in half lengthwise, lay them out in a single layer–but crowded together–on baking sheets. A sprinkling of salt draws out their moisture, while a brushing of melted butter keeps them from drying out. After a half hour or so in a 350F oven, and a few turns, they come out as a contrast of textures: soft and unctuous at the bulb, crisp and brittle at the tops, all of it sweet as candy.

Sometimes, when I want a more melting texture, I cook them on top of the stove, slowly sweating them until they release their moisture, then turn up the heat to caramelize the sugars.

This time, I've combined the methods, starting them on top of the stove until soft and golden, then spread them out on silicone and baked at 200F until they dried into nutty-sweet clusters and flakes that can only be described as granola-y.

Now, I'm wondering what else can be granola-ized.

cultured butter

Last fall, I enjoyed a memorable meal at Eleven Madison Park. I would be hard pressed to tell you what I had for breakfast, but I can remember every last detail of that meal, right down to the butter. In part, that may have been because the server made a ceremony of presenting it and pointing out that it was unsalted butter from Vermont. I can't deny that it was good. In fact, it was very, very good. But I would have been more impressed if it had been made in-house.

I distinctly remember wondering, as I ate the olive-studded baguette spread with the very, very good butter, why restaurants aren't making their own butter for table service. It seems a missed opportunity for customization and bragging rights.

Is it cost, time, labor, skill? The cost is on or below par to an artisanal butter and the time and labor are negligible. Making butter is such a basic skill that a five-year-old can produce an excellent product from fresh cream, a jar, and some elbow grease. Anyone who has ever over-whipped cream (raising hand) has unwittingly made butter. What is often viewed as a disaster is, in fact, a small, everyday miracle.

Butter is essentially the fat of the milk. It is an water-in-oil emulsion, composed of 80-82 percent milk fat, 16-17 percent water, and 1-2 percent milk solids. Transforming milk into butter will take place faster and the the yield will be higher if you start with fresh, pasteurized (preferably raw, but not ultra pasteurized) heavy cream. Agitation, whether in a jar (15 minutes of constant shaking), or in a food processor (30-60 seconds), incorporates air, forms bubbles, then fat globules collect in the bubble walls. At this point, whipped cream–a light, stable foam– is formed. If agitation continues, the friction warms and softens the fat globules to a near-liquid state, causing the walls to rupture and the fat globules to cling together, forming larger and larger masses. Knowing this is not necessary to make butter–the miracle will still happen.

After churning, the buttermilk is drained off. This buttermilk is the real deal–light, tangy, refreshing–and to some, the reward of churning your own butter. Ice water is then added to the fat crystals and they are worked together with a paddle or spatula until they are creamy and homogenized.

Making butter is rewarding to those of us who are thrilled by watching matter transform from one state to another, but anyone would be won over by the flavor of freshly-formed, sweet butter. In her new book "Milk: The Surprising Story of Milk Through The Ages", culinary historian Anne Mendelson describes the taste of homemade butter as " the taste of cream to the nth power, cream newly translated to some rarefied spiritual afterlife." Chemically, the flavor of butter is comprised of over 120 different aroma compounds that include: fatty acids, lactones, methyl ketones, diacetyl, and dimethyl sulfide.

Aside from the inherent flavors in butter, fat has long been recognized as a flavor carrier; a vehicle to deliver whatever flavors and aromas that are put in contact with it. This is why butter is wrapped and isolated in its own compartment in storage. But this capacity to absorb can be seen as an opportunity to infuse flavor. Truffles are often buried in porous foods such as rice or eggs to infuse them with their aroma–why not store them with butter? Or other aromatics: citrus, herbs, porcini, cheese, coffee, chocolate, vanilla beans? Can garlic butter be made more efficiently by storing cut garlic cloves in a closed container with butter? Similarly, a compound butter is made by blending a flavorful or aromatic ingredient into finished butter, but this can sometimes interrupt the texture. What if flavor was introduced into the cream before churning it into butter? The infusion would have to take place at a temperature below pasteurization (185F/85C in the US) or through cold vacuum infusion. One final interesting developement with fat is that it is being studied as the sixth taste, although the actual receptors are still undiscovered.

I've made butter many times (some times, on purpose), but this is my first attempt at cultured butter, which is simply cream that has been soured (with buttermilk) and allowed to ferment or "ripen" at room temperature prior to ageing in the refrigerator. As with all fermentation, bacterial action develops acids and aroma compounds. One in particular, diacetyl, when superimposed with the compounds already present in fresh butter creates a noticeably fuller flavor that carries over into the buttermilk, which is the thickest, richest, and most flavorful that I have ever tasted. If you can resist drinking it all or turning it into amazing biscuits, it can be frozen to ripen the next batch of cultured butter.

ripening & ageing

churning

washing & creaming

Recipe: Cultured butter

umami burger

Wait, wait, don't go…you're at the right place. Really, you are.

I know…I'm giving you a burger. But it's a special burger. Let me tell you why.

First, this is no fast food burger. It's about as slow as it gets. The hangar steak for the burger was marinated for 12 hours, then dry-aged for 3 days. The shittake buns needed to rise (twice) before being baked into soft pillows. The tomatoes were slowly roasted in a low oven to concentrate their flavor, then reduced to a paste on top of the stove. The onions were slowly caramelized, then dried until crisp in a slow oven. Even the cheese was transformed.

But the whole point of this burger is flavor. The kind of synergistic deliciousness that comes from the layering of glutamate-rich foods that produce the taste of umami.

Umami–the fifth taste–is a chemical reaction that takes place on our taste receptors to produce a pleasant savory taste. As far back as 1825, Brillat-Savarin described the taste of meat as "toothsome" which is similar to the Japanese interpretation of "deliciousness". Brillat-Savarin also sagely foretold that the "future of gastronomy belongs to chemistry". As it turns out, it was chemistry that led to our understanding of glutamates, a type of amino acid, and the discovery of the synergy that occurs when foods containing glutamates are combined, the resulting taste is increased and magnified exponentially. [Does that make umami a fractal taste?].

Recently, scientists have uncovered the way that glutamates activates the nerves on our tongues. Referred to as the "Venus flytrap" mechanism, "Glutamate lands on your tongue and nestles into a glutamate-shaped depression on an umami receptor. Upon contact, the receptor–an enormous, folded protein–changes shape and grasps the glutamate. That shape change also activates the neuron that tells your brain you are tasting umami. Inosinate(compound found in meat) and guanylate(compound found in mushrooms) can bind to a seperate part of the umami receptor. Once bound, they tighten the receptors grip on glutamate, increasing its ability to taste up to 15-fold before the receptor relaxes its grip."

To understand this principle, we have only to examine the intuitive use of umami in world cuisine and how it has led to the foods that we crave. In Italy there is the popular trio of bread, tomatoes and cheese that takes on many forms. In the US, we have the burger and fries–an umami symphony of beef, bread, cheese, tomato, and potato. Mexico has its tacos and wide use of cornmeal and black beans. England loves its fish & chips and Australia knows the secret of Vegemite. Every culture has its versions of charcuterie and fermented beverages. But it is perhaps Asia that has the most extensive and refined applications of umami with their use of fermented soy products, seaweed, cured fish, and mushrooms–all sources of highly-concentrated glutamates.

Interestingly, we have glutamate receptors in our stomachs as well as our mouths. When the receptors in the stomach are stimulated, they send a message to the brain, which then sends an order back to the stomach to start digesting. Latest studies show that glutamates may play an important role in our digestion of protein. Wouldn't it be nice if, for once, something that tastes good turned out to be not only good for us, but essential to our health?

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Umami Burger

The beef:

Beef is a glutamate goldmine, particularly when cured or aged. To that end, hangar steak was marinated in soy, fish sauce and dashi, then dry-aged and combined with fresh chuck eye steak.

Dashi–a simple broth of kombu and bonito–is loaded with umami. It contains 3700mg of glutamates per 100g.

Recipe: Umami burgers

The bread:

Breads are a good source of glutamates because of fermentation, a process that unbinds protein molecules and allows the release of bound-up glutamate.

Dried shittakes (used here) contain 1060mg of glutamate(guanylate) per 100g as opposed to fresh, which contain 71mg/100g. The dough also contains soy sauce and fermented black beans to produce an incredibly savory and fragrant bread with a soft texture attributed to the addition of milk and eggs.

recipe: Shittake hamburger rolls

The tomato:

Ripe tomatoes have 10 times more glutamates than unripe. Roasting tomatoes also concentrates the glutamates and deepens the flavor. Kecap manis (sweetened soy sauce) is added in the reduction stage to increase the umami and mimic the ripening.

Most of the umami in tomatoes is concentrated in the seeds and inner membranes, so be sure to leave them in when cooking and strain out later.

Recipe: Tomato kecap

The cheese:

Parmesan has the highest concentration of glutamates among cheese with 1680mg per 100g. As a general rule: the older and drier the cheese, the more umami. Because Parmesan is very dry, it doesn't make a good "melty" cheese–a requirement for a good burger–yet there had to be a way to make it work. Digging through online science journals, I hit on the secret to making processed cheese. It's as simple as using sodium citrate as an emulsifying salt. With just two ingredients–sake (for umami) and sodium citrate– it became possible to turn dry and crumbly Parmesan into a soft and supple sheet.

Recipe: Pliable parmesan

The potatoes:

Pre-cooking potatoes with dry heat is the best way to achieve a crackling-crisp crust with soft, fluffy innards and the microwave is much quicker than an oven.

Scoff if you want, but I make my fries at home in the microwave. On second thought, don't scoff until you try it. The process is so simple and the results so satisfying that you'll wonder why you never did it this way before:

Recipe: Microwave fries

oxtail almond malt

Today was probably not the best day for this dish.

Earlier in the week when I purchased the oxtails, there was a fresh blanket of snow on the ground and I was craving a rich, hearty braise. There was still a chill in the air when I put them in a low oven and braised them late into the night, falling asleep to the comforting smell of malt and meat.

But today, as the snow quickly melted on this unseasonably warm day, my appetite wavered to peas and radishes and young, fresh food. So I wrapped it up and put it away for tomorrow, when the cold will return along with a craving for slow-cooked meat.

oxtail braised in malt

almond risotto

oxalis

Oxtails are full of connective tissue that contain collagen proteins. When cooked at temperatures above 65C, the collagen breaks down into gelatin. The shredded meat can be shaped and compressed and the gelatin will help it hold its shape. This technique can be applied to any hard-working cut of meat that is cooked long and slow such as pulled pork or lamb shanks.

Almonds and nuts can be treated like grains if they are first cooked until tender. This can take a long time by conventional methods. A pressure cooker will tenderize nuts in under an hour, depending on the variety and age.

To make almond risotto, chopped slivered almonds are toasted until golden and fragrant, then cooked in stock until tender. The stock is reduced at the end of the cooking until syrupy. Drained yogurt or labne is stirred in at the end to round out the flavor with a bit of tartness.

soy milk, yuba, and curd

As far as natto is concerned, the world seems to be divided into two camps: Hate & Repulsion, or Natto Love. I am an expat of the former, trying to find a home in the later.

Once I got around to trying the mythical natto, it almost felt anti-climatic. The sweaty-feet smell was not as offensive as some of my favorite cheeses. It was the otherworldliness of the neba neba slime that took me aback. That just felt sooo wrong to consume. But once I got past that, I found the flavor to be mildly beany and nutty with a pleasantly bitter finish that reminded me of roasted coffee.

The main reason that I want to love natto is for its nutritional value, as confirmed by a reader:

"…since then I have made a good contact with a scientist who has managed to use natto for a better purpose, he found it contains a fantastic element called K2, if you have 0.35micrograms of K2 in your diet it reduces your risk of heart disease by a massive 52%!!!! Thats why the japanese have less heart disease in the country than any other, well until the west introduced McDonalds!"

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Soy milk also divides the masses, but leaves the majority of us ambivalent and about as neutral as its flavor. Soy milk is a stable emulsion of oil, water, and protein. It contains 3.5% protein–about the same as cow's milk, but with far less saturated fat and 0 cholesterol.

Soybeans also have the distinction of being a plant source whose protein content can mimic dairy in its ability to coagulate and curdle.

rehydrated soybeans dried soybeans

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soy milk rehydrated soybeans and water

Recipe: Soy milk

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yuba Yuba is the coagulated protein skin that forms on the surface of heated soy milk. It can be used as a wrapper for sweet or savory fillings or crisped in hot oil

yuba miso roll miso, peanut butter, and okara enclosed in yuba with sweet shoyu dipping sauce

Recipe: Yuba miso roll

yuba crisp dehydrated yuba, fried in hot oil

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bean curd (tofu) soy milk curdled with lime juice and pressed

Recipe: Bean curd

Nutrition and versatility are certainly worthy enough reasons to explore the humble soybean, but there is another logic to all this soyfulness….

winter branches

I've revisited Albert Adria's technique of modeling chocolate in ice water. I think it's simply brilliant in it's ability to produce delicate and organic 3D shapes without molds.

For these miniature twigs, the white chocolate was flavored with birch syrup. Preserved wintergreen berries and tiny shards of pine glass were affixed to the branches.

I love the idea of presenting a bouquet of these branches as a mignardise. Their refreshing flavor would be a fitting end to a special meal.

Wintergreen (Gaultheria), also known as teaberry, is an evergreen creeper native to norteastern North America. The leaves and red berries are a rich source of methyl salicylate, or oil of wintergreen. The flavor is popular in chewing gum, particularly Clarke's Teaberry gum.

The fresh berries are somewhat dry and mealy in texture and shrivel quickly. Preserving them in a glycerin and water solution keeps them plump and improves their texture. After 2 weeks in a solution stored in the refrigerator, the berries still look and taste fresh. An added perk is that they infuse the solution with wintergreen flavor, which could then be used as a flavorant.

Warning: Methyl salicylate is an analgesic found in aspirin and many over-the-counter liniments and ointments. Pure methyl salicylate can be lethal in doses of 4-6 grams. Oil of wintergreen is 98-99% methyl salicylate and gaultheria leaves and berries contain up to 0.05%. A lethal dose of berries is about 800-1000 grams. Although gaultheria has a long tradition among indigenous Canadians and North Americans as food and beverage, use common sense when ingesting. Young children and pregnant women should avoid eating gaultheria.

mushroom matcha balsam yuzu

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

Or maybe that's just me.

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

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

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

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

matcha balsam flan

480g soy milk

50g balsam needles

12g matcha

5g agave nectar

pinch salt

4 egg yolks

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

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

And, because I know you'll ask…

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

matcha balsam flan

mushroom raviolo

maitake

mushroom floss

yuzu cube

black sesame powder

candied white pine

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

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

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

cod juniper apricot

There were few foods that I disliked eating as a child. Salt cod was definitely one.

It is said that the Portuguese have 1,000 ways of preparing bacalhau. Much to my dismay, many of these preparations made their way onto my dinner plate. No matter how much I protested or pleaded, the only requisite to leaving the table was to eat my bacalhau, thus saving me from an empty, degenerate life, the direct result of a salt cod deficiency. The potatoes, a traditional accompaniment, always came to my rescue. Not only did they make the fish more palatable, they provided a cover under which to hide the bits that I couldn't get down.

After a long separation, I've developed a taste for salt cod. I had to come back to it on my own terms. The dense, fibrous texture, which I once found so offensive, is what draws me to it now.

I can't help but feel a little naughty as I revert back to hiding the bacalhau in this dish, although this time around the intent is to bury it as a treasure and give it the respect that it deserves.

apricot lime puree

potato puree

egg yolk

crispy smashed yukon gold

juniper salt cod

juniper foam

juniper-gin tempura dome

In addition to playing off of the flavors and textures that are found in traditional Portuguese bacalhau dishes and the classic fish and chips, this dish explores the chemical relationship between the flavors of cod, juniper and apricot.

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More profoundly than spice, salt has steered the course of history. Our fundamental need for it prompted an age of discovery, displaced populations, built empires, leveled economies, instigated wars, and saved humanity from starvation.

The history of cod is intrinsically entwined with salt. Dating back over 500 years, salt cod has sustained entire populations on both sides of the Atlantic. Its commerce linked the New World to the Old. Codfish were once so plentiful that it was jokingly said that one could cross the Atlantic on foot by using their backs as stepping stones. Now, they have been overfished to near extinction, warranting heavy restrictions to protect the remaining population of Atlantic cod and challenging consumers to seek other options. Sustainable alternatives are Pacific cod, Alaskan pollock, and hook-and-line caught Haddock.

To make juniper salt cod: Finely grind fresh juniper sprigs and berries. Mix 1 part juniper with 2 parts coarse sea salt. Lay fresh fish fillets on a bed of juniper salt and completely cover with a thick layer of additional salt. Cover, and refrigerate for 2 days, after which time, the fish can be hung and dried in the refrigerator for up to a month, then hydrated before cooking. I prefer the texture when it is hydrated directly after salting. To hydrate: Rinse salt off of fish and soak in fresh, cold water for 2 days under refrigeration, changing water 3-4 times during this period. Cook as desired.

To make juniper foam: In a blender, place 500ml tonic water and 30ml juniper sprigs. Blend until liquified. Strain. Season liquid with salt and a few drops of lime juice. Place 1/2 of liquid in a saucepan and add 3 sheets of gelatin that have been bloomed in cold water. Heat until gelatin dissolves, then blend in remaining liquid and allow to cool. Strain again into an iSi canister and charge with N2O. Chill thoroughly before discharging.

To make juniper gin: Lightly smash leaves and berries on sprigs of juniper with a mallet. Place in a bottle of gin and set aside at room temperature for at least 3 days. Remove sprigs when the juniper has a pronounced presence in the gin.

To make juniper gin tempura dome: In a bowl, combine 2 eggs, 5g agave syrup, 3g salt, 80g AP flour, 100g rice flour, 120ml tonic water, and 120ml juniper gin. Whisk together until smooth. Heat the back of a ladle in a deep-fryer of vegetable oil to 375F. for 2 minutes. Remove ladle and let excess oil drip back into deep-fryer. Invert ladle over a bowl and drizzle the tempura batter over the back in a lacy pattern. Lower ladle into hot oil and fry for 2-3 minutes or until golden and crispy. Carefully remove dome from the back of the ladle using the tip of a knife to help it dislodge.

Various species of Juniper (Juniperus) grow widely throughout the Northern hemisphere. The needles of most Junipers look like tiny, overlapping scales. The berries, which are actually cones, mature to a deep blue in the fall and remain on the branches throughout the winter. They provide the distinct flavor of gin and are used in Northern and Eastern European cuisines to flavor wild game and choucroute garnie.