turnip brown mascarpone lemon balm

raw turnip

brown mascarpone

smoked salt

scent of lemon balm

People think I'm quirky when I tell them to listen to their food.

I only mean that mindful observation allows an ingredient to reveal itself.

A newborn turnip, freshly plucked from the earth, spoke to me of the goodness of simplicity.

It's a common language these days, spoken by the corn and tomatoes alike.

I thought that it might want to be something else, but it said otherwise.

Behold my perfection, it said.

But a raw turnip on a plate does not a dish make.

Concept should not supersede content.

(isn't that what went wrong with nouvelle cuisine?)

I once asked an artist how they knew when a painting was done.

The reply was, "You'll know it's done when it's finished".

I asked a chef the same thing and got a similar reply.

But isn't that subjective?

One person revels in embellishment and layers.

Another wants things stripped to their essence.

Is there a wrong or right?

A chef, like an artist, must engage the senses and make an emotional connection.

Art enters the psyche and becomes part of our soul.

Food penetrates the body and becomes part of our cells.

Oh, the responsibility.

Back to the turnip…

It spoke, and I listened.

I listened to the mascarpone as well. It told me to explore a hidden potential. It wanted to be a more complex version of itself.

Lemon balm had no such aspirations. It only wanted to lend its fragrance to exalt the turnip. Such a humble herb.

If I say that I tasted this dish, that would be inaccurate.

I did not taste the lemon balm, yet its enveloping scent was a vital part of the dish.

I experienced the dish and had to ask if there was anything left to add or take away.

That's when I knew it was done.

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.

tomato peppermint

While working with zapotec tomatoes, it occurred to me that the hollow-lobed bottoms would make an interesting case for a filling. I didn't have to look far, as there was fresh milk curd forming in a pot on the stove.

fresh cheese-filled tomato

peppermint pain de mie

black garlic aioli

Nearly every country in the world makes a form of fresh cheese. They vary by origin/type of milk and the process used for curdling. Curds can be formed by acidulation with vinegar, lemon juice, buttermilk, or yogurt. Cottage cheese and ricotta are made from the cooked and drained curds, while a variety of acid-formed fresh cheeses such as farmers cheese, cream cheese, quark, feta, chevre, queso fresco, and paneer are formed from the pressed curds.

Curds can also be formed by the enzyme chymosin, found in the stomach of calves and available as rennet. Chymosin coagulates the milk solids (casein) into a solid mass that can be eaten in the soft-set stage (when sweetened, this is a popular dessert known as junket), or drained and pressed for a sliceable cheese. These were the curds that were forming on the stove and used to fill the tomato. Cutting off the bottom of the tomato allowed the whey to drain while the curds compacted.

Pairing peppermint with tomato was a 'happy accident'. Actually, it was borne of laziness– I didn't want to run to the garden for basil in the pouring rain, so I grabbed some peppermint that was sitting on the windowsill for the salad that I was assembling.

True peppermint (Menthus x piperita) is a hybrid of watermint (M. aquatica) and spearmint (M. spicata) and can only be propagated from cuttings and not from seeds. Peppermint brightens and compliments the flavor of the tomato much the same way that basil does, but with menthol overtones. A quick search confirms that they are indeed chemically linked in aroma.

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Immediately after publishing this post and pulling it up for review, I was struck by how the tomato/cheese component resembles a peppermint candy. I promise this was not intentional and I am just now aware of it!

Was it subliminal? serendipitous? a cosmic alignment? complete coincidence or a mischievous peppermint pixie guiding my hand?

I've no idea–I'll just chalk it up to another of those WTF moments that leave me smiling and shaking my head in wonder.

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.

asparagus rose

prosciutto asparagus olive oil lemon rose

I once worked for a chef with an exacting standard for detail. His mirepoix were perfectly uniform 1/4" dice and his mise en place were works of art, craft, and geometry. Besides his knives, which he wielded with the precision of a surgeon, his favorite tool was a ruler.

I learned a lot about OCD from him.

He must have seen some of those same tendencies in me because I was given some of the fussier tasks that he normally did himself. When he wasn't there to walk me through it, he would leave detailed notes– complete with drawings– of components or new dishes that he wanted me to work on. Eventually, as I became more familiar with his aesthetic, and he with mine, I was just given a list of dishes and left to interpret them.

On one of those lists was a dish that I fixated on: Fresh pea risotto with prosciutto rose. I immediately saw the dish in my head; a pale green mound of risotto topped with a loosely coiled ribbon of prosciutto. I couldn't figure out how prosciutto rose even fit into his style so I proceeded with my vision.

When I showed him the dish, he glowered at it. He insisted he had specified prosciutto lardons. I showed him the list and he conceeded that it had been his mistake but he never did explain how someone confuses lardons with roses.

In the end, he liked the dish as I had made it. My reward for pleasing him was to make 150 more just like it.

asparagus risotto

robiola bosina

prosciutto rose

deep-fried rose petals

asparagus salt

A recent job took place on a privately-owned modern villa here in Northwestern Connecticut. Hidden behind 8'-high stone walls was the most extraordinary vegetable garden that brought to mind the gardens of Monticello, Versailles, and Villa Borghese.

Highly ornamental, yet fully functional, it featured symmetrical parterres edged with clipped boxwood in elaborately knotted patterns; the pockets planted with herbs and vegetables. Red and green lettuces were planted in alternating blocks to form edible checkerboards. Iron trellage towers supported beans and tomatoes. Antique terra cotta cloches protected tender seedlings. Gurgling fountains, imposing sculptures– there was so much to admire and draw inspiration from that I quickly went into sensory overload.

In that formal setting, herbs and vegetables were treated and displayed with a deference that is usually reserved for ornamental plants and flowers. One stunning border featured roses interplanted with asparagus. The slim stalks of asparagus rising out of the ground echoed the thorny stems of the roses tipped with tight green buds. The gardener revealed that there was a beneficial logic to the pairing, but I was too distracted to take note.

I can however tell you about the logic of pairing the flavor of roses with asparagus. They are united by several aroma compounds, most notably alcohols and aldehydes and also some ketones and esters. Among them are:

Valeraldehyde (warm, winey, slightly fruity, and nutty)

Phenylacetaldehyde (earthy-sweet, fruity, floral)

Octanol (fresh orange-rose, slightly herbaceous)

Vinylphenol (vanilla extract)

Nonyl Alcohol (floral-citrus, slightly fatty, bitter)

No matter how much research I do on these compounds, the scientific names always shock me. They serve as a reminder that everything we perceive as wholesome, natural, and organic is, in fact, a complex composition of chemicals.

playing with asparagus

What do you see when you look at asparagus?

asparagus black truffle

Asparagus with Black Truffles and Butter.

Just reading it made her mouth water. She hadn't known that she craved it until that moment. There was no need to read through the menu.

The plate was set before her unceremoniously. Three fat stalks of naked asparagus. No truffles. No butter. She suddenly understood the agony of pigs who moved earth with bare snouts, driven by a primal fervor, only to have the object of their desire snatched away.

She ached with unrequited truffle-lust.

"Yes ma'am, I assure you that there are truffles in the asparagus."

Had he spoken with less conviction, she would have handed the dish back and demanded satisfaction.

Had he not been so lucid, she could have come unhinged.

She poked the asparagus, moved them around the plate.

Come out, come out, wherever you are.

Nothing.

He said they were in there.

She lifted one to her nose, sniffed for evidence, found none.

Was he lying?

She caught his eye.

I assure you…

Even before taking a bite, she knew that the asparagus were perfectly cooked. She had cooked enough of them herself to recognize the graceful arch; the way they bowed from their own weight when lifted. Familiarity did not diminish the pleasure she took in the first resilient bite and hexanol flavor that transported her to grassy green meadows, concertos of birdsong.

Sparrow grass.

Asparagus always elicited these sensations; they were welcome and expected.

The surprise came a moment later.

It began as a peripheral warmth, skirting around the edges of her tongue. Wave after wave of volatile compounds, unleashed by the grinding of teeth, undulated and rose up through her olfactory bulb. Odor molecules mated with receptors in an orgy of scent.

Caprylic. Pheromonal. Primordial.

She began to feel a sound welling up in the back of her throat. She fought to suppress it as the server returned to inquire about the asparagus. Afraid to speak, she could only mumble and nod and let her eyes say the rest. He was well out of earshot when she dared to release it.

Part snort, part grunt, it arose from a place of deep satisfaction; a gleeful pig giggle… the ecstasy of the sow.

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?