At this time last year our new kitchen was just taking shape. As the first of the cabinets were being installed, a rented dumpster was exiting the driveway with the remnants of our old kitchen, and a large part of my life.

Gutting the kitchen and dining room was cathartic, a feeling that carried over into an overwhelming desire to purge the rest of the house. I spent a week clearing out the cellar and attic, bewildered by the amount of stuff that we (mostly I) had accumulated. 

Most of it was irrelevent and obsolete: boxes and boxes of magazines, notebooks, and clippings that spanned a wide range of interests in things that I had once wanted to cook, taste, grow, build, make, paint, learn. I questioned why, if not out of nostalgia, I still held onto them. I told myself, and my family when we moved them from house to house, that those boxes contained my inspiration. But when it takes up that much space, inspiration becomes a burden. It was time to let go.

Truth is, I stopped looking to those boxes when two forces came into play. The first was recognizing that inspiration shouldn't be a burden, it could be as spontaneous and organic as intuition. If you can already see the world in a grain of sand, then inspiration is everywhere, always. That realization was like learning that I could cook without recipes, and go on to teach others to cook as well. Inspiration works that way too. Once you learn how to turn it on, there is no course but to turn it loose. That's why I started this blog, which brings me to the second force: the Internet.

Those of you who remember life before computers, were witness to the revolution. On my first PC I was able to scan images and text and organize them in easy to access files. No more rummaging through boxes. They needed no real estate and would never occupy space in a landfill. Then came the internet, a universe of stimulus and information, and the capability to connect and share in a scope that I never imagined. 

Depending on your needs and comfort level, there are a multitude of applications that allow you to connect and share, but few also provide inspiration and the capacity to save and organize. Nothing stimulates my imagination like images and design, I can happily spend hours sifting through visual aggregate sites like stumbleupon, foodgawker, notcot, etsy, and all of the tangental sites I've discovered through them. There are so many talented people making beautiful things that inspire me, that I want to save them all. But inspiration, and obsessing about beautiful things, is an addiction. Wasn't I just replacing those cardboard boxes with an endless column of bookmarks?

I've often fantasized about making a site where I could paste collections of linkable images without the distraction of excessive text. And, because ads are the aesthetic death of websites, there would be none of that. How thrilling it would be to scroll through a page of hand-picked inspiration— my bookmarks in images.  I've also fantasized about doing the same with this blog, condensing it to a collection of photos that would link back to the post— a visual archive that didn't require endless scrolling and searching by month.

Someone heard my prayer and invented Pinterest. With 13 million users in just 10 months, there must've been many people on their knees.

To begin using Pinterest, you must request an invitation and be prepared to wait for a week or two. Why? I don't know. Then you download a button to your bookmark bar that lets you pin images to your boards hosted on their site. I was able to archive nearly 300 post photos from PWFW in just a few hours, counting the time spent scrolling down memory lane. I rarely go back into my own blog, let alone others. Pinterest could change that.

http://pinterest.com/foodplayer/playing-with-fire-and-water/

Well, that was probably the longest meal in history.
8 courses in 5 weeks.
Hope you weren't too hungry.

For awhile, I thought I'd bitten off more than I could chew. 

The dishes came easily enough. It was the research— the wonderful bottomless pit of discovery— that held me up. It didn't help that it was also the busiest time of the year at the restaurant and with catering.

It had started with a season. A micro-season, actually. Indian Summer. A time that straddles the end of autumn and heralds the feast of Thanksgiving.

But food is never just about time. It's also about place. And it's always about people. 
Food tells a story about people. 

Historically, cuisine is shaped by people, culture, and  geography. We live in a marvelous time when technology has shrunk the world, blurring borders and giving us access to unlimited streams of information. It's only natural that the influence of technology should find it's way into our kitchens. There is always more to learn.  

I felt compelled to look back— way back— to the beginning. I sought to understand food at its most primal, and learned that food is inextricably bound to the people who prepare and eat it. 

History is a quagmire. Only by looking back can we see how far we've come. In some ways, it's not very far at all.

Today, though, I'm looking forward. To a New Year. A new decade. And to new culinary adventures.
I can hardly wait!

This post is part of a tasting menu inspired by the indigenous foods and people of North America:
 Indian Summer 
 Indian Summer :: the forest :: mushroom pine
 Indian Summer  :: the sea :: oyster seaweed
 Indian Summer  ::  the earth :: burdock sunchoke onion
 Indian Summer  :: the field :: corn pumpkin bean
 Indian summer  ::  the river :: trout birch sumac
 Indian Summer :: the lake :: duck cranberry wild rice
 Indian Summer :: the plains :: bison juniper chestnut
 Indian Summer :: the woods :: oak maple hickory

Before the arrival of the Europeans, over fifty million bison roamed freely through North America.
By the 1890's there were less than a thousand left.

A very long time ago, bison came to North America from Asia, crossing a land bridge that connected Siberia to Alaska. These early bison (Bison latifrons) were enormous beasts, weighing up to 5,000 pounds. As the ice age waned and the climate warmed, buffalo evolved. B. latifrons were replaced by two new species: Bison antiquus, which became extinct 10,000 years ago, and Bison occidentalis, which further evolved into the two distinct races that exist today: Bison athabascae (wood buffalo) and Bison bison (plains buffalo).

Early inhabitants were largely nomadic hunters, following their prey on seasonal migrations. By the time that they had established villages (about 20,000 years ago), buffalo dominated the grasslands and hillsides that covered the central part of the United States. An adult male buffalo stood seven feet tall, weighed 2,000 pounds, and was capable of running up to 35 miles per hour. They were not easy prey. 

Before horses and guns, stealthy hunters chased buffalo on foot using arrows and machetes. Before long they began using their wits to devise more effective ways to hunt. After observing that a wolf could approach a herd without causing a stampede because the buffalo sensed that the wolf would not attack in a herd, they would dress in wolf skins, allowing them to kill selectively.

Knowing that bison blindly followed their leader, they would dress as buffalo and lead an entire herd off of a steep cliff to their deaths. These stampedes were carefully organized and orchestrated to deal with the hundreds of carcasses that had to be processed quickly. Even amid the extravagant slaughter, nothing was wasted. 

The Plains Indians relied on buffalo for nearly every aspect of their existence. Besides being a primary source of food where flesh, fat, blood, guts, organs and even hooves were cooked, dried, or smoked; their hair was used for bedding and ropes; hides for shoes, clothing and teepee covering. Buffalo brains were used to cure hides. Bones were made into tools and weapons. Sinews were dried for cordage and bowstrings. Horns were used to transport hot embers. Bladders were employed as cooking vessels. Because the buffalo gave so much, the Native Americans honored them in songs, dances, and prayers, considering them as their spiritual relatives.  

In the 18th century, European settlers began to move westward, bringing with them horses and guns. To them, the lumbering buffalo were easy prey. Some of them were trappers and traders who made their living from selling buffalo hides that they would send on trains back east. During the winter of 1872-1873 more than 1.5 million hides were harvested and sold for $2.00-$3.00 apiece. As railroads were built for travel to the west, buffalo became the primary food for laborers. After their completion, buffalo were shot from the windows of moving trains as sport and amusement, leaving their carcasses to rot.

At about the same time, government leaders launched a campaign to eradicate the buffalo as a means of bringing the Indians into submission. In 1873, Columbus Delano, the Secretary of Interior, stated "The civilization of the Indian is impossible while the buffalo remains upon the plains. I would not seriously regret the disappearance of the buffalo from our western prairies, in its effect upon the Indians, regarding it as a means of hastening their sense of dependence upon the products of the soil and their own labors." 

The slaughter continued until 1894, when President Grover Cleveland made it illegal to kill buffalo, saving them from near extinction.

Bison Jump

bison tartare, juniper ashes, journey cake

bison sausage, wild onion, roasted in juniper

chestnut puree, dried blueberry sauce 
  

Have you heard?

Alcohols

• Benzyl alcohol (oxidises to benzaldehyde, almond)
• Ethyl maltol (sugary, cooked fruit)
• Furaneol (strawberry)
• 1-Hexanol (herbaceous, woody)
• cis-3-Hexen-1-ol (fresh cut grass)
• Menthol (peppermint)

Aldehydes

• Acetaldehyde (pungent)
• Benzaldehyde (marzipan, almond)
• Hexanal (green, grassy)
• Cinnamaldehyde (cinnamon)
• Citral (lemongrass, lemon oil)
• cis-3-Hexenal (green tomatoes)
• Furfural (burnt oats)
• Neral (citrus, lemongrass)
• Vanillin (vanilla)

Amines

• Cadaverine (rotting flesh)
• Indole (jasmine flowery, feces)
• Putrescine (rotting flesh)
• Pyridine (very unpleasant)
• Skatole (bad breath, feces)
• Substituted pyrazines: 2-ethoxy-3-isopropylpyrazine, 2-methoxy-3-sec-butylpyrazine, 2-methoxy-3-methylpyrazine (toasted seeds of fenugreek, cumin, and coriander)
  • Alkylpyrazines
  • Methoxypyrazines
• Trimethylamine (fish)

Esters

• Ethyl acetate (fruity, solvent)
• Ethyl butanoate (fruity) – also known as ethyl butyrate
• Ethyl decanoate – also known as ethyl caprate
• Ethyl hexanoate – also known as ethyl caproate
• Ethyl octanoate – also known as ethyl caprylate
• Hexyl acetate (apple, floral, fruity)
• Isoamyl acetate (banana)
• Methyl butanoate (apple, fruity) – also known as methyl butyrate
• Methyl salicylate (oil of wintergreen)
• Pentyl butanoate (pear, apricot)
• Pentyl pentanoate (apple, pineapple)
• Sotolon (maple syrup, curry, fenugreek)
• Strawberry aldehyde (strawberry)
• Fructone (fruity, apple-like)

Ethers

• Anethole (liquorice, anise seed, ouzo, fennel)
• Anisole (anise seed)
• Eugenol (clove oil)
• 2,4,6-Trichloroanisole (cork taint)

Ketones

• Dihydrojasmone (fruity woody floral)
• Oct-1-en-3-one (blood, metallic, mushroom-like)^[1]
• 2-Acetyl-1-pyrroline (fresh bread, jasmine rice)
• 6-Acetyl-2,3,4,5-tetrahydropyridine (fresh bread, tortillas, pop corn)

Lactones

• gamma-Decalactone intense peach flavor
• gamma-Nonalactone coconut odor, popular in suntan lotions
• delta-Octalactone creamy note
• Jasmine lactone powerful fatty fruity peach and apricot
• Massoia lactone powerful creamy coconut

Terpenes

• Camphor (Cinnamomum camphora)
• Citronellol (rose)
• Linalool (floral, citrus, coriander)
• Nerol (sweet rose)
• Nerolidol (wood, fresh bark)
• alpha-Terpineol (lilac)
• Thujone (juniper, common sage, Nootka cypress, and wormwood)
• Thymol (Thyme-like)

Thiols

• Ethanethiol, formerly called Ethyl mercaptan (Durian or leek, added to natural gas)
• Grapefruit mercaptan (grapefruit)
• Methanethiol, formerly called Methyl mercaptan (added to natural gas)

Miscellaneous compounds

• Methylphosphine and dimethylphosphine (garlic-metallic, two of the most potent odorants known)^[1]

• Nerolin (orange flowers)
• Tetrahydrothiophene (added to natural gas)

Not quite ready to move on from the pairing of asparagus and rhubarb, I’ve decided to play them on the sweet side with the first of the fraises de bois. Rhubarb and strawberries are old friends.. but how to introduce asparagus? Going with fat as a flavor bridge, I blended asparagus puree into a mousse of lightly sweetened, whipped cream and cocoa butter.
Cocoa butter is a product that has great potential as a neutral-flavored fat that behaves like chocolate. Unlike chocolate, it is pure fat and has eluded me in my attempts to emulsify it with a water base. (Thanks- Dave Arnold- for introducing me to mono- and diglycerides). Here, that was not an issue, as the melted cocoa butter readily blends with cream, acting like a gel that firms and stabilizes. In this arena, the asparagus contributed a subtle herbal flavor that blended nicely with the rhubarb and strawberries.
Makes me wonder…what other obvious/not-so-obvious flavor pairings am I missing?

"What grows together goes together"
We’ve all heard this adage…but is it the organizing principle behind the world’s cuisines or is it just a guideline?

Here in the Northeast, our growing season is just getting started…too soon for farmer’s markets, but there is some local produce beginning to show up in grocery stores. In my own garden, the only things that are harvestable in the beginning of May are some perennial herbs (chervil, mint, chives, parsley, and lovage) and a few vegetables (peas, lettuce, wild arugula that has reseeded, asparagus, rhubarb, and wintered-over leeks). The fraises de boise, or alpine strawberries, have just begun to blush, which means that with a few days of warm weather, I can head out to the patch with a bowl of cereal and enjoy breakfast al fresco.
Examining this bounty, the combinations become obvious: peas with mint, tender salads of lettuce, arugula, and herbs, asparagus with leeks and parsley… but what about the rhubarb? Certainly, rhubarb and strawberries are a classic and sound pairing, but rhubarb is in fact a perennial vegetable that grows from crowns in the form of fibrous stalks and beneath it’s bracing acidity, there is an earthy, grassy flavor. Does this sound a lot like asparagus? My thoughts exactly.

While I could find no botanical or flavor correlations aside from those already mentioned, the combination intrigued me enough to warrant some play. It was not all fun, though. My first attempt–a dish of poached scallops with a compressed sheet of thin ribbons of asparagus and rhubarb–while beautiful to look at, fell short on flavor. Trust me on this, even the dog wouldn’t eat it. But failure is never a loss when it allows you to push forward an idea. With the scallop dish, I learned that the elements of sweet and fat were necessary to unite the flavors of these two vegetables.
Enter Bouc Emissaire, a creamy and mild goat cheese from Canada. The pairing of asparagus with goat cheese is an established one, but in order to bring rhubarb into the equation and not allow it’s acidity to compete with the tang of the cheese or overwhelm the asparagus, it needed to be balanced with sugar. Texturally, I did not want the elements to contrast, but to melt together, so I chose to manipulate their texture with hydrocolloids. Seasoned asparagus juice was set with gelatin, and rhubarb juice was gently sweetened with agave nectar and set with high and low acyl gellan gum. The final flourishes were a scattering of chamomile blossoms and a madeira reduction that was rubber-stamped on the plate.

In conclusion, I think that this dish supports the wisdom of honoring seasonality when combining flavors. The proof is that I enjoyed every morsel, while my dog watched longingly.

Asparagus has always been my herald to spring. Once they poke their pointed heads out from the still earth, they signal to the rhubarb and fraises de bois that it is safe to come out.
At the restaurant, part of my morning routine is to blanch asparagus. Standing at the stove, going through the ballet of blanching– dropping handfuls of loose spears into a pot of briny, violently boiling water, scooping them out at the critical moment, and quickly plunging them into a bowl of icy water to halt the cooking process and set the color and texture–it is tempting to try to fit in other tasks, but asparagus demands your full attention. Variables such as soil mineral content, growing medium, fertilization, and harvest stage will all effect cell density within each box, each bundle, and even each stalk, requiring careful monitoring in the cooking stage, as it can quickly cross the line from al dente to baby food.
This is basic cooking; a menial task in the scope of the days’ preparations, but a crucial technique to master.

ginger honey glazed scallops
blanched asparagus whips
black sesame ice cream

Food photography lesson #1: This was my first attempt at photographing a dish that is intended to be served with widely contrasting temperatures. It took 3 rounds of reassembling this dish before getting a shot that did not look like a poster for "What Not To Eat". In a moment of brilliant clarity, it occurred to me that there was no reason that, for the sake of photography, the components could not all be at the same temperature. Sometimes, it is the glaringly obvious things that press my stupid button.

Last week, I met up with an old friend, a baker that I had worked with and had not seen for some time. She offered me this book; an unexpected and extravagant gift. Secretly, I coveted it, but propriety dictated that i decline. In the end, she had convinced me (it didn’t take much) that  she had extracted what she needed from the book and that she would be honoring it by passing it on. Great books have a way of inspiring this kind of reverence.

                              

My currently pared-down collection of cookbooks now number in the hundreds. With real estate on my bookshelf being at a premium, I now selectively add books based on whether the approach, organization and content is compelling. This book weighs heavily in all 3 areas.

The thing that is truly remarkable about this book is that it was published 10 years ago, in 1998, yet everything about it feels fresh and current. A testament to this appears on page 231, which shows how to make a liquid-filled chocolate cylinder, the very same technique used by Alex Stupak on Iron Chef a few weeks ago.