Cauliflower Carbonara

Not a great picture, admittedly, but a good example of how about five things can be turned into a pretty satisfying and nutritious dinner in next to no time.

To wit:

• A head of cauliflower, caramelized hard in a pan with a bit of duck prosciutto and olive oil, with garlic and minced dried porcini added towards the end
• A bag of penne, cooked just shy of al dente
• A splash of roasted chicken stock
• An egg, beaten, added after all of the above was combined and taken off the heat
• chopped parsley and coarse salt, with black and Espelette pepper to finish
  

Freaking awesome for something so simple.

Getting Warmer

So the other night I had a hankering for a nice lemony, olivey tagine. We got some chicken thighs, and everything was going as planned when I got it into my head– based on the squishiness of the ground in certain places– that a trip to the garden might be a good idea. And so it was. The beds are mostly thawed, and we got a ton of carrots and parsnips out in no time, with lots more still there. Even some of the indestructible greens are making a comeback, including radicchio, mizuna, Asian cabbage, and endive. And a few chioggia beets are still holding on under the plastic, though they might be completely woody by now. The greens, at least, will get et.

The roots, plus sweet potato, onion, preserved lemon, olives, spices (cumin seeds, ras-el-hanout) and chick peas which I had simmered in leftover dashi for a few hours to soften got all cosy together and bubbled away until thoroughly giving and fragrant. We ate it over whole wheat couscous, and it was damn fine, tasting quite authentic and super-satisfying on a chilly evening.




















And of course I saved the bones, so a couple of days later (yesterday, to be exact) I threw them in a smallish pot and made a gorgeously perfumed stock. At this stage, I wasn't sure what dinner would be, but an idea was forming. I defrosted some Washugyu flank steak, already cut for yakinuku, and thought about pounding the strips a bit and then rolling them up around scallions to make negimaki, but had sort of an Italian feeling so I made some pasta dough instead. While it was resting, I mandolined a turnip into paper-thin sheets and blanched them, sliced some king oyster mushrooms thin and caramelized them pretty hard in a bit of duck fat, and wilted some spinach with garlic. I whipped up a quick tomato sauce using good purée, wine, herbs, garlic, and olive oil, and then made a roux with duck fat and flour in the mushroom pan and strained in the Moroccan chicken stock to make gravy. And I began to cook the pasta while I quickly browned the meat.

See where this is going? A piece of pasta, then some sauce, turnips and mushrooms, more pasta, gravy, then meat...





















Then pasta, sauce, and spinach...





















Then pasta, gravy, and mushrooms...






















And then pasta, a dollop of sauce, mushroom trimming brunoise crisped in duck fat, and marjoram leaves. The result was a lighter yet extremely full-flavored lasagna, with no cheese and none of the gut-bomb after effects of the traditional version. Next time I might flavor the pasta– with herbs, or fennel pollen, or something aromatic– but it doesn't need a whole lot. Once the garden is up and running, the possibilities will be limitless.

Yellowtail Told By An Idiot

We went to the city for a night, for a real live date–including dinner at WD-50, which I may write about–made possible by my Brother coming up to hang out with Milo so we could stay at his place. On our way back, we got some fish in the Chelsea Market so we'd have something to eat for dinner. Milo really has a thing for yellowtail sashimi, so I bought a one-pound block of sushi-grade hamachi and we were in business.

I trimmed off the collar and marinated it in miso, sake, and agave syrup while I dealt with the sashimi. Last time we had this, I concocted a sauce that garnered particularly enthusiastic praise, and he made sure that I remembered how to make it: light soy sauce, ume vinegar, rice vinegar, sesame oil, yuzu juice, and a drip of agave quickly whisked together. We also had a mango and an avocado that needed eating, so I made a quick salsa sort of a thing with them and a bit of leek and the sashimi sauce that remained in the bowl after spooning it over the sliced fish.























Once that was dispatched (quickly, needless to say) I gave the collars a hard sear, removed them, added chopped leeks to the pan, and deglazed with extra marinade once they got all caramelized and crispy.




















Next up, more of the wonderful fat sanuki udon in dashi with some of the new batch of homemade kimchi on top. I didn't take a picture, but as I mentioned before bowls of noodle soup are not hard to find on this blog. Once I'm done doing taxes I'll have more time for longer posts.

Lucking In

A little tweaking and some quality ingredients can take what looks like a pretty ho-hum standard and make it a whole lot more interesting. Case in point: meatloaf and ketchup. The meatloaf was just plain old boring ground turkey, but I used a good-sized spoonful of freshly ground magic spice blend (see here) and the remains of the duck breast from a couple of posts ago minced fine to add extra flavor and richness. I also made a panade with milk, a beaten egg, panko, and a drop of cognac, and added in a little bit of rendered duck fat for juiciness.

While it baked, I steamed sweet potatoes and sautéed kale with onions, garlic, and a little more duck fat. I also mixed tomato purée, papaya juice, kimchi brine, dashi, ume vinegar, mustard, agave syrup, maple syrup, and some red wine together, simmered them down, and then blasted it all smooth with the immersion blender. It tasted EXACTLY like ketchup, only better–more intense and interesting. A little xanthan would have helped with the syneresis. Combined with the very nice meatloaf, the result was much, much better than it had any right to be considering the half-assedness of the process.

Awake And Bake

My March article about baking bread is up now on the Chronogram site. Have at it.



















Bread from the oven of William Alexander, author of the upcoming book “52 Loaves.” Photo by Jennifer May.


I also linked this to yeastspotting, because they loves them some homemade bread.

OK, Then

An inauguration, of sorts, for the new kitchen, in that I actually took a few minutes to plan and think through a whole meal for the first time in a month. I had been to the store to get a few things, and as I always do at this time of year I grabbed winter veggies: leeks, fennel, turnips, and kale. I knew we had a duck breast in the freezer, and there were some kumquats in the fridge that needed using. So it sort of took shape around those two ingredients. Like the Wonder Twins, only it was just dinner–as opposed, say, to an orca riding an ice surfboard.

I shredded the fennel fine, caramelized it with some shaved onion, and then deglazed the pan with sake. I let it simmer covered until soft, then added in a bit of pure mustard oil and minced fennel fronds to make a sort of mostarda. Pure mustard oil isn't exactly legal for sale in this country, at least for culinary use, so it has to be marked "for external use only." But as all good parents know, that's just an invitation to open it up and see how it tastes. And it tastes good. Plus, it's like having your very own chemical weapon in the pantry!

I sliced and simmered the kumquats with blackcurrant brandy, honey, cinnamon, and star anise until marmaladey. The duck I just scored, seared, flipped, and rested on low heat for a few minutes to heat through without cooking past rare. I found some leftover enoki mushrooms, so I threw them into the still-hot duck fat to brown and crisp into little fries, and I'm so very glad I did. The silky, sweet-hot fennel, rich, tender duck, and sweet, sour, complex marmalade were pretty great by themselves, but enoki fries? In duck fat? If there were a Nobel prize for crispy, umamilicious garnishes, I would be a lock.

Tell me that you do not wish this had been your dinner:


















To plus the perfect, a 2007 Domaine des Vallettes Borgueil–I first mentioned it here, about the last time I cooked something interesting–and it's a new favorite in the $20 and under category (which, let's be honest, is pretty much the only category we're buying these days). Light, elegant, and delicately perfumed with strawberries, it nonetheless has enough structure to handle fat meat. And you look for that in a wine.

Now I Need A Wide-Angle Lens

Before:




















After:



















All told, it came in at just about two weeks of work, though spread out over three. There's a bit more to do, but it's all minor aesthetic stuff like trim and paint and doors for over the hood. I'll get to all that much later–probably after the garden is planted. If you'll excuse me, I'm going to go fondle my butcher block.

Filler

On my way back from Newark airport after dropping the family off, I accidentally bought this beautiful Le Creuset dish. Then, once the kitchen was functional and said family had been fetched and reinstalled here at home, it sort of seemed important that I take it for a spin on our new 101,000 BTU stove (not counting the oven, of course).

I dusted chicken legs with a mixture of flour, salt, and spices (all in the Indian flavor spectrum) and then browned them in their own rendered fat and removed them. Into the redolent schmaltz I then dumped carrot, onion, sweet potato, kale, and red cabbage, and let it all caramelize a bit (a bit being about a minute on the new stove). I added coconut milk, vindaloo paste, and water, returned the legs to the fray, and covered it to simmer. At the very end, I shook in some frozen peas. We had it on quinoa, with mango chutney.

Apologies to those of you waiting for renovation porn; I'll have those pics up soon, I promise.

Shabu Chic

The induction burner that I bought to cook on while I waited (with less and less patience) for the new stove has now transitioned from being the bootleg bachelor construction kitchen to being a useful appliance that now allows us to enjoy something I've been hankering to have for quite some time: shabu-shabu. Cooking at the table is fun, and customizing the doneness of every morsel makes for an excellent eating experience.

Good broth is a prerequisite, so I made dashi. But since we were going to be swishing some lovely Washugyu tri-tip therein, I added phở flavors as well because beef loves those flavors, and I figured the dashi wouldn't object. I charred half an onion and some ginger, and added them in with a star anise pod, half a cinnamon stick, and two cloves to simmer for a bit while I prepped the rest. After a while, I strained them out and added sliced burdock to soften.



















Said rest consisted of enoki mushrooms, thin spirals of turnip, carrot slivers, and scallion slices. I used the saladacco for the turnip and a vegetable peeler for the carrot.



















Predictably, it was a hit, and we have a new addition to the rotation. The broth picks up notes from all the various things that go into it and makes for superb slurping when all the goodies are gone. And all the fragrant steam fogs up the cold windows, pushing winter ever farther towards its impending end.

Nueva Cocina

The kitchen is almost done. As I write this, I have one more day of serious work before it's going to be fully operational, wanting only a day or two of cosmetic finish work (molding, trim, and paint). The new stove is like a Lamborghini; everything that used to take meaningful portions of an hour now takes mere minutes, countable on the hand without the spoon. It came in on time, and within acceptable budgetary parameters–meaning that various material/hardware expenses (and I went to the hardware store and/or lumber yard every day) didn't exceed 5% of the total.

To celebrate, even though the island is still just covered in 3/4" A/C plywood, we made a feast from some of the bounty acquired at Mitsuwa, where we stopped for lunch and a big shop on our way home from Newark airport. We got lots of Washugyu beef and Berkshire pork for future meals (see tomorrow) and tons of staples in the form of bottled and dried ingredients. And sake.

Last night's dinner was in three courses, because I was energized by both the sight of the finish line and the quality of the new goodies. To begin, some luscious, artisanal tofu that I would tell you all about but for the fact that every single thing written on the label was in Japanese. Fresh, silken circles of delicate deliciousness, it was. I made a sauce using fresh sea urchin puréed with usukuchi (light soy sauce), rice vinegar, a tiny dab of smooth peanut butter (since I find that uni have a slightly peanutty flavor) and sake with the alcohol burned off. It made for a very pudding-like, seductive dish, especially for those members of the family (everyone but me) who do not love sea urchin. It's funny, but "slimy orange invertebrate gonads" aren't that much of a selling point. Go figure.





















The same was pretty much true for the mackerel. I freaking LOVE mackerel, but the other members of the family find it too fishy. I figured I'd hide this quality by cooking it escabeche-style, but to no avail. They saw through my ploy, and ate around the offending fillet. Fortunately for them, the rest of the dish was cabbage and scallion kneaded with salt until soft, then rinsed and dressed with soy, mirin, rice and ume vinegars, and sesame oil, and a tomato/vinegar/scallion/honshimeji mushroom sauce that were each quite tasty in their own right.


























I scarfed down all the glorious, oily fish while they grimaced at me, picking out cabbage that wasn't tainted with mackerel cooties.





















Last (I waited, since everyone loves the noodle soup) I defrosted some pork stock on the jet engine that is the new stove and added in some fat sanuki udon, usukuchi, togarashi, and more scallion. And there was much rejoicing. I drank Vouvray, but the bottle is all the way downstairs. It was very nice, especially for what I paid for it. I'll update tomorrow with the info; Loire whites are excellent values and make for wonderful drinking with most seafood.

Radio Silence

I'm neck-deep in renovations, the family is in Florida, and I've gone Full Caveman; I'm cooking with one portable induction burner until the new range arrives, skipping meals and working 10 or more hours a day to get this into some kind of shape before the family returns.

Thanks for checking in; I really appreciate all of you taking a few minutes out of your busy lives to read about what I made for dinner. Regular programming will resume next week after an ungodly amount of mopping.

Lest you feel enraged at this complete lack of content, I offer the following picture of roast beef, twice-baked duck fat/garlic potatoes, endive mash, and sautéed kale from months ago. Rest assured it's several orders of magnitude better than what I'm living on these days.

Sweet Sweetness

Fresh on the heels of another fish delivery, and despite being pretty thoroughly covered in grout, I got giddy with the potential in our box of seafood and tried to make it into something befitting its freshness and quality. To begin, a dozen more oysters. I didn't photograph them, because they disappeared too quickly. John stopped by to pick up his order, and had a couple, and I polished off the rest.

Next up, a gorgeous hunk of yellowfin. Translucent fuchsia, it really needed nothing at all done to it, so I sliced it fairly thick and made sushi of a sort using the rest of the brown rice risotto from the night before. The consistency of the rice was a little wet, so after taking this picture I actually gathered the fish into rolls with the rice inside for easier eating.




















I used the rest of the chicken stock to make simple miso soup, and caramelized some king oyster mushrooms and deglazed them with soy, mirin, and ume vinegar. Extra mushroom sauce made an extraordinary dipping sauce for the tuna rolls.
















I took the triangular end of the steak that couldn't be sliced for sushi and minced it fine with scallion, sesame and olive oils, Espelette pepper, and ume vinegar to make a tartare, formed it into balls, and gave a hard sear in the mushroom pan to one side of them. I deglazed with a bit of the miso soup and soy sauce, and poured it over. You can't see because of the dark sauce–which, in retrospect, I should have poured on the plate first–but the underside is completely raw while the top has a nice brown burgeriffic crust.



















To drink, as a celebration of this perfect seafood that we are so lucky to have access to (and the fact that the tile is grouted) I opened a 2003 Domaine Cheze Condrieu cuvée de Breze that is a deep yellow, dessert-looking wine, with some of the slightly oxidized, unctuous qualities of a great sweet wine but all in the service of a magnificent, dry late-middle-aged Viognier. Not a perfect match–a simple Muscadet would have been perfect with the oysters, and carried over just fine–but it more than sorta took care of business, elevating the whole meal like a movie star dropping in on your picnic.

All Truism

Another showcase for scraps and remnants, and another meal where the pressure cooker has lived up to its reputation as a most useful contraption, this dinner was exceedingly simple and extremely satisfying. We had leftover brown rice and a pot of chicken stock from a night or two earlier, so I combined them into a faux risotto of sorts that featured shredded kale, peas, and parsley. I pressure-cooked some navy beans with minced morsels of lardo and duck prosciutto, burdock, turnip, garlic, a small container of the lusciously soft veggies from the last post, and then stirred in tomato paste and fresh herbs from the pots in the dining room and seasoned it all with salt and pepper.

That was it, really–rice and beans. But there was enough going on in each half that they didn't really seem like settling for less than luxury. The next day, they made for superlative burritos with avocado, more kale, and a couple of homemade hot sauces. It's nice to eat clean and simple food like this a couple of times a week; it's good for the body and the planet, and it makes the more decadent meals into special occasions to be gratefully savored. And it uses up the detritus in the fridge before it grows hair.

Rub One Out

Shichimi Togarashi means "seven flavor chili pepper" in Japanese. Besides ground chili, it has nori, sesame seeds, citrus peel, sansho pepper, and poppy and hemp seeds in varying proportions. Many in the West like to call it "togarashi" because it's easier and sounds cool, though sticklers point out that that basically just means "chili" and thus is not accurate. Those people also tend not to get invited over for dinner very often, but that's sort of beside the point. (And I have an Alinea menu that just says "togarashi" on it, so there). It's a complex and useful seasoning, imparting a bright yet earthy heat to everything it touches. I like it on soup especially, where it can really embellish the transparent flavors.


























A jar of particularly fine shichimi that John brought me from Japan. Also note the brand new, boner-inducing countertop that I totally put in all by myself.

But since I'm kind of a Mediterranean guy at heart, I've been inspired to invent a sort of European alternative that's better suited to certain preparations. After much tinkering, I've arrived at a blend that works very well for the purposes I had in mind. The iodine notes of nori are not present, and there's no citrus–though I have added sumac on a couple of occasions, since it's local, and ironically enough I just got a bag of Iranian sumac from a friend–but the beauty of hacks like this is that they're infinitely malleable. Every time I make it, it's different, and that's appropriate to how I make pretty much everything.


















Look–I say just LOOK–at that counter.

This mise is not complete; I left out some tiny little dried hot pepperoncini from Siena that I keep in a not very attractive vessel. Sue me. The basic ingredient list is as follows:

Maldon salt or similar
Cracked black pepper
Pink peppercorns
Piment d'Espelette
Pimentón (sweet, hot, bitter, or a custom mix)
Dried hot pepper (chile de arbol or pepperoncini)
Herbes de Provence (homegrown if possible; this blend is rosemary, thyme, lavender, savory, oregano, fennel seed, and basil)

I bust everything up in my little suribachi until it's fairly fine. Everything plays a part, and of course it can be adjusted every which way. Sumac makes it wicked with duck or lamb. A pinch of sugar would not be out of place for certain applications. Pink peppercorns really do something special with the Basque and Spanish peppers, adding a horsey note that's not as strong as that of white pepper, and with that floral character that makes pink pepper so lovely and entwines so well with lavender. (I have a grinder for black, and another with a mix of pink and white in it for dainty things).
























If you look down there at the bottom right, you can see a little sliver of my new counter.

I've used this blend on seafood, chicken, meat, grilled buttered flatbread, beans, pasta, and more. It works. Above all, though, it owes its invention to one pressing need that haunted–nay, tortured–me for weeks: what the hell was I going to use to cure this ham?





















Sadly, that's not the counter; it's just our giant speckleware canning tub.

Prosciutto is sometimes rubbed with hot pepper during the curing process and/or coated with black pepper afterward while it hangs. The great hams of Bayonne often, but not always, get rubbed with Espelette pepper as part of their long journey towards total awesomeness. Lacking any sort of a tradition to draw from, I built this blend, mixed into copious quantities of salt and brown sugar, and slathered it all over this here big hunk of pig leg. I've been turning it every few days, and soon–it's not a whole ham, so I'm curing it for a bit less time than recipes call for–I'll rinse it and hang it to dry until next fall. If the smell at this stage is any indication of the final flavor, it will not suck.

Not Especially Swedish

This was one of those one-off, never to be duplicated sort of dinners, based as it was on leftovers and randomness. Now that I think of it, though, isn't that true for all of our efforts? So this meal had universal significance, and spoke to the very core of the Human Condition.

Also, it had meatballs in it.

I took some ground turkey and seasoned it with garlic, spices, and herbs (minced fennel fronds featured prominently, on account of I hate to throw them away but there are always so damn many on each bulb) and set them to brown in a skillet with some ghee. I had turned all the leftover chicken bones into a simple stock earlier in the day, so that was ready to go, and I ladled some of it into a saucepan with the leftover kabocha chunks and blasted it all smooth. Meanwhile, I sweated diced fennel, turnip, burdock, carrot, and onion, then added a bit of stock and let it all soften. And I made a pot of brown rice, because we're filthy, filthy hippies.

Once the meat was cooked, I poured in some blackcurrant brandy and flamed off the alcohol, then removed the meat. I sprinkled flour on the hot fat and stirred it into a roux. I added stock to gravify it, then stirred the result into the squash mixture. It all came together nicely; the meatballs were plenty flavorful, but, being turkey, needed some sauce to fill in for the near-total lack of fat. And the silky, glistening vegetables jumped right into this sweet purée with reckless abandon. It all made for excellent leftovers the next day, stirred together with more stock to make a thick, wonderful soup.

Marmitako

Marmitako ("from the pot") is a classic Basque stew of tuna and potatoes that evolved on fishing boats. In typical fashion, just about all of the ingredients (apart from the fish) are New World imports; Basques were early and enthusiastic adopters of the potatoes, peppers, and tomatoes (and corn, and beans, and chocolate, and pretty much everything that returned with Columbus) and they quickly became indispensable components of the cuisine. Despite the seeming similarity with Italian preparations, the flavor is not at all Italian, due mostly to the peppers. The use of green bell pepper in the soffrito, piquillo peppers in the stew, and a finishing dust with piment d'Espelette all give this dish (and many others) a uniquely Iberian and specifically Basque slant that's instantly recognizable.

Basques are also famous for their culinary flexibility and improvisation, which is a good thing, because I had Marmitako on the brain and was short a couple of major ingredients. First off, we had swordfish instead of tuna. This turned out to be better than OK, since the sweet, nutty flavor was an excellent match with the stew. And lacking piquillo peppers–which are easily found online, roasted, in jars–I used a couple of dried ancho pods instead, supplemented with a fat pinch of pimentón for some smoky depth. The rest was pretty standard: sautée onion in olive oil, add dried pepper, garlic, and some herbs, then sliced fingerling spuds and busted-up canned tomatoes with enough water to cover for a simmer. Once approaching tender, I added cubed fish, chiffonaded kale (nutrition trumps tradition) and let it simmer a few minutes more to firm up the fish. Then I took it off the heat and let it sit, covered, for about 15 minutes to marry the flavors.

The totally out-of-season ingredients made it but a pale imitation of what the real thing should taste like, and I plan to do this again in September when all of our very own personal nightshades are resplendently ripe and sweet. But having said that, this was very tasty and satisfying on a cold evening– all the more so for having used only one pot and taken about 40 minutes, including the 15 minute rest before serving.



















I recently did a ton of research on Basque food for another gig, and it's nice to have all the reading finally begin to work its way into actual cooking. Never having been there, it's a slower process of assimilating ingredients, flavors and techniques into my regular practice, but it's happening. We had our vaguely Basque-themed dinner a few weeks ago, there's some salt cod in the fridge, and I've been messing around with the Espelette pepper recently, combining it with other spices with a nefarious purpose in mind. That post is just about ready. Don't touch that dial.

Actually, if you need a break from frantically battering the refresh button on this page you could do worse than to read Jonny's excellent post about hake in green sauce, another Basque standard.

Everything You Need, Nothing You Don't

Last week I went to a dinner and brought a nice apple tart. The brilliant, perfect crust I learned from my Grandmother, local apples, and a glaze made from apricot jam, honey, and local apple brandy were the whole thing, though I dusted it with 5-spice and a twist of black pepper before sliding it into the oven. It's really all about the crust, and secondly about not oversweetening the fruit. Thinner is better; a slice held pizza-style by the outer edge should remain perfectly flat all the way to the point, even allowing for impassioned gesticulation without any deformation. Letting the fruit taste like fruit is the other key. Rolling the pastry out thin also obviates the need for blind-baking, so there's that bonus as well. Thick, covered pies have their place, but it's not often I eat one that's much better than decent. Most of them are sickly sweet, starch-thickened disasters that make my teeth hurt while I'm eating them. A tart like this, though, is a thing of beauty, a timeless classic.

Pearlescence

Notwithstanding the ebbs and flows of the kitchen modifications–three major steps crossed off the list (hood/backsplash, counter/sink, tile) with no major fuck-ups so far–I've managed to keep a working kitchen through most of it. We've had some takeout, true, but it's been due more to abject fatigue than lack of functionality. And tonight, to celebrate the beautiful new Moroccan tile, we had some friends over to admire it, since they're in the process of redoing their kitchen as well and they wanted to take a look at our sexy, sexy counters.

And they brought a chicken.

So we spatchcocked it, rubbed it, and roasted it, and served it with their pressure-cooked burdock and some steamed kabocha, sautéed collards, gravy, and it was freaking delicious. But what I want to talk about is the first course. We had a dozen oysters lurking in the fridge from last week's order, but I hadn't gotten to them yet (see above) and also because I had this idea and I needed a bit of time to get it together. See, I also still had the rest of the whey left from the cheesemaking, and that got me thinking about chowder, naturally, and so I curdled, simmered, and strained it to make a whopping two tablespoons of ricotta, which I ate. Then I took the resulting liquid and strained it through paper towels twice until it was truly clear and pale yellow.

I shucked the oysters and strained their liquor through a fine sieve into the whey and added the last four ice cubes of fish stock from the halibut skeleton we'd received as a gift last fall. I very gently poached the oysters in this, and then added in finely diced carrot, fennel stalk, and endive that I'd caramelized a bit with minced lardo in a pan until just tender. I let this all simmer barely for another minute or two, and then ladled it into bowls. The result was a sort of translucent chowder; there was the dairy richness of the whey, the cured pork element from the lardo (but not the overwhelming power of bacon) and the toothsome and colorful vegetables for sweetness and complexity, all in service of these gorgeous, plump, briny oysters. It was a lovely dish. Potato would have made it a bit more traditional, but I left them out for no particular reason; they just seemed like they'd be too heavy. As it was, the oyster liquor clouded my painstakingly clarified whey, so you can't see these beautiful Wellfleet bivalves in their frilly splendor. But they're in there, lurking below the surface like fat little dumplings. Next time I'll strain it all one more time after combining.

The scallion garnish was more than mere decoration; it added a bright, alliumaceous tang that set off the oysters excellently. A little more tinkering, and this could be a thing.

I'm like AC/DC, But With Food. And Without The Schoolboy Uniform.

Tonight I'm going out, so I made a quick dinner for the family: a kind of variation on saag paneer using tofu in place of the cheese. To compensate, though, I cooked the chard (and the last spoon of pesto) along with half an onion and spices in about two cups of whey to add stealth cheesiness and play wonderfully with the similarly tangy taste of the tofu. I puréed the greens and then added cubed tofu which I'd browned and seasoned beforehand, then let it all simmer for a bit to thicken and get acquainted.

Last night was a good one for soup, and we still had one last bit of thin-sliced Berkshire pork belly in the freezer, so the rest followed pretty naturally. A combination of fish and chicken stocks made the base, and I added wakame, pesto, and finely grated turnip to enrich and thicken it. Before cooking the udon, I blanched carrots and broccoli separately in the boiling water. Assembled with a dollop of homemade sambal and a sprinkle of togarashi, it was a handsome bowl of dinner that went very well with the better part of a growler of Gilded Otter IPA left over from my grueling research on local microbrews (see previous post).

Regular readers might be growing weary of the endless parade of noodle soups, and to them I say the following: this one was kinda different, on account of it had pesto in it, and big bowls like this are good in the winter, and I'm lazy/tired/short on time these days. And honestly, if you're a regular reader of this drivel let's face it: another post about noodle soup is the least of your problems.

Small Beer

The new Chronogram is out, with my rigorously scientific analysis of local microbreweries contained inside like the prize in a cereal box, or the toy in a happy meal, or the worm in a bottle of Mescal.


















photo by Jennifer May

Whey Cool

I was lucky enough to have stumbled onto an invitation to a cheesemaking demonstration at a nearby home today. It was great, and perfectly timed; despite my familiarity with various forms of old school kitchen arcana, cheese has been something I have had no hands-on experience with. Until today. We made cheddar, which will be ready in six or so weeks. I'm going to order some cultures and rennet as soon as the kitchen is done, but in the meantime a happy byproduct of today's class was a half gallon of (raw, local) whey which I got to bring home.

I spent much of the class extolling the virtues of whey as an ingredient, specifically as a sous-vide vehicle for meat. Since I didn't have time to cook sous-vide tonight (and the water bath is half taken apart for maintenance) I made do with marinating a lamb leg steak in whey, salt, rosemary, garlic, and 5-spice for an hour or so while I got other things together. We had some nice sweet potato purée from Friday, so I whisked in some already hydrated Methocel F50 from the fridge and sort of knocked spoonfuls of it into simmering water to make free-form gnocchi that ended up being pretty appealing contemporary teardrop shapes by complete accident. I left them in the hot water until it was time to serve.

In another pan, I melted some pâté fat that sits in a little jar in the fridge next to similar jars of goose, duck, smoked duck, and random mixed fats. Yes, it takes up some space, but we have a big shiny new fridge and there's nothing like having your very own Lipid Museum™ to call upon at times like this. Into this complex orange goodness (pimentón played a part in the pâté seasoning) I threw leek, onion, and garlic, followed by burdock, turnip, and daikon. After a bit of a sizzle, I poured in the remainder of a bottle of white wine and a good glug more of whey, then covered the pan and let it all simmer.

Next up, the lamb: I whisked it from its milky bath, seasoned it with salt, pepper, and herbes de Provence, and tossed it in a hot-ass iron skillet (lubed with more pâté fat) to get a thorough brown on both sides while I reduced the whey marinade, skimming and then straining it to remove the unsightly protein clots. Once the roots were soft, I threw in a handful of frozen peas, and removed the meat from the skillet. I deglazed said skillet with the whey reduction, and then whisked in a good dollop of last summer's basil/sorrel/nasturtium leaf pesto from the freezer to make a sauce.

The result was pretty good. Meat and whey have such a sympatico; it's like a cheeseburger where the cheese is inside the meat. And the gamey lamb flavor melded with the cowiness of the whey to form a sort of hybrid half-goat cheese hologram that floated over the plate while we ate. The veggies liked it too, and it unified all the various components– including the sauce– into facets of the same gem. A pro would have added a smidge of agar or gelatin to the gnocchi so that as they cooled they would have stayed together, since methylcellulose un-gels at room temperatures. But in this case it was fun to see how the formerly firm gnocchi slowly reverted to simple, artful daubs of purée over time.

All Together Now

One one level, this was a pretty straightforward meal: local ribeyes, a gratin, polenta, and mushrooms. On another level, though, it was, well, on a whole other level. The polenta was leftover from a few nights before, and thoroughly congealed–as is the wont of polenta. I brought it back to a pleasing pourability by whisking in some homemade beef stock, local butter, and lots of pepper. The maitake mushrooms got a long, slow sear until they were richly browned, and then I deglazed the pan with the umami-boosting blend of soy sauce, sake, and beef stock, letting them simmer a bit in the liquid to reduce it. The gratin is the first draft of an idea I had last week while out for a walk with the family (there's nothing like a good walk for getting one's think on). It was thinly sliced turnip alternated with mandolined ribbons of fennel and leek, and baked in buttermilk with good local cheese on top. I broiled it for a few minutes at the end uncovered to get a good brown on the cheese and evaporate a bit of the liquid.

















The steaks–seasoned with salt, pepper, and herbes de Provence–got the now-standard sear in butter and finish with grated lardo. Whether or not I have the time or inclination to sous-vide a steak, this treatment is hard to beat. When the new stove arrives, I'm anticipating a whole new world of searing; losing this easy-bake™ piece of shit cooktop will be among the highlights of my life. In the meantime, we make do. The little extra care with each component really made this into a satisfying plate of food. To drink, a 2007 Domaine des Vallettes Borgueil. Not expensive, and a delightful Cab Franc after about an hour in the decanter.

Posting is going to be erratic for the next few weeks as I wrestle with the kitchen, but I'll get to it when I can. (I'll take lots of pictures of the takeout food I eat while the family is in Florida and I have no functioning appliances.)

Sic Semper Tyrannosaurus

We're really into quail these days, especially fried after a soak in buttermilk. But since I hate to do much of anything the same way twice, this time around I tinkered with a few things, and came up with an excellent idea for a fancier future version, using a quasi-legal ingredient that I just stumbled upon. They soaked in buttermilk, just like always, and had a dredge in seasoned flour before frying. I made a sautée/braise of red cabbage and turnip with wine and cider vinegar to go with, and used the hot oil to make chips from a few leftover king oyster mushrooms as an extra special garnish.

But man, these little birds. They're so freaking tasty. And lazy man that I am, I love buying them semi-boneless; they're like little chicken-fried lollipops. And best of all, unlike a chicken, you can't gorge on them because they're too tiny. One quail = one serving. Unless you make more of them in the first place, but that would be wrong. My next dinner party is going to feature these tiny dinosaurs as well as I can possibly make them, including a condiment that flirts with danger and intrigue. Stay tuned.

Duck-Billed Platitudes

Beginning last night, it rained for about 36 hours straight. The stream out back rose to the highest I've ever seen it, and it got to 60˚ outside- warm enough that it was noticeably warmer outside than in, especially in the outbuildings. It's great to have March weather in January, but the problem is that I'm noticing some swelling in the buds of a few things around the house; if this keeps up, I'm afraid everything that wakes up will be cruelly punished by the hard cold that is sure to follow. Today was 40˚, and tonight it will get down into the 20s, so winter is back whether we like it or not. In a way, I'm kind of relieved, because it was getting awfully easy to imagine that we'd skipped February altogether, and that there was a recipe for heartbreak.

It's amazing to me how much nostalgia can be triggered by shifts in the weather; spring and fall continue to be astonishing in their evocative power. Having a child also cues all sorts of long-dormant memories, so the result can be kind of overwhelming. Watching torrents of water rush over the field and pond in the yard brought back all sorts of highly specific sensations from the distant past. There's something about the sight of water flowing on top of ice and snow that takes me back to those woods of my childhood that I explored so completely over the seasons and years.

An accidental sort of dinner fell together while I pondered such things as time, and mortality, and why I even bother buying Burgundies that cost less than $50 any more. I had soaked some triticale (a wheat/rye hybrid, grown locally and organically) with an eye towards doing something with it, but then did something else entirely, so it soaked for 24 hours. Inspired by the bowl of wet grain, I took the bones from a couple of ribeyes (post to follow soon) which I had broken down prior to cooking, so they were raw, and made a stock with them using carrot, onion, parsley, star anise, leek, and cloves. It simmered for a couple of hours, since I thought to get it going in the afternoon. Once ready, I strained it and used it for the grain cooking liquid, adding in diced carrot, leek, and fennel to add more flavor and texture. And let it go. These grains are tough to cook; they need a ton of time to soften up and it was a close call–having soaked them made all the difference.

Once they approached done (though still with a pleasingly gut-scouring firmness to their outer layer) I got some duck sausages going in a pan. Once browned all around and cooked through, I removed them and deglazed the pan with white wine, pouring the result into the grain pot to add extra fondtastic depth of flavor. And that was pretty much it, with parsley to finish. The little things made big differences here: the quality of the sausage and stock, the freshness of the grain (and the soaking) helped a bowl of very simple food get some complex work done in the flavor department. I like this grain, but next time I'll use the pressure cooker to get a quicker result; it has lots of nutty character and can hold up to a ton of abuse, making it a good candidate for all sorts of braise-type things.

As for the Burgundy, another 1er cru Givry (though this time a 2006) well, all I can say is that I should open these two days before I drink them. It's the only way to tell of they're any good. I'm going to save money by cooking peasant food and then spend it on real wine. Yeah, that's the ticket.

Sea Minus

A recent trip to a nearby market that traffics in decent seafood occasioned a bit of a spree on account of our regular fish guy has been on hiatus for a spell. That drought is over next week, but in the meantime we've had to content ourselves with fish of less than exquisite pedigree. We ended up with a bag of mussels and a wild yellowfin steak. Not too shabby, just not of a freshness we have now become irrevocably accustomed to.

The mussels–a perennial favorite, with a baguette purchased specially for soppage–got a brief, hard schwitz over a bed of onion, leeks, fennel, garlic, real Palacios chorizo, herbs, and white wine, then a dusting of parsley. Not exactly plump, and a bunch had to be thrown out on account of their being, uh, DEAD (in itself an improvement over the last bag purchased at a different local market last summer, in which EVERY SINGLE FUCKING MUSSEL was dead) but they tasted pretty good. And the resulting juice? Was really really good. So good, in fact, that I changed seahorses in midcurrent and used it for a sauce for the tuna.

Now normally the leftover mussel-cooking liquid is the kind of culinary casualty that you either accept as a given or do your damnedest to thwart, waving your damp toast menacingly at the server who strays too close to the bowl with an eye towards clearing it. But then you're too full of bread to finish your main course, and end up bringing home a soggy burger or chops in the kind of plastic container that you can't recycle. And at that point, it's hard to see why you even bothered to go out to dinner in the first place, outside of some misplaced liberal guilt about providing employment for the ex-cons and meth-heads in your town.

So I took the mussel liquid, along with all of its attendant chunks of stuff, and poured it over the tuna. I'm pretty sure there was some polenta under there, or something similar. Memory fails. By looking at the picture below, observant readers will be able to discern the following:

1. My knives need sharpening.
2. I couldn't even be bothered to throw some greenery at this.
3. The tuna is pretty well cooked, though I didn't trim it very thoroughly before cooking.

All of these are in fact true. Having said that, though, I may just have stumbled on a truly sublime use for leftover shellfish liquor, because this was extremely good to eat. There's a refined version of this now waiting in the wings for the chance to strut and fret its hour upon the blog, but it will have to keep waiting until I have some guests worth the effort.

Necessity Is A Mother

Last weekend I was out and about doing "research" for an upcoming piece on beer, and so I called my buddy Mike to see if he wanted to join me on one of my stops. He did. When I picked him up, he gave me a tour of their new (not so new, really, but the first time I've been there) place, including their enviable barn/shop/still room out back. They plant a few things just for the deer, and if he hasn't got one the hard way by the end of the season, he just leans out the window and shoots one of the dozen or so grazing in the back yard come season's end.

So when I dropped him off, running late to get home for dinner, they hooked me up not only with elderberry jam and a steaming container of just-made venison stew but also with frozen backstrap and ground meat to boot. Soon enough–last night, to be exact–the latter found itself pressed into service as chili. Particularly good chili at that, due to some prescient stock-making by yours truly the night before. We had a bunch of beef bones and trimmings in the freezer, and noodle soup was in order, so I roasted the bones and then simmered them with the trimmings, charred onion, carrot, peppercorns, and parsley stalks for three hours or so. I removed the edible meat and strained the stock to make some nice soba soup with beef, caramelized oyster mushrooms, kimchi, and shredded kale.

The remainder of the stock got reduced for about six more hours and then stored in the fridge. When it came time to make the chili, said stock provided a much-needed foundation; I added it to the venison, spices, and minced onion after a bit of a sautée and let it simmer while the white kidney beans pressure-cooked to al dentitude. Some tomato paste, more herbs and spices (including 5-spice, pimentón, piment d'Espelette, cumin, and ancho powder) and another hour or so of simmering bought it to a happy place of harmony and depth but without too much heat. (The child precludes spicy dishes; we add capsaicin after the fact with a variety of condiments, some homemade). In this case, it was from a small jar of Yammi (¡con aji!) brand chili paste brought especially for us from Peru by another friend last fall.

But not too much; as good as this hot sauce is, I didn't want to cock-block the wine- a 2008 Cerghino/Smith Cabernet Franc. It's 90% Cab Franc from the NY Finger Lakes bolstered by 10% Cali Petite Sirah, so the tangy, low-alcohol tartness is fattened up a bit with their almost cartoonishly purple Petite juice and its attendant white peach/apricot-scented jammy win. Smooth tannins wrapped right around the chili; this is a meat-lover's wine. I think it might be better still with a lower percentage of Petite–the disparity in influence is kind of shocking–but I trust their judgement. 90% local is OK by me. Full disclosure: they gave me this bottle, so it matched the gifted theme in a couple of ways.

F Is For Effort

Sometimes the available leftovers are aligned like so many lucky stars, forming a constellation that points the way to a lazy-ass dinner of surpassing tastiness.

This is what was in the fridge/freezer:

brown rice
some chicken stock (made from pressure-cooked wings)
kale pesto
frozen peas
1/2 can coconut milk
1/2 onion
scallions

I love making risotto from leftover brown rice; the second cooking, best done with good stock, gets it to an appealingly gooey place that still has some integrity. I threw a minced kaffir lime leaf in along with a few spices at the beginning while sweating the onion. Ten minutes later, we had dinner, more room in the fridge, and some empty containers for the next bunch of leftovers.

Zero Nostalgia

Besides bacon, I do enjoy pork belly in other forms. Now I know it's right up there with Jay Mohr doing an impression of Christopher Walken dressed as Fonzie jumping over Damien Hirst's pickled shark on a Segway in terms of its of-the-momentness, but leaving aside the moronic frivolity of Food Trends™ for a second, it's a cut of meat with a very particular character and a sterling pedigree in a whole bunch of culinary traditions– some of which date back well into the twentieth century!

Imagine that.

In China, it's sometimes referred to as the "five layers of heaven" for its alternating striations of muscle and fat. And then skin. I made a pretty badass dinner with a hunk a while back– a hunk I cured as if for bacon (but with all sorts of Indian inflection) and then braised for six hours in the oven with stock and such, and it was ridonkulosity incarnate on a bed of dal with some of the braising liquid.

This time aound, I didn't have any cured, but I did have a particularly meaty hunk of Berkshire belly in the freezer. So I thawed it in chicken stock with a pile of aromatics and set it in a 190˚ oven for about 6 hours. Meanwhile, I pressure-cooked navy beans with parsnips, leeks, minced duck prosciutto, and herbs, and caramelized brussels sprouts with lardons of our bacon and then steamed with a bit more of the chicken stock. And whisked up some polenta. Once out of the oven, I strained the braising liquid and reduced it a tetch while I put a righteous sear on the skin of the belly and then cut it into portions.

It probably would have tasted better if I had been wearing a too-small Thom Browne suit and listening to Arctic Monkeys on a Zune while I ate it, but as it was it did just fine for, you know, people eating dinner.

Football Makes You Gay

This post can be filed under "reasons why it's not always a good idea to try something fancy right before a dinner party." I had this idea a while ago, and the a semi-promptu gathering last Sunday gave me an excuse to try it out. Not very well, as it turned out, but whaddayagonnado. Next time I'll get it right.

Originally it was just going to be parsnip gnocchi, but then I noticed the variety of brightly colored winter produce we had on hand, so it got more ambitious. I steamed the parsnips and blended them with salt and a few drops of vanilla. I roasted a kabocha squash and puréed it with nutmeg. I roasted some beets and whizzed them with a bit of Banyuls vinegar, and lastly I pulled the rest of the purple potato purée out of the fridge. To each of these smoothnesses I added hydrated methylcellulose, doing little quenelle tests as I went to determine the right amount. Once I had (or thought I had) each mixture right, I put them all into individual bags and let them sit while I did some other stuff.




















Each vegetable needed a different percentage based on its texture and water content, and for some reason I under-added a lot to the beet and potato mixtures. So when it came time to cook them (piped from a cut corner of the bag into simmering water) and then spoon them into the waiting roast chicken dashi, those two fell apart. So it looked like a clown threw up, but it tasted very good; the whole point of this is that the gnocchi are made almost entirely out of the vegetable, without any egg or flour to change the taste. They dissolve on the tongue like magic flavor pillows. And in my defense, the parsnip and squash ones can clearly be seen to be admirably holding their shapes.



















The rest of the meal was better; Gerard brought a ton of fish in various forms. We started with his Basque-style salt cod, which was superb, and then moved on to salmon I broiled with a custom spice mixture and then napped with a blood orange gastrique. To follow, weakfish with the leftover Basque sauce- not far from Vizcaína- and hake in green sauce to complete the Basque themed fish portion of the program. The green sauce was not so traditional; I blended parsley, chives, kale, garlic, and sourdough bread crumbs with olive oil and white wine.

Here's a pic of the salmon, accompanied by John's miso butter-roasted maitake:
























Dessert was dueling apple pies from Duncan and Sirkka. The beverage theme for the evening was all Sine Qua Non. We started with our "Whisperin' E," the (I think) 2002 white blend that's usually Chard and Roussanne: just a great bottle of wine, plain and simple. Their whites continue to be my favorites, especially with age. Next up was the 2005 "Over and Out" pinot, the last one they made, followed by a Grenache- one of the newer ones, in the ridiculous bottles (2007?)- and then "The 17th Nail in My Forehead" Syrah which is also pretty brand new. With dessert we had a half bottle of Mr. K Viognier, which I think was 2005. I didn't write any of this down, and John took most of the bottles home for his archive. For all the hype, the reds didn't do anything for us; John's going to sell the rest of his, a decision I support. They're just not that special; I can think of much better ways to get an expensive hangover.

Like, You Know, Whatever

There's nothing quite so problem-solving as a chicken carcass in the fridge. Especially if it was spatchcocked, meaning the back is still raw and thus able to add extra collagen and unctch to the resulting stock. A few carrots (still those I dug before the freeze, though almost depleted), a piece of parsnip, half an onion, a dried shiitake, and some herbs made for a good base. I tossed in smashed garlic and ginger with about 30 minutes to go, and soaked some bean thread noodles.

While this had its rendezvous with destiny, I sautéed some king oyster and maitake mushrooms (first the one, then the other, later) with lardo and garlic until well-inflected with mahogany, and then added scallion, ponzu, white wine and some of the stock to reduce and sap the last resistance from the oyster stems. I removed them to a bowl and besprinkled of the minced cilantro.


















In the selfsame pan went a chiffonade of black kale, with more stock to finish. I simmered the noodles for a minute, then ladled them into bowls. Topped with stock, our own kimchi, kale, then fanned slices of our new duck prosciutto, it began to resemble good food. A glug of shoyu and a dollop of homemade sambal oelek for extra bass and treble helped it along. (These two added after the picture).




















First of all, these mushrooms. The umamitude was off the freaking charts; they had all the pupil-dilating, glutamatious whallop of a bag of BBQ-flavored potato chips. Impossible to stop wolfing. The cured, salty duck against the tangy, salty kimchi and heavily redolent sambal, with a chickeny-noodley foundation? Very nice. The crunch, and slurp, and chew, and heat, and tang, and depth, and bright garnishes. Handsome indeed, and more fetching still against the diaphanous yellow backdrop of a 2004 Bernhard Eifel Schweicher Annaberg Riesling "Alte Reben Vom Roten Schiefen." (Which means "You can see Poland from my house!")

It was kind of a lovely, snowy day today, after four days of beautiful, cold sunshine; winter is not without its beauty and soups like this do their part to make it even better. Having said that, I'm counting the days until it's over.