Big Day Out

Campers, tomorrow is my much-anticipated lunch with DMR at Le Bernardin. To celebrate the occasion, I have gone to the restaurant's website for a round of my favorite game, What Will I Eat?  I have decided to order from the menu, reasoning that at such a piscatorial palace, devoted to simple preparations and the freshest ingredients, it shouldn't be that hard to find offerings sans cereal from the kitchen.

Also, I don't want to make a fuss. I refuse to announce to the waiter that I am gluten-free and requiring of kid gloves - for one thing, I don't want to be one of 'those people' who in restaurants quizzes the staff about everything on the plate. A lively conversation about the chef's intentions is one thing, but I always think in a really fine establishment a certain amount of trust on both sides is involved.

In addition, I don't want to make an embarrassing scene. That's all too likely to happen at Michelin-starred restaurants without the added pressure of requiring something special from the staff. I once used the wrong plate for my salmon rillettes - horrors! On another occasion, my companion used her butter knife for the amuse - shocking! And then there was the time somebody knocked over a glass full of NYC's finest tap water - humiliation! The staff are always very kind and polite, of course, but the backs of their necks tell the whole story: when country bumpkins present themselves at fancy-schmancy chowhouses, any catastrophe is possible.

As a result of these concerns, therefore, I will be sticking with the three-course prix fixe on offer. Let's see - what do I want Eric to cook just for me?

For my starter ... I could always go with raw oysters, but why would I deny myself an exhibition of the kitchen's technical skill? I've had the signature pounded tuna with foie gras before and it's divine, but half the joy comes from the crispy crouton on which the creation sits. I am tempted by yuzu-cured wild salmon with shaved red beets or possibly striped bass tartare with mustard oil and seaweed vinaigrette, but - hold everything! There it is! Grilled salted cod with a salad of sea lettuce, apples and hazelnuts - unless I have escolar with chilled carrot/lime mousseline and miso sauce vierge. I really love escolar, and it's not easy to find. So far, so good. At least four delicious choices - I knew chef wouldn't let me down!

For my main course ... this is a little trickier. The black bass is accompanied by little steamed buns and the red snapper is bread-crusted (I've had that, too - it's heaven). The baked lobster with mole puree and bacon Bordelaise sounds ambrosial, but there's a twenty dollar supplement. Wait a second - the 'barely cooked' wild salmon is served with braised snails, potatoes, sweet garlic parsley and a Pernod sauce (wow) and the yellowtail shares its plate with black truffle risotto and baby vegetables. Risotto is one of my favorite things in the world, and I don't think I could ever get enough noble fungi. Tough choice. Good thing I have until tomorrow to think it over!

For dessert ... tarts and gateaux are not really the thing at Le Bernardin - Michael Laiskonis is far too subtle for such obvious fallbacks, and from a sweet menu of eight possibilites (not including cheese), it looks like five are gluten-free. There is plenty to consider: dark chocolate cremeux with burnt orange meringue; Gianduja cream with hazelnuts and brown butter ice cream; caramelized figs with red wine caramel, goat cheese fondant, and bacon ice cream; or pistachio mousse with caramelized white chocolate and bing cherries. I've had something like the fig thing before (gustatorially without peer), but I'm curous about the pistachio mousse -  how on earth do you caramelize white chocolate?

Clearly, some negotiations with DMR will be in order so we can share. Or maybe we can order three lunches? Now that would be embarrassing.

Fiber (Moral and Otherwise)

Recently, HSR and I travelled to the Big Bad City to see the temporary exhibit Race to the End of the Earth at that 'crazy evolution museum' on Central Park West (also known as the American Museum of Natural History - and very fine it is too). The exhibit was all about the race to the South Pole at the turn of the last century, a subject with which I have long been fascinated. Indeed, my enthusiasm is such that the one journey I absolutely positively must make before I pop my clogs is from Auckland to Cape Evans to see Scott's Hut and, hopefully, soak in lots of good Antarctic atmosphere. Sadly, this is one of those vacations that is a tad expensive, requiring as it does at least one million dollars' worth of evacuation insurance should the unthinkable happen and rescue by the Royal New Zealand Navy become an urgent necessity. For now, I content myself with the contemplation of glacial artifacts and idle daydreams about marching steadfastly towards 90 degrees South with Scott, Amundsen, Shackleton and the rest.

But here's the thing. I've been reading a lot about sledging rations lately and discovered that I would have been totally ill-equipped to be an early British Polar adventurer. Setting aside the inescapable facts that women were simply Not Allowed on these excursions and I don't very much like the cold, the diet was totally unsuited to gluten-freedom fighters such as myself. The museum exhibit had a case in which was displayed the day's alimentary allotment for one of Scott's sledge-haulers, and what did I see but a huge pile (1730 calories' worth) of Huntley and Palmer's biscuits, made from white wheat flour and swimming with gluten? Apparently, they mushed the biscuits up and stirred them into their melted pemmican to make a sort of stew they called 'hoosh'. Yum. The rations, which also included cocoa, butter, cheese and sugar, seemed to me to be terribly lacking in fiber. Of vitamin C, there was none.

Amundsen, on the other hand, carried wholesome Norwegian oaten biscuits, so I think maybe I would have been better suited to skiing South with him (having first learned to ski, I suppose). In addition, he loaded his pemmican with dried peas, adding that all-important insoluble fiber to the rations. Did you know constipation and hemorrhoids were a terrible scourge of these brave fellows? Neither did I, but given the diet, I'm not in the least bit surprised.

Which thought brings me around, like the swirling currents of the Ross Sea, to my fibrous theme. Here's a secret that nobody tells the novice gluten-free commando - not the quacks, not The Nutritionist, not even most of the g/f web resources out there, unless one is really paying attention. When you go gluten-free, you in a stroke eliminate about - oh - 90% of the fiber from your diet without even realizing it. Guess what common substance in the American diet has the highest percentage of insoluble fiber by weight. Go on, guess - you know you want to. That's right - white, soft bread, 70 g of which contain a whopping 9.5 g  of fiber - almost half the daily USDA requirement. That's more than brown rice, oatmeal, or whole wheat bread. I know, I know - I was flabbergasted, myself. Clearly, this whole fiber issue is somewhat counterintuitive.

In an effort to forestall the development of any dire Polar conditions, I have therefore subjected myself to a crash course on this important topic and can now speak with some authority on the benefits of soluble and insoluble fiber, why you need them both, and what foods have which. Of course, controversy dogs this subject, as it has so many that have come to my attention lately. Take the humble apple. The USDA says apples have three times as much insoluble fiber as soluble fiber - whereas in a trice, you can find several different internet authorities (including the American Journal of Nutritional Medicine) who say the exact opposite. Do you see what I am up against? All I want to do is eat and not think too much about it.

It's enough to make me want to flee to Antarctica.

Pumpkin Postscript

A final word on my high-ratio pumpkin cake. We had noticed back in October that Sir's gluten-free birthday jam sponge had failed to keep as well as its traditional counterpart had been known to do. After only two days in the fridge, the g/f version became dry and heavy and rather inedible, truth be told. I'd heard from various sources that this was the inevitable result of using gluten-free flours and that we'd better just suck it up and get used to the idea.

With that in mind, we addressed this morning's remnants, which had been kept in the cold chest overnight. What is more splendid that leftover cake for breakfast? Not much, I can tell you. Many years ago we stayed in a hotel in Budapest where the breakfast buffet included all the surplus Austro-Hungarian dessert delicacies from the night before - now that was a holiday of a thousand happy memories! But I digress.

We poked and prodded the pumpkin cake tentatively and were pleased that it didn't crumble all over the place. It still felt moist and had a nice give under pressure. Twenty seconds in the microwave to take off the chill and - hey presto - no discernable difference from yesterday. A wonderfully satisfactory result! This recipe is a real winner, I kid you not.

Another final word about the good folks at King Arthur Flour, whose gluten-free multi- purpose blend I will be using exclusively henceforward. Wishing to congratulate them on a job well done and encourage them to keep up the good work, I sent off a brief electronic missive to that effect. A lovely fellow called Brandon wrote back, directing me to the company's website, which is chock full of goodies and info for both gluten-filled and gluten-free bakers. It is an extremely valuable resource and I will be perusing its glorious depths in the run up to the holidays. Brandon also forwarded me a letter to give to my supermarket store manager, to encourage her to start stocking KAGFMPF ASAP. Since my local Wegmans seems totally in thrall to Bob and his Red Mill, I will be starting a campaign to widen the selection in their g/f aisle immediately. This is the same aisle, you might recall, where gluten-infested flax seeds may be found, as well as the Bread of Doom - for some reason, they just don't get it.

I will keep readers up-to-date on my progress as a tireless advocate for the Valley's gluten-freedom fighters. After all, one can always use a new purpose in life.

Pumpkin: Ratios but No Pi

I wrote previously about how, inspired by a new concept of high-ratio cakes and a shiny box of King Arthur Gluten-Free Multi-Purpose Flour, I tested my theory that - just by examining ingredient weights - one can immediately judge whether a recipe will be amenable to gluten-freedom without all that tedious xanthan gum business. I decided to try Jeff Potter's Pumpkin Cake recipe as a first proof, since of the total 920 g of ingredients, only about 20g is gluten. I reasoned it would hardly be missed!

Since the weight of water is important to the ratio, I was a bit concerned about the presence of pumpkin (a notoriously damp substance, after all) in the recipe. Jeff conveniently relates that 245 g of pumpkin contains 220 g of water and then even more helpfully points out that such information is available to the non-paying public courtesy of the USDA National Nutrient Database. Isn't that endearing? I foresee many happy hours at my computer with a cup of Earl Grey, researching ingredients to my heart's content.

Anyway: back to business. I was encouraged by the new flour when I opened the box: it was fine and pale, not too clumpy, and smelled fresh and flour-like (that shouldn't be too much to ask, but alas - I have found it to be so). There was no hint of metallicism when I tasted some from my finger. Cautious but hopeful, I prepared the cake batter. Jeff's instructions are economical as good science tends to be, so I applied a little of my own knowledge to the procedure (see below). The resulting mixture was delightfully thick, creamy and smooth - and all without so much as a hint of added xanthan gum! It also tasted wonderful when I licked the bowl.

I was pretty sure I was in good shape, but you never know about these things, do you? I popped the pan in the oven and waited expectantly. Soon, the house began to smell like a cake was baking! It was very exciting. After 40 minutes (Jeff's recipe said 20, but I suspect his pan was a different size from mine) I had something that looked suspiciously like a well-risen, nicely-set sponge.

While it was cooling on its rack, Sir and I went for a long healthy woodland walk in anticipation of the calories to come. It was bitterly cold and we reasoned we'd used up sufficient energy after about an hour. Coincidentally, this was the exact amount of elapsed time necessary for the cake's core temperature to drop to an invitingly warm thermal state. I turned it out and noted with great contentment that it stuck to the pan not at all.

A few quick slices and the job was done.

Now, loyal readers know I am as critical of my own creations as anybody on the planet - probably more so. Many of my experiments have required several attempts before I could report a successful outcome. I am keen that my gluten-free cooking please everybody - and would rather guests not know that they are eating anything unusual. So you should all know I am not being frivolous or undiscerning when I say this cake was virtually perfect. It was light and airy (Sir called it 'ethereal') like the very best sponges are. The crumb was almost imperceptibly fine. It was moist and flavorful and downright delicious. Sighs of contentment and relief were heard throughout the kitchen. Honestly, the cake was that damn excellent.

A few lessons were learned from this experience. Firstly, my suspicion that the high-ratio cake model would prove applicable to gluten-free baking was confirmed. For this recipe, I did a straight one-to-one substitution of g/f flour for all purpose and the result was peerless. Now that I have a formula (courtesy of Cooking for Geeks), it will be a relatively simple matter to go through my cookbooks to see which recipes will lend themselves to gluten-freedom without the addition of unwanted substances such as xanthan gum.

In addition, I was thrilled to discover that King Arthur Flour make a gluten-free blend I can use without fear of unpleasant flavors or side effects. In gratitude, I will be buying shares in the company at the earliest available opportunity. 

Jeff Potter's Pumpkin Cake (gluten-free version)

• 245 g pumpkin puree
• 200 g sugar
• 160 g canola oil
• 2 large eggs (about 120 g)
• 180 g g/f baking flour (I recommend KAGFMPF wholeheartedly and without reservation)
• 40 g raisins (I left these out, since I have an aversion to raisins in my baked goods)
• 2 tsp cinnamon (I also added 0.5 tsp. ground ginger and several grates of nutmeg, which seemed appropriate. I will up the ginger to a full teaspoon next time I make the cake)
• 1 tsp baking powder
• 1/2 tsp baking soda
• 1/2 tsp salt
• 1/2 tsp vanilla extract

Jeff's instructions are brief and to-the-point. This is my interpretation of his procedure. Preheat your oven to 350 deg. F. Butter a 9-inch cake pan (I used a round one). Line the bottom with silicon parchment paper and butter that too.  Sift together the flour, sugar, spices, salt, baking powder and baking soda into a bowl. In a big measuring cup, pour yourself the required amount of canola oil; add the pumpkin, eggs and vanilla and mix it together. Dump that into the dry ingredients and give it a few whirls with your electric handmixer.

Pour it into your prepared pan and bake for 40-45 minutes, or until the cake is done. Eat it while still a little bit warm, if possible. I served it with whipped cream (enriched with vanilla and a bit of powdered sugar) and it was a triumph.

A Feast for Geeks

Seeking some new books for my Kindle, I was browsing Amazon for exciting new culinary ideas and chanced upon a tome that could have been written just for me: Jeff Potter's Cooking for Geeks: Real Science, Great Hacks, and Good Food. Was there ever a more fortuitous publication in the history of the world? What riches! The work contains a good deal of info on gluten and its mysterious ways, which I will be scrutinizing in the days to come. Although I have not yet had the time to study its wisdom in great depth, some thoughts on gluten and cake-baking immediately leaped out at me from its electronic pages.

Clever Jeff conceptualizes cakes and their gluten content in terms I have never come across before and that I anticipate will be extremely handy during my baking experiments in the months ahead. He distinguishes between high-ratio cake batters and low-ratio cake batters and defines them as follows. A high-ratio cake is one where there is more sugar than flour (by weight); more eggs than fat (by weight); and more liquid than sugar (including the liquid in the eggs : guess how that is measured). Low-ratio cakes, presumably, are all the other ones. His point is that high-ratio cakes don't contain a high proportion of gluten-producing flour and that gluten development itself is hindered by the high percentage of sugar and fat. Isn't that cool? His conclusion is that the texture of high-ratio cakes will have a finer crumb than others.

My conclusion is that high-ratio cakes might necessarily lend themselves to gluten-free flours. Interestingly enough, two of my most successful baking experiments (frangipane and financiers, neither of which required xanthan gum for a successful outcome) were high-ratio cakes, or near enough, although I didn't know it at the time. Eureka - a whole new way of looking at gluten-free baking possibilities!

In a serendipitous, simultaneous development, my FRiV (Field Researcher in Virginia) last week carried out extensive pancake studies involving King Arthur Gluten-Free Flour and reported encouraging results. Although I had purchased some KAGFF during my Whole Foods trip of a few weeks back, it has since languished untried in my pantry, my attention having been distracted by all the boxed mixes I purchased during the same expedition. Somewhat disheartened by these products, I have been reluctant to undertake new g/f baking challenges, but this aligning of the stars inspired me once more. 

I retrieved one of the unopened boxes and compared its ingredients to those of Bob and his Red Mill. They were different, all right. The KAGFF is made from rice flour, tapioca starch, potato starch, and whole grain brown rice flour. It lacks the chickpea flour, white sorghum flour, and fava bean flour that I think makes Bob's product a little too assertive for butter cakes and other plain fare. A winner, perhaps?

Armed with Jeff's recipe for high-ratio Pumpkin Cake, a fresh box of KAGFF, and a cup of pumpkin puree left over from Thanksgiving's dessert mousse, I set to work with new-found confidence and the joie de vivre that comes from a couple of days off work. Tune in for my next exciting installment, where I reveal the degree to which my theory about adapting high-ratio recipes holds true under the cold light of day.

A Mousse Bouche

This year I am thankful that Thursday's big dinner is somebody else's responsibility. What with all the gluten-free taste testing, macaron marathons, culinary experimentation, and general pandemonium chez Fractured Amy, it was music to my ears when DMR offered to host the feast this year. She has undertaken to manufacture as cereal-free a meal as she can muster, even going so far as to examine the labels on her cartons of chicken stock (yes, campers, some evil brands have gluten in them).

What a pal!

I offered to bring dessert. Originally, I had planned to do extensive pie-crust research for the occasion, but the exigencies of work and responsibilities on the home front (see above) have left me with too little time for the mandatory rigorous testing such innovation would require. My second thought was pumpkin macarons, but as I have written elsewhere, I am currently sick of the sight of them and I'm pretty sure everybody I know is equally sick of hearing about them. What to do, what to do? As always, I turned to Craig Claiborne, my go-to guy in times of culinary crisis. His popularization of Ed Giobbi's Pasta with Ricotta saved me many a time that crowds needed to be fed - in my dim and distant gluten-filled past, of course - and for that he long ago earned my undying confidence and admiration.

A quick trawl of the New York Times' recipe archives did not disappoint. Pumpkin mousse! Gluten-free, festive, simple and delicious. It will be served with brandied whipped cream, candied pecans, and foil-wrapped chocolate turkeys.

Happy Thanksgiving to all!

Craig Claiborne's Pumpkin Mousse

3 eggs, separated

1 cup sugar

1 1/4 cups canned pumpkin puree

1/2 teaspoon ground ginger

1/2 teaspoon ground cinnamon

1/2 teaspoon grated nutmeg

1/4 teaspoon salt, if desired (I do desire it, thank you very much ~FA)

1/2 cup milk

1 envelope unflavored gelatin

1/4 cup cold water

1/2 cup heavy cream

Whip up the egg yolks and half the sugar: use a bowl that will later serve in a double boiler. Add the pumpkin, ginger, cinnamon, nutmeg, salt and milk and beat together until it's all nicely blended. Set the bowl in a basin of barely simmering water and beat constantly with a whisk (this could be done with a portable electric mixer, but it tends to splatter) until the mixture thickens and becomes custardlike. I don't know why Craig can't use a wooden spoon like everybody else.

Blend the gelatin with water and when it is softened, pour it into the pumpkin mixture. Pour and scrape the mixture into a mixing bowl. I waited until the custard was cool before doing this.

Beat the egg whites until they are partly stiff and add the remaining sugar, beating until the whites are stiff and glossy. Beat half of the whites into the pumpkin mousse. Add the remaining whites, folding them in gently. I know, I know. Raw egg whites. I used organic and hoped for the best. We'll see!

Beat the cream until it is stiff and fold it into the mousse. Chill until set. You'll get about six cups' worth. Yum!

Next up: heartened by exciting news from my FRiV (Field Researcher in Virginia) and having found a new model for cake conceptualization, I and my leftover pumpkin puree embark upon a thrilling baking experiment.

Laduree vs. Dalloyau: The Final Verdict

Yesterday, I described how Sir - in violation of common sense and international customs regulations - smuggled home from Japan six macarons from the esteemed Parisian patisseries Laduree and Dalloyau, both of which have outposts in Tokyo. The initial data from our comparative study yielded a slight advantage for the Dalloyau examples, but the most important judgements - those concerning taste and texture - had yet to be revealed.

Texture
Having examined and measured the macarons from all angles (see my previous post for the full results), Sir and I decided to bite the bullet, as it were, and give them a try. The test of the macaron is in the manger, I always say!

NB All macaron-testing was carried out with the gateaux at room temperature.

We eagerly cut the lemon (Laduree) and orange (Dalloyau) specimens in half. Of course, macarons' outer crusts tend to shatter upon impact, after which their insides tend to squish under the knife, so what with one thing or another the cross sections were a bit difficult to compare. Nonetheless, a few dissimilarities were obvious. The Laduree macaron (clearly crisper than its companion) had a distinct buttercream layer, easily discernible between its sandwiching meringues, whereas the Dalloyau buttercream seemed to have amalgamated with its meringue, resulting in less delineation between tiers.

Although not related to texture, it was clear at this point that the Laduree macaron had a more aromatic essence, with the scent of lemons hanging palpably in the air as its halves lay on the cutting board.

Drawn by the appetizing smell, we bit into the lemon macaron. At this juncture, we discovered it was filled with lemon curd rather than buttercream, which accounted for the lovely aroma.  After an initial sensation of crispness as we bit through the outer shell - poof! - the macaron was gone. A bit nonplussed by this turn of events, we waited expectantly for something else to happen. Sure enough, we both detected bits not unlike fragments of cardboard as they began adhering themselves to our hard palates - a rather unwelcome turn of events, I'm sure readers will agree. Almonds that had been left too large? Almonds that objected to being transported coach rather than First Class? A result of the cakes being past their 'best by' date? Whatever the cause, it was a bit unpleasant, truth be told. We decided a second sample was required for verification purposes and repeated the exercise with a praline macaron. Same crispy layer, followed by an aching void, replaced with a cardboard finish.

We turned our attention to the orange macaron from Dalloyau. Its outer shell was far less crisp than the previous examples, with a more consistent texture all the way through the meringue. It definitely required chewing. Cakier that its counterparts, it was slightly sticky too, a consistency that we both preferred. We tested the almond one with the same result, finding it was even more pleasingly toothsome than the orange version.

Taste
Even allowing for the fact that four different flavours were represented, some observations and judgements about taste were possible.

In the Laduree macarons, the filling was the star. The lemon macaron tasted overwhelmingly of its curd filling; ditto with the praline buttercream. The meringues themselves, perhaps due to their short time on the tastebuds, were subtle to the point of not tasting like much of anything. The overwhelming impression was of crispiness followed by flavorful (possibly overpowering) creamy filling. There was no almond flavour detectable in either specimen.

The Dalloyau macarons, on the other hand, were all about almonds. There was an fresh, clean flavor and essence of almonds in both examples - to be fair, we might not have known the orange ones were supposed to be orange, had the color not given them away. But that's fine: I like almonds a lot.

The Verdict
Sir and I (given our own personal preferences and taste) were in agreement about our conclusions, declaring Dalloyau the winner in both the categories of texture and taste. Now, I accept that macaron-judging is by its nature a highly subjective affair. There are no doubt those of you who would prefer the crisp ethereal nature of the Laduree examples. What can I say? Neither of us wanted to eat more than one.

But here's the bad news. Quite honestly, we weren't ecstatic about any of them. They just weren't that fabulous. Sir went so far as to say that he preferred the almond/Cointreau macarons Toad and I had made the weekend before - which is sweet, but somewhat misguided. I think it's entirely possible they did not travel well and suffered some sort of transmogrification at high altitudes, although Sir had eaten one on the spot in Tokyo and declared it much the same. In addition, I felt they were too round, too perfect, and too mass-produced. Plus, they were too small for my liking: my formative macaron years were spent eating the three-inch ones, and that preference has stayed with me ever since.

Is it possible that these examples, purchased in Tokyo, are geared more to the Japanese market - much as Kit-Kat candy bars are different depending on where you buy them? Whatever the explanation, we felt a bit let down. There is a solution, or course - a trip to Paris and a mad macaron tour. I will be planning such an orgy in due course.

Next up: I decide I do not want to look at, taste, or think about macarons for the foreseeable future and try to come up with another gluten-free dessert idea for Thanksgiving dinner.

Laduree vs. Dalloyau: The Judgement Begins

Readers who breathlessly followed my account of the great macaron baking bash will already be aware that there has been a good deal of debate chez Fractured Amy about the characteristics of the ideal macaron and the identity of the Parisian patisserie that produces the most superior specimen. Should macarons be thin and crispy, as typified by those from the great Laduree - or igloo-like and marshmallowy, as per noble Dalloyau? The judgement has been somewhat hampered by the fact that, having no examples in the kitchen, the discussion heretofore has been of the largely hypothetical sort, based upon dim memory and incomplete information.

Sir, following these events from Japan, vowed to take action and settle the dispute. Already tasked with purchasing a boite prestige from Laduree as payment for gallivanting around Tokyo without me, he took it upon himself to pay an additional visit to Dalloyau so that a comparative tasting might be arranged upon his return Stateside. That he was forced to spend his last day in the city frequenting institutions not normally on his itinerary, as well as smuggle home six gateaux in his hand luggage, was a sacrifice that did not go unnoticed by me. I have asserted before the Sir is a stirling fellow - but this time, he really outdid himself.

We conducted our comparison along several metrics, so that no factor contributing to macaron perfection would be ignored. The tasting team for this exercise consisted of Sir and myself. Toad, sadly, was unavailable (having gone home a week ago) and the Kid Squid does not care for macarons. We were in some haste to conduct our study, since the Laduree specimens had already exceeded their 'best by' date.

The Sample
Three macarons each were purchased from Laduree and Dalloyau. Sir couldn't remember the flavors exactly, but they appear to be lemon, pistachio, and praline (Laduree) and orange, yuzu, and almond (Dalloyau).

The Procurement Experience
Sir reported that Laduree (located in the splendid Mitsukoshi department store in Ginza) was frighteningly girly and tooth-achingly twee. Not being a tiny Japanese lady in a Chanel suit, he felt rather out of place galumphing around in his oversized gaijin shoes. Branches of Dalloyau, on the other hand, may be found in several of the more prestigious railway stations around the city, allowing for both ease of access and the relieved feeling that one is not trespassing on a private sanctuary for Exquisite Ladies who Lunch. Advantage Dalloyau.

The Packaging
Laduree is famous for its lovely lime green boxes with matching ribbon. Even if one only buys three macarons, one still gets the full treatment. Indeed, one also receives two little freezer packs, lovingly inscribed with Laduree's beautiful flowing logo. These were still cool to the touch after Sir's fifteen hours in the air, which I call above and beyond. By comparison, Dalloyau's rather pedestrian white paper bag was a disappointment, even allowing for the inevitable crushing in steerage. Advantage, Laduree.

Appearance
All the macarons arrived in fairly good condition, making an aesthetic comparison possible. The lemon (Laduree) and orange (Dalloyau) varieties were chosen as appropriate subjects, both because they were similar in concept and had fared the best in transit. Each macaron measured roughly 1.75 inches in diameter, although the Dalloyau specimen was slightly larger. Viewed from above, the difference in finish was marked. The lemon macaron had a silky sheen - unblemished, but rather flat - whereas the good people at Dalloyau had burnished their offering with some sort of food powder or coloring to give it depth and interest. Advantage, Dalloyau.



Macarons from Dalloyau (left) and Laduree (right)

When viewed from the side, the difference between the two specimens was even more pronounced. As predicted, the Laduree meringues were thin and flat, with the entire macaron reaching a height of 0.75 inches. The example from Dalloyau was rounded and plump, towering to just over 1.25 inches. Although I've remarked before that this is a matter of personal taste, this is my blog and I'm going to say what I think, dammit. Advantage, Dalloyau.

Again, the Dalloyau macaron is on the left

So far, Dalloyau-3; Laduree-1.

Next up: a discussion of texture, taste, and The Final Verdict!

Just Desserts, Episode 10: Chia Later!

I feel I must comment on the end of Just Desserts, even though the outcome was predetermined in, like, the third week. As usual, there was an awful lot of gluten on display (coconut cake! chocolate pudding cake! passion fruit cannoli! hazlenut cake!) although I was intrigued by Yigit's presentation of something called 'milk jam', which caused Gail to swoon with joy. Sadly, the recipe on Bravo's website is very strangely written and makes it appear as though the jam was served frozen, which cannot be right. Anyway, it's good-bye to all our crazy pastry cheftestants, the Pompadour, the Shoes, and She Who Isn't Gail. We'll see some of 'em soon, no doubt, on Top Chef All-Stars. I think we've already seen enough of Yigit (or his tatt'ed torso, anyway) to last a lifetime.

Of far more interest to loyal readers, I'm sure, is the news that I produced 100 billion new cells yesterday! Yes, campers, I miraculously regenerated one percent of myself - just like a red-bellied toad or an Alpine newt. By tomorrow I should be feeling 'energized, stronger, smoother (huh?), and younger', having consumed as much magnesium as may be found in 2.25 pounds of broccoli and enough iron to build a battleship.

What precipitated this thaumaturgy, you may ask? It's all thanks to Salvia hispanica (known to the layperson as chia), which I purchased at the supermarket a couple of days ago to replace my delicious, toasted, but tragically gluten-filled flax seeds. The only certified g/f version of chia I could find in the three minutes I allotted for the search is marketed as Anutra and comes to us courtesy of Arnold Palmer, who (if his picture on the container is to be believed) looks very well-preserved indeed, if not positively mummified. The seeds are ground up to resemble the contents of our ash pit at winter's end and taste, I imagine, similarly. Fortunately, once I have buried them under a pile of yoghurt and fruit, I can pretend they're not even there. I am, after all, quite bleary-eyed first thing in the morning and generally do not yet have my reading glasses on. And what is taste, texture, and olfactory appeal when balanced against life eternal?

Anxious to find out more about what I was eating, I made a cup of Earl Grey and settled down for some overdue research. The data unearthed by my inquiry brought to mind Hannibal Lecter's assessment of airline fare:  'It isn't food at all as I understand it.' According to the European Parliament's Regulation (EC) No 258/97, chia seeds are a 'novel food', which means either they do not have a long history of being nibbled by humans or are fabricated using a method not traditionally related to food production. Yikes. This does not fill me with an overabundance of confidence, despite Arnold's assurances that Anutra will induce me to live forever.

Of course, the position that Salvia hispanica is not actually edible is a typically Eurocentric view. Chia (which is an herb in the mint family) was apparently valued by the Aztecs and other pre-Columbian civilizations and given as annual tributes to nobility and religious leaders. Whether they ate it on yoghurt or used it to grow amusing Shrek-shaped topiary is, I'm sad to say, a mystery lost to the ages.

Macaron Manufactory, Part the Second

Macarons are fantastically impressive and wonderfully versatile. Given a basic recipe and method, the possibilities are endless. Without too much difficulty, Toad and I produced several variations during our baking blowout, including Meyer lemon with white chocolate; pistachio with bittersweet chocolate, and almond with Grand Marnier.

A common perception seems to be that they cannot be produced satisfactorily by the home cook and it's true that they are extremely temperamental. Toad and I made three batches of macarons (six half-batches, actually) and probably only 65% of them were successful in every agreed-upon detail. Macarons are mysterious.

So what makes a successful macaron? Putting aside the issue of crunch vs. chew (see Part the First) there are several undeniable attributes shared by all proper examples of the species:

• The pied. The little crinkly layer at the base of each meringue is what makes a macaron authentic. Otherwise, it just looks like a gaily-colored whoopie pie.
• The finish. A good macaron is glossy and smooth. There should be no cracked surfaces on the meringues or (horrors) nipples where the piping bag was pulled away. The footprint should be perfectly round, although its ideal size is a matter of some debate.
• Flavor. A macaron should be delicate and have the aroma and taste of almonds or (in our case) pistachios. Additional flavors are welcome, but should be used sparingly so as not to compromise the cake's essential essence.

Here then, is how Toad and I made our most successful macarons. Some of these steps are controversial and we left out a few deemed by others to be gospel. What can I say? It worked for us when we did it right. We used as our basic source Hisako Ogita's I Heart Macarons, but made a few fundamental changes to the recipe along the way.

Macarons

• 3 oz ground almonds or pistachios (or a mixture, even)
• 5 oz powdered sugar
• 3 egg whites, room temp
• 5 Tblsp granulated sugar
• 1 tsp vanilla extract
• optional flavoring (for example, we used the grated rind of one Meyer lemon for half a batch, but you could add anything you like: cocoa powder, finely ground coffee, cinnamon - go insane!)
• optional food coloring (macarons can be all the colors of the rainbow - or even colors that are not seen in nature)
• optional bits for the tops (finely chopped nuts or cocoa nibs, for example, or sesame seeds, black pepper, grated peel, or a sprinkle of nutmeg or cinnamon depending on the the season - half the fun is thinking up new combos of deliciousness. This Thanksgiving, I'm considering pumpkin and candied pecan macarons as a gluten-free alternative to pumpkin pie)

Preheat your oven to 300 deg F and prepare your gear. Line baking pans with silicon parchment paper and mark out circles to guide you later on (if your meringues aren't all the same size, sandwich-making becomes a challenge). I use a Sharpie and a round cookie cutter on the wrong side of the paper - bitter experience has taught that permanent marker does, in fact, transfer to egg whites. Circles of between 1 and 3 inches work well: I like my macarons on the large side, but that's the kind of girl I am. This recipe makes about 35 halves if they're smallish. Place each pan inside another one for insulation (this is key! we forgot to do this on one batch and had no pieds at all - it was tragic). Make sure you have a piping bag ready to go: I don't bother with a tip, since I find that the round nozzle all by itself is a good size for macaron production.

Sift together the ground almonds/pistachios and powdered sugar. Twice is good - you don't want to do it too many times or the oils in the nuts start to come to the surface, which makes for splotchy meringues.

Whip up your egg whites until they're frothy and start to turn white. Add the granulated sugar, beating like a demented person the whole time. You are going for very shiny, stiff peaks and will be at it a while. I don't use my standmixer for this - I know others do with excellent results but I prefer my electric handmixer for egg whites. Always have.

When you have meringue, beat in the vanilla plus any flavors (to taste) or colors (by eye). Then proceed to fold in your nut/sugar mixture in two or three batches. You want it very well incorporated, but you don't want to over-work the mixture. I think this is the trickiest part. Too little mixing and you can get a dull finish on your finished meringues; too much and the batter becomes thin and won't hold its shape. Practice makes perfect.

Glop the mixture into your piping bag and go to work filling in your prepared circles. Hopefully, the batter isn't too runny and doesn't go all over the place (if it does, you can bake it up anyway and crush the result over ice cream) although it will spread a little bit. Make sure to smooth each shape out with a damp finger, or you will be rewarded with rather obscene-looking macarons that won't stack properly (again, this is experience talking). At this point, you can also sprinkle your bits on top.

When all your circles are filled, rap the baking sheet - hard - against the table. Ogita-san maintains this is the essential step for pied-production and I would not dare to doubt her.

Then let the meringues sit for at least fifteen minutes so they can dry out a bit on top. They should not be at all sticky when you put them in the oven, but have a sort of thin crust overall. You might have to wait half an hour if it's raining out or blow a fan on them in summertime. This is one of the reasons I do not make macarons in hot or humid weather.

Into the oven for 15-20 minutes, more if the macarons are big. They should be completely dry when baked and not wobble on their pieds when you gingerly agitate them between thumb and forefinger. Again, some people like theirs on the sticky side, others prefer them crispy all the way through. Totally up to you - but they must be sufficiently cooked so that when you remove them from the paper, they don't leave their insides behind.

When you judge you macarons fully baked, transfer them to racks to cool. It's easiest if you just slide the whole paper right off the pan and onto the rack, removing them from the paper when they are stone cold. Match up halves that are roughly the same size and fill them with whatever you like: we flavored buttercream three different ways and were content, but you could also use preserves, sweet chestnut paste, or chocolate ganache - anything spreadable would probably work. I have provided one of Julia Child's classic buttercream recipes elsewhere together with the only way to make lemon curd - also fantastic in macarons.

Macarons last about a week in the fridge as long they are sealed up tight - but they are rarely around that long. They are optimal after about two days, when the filling and the meringue melt together and become one. Magnifique!

Macaron Manufactory, Part the First

On Saturday, Toad and I baked many, many macarons.

We forgot to count them all, but I estimate we produced three batches of about seventeen macarons each for a grand total of forty-two. Most of them were presentable, although some were less-than-successful results of experimentation and forgetfulness. Several were positively gorgeous. We spread out over two rooms and baked solidly for seven hours, consuming in the process 6 oz of ground almonds; 3 oz of ground pistachios; a pound of powdered sugar; 9 egg whites; 20 tablespoons of granulated sugar; 2 Meyer lemons; two sticks of salted butter (oops); two kinds of chocolate; and a fair amount of Grand Marnier. We learned a lot and manufactured some damn fine macarons, if I do say so myself.


The reference text - freely adapted by us - was Hisako Ogita's I Heart Macarons, translated into English by Alma Reyes and Seishi Maruyama. It is a sweet little book, although widely and somewhat surprisingly reviled on Amazon, and I have used it with great success in the past. As a supplement, we consulted Laduree's very glossy and beautiful cookbook, Laduree Sucre, which provided contrary instructions en francais on a number of key points. In addition, we did some quick internet research to confirm or discount various points of contention, but concluded our own instincts were vastly superior to just about all the freely-available advice out there.

Issues arising

1. What makes the ideal macaron? Should it be relatively thin, flat and crispy a la Laduree (Toad's preference) or rounded, plump and slightly marshmallowy a la Dalloyau (my preference)? The debate on this vexing question was not satisfactorily resolved and we agreed that further study was required. Toad has agreed to undertake her own research (which will probably require a trip to Paris for comparative tastings) at the earliest available opportunity. Now that I am left with my own thoughts, I can confirm that my mind is made up and no amount of persuasion will convince me that a flat macaron is more delicious than or aesthetically superior to its semi-spherical counterpart. 
2. Macaronnage, myth or reality? Various authorities (although not Laduree, interestingly enough) maintain that vigorous flipping, swiping, and scraping of the meringue while it is still in the bowl is necessary for a lustrous finish on the final product. I have always said this is a disastrous approach, since the resultant batter is too thin to hold its circular shape on the baking tray. Toad, bless her, was determined to try, and although her uncooked batter was fabulously shiny, it dispersed into puddles the instant it left her piping bag. Significantly, the final baked specimens were no more or less burnished than the un-macaronnaged examples, which in my opinion had a winning, subtle sheen just this side of gaudy.
3. How old do your egg whites have to be? We used ours 2-3 hours out of the fridge. Received internet wisdom (not shared by Ogita-san or Laduree) is that the eggs should sit out for at least 24 hours before use. We both thought this was excessive and Toad proposed that the addition of some dried egg whites to the mix would have the same effect. I believe she will be trying this in due course in her own kitchen, although I think the simplest approach is more than adequate for a pleasing result.
4. Can you make buttercream in the microwave? Maybe, but I've never been able to do it with predictable success and our experiments were inconclusive. The method, outlined by Ogita-san, has potential because it allows for the fabrication of relatively small amounts, but the first time I tried it I started a small fire: the scorchmarks are still there for all to see. The temperature of the water, size of the vessel, vessel material, and power settings are variables that cannot be adequately controlled from one session to the next, and I have concluded I would rather make large conventional batches of neutrally-flavored cream and freeze the excess, thawing and flavoring as needs require. It's probably faster in the end, too.
5. At what temperature should the meringues bake? Ogita-san says 375 F, Laduree says 300 F. That's a pretty big difference. We tried both and concluded that the lower temperature was better for avoiding all hints of browning and keeping the colors pure. Our Meyer lemon meringues, tinted a bright yellow with a just a drop of Williams and Sonoma food paste, benefited most from this approach.
6. How do you get the macarons off the baking tray? We baked the meringues on silicon parchment paper and they popped off with no trouble (at least, the fully baked ones did). The complicated French method of dribbling cold water between the paper and the baking pan proved cumbersome and unecessary, or would have done if we'd bother to try it. Silpats®, I can now assert with some certitude, are a Bad Idea.

Vital though these issues are to macaron perfection, I believe we garnered enough practical experience to speak with some authority on the subject. Like so many things, one's image of a consummate macaron is highly subjective and personal. Toad and I look forward to future experiments - and the development of our own private macaron ideal.

Next up: a perfectly impressive macaron recipe and method

My Cracker is Your Biscuit

Readers are well aware of my two recently disastrous gluten-free taste tests: Gluten Free Scream pancakes and The Bread That Wasn't (manufactured in Lake Ariel, PA for those detectives out there). I was beginning to fear my first hostessing experience as a gluten-freedom fighter might be my last, when lunchtime rolled around and our thoughts turned once gain to food.

I had on hand a rather unassuming triple creme brie and some fresh chevre to serve with fruit. A light repast, you understand, whilst taking a break from macaron-baking duties. But cheese can be joyless without something to put it on and so I had previously purchased at the supermarket a box of Glutino 'multigrain' crackers (gluten free! wheat free! new look, same great taste!). If I had known how awful the other selections from my pre-weekend shopping excursion would turn out to be, I might not have bothered.

But I didn't, so I did.

The crackers contained corn starch, white rice flour, organic palm oil, modified corn starch, dextrose, liquid whole egg, yeast, salt, fennel seeds, guar gum, ammonium bicarbonate, sodium bicarbonate, mono and diglycerides, and natural flavor (whatever that is). It was not clear from reading the ingredients label where the multigrains were, unless the good folks at the manufacturer include seeds in their rather loose definition (I suppose grains are technically seeds, but you never talk about sesame or poppy grains, do you?). At any rate, there was no xanthan gum in sight, and we thanked the heavens for small mercies.

We cracked open the box to see lovely creamy crackers peeking out from their shiny silver cocoon. They had a fresh, nutty aroma with no hint of metal or excessive sweetness. Their crisp texture allowed them to snap in two when urged to do so. They appeared to be constructed similarly to water crackers, with nice flaky layers inside. Dared we hope for success?

The crackers were delicious! They did not turn to slime in our mouths and tasted exotically of fennel. They held their shape under a mountain of soft cheese and stayed crunchy long enough to make the trip from plate to palate worthwhile. Toad said she would eat them under any circumstances and I vowed to keep some in the house at all times for our favorite snack of 'cheese and biscuits' (Sir's term for it, of course). 

Ridiculous name, fantastic cracker

Naturally, they're not cheap. A quick calculation revealed that Glutinos cost about 188% more than Ritz crackers, the Kid Squid's favorite.

He won't be switching any time soon - but I sure will.

Next up: macaron monomania

One Last Toast

Yesterday, I recounted the sad story of the Pancake Pileup and described how disappointing it can be to make a gluten-free breakfast from a box. But that was only Act I of the sorry saga. We now return to the action.

After removing all traces of the Gluten Free Scream from the kitchen, Toad heroically made like a short-order cook and in a trice we were feasting on scrambled eggs and bacon, accompanied by yoghurt parfaits with fruit compote and flax seeds. This was all very delicious and satisfactory until Toad, idly reading labels as she is wont to do, discovered that the flax seeds had been manufactured in a plant that also processes wheat and other forbidden grains. I had selected the packet from the gluten-free shelf at Wegmans without first examining the label! Cursing the heavens and my need for reading glasses, I bequeathed the bag to Toad and vowed to have stern words with the guilty shelf-stocker next time I visit the supermarket.

After our feast, we were still feeling a little peckish. Toad had brought some home-made preserves with her as a hostess gift, and I mentioned that I had some g/f bread in the freezer that might serve as a suitable vessel for her mandarin marmalade. I should mention that the bread was discovered by Sir some weeks ago in a dark and rarely-visited corner of the freezer section at our supermarket and proffered triumphantly as a gift from the gluten-free gods. As yet untested, this seemed like an excellent opportunity for a thorough evaluation. I've written elsewhere that Toad is an excellent sport about these sorts of things.

It was the work of an instant to dig out the bag from behind the tubs of lobster stock and chisel three slices from the loaf. While it was thawing, we examined the ingredients label: water, rice flour, corn starch, tapioca starch, egg whites, milk powder, butter, eggs, sugar, honey, yeast, xanthan gum, potato flour, salt, apple cider vinegar, and rice extract. What the heck was the vinegar doing in there? We were additionally concerned by the presence of dairy and our fears were not quelled by the appearance of the thawed slices.  Bright yellow and porous, they reminded us of over-leavened brioche - not necessarily a bad thing with marmalade, but no good at all in a corned beef sandwich or for mopping up stews. The aroma was distinctly unpleasant. Poking at a slice with our index fingers, we discovered it had precisely the same texture as a damp kitchen sponge.

This is not a slice of bread

Into the toaster! The slices stubbornly refused to brown evenly and began to burn at the edges before their middles took on any color. Fearing the worst, we decided to taste the toast before committing to it any of our precious confiture. The Kid Squid, still reeling from the flapjack fiasco, declined his slice.

The toast was stupefyingly disgusting. The first (and last) bite turned to wallpaper paste almost immediately in the mouth and the flavor was metallic and gross. I believe we both spat ours out, although since I have done my best to block out all memories of the event I can't be sure. On a scale of one to ten, where ten is three-star Michelin and one is a Gluten Free Screams pancake, this bread was, like, minus several hundred. It was really, really bad.

We wondered what to do with the remaining loaf. Normally, I would scatter stale bread outside for our feathered friends, but we were honestly concerned that if we broadcast this stuff in the back yard we would be responsible for mass avian homicide, either through stuck-shut beaks or completely gummed-up birdie digestive systems. Not wanting to have to remove all their twitching bodies from my lawn, we decided to be prudent and throw the bread in the trash. This is something I hate to do and I resented the manufacturer for giving me no other choice.

We honestly could not fathom how something so foul could be offered for sale to the paying public. Somebody must buy it, but who? And who would buy it more than once? Do people not realize how revolting it is? Who really believes this stuff serves as an acceptable bread substitute? What on earth is everybody thinking?

We were stymied by the whole issue and came to our own conclusions. I, for one, would much rather change tactics than muddle through with these culinary counterfeits. Instead of Gluten Free Screams, for example, I will experiment with buckwheat flour and come up with a recipe for g/f galettes. Instead of toast, I will eat breakfast oats or cornbread, both of which would serve as an excellent back drop for home-made jam (which could also be tucked inside an excellent g/f sponge or beneath custard for dessert). Brown rice with stew instead of crusty bread. Risotto instead of pasta. I think the key to success is going to be releasing myself of all preconceptions about what I should be eating - thinking outside the box, as it were. In a way, it's quite liberating.

Of course, I still have some mixes in the pantry. Maybe when I am feeling quite recovered I will try them: after all, I can always use a bit more excitement in my life.

Next up: we eat some gluten-free crackers and have our faith restored

The Flapjack Stack Trap

Campers, it's been a frantically busy weekend chez Fractured Amy. We received an honored houseguest; perpetrated several new cooking experiments; evaluated three untried gluten-free products; held a marathon macaron-making session; and engaged in several spirited philosophical debates on the subject of food and what makes it good.  I also enjoyed my first meal out as a gluten-freedom fighter.

But first things first. Breakfast!

The Most Important Meal of the Day is something with which I like to pamper weekend visitors, especially when they have driven many hours and arrived very late the previous night. Since the guest in question was my dear Toad (foodie, adventurer, and famously good sport), I decided to risk making gluten-free pancakes from one of the hitherto untried factory-produced concoctions purchased during my excursion to Whole Foods a couple of weeks ago.

Frankly, given the outcome it's amazing she didn't get straight back into her Smartie Car and peel out of the driveway with a squeal of her wee tires, leaving a billowing plume of dust and g/f cooking mix in her wake, never to grace my humble abode again.

Where to begin? The episode, which I have dubbed the Pancake Pileup, began with a box of gluten-free pancake and waffle mix, an innocent-seeming melange of white rice flour, evaporated cane juice, potato starch, baking powder (non-alluminated, as if that could make any difference), tapioca starch, vanilla, salt, and the dreaded xanthan gum. The box was a cheerful yellow and purple striped affair, with a primitive yet appealing representation of a munchkin on the front, pigtails a la Pippi Longstocking, hungrily surveying a stack of syrupy, perfect-looking flapjacks. Cognizant of American companies' world-famous litigiousness, I shall not reveal the Pileup's brand name, although I can say without fear of corporate repercussions that it rhymes with Gluten Free Screams.

With the table set, the griddle heated to a toasty 350 deg F, condiments at the ready, and the Kid Squid poised expectantly with knife and fork in hand, I opened the box. An overwhelming smell of sweetness poured forth together with a visible zephyr of sugar dust. Coughing delicately, I proffered the box to Toad for a second opinion and was rewarded with an unequivocal 'Good God' accompanied by the sort of nose-wrinkling reserved in B-movies for the discovery of a three-month-old corpse.

The texture of the mix was considered and found to be unpleasantly gritty between the index finger and thumb. The rice flour, perhaps? It turned out Toad has an aversion to rice flour - an unfortunate revelation this late in the game.

Determined to see the thing through to its bitter end, and with no obvious breakfast alternative, we decided to press on.

We added the required volumes of milk and oil and stood back for the stipulated five minutes, rather curious to see what would happen next. What happened was the xanthan gum (who knows how much was included amongst the other ingredients, but I'll wager it was way more than is either desirable or healthy) did its thing and transformed the mix into a glossy, shiny, sticky bowlful that looked and smelled a lot like commercial angel food cake batter.

Unfortunate, but not a deal-breaker. We persevered.
I lightly oiled my beautiful Wolf griddle as is my custom. The instant a pancake-sized spludge of batter hit the the hot plate, I knew we were in serious trouble. It sizzled and sputtered alarmingly, in the way things tend to do just before they burn to a crisp. I quickly grabbed my greasy-spoon-sized pancake-flipper and attempted to ease it under one of the flapjacks so I could turn it over. Despite my doughty efforts, the cake stuck to the griddle stubbornly and I was forced to scrape away at it in an un-ladylike manner. Able to free one edge, I attempted to turn the pancake over - whereupon it promptly tore in two around its equator. Clearly, xanthan or no, it lacked the structure needed to hold itself together. I managed to get the remaining three pancakes turned over, sort of, although two of them were no longer round and they all split horizontally to some degree. The griddle began to look like the scene of a bad accident and the batter bits that had failed to release under my spatula commenced smoking. The sound of nervous laughter was heard from somewhere off-screen.

Still, we were determined to give our breakfast a chance. I put the most likely specimen on a plate for the Squid's delectation: Toad and I (unwilling, just on the offchance, to dirty another plate unnecessarily) picked pieces straight off the griddle for sampling.

At this point, Moleskine clearly heard somebody exclaim, 'What the hell is this?!' but failed to record the identity of the outraged party. It could have been any one of us, since we all subsequently agreed that the Gluten Free Screams pancakes were gummy, sticky, gritty, and slimy. They left in our mouths a molar-coating residue and a metallic, over-sweet aftertaste. Believe me when I say mere words cannot begin to do justice to their epic awfulness.

The Squid spit his into the trash. Toad and I, being of a more dignified frame of mind, went off quietly to brush our teeth. Upon our return to the scene of the crime, we reviewed our method and donned our reading glasses to confirm we'd followed the manufacturer's directions, whereupon we congratulated ourselves on being two reasonably intelligent adults who had done exactly as they'd been told. There was no concealing the unfortunate fact that the pancakes themselves were a) at fault and b) most definitely off the menu. Permanently.

It took us quite some time to clean my beloved Wolf cooker of the Pileup's residue, which had turned  to cement during the post-tasting hullabaloo. We scraped the rest of the uncooked batter into the trash can, afraid to pour it down the sink and risk clogging up the plumbing for all eternity, forever and forever.

Next up: startlingly, breakfast goes from bad to worse.

Just Desserts, Episode 9: The Old Battle Axe

The sun is shining chez Fractured Amy and it's glorious outside. I got my first bump from a real food-writer and Just Desserts was fun, fun, fun. Today, my enthusiasm is boundless! Maybe gluten-freedom is finally beginning to cure my Irritability Disease.  The Nutritionist said my life would miraculously improve in six to eight weeks: could it possibly be true?

It all started this morning when I found in my Inbox a lovely note from Andrew Scrivani, whom readers will know as the muse and mentor for yesterday's sushi gohan studies. He included in his missive a tempting link: upon subsequent clickage, what did I see but my own bowl of brown rice, confident as ever, eyeing me saucily from my hero's website! I admit, the moment was one of the more intoxicating I've experienced in my brief blogging career. Equally thrilling was the discovery that, by way of several more hyperlinks, I could navigate from The New York Times website (via the Diner's Journal blogroll and Making Sunday Sauce) all the way back to yesterday's post. My life was complete.

Moleskine was so proud!

It was with a spring in my step therefore that I sat down with my very early morning cup of coffee to catch up on the DVRd exploits of my favorite pastry cheftestants. My elation continued unabated as the quickfire was announced. The stars were truly aligned: a gluten-free challenge at last! Or as good as, since the remit was to create a box of four chocolates for the great Francois Payard (whose Lexington Ave. patisserie I visited on more than one occasion before its untimely demise). Our four gallant competitors were required to use their life stories as inspiration for their boites, which I thought was quite adorable. It was fun hearing them talk wistfully about their 'golden moments' in one breath then spit venom at the competition with the next. Flour, thankfully, is not a usual ingredient in ganaches and nougatines, although the gluten freedom-fighter must always be on the lookout for unwelcome crispy bits. Danielle failed the challenge miserably, in my book, by adding pretzels to her otherwise blameless chocs - although even that reckless adherence to gluten could not dull my euphoria.

On to the elimination round! This was pretty great, if only because there are so few chefs left these days we must necessarily spend more time looking at, talking about, poking, tasting, and judging their offerings. So we actually heard some useful discussion, which cheered me more than I would have thought possible. Sylvia Weinstock was the guest judge and her owl-like glasses filled me with unutterable joy.

• Morgan produced, with minimum fuss, a very plain cake covered in white buttercream. I was admiring of its Zen simplicity until the judges pointed out the uneven piping and gaps between layers. Morgan, apparently, broke the cardinal rule that 'if it's simple, it must be perfect.' This is just the sort of thing we need to hear about, I think, and I welcomed being able to eavesdrop on some expert criticism. Now I, too, will know what to look for when I examine the birthday cakes at our local supermarket. I can only inspect them visually, of course, but I'm sure the bakery employees will welcome and benefit from my freely-expressed opinions.
• Yigit offered one of his usual complicated, multi-layered, excessive, 'look at me I used to work for Daniel Boulud' creations. It promptly fell apart when he tried to excavate slices for the expectant crowd. Was that a scoop of sorbet unceremoniously dumped on top? Really? And we've seen those artfully scraped chocolate flowers before. Next!
• Danielle's grey-covered cake demonstrated only that she ignored Sally Field's advice in Steel Magnolias. The judges declared the cake delicious but my favorite part was the egg laid by the Pompadour during the judges' tasting, when a description of the icing as 'battleship grey' prompted a free association with Sylvia's sixty-one years of marriage. Oh, Johnny, no you didn't!
• Zac, poor Zac - his cake was one big hot mess. Sadly, his fate was sealed the second he threw caution to the wind and brought out the disco dust and blue food coloring. The judges declared it tasted like cocoa powder and The Owl said it looked like a bar mitzvah cake. More damning censure, I gather, cannot be experienced and survived.

So, I bid Zac a fond adieu and prepared to face my day with a light heart and a song on my lips. Could my delight have been any greater, my exuberance any more annoying to those around me?

There was one final treat in store: the news that Top Chef All Stars debuts in just nineteen days!

Next up: my cup runneth over

Photo Finish

Loyal readers are well-aware that I enjoy peppering my gluten-free scribblings with photographs, both for instructional and aesthetic purposes. Tragically, in some unfortunate cases my pics have turned out so badly that postings about their subjects had to be abandoned in order to preserve my reputation as a cheerful perfectionist. The image of Risotto alla Scozzese, for example, taken to commemorate the inauguration of my freshest batch of lobster stock, looked like a heaping bowl of pink oatmeal. A plate of Spaghetti Carbonara, immortalized as a tribute to De Boles corn spaghetti, was - how shall I put this delicately? - let's just say 'indescribable' and leave it at that. The portrait of my Yorkshire puddings (six less-than-impressive fawn-colored dough lumps) failed to convey the success of an otherwise triumphant g/f baking experiment. Cream-hued and brown-ish foods are definitely a challenge to the would-be food-porn artiste.

The latest victim of my amateur efforts was Monday's bowl of brown sushi rice, easily my poorest pictorial striving to date. No matter what I did, the result was uninspiring, unappetizing, and unworthy of these carefully designed pages. I include it below so readers may judge for themselves what I was up against.

Bowl of Brown Rice (a severe case of the blahs)

Never one to admit defeat, I was nonetheless a bit unsure of where to turn. Fortunately, help arrived in the nick of time. Just last week, Andrew Scrivani published in the New York Times an article called 'How to Shoot Ugly Food,' which I had printed out and tucked into Moleskine's back pages as insurance against just such an eventuality.

Too late to save my previous pics, I was determined to apply Scrivani's wisdom to the current problem. He talks about how difficult it can be to 'take a good picture of an uncooperative subject' - which a bowl of inanimate brown rice definitely is. His advice to the unfortunate food photographer is to make like a seventeenth-century Dutch painter and consider the comestibles as a sort of still life. Now it's been a while since Art History 101, but as the philosopher once said, 'it's just like riding a bike.'

The first thing I remembered about all those Olde Masters was their devotion to lighted interiors. Scrivani writes of the need for lighting to be 'exquisite', which I call wishful thinking as I am severely limited by my basic digital camera, the aperture of which is about the size of - oh - a pinhole, thus necessitating daylight shoots in all but the most unavoidable cases. Fortunately, at this time of year the sun's bounteous rays sometimes stream into the south-facing dining room in a pleasing way. I was able to make use of the beams' play on the table by working at an angle:

Bowl of Brown Rice (after Emmanuel de Witte)

Much improved! But I had barely begun to scratch the surface of Scrivani's insight.

He talks about how he often relies (as a distraction, I suppose) on table settings and 'beautiful props' for added interest. I recalled our good Japanese rice bowls, purchased at great expense from Takashimaya many years ago and, astonishingly, still all accounted for. I transferred a small amount of the rice to the prettiest of the bowls and carefully mounded the grains into a slightly off-center ziggurat, discovering in the process that cold rice sticks to itself better than warm rice. Chopsticks and tweezers proved helpful for creating the pyramid's 'natural' look.

Bowl of Brown Rice (after Willem Kalf)

But still Scrivani has not imparted his entire philosophy. Finally, he urges us to concentrate on elements of 'textural and geometric interest'.

I'm ready for my close-up, Mr. DeMille! 

Bowl of Brown Rice (after Abraham Hendricksz van Bayeren)

Now that's a fine-looking bowl of rice.