kimchi pork belly

We bought our house in Northwestern Connecticut on the cusp of the new millenium. At the time, there was a housing shortage that left the pickings slim and prices high. We considered waiting it out, but once we made the decision to move there was no turning back. We listed and sold our first house and moved into the second within 28 days. It all happened so fast.

Even before moving in we had a five year plan— part and parcel when you buy a house that's considerably older than you. Being intrepid do-it-yourselfers, my husband and I were prepared to do as much of the work as our skill set allowed. The plan was to start with the kitchen which had not been updated since the 50's, but other things took priority. There was a quirky bathroom to expand and modernize. There were drafty windows and a leaky roof to replace. There was a porch to rebuild from the ground up and rooms to turn inside out. There was plumbing to upgrade and electricity to put in where there was none. There was a relic of a furnace to replace— and while we were at it— central air to install. Outside, there were gardens to build and plant, a driveway to blast and resurface, a massive stone wall to dry stack, and an old leaning potting shed (with too much character to take down) that I fought to rescue. It's only when I look back at everything that we've accomplished that I can cut myself some slack for having let ten years pass before getting around to my kitchen.

Early on, when the projects grew out of control and funds were stretched thin, I accepted that the kitchen would have to wait. I consoled myself by painting words of inspiration on my cabinets. Mostly, they were strung-together bits of poetry and proverbs that were meaningful to me. I think I did it as an act of defiance— if I couldn't make a new kitchen, I could at least make it different. I thought I would soon grow tired of the word-filled room, but instead it grew on me, embracing me like a warm, cozy blanket of complacency.

I firmly believe in blooming where you are planted. Life doesn't always present us with perfect circumstances and I try to never use that as an excuse for not fulfilling a potential. Shouldn't a good cook be able to produce good food under any conditions? As a caterer, that's an idea that I've had to uphold every time I walk into an unfamiliar space, whether it's a magnificent state-of-the-art kitchen or a makeshift cook tent in the middle of a field. But gardening has taught me that organisms thrive under ideal conditions— I am no different. Being a visually susceptible kind of organism, I draw inspiration from environments and stimulation from space, color, light, texture, design.

Like gardening and parenthood, my kitchen taught me patience. Every morning, when I reached for the coffee, I would stop and read these words: "To every thing there is a season, and a time to every purpose under the heaven". I don't think that wiser words have ever been written.

Kitchen season began abruptly after Thanksgiving. Cabinets, ceilings and walls were torn down until all that remained of two small rooms was one large empty shell. This, I thought, is my ideal condition where creativity thrives: a blank canvas and a flexible plan.

The new kitchen is still taking shape. My intention is to make it more streamlined and modern, while honoring the old character of the house. Though it will be another month or two before it's complete, I hope to have a sink by the weekend so that I can cook Christmas dinner for my family (I know they'll forgive my disheveled house). In the meantime, when I can't bear to look at another pizza or carton of Chinese food, I've been utilizing some seldom-used small appliances. My crock pot has become a good friend.

The Autumn joy kimchi has also been a good friend. It transformed leftover take-out rice, re-fried in an electric skillet into something exotic and delicious.
A practically effortless meal came from slow cooking pork belly in chicken stock, kimchi, and sliced kieffer lime, served with sweet potato spaetzle and crispy fried kale. Prepared in my dim, dusty cellar, using a crock pot, electric skillet, and deep-fryer propped up on a washing machine and dryer with a laundry sink nearby, it was the most un-ideal of conditions in which to produce such a luxurious meal.

autumn glory kimchi

Fiesty. Fragrant. Fiery. I love kimchi in all of its funky fermented forms

Koreans make a hundred different kinds of kimchi and perhaps a hundred more that are undocumented. They range from familiar varieties made with common ingredients like cabbage and radishes to wildly esoteric regional specialties such as Doraji kimchi, made with bellflower roots. Fruits, vegetables, seaweed, fish, meat— you name it— anything can be (and probably has been) made kimchi.
In addition to the bulk ingredients (or 'so'), kimchi's flavor is defined by the traditional seasoning of garlic, ginger, scallions, and the burn of hot chili pepper. But it was not always the fiery condiment that we know today. Early versions were simple pickled vegetables— a process that Koreans adopted from the Chinese.
During the Josean Dynasty that began in the late 14th century, Korea was swept by a culinary renaissance that stemmed from an agricultural boom. As cultivated crops became abundant and varied, new vegetables and spices were introduced from other countries. But no other ingredient produced such a profound change in the Korean diet as red hot chili pepper.

Pumpkins and sweet potatoes were among the newly introduced vegetables and it wasn't long before they each found a place among the expanding repertoire of kimchi— pumpkin in Hobak kimchi, and sweet potato in Kogumajulgi kimchi. Here they are united with asian pear and kale in a deliciously seasonal version.

autumn glory kimchi

1 liter boiling water
215g kosher salt
300g pumpkin, sliced 6mm thick and cut into 7cm long leaves
150g sweet potato, sliced 6mm thick and cut into 2.5cm x 7cm rectangles
100g asian pear, sliced 6mm thick and cut into 5cm rounds
80g kale leaves, roughly chopped

40g thinly sliced scallions
20g microplaned garlic
20g microplaned fresh ginger
5g ground dried bird chilies

Pour the boiling water into a large nonreactive bowl. Stir in the salt until it is dissolved. Cool completely, then add the pumpkin, sweet potato, asian pear, and kale, pressing down until they are completely submerged. Set aside in a cool place for 4 hours.
Pour the brine out of the bowl and refill with fresh, cold water. Set aside for 5 minutes, then drain thoroughly through a colander. Return vegetables to the bowl. Add remaining ingredients and toss gently until seasoning is evenly distributed.
Pack mixture into a glass jar or ceramic crock. Press firmly until exuded liquid covers the solids. If necessary, insert a weighted plate into the jar or crock to keep the contents submerged. Cover and set aside to ferment for 3-4 days in a cool (10C/50F) spot, then transfer to the refrigerator, where it can be stored for up to 1 month. Kimchi can be consumed after the 3 day fermentation, but the flavor will continue to develop in storage.

pumpkin oven

The final week of November is, without doubt, the busiest of my year. Between filling orders at the restaurant and cooking for clients, the cooking marathon known as Thanksgiving passes me by in a blur. Even though it's stressful, I enjoy the process, knowing that I am contributing to what is perhaps the most nostalgic— thus, emotional meal of the year. As always, organization keeps things flowing smoothly, but there are always glitches— forgotten ingredients, malfunctioning equipment, etc. The real drama, though, plays out when I shut down at night. The stress and anxiety that I have no time for during the day manifests itself in my dreams— or, more accurately— nightmares.

One perennial nightmare that perplexes me is when the entire turkey vanishes into thin air after being loaded into the oven, never to be seen again. In another, dessert turns into a calamity of events that begin with a pumpkin souffle that sinks like a battleship and ends with flambeed cranberries that set the dining room on fire. Then there's the one where I spill a cup of hot coffee down a guest's back. Oh… wait… that one actually happened.

Mercifully, whether in reality or the imagination, Thanksgiving does not only induce visions of disaster; sometimes there are glimpses of perfection: crackling golden skin, moist juicy flesh, fluffy potatoes, flaky crusts, flavors that produce smiles and make memories. And, in the most traditional of holidays, it is only in the nocturnal world that I am allowed flights of food fantasies like this one:
A colossal gilded pumpkin , pulled from a cavernous oven, placed on a carriage and escorted into the dining room by a pair of footmen dressed like dandy pilgrims. Guests gathered round as the lid was lifted off the pumpkin, releasing a cloud of enticing aromas. The footmen, standing on tufted stools, reached in and pulled out a golden brown turkey large enough to feed a crowd. They reached in again and each pulled out a pumpkin, one filled with potatoes, the other with chestnuts. They reached in yet again and pulled out more pumpkins, these filled with brussels sprouts and cranberries. This went on and on like clowns coming out of a Volkswagen until the sizable table groaned with pumpkins filled with all manner of fruits, grains, and vegetables.
An entire meal for the masses cooked in a pumpkin!

Cooking in a pumpkin is nothing new. Indigenous North Americans used hollowed-out pumpkins and gourds as cooking vessels. They would fill them with soups or stews and drop in hot rocks or cook them along with their contents, buried in hot embers. Early European settlers adopted this method by filling them with a custard made of eggs, milk, and honey. Although there is no documentation, there is speculation that this dessert appeared on early Thanksgiving tables. Similarly, in Thailand, Sankaya is a popular street food that consists of a pandanus-scented coconut milk custard, steamed in a small kabocha squash. You can find a recipe and video here.

Now that the holiday has passed (without incident), my waking life, as well as dreamland, can calm down. Inspired by the fantastical dream, I created my own private feast from my very own personal pumpkin oven.

Remove breast and backbone from quail. Stuff cavity with fresh lemon balm.

Cover quail with aromatic paste: Mix together 10g microplaned fresh ginger (1" piece), 10g microplaned garlic (2 medium cloves), 3.5g ground long pepper (1 tsp), 1g ground dried bird chili (1/2 tsp), 4g ground sumac (1 1/2 tsp), 16g extra virgin olive oil (1 Tblsp), 6g kosher salt (1 tsp).

Cut the top off of a medium-sized sugar pumpkin. Scrape out pulp and seeds. Bake in a 176C/350F oven for 30 minutes to heat the cavity. Meanwhile, bring 103g (1/2 cup) apple cider to a boil. Add 42g (1/4 cup) wild pecan rice and a pinch of salt. Return to boil and remove from heat. Immediately pour into warmed pumpkin. Lay a few sprigs of lemon balm over rice. Place quail on top of lemon balm. Cover pumpkin with lid and return to oven. Turn oven temperature up to 232C/450F and bake for 45 minutes, or until rice is tender and quail reaches 74C/165F.

Bring pumpkin oven to table and admire.

Lift lid and inhale.

Serve quail and rice with autumn bbq sauce and a scoop of the fragrant roasted pumpkin flesh. Enjoy.

green squash

Squash belong to a family of plants known as Cucurbitaceae which also includes pumpkins, gourds, melons, and cucumbers. Unlike their summer counterparts, winter squash are harvested when they are fully mature. The fruit of cold weather varieties start out green and are ready to pick when their leathery skins turn uniformly orange or yellow. However, color is not a reliable indication of ripeness with varieties that remain green, such as acorn, hubbard, and some turbans. Regardless, pumpkins and winter squash will continue to ripen during the curing stage, when the fruits are stored at warm temperatures to develop flavor and thicken the skin.
Properly cured, pepos are notoriously long keepers. I once displayed an enourmous Hubbard squash, its skin like ceylon porcelain, as a piece of sculpture for nearly a year before it eventually rotted from within. My parents kept an offspring from their compost heap in a corner of their living room for well over two years before it succumbed to the same fate. True story.

Over the decades of cooking in restaurants and catering, I've processed more than my fair share of winter squash, but I can't say that I've ever encountered an unripe one before this particular hubbard, grown in a heritage squash garden. It's unclear whether it was picked immaturely or not properly stored— I'm guessing it was a combination of both. Of course, I had to taste it.

The inner ripe layer was creamy and sweet, with typical squash-like vegetal flavor (why are there no studies on the aromatic properties of winter squash?). The outer green part was where it got interesting— it was denser in texture and also sweet, but in a fruity, estery way that instantly brought to mind a ripe honeydew. Not surprising, I had to remind myself, considering their close relationship. And then it got fun when I realized that through carefully calculated cuts, I could control the play of fruity and vegetal flavor in the distinct layers. Slant the knife one way and I'd get a bite of melon-on-squash, slanted the other way, and I'd have squash-on-melon.

I chose a decidedly fruity slant for this dish: green squash, asian pear, watermelon-sumac, pine nut milk, pumpkinseed oil, calendula petals, and a final flourish of grated long pepper.

autumn bbq sauce

Autumn is a great time to fire up the grill. Not for the flash-in-the-pan type of grilling, but for low-and-slow, smoke-licked barbecue. The aroma alone will cause you to linger over yard work, drive your dog into a frenzy, and you'll meet neighbors you never knew you had.

Outdoor cooking in autumn is an entirely different sensory experience than in summer. With a seasonal bbq sauce to finish it off, it tastes just as unique.

autumn bbq sauce
Bbq sauce is not about pure clean flavor—it's a potpourri of smoky, savory, sweet and piquant. This sauce gets its acidity from sumac. If not available, substitute 50g (3 Tblsps) cider vinegar for the sumac berries.

12g (1 Tblsp) vegetable oil
180g (1 medium) sweet onion, chopped
12g (2 medium cloves) garlic, chopped
270g (10 oz) winter squash, peeled and cut into 1/2" dice
30g (1 oz) whole ancho chilies, cleaned of stems and seeds, torn into large pieces
2 small chipotles, coarsely chopped
2g (1 tsp) smoked paprika
2g (1 tsp) five spice powder
5g (1 tsp) kosher salt
450g (2 cups) apple cider
180g (3/4 cup) pomegranate juice
50g (3 Tblsps) soy sauce
375g (1 3/4 cups) boiling water
40g (1/2 cup) sumac berries
50g (3 Tblsps) maple syrup

Heat vegetable oil in a large saucepan over medium-high heat. Add onions, sauté 3 minutes, or until golden. Add garlic and squash, continue to sauté until they take on color, about 3 minutes more. Add anchos, chipotles, paprika, five spice, and salt. Stir until well blended. Add cider, pomegranate juice, and soy sauce. Stir until mixture comes to a boil. Lower heat to maintain a simmer, cover and cook for 15-20 minutes until vegetables are very tender. Let cool slightly and scrape mixture to a blender. Blend until smooth. Transfer mixture back to saucepan.
Place sumac berries in a heat resistant bowl and pour boiling water over. Allow to infuse for 5 minutes. Strain, first through a sieve to remove berries, then through a micro filter or several layers of cheesecloth to remove fine hairs. Add infusion to mixture in pan along with maple syrup.
Return pan to stove and cook over medium heat, stirring occasionally, for about 10 minutes, or until mixture is reduced, darker in color, and glossy. Remove from heat and allow to cool. Pack into jars or storage containers. Seal and refrigerate. Makes about 3 cups.

crispy lemon verbena-infused sticky rice
sumac-brined pulled pork • autumn bbq sauce

sumac

Sumac is often regarded with fear and suspicion because of its toxic namesake— poison sumac. Caution should always be exercised when dealing with harmless plants that have harmful counterparts, but in this case, these two plants are distinctly different in appearance. The surest way to tell them apart is by the color of their drupes: poison sumac (Toxicodendron vernix) sports hanging clusters of white berries, while harmless varieties (Rhus) display erect panicles of brick-red berries.

The variety that I'm most familiar with, Staghorn Sumac (Rhus typhina), is native to northeastern US and Canada. At this time of year— with the leaves nearly gone and the silvery splayed branches exposed— it's easy to see where it gets its name.

Culinarily, sumac has a long history in the Middle East and along the Mediterranean, where it is ground and used in powdered form to add sour notes to mezze and meat dishes. A popular seasoning, Za'tar, is a blend of thyme, sesame seeds, and sumac.

In North America, sumac is rarely used outside of ethnic dishes, although it was widely used by indigenous people to make a sour beverage similar to lemonade. The late Euell Gibbons, who introduced Americans to wild foods, was very fond of the beverage and dubbed it Rhus-ade. There is a story that tells of his use of an old washing machine exclusively purposed for Rhus-ade, in which he made large batches by loading the tub with sumac panicles, running them through a cold water cycle and catching the liquid as it drained.

Sumac has little aroma and a flavor that can be almost entirely defined as "sour"— largely due to malic acid, and, to a lesser degree, citric and tatric acids. The acids are concentrated in the tiny hairs that cover the berries and are water soluble. Most recipes that I've seen recommend cold water infusions, warning that hot water draws out the undesirable tannins. This, I assume, is true when using the panicles where the berries are still attached to the stems, as the bark and leaves are richly tannic. Historically, sumac was used to tan hides and is still used today to produce high quality leathers such as Morocco and Cordovan.
To test flavor concentration in various temperatures of infusion, I made three controls of just berries and one with berries still attached to the stem. All were strained after 3 minutes, then chilled for 30 before tasting.

sumac-water infusions, left to right:

berries in cold (5C/40F) water— faint color, bright flavor, pleasant acidity, no aroma
berries in warm (38C/100F) water— pale color, bright flavor, pleasant acidity, faint aroma
berries in hot (90C/200F) water—medium color, bright flavor, slightly sharper acidity, faintly musky, faint cider vinegar aroma.
panicles in warm (38C/100F) water— faint color, less bright flavor, slightly less acidity, no aroma

In conclusion, I favored the hot water infusion. It was barely perceptively more acidic— which suggests that higher temperature does not extract more acid (wish I had ph strips to know for sure), but heat seemed to draw aroma from the sumac and coax out more of its essence.

A sweet and sour syrup is a useful thing to make with sumac.

sumac syrup

2 parts water
1 part sugar
1 part sumac berries

Measure quantities by weight. Bring the water and sugar to a boil. Pour over sumac berries in a heat resistant vessel. Allow to infuse for 5 minutes. Strain, first through a sieve to remove berries, then through a micro filter or several layers of cheesecloth to remove fine hairs. When cool, bottle and store in refrigerator.

And, a cocktail is a useful thing to make with a sweet and sour syrup.

sumac-lemongrass vodka sour

2 parts lemongrass-infused vodka
1 part sumac syrup
ice
fresh lemongrass stalks

Pack a cocktail shaker with ice. Add vodka and syrup. Shake. Strain into tall glass. garnish with lemongrass stalk.

berries and cream

The imagination is a fascinating landscape. But sometimes there are strange, scary things lurking in the corners.

Today started out innocently enough. As with most fond childhood memories, it began with a recollection of food.
If you were around in the early 70's, you might remember Jello 1-2-3, the magically self-separating 3-layer dessert. I have vivid recollections of watching my mother dump the box of powder into a blender with water… pouring out the cloudy liquid into stemmed glass parfait cups… the torture of waiting… waiting… waiting… opening the refrigerator every few minutes despite the scoldings… the layers forming, separating slowly… slowly… too slowly… a spoon skimming the pale froth from the top… then onto the creamy middle layer… digging deeper into the clear, gelled bottom… the sound of the spoon scraping the empty glass… anticipating the next one.
I don't know what triggered the memory, but once it gripped me, I had to work through it. The result is this parfait— not a magically separating one, but deliberate layers; an exploration of variously textured soft gels. Even without the magic of chemistry and memory, I'm certain that the flavors and textures were better than that dessert-in-a-box. But the presentation wasn't doing anything for me.

After recreating the layers, in the same order, in a shallow bowl with a wide rim, I was satisfied. On the surface, it looked innocuous, clean, minimalist. Perfectly simple. Maybe too perfect. A perfect parfait? Redundant, n'est pas?

And then I started thinking about surfaces, skins, shells, and how they conceal. I wanted to reveal.

Remember the strange, scary, lurking things?
I blame them. And the change of season (that always unsettles me). And the lack of sleep. No doubt, the late-night Dexter marathons are not without blame.
Whatever it was, I found myself cutting, gashing, spraying, dripping, staining.
Now, perfectly imperfect.
Now, hideous, even.
Still… delicious.
Dexter would be proud.

Hungry?

Happy Halloween.

lime basil tomato martini

There is transient beauty in a dying garden; an intimacy that is gained by observing its natural progression.

Looking around at the tracery of brittle stems, shriveled leaves, and the determination of fruit clinging to withering vines, I see the loveliness of imperfection, the quiet dignity and grace, the stamp of passing time.
The Japanese call this wabi-sabi.
I call it the poetry of decay.

There is, however, nothing poetic about cleaning up all of this decay. It's hard work. It merits the reward of a libation.

It seems that anything can be called a martini these days. I'm not a purist, but to me, a martini is not defined by the vessel that it's served in, but by the inclusion of gin and vermouth. Beyond that, any added flavor is fair game.

lime basil tomato martini

2 oz. lime basil-infused gin, chilled
1/2 oz. dry vermouth, chilled
1/2 oz. filtered tomato water, chilled
2 cocktail tomatoes, speared on a sprig of basil

Place liquids in chilled cocktail shaker with 2 cubes of ice. Shake and strain into chilled martini glass. Garnish with cocktail tomatoes.

To make lime basil infused gin: Pack an isi whipper with fresh lime basil that has been lightly crushed. Half-fill the canister with gin. Cover and charge with 1 N2O cartridge. Shake slowly for 1 minute. Rapidly discharge gas. Uncover and allow to stand for 3 minutes before straining. Chill.

To make tomato water: Cut Ripe tomatoes in half horizontally. Set a sieve over a bowl and squeeze out the seed sacs and liquid from tomato halves. Reserve the tomato flesh for another use (if you peel the tomatoes beforehand, the flesh can be diced into concassé). Press on the solids in the sieve to extract as much liquid as possible. Pass the liquid through a micro filter or a coffee filter, without pressing, to produce clear tomato water. Alternately, the sieved liquid can be allowed to stand until the solids settle to the bottom, and the clear liquid can be spooned from the top.

To make cocktail tomatoes: Cut a small, shallow slit in the stem ends of cherry tomatoes (I used Sungolds and Sweet 100s). Drop them into a pot of boiling water for 5 seconds, or until the skins rip open. Immediately remove to a bath of ice water. Slip the skins off each tomato and layer them in a sterilized glass jar with coarse salt (1 teaspoon per pint). Pour in enough dry vermouth to cover the tomatoes by 1/2". Let the tomatoes cure in the refrigerator for 2 days before using.

grapes cheese bread

I keep a running list of plants that I'd like to breed. I do so because I have this fantasy that one day I'll have the time and space for an experimental garden where I can play with plants in the same way that I play with food.

Somewhere on that list is purple peas (merely for the novelty), but it looks like someone 's already been there, done that.

Elsewhere on the list is champagne grapes. I'm besotted by their diminutive size (tiny ones look like caviar, big ones like the aforementioned purple peas), but their one-dimensional flavor needs some work.

Champagne grapes, or Black Corinth, are an ancient seedless variety of Vitis vinifera. They are not used in the production of Champagne (that's just a marketing ploy), though they were once used to make wine in Ancient Greece. I can't imagine that the wine was of recommendable quality because they are so overtly sweet (sweetest grapes on the market) and low in acid. In terms of flavor, they aren't even very good table grapes (but they make good currants). They do, however, have other redeeming qualities: their size is irresistible, their skins are thin and burst pleasantly in the mouth, their stems are edible, and (best of all) they're seedless. These grapes are primed for cross-breeding with a foxier variety— I'd choose Concord (Vitis labrusca).

But until I (or someone else) can alter the plant, at least I can alter the product.
Champagne grapes infused with Concord grape juice, in an iSi whipper, charged with N2O.
Now, that's a great grape!

Vitis vinifera x labrusca • taleggio
flavors of bread: malt, yeast, almonds, mushrooms

(Apologies for all of the asides. Somedays I can't figure out how to blend facts with thoughts without parenthesis. Or italics.)

gouda fries

One of the things that I like about the Parmesan pasta is its versatility. Because there's no starch to cook through, it just needs to be heated enough for the methocel to gel and the cheese to fuse. This means that it can be cooked directly in a sauce, braise, or roasted. I assume that it can also be grilled or deep-fried, although I've tried neither. Cut into batonnets and pan-fried in a nonstick skillet, they form a thin, crisp shell around a soft melted center.

Curiously, the recipe only works with Parmesan. Even other hard cheeses, like an aged Pecorino, causes it to lose its definition, turning into puddles of melted cheese. I've found that the problem can be solved with the addition of a relatively small amount of starch. Both cornstarch or potato starch will work and still keep it gluten free, though I prefer the flavor and lightness of rice flour.

gouda fries

75g water

3g methocel SGA150

112g grated aged gouda

40g rice flour

Add methocel to water and disperse with immersion blender. Chill solution for 4 hours to hydrate.

In a bowl, toss together the gouda and rice flour until well blended. Drizzle 64g of methocel solution over mixture in bowl. Stir mixture until it forms a uniform dough.

Turn dough out onto a sheet of plastic wrap. With fingers, pat into a rough rectangle, about 2cm thick. Cover dough with another sheet of plastic wrap. With a rolling pin, roll out to even 1cm thickness. Remove plastic wrap and cut dough into 1cm x 1cm x 8cm batonnets.

Heat a nonstick skillet over medium-high heat. Lightly grease the bottom with butter. When the butter sizzles and begins to brown, add the batonnets to the pan, turning until they are evenly brown and crisp on all sides. Serve immediately or hold in a warm oven.

gouda fries

peach ketchup

lovage