Indian Summer :: the earth :: burdock sunchoke onion

Before primitive man began cultivating his food, he relied on foraging in the wild.
In the warm months, there were plenty of fresh fruits, berries, shoots and greens for Woodland Indians to eat, but these would be gone with the first hard frost. To get through the cold months, he relied on nuts, tubers, and roots that could be gathered in autumn and stored in pits. In the Northeast, storage pits were essentially large holes dug out of the earth that were lined and covered with bark.

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Unfortunately for the North American Indians, the earth's offerings of tubers were slim in comparison to their contemporaries in the more temperate southern hemisphere. South America boasts the richest natural diversity of edible tuberous species— the most important being potatoes (Solanum tuberosum), sweet potatoes (Ipomoea batatas), and cassava (Manihot esculenta).

To the east, Eurasia, which includes the Mediterranean Basin and Pacific Islands, also possesses a large diversity of indigenous tuberous plants and some of the first brought into cultivation. Among these are taro (Colocasia sp.), yams (Dioscorea sp.), and the proliferate kudzu (Pueraria lobata).

In North America, the introduction of the potato and sweet potato appropriated the domestication of our own native tubers. The two most prized by Woodland Indians— groundnut (Apios americana) and arrowhead (Sagittaria latifolia)— have never been widely cultivated. Today, there is only one tuber indigenous to the United States that holds a place in the world's common stock of vegetables: the Jerusalem artichoke, or sunchoke.

The sunchoke (Helianthus tuberosis) is the tuber of a species of sunflower that can grow up to ten feet in height. The French explorers were so smitten by the flavor of the cooked tubers that they sent specimens back to France, where it began to be cultivated. The Italians, who thought that it tasted like artichokes, labeled it girasol articiocco (sunflower artichoke) and planted it in the famous Farnese gardens. The English, who were also cultivating the tuber, mispronounced the Italian label, calling it Jerusalem artichoke and the name stuck. It's interesting that a plant that was introduced to the Europeans by the Native Americans was enjoyed abroad for over three hundred years, and until recently has been largely ignored, or used for cattle feed, in it's native country.

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 Onions are thought to have originated in central Asia, though it's likely that many countries had their own wild species that became domesticated simultaneously. In North America, we have Allium canadense (pictured above) and ramps, or wild leeks (Allium tricoccum). These were foraged by Native Americans and used to enhance the flavor of vegetables and meat.

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Common burdock (Arctium minus) is the taproot of a biennial thistle. Native to Eurasia, it was introduced to North America by the early European settlers and quickly adopted by the Native Americans as food and medicine. Because it contains many phytochemicals, it was used for a wide range of ailments from rheumatism to skin acne. Today, it is being studied for its anti-cancer properties.

Burdock was an important winter food for Native Americans, who dug up the the roots in the fall and dried them for winter use. Fresh roots have a sweet, nutty flavor, punctuated by a deep earthiness that is off-putting to some. The skin looks thick and tough, but is actually quite thin. The flesh is milky white, but quickly oxidizes and must be immediately submerged in cold water to prevent it from turning brown. Older roots are fibrous and must be cooked; the young roots are tender and crisp when raw, but should be thinly shredded and soaked in several changes of salted water to extract some of the pungent earthiness.

In autumn, the seed heads (above, left) are covered with fine spurs that easily attach themselves to clothing. In the 1940's, this characteristic captured the attention of George de Mistral, who went on to use it as a prototype for a hook-and-loop fastening tape that he invented. We know it as velcro.

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Goldenrod (Solidago) is a native wildflower belonging to the plant family Asterceae. Other edible members of this family include:  sunchoke, burdock, artichoke, chicory, and lettuce. Although it is sometimes regarded as evasive because of its ability to adapt and dominate, it is also widely cultivated for its profuse yellow blooms. In the wild parts of my yard, the goldenrod grows alongside the burdock and make amiable companions in the landscape as well as the palate.

Native Americans dried goldenrod leaves to flavor teas and broth. They also cooked the leaves and ate them as greens. Goldenrod produces pollen that is collected by bees to make a strongly-flavored honey. I find the flowers and pollen tastes like carrots and parsley, with a hint of mint.

An interesting characteristic of goldenrod is its natural rubber content. Thomas Edison experimented with this property and produced a rubber that is resilient and long lasting, but was preempted by synthetic rubber. The tires of his Model T (given to him by his friend Henry Ford) were made of rubber from his experiments.

One of the most daunting aspects of cooking "native" is the lack of dairy. Before the introduction and domestication of cattle, there was no widespread use of animal milk, therefore no cream, butter, or cheese to enrichen foods and carry flavors. For this, the Native Americans relied on nuts. 

Nuts and seeds were an important staple in the Indian diet and their gathering was part of an annual cycle of activities. Nutmeats were laboriously pounded in stone mortars; the resulting pastes were used like butter in cooking and baking, or dried and used as flour. Nut oils were extracted by mixing water with the paste and skimming the separated oil that rose to the surface. The remaining paste was further diluted and used as milk.

Another food missing from the native diet is vinegar. Aside from fermented corn mash
that was introduced to southwestern tribes (via central and south american influence), fermentation of plant liquids was not widely practiced by North American Indians. This seems incongruous with the ancient history of fermented beverages by the rest of the world, but explains why today's Native American population has a high percentage of alcohol intolerance. Similarly, the void of dairy products also accounts for lactose intolerance among 95% of the same population. 

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Earth Salad

burdock, sunchoke, wild onion, hazelnut, goldenrod

I've dressed this salad with nut butter to show the versatility of the native staple. I chose hazelnuts because of their affinity to the artichoke— a relative of the burdock, sunchoke, and goldenrod. To my modern sensibility, it proved to be one-dimensional in taste and lacking the counterpoint of acidity. Although I'm striving for authenticity of ingredients, I did not hesitate to add cider vinegar in the interest of flavor balance. Nor do I apologize for using my high-speed blender. After all, I live in the New World where the convenience of electricity and technology makes cooking more efficient, and, by contrast, makes this exercise all the more poignant.

 
 
 

Indian Summer :: the forest :: mushroom pine

Woodland Indians were a group of numerous tribes that inhabited the forests along the eastern United States and Canada. They were skilled hunters and foragers who connected to their Creator through nature, believing that plants, animals, stones, and stars possessed spirits to guide them in their journey through life. The forests were not only a place to live, hunt and forage— they were cathedrals.

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Indigenous people lived in balance with the earth— they took only what was necessary and wasted nothing. When a pine tree was harvested, the needles were used as incense and in rain ceremonies, thin twigs were woven into baskets, and sturdier branches were fashioned into tools and weapons. Bark was used to cover wigwams, line food storage pits, and boiled to make a variety of medicines. The cambium was pounded, boiled, and eaten as food. Resin was chewed for pleasure— a primitive form of chewing gum. Pine cones and nuts were pulverized into fine powder, mixed with animal fat and marrow, and eaten as a confection. Pine pitch was an all-purpose substance, used for making cosmetics, medicine, glue, and water-proofing. Roots were peeled into fibers, used as cordage and thread for sewing. What remained was used for building or firewood.

Mushrooms and fungi were gathered after rains for food, medicine, religious ceremonies, and for poisoning enemies. Oyster (Pleurotis osteatus), chicken-of-the-woods (Laetiporus sulphureus), and sulphur shelf (Polyporus sulphureus), were (and still are) sought-after varieties that grow on deciduous trees. Morels (Morchella esculenta), giant puffballs (Calvatia gigantea), and chanterelles (Cantharellus cibarius) grow directly out of the earth, in and around forests. These were often eaten raw, baked in clay ovens, shredded and added to soups and stews, or dried for winter use.

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Mosses are fascinating and beautiful non-vascular plants that carpet the floors of dense forests. Because of their absorbing and analgesic properties, Indians used them as diapers and wound dressings. Though they are not toxic or harmful to eat, they are not very good (I've tried). It's possible that they were ingested as medicine— so much of this information is lost to us. What is known for certain is that primitive cultures had a heightened awareness and intimate knowledge of plants and their properties because of their connection to the earth.

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Moss on Mushroom

chanterelle   pine pesto

 
 

autumn pudding

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from behind cascading leaves
the sun emerges like a sleepy child

heavy eyelids
blink
fractals of gilded light
a gentle yawn
exhale 
a universe of scent
both familiar and exotic

leaves drift
fall
rustle a lullaby

I bid it sweet dreams
and eat my way across the autumn sky 
 

 

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parsnip vanilla pudding
butternut squash, autumnberry, kaffir lime gelee
candied pumpkin

Download recipe:  Autumn pudding


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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

Autumnleafmold
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.

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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.

pulled beef bbq grits

Grits are not something that I normally go to as a side dish. I have my New England upbringing to blame, but a recent trip through the Carolinas may have changed that. 

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I have long wanted to visit the city of Charleston SC for various reasons. The food, the flora, the antebellum architecture, the colorful history– all compelling draws. Underlying these was a romanticized curiosity about a city that had spawned and/or inspired many of my favorite authors– and sustained me through the 850 mile drive.

We arrived in Charleston late on a Sunday night. My husband, who had driven the entire way, opted to hang back in the hotel while I went out, hungry and restless, in search of local flavor. I found an old, established restaurant not far from the hotel and ordered a Dark 'n Stormy and Shrimp and Grits. The cocktail was an antidote to my road-weariness. The Shrimp and Grits, though lacking finesse in presentation and execution, was soothing and comforting.

Strolling back to the hotel, I was hyper-aware of my surroundings. Flickering gas lanterns lit the cobbled sidewalk. Soft breezes carried the mingled scents of decay, gardenias and salt marsh and the sound of soulful blues drifting from a distant nightclub.  Was it my overactive imagination or the rum that caused me to believe that I could feel the stirrings of the ghosts, angels and demons that haunt the city? The whole time, I was thinking about the Shrimp and Grits– not about it's flaws– but about how eating the dish was like riding a bullet shot straight into the heart of a place.

I ordered cheese grits for breakfast the next day and noted how comfortable they were with eggs. I ordered them again, two days later in Asheville NC, with some excellent BBQ and marveled at how perfectly they foiled the tangy/sweet/smoky sauce and succulent meat.

The trip continued with stops in Virginia and Pennsylvania, where I picked up more memories of places, people, and food. I indulged in extraordinary tasting menus that were masterful, poetic, and delicious. I returned home weary from travel, yet revitalized, and– strangely– craving grits with BBQ sauce. 

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beer-braised pulled short ribs

bbq grits

purple snow pea salad

rau ram 

To make bbq grits:  Bring 1 cup of beer to a boil. Stir in 1/4 cup corn grits, reduce heat to a simmer. Cook, stirring occasionally, until beer is absorbed and grits are creamy. Stir in 1/4 cup bbq sauce and 2 Tablespoons smoked butter.

scallop fennel bearnaise

What would you do if you were served a broken bearnaise?

Would you think that it was a mistake and send it back to the kitchen? 

Or would you recall that Fernand Point wrote in Ma Gastronomie "It takes years of practice for the result to be perfect" and chalk it up to inexperience?

What if you learned that it was broken intentionally? 

Would you be curious to know why? 

Or outraged that someone would mess with 170 years of tradition?

Can something be fixed if it's not broken? 

Or does it need to be broken to be fixed?

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scallop mousseline

fennel: bulb, fronds, green seeds, pollen

smoked bearnaise

caviar

 

corn cake

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Autumn always catches me off guard. 

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

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

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microwave corn cake

peach pudding

tomato meringue

brown buttermilk

blackberry

calendula

Download recipe:   Microwave corn cake

carrot cake

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

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

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

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

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

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

Carrotcake

Download recipe:   Carrot Cake


corn langoustine plantago

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There's a prevalent flavor in raw plantago that intrigues me. It's the same nutty oiliness that is found in arugula. It's reminiscent of a nut oil that is starting to go off– not rancid, but strangely pleasant. Unlike arugula, it's not followed by a sharp bite. Like arugula, it matches well with corn.

Anything cold and easy is all that I crave on these dog days of summer. Fresh corn, put through a juicer along with a chunk of fresh coconut, seasoned with salt and a squeeze of lime, requires little energy to prepare and even less to consume. Swirling on fresh plantago juice and brown buttermilk allows the flavors to meet and mingle on the palate and not be muddied on the plate. A quick salad of langoustine tails, dressed with a light and tangy brown buttermilk vinaigrette completes the dish.

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