clam chowder, fish sandwich

You've been driving for hours with many more to go. It's pouring rain. You're tired. And hungry.

You get off the interstate at the next town: Peripety. You like the sound of it.

You drive down Main Street looking for signs of food. Anything will do. You spot a neon OPEN sign. Above it, MOOD DINER glows with promise.

You arrive at the door soaked and famished. The first thing that you notice is the smell of food. Enticing and palpable, it becomes a separate entity.

From behind a crowded counter, a sassy waitress greets you and invites you to find a seat. You walk down the length of a communal table and slide into an open chair.

The conversation around the table is lively. A couple next to you are eating bowls of cereal that they say taste like fried chicken and corn on the cob.

A man across the table peers at you from behind horn-rimmed glasses. He tells you that he ordered the rice pudding last night and that it was as light and crisp as a cloud.

You ask him what he's ordered tonight. "French fries, for starters" he says with a glint in his eyes.

As if on cue, a waitress appears and sets down a bowl of soup in front of him. "Here you go– just the way you like 'em…lots of ketchup." He slurps a spoonful of clear liquid with clear noodles and nods in approval. "I don't even miss the crunch" he says.

The waitress asks you what you'll have. You ask to see a menu. "No menu" you're told "just order whatever you're in the mood for".

You recall a diner that you used to frequent and the meal that you looked forward to every Friday night. You order a cup of clam chowder and a fish sandwich.

Your order arrives. Your first thought is "Where's my sandwich?". Second thought: "Where's my spoon?". Somewhere in between, you notice that the potatoes appear to be floating.

You feel disoriented. You have no point of reference for food like this. Yet, you're curious.

You lift a sprig of herb and uproot a potato. You pop it in your mouth and are greeted by the scent of oregano. As you chew, you're surprised by the texture and flavor: potato, bacon, butter, clam–it's all there.

You lift another. This one with the aura of rosemary. Then the last. Thyme.

You're left with a cup of creamy broth. You bring the cup to your mouth and a sandwich magically appears on your plate. A perfectly seared scallop flanked by crisp bacon. You smile.

You eat the sandwich and drink the broth, marveling at how delicious they taste. As you empty the cup, the magic is revealed and you chuckle.

You become aware that the man with the glasses is watching you with amusement. He asks about your chowder. "Delicious" you reply. He smiles and nods knowingly.

He goes back to eating what looks like an ice cream sundae. "What's that?" you ask. "Just the best damned meat loaf I've ever had" he says. You both burst out laughing.

egg dandelion onion

At this time of year, I'm usually on a mission to eradicate the dandelions before their long taproots grapple the earth. This year, I've decided to let them be and to try my hand at dandelion wine.

I never thought I'd say this– but I'm actually hoping for a bumper crop of dandelion blossoms. [I write these words fully cognizant that they may come back to bite me]

In the meantime, there are plenty of young tender leaves to toss into salads and to wilt down in hot bacon fat. Or to weave into a nest of grilled and dehydrated onions for a soft-boiled duck egg. Add to that: favas, lardo, and toasted almond bread and I'm wondering what I ever had against dandelions in the first place.

64°C duck egg*

crispy grilled and dried onions

young dandelion leaves

mashed fava beans

lardo**

toasted almond bread

**This silky piece of lardo is courtesy of Peter Barrett, who was kind enough to share his masterfully-cured stash.

*Martin Lersch, of Khymos, has an in-depth post on soft-boiled eggs that illustrates the difference that a single degree makes in cooking.

minestra primavera

One of my clients recently returned from an extensive trip through Italy. She called this morning to discuss tonights dinner party and the foods that she sampled in her travels, particularly the minestre. When she began listing things like minestrone, zuppa di pesce, ribollita, risotto, spaghetti al pomodoro, and even lasagna, I became confused. In my ignorance, I believed that minestre were simply soups. It was sobering to learn that minestre refers to any food that is cooked in broth or a base sauce and is always served at the beginning of a meal. A liquid minestra (in brodo) is served as a first course, while a dry minestra (cooked in sauce) is served as a second course. This classification blurred the lines of what I formerly thought of as soup.

She was especially excited to tell me about a minestra di verdura that she was served in Emilia-Romagna that consisted of barely-cooked vegetables and legumes in a proscuitto and parmesan broth. Of course, this meant that the menu for the dinner party needed to be altered, which creates a domino effect. And although I have already shopped and prepped for the long-established menu, I'm up for the challenge and aim to please. I'm just gonna roll with this one.

prosciutto consomme, parmesan sponge, parmesan biscotti, young spring vegetables (new potatoes, zucchini, pattypan squash, cavolo nero, garlic shoots), legumes (haricots, green ceci, borlotto, cannellini), herbs (dandelion, basil, marjoram, chervil)

Download recipe: Parmesan sponge

asparagus morel fiddlehead

Did a signal go off in the night while I slept?

A silent command to egress?

Oh, the exuberance of youth…it's contagious.

What a difference a week makes.

white asparagus

green asparagus coulis

morel mushroom

fiddlehead fern

pea potato onion buttermilk malt

I've been thinking about the earth lately. Not so much on a global scale. Just a 2 acre slice.

Living in the foothills means that I get to experience a sense of protection provided by the mountains that loom in the background. It also means that in early spring, as the melting snow runs off the mountains, there will inevitably be a wet bog that forms in a hollow in my backyard. In the nearly 10 years that I have lived on this property, I have alternately celebrated and waged war on Mother Nature. Just when I dare to believe that I have one-upped her, she reminds me, every spring like clockwork, that I chose that hollow to plant a vegetable garden.

Gardening has taught me many things, not least of which is patience and hope. Patience is what gets me through 4 long months of winter and hope that when I can finally get a shovel in the ground that it will scoop up a glorious mound of loose, friable earth instead of a clump of sodden mud. Both patience and hope is what it will take to get me to try again next week. And the next.

Digging is to gardening what dishwashing is to cooking; ineluctable. Earth must be moved and displaced, there's no getting around that. I've moved vast amounts of earth around here with nothing more than a shovel, wheelbarrow, and the willingness of my back. Now, I'm beginning to imagine what a machine will do.

I've been on construction sites and watched backhoes at work. It amazes me how effortlessly they slice into the earth and reveal striations of soil, peat, rock and clay, like the layers of a cake. It makes me consider the mysterious world that lives under our feet. After all, treasure is found by digging. And so is history.

This morning, as I walked around the yard, I took note of how much of the earth is uncovered and exposed. I thought about all of the tubers, crowns, and roots that lie dormant just beneath the surface. I wondered if they have survived the winter; if they were protected and insulated and are now rested and ready to leave their subterranean home and emerge into the layers of light and air.

Soon, my attention will waver to the life that will occupy the space above the ground, but for now, I'm thinking about the hidden, underlying landscape beneath the earth.

buttermilk pea pudding

malt powder

new potato confit

spring onion granola

pea shoots

Download Recipe: Layers of Earth

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.

peas parmesan prosciutto

My kitchen is beginning to look like a dairy lab with containers of cream at various stages of infusion and ripening. Fortunately, the local grocer stocks pasteurized cream, so I don't have to go far when inspiration strikes.

fresh peas

parmesan

prosciutto

lemon thyme beurre monté

The first of the infusions– lemon thyme, was made by gently warming the cream to 125F/52C to more readily allow the release of essential oils from the herb, then chilled and infused overnight before culturing. It occurred to me while churning this butter that I could perhaps have saved a step by letting the infusion take place simultaneously with the culturing. It's back to the store to test that idea. Of course, I could have skipped the ripening stage and churned the butter directly from the chilled, infused cream, but I am currently enamored with the plangent and resounding flavor of cultured butter.

Infusing at the cream stage is, so far, turning out to be an effective way to introduce other flavors into the butter. Here, lemon thyme, whose terpenes can be assertive and overwhelming to more delicate flavors, mellowly haunts in the background of the finished butter, which is turned into a beurre monte for this dish.

Beurre monté was brought into modern cuisine by Thomas Keller at The French Laundry. It is an emulsion in which cold butter is gradually whisked into a small amount of hot water and can be heated up to 180F/82C without breaking. While it is typically made with water, I've used a lemon thyme and wine stock in a 1:4 (stock:butter) ratio to reinforce the flavor and lighten the richness of the sauce.

This dish also reflects another current fascination with pliable Parmesan , an emulsion of cheese

sherry, and sodium citrate. In the Umami burger, I used sake to boost the glutamates. Here, sherry was used to test Heston Blumenthal's groundbreaking discovery of diketopiperazines (DKPs), a compound unique to sherries that are produced by yeast activity during secondary fermentation and enhance glutamate-rich foods. Anyone who has nibbled on a well-aged cheese while sipping sherry will recognize and appreciate this symbiotic relationship. As always, flavor is what grabs my attention, but the consistency of this product also appeals to my sense of play. At room temperature it is as soft and malleable as playdoh. I can tell you about the restraint that it took to roll these pea-sized balls, but I'll spare you of the inner-child-induced 'sculptures" that took place after.

The effect of salt on dry-cured meats such as prosciutto di Parma or serrano ham is purely chemical but the transformation is so profound that it seems supernatural. Opaque muscle filaments are rendered translucent, flavorless proteins break down into concentrated glutamates, and muscle fats fragment to form a kaleidoscope of aroma compounds that range from fruity, herbal, grassy, floral, to nutty and buttery. Again, one couldn't ask for more in terms of flavor, but these hams also possesses a silky suppleness that allows it to be molded by compressing finely chopped or thinly sliced pieces. One advantage to breaking down and restructuring prosciutto is that it can be presented in playful forms that retain a resilient bite without all the chew.

Prosciutto di Parma and Parmesan cheese share not only an indelible terroir, but also similar aroma compounds. Another connection is that the pigs, whose hind legs are destined for prosciutto, are often fed the whey from the production of Parmesan. The trinity of cheese, ham, and peas is rooted in the advent of spring, when the harvest of peas marks the end of lean winter months and the beginning of the celebratory feasting season, an apt time to break out ripe-and-ready hams and cheese.

I can't say that my winter months have been lean, but I'm ready for some celebratory feasting.

Bring on the peas!

for the love of radishes

In early January, the seed catalogs begin to arrive en masse. They appear unrequested as if the word has gotten out–the word that one of my great pleasures is to pore over these catalogs; dreaming, scheming, and planning. But there is also agony involved. The kind that comes from having to choose among a dizzying array of varieties within the constraint of limited time and space.

Each year, I attempt to grow something entirely new. Last year, it was garbanzo beans and artichokes–both failed miserably. But the Italian Annelino beans, red shiso and green Envy zinnias were magnificent. This year, I am casting my hopes on asparagus peas (aka Tetragonolobus, or winged bean), black kale, hops, and if all goes as planned–a brand new rose garden!

Of course, there are the standards–the vegetables and flowers that I can't do without–but which ones to choose? Do I stick with the tried and true? Go with the nostalgic heirlooms? Or try one of the new and improved?

Some things are no-brainers.

Radishes are the most generous of plants; they give so much more than they get. The seeds readily germinate within 2-5 days, even in tepid soil, freeing up premium space on the warming mat. Within a week, the thinned sprouts liven up salads and sandwiches. The rest are left to grow to maturity and are harvestable within a month. All this can even take place indoors if the weather doesn't comply and they are given plenty of light and kept moderately moist.

In the garden, radishes can be planted in the smallest of spaces or interplanted between slow-maturing crops like tomatoes, cucumbers, squash and peppers. They are natural cultivators, as are all root vegetables. When they are harvested, they leave a hole in the soil, allowing for aeration.

Radishes also make excellent companion plants because they contain glucosinolate–an organic compound that produces the sharp, pungent flavor of mustard, horseradish, and many members of the cabbage (Brassicaceae) family. Glucosinolate is a natural pesticide that keep the radishes, as well as their neighbors, free of most harmful pests.

Doesn't such a humble and giving plant deserve a little love?

To show my appreciation, I've fashioned these tiny, dime-sized orbs a little pot from luxurious cultured butter and sprinkled them with salty, aromatic douchi. Although this cue was taken from the French, who love their radishes with butter and salt, it's only logical…after all, what vegetable is not loved by a little butter and salt?

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?

……………………………………………………………..

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

osso bucco

Every time that I eat osso bucco, I think of Billy Collins' eponymous poem:

"I love the sound of the bone against the plate

and the fortress-like look of it

lying before me in a moat of risotto,

the meat soft as the leg of an angel

who has lived a purely airborne existence.

And best of all, the secret marrow,

the invaded privacy of the animal

prized out with a knife and swallowed down

with cold, exhilarating wine."

"osso bucco"

fregula

charred artichoke lemon garlic

crisp artichoke blossoms

It's a shame that osso bucco isn't found on more fine dining menus– what with its angel-soft meat and secret marrow. I suspect that the clumsy bone is part of the problem. Removing it makes for a more refined presentation and controlled portion.

As much as I love the cross-section of shank, I'll admit that my favorite cut of veal is the breast. The long-fibered brisket, when slooowly braised between layers of fat with the rib bones attached, is pure nirvana. The only thing missing is the marrow… until now [thank-you Activa].