I have just surfaced from a deep submergence in Weather.com, having become convinced that we will soon have front row seats for the Storm of the Century. Six to ten inches of snow and ice (especially ice) are predicted over the next two days, with all the usual accompanying gales, power outages, and general mayhem.
Never mind. The rock salt has been laid in, the snowblower is full of gas, there's plenty of butane for the portable stove, and I've brought enough work home to last until the end of the week - provided I don't work too efficiently, of course (there's little fear of that, since marmalade-making will also need to be accommodated in my schedule during the tempest).
Despite such equanimity in the face of this impending apocalypse, however, my thoughts are increasingly turning to Spring - and not just because I'm dreaming of balmy breezes, budding daffodils, and being able to step outside without 45 layers of clothing on.
I'm looking forward to the weather's turn for an additional reason: my setting forth on the Next Big Step in Cheesemaking.
In just a few short months, I shall be journeying to the delightful town of Ashfield, Massachusetts (very close to where I attended college about three hundred years ago, as it happens) for a two-day workshop at the Cheese Queen's lair, The New England Cheesemaking Supply Company. Mentored by the redoubtable Jim Wallace, technical wiz in matters related to casein, rennet, molds, and affinage (that's cheese-ripening to all you laypeople out there), I shall spend two glorious days immersed in all manner of bacterial goodness.
I'm going to learn a plethora of amazingly useful things, including how to make brie, camembert, cheddar, and vacha toscano. I shall become au courant in the ways of cultures and acids and be able to discuss knowingly the relative merits of natural and artificial rinds. I'm even going to find out how to set up my own cave!
Just imagine - the possibilities for fascinating cocktail party chitchat will be endless for all those people lucky enough to fall within range of my soon-to-be startling erudition.
So the winter winds can do their worst, as far as I'm concerned. No matter how icy the roads may be this time next year, we'll all be feasting on home-made aged cheeses - life-threatening trip to the supermarket not required.
And that is a very gouda thought, indeed.
Monday, January 31, 2011
Sunday, January 30, 2011
Cheesy Cacoethes
Don't we all just love Dictionary.com? Having downloaded its excellent app onto my Smartyphone, I now look forward every morning to the always-stimulating Word of the Day. Yesterday, it was cacoethes. Could there be a more appropriate term for the way I feel about cheesemaking at the moment? I think not.
I'm obsessed to the point where the local dairy herds are having trouble keeping up, as shall be demonstrated below.
When we last visited my rennet-soaked story arc, I was pondering how to optimize my mozzarella-making technique to the point where I felt confident about which ingredients to include in my recipe; the ease and effectiveness of my overall procedure; and my ability to control (within reason) the texture of the final product. Many gallons of raw milk and pounds upon pounds of fresh formaggio later, I believe I have well and truly achieved my goal, able as I now am to produce excellent mozzarella on demand - admittedly, with some minor variations between batches.
There's no problem with that, right? If I wanted it to be exactly the same every time, I could always pop to the supermarket just down the street, which sells processed, shredded mozzarella cheese helpfully coated in powdered cellulose and treated against infection with natamyacin - and 29 whole cents cheaper for half a pound!
For my final experiments (although, it must be said, I imagine I will continue to tweak my recipe until I pop my clogs), I was worryingly unable to procure my favorite raw milk from the loyal Jersey cows up the road, as an impending blizzard had prompted a run on their dairy. I was therefore obliged to travel somewhat farther afield (in this selfsame storm, which was an adventure in itself - but I will endure just about any hardship when fresh cheese is at stake), to visit a farm where the bovines are of the Holstein breed, the world's highest milk-yielders (according to Wikipedia, anyway). I was curious to see whether the difference in milk would have an appreciable effect on my mozzarella production.
I won't keep you in suspense. It didn't.
Here is the procedure and recipe that is working for me. It yields flavorful, moist cheese that can be produced in about half an hour. I have borrowed heavily from the Wait and See Method popularized by the Cheese Queen with a few tweaks here and there to suit my own purposes. A gallon of raw milk produces about one pound of cheese - which works out to $3 for 8 oz. of cheese, with not a speck of potato starch to be found. It seems to keep well when stored tightly-wrapped in the fridge, although it isn't really lasting long enough chez Fractured Amy to be positive about this.
Home-Made Mozzarella Cheese
Pop a candy thermometer into a spaghetti pot (I used my small 8-quart straight-sided one). Pour in the milk, the citric acid mixture, and the lipase mixture. Blend it all together vigorously. Bring the milk up to 88 deg F over medium heat, stirring now and then. Nothing will seem to happen up to this point, and that's just fine and dandy.
Remove the pot from the heat and add the rennet. Stir thoroughly but slowly just until you think the rennet is evenly distributed (less than 30 seconds). Clap a lid on the pot and walk away for ten minutes. I used the time to organize my spice cupboard, which was overflowing with jars of cumin and redundant bottles of sherry peppers. I also discovered an unopened jar of whole Tellicherry peppercorns, which I was then able to cross off the shopping list. I am nothing if not a multi-tasker!
When you get back to the pot, it will still look like nothing has happened. Do not be deceived! What you actually have is a big pot of milky custard that you can jiggle if you wish or cut with a knife.
Do the slicing thing now: take a long carving knife and cut through the curd to make cuboid shapes. Make sure you cut all the way to the bottom of the pot! The resulting scraping noise, I assure you, is worse than fingernails on a chalkboard (not that anybody knows what one of those is, anymore).
Return your pot to medium heat and bring it up to 100 deg F, stirring very gently with an extremely long-handled wooden spoon. It only takes a few minutes. You will see the curds separate from the whey and begin to look like floating cheese - be careful, or you will destroy the delicate web of casein particles. When 100 deg. F has been reached, remove the pot from the heat and continue to swirl the curds around for an additional two or three minutes. They will firm up, and you will realize that it has become a simple matter to pour off the whey and decant the cheese into a colander.
Plop the resulting drained curds into a glass bowl and put it in your microwave. Zap it for one minute. Remove it, drain off the excess whey, add the cheese salt, and fold it in with your silicon spatula. Return to the microwave and zap it again until it reaches 130 deg F, or is hot and slightly sticky but still handleable. Remove the cheese to a big cutting board.
Now you have to stretch the cheese, otherwise it's not mozzarella. This is a key contributor to the texture of the final product, although it's not nearly as occult a process as some would have you believe. What you do is, you take the hot cheese and fold it over on itself a few times until it has the texture you desire and it starts to look a bit glossy. The length of time and vigor with which you apply youself to the task are crucial to the final formaggio outcome. For a soft, homogenous, creamy cheese, work it barely at all. For firmer cheese with definite strings, stretch it a bit more. This part is trial and error, but I have discovered that you can produce two very different cheeses from the same batch once you get the hang of it: this is important in a family where preferences are strong and varied.
For this batch, the cheese at 5 o'clock was flopped only three or four times, and formed while still quite hot. The cheese at 11 o'clock was pulled and stretched until strings formed, then coiled when cooler. A close-up of the latter, more fibrous specimen shows what I'm talking about:
Isn't that cool? Same procedure, right until the cheese was brought to 130 deg. in the microwave.
When you have finished stretching your cheese and formed it into whatever shapes suit your fancy, submerge them in an icy bath to cool them down and firm up their shape.
Believe me - you will be glad you saved yourself a trip to the supermarket.
I'm obsessed to the point where the local dairy herds are having trouble keeping up, as shall be demonstrated below.
When we last visited my rennet-soaked story arc, I was pondering how to optimize my mozzarella-making technique to the point where I felt confident about which ingredients to include in my recipe; the ease and effectiveness of my overall procedure; and my ability to control (within reason) the texture of the final product. Many gallons of raw milk and pounds upon pounds of fresh formaggio later, I believe I have well and truly achieved my goal, able as I now am to produce excellent mozzarella on demand - admittedly, with some minor variations between batches.
There's no problem with that, right? If I wanted it to be exactly the same every time, I could always pop to the supermarket just down the street, which sells processed, shredded mozzarella cheese helpfully coated in powdered cellulose and treated against infection with natamyacin - and 29 whole cents cheaper for half a pound!
For my final experiments (although, it must be said, I imagine I will continue to tweak my recipe until I pop my clogs), I was worryingly unable to procure my favorite raw milk from the loyal Jersey cows up the road, as an impending blizzard had prompted a run on their dairy. I was therefore obliged to travel somewhat farther afield (in this selfsame storm, which was an adventure in itself - but I will endure just about any hardship when fresh cheese is at stake), to visit a farm where the bovines are of the Holstein breed, the world's highest milk-yielders (according to Wikipedia, anyway). I was curious to see whether the difference in milk would have an appreciable effect on my mozzarella production.
I won't keep you in suspense. It didn't.
Here is the procedure and recipe that is working for me. It yields flavorful, moist cheese that can be produced in about half an hour. I have borrowed heavily from the Wait and See Method popularized by the Cheese Queen with a few tweaks here and there to suit my own purposes. A gallon of raw milk produces about one pound of cheese - which works out to $3 for 8 oz. of cheese, with not a speck of potato starch to be found. It seems to keep well when stored tightly-wrapped in the fridge, although it isn't really lasting long enough chez Fractured Amy to be positive about this.
Home-Made Mozzarella Cheese
- 1/4 rennet tablet dissolved in 1/4 cup of cool water
- 1.5 teaspoons citric acid dissolved in 3/4 cup of cool water
- 1/4 teaspoon powdered lipase dissolved in 1/4 cup of cool water
- 1 gallon of raw milk (you can pasteurize it yourself if you wish)
- 1 teaspoon cheese salt
Pop a candy thermometer into a spaghetti pot (I used my small 8-quart straight-sided one). Pour in the milk, the citric acid mixture, and the lipase mixture. Blend it all together vigorously. Bring the milk up to 88 deg F over medium heat, stirring now and then. Nothing will seem to happen up to this point, and that's just fine and dandy.Remove the pot from the heat and add the rennet. Stir thoroughly but slowly just until you think the rennet is evenly distributed (less than 30 seconds). Clap a lid on the pot and walk away for ten minutes. I used the time to organize my spice cupboard, which was overflowing with jars of cumin and redundant bottles of sherry peppers. I also discovered an unopened jar of whole Tellicherry peppercorns, which I was then able to cross off the shopping list. I am nothing if not a multi-tasker!
Do the slicing thing now: take a long carving knife and cut through the curd to make cuboid shapes. Make sure you cut all the way to the bottom of the pot! The resulting scraping noise, I assure you, is worse than fingernails on a chalkboard (not that anybody knows what one of those is, anymore).
Plop the resulting drained curds into a glass bowl and put it in your microwave. Zap it for one minute. Remove it, drain off the excess whey, add the cheese salt, and fold it in with your silicon spatula. Return to the microwave and zap it again until it reaches 130 deg F, or is hot and slightly sticky but still handleable. Remove the cheese to a big cutting board.
Now you have to stretch the cheese, otherwise it's not mozzarella. This is a key contributor to the texture of the final product, although it's not nearly as occult a process as some would have you believe. What you do is, you take the hot cheese and fold it over on itself a few times until it has the texture you desire and it starts to look a bit glossy. The length of time and vigor with which you apply youself to the task are crucial to the final formaggio outcome. For a soft, homogenous, creamy cheese, work it barely at all. For firmer cheese with definite strings, stretch it a bit more. This part is trial and error, but I have discovered that you can produce two very different cheeses from the same batch once you get the hang of it: this is important in a family where preferences are strong and varied.
For this batch, the cheese at 5 o'clock was flopped only three or four times, and formed while still quite hot. The cheese at 11 o'clock was pulled and stretched until strings formed, then coiled when cooler. A close-up of the latter, more fibrous specimen shows what I'm talking about:
Isn't that cool? Same procedure, right until the cheese was brought to 130 deg. in the microwave.
When you have finished stretching your cheese and formed it into whatever shapes suit your fancy, submerge them in an icy bath to cool them down and firm up their shape.
Believe me - you will be glad you saved yourself a trip to the supermarket.
Thursday, January 27, 2011
Where the Goats and the Buffalo Roam
Previously I described how, buried under bags and bags of unexpectedly-sprouted organic russets, I was obliged to engage in an emergency boiling-and-mashing session.
Subsequently faced with something like four pounds of cold riced potatoes in the bottom of the fridge (an only slightly improved situation, it must be admitted), I decided to make Cottage Pie, which of course is just like Shepherds' Pie, except fabricated with beef instead of lamb (the Kid Squid is not a big fan of lamb and I live to serve his wishes, as has been remarked upon many times in the past). Off I toddled to the supermarket for the requisite protein.
I rarely buy beef, and probably have purchased it only once or twice since the onset of gluten-freedom a few months back. I may not have been paying much attention on those occasions, so I would fairly describe my attitude towards supermarket beef as out of touch.
What did I discover to my chagrin? The only organic beef they had was from Paraguay! Now, I am as admiring of those marvelously colorful gauchos as anybody possibly could be, and wish them well as they gallop around the pampas (or whatever the Paraguayan equivalent might be) with their lassos and large hats. I do not want to see them all out of work or forced to find employment in American jeans factories. But am I wrong to think that air transport of organic food (which is supposed to be about saving the planet, after all) from a faraway country rather defeats the purpose? (I make an exception for Hunza raisins, of course, which are a separate category all their own. I should be forced to protest noisily, placard in hand, in front of Pakistan's Embassy if they ever stop airlifting those little beauties to my local market.)
I seem to have lost the point. Oh yes, Paraguayan beef. Anyway, I searched for a somewhat more local equivalent and found ground organic bison from Colorado, which at least is on this continent. I bought two pounds and felt nobly principled.
I got it home and whipped up a fine main course, the recipe for which is heavily borrowed from Gordon Ramsay's famously delectable Shepherds' Pie. The only suitable red wine I had in the basement (stored next to my sprouting factory-farmed potatoes, which is where this whole saga began, ironically enough) was from the good folks at the Goats Do Roam winery in Paarl, heart of the sunny South African winelands.
I therefore christen this dish ...
Cape Buffalo Pie
Add the onions to the pan and saute them over low heat until they are very soft. Add the grated carrots and stir them around for a bit. Return the bison to the pan. Add your herbs of choice and cook it for a bit more.
Add the Worcestershire sauce, the tomato puree, and the wine: cook the mixture until it is very very thick and unctuous. Add the stock and cook it some more until it's reduced. If the sauce possesses insufficient body, remove some to a small bowl and thicken to a slurry with a few teaspoons of corn starch. Return that to the pan, stir it in, and assess your progress. You can always do it again if you have to: remember, nobody likes a watery Cape Buffalo Pie!
Check your final seasoning and add ground black pepper.
While your bison mixture is doing its thing, turn your attention to the potatoes. I heat them up a bit in the microwave at this point to make them easier to work with, but not too hot otherwise the eggs scramble, yuck. Beat the eggs and cheese into the mash.
Then, when your bison is gorgeously done and the kitchen smells amazing, pour your saucepan's contents into some sort of oven-proof dish. I had a nine-inch ceramic pie plate handy and used that. Spread the potatoes over the top, starting from the outside and working inwards, until every micron is covered and there is no way the sauce will bubble out all over your oven (just in case, it's a good idea to put a pan underneath when it's baking).
Bake at 400 deg F. until it's golden and wonderful.
Mine took about half an hour and would have fed six if we hadn't greedily gobbled it all ourselves.
Subsequently faced with something like four pounds of cold riced potatoes in the bottom of the fridge (an only slightly improved situation, it must be admitted), I decided to make Cottage Pie, which of course is just like Shepherds' Pie, except fabricated with beef instead of lamb (the Kid Squid is not a big fan of lamb and I live to serve his wishes, as has been remarked upon many times in the past). Off I toddled to the supermarket for the requisite protein.
I rarely buy beef, and probably have purchased it only once or twice since the onset of gluten-freedom a few months back. I may not have been paying much attention on those occasions, so I would fairly describe my attitude towards supermarket beef as out of touch.
What did I discover to my chagrin? The only organic beef they had was from Paraguay! Now, I am as admiring of those marvelously colorful gauchos as anybody possibly could be, and wish them well as they gallop around the pampas (or whatever the Paraguayan equivalent might be) with their lassos and large hats. I do not want to see them all out of work or forced to find employment in American jeans factories. But am I wrong to think that air transport of organic food (which is supposed to be about saving the planet, after all) from a faraway country rather defeats the purpose? (I make an exception for Hunza raisins, of course, which are a separate category all their own. I should be forced to protest noisily, placard in hand, in front of Pakistan's Embassy if they ever stop airlifting those little beauties to my local market.)
I seem to have lost the point. Oh yes, Paraguayan beef. Anyway, I searched for a somewhat more local equivalent and found ground organic bison from Colorado, which at least is on this continent. I bought two pounds and felt nobly principled.
I got it home and whipped up a fine main course, the recipe for which is heavily borrowed from Gordon Ramsay's famously delectable Shepherds' Pie. The only suitable red wine I had in the basement (stored next to my sprouting factory-farmed potatoes, which is where this whole saga began, ironically enough) was from the good folks at the Goats Do Roam winery in Paarl, heart of the sunny South African winelands.
I therefore christen this dish ...
Cape Buffalo Pie
- 2 pounds of ground bison
- 1 gigantic onion, chopped
- 4 regular-sized carrots, grated
- 2 to 3 tablespoons of Worcestershire sauce
- one and one-half tablespoons tomato puree
- thyme, a bay leaf, etc.
- a cup or so of red wine
- 1 to 2 cups of beef stock (does not need to be clarified)
- some corn starch (certified gluten-free, if you please)
- about one and one-half pounds of mashed potatoes, seasoned
- 2 egg yolks
- one quarter cup of grated fresh Parmesan cheese
Add the onions to the pan and saute them over low heat until they are very soft. Add the grated carrots and stir them around for a bit. Return the bison to the pan. Add your herbs of choice and cook it for a bit more.
Add the Worcestershire sauce, the tomato puree, and the wine: cook the mixture until it is very very thick and unctuous. Add the stock and cook it some more until it's reduced. If the sauce possesses insufficient body, remove some to a small bowl and thicken to a slurry with a few teaspoons of corn starch. Return that to the pan, stir it in, and assess your progress. You can always do it again if you have to: remember, nobody likes a watery Cape Buffalo Pie!
Check your final seasoning and add ground black pepper.
While your bison mixture is doing its thing, turn your attention to the potatoes. I heat them up a bit in the microwave at this point to make them easier to work with, but not too hot otherwise the eggs scramble, yuck. Beat the eggs and cheese into the mash.
Bake at 400 deg F. until it's golden and wonderful.
Mine took about half an hour and would have fed six if we hadn't greedily gobbled it all ourselves.
Wednesday, January 26, 2011
The Eyes Have It
Ten days ago I bought two huge bags of organic russet potatoes during my Whole Foods buying bash. Normally, I don't buy spuds in such large quantities, preferring to purchase them as needs arise. However, since the Market is, like, a million miles away and I don't get there very often, buying in bulk seemed like a sensible option.
I kept the sacks on the bottom-most of my Metro shelves, just inside the garage door, judging that they would benefit from the cool drafts thus provided whilst at the same time being near to hand whenever the urge to cook them became unbearably strong. After a fair amount of time during which I served the taters in a variety of delicious ways, you can imagine what happened. They all sprouted! Every single one! Four pounds of potatoes with little shoots bursting out in all directions, looking like so many porcupines after one of those home perms that, urban legend tells us, causes one's hair to turn green.
Now, I am not afraid to eat sprouted potatoes but they are no longer aesthetically suitable for serving in their formal jackets. So I hurriedly peeled them and boiled them, put them through my ricer, and bought myself some time by making a huge bowlful of mash that is lasting forever (more on its myriad uses later).
All this kerfuffle (smack dab in the middle of my mozzarella experiments, no less) reminded me of the DDT and fungicide-filled specimens lurking in my basement. It may be recalled that they were part of another food study, begun on December 10, which was prompted by the Rodale Press' rather rash claim that it is impossible to sprout a commercially-grown, non-organic potato.
I'm afraid that in the grand whirl that is my life, I quite forgot about those benighted tubers languishing under the kitchen stairs.
Down the rickety steps I went, clump clump clump, into the dark, bleak basement. I retrieved the brown paper bag from its hiding place next to the beer, wine, bags of rice, and rolls of paper towels. I hesitated for a moment before peeking inside. What would I find? There could have been almost anything in there! My heart thumped wildly and a cold sweat broke out upon my furrowed brow. Almost afraid to look, I carefully opened the bag and peered into the dark recesses.
Guess what I discovered?
Those are sprouts - unless my eyes deceive me!
I kept the sacks on the bottom-most of my Metro shelves, just inside the garage door, judging that they would benefit from the cool drafts thus provided whilst at the same time being near to hand whenever the urge to cook them became unbearably strong. After a fair amount of time during which I served the taters in a variety of delicious ways, you can imagine what happened. They all sprouted! Every single one! Four pounds of potatoes with little shoots bursting out in all directions, looking like so many porcupines after one of those home perms that, urban legend tells us, causes one's hair to turn green.
Now, I am not afraid to eat sprouted potatoes but they are no longer aesthetically suitable for serving in their formal jackets. So I hurriedly peeled them and boiled them, put them through my ricer, and bought myself some time by making a huge bowlful of mash that is lasting forever (more on its myriad uses later).
All this kerfuffle (smack dab in the middle of my mozzarella experiments, no less) reminded me of the DDT and fungicide-filled specimens lurking in my basement. It may be recalled that they were part of another food study, begun on December 10, which was prompted by the Rodale Press' rather rash claim that it is impossible to sprout a commercially-grown, non-organic potato.
I'm afraid that in the grand whirl that is my life, I quite forgot about those benighted tubers languishing under the kitchen stairs.
Down the rickety steps I went, clump clump clump, into the dark, bleak basement. I retrieved the brown paper bag from its hiding place next to the beer, wine, bags of rice, and rolls of paper towels. I hesitated for a moment before peeking inside. What would I find? There could have been almost anything in there! My heart thumped wildly and a cold sweat broke out upon my furrowed brow. Almost afraid to look, I carefully opened the bag and peered into the dark recesses.
Guess what I discovered?
Those are sprouts - unless my eyes deceive me!
Tuesday, January 25, 2011
The Whey Ahead
Having made three batches of mozzarella cheese with my own fair hands, it is time to take stock of my progress and consider issues arising.
None of my six cheeses was flawless, it must be admitted, but I was encouraged by each's general appeal and deliciousness. Unexpectedly, home-made mozzarella costs no more than decent deli-counter cheese, since a $6 gallon of raw milk yields about a pound of cheese, which may be had at the supermarket for about $3 per 8 oz. ball (and let's not forget the whey - so useful for simmering rice and potatoes and feeding prosciutto pigs, should I ever decide to venture into ham production). Domestically-created cheese is purer than the mass-produced variety, too, when made with beautiful local milk and the minimum of additives, and bragging rights are beyond measure. Although perfection is ever a worthy goal, I believe in this instance my diligent efforts will be doubly rewarded. Not only will I feel insufferably virtuous, but we'll all have peerless formaggio to boot.
There are two broad methods and recipes to consider, each yielding very different results:
Are you sitting comfortably? Here we go!
Ease of method
Wait and See, as the name implies, is by far the simpler of the two procedures (except for the water bath at the end, which was a pain and had no discernible value other than, presumably, its historical distinction). For my next batch, I will employ the Wait and See method until the cheese reaches 100 deg F in the pot, then finish it in the microwave.
Aesthetics of Process
The Wait and See method proves its worth in this arena, as well. Compare its results (below left) with those of the Witch's Cauldron after the rennet has caused curd formation:
... and when the cheese has been drained from the whey (Wait and See is on the left, again):
There is no contest, really: not only is it easier to wait and see, it's prettier, too.
It is possible that the method is not the only difference here, although there is no doubt in my mind that excessive stirring serves only to destabilize creamy curd production. Ingredients also have a role to play. When I went to order my chemicals from the Cheese Queen, I attempted to add calcium chloride to my shopping cart, only to be met by a very stern warning: "Do NOT use Calcium Chloride when making Mozzarella. It will keep the curds from stretching." The purpose of calcium chloride, apparently, is to provide a firmer curd - counter-productive when the object of the exercise is soft, moist, delectable mozzarella, I'm sure you will agree. In addition, the release of calcium is the whole purpose of the final stretch - therefore, its addition by chemical means is counterproductive. Jeff is silent as to why he includes calcium chloride in his recipe - a rather odd omission from the King of Kitchen Geeks, in my opinion. I will omit calcium chloride from all future cheese production.
Taste of Final Product
This is where Jeff really wins out with his inclusion of lipase, which is particularly important as a flavour-enhancer when vegetarian rennet tablets are used (it has something to do with the way lipase 'cleaves' the fats in the milk, although Jeff does not elaborate). The cheese produced using his ingredients had a much fresher - dare I say it? - grassier flavour, like the taste of fresh milk only more so. The Cheese Queen's cheese was, regrettably, mild almost to the point of insipidness. Granted, the Jersey cows who donated the raw milk for this production are on silage at the moment and their milk may be more flavourful when they move out to pasture in March. I can't wait that long, and will be adding lipase to all my future batches.
Texture of Final Product
This is by far the most problematic of my evaluation metrics, since there was a good deal of disagreement chez Fractured Amy as to which cheese emerged victorious in this regard. Certain members of the family who shall remain nameless preferred the homogeneous creaminess of the Wait and See version (below left), whilst others expressed a superior liking for the moist fibers of the Witch's Cauldron.
This may not figure in the choice of method, since I am convinced sliceability vs. shredability are not artifacts of component ingredients or stirring characteristics, but rather the length of and energy applied to the final stretching. In other words, the more you stretch the cheese, the stringier it becomes. I do not believe this decision needs to be made until the last stage of the process - and the choice will necessarily fall to the whim of the casara, who will happily accept a small honorarium for consideration of diners' preferences.
None of my six cheeses was flawless, it must be admitted, but I was encouraged by each's general appeal and deliciousness. Unexpectedly, home-made mozzarella costs no more than decent deli-counter cheese, since a $6 gallon of raw milk yields about a pound of cheese, which may be had at the supermarket for about $3 per 8 oz. ball (and let's not forget the whey - so useful for simmering rice and potatoes and feeding prosciutto pigs, should I ever decide to venture into ham production). Domestically-created cheese is purer than the mass-produced variety, too, when made with beautiful local milk and the minimum of additives, and bragging rights are beyond measure. Although perfection is ever a worthy goal, I believe in this instance my diligent efforts will be doubly rewarded. Not only will I feel insufferably virtuous, but we'll all have peerless formaggio to boot.
There are two broad methods and recipes to consider, each yielding very different results:
- Jeff Potter's Witch's Cauldron Method, which requires lipase and calcium chloride in addition to the other common ingredients; continuous stirring after the addition of the rennet at 88 deg F; two kneading sessions (before and after the addition of the salt); and microwaving to the final temperature of 135 deg F.
- the Cheese Queen's Wait and See Method, noted for the absence of lipase and calcium chloride; the instruction to walk away from the pot after the 88 deg F addition of rennet; one kneading session (described as gentle, rather than vigorous); and use of a water bath (rather than a microwave) to the final 135 deg F.
Are you sitting comfortably? Here we go!
Ease of method
Wait and See, as the name implies, is by far the simpler of the two procedures (except for the water bath at the end, which was a pain and had no discernible value other than, presumably, its historical distinction). For my next batch, I will employ the Wait and See method until the cheese reaches 100 deg F in the pot, then finish it in the microwave.
Aesthetics of Process
The Wait and See method proves its worth in this arena, as well. Compare its results (below left) with those of the Witch's Cauldron after the rennet has caused curd formation:
There is no contest, really: not only is it easier to wait and see, it's prettier, too.
It is possible that the method is not the only difference here, although there is no doubt in my mind that excessive stirring serves only to destabilize creamy curd production. Ingredients also have a role to play. When I went to order my chemicals from the Cheese Queen, I attempted to add calcium chloride to my shopping cart, only to be met by a very stern warning: "Do NOT use Calcium Chloride when making Mozzarella. It will keep the curds from stretching." The purpose of calcium chloride, apparently, is to provide a firmer curd - counter-productive when the object of the exercise is soft, moist, delectable mozzarella, I'm sure you will agree. In addition, the release of calcium is the whole purpose of the final stretch - therefore, its addition by chemical means is counterproductive. Jeff is silent as to why he includes calcium chloride in his recipe - a rather odd omission from the King of Kitchen Geeks, in my opinion. I will omit calcium chloride from all future cheese production.
Taste of Final Product
This is where Jeff really wins out with his inclusion of lipase, which is particularly important as a flavour-enhancer when vegetarian rennet tablets are used (it has something to do with the way lipase 'cleaves' the fats in the milk, although Jeff does not elaborate). The cheese produced using his ingredients had a much fresher - dare I say it? - grassier flavour, like the taste of fresh milk only more so. The Cheese Queen's cheese was, regrettably, mild almost to the point of insipidness. Granted, the Jersey cows who donated the raw milk for this production are on silage at the moment and their milk may be more flavourful when they move out to pasture in March. I can't wait that long, and will be adding lipase to all my future batches.
Texture of Final Product
This is by far the most problematic of my evaluation metrics, since there was a good deal of disagreement chez Fractured Amy as to which cheese emerged victorious in this regard. Certain members of the family who shall remain nameless preferred the homogeneous creaminess of the Wait and See version (below left), whilst others expressed a superior liking for the moist fibers of the Witch's Cauldron.
This may not figure in the choice of method, since I am convinced sliceability vs. shredability are not artifacts of component ingredients or stirring characteristics, but rather the length of and energy applied to the final stretching. In other words, the more you stretch the cheese, the stringier it becomes. I do not believe this decision needs to be made until the last stage of the process - and the choice will necessarily fall to the whim of the casara, who will happily accept a small honorarium for consideration of diners' preferences.
Monday, January 24, 2011
Formaggio Fabrication: Seconda Parte
Having produced two batches of respectable home-made mozzarella using Jeff Potter's highly geekish procedure, I felt the time was right to attempt a more traditional recipe. This outline came to me via Rikki 'The Cheese Queen' Carroll of the New England Cheesmaking Supply Company, from whence I procured all the chemicals and specialist ingredients this endeavour required.
Below, I have documented production with no editorializing (you can just imagine the challenge I found that to be), although I have called attention to schematic differences where they occured. Comparisons between the utility and aesthetics of the two methods and their cheesy results will be posted next, together with a discussion of issues arising and hypotheses about future mozzarella manufacturing measures. Watch this space!
Here is how I made mozzarella cheese a la The Cheese Queen.
I prepared my mis en place, which consisted of fewer ingredients than my previous batches (lipase and calcium chloride were omitted from Ricki's recipe): one gallon of raw whole milk went into my spaghetti pot with my candy thermometer; one quarter of a rennet tablet was dissolved in one-quarter cup of cool kettle water; and one and one-half teaspoons of citric acid were dissolved in one cup of cool water.
I vigorously stirred the citric acid solution into the milk and slowly brought it up to 88 deg F. Unlike Jeff's method, at this point there was no curd formation of any kind:
I removed the pot from the heat and added the rennet solution. I stirred the mixture slowly but with resolve for thirty seconds until I judged the rennet to be evenly distributed. I clapped a lid on the pan and walked away for ten minutes.
When I returned, I was dismayed to see that nothing had happened inside the pot (at this point in the previous batches, I had clearly visible curd formation beneath a puddle of whey). I feared the lack of calcium chloride had sabotaged my cheese. But then I realized that, instead of curds and whey, I had a big pot of soft creamy custard in which I could stand a spoon on end! I procured my longest carving knife from my butcher's block and sliced the curd all the way to the bottom of the pot, many many many times, to make cuboid shapes:
Stirring the resulting curd blocks carefully and slowly, I brought the mixture back up to 100 deg F. The curds became clearly separated from their solution and took on the appearance and consistency of soft tofu:
I removed the pot from the heat and stirred gently for another three minutes. The curd cubes firmed up considerably and it was a simple matter to decant them into a cheese-cloth lined colander. The cheese soft and homogeneous:
I emptied the curds from the cheesecloth into the colander (the cloth may not have been necessary in the first place, given the nature of the cheese at this point, but I had initially feared some might escape through the holes) and prepared a water bath by pouring boiling water into my biggest shallow mixing bowl. I lowered the colander into the hot water a few times and gently folded the cheese over and over onto itself using a silicon spatula. I added one teaspoon of cheese salt at this point.
When the cheese reached 135 deg F (internal temperature), I stretched it a bit and formed it into two eight-ounce balls. They were a bit loose, so I wrapped them tightly in plastic to help them keep their shape. I submerged the results in a bowl of icy cold water.
When the cheeses were cool, I unwrapped them to find creamy mozzarella balls very similar to the ones found in most American supermarkets - or should I say, the better delis round and about:
The texture was firm and homogeneous, with none of the dewy strands found in my previous two batches. The cheese was more durable, more sliceable, and a little drier. The taste was very different, probably due to the lack of lipase. We ate one whole ball while considering its relative merits and I drove the other straight to the 'Rents for a second opinion.
Next up: the definitive judgement and the path ahead
Below, I have documented production with no editorializing (you can just imagine the challenge I found that to be), although I have called attention to schematic differences where they occured. Comparisons between the utility and aesthetics of the two methods and their cheesy results will be posted next, together with a discussion of issues arising and hypotheses about future mozzarella manufacturing measures. Watch this space!
Here is how I made mozzarella cheese a la The Cheese Queen.
I prepared my mis en place, which consisted of fewer ingredients than my previous batches (lipase and calcium chloride were omitted from Ricki's recipe): one gallon of raw whole milk went into my spaghetti pot with my candy thermometer; one quarter of a rennet tablet was dissolved in one-quarter cup of cool kettle water; and one and one-half teaspoons of citric acid were dissolved in one cup of cool water.
I vigorously stirred the citric acid solution into the milk and slowly brought it up to 88 deg F. Unlike Jeff's method, at this point there was no curd formation of any kind:
I removed the pot from the heat and added the rennet solution. I stirred the mixture slowly but with resolve for thirty seconds until I judged the rennet to be evenly distributed. I clapped a lid on the pan and walked away for ten minutes.
When I returned, I was dismayed to see that nothing had happened inside the pot (at this point in the previous batches, I had clearly visible curd formation beneath a puddle of whey). I feared the lack of calcium chloride had sabotaged my cheese. But then I realized that, instead of curds and whey, I had a big pot of soft creamy custard in which I could stand a spoon on end! I procured my longest carving knife from my butcher's block and sliced the curd all the way to the bottom of the pot, many many many times, to make cuboid shapes:
Stirring the resulting curd blocks carefully and slowly, I brought the mixture back up to 100 deg F. The curds became clearly separated from their solution and took on the appearance and consistency of soft tofu:
I removed the pot from the heat and stirred gently for another three minutes. The curd cubes firmed up considerably and it was a simple matter to decant them into a cheese-cloth lined colander. The cheese soft and homogeneous:
I emptied the curds from the cheesecloth into the colander (the cloth may not have been necessary in the first place, given the nature of the cheese at this point, but I had initially feared some might escape through the holes) and prepared a water bath by pouring boiling water into my biggest shallow mixing bowl. I lowered the colander into the hot water a few times and gently folded the cheese over and over onto itself using a silicon spatula. I added one teaspoon of cheese salt at this point.
When the cheese reached 135 deg F (internal temperature), I stretched it a bit and formed it into two eight-ounce balls. They were a bit loose, so I wrapped them tightly in plastic to help them keep their shape. I submerged the results in a bowl of icy cold water.
When the cheeses were cool, I unwrapped them to find creamy mozzarella balls very similar to the ones found in most American supermarkets - or should I say, the better delis round and about:
The texture was firm and homogeneous, with none of the dewy strands found in my previous two batches. The cheese was more durable, more sliceable, and a little drier. The taste was very different, probably due to the lack of lipase. We ate one whole ball while considering its relative merits and I drove the other straight to the 'Rents for a second opinion.
Next up: the definitive judgement and the path ahead
Sunday, January 23, 2011
Formaggio Fabrication: Prima Parte
As per Friday's plan, this weekend I embarked on the second cheesemaking venture of my life: the manufacturing of home-made mozzarella from two different recipes and procedures.
First up: the scheme laid out by Jeff Potter in Cooking for Geeks. Following his outline to the letter for my first batch of formaggio, I proceeded thusly:
I dissolved one-half teaspoon of calcium chloride in two tablespoons of cool sterilized water (from the kettle) and set it aside.
I dissolved one-quarter of a vegetarian rennet tablet in four tablespoons of water (see above) and set that aside, too.
I poured one gallon of raw whole milk (provided by the Jersey cows of Keepsake Farms: thank you, ladies!) into my spaghetti pot and plopped in my candy thermometer.
I retrieved a few tablespoons of the milk and dissolved in them one and one-half teaspoons of citric acid and one-quarter teaspoon of lipase. I returned the milk/citric acid/lipase mixture to the pot and slowly brought the contents up to 88 deg F, stirring frequently:
Small curds began to form almost immediately:
When the milk reached the required temperature of 88 deg F, I added the calcium chloride and rennet mixtures. I continued to heat the milk to 105 deg F, stirring occasionally as per Jeff's instructions (such stirring is an important difference between the two procedures: further details about this vital topic will be provided in a later post). At 105 deg F, I had large-curd formation at the bottom of the pot:
I removed the pan from the heat, covered it with a lid, and waited for twenty minutes. At the end of the waiting period, I had serious curds and whey:
I strained the result through my cheesecloth, which has been getting a pretty good workout lately, let me tell you:
Employing thirty-second bursts, I microwaved the curd ball. I took its internal temperature at each juncture until a temperature of 130 deg F was achieved. The cheese became melty and creamy:
At this point, Jeff's instructions direct the casara (that's Italian for lady cheesemaker, you know) to knead the cheese until it becomes stringy, which I duly did:
Unfortunately, I knew before I was finished that I had overworked the finished product, because it didn't really want to make itself into a cohesive ball, although for a first-ever mozzarella, I was extremely pleased. It reminded me of the fresh stringy cheese we used to buy years ago, packaged in plastic bags and floating in whey, at our local Italian deli:
The cheese was moist (though it became a little bit rubbery as it sat) and the taste fresh and delicious. We tried it various ways - naturalmente, with salt, with olive oil, with a bit of good balsamic, and sprinkled with house-dried thyme from the garden. Before we knew it, we'd eaten the entirety of one of the two 8 ounce balls.
Athough I had originally intended to move on immediately to the second recipe/procedure, I decided to first repeat this experiment, with less working of the curds as follows:
Much softer, moister, and less rubbery than the first batch, we ate the fresh cheese until, quite honestly, we felt slightly unwell.
It was gorgeous.
Coming soon: I report on a different recipe and procedure, as provided by Ricky 'The Cheese Queen' Carroll, and discuss issues arising.
First up: the scheme laid out by Jeff Potter in Cooking for Geeks. Following his outline to the letter for my first batch of formaggio, I proceeded thusly:
I dissolved one-half teaspoon of calcium chloride in two tablespoons of cool sterilized water (from the kettle) and set it aside.
I dissolved one-quarter of a vegetarian rennet tablet in four tablespoons of water (see above) and set that aside, too.
I poured one gallon of raw whole milk (provided by the Jersey cows of Keepsake Farms: thank you, ladies!) into my spaghetti pot and plopped in my candy thermometer.
I retrieved a few tablespoons of the milk and dissolved in them one and one-half teaspoons of citric acid and one-quarter teaspoon of lipase. I returned the milk/citric acid/lipase mixture to the pot and slowly brought the contents up to 88 deg F, stirring frequently:
Small curds began to form almost immediately:
When the milk reached the required temperature of 88 deg F, I added the calcium chloride and rennet mixtures. I continued to heat the milk to 105 deg F, stirring occasionally as per Jeff's instructions (such stirring is an important difference between the two procedures: further details about this vital topic will be provided in a later post). At 105 deg F, I had large-curd formation at the bottom of the pot:
I removed the pan from the heat, covered it with a lid, and waited for twenty minutes. At the end of the waiting period, I had serious curds and whey:
I strained the result through my cheesecloth, which has been getting a pretty good workout lately, let me tell you:
I squeezed out as much whey as I could, and transferred the curds to a microwave-safe bowl. I microwaved the cheese for 45 seconds, until it was warm and sticky. I added one teaspoon of cheese salt and kneaded it in, squeezing out more whey in the process:
Employing thirty-second bursts, I microwaved the curd ball. I took its internal temperature at each juncture until a temperature of 130 deg F was achieved. The cheese became melty and creamy:
At this point, Jeff's instructions direct the casara (that's Italian for lady cheesemaker, you know) to knead the cheese until it becomes stringy, which I duly did:
Unfortunately, I knew before I was finished that I had overworked the finished product, because it didn't really want to make itself into a cohesive ball, although for a first-ever mozzarella, I was extremely pleased. It reminded me of the fresh stringy cheese we used to buy years ago, packaged in plastic bags and floating in whey, at our local Italian deli:
The cheese was moist (though it became a little bit rubbery as it sat) and the taste fresh and delicious. We tried it various ways - naturalmente, with salt, with olive oil, with a bit of good balsamic, and sprinkled with house-dried thyme from the garden. Before we knew it, we'd eaten the entirety of one of the two 8 ounce balls.
Athough I had originally intended to move on immediately to the second recipe/procedure, I decided to first repeat this experiment, with less working of the curds as follows:
- instead of kneading the salt in as a separate step, I went immediately to the 130 deg F heat and mixed the salt in during the final stage
- instead of vigorous kneading such as one might perpetrate on bread dough, I gently flopped the curds around until just stringy, then quickly formed them in a ball
Much softer, moister, and less rubbery than the first batch, we ate the fresh cheese until, quite honestly, we felt slightly unwell.
It was gorgeous.
Coming soon: I report on a different recipe and procedure, as provided by Ricky 'The Cheese Queen' Carroll, and discuss issues arising.
Friday, January 21, 2011
Moo
Question
When does Fractured Amy find herself in possession of three gallons of raw milk, rennet tablets, citric acid, lipase, and calcium chloride?
Answer
Why, the Friday before a thrilling weekend of mozzarella-making, of course!
You heard me right. Emboldened by my snowy-day ricotta success, I have decided to take the next logical step and hurl myself at a new challenge. I have long been thinking about such a project - ever since I first came across a recipe and procedure in Cooking for Geeks back in November, in fact. A couple of clicks online and all the required ingredients were brought to my laboratory door courtesy of my friendly (and by now quite curious) UPS man.
The milk I obtained yesterday, kindly provided by the Jersey cows at my gem of a local dairy. It must be admitted, there are one or two advantages to living in the hinterlands and access to natural dairy products has got to be near the top of the list. The men in my life will no longer drink anything else: the Squid admires the pleasing aftertaste of the unhomogenized product and Sir ... well, raw milk with cream floating on top takes Sir straight back to his childhood, which is something on which you cannot place a price tag. Not even when it says $6 a gallon.
I anticipate at least two batches of formaggio over the next two days. One will be made according to Jeff Potter's instructions, which are coolly high-tech and involve the microwave. The second will be produced using a more traditional method, as outlined by the purveyor of my cheese-making paraphernalia, Ricki Carroll of the meretorious New England Cheesemaking Supply Company. Interestingly, the two schemes call for different ingredients (the lipase and calcium chloride are notable for their absence in Ricki's outline) so we shall see what we shall see.
And you know there's nothing I love more than a weekend of experimentation in the kitchen.
When does Fractured Amy find herself in possession of three gallons of raw milk, rennet tablets, citric acid, lipase, and calcium chloride?
Answer
Why, the Friday before a thrilling weekend of mozzarella-making, of course!
You heard me right. Emboldened by my snowy-day ricotta success, I have decided to take the next logical step and hurl myself at a new challenge. I have long been thinking about such a project - ever since I first came across a recipe and procedure in Cooking for Geeks back in November, in fact. A couple of clicks online and all the required ingredients were brought to my laboratory door courtesy of my friendly (and by now quite curious) UPS man.
The milk I obtained yesterday, kindly provided by the Jersey cows at my gem of a local dairy. It must be admitted, there are one or two advantages to living in the hinterlands and access to natural dairy products has got to be near the top of the list. The men in my life will no longer drink anything else: the Squid admires the pleasing aftertaste of the unhomogenized product and Sir ... well, raw milk with cream floating on top takes Sir straight back to his childhood, which is something on which you cannot place a price tag. Not even when it says $6 a gallon.
 |
| Straight from the coo! |
And you know there's nothing I love more than a weekend of experimentation in the kitchen.
Thursday, January 20, 2011
Top Chef All-Stars, Episode 7: Pop Culture
C'est la guerre!
Restaurant Wars, that most anticipated of Top Chef episodes, did not this week disappoint prurient viewers eager for the traditional bloodlettings, recriminations, throwings-under-the-bus, inedible experimental dishes, and general brouhaha that we have all come to know and love so well. It was a fabulous implosion that had Moleskine II and me hooting with joy.
While I'm thinking of it, may I just point out that Marcel's self-styled reverse amuse, which he defined as a 'sweet treat at the end of the meal' is usually called a petit four in polite company? Just sayin'.
After Blais demonstrated the correct way to eat a banana for breakfast (smeared with Nutella, unless my eyes deceived me) it was off to Le Bernardin for some fish butchering lessons with the great Justo Thomas, slicer and dicer to the stars. I'd read about this guy in Bourdain's Medium Raw (the chapter devoted to his awesome talent is my favorite in the book, as it happens) and it was extremely gratifying to see our usually pompous cheftestants gobsmacked into respectful silence (except for Fabio who, overcome by emotion at the beauty of the skills on display, started sniffling softly). Unsurprisingly, none of our competitors was able to match Justo's prowess, although I was displeased to see that the women were even more inept than the men. Ladies - you disappointed me!
Once it was determined that Marcel would be captain of one of the pop-up restaurant teams, the conclusion was foregone, I'm afraid. Was there any disastrous decision or choice that he failed to make? Moleskine II and I watched from the security of our armchair as he belittled his staff; squirted foams on anything that wasn't moving; ignored the needs and wishes of his patrons; and panicked unedifyingly in the face of danger. The Heimlich Maneuver himself was moved to comment on Marcel's 'weird energy' (an unusual editorial comment on personality rather than food) and I myself was prompted to speak sternly to the TV after Astro-Boy interjected 'like' into an otherwise blameless sentence for, like, the four millionth time.
His lack of eloquence alone justified his auf'ing, in my opinion. But then, I have a pet peeve about weasel words.
As the catastrophe unfolded and disgruntled diners started sending their food back to the kitchen, however, I began to ponder the bravery of doing so. I have only refused food in a restaurant once in my entire life: a stone-cold gratin of some kind (seafood, maybe?) that had clearly never made it into the oven and whose consumption could well have spelt death or worse. But that was years and years ago and I have not behaved so boldly since.
This is not because I have never been served a bad meal in a restaurant, pop-up or otherwise. Sadly, restaurant food that isn't quite up to snuff is not infrequently to be found my neck of the woods. Two plates stick firmly in my mind because they were relatively recent occurrences in very expensive, well-regarded local establishments: in one case, sauteed scallops with beurre blanc had been sitting under the heat lamp [shudder] for so long that the sauce had started to separate and form an undeniable skin on top. In the second instance, lobster risotto was served with half a tail as garnish: the poor lobster who had donated said appendage was clearly dead long before his tail was harvested and dumped unceremonously into the restaurant warehouse freezer from whence it was retrieved some months (if not years) later by Chef. It had, to put it mildly, a bit of a pong.
Why didn't I send these dishes back? Because in both cases, I honestly wondered if there was any point. At least three different people must have touched those plates between line and table and not one individual noticed how godawful they were, the only possible explanation being that they didn't know how to do their jobs. Frankly, I didn't feel like I was the one to educate them. To the risotto restaurant's credit, the manager did ask why I had left my dinner uneaten - but I had to wonder what olfactory malfuction or culinary obtuseness made the question necessary. At any rate, frozen lobster tails ('off' or not) in a so-called fine dining establishment are inexcusable in the first place. If the chef didn't know that, there was no hope for him.
And that is why, even if Marcel sent me a plate covered in three different kinds of foam spelling out the word like in ridiculous calligraphy, I wouldn't send it back. It just wouldn't be worth it.
Restaurant Wars, that most anticipated of Top Chef episodes, did not this week disappoint prurient viewers eager for the traditional bloodlettings, recriminations, throwings-under-the-bus, inedible experimental dishes, and general brouhaha that we have all come to know and love so well. It was a fabulous implosion that had Moleskine II and me hooting with joy.
While I'm thinking of it, may I just point out that Marcel's self-styled reverse amuse, which he defined as a 'sweet treat at the end of the meal' is usually called a petit four in polite company? Just sayin'.
After Blais demonstrated the correct way to eat a banana for breakfast (smeared with Nutella, unless my eyes deceived me) it was off to Le Bernardin for some fish butchering lessons with the great Justo Thomas, slicer and dicer to the stars. I'd read about this guy in Bourdain's Medium Raw (the chapter devoted to his awesome talent is my favorite in the book, as it happens) and it was extremely gratifying to see our usually pompous cheftestants gobsmacked into respectful silence (except for Fabio who, overcome by emotion at the beauty of the skills on display, started sniffling softly). Unsurprisingly, none of our competitors was able to match Justo's prowess, although I was displeased to see that the women were even more inept than the men. Ladies - you disappointed me!
Once it was determined that Marcel would be captain of one of the pop-up restaurant teams, the conclusion was foregone, I'm afraid. Was there any disastrous decision or choice that he failed to make? Moleskine II and I watched from the security of our armchair as he belittled his staff; squirted foams on anything that wasn't moving; ignored the needs and wishes of his patrons; and panicked unedifyingly in the face of danger. The Heimlich Maneuver himself was moved to comment on Marcel's 'weird energy' (an unusual editorial comment on personality rather than food) and I myself was prompted to speak sternly to the TV after Astro-Boy interjected 'like' into an otherwise blameless sentence for, like, the four millionth time.
His lack of eloquence alone justified his auf'ing, in my opinion. But then, I have a pet peeve about weasel words.
As the catastrophe unfolded and disgruntled diners started sending their food back to the kitchen, however, I began to ponder the bravery of doing so. I have only refused food in a restaurant once in my entire life: a stone-cold gratin of some kind (seafood, maybe?) that had clearly never made it into the oven and whose consumption could well have spelt death or worse. But that was years and years ago and I have not behaved so boldly since.
This is not because I have never been served a bad meal in a restaurant, pop-up or otherwise. Sadly, restaurant food that isn't quite up to snuff is not infrequently to be found my neck of the woods. Two plates stick firmly in my mind because they were relatively recent occurrences in very expensive, well-regarded local establishments: in one case, sauteed scallops with beurre blanc had been sitting under the heat lamp [shudder] for so long that the sauce had started to separate and form an undeniable skin on top. In the second instance, lobster risotto was served with half a tail as garnish: the poor lobster who had donated said appendage was clearly dead long before his tail was harvested and dumped unceremonously into the restaurant warehouse freezer from whence it was retrieved some months (if not years) later by Chef. It had, to put it mildly, a bit of a pong.
Why didn't I send these dishes back? Because in both cases, I honestly wondered if there was any point. At least three different people must have touched those plates between line and table and not one individual noticed how godawful they were, the only possible explanation being that they didn't know how to do their jobs. Frankly, I didn't feel like I was the one to educate them. To the risotto restaurant's credit, the manager did ask why I had left my dinner uneaten - but I had to wonder what olfactory malfuction or culinary obtuseness made the question necessary. At any rate, frozen lobster tails ('off' or not) in a so-called fine dining establishment are inexcusable in the first place. If the chef didn't know that, there was no hope for him.
And that is why, even if Marcel sent me a plate covered in three different kinds of foam spelling out the word like in ridiculous calligraphy, I wouldn't send it back. It just wouldn't be worth it.
Wednesday, January 19, 2011
Reverse Engineering
The heavens let loose on Monday night and yesterday morning, leaving every roadway and sidewalk for miles around covered in three inches of snow topped with a thin sheet of rock-hard slipperiness.
Normally, such meteorological events are the cause of much rejoicing chez Fractured Amy, particularly in the case of the youngest member of the household who, at 17 years old, still gets excited by the promise of a day off school.
On Tuesdays, however, the transportation challenges posed by icy roads are Bad Things, posing as they do a serious threat to our Curry Night ritual. Yesterday's storm was nothing short of catastrophic and Sir announced with great reluctance that he was unwilling to risk life and limb just to bring home Chicken Dopiaza and Lamb Saagwala. What this reveals about Sir's character, I will leave for readers to decide - but I must confess this was one of those rare occasions when I was forced to question his priorities.
I kept my opinions to myself (another rarity!) and considered dinner substitutes. Why not do Curry Night at home? I was unable to get to the shops, of course, so I was forced to make do with pantry staples. I reasoned that I could put together a reasonable chicken tikka, having in the freezer the requisite protein and in the pantry some of Patak's excellent tikka masala sauce (it's gluten-free, you know). I figured I could saute some vegetables with the chicken, add the sauce, and tart up the final product with some additional secret ingredients, rendering the main course a fait accompli.
Before readers get their knickers in a twist about my making curry from a jar, I would like to point out that I had already spent considerable time in the morning (before snow-shovelling duty commenced), producing a fine batch of home-made ricotta cheese. Every girl has her limits, after all.
But what about my favorite zafrani pulao Kashmiri, jewel of our beloved curry house's menu, my desert island dish of choice without which Tuesdays just aren't worth waking up for? Doing without, I decided, was too high a price to pay for a bit of snow. I pondered for a while and decided that, having eaten the pulao, oh, about a gazillion times, I could apply some deductive reasoning to the problem and fabricate a reasonable facsimile with in-house ingredients.
An hour later, I had a heaping pan full of delectable rice that the family agreed was terribly terribly pukka. I may have made it too well and set an unfortunate precedent: Sir is now imprudently questioning the need to bring home Indian take-away every Tuesday!
Here is how to make Snow Day Zafrani Pulao a la Del Monte:
First, cook the basmati rice: melt a bit of butter in your glass-topped rice pan. Rinse well one cup of rice and add it to the butter, stirring it around over medium heat until it turns translucent. Add one and one-half cups of good vegetable stock, give it a stir, slam the lid on the pot and bring it to the boil. When you can see by peering through the lid that bubblage has been achieved, turn the heat to low and continue cooking until all the moisture is absorbed. Leave the lid on and turn off the heat. The rice will be good to go in another ten minutes or so.
Heat up about half a cup of milk (just to a simmer) in the microwave and add a pinch of saffron. Leave this to infuse while you address the rest of the ingredients.
In a large saute pan heat another blob of butter. Add a finely chopped sweet onion and cook it over low heat until it is very soft - about fifteen minutes. When that is done, add spices that you like (I used equal amounts of turmeric, cumin, and ginger, plus a bit of cayenne and cardamom. I also added a bay leaf.) and turn up the heat to toast them nicely. Add a handful of natural pistachios and another handful of raisins (I used my favorite Hunza golden beauties) and stir it all up together: reduce the heat to medium and add the saffron milk. Let it simmer while the rice finishes cooking.
Just before adding the rice, open one 15 oz. can of fruit cocktail and rinse the contents in a sieve (I had the kind that was packed in pear juice rather than syrup, but rinsed it anyway). Whatever else you do, make sure you use a variety with cherries! If you don't have any canned fruit on hand, I suppose it wouldn't be disastrous - but Chef always includes it in his version and in my opinion, it's the piece de resistance that makes the pulao an undeniable triumph. Take the chill off the fruit by adding it to the pan and when it is warm, add the cooked rice. Mix it all up and season as necessary with salt and pepper.
Serve it straight away with your favorite spicy curry: it will feed three or four as a side dish. Leftovers microwave beautifully, as I discovered at lunch time today. But be wary - it could spell the end of take-away Curry Night.
Normally, such meteorological events are the cause of much rejoicing chez Fractured Amy, particularly in the case of the youngest member of the household who, at 17 years old, still gets excited by the promise of a day off school.
On Tuesdays, however, the transportation challenges posed by icy roads are Bad Things, posing as they do a serious threat to our Curry Night ritual. Yesterday's storm was nothing short of catastrophic and Sir announced with great reluctance that he was unwilling to risk life and limb just to bring home Chicken Dopiaza and Lamb Saagwala. What this reveals about Sir's character, I will leave for readers to decide - but I must confess this was one of those rare occasions when I was forced to question his priorities.
I kept my opinions to myself (another rarity!) and considered dinner substitutes. Why not do Curry Night at home? I was unable to get to the shops, of course, so I was forced to make do with pantry staples. I reasoned that I could put together a reasonable chicken tikka, having in the freezer the requisite protein and in the pantry some of Patak's excellent tikka masala sauce (it's gluten-free, you know). I figured I could saute some vegetables with the chicken, add the sauce, and tart up the final product with some additional secret ingredients, rendering the main course a fait accompli.
Before readers get their knickers in a twist about my making curry from a jar, I would like to point out that I had already spent considerable time in the morning (before snow-shovelling duty commenced), producing a fine batch of home-made ricotta cheese. Every girl has her limits, after all.
But what about my favorite zafrani pulao Kashmiri, jewel of our beloved curry house's menu, my desert island dish of choice without which Tuesdays just aren't worth waking up for? Doing without, I decided, was too high a price to pay for a bit of snow. I pondered for a while and decided that, having eaten the pulao, oh, about a gazillion times, I could apply some deductive reasoning to the problem and fabricate a reasonable facsimile with in-house ingredients.
An hour later, I had a heaping pan full of delectable rice that the family agreed was terribly terribly pukka. I may have made it too well and set an unfortunate precedent: Sir is now imprudently questioning the need to bring home Indian take-away every Tuesday!
Here is how to make Snow Day Zafrani Pulao a la Del Monte:
First, cook the basmati rice: melt a bit of butter in your glass-topped rice pan. Rinse well one cup of rice and add it to the butter, stirring it around over medium heat until it turns translucent. Add one and one-half cups of good vegetable stock, give it a stir, slam the lid on the pot and bring it to the boil. When you can see by peering through the lid that bubblage has been achieved, turn the heat to low and continue cooking until all the moisture is absorbed. Leave the lid on and turn off the heat. The rice will be good to go in another ten minutes or so.
Heat up about half a cup of milk (just to a simmer) in the microwave and add a pinch of saffron. Leave this to infuse while you address the rest of the ingredients.
In a large saute pan heat another blob of butter. Add a finely chopped sweet onion and cook it over low heat until it is very soft - about fifteen minutes. When that is done, add spices that you like (I used equal amounts of turmeric, cumin, and ginger, plus a bit of cayenne and cardamom. I also added a bay leaf.) and turn up the heat to toast them nicely. Add a handful of natural pistachios and another handful of raisins (I used my favorite Hunza golden beauties) and stir it all up together: reduce the heat to medium and add the saffron milk. Let it simmer while the rice finishes cooking.
Serve it straight away with your favorite spicy curry: it will feed three or four as a side dish. Leftovers microwave beautifully, as I discovered at lunch time today. But be wary - it could spell the end of take-away Curry Night.
Tuesday, January 18, 2011
Monologo Drammatico
I am about to embark upon my first pasta-cooking adventure in several weeks. I wonder how I should prepare my new gluten-free Bionaturae spaghetti, purchased just this past weekend at Whole Foods? I know - I will check for an exciting new recipe in my big green Gourmet cookbook! I can practice my limited Italian language skills at the same time. Quando a Roma ...
Hmmm ... so many pasta dishes to choose from! Why, this looks intriguing. Gnudi. What could be more gluten-free than pasta-less ravioli? It scuppers my Bionaturae scheme, of course, but those bags of Italian goodness will still be in the pantry in a few days' time. I am nothing if not capriccioso!
I see that the gnudi recipe requires fresh ricotta cheese and flour - another excellent way to put King Arthur Multi-Purpose Gluten-Free Flour through its paces. I wonder if it will work or if my little pillows will disintegrate in their cooking bath? Only one way to find out!
Wait a minute, what do I spy in this little textbox in the corner of the recipe? A procedure for making home-made ricotta? I have an an hour to spare before it's light enough outside to shovel last night's newly-fallen snow. Andiamo!
All I need is milk, cream, salt, and some fresh lemon juice. Oh - and 6-quart spaghetti pot.
[Noises off as an appropriate vessel is disentangled from the piles on top of the refrigerator and the wireless router goes crashing to the floor.]
I should probably construct my straining apparatus while I'm at at. Where did my cheese-cloth get to? Ah, here it is: still hanging up in the laundry room after my last quinoa-steaming session. I'll just line my best sieve and place it on top of my favorite steep-sided stainless bowl. There, that should do it.
Might as well squeeze out some acid while I'm at it. Finito: three tablespoons of fresh succo di limone safely strained into one of my cunning little glass prep bowls.
Allora. Let me just measure 2 quarts of whole milk and a cup of cream into my pot and bring it to a rolling boil. Mustn't forget to add a half teaspoon of salt! Gosh, this is taking forever. Well, at least I have my best long-handled wooden spoon to keep me company. I feel like one of those witches in Verdi's Macbeth.
[Contented humming, difficult to discern: possibly Funiculi Funicula]
I see I have reached boilage. I sure hope my pot doesn't bubble over. I'll get the lemon juice in there prontissimo and turn the heat down to simmer. [sigh of relief] Disaster averted.
[five seconds elapse]
Eeeewww. Ripugnante!
My milk has curdled into an unsightly mess. Well, I suppose that is what cheese-making is all about. The recipe says to continue simmering for two minutes, stirring all the while, so that is what I will do. Good thing my loyal spoon is as single-minded as I am!
[Sound of insistent electronic buzzer]
My two minutes is up. Let's give it an extra thirty seconds for buona fortuna and ... into the lined sieve we go!
[Splashing and spluttering: a curse or two as hot whey spatters in all directions.]
Well, I'm damned. It looks like fresh cheese. Che gioia!
Now it needs to sit for an hour, draining and cooling. That gives me enough time to go and scrape the ice off the driveway and sidewalk. Where is my cappello and sciarpa?
[More noises off. Doors slamming and a muffled commotion coming from the general direction of the garage. An hour elapses.]
That was appalling! I must have a cup of tea. Think I'll give my formaggio a bit of a squeeze to get the excess moisture out. I see the curds have reduced in size and the whole mass has firmed up. It looks almost like, if not exactly like, two cups of ricotta cheese. Wow - that is pretty fantastico, actually.
Into the fridge to chill!
I really need to go to work now.
[More doors slamming after which a silver Element can be heard to cough and roar to life. Hours pass.]
Sono tornato! Let's see how my cheese is doing. Why, it tastes mild, fresh, and delizioso! Let's eat some before I make the gnudi. I just happen to have a bit of dark cherry-infused balsamico and orange blossom honey for drizzling. It will only be the work of a moment to toast some pignoli for added crunch.
Divino!
Che peccato, we seem to have eaten it all! Never mind, I still have my Bionaturae pasta for another day.
Merda - isn't that where this whole opera began?
Hmmm ... so many pasta dishes to choose from! Why, this looks intriguing. Gnudi. What could be more gluten-free than pasta-less ravioli? It scuppers my Bionaturae scheme, of course, but those bags of Italian goodness will still be in the pantry in a few days' time. I am nothing if not capriccioso!
I see that the gnudi recipe requires fresh ricotta cheese and flour - another excellent way to put King Arthur Multi-Purpose Gluten-Free Flour through its paces. I wonder if it will work or if my little pillows will disintegrate in their cooking bath? Only one way to find out!
Wait a minute, what do I spy in this little textbox in the corner of the recipe? A procedure for making home-made ricotta? I have an an hour to spare before it's light enough outside to shovel last night's newly-fallen snow. Andiamo!
All I need is milk, cream, salt, and some fresh lemon juice. Oh - and 6-quart spaghetti pot.
[Noises off as an appropriate vessel is disentangled from the piles on top of the refrigerator and the wireless router goes crashing to the floor.]
I should probably construct my straining apparatus while I'm at at. Where did my cheese-cloth get to? Ah, here it is: still hanging up in the laundry room after my last quinoa-steaming session. I'll just line my best sieve and place it on top of my favorite steep-sided stainless bowl. There, that should do it.
Might as well squeeze out some acid while I'm at it. Finito: three tablespoons of fresh succo di limone safely strained into one of my cunning little glass prep bowls.
Allora. Let me just measure 2 quarts of whole milk and a cup of cream into my pot and bring it to a rolling boil. Mustn't forget to add a half teaspoon of salt! Gosh, this is taking forever. Well, at least I have my best long-handled wooden spoon to keep me company. I feel like one of those witches in Verdi's Macbeth.
[Contented humming, difficult to discern: possibly Funiculi Funicula]
I see I have reached boilage. I sure hope my pot doesn't bubble over. I'll get the lemon juice in there prontissimo and turn the heat down to simmer. [sigh of relief] Disaster averted.
[five seconds elapse]
Eeeewww. Ripugnante!
My milk has curdled into an unsightly mess. Well, I suppose that is what cheese-making is all about. The recipe says to continue simmering for two minutes, stirring all the while, so that is what I will do. Good thing my loyal spoon is as single-minded as I am!
[Sound of insistent electronic buzzer]
My two minutes is up. Let's give it an extra thirty seconds for buona fortuna and ... into the lined sieve we go!
[Splashing and spluttering: a curse or two as hot whey spatters in all directions.]
Now it needs to sit for an hour, draining and cooling. That gives me enough time to go and scrape the ice off the driveway and sidewalk. Where is my cappello and sciarpa?
[More noises off. Doors slamming and a muffled commotion coming from the general direction of the garage. An hour elapses.]
That was appalling! I must have a cup of tea. Think I'll give my formaggio a bit of a squeeze to get the excess moisture out. I see the curds have reduced in size and the whole mass has firmed up. It looks almost like, if not exactly like, two cups of ricotta cheese. Wow - that is pretty fantastico, actually.
Into the fridge to chill!
I really need to go to work now.
[More doors slamming after which a silver Element can be heard to cough and roar to life. Hours pass.]
Sono tornato! Let's see how my cheese is doing. Why, it tastes mild, fresh, and delizioso! Let's eat some before I make the gnudi. I just happen to have a bit of dark cherry-infused balsamico and orange blossom honey for drizzling. It will only be the work of a moment to toast some pignoli for added crunch.
Divino!
Che peccato, we seem to have eaten it all! Never mind, I still have my Bionaturae pasta for another day.
Merda - isn't that where this whole opera began?
Sunday, January 16, 2011
More on Shopping and a Sincere Apology
Yesterday, I drove to Philadelphia to meet The Diva and her Significant Other for a Vietnamese meal in Chinatown. On the way, I made a pit stop at the Whole Foods in Plymouth Meeting, which according to the market's website is - at a mere 45 miles away - the closest of their stores to my humble abode.
This was only my second visit ever to this temple of organic eating, my first being back in November when I quickly ducked into its sister establishment in Fort Lee, NJ during my Mitsuwa pilgrimage. Readers may recall that some of my most successful gluten-freedom ingredients and products were serendipitously purchased during this brief foray, including Dowd and Rogers chestnut flour and lemon cake mix and King Arthur Gluten-Free Multi-Purpose Flour, the only flour I will now use for general baking.
There were a few things listed in my shopping app for which I was on the prowl. Since my last WFs visit, I have become passionately devoted to organic russet potatoes and cauliflower, which are not always available locally.
In addition, I had been hearing a lot buzz on the web and elsewhere about Bionaturae pasta, an Italian gluten-free product that is supposedly beyond excellent. That, too, is unavailable nearby. I have not eaten pasta in weeks and weeks, as the only varieties to which I have access are not worthy of the name. I was briefly encouraged by a locally-available brand of corn spaghetti until a batch literally disintegrated and disappeared down the drain one evening when I accidentally tipped the colander into the sink. It was heartbreaking and I swore never again. But I am a sucker for the shilling that goes on in Bon Appetit magazine, so I was determined to give the Italian stuff a try. What do the Canadians know about pasta, anyway?
I presented myself at Whole Foods at 2:30 pm sharp, iPhone and recycled shopping bags in hand, and didn't get out of there until an hour later. Sadly, the Plymouth Meeting branch doesn't carry Dowd and Rogers products (shame! shame!) but there were many other riches to console me:
Two kinds of Bionaturae pasta (rigatoni and spaghetti); King Arthur Flour g/f chocolate cake mix (which I just know will be awesome); a new variety of spice cake mix; sweet biscuits from Glutino, makers of the best g/f crackers of all time; and two beautiful jars of fancy-schmancy preserves for corn-bread* adornment. I am also the proud new owner of several bags of organic vegetables and tubers, which should keep us going for weeks.
I now have the material for several days' worth of trial and experimentation and will be reporting my findings in due course. Who knows? This time next week, I just might be eating pasta again.
*
Fractured Amy apologizes for an egregious typographical error in her cornbread recipe. The blooper was discovered this morning, after a disastrous episode involving a hungry family anticipating Sunday breakfast; two newly-opened jars of sour cherry jam and bitter orange marmalade; and an over-leavened pan of burnt cornbread that proved inedible to man and beast. A hasty check of the recipe revealed that tablespoons rather than teaspoons of baking powder and soda were mistakenly specified in the relevant posting. This inaccuracy has now been rectified.
Fractured Amy's only defense is that the procedure was published on January 1st, when a girl is never at her best. She humbly apologizes to any readers inconvenienced by the lingering effects of her New Year's Eve revelries and assures one and all that she has now Learned Her Lesson.
This was only my second visit ever to this temple of organic eating, my first being back in November when I quickly ducked into its sister establishment in Fort Lee, NJ during my Mitsuwa pilgrimage. Readers may recall that some of my most successful gluten-freedom ingredients and products were serendipitously purchased during this brief foray, including Dowd and Rogers chestnut flour and lemon cake mix and King Arthur Gluten-Free Multi-Purpose Flour, the only flour I will now use for general baking.
There were a few things listed in my shopping app for which I was on the prowl. Since my last WFs visit, I have become passionately devoted to organic russet potatoes and cauliflower, which are not always available locally.
In addition, I had been hearing a lot buzz on the web and elsewhere about Bionaturae pasta, an Italian gluten-free product that is supposedly beyond excellent. That, too, is unavailable nearby. I have not eaten pasta in weeks and weeks, as the only varieties to which I have access are not worthy of the name. I was briefly encouraged by a locally-available brand of corn spaghetti until a batch literally disintegrated and disappeared down the drain one evening when I accidentally tipped the colander into the sink. It was heartbreaking and I swore never again. But I am a sucker for the shilling that goes on in Bon Appetit magazine, so I was determined to give the Italian stuff a try. What do the Canadians know about pasta, anyway?
I presented myself at Whole Foods at 2:30 pm sharp, iPhone and recycled shopping bags in hand, and didn't get out of there until an hour later. Sadly, the Plymouth Meeting branch doesn't carry Dowd and Rogers products (shame! shame!) but there were many other riches to console me:
Two kinds of Bionaturae pasta (rigatoni and spaghetti); King Arthur Flour g/f chocolate cake mix (which I just know will be awesome); a new variety of spice cake mix; sweet biscuits from Glutino, makers of the best g/f crackers of all time; and two beautiful jars of fancy-schmancy preserves for corn-bread* adornment. I am also the proud new owner of several bags of organic vegetables and tubers, which should keep us going for weeks.
I now have the material for several days' worth of trial and experimentation and will be reporting my findings in due course. Who knows? This time next week, I just might be eating pasta again.
*
Fractured Amy apologizes for an egregious typographical error in her cornbread recipe. The blooper was discovered this morning, after a disastrous episode involving a hungry family anticipating Sunday breakfast; two newly-opened jars of sour cherry jam and bitter orange marmalade; and an over-leavened pan of burnt cornbread that proved inedible to man and beast. A hasty check of the recipe revealed that tablespoons rather than teaspoons of baking powder and soda were mistakenly specified in the relevant posting. This inaccuracy has now been rectified.
Fractured Amy's only defense is that the procedure was published on January 1st, when a girl is never at her best. She humbly apologizes to any readers inconvenienced by the lingering effects of her New Year's Eve revelries and assures one and all that she has now Learned Her Lesson.
Saturday, January 15, 2011
An App For This, An App For That
There are very few culinary gadgets in the kitchen chez Fractured Amy. I love my pots and pans, of course, as has been well-documented. I have a reasonable collection of knives. My electric appliances are few and basic: a good food processor, a toaster, a standmixer, an electric handmixer, and a coffee grinder. My kitchen has traditionally been an analog sort of place: I have digital kitchen scales (metric and standard units!) and a digital timer, but a quick survey of the countertop reveals very few blinking red lights.
Until last week, that is, when for work I received a brand new Smartyphone.
My new phone has become something of an obsession in recent days. There's nothing like a convert: last week I was the sort of person who never, ever carried a mobile (I did have one, but it was never turned on and only the immediate family knew the number) and now my Smartyphone never leaves my side. I have given the number to everybody I know. I have been texting anyone I can think of and configured all my e-mail accounts for instant access. I have downloaded about a zillion apps: Kanji practice! a pedometer! the New York Times' daily sudoku! an old episode of Pushing Daises and a few of the Kid Squid's South African travelogues (just to demonstrate my Smartyphone's video capabilities to interested bystanders, you understand).
It is very exciting.
But never in my wildest imaginings did I dream that my new toy could have an impact on my kitchen in general, or my gluten-freedom in particular, until a couple days ago. Whilst getting my hair did at my estimable local salon, I was chatting with the Random Lady in the Chair Next to Me (as one does) about the wonders of mobile technology. A Smartyphone aficionado from way back, the RLCNM had lots of suggestions for possible uses, most of which I found pretty pointless, frankly - a calorie counter? I don't think so. eBooks? I am still devoted to my Kindle, thank you very much. Twitter? It's as much as I can do to keep up with Facebook. But one app about which she waxed lyrical made me sit up and take notice, at the risk of losing an ear to my hairdresser's snip-snipping.
A grocery shopping app.
'It's fabulous!' she enthused. 'The whole family can put things on the list and then whoever goes to the market can cross it off! It's really convenient!'
Hmmm. Sir and I have great trouble with the shopping: there is generally quite a bit of duplication of effort (at last count, we had three unopened bottles of ketchup in the pantry and four gallons of milk in the fridge) and we often go without paper towels and Bounce for weeks. I can never remember the exact variety of corn flakes Sir requires for his breakfast and he can never remember the flavors of yogurt I eat in the morning (cherry, apricot, or blueberry, if you'd be so kind - but never banana or strawberry, which taste like airplane glue). Now that gluten-free selections have been thrown into the mix, shopping has fallen firmly into my purview, since the choice of chia seeds, Hunza raisins, and reasonable g/f baking flour requires the sort of expertise only bitter experience can provide.
My incredible new app deals with all these challenges. Don't know what kind of corn flour is certified gluten-free? Take a picture of it and add it the appropriate list! Need to tell Sir to add dried apricots to the evening grocery run? Add it to the list on my phone and - Bob's your uncle - it's automatically uploaded to his! And because Wegmans thoughtfully provide WiFi for their coffee shop customers, we don't need to use up precious GBs while we are doing the rounds.
Of course, I have now become one of those people glued to a phone in public places. But this is a small price to pay if it means Sir can help out with the gluten-free shopping. There is, after all, an app for that.
Until last week, that is, when for work I received a brand new Smartyphone.
My new phone has become something of an obsession in recent days. There's nothing like a convert: last week I was the sort of person who never, ever carried a mobile (I did have one, but it was never turned on and only the immediate family knew the number) and now my Smartyphone never leaves my side. I have given the number to everybody I know. I have been texting anyone I can think of and configured all my e-mail accounts for instant access. I have downloaded about a zillion apps: Kanji practice! a pedometer! the New York Times' daily sudoku! an old episode of Pushing Daises and a few of the Kid Squid's South African travelogues (just to demonstrate my Smartyphone's video capabilities to interested bystanders, you understand).
It is very exciting.
But never in my wildest imaginings did I dream that my new toy could have an impact on my kitchen in general, or my gluten-freedom in particular, until a couple days ago. Whilst getting my hair did at my estimable local salon, I was chatting with the Random Lady in the Chair Next to Me (as one does) about the wonders of mobile technology. A Smartyphone aficionado from way back, the RLCNM had lots of suggestions for possible uses, most of which I found pretty pointless, frankly - a calorie counter? I don't think so. eBooks? I am still devoted to my Kindle, thank you very much. Twitter? It's as much as I can do to keep up with Facebook. But one app about which she waxed lyrical made me sit up and take notice, at the risk of losing an ear to my hairdresser's snip-snipping.
A grocery shopping app.
'It's fabulous!' she enthused. 'The whole family can put things on the list and then whoever goes to the market can cross it off! It's really convenient!'
Hmmm. Sir and I have great trouble with the shopping: there is generally quite a bit of duplication of effort (at last count, we had three unopened bottles of ketchup in the pantry and four gallons of milk in the fridge) and we often go without paper towels and Bounce for weeks. I can never remember the exact variety of corn flakes Sir requires for his breakfast and he can never remember the flavors of yogurt I eat in the morning (cherry, apricot, or blueberry, if you'd be so kind - but never banana or strawberry, which taste like airplane glue). Now that gluten-free selections have been thrown into the mix, shopping has fallen firmly into my purview, since the choice of chia seeds, Hunza raisins, and reasonable g/f baking flour requires the sort of expertise only bitter experience can provide.
My incredible new app deals with all these challenges. Don't know what kind of corn flour is certified gluten-free? Take a picture of it and add it the appropriate list! Need to tell Sir to add dried apricots to the evening grocery run? Add it to the list on my phone and - Bob's your uncle - it's automatically uploaded to his! And because Wegmans thoughtfully provide WiFi for their coffee shop customers, we don't need to use up precious GBs while we are doing the rounds.
Of course, I have now become one of those people glued to a phone in public places. But this is a small price to pay if it means Sir can help out with the gluten-free shopping. There is, after all, an app for that.
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