Halloween of Horrors

Trick or Treat has come and gone: Sir did his usual stirling job handing out sweets to a variety of small ghouls and goblins (vampyres were also heavily represented this year) while the Kid Squid lurked in the shrubbery alerting the candy-man to approaching customers via his walkie-talkie (our doorbell is out, and the munchkins have trouble knocking, for some reason.). We witnessed one novel approach to the traditional threat and/or supplication: a mother came to the door with a large pillowcase, explaining that she had taken over her cherub's rounds because he was 'in the van, tired of walking.' If it had been me on door duty, mom would have been sent packing, but Sir is a far more generous soul and coughed up the loot. He really is one in a million, is Sir - but I think it's the end of civilization, I really do.

Anyway, it was a very cold and windy night, and as a result business was a bit less brisk than usual, leaving us with several bags of unclaimed sugary delights. This is no great hardship, as I always make it a point to buy candy that, should there be a surplus, I myself will enjoy in the months to come. As the family settled down later to Cecil B. DeMille's technicolor extravaganza The Ten Commandments (after all, what better says 'Halloween' than Yul Brynner in a top knot and Charlton Heston in a fright wig?) I selected a few bags of my favorite goodies from the Trick or Treat bowl to enjoy during the festivities.

What girl can resist Twizzlers, I ask you? Not me, that's for sure. I am a red licorice fanatic. I mean, I really love the stuff, especially RJ's, the world's best, manufactured by gifted Kiwis in Levin, NZ. RJ's is quite rare in these parts: I have been known to buy bags of it wherever I happen to see it and smuggle it home wrapped in dirty laundry, like unpasteurized cheese or biltong. Usually I make do with Twizzlers, and mighty fine they are, too.

While Anne Baxter vamped it up in her best Egyptian-minx mode and I snacked happily away, the Kid Squid raised the alarm. 'Mom, are you sure Twizzlers don't have gluten in them?' Well, no, I hadn't checked the label because I thought there was no need: I had assumed red licorice was nothing more than corn syrup, gelatin, and chemical food coloring. Certainly nothing I needed to worry about! Something in the urgency of the Squid's tone of voice got me thinking, however, and I crept back to the bin to dig out the original packaging.

Of course, there it was. Right after corn syrup. The dreaded wheat flour. It was like a bad dream, which was appropriate, given the time of year, but most unwelcome just the same.

Leaving Charlton Heston halfway up the mountain, I scurried to the internet. Sure enough, wheat flour is the binding agent in most red licorice, even RJ's.  It was deja vu all over again, just like the soy sauce episode, only without the happy ending. There was no way I could kid myself into believing that gluten was not present in the final product, and every authority on the web agreed. Alas, and alack, no more of the licorice I love, although there appear to be several g/f varieties out there, made with rice flour.

When my wounds heal, I will probably send away for some.

Can you believe it? Neither can I.
It's an outrage.
My first gluten (accidentally ingested) since tasting
the Kid Squid's Barilla for doneness 
on Sept. 24 (thank you, Moleskine, for your peerless record-keeping)

Frangipane

I've been receiving lots of cake recipes from loyal readers, concerned no doubt that excessive Xanthan experimentation is having a deleterious effect on my mental well-being. 'Why are you re-inventing the wheel?' they ask, 'When there are loads of perfectly acceptable g/f recipes already out there?' My response to this entirely reasonable query is related to the problem caused by sudden, quack-imposed gluten-freedom in the first place. I saw so many stand-bys - so many of the things my family and I like to eat on a regular basis - suddenly disappear from the repertoire that my culinary equilibrium was seriously disturbed. My first priority was getting these things - the easy-to-make, comforting Sunday afternoon treats and week-day dinner staples - back on the menu.

Now that progress is being made in this vital area, I feel relaxed enough to start trying new and unfamiliar recipes. I've got quite a pile, now, and unless I start blogging twice a day I'm not going to get through them any time soon. Many require a trip to the shops for special ingredients and will need a bit of planning and/or a special occasion to justify a diversion from my daily g/f challenges. But I will get to all of them, I promise - keep 'em coming!

Recently, though, dear Toad - chef, baker, and cake decorator extraordinaire - deposited in my Inbox a recipe, which (given that rare combination of a spare hour, ingredients in-house, and the proper frame of mind) screamed out for immediate fabrication.  

The recipe, for the rich almond confection knows as frangipane, has some serious pedigree. Toad learned it at l'Academie de Cuisine in Gaithersburg, MD (Top Chef fans will know it as the school where Carla Hall of Season 5 did some of her training). She learned the recipe during a pastry course taught by Mark Ramsdell, who in turn learned it from Roland Mesnier, head pastry chef at the White House until 2004.

By my reckoning, this lineage puts anybody who makes the cake less that six degrees away from both Padma Lakshmi and George W. Bush. I think that in itself is sufficient reason to drop everything and commence baking immediately.

I ignored the fact that I would utterly exhaust my already-depleted stores of butter, almond flour, and eggs, and got underway. The original recipe was not gluten-free, but Toad reported that she had made it so by substituting corn starch for the wheat flour with no difficulty. I had no corn starch on hand so I used white rice flour (the same stuff I used for my g/f profiteroles) with excellent results. I also didn't have quite enough almond flour, and found 7 oz. was sufficient for my needs.

I served the cake warm with powdered sugar to rave reviews. For company, the addition of brandied cherries, confited oranges, high-quality ice cream, warm chocolate sauce, or any other delectable accompaniment would be smashing. The Kid Squid said it was perfect the way it was, and that's good enough for me.

Frangipane

• 2 sticks (8 oz.) butter
• 8 oz. sugar
• 7 - 8 oz. almond flour
• 5 eggs
• 1 tablespoon lemon or orange zest
• 2 tablespoons rum (I used Cointreau instead)
• 1 teaspoon vanilla
• 1.5 oz rice flour or corn starch (you could also use wheat flour, of course)

Preheat the oven to 350 deg F. Butter a cake pan (8x8 or 9x9) and line the bottom with silicon, waxed, or parchment paper.

Cream together the butter and sugar. I used my electric handmixer, but in retrospect the standmixer would have worked fine and taken a lot less effort. Add the almond flour and beat it all together. Add two of the eggs and combine well. Add two more eggs, ditto. Add the final egg.

Add the zest and the flavorings. Finally, beat in the flour.

Pour into the prepared pan and bake for about 40 minutes or until it's done. Cool it on a cake rack - I turned it out of the pan while it was still warm so I could remove the paper and get slicing prontissimo.

The frangipane (cross-sectioned) before beautification:
note the golden marzipan-like interior,
redolent of almonds and butter.
Pads and W. would be so proud!

Just Desserts, Episode 7: Ye Olde Gluten Shoppe

According to The Shoes and The Pompadour, Restaurant Wars is the Top Chef episode most anticipated by fans. If they say so, it must be true! Moleskin and I settled ourselves comfortably with a cup of Earl Grey and the usual prurient sense of anticipation, eager to see how the highly-strung and, let’s be honest, mentally-unhinged pastry cheftestants would rise to the challenge, usually so rich with recriminations and under-the-busings. They did pretty well, all things considered, with less bickering and back-stabbing than is customary. The most exciting part, it transpired, was when The Shoes referred to Team Rainbow’s empty display case as a vitrine, cocking her eyebrow ironically as she did so. Moleskine and I always cheer when Gail exhibits her whimsical side.

Maybe drama was lacking because the gang didn’t actually have to open restaurants, but bakery-cafes where the vast majority of the fare was produced beforehand. Having only one cook in the kitchen definitely seems to have its advantages! With so few theatrics to entertain us, and bored with the usual layer cakes, doughnuts  and fried pies (what is it with Morgan and his freaking fried pies?) Moleskine and I were left to consider the ultimate futility of such establishments for gluten-freedom fighters such as ourselves.

The fact is, I have not been out to eat since the dictated-by-the-powers-that-be-anti-gluten-regime was instituted last month. Upon reflection, that’s not strictly true – at various power lunches and breakfasts demanded by my rather unusual employment, I have sipped coffee whilst watching (with some discomfort, it must be said) others gobble pancakes, eggs Benedict, cheesesteak sandwiches, and burgers-with-everything. I have not yet visited an eatery where the term ‘gluten-free’ is likely to be understood, much less catered for: this is a challenge still to come.

Nonetheless, I like to torture myself occasionally by visiting Wegmans' bakery counter to see what I’m missing. I’m continually put out by the casual disregard of us poor g/freers as would-be-customers. Even a well-known local vegan patisserie, famous up and down the East Coast for the amazing deliciousness of its offerings and recommended to me by my pal The Crusading Young Lawyer from the Big City, typically has only one gluten-free offering in its display case (sorry, vitrine). The last time I visited, the single wheatless gateau was obscured by a snowy avalanche of coconut, possibly my least favorite ingredient in the culinary universe. It was one of the more dispiriting experiences of the last several weeks, and devoted readers know there have been many of those.

Is it too much to ask bakeries and cafes to offer up one or two g/f treats as sops to the punters who would like to sit there imbibing something more than coffee? 'I have a dream,' Steve Martin once said, 'Not a big dream, a little dream.' I would like to stop having to carry my own food out to lunch.

Living in the Stone Age

During the past several weeks I have often wondered how gluten - indispensable to so many of my favorite foods - could be so unthinking and callous as to make my life a misery. To put it another way, why would my auto-immune system take it upon itself to persecute a substance capable of producing such happiness and conviviality? Either way, it seemed most unfair and I took it upon myself to find some answers.

I read all about celiac disease and how it is often said to be more prevalent in Ireland than anywhere else in the world, due to the relatively late adoption there of grains as dietary staples. I investigated the heroic Dutch pediatrician Willem Karel Dicke, who noticed that children who had been relatively healthy during the German occupation suddenly fell ill and ceased to thrive when American planes started dropping bread bombs all over the place. I learned far more about leukocytes, lymphocytes, and prolamins than could ever be considered desirable or, indeed, decent.

But I couldn't get a handle on the complete picture, until I discovered an explanation (quite by accident, as often happens) in Bill Bryson's admirable new book At Home: A Short History of Private Life, which I downloaded onto my Kindle just a few short days ago. Whilst holding forth on the Neolithic move from hunter-gatherer nomadism to sedentism (which is what experts in the biz call it when people live in settled, immovable communities), Bryson detours to a potted history of the development of early agriculture. Fascinatingly enough, it appears that sedentism came before cereal domestication, not the other way around, which is the sort of finding ethnographers and their ilk dub 'counterintuitive'. The point is, once humans started to farm crops rather than search for nuts and berries, as it were, they [the humans] became almost immediately shorter, more malnourished, and exceedingly disease-prone.

How anthropologists can possibly know this is a bit of a mystery to me, but I guess that's why they're authorities and I'm not. One thing they do know is why. With sedentism, early humans become reliant on a much smaller range of foods - 'the three great domesticated crops of prehistory'  - all of which have serious deficiencies as dietary staples. Rice inhibits the activity of Vitamin A; corn (maize) is sadly lacking in essential amino acids; and wheat (I sat up sharply in my chair at this point) has a 'chemical' (I assume this is a reference to gluten) that stunts growth and impedes the action of zinc. 

And here's the thing. All the nutritional disasters that plagued our Neolithic ancestors as a result of their settling down are still with us today. There are an estimated thirty thousand types of edible plants on the planet, and just eleven of them (many of them nutritionally wanting or problematic in some way or another) account for 93% of all the food we eat. Bryson concludes, 'We may sprinkle our dishes with bay leaves and chopped fennel, but underneath it is all Stone Age food. And when we get sick, it is Stone Age diseases we suffer.'

So really, it's not me, but the Cavewoman in me that can't eat gluten. And I find that immensely comforting - not least because she didn't have bay leaves and chopped fennel and I do.

Neatsy Keen-wa

Last night, for the first time ever, I cooked quinoa.

Campers, you may be aghast at this omission in my culinary repertoire, but there it is. I suppose I've always eschewed quinoa as excessively earthy-crunchy - possibly even a bit faddy - and not at all reflective of my esculentary style. It's not as though I was unaware of the pseudocereal's amazing health benefits and spectacular nutritional value: famously packed with protein, magnesium, and iron its amazing grain-like seeds are also gluten-free. Nor was I ignorant of quinoa's noble history and cultural significance in many pre-Columbian societies ('The miracle grain that built the Inca Empire!' is how The Nutritionist put it to me). Nonetheless, my irrational prejudice has kept me from cooking it until now - irrational prejudice plus the fact that I was pretty sure the youngest member of the family would hate it. Adamantly.

Having said all this, I am fairly sure I once ate quinoa. Straight off a seven-hour flight to see the Rels, I have a vague memory of SiL cooking up a batch for our annual Welcome-Back-to-Blighty dinner. She was on a bit of a diet tear at the time, as I recall, and prepared the grains with chicken and apricots. I regret to report the experience was not a terribly memorable one, jet-lagged as we were, and SiL never prepared quinoa again, having renounced the health kick and moved on to more popular dishes such as prawn Vindaloo and the Kid Squid's favorite, Chili Con Carnage.

So, quinoa slipped off my radar until a couple of weeks ago, when my favorite New Jersey nut shop started pushing, on its website, the organic red variety. Since a faint heart never won the gluten-free day, I broke down and bought a pound. When it arrived, I was forced to admit it was quite appealing, its rich mahogany color glowing from within the confines of its windowed blue pouch. The aroma was pleasantly nutty and it was fun plunging my fingers into the bag and feeling the smooth little grains wiggle about.

I soon discovered the seeds' deceitful nature, however, when several promptly made a bid for freedom, leaping off the counter and scampering about on the kitchen floor like miniature versions of the airsoft BBs I am forever finding underfoot. Too small to be seen easily or vacuumed efficiently, I believe there are some fugitives hiding in nooks and crannies still.

I decided to prepare the quinoa as simply as possible, reasoning that eating it in its natural form would be more likely to inspire future applications. I found basic handling instructions in the Gourmet cookbook (the newish green one, not the older yellow one). I decided to cook one cup's worth and set to work. First, as directed, I rinsed the quinoa in four changes of cold water to cleanse the grains of any residual saponins that might have escaped the nut shop's attention. This proved to be slightly more problematic than anticipated, as the little rascals re-asserted their independence by escaping through the holes in my medium-sized sieve and sticking to every surface with which they came into contact. I eventually dumped the remaining victims into three quarts of boiling salted water, where they bubbled away for ten minutes. I drained them, rinsed them again, wrapped them in cheesecloth, and steamed them for an additional twenty minutes. They emerged slightly swelled, dry, and fluffy, having retained their alluring red-brown color and taken on a far more contrite attitude.

The cooked quinoa grains: I steamed them in a
cheesecloth-lined colander with great success

I fluffed the quinoa with a fork, added a little nubbin of butter, salt, and pepper, and served the finished product as a side dish with thinly sliced beef and roasted broccoli. The Kid Squid dutifully ate a couple of bites, politely declined the rest, and got himself some couscous instead. Sir and I agreed that it took a little getting used to, but that it grew on one with the eating. The quinoa had a distinct and unexpected flavor, partly nutty and partly indescribable. The seeds, instead of being strictly crunchy, made an amusing little 'pop!' between the teeth.

In the end, Sir and I decided quinoa was worth a second try - probably when the Kid Squid is dining elsewhere. I will create a pilaf, I think, possibly with pine nuts and some dried fruit, which could be plumped with the grains during steaming.  I shall cook it in SiL's honor and call it Quinoa a la Bowness (all rights reserved).

Chemistry Set

Last Wednesday, whilst pondering gluten-free cooking in general and the Xanthan Conundrum in particular, I recounted how up-to-the-minute chefs have been dropping by the science faculty at Harvard University to teach ignorant undergraduates a thing or two about chemistry and physics via the medium of food science. Over the weekend I was musing about how I would dearly love to go to Harvard and study with Professors Dufresne and Achatz, even though the film 'Social Network' made that venerable educational institution look like a bit of a hell hole, frankly. Suddenly, a eureka moment! I didn't need to go Crimson to experiment with molecular gastronomy - I had the means in my very own kitchen, thanks to Albert and Ferran Adria and the good people at Dean and Deluca.

I am speaking of my chemistry set.

My chemistry set, or more punctiliously, my MiniKit Sferificacion, was purchased some time ago because, living in the hinterlands as I do, I was relatively certain that if I wanted to experience the molecularly gastronomic delights of airs, foams, and spherical comestibles, I was going have to make them myself. History has borne me out on this one: local restaurants have yet to embrace even a modicum of innovation in the kitchen, despite the fact that the craze for freeze-dried mayonnaise and deconstructed sauce Bearnaise has already come and gone everywhere else on the planet. Thankfully, I have now encountered these marvels in more forward-thinking parts of the world, and I suppose that is the reason why the chemistry set has been languishing in a forgotten corner of my Metro shelving, the urgency of experimentation having diminished somewhat. Also, I confess to having been a little bit afraid when I first read the blurb inside the box: what if, like Frankenstein, I let loose forces beyond my control? 

In my new spirit of adventure, unleashed by the gluten-free gods, I decided to give my chemistry set a second look. I dug it out from its hiding place beneath the bread bin and brushed a few of last year's Christmas tree needles off the lid (to get the tree in and out of the house, we have to drag it through the kitchen).  The fact that the MiniKit's promo materials were in Spanish did little to reassure me, although I just about comprehended the stipulation of infinitas posibilidades para ampliar su abanico de elaboraciones. With some hesitation, I opened the jet-black lid.

Imagine my shock/horror when the first thing that caught my eye was a tin of Xanthan gum (known to the Adrias as Xantana). Well, at least it was a familiar ingredient, even if it has been causing me nothing but angst for the last six weeks or so. I delved deeper into the box's inky recesses. I found Algin (vital for producing the edible spheres that made the Adrias a household name - in my household, anyway); Gluco (also for spherification); Agar for gelatins (ho hum) and Lecite for making air (now that's more like it!). I also discovered nifty little lab gadgets, such as a syringe for making caviar out of grape juice or tomato water (or any other substance you can call to mind), a larger round spoon for dosing out marbles (ditto); and a perforated spoon for collecting spherical preparations from their algin baths. What fun!

Suddenly, instead of fear I am overwhelmed with excitement. Molecular gastronomy will be a valuable complement, I believe, to my gluten-free R &D, if only because I will benefit from an enhanced understanding of some of the insane ingredients with which I am compelled to work. Also, I think it will be very, very cool. So, what first? Asparagus spheres with a quail's egg 'yolk'? A fruit salad garnished with muscatel marbles? Perhaps a fillet of salmon with lemon air or shoyu jelly.

Who needs gluten when such delights await?

The MiniKit Sferificacion:
watch this space for exciting developments!

Stovies

Since the gluten-free pasta situation is still in a fluxious state, we've been eating a lot of potatoes chez Fractured Amy.  I tend to bake the tubers six or eight at a time for a dinner of what Sir insists on calling 'jacket potatoes' followed by mash a day or two later. This time of year, though, the Russets start to get big and bold and suddenly six potatoes are more than three people can comfortably eat over two meals. Faced with a second bowl of leftover mash this morning, I considered my options and hit upon that olde Scots standby, stovies.

Now, stovies should not be confused with bubble and squeak (potatoes and cabbage, English version), colcannon (potatoes and cabbage, Irish version); rumbledethumps (potatoes and cabbage, Scottish Borders version), or panackelty (corned beef and potatoes, Geordie version). The name, fittingly enough, is derived from the Scots for 'stew'. The dish is traditionally made by frying up potatoes and onions in some sort of animal fat and adding leftover stew or whatever bits and bobs are remaindered from the Sunday roast. They are best when served up hot from the oven with lots of black pepper. I know, I know. They are gluten-free, not calorie or cholesterol-free.

There is nothing highfalutin' about stovies. My favorite version used to come from the chip shop up the road from my Edinburgh office, where they were served unashamedly in styrofoam cups at lunchtime. Despite their humble origins, however, they often appear on the menus of fine Scottish and northern English restaurants (tarted up, of course) and have a wide and somewhat fanatical fan base (Facebook's Stovies Appreciation Society had 3,367 members at last count). I attribute stovies' popularity to their warming, comforting appeal and the delicious aroma that fills the kitchen when they are in the oven.

The trouble I had writing that last paragraph leads me to a question: is stovies singular or plural? According to the Scots-English dictionary helpfully provided online by Wikipedia, it is plural in English and singular in Scots. That figures. What it is in American, heaven only knows.

Here is how I made the stovies for breakfast this morning. I started with some spare uncooked bacon from a dinner of spaghetti carbonara I prepared a couple of nights ago (made with De Boles' corn spaghetti - sadly, the technique for cooking g/f spaghetti still needs some work, or I would have shared it long before now). I chopped up the bacon and browned it in an ovenproof skillet. Upon removing the slightly crispy lardons from the pan, I added a chopped onion to the bacon fat, seasoned it with thyme, and cooked it over a medium-low heat until soft and sweet. I reintroduced the bacon, stirred it around for a minute, then spread the mashed potatoes over the top (they were already well-seasoned with salt and pepper from an earlier dinner). The pan went into a 375 deg F oven for about 15 minutes, where the potatoes puffed up and became nicely golden and toasty. The result was almost sliceable, with lovely distinct layers - although it's perfectly appropriate to dollop stovies into a bowl using a soup ladle.

Sir reported feeling like a Lanarkshire coal miner during the feast, and actually used the word 'fodder' to describe the dish before him (I'm pretty sure he meant this in a positive way, as in 'good wholesome fodder'). I decided they tasted good enough to ignore the fact that I could hear my arteries slamming shut. And the Kid Squid, allowing that they were a nice change from plain mash, snarfed his in about thirty seconds flat.

I may need to start baking Russets ten at a time.


Stovies fresh from the oven:
muckle braw!

Toffee Without the Crisp

My favorite candy bar in the world is a Toffee Crisp. Lovingly manufactured in picturesque West Yorkshire by the venerable Nestle company, they may be found in neat rows in the exotic international food aisle at my local supermarket. Snug in their bright orange wrappers with bold yellow lettering, they are the unmistakable heralds of joy and toothsome satisfaction. Their construction is simple enough: crispy rice bits embedded in chewy toffee, the whole enrobed in milk chocolate. Soft but not sticky, crunchy and creamy, sweet but not overly so, they are the perfect balance of texture and flavor, the slightly salty caramel offset by the sweet chocolate. They are ambrosial.

And, needless to say, laden with gluten. I haven't had one in over five weeks.

Luckily, caramels (which is only what the Brits call toffee) are one of those things the home cook can knock off with relative ease. Boil up some sugar until it turns brown, add some dairy, maybe cut up the result, dip the pieces in chocolate and you're done. But, as with life itself, there are abundant hidden pitfalls and traps. Cold flow, for example. The first several times I made caramels (this was years ago), I had to keep them in the refrigerator so they wouldn't lose their shape. They were delicious and creamy but refused to maintain their cubic appearance, insistently devolving into wobbly pancakes at room temperature. Coating them in chocolate encouraged them to stay three-dimensional, but only to a point. I fretted about this for some time before discovering the Maillard reaction, the key to deliciousness in many browned foods including chocolate, amber ale, seared meats, and bread crusts (not that I've been eating many of those lately). And caramels.

For a perfect caramel, the amino acids in the milk proteins must be coaxed, through the application of heat and time, to combine with lactose and other sugars to brown, toast, and enter toffee heaven. The more time that can be devoted to this project, the more enigmatic the roasted flavor will be. This complex nonenzymatic browning is the Maillard reaction. A beneficial side effect of the procedure, which requires a high proportion of milk solids, is that the resulting confections will hold their shape at virtually any temperature. 

It took some effort to find a caramel recipe par excellence, but I hit pay dirt with the purchase of Chocolates and Confections, published by the Culinary Institute of America. This praiseworthy (if fiendishly expensive) volume is a must for all candy-makers, although several of the recipes are beyond my humble skills and many of the ingredients unavailable without extensive web research.

The soft caramel recipe would seem to be simplicity itself, but I admit to many disasters before devising a foolproof method that works every time in my domestic setting. Although the ingredients are straightforward, I have found that fabrication requires precision and careful timing. Make sure your mis en place is completely prepared before you even contemplate heating anything up.

You will require some specialist equipment: a candy thermometer; a spaghetti pot (do not even think of using one that holds less than ten quarts); a large heavy-gauge saucepan (3 quarts is ample); and of course, kitchen scales. All the ingredients (even the dairy) are measured by weight - those are not liquid ounces in the ingredients list!

You will also need time. When last I made these (yesterday, as it happened, my Toffee Crisp withdrawal symptoms having become unbearable) I stood at the stove stirring, by my watch, for just over forty minutes.  A good toffee cannot be rushed.

Proper caramels: note their shape-holding
powers, even at room temperature

Here, then, is how to make the most delicious caramels ever. Dare I say it? They are better than a Toffee Crisp.

The World's Best Chewy Caramels

• 12 oz. sugar
• 24 oz. (by weight) whole milk
• 1 vanilla bean
• 5 oz. (by weight) heavy cream
• 10 oz. (by weight) corn syrup
• 1 oz. butter
• one-half teaspoon salt
• optional flavoring of your choice

One 8 inch x 8 inch cake pan, buttered and lined with silicon or parchment paper, also buttered. Put the cake pan on a cooling rack: its bottom is going to get very hot! Lay out the corn syrup, butter, salt, and flavoring separately somewhere near the stove. Also have your saucepan standing by.

Start out with your spaghetti pot. Mix together the sugar, milk and heavy cream and dump them in. Scrape the goodness out of the vanilla bean and add it and the pod to the pot as well. Turn on the heat to medium and keep stirring with your longest wooden spoon until the mixture comes to the boil. Every so often you will want to scrape down the sides of the pot with a spatula to keep the milk from burning at the edges.

When you have reached boilage, add the corn syrup. Continue to heat, stirring constantly. I have to alternate between medium and high heat to keep things going - this is actually the trickiest part. You want it to boil, but not too furiously. A nice even bubbling is the goal. When you make these the first time, you will want to pop in your candy thermometer at this point - on subsequent occasions, you will not need to do this until the very end.

The mixture goes through several fascinating transmogrifications during cooking. It will take ages to get up to about 210 deg F, at which point the brew will suddenly bubble up and quadruple in size - which is why you need the spaghetti pot. If it looks like it's going to boil over, turn down the heat briefly - not too long, or you will be unable to sustain the high temperature. Keep monitoring, and you'll get the hang of it: I keep one hand on the gas dial at this stage, alternating between medium and high heat. Don't let these maneuvers distract you from your stirring, which must be ongoing the entire time! Suddenly, at around 220 deg F, the moisture will evaporate, the solids will start browning, and the mixture will retreat to the bottom of the pan, making it difficult to use your candy thermometer or keep the caramel from scorching.

At this point, decant the whole lot into your waiting saucepan, taking care not to burn yourself with the sticky magma. It will cool a bit during the transfer, but that's not a problem. Return to the heat ASAP, restore the candy thermometer to its post, and keep stirring furiously.

As soon as the mixture reaches 230 deg F, add the butter. At this point, things start happening very fast. Scorching becomes a real danger as the Maillard reaction gets into full swing and the temperature begins to shoot up. Keep stirring and scraping with all your might. If you hear sizzling or see brown streaks, lower the heat for a few seconds, and stir like mad. You will probably  need to raise the heat again to get to your final desired temperature of 240 deg F.

When your thermometer reads 240 deg F, move as though your life depended on it. Stir in the salt and remove the vanilla bean. If you want to add a flavoring, such as orange or coffee, now's the time to do it (no more than a tablespoon or so). Pour the mixture into your prepared tin ASAP.

Wait until completely cool before inverting onto a cutting board and peeling off the paper. You may then cut and adorn the caramels to your heart's content. I like one-inch squares, left plain or drizzled with chocolate, maybe sprinkled with a bit of fleur de sel. They are sublime.

Just Desserts, Episode 6: Ode to Le Bernardin

I settled down with the latest installment of Just Desserts with few hopes for anything other than the usual shameless product placement and pastry cheftestant craziness. I was not disappointed in either regard. But did I mind that the quickfire was a bizarre one-pot challenge dreamed up solely to promote our sponsor, some washing-up liquid whose name I can't remember? Did I mind the feeble accusations of sabotage? Did I mind Team Rainbow's ridiculous one-upmanship?

I did not. All this silliness was an nothing when the guest judge entered the Top Chef kitchen, revealing himself to be none other than the great Michael Laiskonis, head creator of dessertful delights at Le Bernardin, Eric Ripert's Manhattan temple to all things fishy.  I admit to ignoring much of what came later on the show itself, as I was deep in reverie, admiring Chef Laiskonis' chiseled bone structure and elegant suit, pondering Le Bernardin's mystical - nay, spiritual - magic. It doesn't matter where I am or how awful my day is going: all I have to do is meditate on one of the many spectacular lunches I have enjoyed there and, Zen-like, I become tranquil and at peace with the world.

What is it about Le Bernardin that fills me with such a sense of well-being?

Well, there's the setting, to start with: beautifully understated decor; gorgeous seasonal flower arrangements; perfect lighting; comfortable chairs; and the most elegant ladies' loo in New York. Not too noisy, not too quiet. If you sit towards the back, the people-watching is superb. DMR and I (my dining companion at Le Bernardin is almost always DMR) once saw a young Japanese guy in torn jeans and a baseball cap drop a cool thousand dollars or so (at lunch! mid-week!) on the tasting menu with wine pairing. We must assume he was a Sony heir - or maybe the sole owner of the rights to Metal Gear Solid. One dishevelled-looking gentleman with a cardboard belt (clearly a regular) could only have been a Greek shipping tycoon. There's the usual masters of the universe, doing deals and rigging the markets over champagne and oysters. And of course, the lucky lady-who-lunches might meet Chef himself (as I once did), resplendent in immaculate whites and flashing that movie star smile. For a couple of gals straight off the Trans-Bridge bus from the rhubarbs, it's divine.

The service is often touted as being 'French', but I have no idea what that means. I've heard complaints that it's cold and stand-offish, but that is a tragic misreading of the situation. True, the waiters emphatically do not introduce themselves or ask you how your day is going - but they are knowledgeable and professional and can answer any question you care to put to them. The service is quiet and understated, subtle and refined. You never have to do anything uncouth like ask for more water or the bill: just cock an eyebrow at the nearest staff member (they're all men, except for one or two of the sommeliers) and your wish will be fulfilled without your having to say a word. Courses are brought with optimum timing: just as you've finished enjoying your starter, had a sip of wine and a bit of conversation, and are thinking, 'Hmmm ... I think I'm ready for my main course' - abracadabra! - it magically appears. To eat at Le Bernardin is to be taken care of. It's heaven.

Did I mention the food? Some might say it's dull or boring, that it doesn't bowl you over with flash or explosive flavours. Again, a foolish misinterpretation. The food is perfection - a  hymn to the freshest ingredients, deceptively simple in its precise presentation, completely modern in its sensibility. Yes, the flavours are subtle: you really have to pay attention to what you're eating. But shouldn't you always? And here's the thing. I always feel really well after a meal at Le Bernardin. Well as in healthy and lively, ready for a brisk walk up 5th Avenue, rather than weighed down and needing a nap. I always assumed it was because, piscatorial as the menu tends to be, there is very little richness or fat in the cooking (Chef Laiskonis' bacon ice cream notwithstanding). But now, I have a different theory. Apart from the odd crouton or petit four, a beautiful meal at Le Bernardin can easily be gluten-free.

The stars are aligned and the heavens happily spinning in their spheres. A meal at Le Bernardin means that all is as it should be. DMR and I have just made a date for lunch in December.

More on the Xanthan Conundrum

Xanthan gum, the bane of the gluten-freedom fighter's existence - or my existence, anyway - has had a lot of press lately. I'm sorry to report that very little of this publicity has been of the positive kind. I'm not unduly astonished by this negative attention, since my own relationship with the substance is, shall we say, highly ambivalent. Widely regarded as necessary for all gluten-free bakers, the dreaded Xg has nonetheless caused me quite a bit of grief in three-quarters of my experiments to date. I am deeply gratified to discover I am not alone in my pain.

The first occasion of Xg ballyhoo was during this past Sunday's episode of the Food Network's Next Iron Chef. Poor Mary Dumont, eager to flex her 'resourcefulness' muscles, stupefied the judges with the pineapple sauce for her scorpion fish tartare. 'I put just a little xanthan gum in it,' she explained, rather defensively I thought. She added it as a thickener, presumably, since enhancing viscosity is one of the things xanthan gum does best. Alton Brown's incredulous, 'A little?!' could only be appreciated by one such as myself, who has experienced first-hand - and on multiple occasions - the throat-coating metallic awfulness that an excess of Xg perpetrates on the unwary diner. Much as I admire Chef Dumont, in my opinion her overuse of xanthan gum was far too egregious an error to overlook and the judges agreed. I admit I felt a twinge of schadenfreude as she exited through the Chairman's black Curtain of Doom, a great chef brought down by the evil with which I have been struggling for weeks.

The second time xanthan gum came bobbing into my consciousness was when my dear friend Toad forwarded me an excellent article from that source of all knowledge and wisdom, The New York Times. The piece was all about a new Harvard undergraduate science course that teaches the basics of physics and chemistry through food science and molecular gastronomy. Visiting professors like Wylie Dufresne and Grant Achatz drop by the lab to give guest lectures on Parmesan noodles, fruit gelees, and olive oil jelly. Now that is an educational initiative I can really get behind! Toad and I are planning to enroll tout de suite.

One comment leapt from the page, however. During experiments on the aforementioned olive oil jelly (an invention of Carlos Tejedor from - where else? - Barcelona), instructors substituted guar gum for Xg, the original choice. Why? A postdoctoral researcher described the problem:

'At high concentrations, [xanthan gum] has strange properties we couldn't explain.'

Wait a minute. Did I hear that right? Are Harvard chemists telling us that xanthan gum behaves in ways unknown to science? Xanthan gum has defeated some of the best minds of our generation. This was one of my biggest 'AHA' moments of the last five weeks! Suddenly it all became clear, all my trials and tribulations: why xanthan gum was clearly required in some circumstances but not in others, seemingly identical; why even a pinch can be too much, despite the recommended dose of a half-teaspoon per cup of flour. The answer is so simple.

We're not supposed to understand. It's a mystery. Inexplicable. Defying all logic and scientific explanation.

Mind you, I can't say I'm the least bit surprised.

Yes, I Will Have No Scrambled Eggs With My Sponge

Having produced an excellent gluten-free all-in-one-sponge, fillings must now be considered. The plain vanilla sponge has many admirable qualities, but it is, as Bill Bryson would say, only 'cautiously flavorful'. It's all about butter and texture - and acting as a foil for the awesome things you layer inside. The most basic fillings are jam and whipped cream, but for company I like to tart things up a bit with lemon curd and buttercream.

Lemon Curd

Home-made lemon curd is tart and zingy, smooth and silky and very, very simple to make. I've been given many recipes over the years, all exactly the same (maybe there is only one recipe in the whole world!). Everybody loves it, even kids. And it is so veddy, veddy English. Imagine you are lazing by the Cherwell on a fine June day, watching the punts gliding by ...

You can substitute any kind of citrus for the lemon, of course, but I like to stick with the classics.

• 1 large lemon: de-zested and juiced
• 2 large egg yolks
• 3 oz. sugar
• 2 oz. room temperature butter, cut into bits

In a bowl, whisk together the lemon juice and the eggs. Combine the lemon zest and the sugar in another bowl that will fit atop a saucepan of simmering water like a double boiler. Actually, it is a double boiler. Pour the juice/egg mixture over the sugar and mix it up, then add the butter bits. Stir over the simmering water (heat on low) until the mixture is beautifully thick and and glossy - it can take a while, so be patient. Do not be tempted to turn the heat up, or you will get lemon-flavored scrambled eggs. You will eventually be able to draw your stirring utensil across the bottom of the bowl and make a clean channel for a few seconds. It can take 15 minutes or so.

Remove from the heat, decant to a different bowl, and cool before using: it will continue to thicken in the fridge. If you see some coagulated strands of egg white (it happens to the best of us), you can strain them out through a fine-meshed sieve or cheesecloth before the curd cools completely, and nobody will ever know.


Julia Child's Creme au Beurre, a L'Anglaise

There are a bazillion recipes for buttercream out there, but this is the one I use almost exclusively. It's rich and velvety and most importantly, in my opinion, not too sweet. An excellent complement for jam or lemon curd, and totally completely amazing in French macarons. But that is a whole 'nother story.

• 1/3 cup granulated sugar
• 2 egg yolks
• 1/4 cup hot milk
• 4 oz. butter at room temperature (maybe a little more: have some extra standing by)
• optional flavoring (1 tablespoon is sufficient): melted chocolate, vanilla, orange liqueur, coffee, etc.

In a bowl, gradually beat the sugar into the egg yolks with your electric mixer. Keep at it until the mixture is pale and very thick, doing the ribbon thing. Beat in the hot milk very gradually (don't cook the eggs!).

When that's done, transfer the whole lot into a saucepan and apply medium heat while stirring constantly with your beloved wooden spoon. You are now making custard. The mixture will thicken so that it will coat the back of your spoon at around 165 deg F. Don't turn your heat too high or you will get scrambled eggs - are we detecting a theme, here? I use the medium gas setting until it gets quite warm, then turn it down to low while it thickens. Keep stirring!

When you have custardization, remove the pan from the heat and pour the contents into a cool bowl. Julia says the bowl should be sitting on ice, and who are we to disagree? Beat the custard with your electric mixer until it's room temperature. Then, add the butter bit by bit, beating prestissimo all the while, until it's all incorporated and your buttercream is smooth and creamy and luxurious.

NB I do not use a standmixer for this! I find that it is insufficiently vigorous and doesn't keep the entire mixture in constant motion as needs require: even using my electric handmixer, I get a bit tired during this stage. Don't ask me how they did this before electricity - a galley slave with a whisk and tennis elbow, I suppose.

If the mixture starts to curdle, don't panic - that's what the extra butter is for. Keep beating in butter bits until you have liftoff, then (to mix a metaphor) add any optional flavour that floats your boat. The buttercream might need to be refrigerated for a bit until it's thick enough to spread. If you have any left over, it freezes beautifully. It is horrifyingly delicious straight from the bowl.

Kitchen Sponge

It was a banner weekend chez Fractured Amy, since Sir finally returned from Tokyo just in time to celebrate his birthday. A cake was required for the festivities and the birthday boy, as per tradition, was given free choice. A flourless chocolate cake, perhaps? Maybe a dacquoise or a meringue? Something gluten-free, of course.

Imagine my palpitations when the man-of-the-house insisted that only a humble jam sponge would do.

I need to parse this request for Colonial readers. A sponge is a simple English cake made with butter, sugar, eggs, and flour - and not much else: the texture is hard to describe, as its equivalent is unknown on this side of the Atlantic. The flavour and color are similar to poundcake, but it has an airier texture and a coarser crumb. A good sponge is very light and melty. As long as it's refrigerated, it has excellent keeping abilities - and can even be frozen with no ill effects. Sponges are traditionally served at tea time, split and filled with jam and/or cream and dusted with powdered sugar. They are, as the saying goes, top-ho.

And, needless to say, full of gluten. I have not baked a proper sponge since gluten-freedom was imposed from above over a month ago.

Never one to be deterred by such concerns, I set to work with a will. I have always used a classic all-in-one sponge recipe that was given to me when I was first married by a friend who felt my English husband would not be satisfied otherwise. In adapting the recipe, I considered some lessons gleaned from my madeleine experiments. First, a small amount of xanthan gum would be required, although far less than the usually-recommended 1/2 tsp. per cup of flour, which causes a dreadful metallic aftertaste and molar-coating sliminess. Second, the recipe would need either more moisture or less flour, to avoid the corn-bread texture problem that perennially plagues the user of g/f flour - or plagues me, anyway.

I was astonished to get it right after only three cakes. The first was quite reasonable but had a slightly heavy texture and did not rise properly in the middle. I attributed this to a deficit of baking powder and a lack of moisture. I remedied the situation by adding an additional half teaspoon of baking powder and 3 tablespoons of water to the second batch of sponge batter. While I was thrilled with the result (an evenly-risen, light and airy sponge), Sir was convinced he could taste the excess baking powder.  Dismayed, I glared at the baking powder tin accusingly, only to discover the contents were well past their best-by date. 

The final perfect cake was produced with fresh baking powder (the original amount) and extra water.  The result was very, very delicious, and gobbled up happily by all concerned.

It must be recorded, in the interest of full disclosure, that when Sir sliced himself a second (or was it a third?) piece of cake, he accidentally did so from the sponge with extra baking powder, and did not notice the difference.

Classic All-in-One Gluten-Free Sponge

• 4 oz. gluten-free all-purpose baking flour
• 2.5 teaspoons very fresh baking powder (otherwise 3 tsp.)
• scant 1/8 tsp. xanthan gum
• 4 oz. sugar
• 4 oz. butter, softened at room temperature
• 2 large eggs
• 2-3 drops vanilla extract
• a few tablespoons of warm water

Preheat the oven to 325 deg F and butter an 8-inch round cake pan. Line with parchment/silicon paper and butter that, too.

Sift the flour, baking powder, xanthan gum and sugar several times into a reasonably large mixing bowl. Cream the butter a bit to soften, then add it and the eggs to the dry mix, beating with your best electric handmixer until it's creamy. The final compound should drop with a spludge when you tap a wooden-spoonful of it onto the side of the bowl: I find with g/f flour, you need to add a full 2 or 3 tblsp. of warm water to get the consistency right. It will not be a thin batter like many American cakes: it is a thick mixture the consistency of, say, creamy smooth mashed potatoes.

Glop the batter into the prepared pan - you will need a spatula for this. Spread the mixture right to the edges of the pan and flatten out any obvious molehills.

Bake for 30 minutes or until it's done. Upon removing it from the oven, let it cool ever-so-briefly, then flip it onto a cake rack and remove the paper so to the sponge can cool completely. You can split it and fill with whatever you like or bake two and pile one on t'other with deliciousness in between. Sir likes strawberry jam and buttercream; I am a lemon curd/whipped cream sort of girl. You can keep any leftover cake in the fridge.

NB A wonderful gluten-filled sponge may be produced by substituting 4 oz. self-raising flour for the g/f flour, baking powder and xanthan gum. In that case, you will probably not need to add additional water. The method is identical.

The sponge, cross-sectioned: note the even rising and light texture,
achieved with just the merest hint of xanthan gum.
It was sandwiched as per Sir's request 
with strawberry jam and custard buttercream.

Next up: I reveal my super-secret recipes for lemon curd and buttercream, without which no sponge is complete.

There is No Joy in Soy-ville: The Saga Continues

The story so far: during a routine check of soy sauce bottles considerately labeled in American, I discovered that naturally-brewed varieties are made with wheat. A quick check of various online resources seemed to confirm this lamentable fact, although a few hints left here and there like so many breadcrumbs led me to believe that the shoyu situation was not a straightforward one. Let us now rejoin the narrative ...

The internet is full of people and organizations who tout the notion that soy sauce is death to us gluten-freedom fighters. The reasoning is simple: 'Wheat contains gluten, soy sauce is made from wheat, therefore soy sauce contains gluten.' It seems obvious, doesn't it? As a result, there is a whole industry based on the premise that soy sauce must be made without wheat to be gluten-free. As mentioned previously, tamari is almost always produced without wheat - the downside being that it tastes like salty fish guts and can only be truly appreciated by Buddhist monks and gourmands from Kyoto. A Google trawl revealed several soy sauces marketed as being gluten-free (either tamari in disguise or factory-produced swill containing corn syrup and caramel coloring) as well as something called 'liquid aminos', which has received rave internet reviews. I think 'liquid aminos' look just plain scary. They [it?] come[s] in a bottle that looks like the worst sort of insecticide imaginable and the FAQs on the company's website, while touting remarkable health benefits, are utterly silent about how the product is made. I am not yet that desperate.

In addition to these salty soy substitutes, the internet teems with recipes that people have devised to overcome the Wheat Problem. My favorite included beef broth, cider vinegar, and molasses amongst its many ingredients. Can you imagine bathing your best o-toro in something that vile? Neither can I. Next!

What disturbed me most about all this brouhaha and scare-mongering was the interchangeability of the terms 'wheat' and 'gluten' in almost all the commentary. Reminded of the finding that barley proteins are left behind in the distillation of whisky (thus rendering the Water of Life gluten-free), I looked for proof positive that the wheat gluten remained in soy sauce after its own lengthy production process. I could find no evidence that naturally-brewed soy sauce tested positive for gluten. In fact, I found whispers and intimations to the absolute contrary. Intrigued, I made another cup of Earl Grey and delved further.

Anecdotal evidence pointed to the possibility that wheat gluten (and soy proteins, for that matter) are broken down into their constituent amino acids by the enzymes present during lengthy fermentation. I could find frustratingly little scientific evidence to reinforce this claim, which is nonetheless bandied about by a small but dedicated group of gluten-free commandos. Their position is buttressed by two primary sources.

The first is a somewhat viral letter from a Kikkoman representative dated February 2005, which shows up in most discussions of this controversy. The author (apparently the general manager of the company's quality assurance department) explains that 'there is no officially approved or recommended method for [gluten] evaluation ... Any wheat gluten found in soy sauce is below the limits of detection as of the date this is written.' He also maintains that, should Kikkoman naturally-brewed soy sauce contain trace amounts of gluten, they are certainly below the limit of 200 micrograms per ml required to be considered gluten-free by the Codex Alimentarius.

Much internet energy has been expended dismissing this letter by individuals mistrustful of Kikkoman's motives and the Japanese government's laxity where food-labelling is concerned. Since these same theorists often recommend La Choy soy sauce as an alternative, I have my own suspicions.

The second source is a poorly-documented and described study by a Belgian outfit who purportedly sent two samples of naturally-brewed soy sauce for laboratory analysis and found that in both cases gluten levels were below 5 ppm (European legislation slated for 2012 will allow any product containing less than 20 ppm to be certified gluten-free).

Again, cries of 'Foul!' from those who seem to believe Europeans do not have the same stringent requirements that we do on this side of the Pond. This made me snort Earl Grey out of my nose, given that many European countries (northern ones, particularly) are light years ahead of us in the gluten-free arena (for example, I am reliably informed by the Rels that Marks and Spencer do an entire line of g/f prepared dishes and that the designation appears on many restaurant and pub menus these days).

So, who to believe? Without impartial, external laboratory evidence provided by independent parties, peer-reviewed and duly published, we may never know (I am starting a collection should anybody wish to donate to this worthy cause). In the mean time, I have chosen to side with science, and view naturally-fermented soy sauce as having such low levels of gluten as to make no matter. The liquid aminos and beef broth brews will just have to wait.

There is No Joy in Soy-ville

Readers are no doubt in a frenzy of anticipation waiting for my weekly discussion of Just Desserts. What can I say after Wednesday's episode? There really doesn't seem to be any point: it was far more Project Runway than Top Chef, with one of the only food-related comments I can recall coming from Pompadour about Eric's 'damn good' cheesecake. The rest was just silliness.

It would be far more profitable (and therapeutic) to discuss my latest crisis, which started on Tuesday when I was contemplating the leftovers from Saturday's gala dinner. What to do with quite tasty, although small and irregularly-shaped, grilled pork-loin bits? A stir-fry! I went to reach for my trusty bottle of naturally-fermented Japanese shoyu to begin preparations and was taken aback to find none in the pantry.

This in and of itself qualifies as An Event. I am never without several bottles of soy sauce, inscrutably labeled in Japanese calligraphy and wrapped in handcrafted rice paper, purchased on my bi-annual trips to Mitsuwa in Edgewater, NJ. Readers may think that my penchant for international food is limited to French pastry - but let me make it clear that if forced to choose my desert island cuisine or what I want for my last meal, I'll go Japanese every time. Mitsuwa, just south of the GW Bridge, is my temple. It's a life-changing Japanese supermarket that has to be seen to be believed: foodies who have not yet made the pilgrimage are urged to do so without delay. In addition to $70 musk melons and authentic wasabi rhizomes (more expensive than caviar) they offer a fine selection of good Californian sushi rice, beautiful fresh fish and beef for sukiyaki, every kind of natto and kamaboko you can imagine, and endless aisles devoted to sake and shochu.

What with one thing or another, my Fall trip has been postponed several times with the tragic outcome that my kitchen shelves are disturbingly low on rice and furikake. And shoyu.

The unfortunate result? I had to go to my local Wegman's and buy supermarket soy sauce to tide me over until my next trip east on Route 80. There I stood in the Asian food aisle. What imp of the perverse caused me to read the labels on all those bottles of Kikkoman and Wegman's own soy sauce? What was I looking for? Maybe it's just habit these days, because soy sauce couldn't possibly have gluten in it, could it?

Wise readers will already have guessed the truth.

I am the last person on the planet to discover that soy sauce is made from wheat.

Sigh. There it was, on every bottle's ingredients list - right after soy beans, right before salt. Every bottle! I felt like I'd been bludgeoned right upside the head by a large sashimi tuna. I ran to the gluten-free aisle, seeing in my mind's eye about 60% of my working-week dinner repertoire scattered to the four winds. After all, what's simpler and more go-to than a nice slice of lean protein, grilled, with some sort of soy-sauce based glaze or sauce? Once again, catastrophe. Nothing labelled gluten-free soy sauce anywhere in the whole freaking place.

I entertained the vain hope that only crass American soy sauce has wheat in it and put in an emergency phone call to Sir, who is still in Tokyo. He agreed to do some research and get back to me. Was there ever a more dispiriting subject line in an e-mail than 'Not Good'? Not in my universe. Sir's Japanese contacts had informed him (rather pityingly, I suspect) that all shoyu is made from wheat: they even taught him the kanji for wheat (komugi, which literally reads 'little barley', interestingly enough) so he could go and harass the shopgirls at the Isetan food hall on my behalf. No joy there either, although Sir reported with great satisfaction that the shop assistants were lithe and lovely and ever-so-helpful.

I did what I always do in these situations and ran to the internet. Several restorative cups of tea later, I had a few answers. Wheat, it turns out, is integral to the brewing of most true soy sauce, which is made by fermenting soy beans and crushed roasted wheat together with salt and water. Tamari, a very old variety, isn't generally made with wheat (it's a product of hacho miso production) but only gaijin use it like soy sauce, as in Japan its overly strong salty flavor is used almost exclusively in Kyoto's kaiseki cuisine. Of the factory-produced soy sauce one buys in five-gallon drums (produced from acid-hydrolized de-fatted soy flour; caramel coloring; and corn syrup) the less said the better.

How was it possible I had not previously heard the news? Well, as I said earlier, the labels on my soy sauce bottles are authentically kanji-fied and thus a mystery to anybody who hasn't attended 6th grade in a Japanese elementary school.  I was pretty sure The Nutritionist had not discussed soy sauce at our meeting, although since The Table went into the circular file after the whisky debacle I was unable to confirm. I went to the admirable cookbook the Diva sent me, which has a whole Asian chapter, to see what it had to say. In its discussion of Asian ingredients, I'm sorry to report it was less than authoritative: 'There are several brands of soy sauce that are certified gluten-free.' Well, that doesn't tell me anything! Just because something isn't certified doesn't mean it isn't gluten-free (viz. the whisky debacle). Plus, a minute's research into international food labelling regulations revealed that, in Japan, the gluten-free certification is virtually unknown. I thought I detected a whiff of double-talk and intentional ambiguity.

I subsequently launched myself headlong into a meta-analysis of internet soy-sauce resources that lasted well into the wee hours. I followed several tantalizing clues, went down many blind alleys, and finally came to a conclusion with which I can live (just as my Excel plot predicted). But that will have to wait for another day.

Next up: I expose a conspiracy perpetrated by fear-mongering American tamari manufacturers.

Trendsetting

The following post is dedicated to HSR, connoisseur

of scrupulous data analysis and presentation

I am interrupting my regularly-scheduled broadcast in order to pause, take a breath, and review my progress thus far. I have been in a state of gluten-freedom for exactly one month and I thought it might be a good idea to take stock of my ups and downs and assess my situation. The past four weeks have been punctuated by a few metaphorical zeniths and nadirs, with several small victories and setbacks in between - making it difficult for me to evaluate my state-of-being and degree of optimism from one day to the next. For example, on Saturday, I was feeling not a little triumphant after my gluten-free profiterole-ending gala dinner, only to have my elation on Tuesday punctured like so many pigs' bladders by news I cannot yet bring myself to relate (anxious readers must wait until my next instalment to discover the nature of the latest calamity). It has made for a very confusing time.

Since I am, at heart, a systematic sort of gal, I decided to plot the major gluten-related events of the last 31 days on an Excel spreadsheet for ease of analysis; reasoning that empirical data often prove efficacious when emotions start to get in the way of clear thinking. My precious Moleskine notebook proved an invaluable resource in this regard, its detail-filled pages enabling me to produce with ease the following scatter graph. It is, I trust readers will agree, self-explanatory. The x-axis represents my gluten-free days to date, helpfully labelled 1 thru 31. The y-axis is a scale of my happiness index, where [-1.0] is the black sucking pit of despair and [+1.0] is the light at the end of the tunnel (zero represents either mental equilibrium or stunned inactivity, depending on your point of view).  It became a simple matter to plot significant gluten-related occurrences, as can be seen below (click to view in full splendor):

Taking Stock: scatter plot of my
first gluten-free month


A cursory perusal revealed an alarming randomness in the data - a lot of noise from which it was difficult to draw meaningful conclusions. Fortunately, the good people at Microsoft have endowed Excel with a number of handy line-fits and trend analyses to ease the way. First, I tried a polynomial fit, which ASTM  recommends for all manner of data massaging. I chose a bold red and added an arrow to the end of the line, endowing it with a vibrant sense of forward motion and accomplishment:

Taking Stock: Polynomial fit

I was recompensed with a lissome swoopy curve, but I did not care at all for the sudden death-leap at the end. I found this analysis ultimately doom-laden and depressing, and decided to try another. Perhaps a simple moving average would be more to my liking (represented by the blue dotted line, below):

Taking Stock: Rolling average


My jump off the cliff became more a hop off the curb, and I thought I detected a rising trend, but that final blue arrow was still pointing south in a disturbing fashion - not the note on which I wanted to end my month. I finally decided to overlay a straight-line fit, last resort of the desperate:

Taking Stock: Straight line fit

Voila! A reassuring, upwardly-mobile trend, clearly shown for the world to see!  My happy green line and jubilantly upward-pointing arrow prove that I am making excellent progress and have not a care in the world. Even in the face of my new grief, I can be statistically assured that all is for the best in this best of all possible gluten-free worlds.

Next up: I vow to face my next disaster with equanimity and joie de vivre, a bounce in my step and my head held high. It's already too late for my Day 31 cataclysm, more about which I shall soon reveal.

A New Pair of Choux[s]: Part Two

Having come up with a gluten-free pate a choux recipe with which I am extremely pleased, the time has come to consider the myriad of uses for these miraculous little puffs. They are so adaptable, you might say they are positively ambidextrous!

Sweet possibilities abound. There are spherical profiteroles, of course, which you can elongate to make eclairs. Fill them with rum-scented pastry cream for salambos; praline mousse for Paris-Brests; or whipped cream for gateaux Saint-Honore. Pile 'em high and adorn with sugared almonds and spun caramel for a towering croquembouche (I keep meaning to do this one day -  maybe soon!).

Profiteroles filled with ice cream, sprinkled with powdered sugar,
and drizzled with warm chocolate sauce

They are equally versatile as savoury bites. Gougeres are my favorite, and the original inspiration for my choux experiments. But the boules can be filled with any sort of stiff mixture that won't leak or compromise too quickly the integrity of the crisp yet delicate shells: a thick artichoke and crab dip, perhaps, or mushroom duxelles. I am suddenly liberated by the gluten-free possibilities that have opened up before me!

Here is my choux pastry recipe, hot off the presses. The baking instructions assume you are making profiteroles, but the principle is the same no matter what shape suits your mood and purpose. I have also adapted my old recipe for gougeres, now magnificently, gratifyingly, gluten-free.

Gluten-free choux pastry

• 1.5 oz. gluten-free all purpose baking flour
• 1 oz. white rice flour
• 1 tsp sugar (for sweet applications, otherwise a dash of salt)
• 5 oz. very hot water
• 4 oz. butter, cut into little pieces
• 2 eggs, well beaten

Preheat your oven to 400 deg F. Line a baking sheet with baking parchment or silicon paper. If you really want to do it right, spray the paper with a little bit of water (you can use the same atomizer you mist your plants with) to facilitate steam production in the oven.

Sift together the flours and sugar/salt many times. How many times, exactly? It doesn't matter - because you haven't measured them volumetrically! It's helpful to sift the dry ingredients onto a folded piece of waxed paper for ease of pouring later on.

Place the butter bits in a saucepan and pour the hot water over them. When the butter has melted, quickly bring the mixture to a boil. Turn off the heat immediately and shoot the flour in all at once (hence the wax paper). Stir lustily and without delay using your best wooden spoon. It takes some time for the g/f flour to absorb the liquid, so you might be at it for a while. When it's done, you have an unattractive curdled-looking lumpy mess that will make you think you've done something wrong. Do not despair! Turn on a low heat under the pan and roll the mixture around for a little to get rid of the excess moisture. It should become a floppy ball that comes cleanly away from the sides and bottom of the pan.

Remove the pan from the heat, and add the eggs a tiny bit at time, beating furiously all the while with your electric hand mixer. Gradually, the mixture will smooth out and become glossy - keep beating until it's very firm and really holds its shape. This takes longer with g/f flour than wheat flour - I think because the g/f flour is a slower absorber of moisture. Don't give up and you will be rewarded with a pliable dough that will do your bidding.

Pipe or spoon little hills of choux paste onto your baking sheet (I make them on the large side, so I get about twelve from a batch). If you want to brush on an egg wash for added sophistication, do that now (I generally don't if the final application is sweet). Bake for ten minutes, then increase the temperature to 425 deg F and bake for a further fifteen minutes or so. The puffs should be dry to the touch, nicely brown, and wobble not a bit when you jiggle the pan. Remove them onto a wire rack to cool, but not before puncturing their sides with a skewer to let the steam escape. Fill them with whatever you like, but wait until as soon as possible before serving or they will get soggy and your heroic efforts will have been in vain.

NB If you are so inclined, you can make excellent gluten-filled choux paste by substituting bread flour (2.5 oz) for the g/f varieties. The method is the same, although you won't get a curdled mess when you shoot the flour into the liquid.

Gluten-free gougeres

1 batch of g/f choux pastry (see above)
2.5 oz good grateable cheese (cheddar or gruyere,  maybe), duly grated
one half-teaspoon of mustard
a pinch of cayenne pepper
salt and pepper

Make the choux pastry (seasoning the flour with salt and pepper). After you have beaten in the eggs, mix in most of the cheese and the rest of the ingredients.

Pipe or spoon little hillocks onto your baking sheet; brush with a bit of egg wash; and top with the rest of the cheese. Bake at 400 deg F for ten minutes, then increase the temperature to 425 deg F. The gougeres will need another 20 or 25 minutes in the oven.

Serve them hot as nibbles before dinner. If you make them a little bigger they are an awesome accompaniment to tomato soup.