Proof of the Pudding

Having finally undertaken my annual end-of-year pantry clear-out, I found myself in possession of several unopened bags of organic stone-ground corn flour (hooray!); a long-forgotten container of xanthan gum (now consigned forever and for always to the Pitiless Purgatory of Dreadful Ingredients); a few packs of ramen left over from our hurricane scare of several months ago (the Kid Squid will eat them happily, for I sure can't); and two gluten-free panettone from Schär, which I had purchased some time ago in anticipation of the holidays.

I considered these last items somewhat glumly, I must confess. Although I am big fan of Schär's chocolate hazelnut wafers, I have yet to find a gluten-free bread worth the calories and did not hold out much hope for the loaves staring at me (somewhat impudently, I might add) from my kitchen counter. Fortunately, they contained no truly scarifying ingredients such as pea protein or bamboo roots - although their lack of lactose struck me as unnecessarily ascetic in this season of bounteous indulgence.

Upon opening the box, I was heartened to find something that looked suspiciously like the wheat-filled specimens of my dim and distant past - they were soft and spongy when tentatively poked and had a nice airy texture. I was so encouraged by my discovery that I decided on the spot to attempt its substitution in my favorite panettone application of all time: bread pudding!

I softened a stick of butter and mixed in enough cinnamon and freshly-grated nutmeg to make it taste zesty and festive. I sliced the panettone into half-inch slices and spread them liberally - they didn't disintegrate into oblivion! I felt almost optimistic as I layered them into a shallow baking dish:

Next, I whisked together nine egg yolks (well, it is the holidays, after all) and three-quarters of a cup of sugar. I heated up four cups of dairy (more or less evenly divided between cream and 2% milk: my arteries can only stand so much abuse) in the microwave until the mixture was steamy. I slowly whisked the hot moo into my eggs-and-sugar then added a splash of vanilla.

At this point there was only one thing for it: I was obliged by the laws of bread-pudding chemistry to introduce the custard to the panettone pieces. What would happen when the two substances came into contact? I had a pretty good idea: the panettone would dissolve utterly, leaving me with a dish full of raisin-laced mush. I screwed my courage to its sticking place and did the deed:

The bread didn't disappear! In fact, even after ten minutes of soaking it held its shape in a way that made me quite emotional. Not wanting to push my luck, I rushed it into a 350 deg F oven - even though traditional b/p requires at least half an hour of steeping to achieve creamy custardy deliciousness.

Half an hour later, I retrieved my creation from the hot box and scrutinized it with some satisfaction. The slices had retained their integrity and were starting - joy of joys - to get crispy on top. I sifted a heavy layer of powdered sugar over all and returned the dish to the oven for ten more minutes.

When time was up and the custard was set (but still slightly wobbly, of course) I placed the pud on a cooling rack and salvaged my chef's torch from its secret location in the rubber-band drawer. I bruleed the dessert's surface until it was brown and caramelized and toasty and then stood back, waiting impatiently for the thing to cool sufficiently for slicing.

And what do you think? My panettone pudding was delicious! Soft and creamy and eggy within - crusty and crispy on top. It was a reminder of an almost-forgotten treasure and I was filled with hope and optimism for 2012.

My happiness might even last until Monday.

Coming soon: I ponder uses for the bestest hostess present of all time, a box of cunning blue medicine bottles containing exotic small-batch bitters (cassia, camomile, and dried fruit! caramelized orange, coriander, and cardamom!) all the way from sunny Milwaukee, Wisconsin.

Gifts of the Magi

It's been a banner year for Christmas swag a chez Fractured Amy, with three notable standouts on the culinary front.

1. A copy of On the Line to sit beside last year's Ripertian addition to my Metro shelving. I am now in possession of much valuable intelligence, including the procedure for preparing unilaterally-cooked salmon (the fish 'develops a custard-like consistency!' swoons the author) as well as tempting recipes for corn sorbet, beurre noisette ice cream, and banana creme brulee -  all of which I shall be fabricating at the first available opportunity. Armed as I am with the bitter experience of last year's caramelized white chocolate panna cotta episode, I shall be sure to set aside several days for experimental purposes. Watch this space for exciting R & D updates.
2. My very own one-pint cream whipper, complete with ten extremely cute but woefully non-biodegradable cartouches creme chantilly (better known to the geeks among us as N2O chargers). The sleek pressurized vessel and alchemical implications of this marvelous device appeal greatly to my engineering side and I am looking forward not only to the production of beaucoups espumas a la Adria but also Modernist mozzarella, a sort of water-balloon-like burrata squirted full of homemade fresh cheese, for which manufacture a cream whipper is de rigueur (Not incidentally, Myhrvold et al make heavy use of gaseous technology in their section entitled - fittingly enough - Foams. Who can resist something called Siphoned Souffle a la Lorraine? Not me, that's for sure!). Wanting to start modestly, I am currently debating what to make first - chilled zabaglione or Amarula and white chocolate mousse - and how to organize the recycling of the mountains of stainless steel cartouches that will no doubt soon be accumulating in my garage.
3. A new T-shirt from the Kid Squid in stunning lab-coat blue. Inspired by one of his favorite games, the message emblazoned on its front is perfectly a propos - a tribute to the struggles of gluten guerrillas everywhere. I have worn it now for three days straight, such is my devotion to the truth of its message.

I plan to be buried in it.

Ructions

Once again, I have missed the current installment of Pads and the Unibrow Do Texas. I'm not sure, but I think the episode involved Tweets (or possibly twits) and Heather getting sent home in a hail of gunfire.

Or so I gather.

The reason I missed my favorite show this week was that I was having a Top Chef experience all my own courtesy of Sir, the holiday season, and the good people at our local high-end pan-Asian-but-mostly-Japanese chow house, of which we have been loyal fans for years. The restaurant has proved to be one of those places where a wheat-free warrior can present herself for a post-movie meal and - with minimum fuss - be rewarded with gluten-free delights such as foie gras with roasted pineapple and eel salsa; sous vide salmon with pistachios and pine nuts; and tuna with tomato yuzu chutney. Wash it all down with a sake-and-cucumber on ice and one is able either to celebrate a new four-star-find or recover from a regrettable two-thumbs-down turkey. Either way it's difficult to lose.

Since none of the flicks we are desperate to see has as yet come to the Valley (although there are tantalizing rumours that Gary Oldman's new Tinker, Tailor etc. will be appearing only 40 miles away come mid-January), we showed up for dinner sans cinematic hors d'ouevre. The Kid Squid's absence and something akin to holiday giddiness led us absentmindedly to peruse the chef's tasting menu, something we rarely do for three reasons:

• the Squid refuses to sit still long enough for the rest of the family to eat more than two courses. Since he is not a dessert eater, this tragic state of affairs used to result in my being denied my favorite part of a restaurant meal. As most eateries of my acquaintance are unable to offer a gluten-free sweet other than creme brulee, however, this is no longer the heartbreaker it was in my distant cake and tart-consuming past
• Sir and I have a deep suspicion of chefs' menus. Having experienced (let there be no mistake) a few by chefs of great renown, we have come to the conclusion that sitting through a four-hour dinner of small courses is like watching avant garde theater or a runway show of Lacroix couture. To be sure, one admires the artistry and skill on display and utters knowingly appreciative oohs and aahs, but it's difficult to come away with a sense of one's soul having been satisfied. But that's just us. Heathens.
• Sir and I are usually too fiscally responsible to spring for a tasting menu. See above.

But how, on this occasion, could we resist oysters, quail eggs, diver scallops, and (be still my heart) wild boar? Not easily, that's for sure. Besides, the number of times I've seen wild boar on a menu hereabouts I could count on one hand and not even worry about carpal tunnel syndrome.

The bill of fare was admirably effuse in its descriptions and all the offerings looked pretty safe, gluten-wise. I double-checked with our server, who said she would, in turn, double-check with Chef and that was that. Sir and I sat back with our ridiculous cocktails and waited expectantly for the delights that would no doubt soon be coming our way.

Soon afterwards, the First Course arrived: a quicksmoked Kumamoto oyster with Reisling caviar, pickled cornichon, pearl onion and paddlefish roe. The dish was served in a large glass snifter with a lid on it, just like they have been doing at Alinea since time immemorial and everywhere else on the planet for the past three years or so. Still, it was the first time I'd experienced such sophistication in the Valley and it was pretty exciting, I must say. Chef had clearly been practicing with his spherification kit to produce the sparkly-sweet caviar and we contentedly slurped away, enjoying the play of sea and smoke. Sir thought the cornichon was briny overkill and a long discussion about acidity and its desirability ensued.

Our conversation became so involved that we failed, at first, to notice the rather excessive hiatus between our first and second courses. Soon, however, just as my fascinating exposition about traditional Japanese pickling methods was winding down, our server appeared. She apologized for the delay and explained that Chef was in the process of knocking his be-toqued head against the wall, since most of the upcoming courses contained soy sauce in various guises and required, in her words, 'reworking'.

***

I'd forgotten that the rest of the world believes soy sauce is filled with gluten!

***

You will no doubt remember that over a year ago, newly reeling from my quack's gluten-free decrees, I engaged in some extensive internet research and concluded that - even though wheat is used in its production - shoyu contains no gluten because during its distillation the protein chains are broken down into their constituent amino acids. Since I have not yet been able to raise sufficient funds to undertake the necessary laboratory testing myself, I must confess this belief is more a matter of faith than hard science. Nonetheless, I stick by it and defy anyone to convince me differently.

Clearly, though, Chef had failed to receive the memo.

I was instantly filled with remorse. My desire to cause as little fuss in restaurants as is humanly possible is well-recorded. If I had known I was going to cause a kitchen kerfuffle I would have either a) ordered off the a la carte menu as per usual or b) kept my mouth shut and discreetly left to one side any obviously gluten-filled morsels. It had certainly not been my intention to require that every dish coming out of the expeditor's window (at a Japanese restaurant, no less) contain no soy sauce! I considered passing my wheat wisdom on to the cooks (who were no doubt by this point cursing the heavens and punters like me who have outrageously faddy dietary requirements), but Sir threatened to walk out if I did. We were at this point committed, he pointed out, and who were we to say the establishment's hash slingers weren't enjoying the thrilling novelty of cooking something new? Dubiously but obediently, I agreed to take what came with good grace.

From this point onwards the dishes Sir and I ate differed in several important respects, so I decided to document the meal for posterity. I didn't have my trusty wee Olympus with me and was therefore obliged to use my Smartyphone. An additional technical snafu occured when I accidentally set the camera to 'video' and I was forced subsequently to edit the footage using the device's rather troublesome screen-capture function. This was helpfully demonstrated to me by the Kid Squid when we finally returned home six hours later.

Second Course
Tuna poke with caramelized onion puree, tasaka seaweed salad, Hawaiian sea salt and a poached quail egg. We detected few obvious dissimilarities except for the soy schmear on Sir's gluten-filled plate. It is possible I was also missing the onions, but it was hard to tell without a direct taste comparison (an impossibility without the risk of approbation and flying santoku hurled from the direction of the kitchen). The quail egg was roughly the size of my thumbnail and oozed everywhere when I jabbed it. It was like eating a very diminutive steak tartare. Divine.

Gluten-filled poke

Gluten-free poke

Third Course
The restaurant's signature sushi tasting, which has long been a soyless sakana serenade. On this occasion it consisted of maguro with onion, hamachi with yuzu paste, sake with mustard miso and mint, and suzuki with lemon and shiso:

Fourth Course
Wild mushroom soup with truffle oil. This took ages and ages since, as it turned out, they had to come up with something completely different for me. I was presented with a bowl of heavenly clam soup with enoki. The enoki were a revelation - they acted and tasted just like very al dente strands of pasta. I was inspired.

Fifth Course
A pan-seared diver scallop with edamame humus, green peas, haricot verts, and cinnamon foam. This was a complete triumph. The scallop sat atop a nabe of hot salt on which were arrayed toasty cinnamon sticks and star anise. I was lacking the cinnamon foam but didn't really miss it what with all the aromatic waftings going on. The scallop was the size of a hockey puck, and the texture of one, too - if the puck in question were made of warm melting butter.

Gluten-filled scallop

Gluten-free scallop

Sixth Course
The much-anticipated wild boar chop with a sweet potato croquette, lamb meatball, and mustard greens. This was the only course about which I had actually been concerned in the first place and with good reason, as it turned out. Chef duly pulled out all the stops to give me something special. He went to the trouble of de-boning the chop and adorning it with all manner of deliciously wasabi-enrobed veg, such that I felt healthy and virtuous as well as gluten-free. The meat itself was pink, juicy, and rich. I permitted Sir to pick up his bone and gnaw on it, just this once.

Gluten-filled boar chop

Gluten-free boar chop

Final Course
Pumpkin souffle. As far as we could tell, the two plates were identical: the souffle (unfortunately fallen by the time I was able to arrange a suitable composition) was accompanied by sweet cinnamon cream and homemade eggnog ice cream. As I scraped my cup clean I pondered the beauty of souffles and made a new year's resolution to produce some of the sweet variety in my own kitchen when the first available opportunity presented itself.

So ended my first experience of special handling in a restaurant. The meal took about seven times longer than might usually have been the case, but the staff imdulged my weirdness with grace and aplomb. I went from feeling downright guilty and regretful to pleased and satisfied - pleased because the kitchen had clearly gone to a good deal of trouble to appease me and satisfied because I had been served a wonderful gluten-free meal that had neither the feeling of 'second best' nor 'making do.' The kitchen outdid itself to make my holiday dinner a memorable and enjoyable one, despite the inconvenience and trouble I had no doubt caused.

But then, as Sir pointed out, it wouldn't be Top Chef without the challenge.

Next up: requiring a holiday challenge of my own, I attempt to make spiced bread pudding from Schar's gluten-free panettone.

Top Chef Texas, Episode 7: L Words

L is for Tim Love, the cutest guest judge to appear on Top Chef in some time. 'Good tequila is made to be sipped - like a fine wine or a good craft beer,' he winsomely declared, before tasking our culinary combatants with a quickfire challenge involving food pairings with many varieties of Mexican agave juice.

L is for Lush, Lighthearted, and Lubricious, all of which are useful adjectives that might be employed to describe tequila's impish profile. Sadly, the marketing folks at Don Julio have not cottoned on to these valuable modifiers, requiring our chefs to shill for their product using descriptors such as 'aloe vera green-ness,' 'caramel woodsy notes,' 'sweet, smoky, and earthy,' and 'crisp and clear.' To be fair, aloe vera does have an L in it.

Lacklustre seemed an adequate summary of the quickfire dishes, although Chris J. paired his blanco with pan-seared chicken, lime vinaigrette, and something called 'puffed quinoa', which I thought sounded intriguing. A 45-minute search on Bravo's appalling website revealed that one puffs the substance in question by frying it in 350 deg oil until it becomes crispy and - you guessed it - inflated with its own importance. If I weren't boycotting quinoa until such time as Bolivian agriculture gets its priorities straight, I'd try it myself. It would make for a lively and luring gluten-free accompaniment to plain grilled proteins - especially if one used the red stuff.

L is also for my girl Lindsay who got a shout-out for her excellent pairing of anejo with salmon, fennel puree and brown butter sauce (tragically, she didn't win the $5000 - the prize went to Ty-Lor, whose name might start with an L. I'm not really sure, but I suppose it's possible that his unusual sobriquet is quite common in the distant galaxy from which he no doubt hails). Poor Lindsay! Upon hearing from her fellow cheftestants that her rack of boar-adorning kohlrabi slaw was watery, she lagubriously admitted that the news was 'gut-wrenching.' Never mind, Lindsay, I still think you're laudably lovely, with the sweetest little old accent this side of Lee County!

Loopy is how Heather behaved when working with Bev for the game-inspired elimination challenge. I say working, but it would be more correct to call it heckling, baiting, bossing, and bullying. Attempting to defend a substandard dish of insufficiently-rendered duck breast and pickled cherries, she blethered on and on about Bev's deficiencies in the kitchen during challenges past - causing Bev's allies (of whom there were legion) to spring into a sort of fending-off action. It was an unedifying spectacle, calling to mind the words 'snotty' and 'bitch', even though neither of them contains the letter of the day.

Losing heart is how I would describe the Heimlich Maneuver at this point, disappointed as he was by polenta side-dishes; black-and-blue venison; sweat-covered plates draped with  'bouquets of greens' (we call them salads in my house, but what do we know?); sweet-potato daisy chains; and nervous breakdown-inducing squab sausage. Is it my imagination or is the HM losing his enthusiasm for the process? He certainly doesn't seem to be enjoying himself at judges' table these days.

I know he feels: let down and listless. Or as Che would say, desinteresado.

I would say it too - but it doesn't start with an L.

Holiday Blues

This past weekend, as is customary at this time of year, the denizens a chez Fractured Amy stalked, cornered, dispatched, and brought home triumphantly our trophy of the season - a huge Douglas Fir that is now resplendently decorated in a corner of the family room, twinkling merrily and smelling sweetly of holiday cheer.

The Great Tree Hunt on Saturday was more than usually fraught. Naturally, getting three people to reach a consensus on anything (especially when they are as opinionated as Sir, the Kid Squid, and myself) is never easy, but we had great difficulty this year in agreeing on a tree that was suitably conical (but not pear-shaped); tall enough to Make A Statement (but not too altitudinous to fit into the back of my stalwart silver Element); sufficiently green (there were a lot of brown needles this year, presumably from the trees' sitting in puddles for months on end during the wettest summer on record); and possessing of copious numbers of little sticky-up branches for displaying small ornaments and the piece de resistance, our gold paper Moravian star.

When we finally did spot a suitable victim, poor Sir spent almost ten minutes on the cold wet ground, hacksawing away like one possessed. The Squid and I would have offered to spell him for a while, but we know (even though he denies it) that deep down he loves the kill. It's traditional.

When we got home Sir looked so cold and downtrodden from his labours that I decided he needed a treat. Earlier in the week he had plaintively texted me that he'd finished the last of the homemade cheese 'that smelled like feet' (in fact, an impish little washed-rind creation made with bacteria linens - the same bugs that give a red bloom to reblochon and Muenster), so I decided to crack open the much-anticipated BCSSP (Blue Cheese in the Style of Stilton, Perhaps). Much anticipated by others, I hasten to add. I dislike blue cheese. Intensely. Always have.

I was dubious about the BCSSP for other reasons, too, mostly to do with the worrying transmogrifications that have bedevilled it since its introduction into my cave oh-so-many weeks ago. First, it started to grow red fuzzy mold. Then it started to give off an odour not unlike our basement after it has been flooded for a week. In something of a panic, I consulted a variety of expert sources only to discover that such disquieting developments were perfectly normal and nothing at all to be concerned about. I was instructed to give it a good scrape with a sharp knife whenever I thought the situation was getting out of hand and await the appearance of 'the smear'. Then I would really know I was getting somewhere!

As promised, my cheese soon became covered in brown goo that looked like and had the texture of extremely smooth yet sticky peanut butter - although the color was more tahini-hued, now that I come to think on it. The odiferousness was truly dreadful. I scraped and fretted for several more weeks, convinced that I had a real disaster on my hands.

Then, miraculously, a period of time went by when the BCSSP developed a fresh, clean aroma (although unmistakably blue, if you know what I mean) and scraping became a far less urgent task. On Saturday, I decided the time was right.

I cut the truckle into halves around its equator and rejoiced to see inside a creamy pale cheese interlaced with gossamer veins of purest azure. I dared to try a smidgeon and was relieved to discover that it wasn't the worst thing I'd ever tasted. Sir carefully carved some into wedges and ate them with a thinly sliced apple, in which manner blue cheese is often enjoyed in his culture. While not crumbly enough to be Stilton, or creamy enough to be Roquefort, it was nonetheless declared an excellent example of the species.

Just like our Christmas tree.

Top Chef Texas, Episode 6: Feeling Saucy

Did you know that the position of saucier is the most prestigious on the line in any commercial kitchen? Neither did I. In fact, I'll bet an entire boatful of bordelaise that in 98% of the restaurants frequented by yours truly, the substance in question comes straight out of a jar - and I don't suppose a specialist is required to do the scraping. To be fair, though, some of those lids can be pretty tough to unscrew and accessing the last belligerent dollop from the bottom of its vessel can be a trial if you're in a hurry and the spoon is slightly too large to fit.

But I'm willing to play along with Bravo's most-recent conceit, particularly when it's perpetrated by as preeminent a guest judge as Dean Fearing, of whom - before his appearance on my favorite show - I had previously heard not at all. The competitors sure had, though, and worried whispers about 'classical training' and 'James Beard Awards' percolated throughout the Top Chef kitchen faster than a lumpy mornay through a China cap.

The quickfire challenge he set our coulis contenders? To make an original dish using a prototypal variation of one of Escoffier's mother sauces. Just in case our gravy gladiators didn't know what on earth The Dean of Dallas Dining was on about, the customary knives of doom were distributed with helpful clues: espagnol, bechamel, veloute, tomate, and hollandaise. Furrowed brows, full-blown panic, and mutinous rumblings about 'putting a spin on things' ensued as the cheftestants labored for one and one-half hours to put together suitably-sauced Fearing-pleasing plates.

Dismayedly watching flour zephyrs wafting from saucepans and the furious whisking that followed, it immediately became clear to your gluten-free correspondent that a preponderance of roux were in production all over the GE monogram stovetops. I feared the worst.

Sure enough, roux were a recurring theme during the QF judging. Paul (who had earlier THd that a classic espagnol was made with tomato paste - an assertion that didn't seem quite right to me), was asked what color his roux was before he constructed his sauce. He laid a proverbial oeuf by explaining to Mr. Classically-Trained James Beard Award Winner that he hadn't, in fact, bothered to create a roux at all. Disbelief all round.

Whitney (who kept referring to her creation as 'tomato sauce') was asked, 'What roux did you use?' Her answer of 'none' was greeted with the pitying reply that a classic tomate never fails to have one. She rebelliously THd that 'I have never used a roux in my tomate nor would I ever. The judges can just go jump in a raging river of rouille!' I made that last part up, of course, but her intent was clear.

Dean's disappointments didn't end there. None of the hollandaise handlers clarified his butter before making his sauce, prompting a barely-disguised sneer from our now-disillusioned guest judge. Beverly destroyed her espagnole by adding so much soy sauce she was obliged to put very little on the plates, inviting criticism of imbalance and stinginess. Dakota's bechamel drizzled and dripped all over her dish like thin cream, much to the consternation of all. Many sauces were deemed 'over-acidic', while others were 'too sweet'. A few displayed 'good seasoning', but clearly not enough to please the judges.

The competitors were sent abashedly away to try and cook some beef for cow pokes and their gals, but even this relatively simple task proved defeating. Overdone steaks, safe sides, and insipid salads received a disenchanted 'What are they doing here?' from an incredulous HM, who finally sent home Whitney for serving raw potato gratin in 104 degree heat. Poor HM - he seemed pretty discouraged by the whole experience.

I must confess my mind was elsewhere as the bovine bother unfolded. A few comments during the quickfire and my own hazy knowledge of classical cuisine had got me to thinking about how much flour is used in the creation of traditional French sauces. Was my next trip to Paris doomed before the tickets were even booked? I'd long ago accepted that my favorite breakfast of pains aux chocolats was forevermore denied me, but was it possible I wasn't going to be able to eat dinner, either?

My usual go-to source of wisdom and knowledge, the internet, was forbidden me because Sir was hogging the family computer, futilely attempting to get his ancient copy of Company of Heroes up an running. I therefore retrieved my battered edition of the New Larousse Gastronomique (grandfathered in and therefore exempt from my dead-tree book embargo) from its hallowed place on my kitchen's Metro shelves and got to work.

It was a sobering experience. The section on sauces (not including those for desserts) in my faded blue tome extended from page 806 to 827. At an average of 16 entries per page (with a few photographs thrown in for excitement), that made for something like 320 varieties. Indeed, the introductory text explained there are almost 200 sauces to be found in classic French cuisine, not including variations (of which there are legion).

That's a lot of sauce.

Of course, the Larousse differs from Top Chef in its definition of 'mother' or 'great' sauces in a number of important ways. It divides sauces into two groups only: brown (including espagnol and tomate plus lots of others); and white (bechamel and veloute are only two examples). Hollandaise is listed as only one of dozens of compound white sauces, which also include bearnaise, butter sauces, curries, zingara, and something called ravigote, which is mind-bogglingly described as being appropriate 'for offal and US-style meat and poultry'. A quick dip into Julia revealed yet another organizing construct: she divides French sauces into white and brown (like Larousse) but lists hollandaise and tomate as their own thing. Sigh. Why is nothing ever simple? I was just about to dive into Careme when I realized I had become, as usual, distracted by minutiae.

I needed to find out how many sauces spelled certain death for gluten guerrillas such as myself!

Hollandaise I already knew was safe, since I am a dab hand with a blender version I have been using for years. Just on the off-chance that old Escoffier had a few tricks up his sleeve, I double-checked the classic recipe. Sure enough, not a molecule of gluten in sight, although I was surprised to see that lemon juice features as only a few drops for seasoning, rather than the full tablespoon I am wont to use. A few grates of nutmeg are also considered de rigeur - I shall be adjusting my strategy next time I have five egg yolks to spare.

The rest of of the news was not so rosy:

• Espagnol. There are two versions, grasse (meat) and maigre (fish). Both begin with a roux simmered with stock, to which are added mirepoix, bacon, white wine, thyme, and bay. The fish version also contains mushroom skins. Of tomato paste, there was no mention.
• Bechamel. No surprise there, as my previous understanding of roux, milk, chopped onion, thyme, bay and nutmeg went unchallenged. I was, however, surprised by the inclusion of diced veal in the classic recipe.
• Veloute. Three versions (meat, chicken, and fish), all of which are simply created from a roux and stock. Seasoning is not required, since the stock should have enough going for it in that department, although mushroom skins may be included for additional 'delicacy.'
• Tomate. Three versions (meat, meatless, or au naturel). The first two are made with a roux enriched with bacon fat and mirepoix to which are added tomatoes, garlic, a ham knuckle, bouquet garni, and stock. The third, most natural version is made - hold onto your toque blanche - without any roux at all!

I'll be damned if Whitney wasn't right after all. Of course, having been ingloriously auf'ed, she will unlikely be taking much satisfaction from her small victory - but her resistance should serve as inspiration for the wheatless warriors who will no doubt follow.

Fifth Columnists

Christmas preparations are in full swing a chez Fractured Amy. The stockings have been hung from the chimney with care; the house has been festooned with pine branches and holly sprigs; and Sir has done his usual sterling job of bedecking the gazebo in the woods with twinkly white fairy lights. The Messiah can be heard more or less round the clock (except when interrupted by carol services from Wells Cathedral) and the Kid Squid leaps from his bed every morning to see what new delight may be found in his personally-prepared advent calendar.

Since this is my favorite time of the year, it has proved somewhat difficult of late to work myself into my customary lather of gluten-free indignation. It's not easy to snipe and snark when one is cheerfully humming Good King Wenceslas and Lo How a Rose E'er Blooming, as is my wont once December 1 rolls around.

Still, today is a terribly rainy Tuesday, which means I must rouse myself from contented satisfaction to indulge in some well-deserved testiness prompted by Things To Which I Take Exception.

What is the object of my current ire, you may well ask? Well, I will tell you. Today's travails and tribulations come to me courtesy of The New York Times, a publication that in my humble - but generally agreed-upon opinion - is typically above reproach. The specific source of my torment is a feature from last Sunday's magazine section headlined Beat the Wheat. This unfortunate choice of titular phraseology alerted me to the likelihood of anger-causing content such that I only just got round to studying it today. My particularly good mood of late has caused me to avoid strenuously potential buzz-harshers.

The piece turned out to be a bit of puffery about how General Mills, ConAgra, Anheuser-Busch and other stalwarts of the gluten-industrial complex have discovered that beaucoup dosh can be obtained by benevolently shilling wheat-free convenience food to perplexed passengers on the gluten-free bandwagon.

A few interesting factoids emerged during my perusal:

• for reasons unknown to science, young people today are nearly five times as likely to have celiac disease as they were in 1950. Not to be diagnosed with it, mind you - which would be understandable - but actually to have it.
• celiac disease is now appearing in countries with little history of the disorder, including Mexico and India
• the gluten-free market is up by 33 percent since 2009 and is now something like a $6.3 billion industry (this according to Spins, a market research and consulting firm for natural-product producers)
• 80% of that market is driven by core commando consumers - that is, individuals who must avoid gluten because their quacks have told them to. The article is silent on who the other 20% are, but we know, don't we? It's the crazies who think gluten-free diets will help their candidates win elections and inspire the world's remaining dictators to embrace democracy.

This much I already knew: the evil minions of agribusiness are determined to unload (at exorbitant prices) certified maltodextrin-free breakfast cereal on unhappy gluten-freedom fighters who clearly don't take as much joy from plain organic super-yogurt, chia seeds, and homemade preserves as I do.

But here's something that came as a shock to my already-delicate system: there are entire battalions of g/f guerrillas colluding with the enemy!

That's right. Infiltrating our cadres are traitors to the cause who in their spare time are advising the Sinister Forces of Food Processing as to the best ways of luring freedom fighters over to the dark side.

The example cited by the article was The Casserole Coup, which was sneakily perpetrated recently by a consulting board of (I'm sure otherwise blameless) gluten-free do-gooders.

The problem with which the quislings confronted their handlers was the impossibility of creating a one-dish wonder from Progresso gluten-free cream of mushroom soup, which (according to informants) is neither sufficiently 'gelatinous' nor 'gluey' for the production of 'a great casserole'. General Mills have seized upon the opportunity and are now working overtime to engineer a can of condensed g/f soup that will work as well (or as badly) as its mucilaginous counterpart.

Just for fun, I looked up the nutritional info on said product. I discovered that over half its calories come from fat (and that's before you add all your other delicious casserole ingredients) and that one cup gives you 37% of your daily sodium requirement. The casserole-defying gluten-free version has similar characteristics, with the added bonus of a healthy dose of modified food starch (appearing on the label near the top, just after soybean oil).

After receiving this intelligence hyperventilation caused me to fall off my computer chair, rendering further research impractical.

Is this really an improvement? Is there not a better way? Of course there is. We can be thoughtful about what we eat and the ingredients with which we cook. We can decide that convenience does not out-trump quality and accept that we alone - and not profiteers from the wheat wars - must be responsible for what we put on our own tables. And we must bring these misguided wheat-free warriors back into the fold.

But such revolutionary fervor will have to wait until January.

At this time of year, my righteous indignation never lasts for long.

Big Macs

Once again, as predicted, I have missed the latest exciting installment of Top Chef: Texas. My understanding is that this week's casualty de cuisine was none other than Rick Bayless protege Chuy Valencia, about whose departure I have mixed feelings. On the one hand, I thought this guy was an egotistical ass - in stark contrast to his guru, whose class and self-effacement made his crowning as Top Chef Master an all-the-more impressive achievement. On the other hand, dinner at Frontera Grill is one of the reasons why I am always threatening to fly to Chicago the minute I receive sufficient air miles from the misers at Continental Airways (the other reason, of course, being a visit to Alinea or Next). Bravo's appalling website informs me that Chef Chuy no longer works the line at the Mexican meister's upmarket cantina, so I won't need to worry about the aufe'd one smirking at me while I enjoy Manitas de Cangrejo and Sopes Rancheros. And for that I say a big, 'Gracias, Senor.'

I was unable to take first-hand satisfaction from his being sent packing (for salmon stuffed with goats' cheese, gross) because yesterday morning I was preparing to speed my way east on I-78 for my annual lunch with DMR at Le Bernardin. And what a lunch it was! I will spare readers the salacious details except to report that the recent redesign of Eric's piscatorial pleasure palace has left me a bit nonplussed. Where before the airy dining room was decorated in tasteful shades of pink and peach (all right, I admit it, it was a bit girly) with huge paintings of fish-related subjects on every wall, diners are now tucked snugly into dark brown banquettes amidst wood panelling and mysterious lighting (controlled by a computer in California, if our server was to be believed). A single impressive seascape on the back wall provides the sole indication that the menu is heavily seafoodistical.

The ambience wasn't the only thing that has changed since last year's visit with Sir. The restaurant formerly served as a refuge for a wide variety of lunching ladies, visitors from out of town, and business types wheeling and dealing, but now appears to be the exclusive preserve of Masters of the Universe on Obscene Expense Accounts - and the male section of that population to boot. When we arrived, DMR and I saw only five other women in the whole place, seated singly at tables full of outrageously-accented hedge-fund managers: we're pretty sure at least two of these besuited damsels were tasked with note-taking. It was fascinating in a keep out the hoi polloi sort of way - the new design even cuts off the dining room's view of the bar, lest the movers and shakers be unnervingly treated to the unwanted sight of somebody coming in off the street for a *shudder* sandwich (albeit a $35 croque monsieur with smoked salmon and osetra) and a negroni.

Still, the set menu was divine as ever and we left feeling at peace with the world, confident that we'd successfully impersonated members of the 1% for a couple of hours. We had the added pleasure of speaking briefly with pastry perfectionist Michael Laiskonis: my dedication to full disclosure compels me to report that he's a bit shorter than he appears on TV, but with chiseled bone structure to die for.

All that is secondary, however, to my main observation of the day, which is that my favorite gluten-free tea-time treats of all time, macarons, are now to be found on every street corner in the city - even in shops that don't otherwise do patisserie, such as La Maison du Chocolat (to which I repaired for a box of truffles for Sir and two marrons glaces for me: now that I am privvy to the hard labour that is involved in the manufacture of these sugary little gems, I was unable to quibble with the extortionate price tag).

I might have been unsurprised by this sudden macaron mania had I previously been party to the intelligence contained within this week's edition of Time magazine, a photocopy of which I now happen to have in my possession. In a full-page expose on The Cupcake Coup, our breathless correspondent Josh Ozersky reports that paper cup-bedecked mini-cakes (which I have always maintained are stupid and pointless) are now out, whereas buttercream-filled French gateaux are these days most definitely la mode. He cites as evidence the inauguration of the world's first macaron truck (in Chicago, as luck would have it - there's now a third reason to hie to the Windy City as soon as is humanly possible) and the opening of Laduree in NYC. Apparently, Laduree macarons are now a must-have accessory for Those In the Know, rather like Louboutin heels and La Perla underwear.

While I can't claim to any great expertise on the unmentionables worn by the fashionistas of the Upper East side, I do know from macarons - and I am obliged to remind readers where the best ones are to be found. Last year I reported at length on my extensive taste-tests and concluded that - in all important respects - the three-inch beauties from Financier Patisserie at 48th St. and 6th Ave. are superior examples of the breed. This is why, on our way back to Port Authority, DMR and I whiled away a happy half-hour at a pavement table, enjoying the holiday lights and sipping rich hot chocolate with a gayly-striped green and white paper bag full of pistachio and hazelnut goodness close at hand.

There's a macaron sitting beside me even as I write this - batting its eyelashes alluringly and tempting me with its siren song. Have I digested sufficient calories from yesterday's lunch to merit a few chewy bites of marshmallowy goodness?

The answer has got to be a resounding yes. After all, a girl must be willing to make any sacrifice for fashion.

What's French for 'I Surrender'?

Readers waiting breathlessly for my recap of Thursday's Top Chef: Texas will, I'm afraid, be suffering disappointment this week. Despite four days' passing and the temptations provided by a hot-pepper Quickfire and chili cook-off elimination challenge, I have so far been unable to sit down with my DVR to enjoy the spectacle.

Thanksgiving, of course, intervened. Once again, I am forced to question the judgement of Bravo's producers: how can fans such as myself, with Turkey-Day cooking commitments of our own, possibly be expected to spend a whole hour watching TV? It's not possible.

I had planned to get caught up on the cheftestants' latest adventures on Friday but fate once again intervened. It intervened on Saturday, too. And today. In fact, I'm not sure I'm going be able to see TC:T at all before the DVR - full to bursting with Sir's and the Kid Squid's crime procedurals and sci-fi sagas - wipes my favorite show from its memory forever.

And who, you might wonder, is the fell transgressor in this saga? What sinister individual has unforgivably come between me, Pads, and the HM?

Can you guess?

That's right, Campers. Madame has struck again.

* * *

It started as a very simple plan, really. Several weeks ago I purchased two boxes of lovely little tulip-shaped Weck jars for the particular purpose of filling them with Christine Ferber's chestnut jam and giving them away as holiday gifts to sundry special folks. I adore candied chestnuts (marrons glaces and the Japanese dessert monburan are two of my favorite things in the whole wide world) and have been intrigued by the jam recipe ever since I first purchased Mes Confitures last Spring.

As a public service to readers I offer the recipe below, together some additional details garnered through the hard experience of Yours Truly.

Are you sitting comfortably? We shall begin.

Ahem.

Make a deep cut in each chestnut with the point of a knife.

Did I mention the recipe called for three pounds of whole uncooked chestnuts? That's a lot. Also, the shells are extremely durable. Using my priceless Japanese paring knife with the watered steel blade I was able, at the cost of severe blistering to my right thumb and index finger, to make deep gouges on the nuts' flat sides. Reasoning that one always cuts a cross into roasted chestnuts to facilitate peeling, I had at it with these bad boys as well. Fearing the worst (a premonition, perhaps), I made a big X on each of their curvy sides, too. It took forever and was extremely dangerous, what with an exceedingly sharp tachi, increasingly slippery cutting board, and customary Ferber-induced anxiety.

Put the chestnuts in boiling water. After three minutes you will be able to remove the outer shell and the inner skin. Chestnuts can be easily peeled if they don't cool off.

I looked at the daunting pile and realized there was no way I could cook them all at once if they were to stay warm for peeling. I decided, therefore, to cook them in batches of five. After the stipulated three minutes, I pulled the first lot out of the water. Although the tough outer shell came off, the brown-paper inner skin stuck stubbornly to the flesh beneath, causing angst and vexation on my part. I threw the nuts back into the pot for additional boilage and was eventually able to peel them with some success. After experimenting with several hundred specimens, I concluded ten minutes was the minimum processing time required for straightforward shell removal.

Sir, alarmed by my cursing and impatient slamming of pan lids, came into the kitchen, bless him, to see if he could help. I called his bluff and set him to work peeling. After some initial whining about the effects of the red-hot chestnut epidermi on his delicate fingers, he settled down and performed admirably. An hour into our task, I asked him if he wouldn't rather be outside raking leaves. He responded that there was nothing in the world he would rather do than provide jam-making assistance and redoubled his efforts.

Psychologists, take note.

Roughly two hours after I first brought my water to the boil, we had two pounds of warm peeled chestnuts. They looked like small tan-colored brains ...

... and I was already sick of the sight of them. 'Never mind,' I thought. 'From this point forward the recipe seems like child's play!'

In a preserving pan, combine the chestnuts with four and two-thirds cups sugar, one and three-quarters cups water, and a vanilla bean. Bring to a boil and cook for fifteen minutes, stirring gently. The chestnuts will be soft.

Soft my eye! After fifteen minutes of cooking my chestnuts were still the texture of driftwood. Thinking that perhaps I was supposed to have chopped them into pieces before introducing them to their bath (no, Madame never said I had to, but one has to be a bit of a mind-reader where Mes Confitures is concerned), I removed them from the molten sugar lava and gave them a rough chop on my cutting board.

Back into my maslin pan! I cooked them for a further ten minutes. Then ten minutes more. Finally, forty minutes had elapsed and my chestnuts were kind of soft, sort of. Not cooked exactly, but not the consistency of an antique oaken chair leg, either. More importantly, the syrup had by this time reached 220 deg F, betokening imminent crystallization should I not get the contents off the heat ASAP.

Pour the mixture into a ceramic bowl. Cover with a sheet of parchment paper and refrigerate overnight.

Oh, for crying out loud. I used a Pyrex bowl like a normal American and covered it with plastic wrap. I couldn't put it in the fridge because it was already nine o'clock at night and the contents of the bowl were still mad hot. I could have returned to the kitchen later that night, I suppose, but the adjoining family room was disturbingly full of huge pizza-eating teenage boys. Under such circumstances, I try to keep my distance from that end of the house.

Next day, bring the preparation to a boil, stirring constantly. Remove the vanilla bean. Crush the large pieces of chestnut with a wooden spoon.

Is anybody keeping track? At this point I was 24 hours into my consternating confiture contretemps. Of course, that is no more than an academic point because I never got to this stage of the recipe. In the cold light of day I realized my chestnuts were still tooth-challengingly hard. I couldn't return them to the stove for extra cooking whilst they were in their syrup (and yes, a few accusatory crystals were already forming about the edges of the bowl) so I rinsed them well and returned them to a pan full of boiling water.

After another half hour of cooking, they became soft. Also tasteless. The long boiling had leeched every ounce of flavour from the precious $15 supply over which Sir and I had labored so long. After consigning the glop to my garbage disposal I considered my options and decided that Madame had left the recipe unfinished.

I've taken the liberty of completing her work.

You don't want to peel three more pounds of chestnuts, do you? That's why god invented vacuum packs. Get into your silver Element and drive to the supermarket. Present yourself in the produce section and buy the last two packs of pre-cooked and pre-peeled organic Italian chestnuts ($4.99 for 6 ounces!) and one jar of French beauties from the baking aisle ($9.99 for seven ounces!). Decide that you cannot possibly afford to make the full recipe and conclude that half will be sufficient for your purposes. How many people do you know that really deserve homemade chestnut jam, anyway?

Take your chestnuts home and taste the Italian ones. Realize that they are stupefyingly disgusting and cannot possibly be used as anything but garden mulch. Ponder your jar of French marrons sadly but with resolve. Do some quick mental math and realize that you can produce  roughly one-quarter of Madame's recipe with minimum fuss. Pop the nuts (already soft and scrummy-tasting, praise be) into your maslin pan with one and one-sixth cup of sugar and seven-sixteenths cup of water. Don't forget to retrieve the vanilla bean from your failed batch of jam! Bring the water to a boil and continue to cook until the syrup reaches 220 deg F. Pour the mixture into a very small Pyrex bowl and cover with plastic wrap.

Since it's now after dark on the second day, you should probably have a stiff drink and maybe go to a movie. Not necessarily in that order.

The next morning (Day 3!), whizz up the mixture in your food processor using the big metal blade that looks like the sort of fearsome implement you might find in a defunct sawmill. Scrape the jam into a very small saucepan and bring to a boil. Put a little bit of the vanilla bean into each jar and pour the jam over. Madame never reveals the yields for her recipes, but I will: one-quarter of her original ingredients produces eleven ounces of chestnut jam - less than two little Weck tulip jars.

Sigh deeply and survey all the empty jars arrayed upon the table before you. Whip up some pineapple conserves with some fruit you bought on special offer a few days ago and the leftover vanilla beans.

Vow never ever to be tempted by one of Madame's recipes again. Not even in a million years.

Or until next time. Whichever comes first.

Coming soon: whilst enjoying my annual gala lunch with DMR at Le Bernardin this Thursday, I also manage to miss the next episode of Top Chef Texas.

Great Pumpkin

Thanksgiving dessert continues to present problems a chez Fractured Amy.

In the good old days, I typically contributed two pies to the festivities: pumpkin (I always used the traditional recipe off the Libby's pumpkin-can label) and Julia's Tarte Normande aux Pommes (a custard-filled apple tart topped with a dusting of caramelized powdered sugar - you serve it warm and it's totally divine). Both these delights are now, of course, off the menu.

I suppose there exist no insurmountable obstacles between me and a return to pie-baking, except that somehow - even after a year+ of gluten freedom-fighting - I have still not got round to experimenting with shortcrust and sweetcrust pastry. This is a dreadful oversight on my part and one that I had not fully appreciated until, oh, two days ago when the subject of Thursday's dinner-afters came up with DMR. By that time, of course, it was too late to embark upon the intense (and no doubt extremely time-consuming) R & D such an undertaking would require, so I cast around for some alternate possibilities.

Sir demanded chestnut brownies since they are his favorite sweet of all time, gluten-free or gluten-filled. I acquiesced to his wishes, since chestnuts are seasonal and festive and unusual enough in desserts to preserve my reputation as an outside-the-typical-cornucopia kind of gal. But what to serve with them? Last year, I made Craig Claiborne's Pumpkin Mousse to rave reviews, but this year I had a hankering to do something different. The solution presented itself when I went down to the basement to get some more paper towels. There, on the Metro shelving just beside them and all my hundreds of spare plastic affinage boxes, lay my freezer bowl - full of inspiration and ready to go.

Ice cream! Not only that, but pumpkin ice cream, yum. I already had some pumpkin butter in the fridge, so it was the work of only a few minutes to make some spice-infused custard. I glopped in some of the velvety terra-cotta elixir and - hey presto - a stunning accompaniment to smoky-sweet chestnut brownies. A garnish of chocolate leaves wrapped in suitably earth-toned foil will provide the final flourish on the big day.

A very happy Thanksgiving to all!

Pumpkin Ice Cream

Combine 2.5 cups of whipping cream and 2.5 cups of half-and-half in a large saucepan. Toss in a couple of cinnamon sticks and several whole dried allspice berries. Apply medium heat until the pan's contents are all steamy. At this point, the kitchen will take on delightful smells and you will not mind a bit that there will be no pumpkin pie tomorrow. Clap a lid on the pan and let the contents infuse for 20 minutes or so.

Meanwhile, beat together 8 room-temperature egg yolks and a cup of sugar until pale and creamy. When the dairy has done its thing, strain it then slowly ladle it into the egg mixture, whisking all the time.

Return the whole lot to the burner and cook slowly, stirring continuously with your favorite wooden spoon, until the custard coats its back or the temperature reaches 170 deg F. Alchemical processes being what they are, these events should transpire at roughly the same time.

Strain the custard into a bowl set inside another bowl filled with ice. Grate in several lashings of fresh nutmeg.

When the mixture is utterly cold, fold in about a cup of pumpkin butter, more or less - the precise amount will be determined by how tawny you wish the final product to be. I admit I did not use homemade pumpkin butter for this batch of ice cream, but some perfectly respectable all-natural stuff I found locally. I suppose you could also use garden-variety pumpkin puree. Check for spice and adjust to taste. If I were feeling wild I might add a pinch of cayenne pepper at this point.

Chill the custard overnight. Next day, spin it in your favorite ice cream device then - if you can wait that long - chill for several hours before eating.

Camembert Repair

You may recall that my very first foray into proper cheese-making last Spring (not counting mozzarella and ricotta, of course) was also my least successful to date. By least successful I mean that after two months of napping in my refrigerator's crisper drawer my four little mold-ripened babies emerged as unappetizing rubber hockey pucks coated with a thick gritty rind that resisted all but my sharpest chef's knife.

It was extremely disappointing.

Faint heart never won fair fromage, however, so as soon as the weather got a bit cooler and I had several weeks to devote to The Cause I decided to try again.

Ever the good scientist, I first I attempted to analyze where I went wrong with my first batch. All the evidence indicated that I had done everything right during fabrication: my rennet had set the cheese nicely; I obtained a good yield from my two gallons of beautiful raw Jersey milk; and the cheeses' fur coats had grown right on schedule. There had been no unwanted visitors in the form of black mold or the dreaded poil de chat and my cheese smelled fresh and clean with no hint of ammonia.

Only the texture had been off. Undeniably off. Disastrously off. Like that of dried-out husks filled with the stuff from which they make golf balls.

I reasoned, therefore, that the damage had occurred during affinage, when the wee bugs in the cheese - left to their own devices - work overtime ripening and softening the paste to spreadable heaven. I had known - intellectually, at least - that the microbes required quite a lot of humidity if they were to do their worst (or best, in this case), so I had placed two big bowls of water in the bottom of my cave, trusting them to do the trick. Later, when the cheeses were suitably fuzzy and I had moved them to the bottom drawer of the fridge, I made do with one small rice-bowl of water, figuring the ambient humidity of my chill chest would be sufficient.

Obviously, it wasn't.

So this time, I left nothing to chance. Instead of allowing my four babies to ripen in the cave free range (where at any rate they would have risked catching a skin condition from the Blue-Cheese-In-The -Style-of-Stilton-Perhaps that is quarantined on the top shelf), I engineered for them simple but effective humidity chambers comprised of lidded Oxo storage containers, sushi mats, and rolled-up sheets of wet paper towels. After a week of this treatment at 55 deg F, my new camemberts had lovely downy coats that were soft and supple and depressed easily under thumb-applied pressure. No sign of grittiness now!

I wrapped the cheeses and moved them - still inside their boxes, the interiors of which were by this time covered in little dewy drops of moisture - to the bottom of the fridge, where the lower temperature of 45 deg F slowed down mold growth and jump-started the ripening process. I rotated the containers and opened their lids every other day to allow gas exchange and check for signs of trouble. I perhaps poked the cheeses rather more than they would have liked, but that is, after all, typical behavior in an anxious parent.

After four weeks of fretful anxiety, Sir and I could stand the suspense no longer. We allowed one of the camemberts to come to room temperature and carefully sliced ourselves a small wedge. We examined it from all angles: the rind appeared to be appropriately thin and there was a hint of runniness right at the edges. Success!

We tasted the cheese and found it to be delicious delicious delicious. We gobbled some plain, and some with homemade fig jam, and I think Sir might have spread some of his on Ritz crackers. We considered sharing the remainder with others but finished the whole thing before we deciding upon suitable victims.

A blissful and satisfying experience to be sure, but during the post-mortem that always concludes a tasting event here a chez Fractured Amy we considered the camembert with a dispassionate eye. I was forced to admit there had been a hint of chalkiness towards the middle of the cheese (just visible on the cut surface of the wedge, below) - indicating we had opened it a little too early. A slight tanginess confirmed that it wasn't quite ready. Never mind - there were still three left!

Homemade camembert, week four

The following Saturday (week 5 for those of you keeping track), we opened the next one. The runniness had expanded towards the cheese's center and all lemony flavors were extinguished by unmistakable camembertness. I almost wept with joy and Sir declared it my best cheese since the Wensleydale. The following picture was taken at room temperature - observe the ooey-gooey wonderfulness!

Homemade camembert, week five

Finally, this past Saturday, we opened Cheese Number Three. It differed from the previous one not at all, leading us to believe that the peak of perfection had been reached and it was time to get snacking before those remaining started to roll down the wrong side of the Hill of Ripeness. This cheese was consumed by third parties before I was able to take a picture of it - one small wedge was all that remained by the time I got round to preserving it for posterity:

Homemade camembert, week six

Is it not a thing of beauty?

I still have one cheese from this batch left. It will be my offering with cocktails before the annual turkey-fest on Thursday, where it shall be called Walking-on-Air Camembert.

And for that, I am truly thankful.

Can Androids Make the Gluten-Free Leap?

I am not, as a rule, a gadget maven although my two favorite objets techniques of all time - you know, the ones I will grab before fleeing from a burning building - are my Smartyphone and my Kindle. And my iPad.

Three objets techniques.

I love my Smartyphone because of all the cool stuff it allows me to do. I can save myself a fruitless trip all the way upstairs by texting the Kid Squid from the kitchen to find out whether he wants to join me in a cup of tea or go for a walk. I can keep track of the gluten-free shopping and take pictures of all the exotic ingredients I require so others can reconnoitre the supermarket without me. I can play Angry Birds and Scrabble to my heart's content - much-needed relaxation after an afternoon wrestling with a g/f baking experiment. I am able, now that I have given in and paid the introductory fee of 99 cents, to follow all the latest happenings (and recipes!) as revealed by the New York Times. I can even obtain directions to that fabulous new boite that's been the subject of so much local buzz lately.

I'm just kidding about that last one: the Valley is scandalously short on boites and their ilk, but a girl can dream.

My iPad is necessary for streaming Netflix videos and downloading volumes with pretty pictures or diagrams - such as cookbooks and On Food and Cooking - which don't transfer well to Amazon's 'reads like a book' device. It is also useful for downloading photos when I am travelling, so I can free up valuable space on my camera's wee memory chip.

As for my Kindle, well, you know that I refuse to buy dead tree anything anymore and that's that.

But none of these devices, tragically, does it all. I don't really like reading novels on my iPad (there's too much glare and I don't like the tricky swiping maneuver required to turn the pages - also the battery doesn't last that long) while the Kindle is useless for movies and web browsing. The Blogger interface is compatible with exactly none of them, so when I think the mood will strike I have to ensure access to a computer: when we travel, that means I need to carry my little HP netbook or borrow the Squid's laptop when he isn't looking.

True story: when DMR and I presented ourselves at security at JFK in May before our flight to Johannesburg, I was taken aside and questioned at length by the TSA for having my iPhone, my Kindle, my iPad, and my netbook in my carry-on bag. 'You don't need all four,' the big scary guy exclaimed, while pulling them out of my bag and spreading them accusingly on the metal table. 'Why do you have all four?' I light-heartedly quipped that my husband had asked the same question while I was packing, ha ha ha, but the Uniformed One was having none of it. It was touch and go there for a bit, I kid you not, but I was eventually allowed to proceed despite the alarm-raising profile prompted by all my redundant technology.

Sometimes, though, one can't help oneself. From curiosity, or aggressive marketing, or the need to be au fait with the cultural currency (such as it is) of this modern age we live in, one finds oneself doing something outrageous. And that is why, despite the fact that I didn't really need it, I bought myself an early Christmas present this week: a shiny new Kindle Fire. It arrived fortuitously yesterday while I was lying on my Second Empire fainting couch, recovering from Sir's long-distance lecture about I-forget-what. I am pleased to report the improvement to my mental and physical well-being was instantaneous. I removed the device from its earnest-looking recycled cardboard box (it might have been constructed from the leavings of gluten-free bread manufacturing), charged it up, and stood back to see what would happen.

Joy of joys! My entire Kindle collection was already on its virtual library shelf in full and glorious technicolor. I discovered that I now have access to the New Yorker (an exclusive contract with Amazon, oh my), Saveur and yes, even Bon Appetit if I feel so inclined, without a single tree having to give up the ghost for the cause. My cookbooks look awesome and I can access the USDA nutritional database on the web if I need to do some sudden high-ratio baking. I can watch movies, hooray, and play Angry Birds to my heart's content.

But best of all, thanks to non-Apple technology I am now able to do this:

Huzzah for Androids: now I can blog on the go.