Yesterday I postponed my discussion of Top Chef Masters because of the Royal Wedding.
All right, I admit it. This morning, despite my avowed disapproval, I watched the very end of the ceremony as I ate my breakfast of organic super-yogurt, chia seeds, Hunza raisins, and home-made cherry/blueberry preserves. Normally I would have spent this quality time reading the NYTimes online, but I am currently suffering agonies over whether or not to pay their monthly subscription. While my indecision festers, I am without my usual breakfast diversions.
Anyway, who can resist a rousing chorus of Jerusalem? Not me! And didn't Kate look lovely? Sir was quite taken by her dress. Humming God Save the Queen, we departed for work feeling that there was still hope for love in this crazy old world.
But I am obliged to comment on Top Chef Masters because this week's thrilling episode touched on two hot topics that are near and dear to my gluten and lactose-free heart: artisanal cheese and weight loss. While I don't suppose these things are usually considered in the same breath (except as mutually exclusive items) I am obsessed with both at the moment, as loyal readers are well aware. The other event requiring examination is the departure of my dear, sweet, heroical Suvir, who behaved in a way that I found understandable but unforgivable, having myself been both the victim and perpetrator of his crime.
What was this sin, you may ask?
Preaching to others about what's good for 'em.
But first things first. The cheesy quickfire was awesome, if only because we got to meet Norbert, a bow-tied and bespectacled evangelist from The Beverly Hills Cheese Store, which is apparently a shrine for fromage-lovers of all shapes and sizes (a quick look at the establishment's website reveals details of the highly-coveted American Artisanal Treasure Awards, which I shall be seeking in a number of categories in due course). Norbert was the geekiest, dweebiest, most outrageous character to grace my TV screen in some time and I dearly hope he gets his own show soon. And boy, does he get excited about cheese!
The chefs were tasked with creating Norbert-pleasing cheese dishes in twelve minutes flat and did a pretty good job, too. Of course, I am a total cheese snob now and can speak so knowledgeably of rinds, affinage, cultures, and butterfat content that I viewed the challenge with the sort of discernment only two weeks' worth of cheese expertise can engender. Of particular interest to me were Celina's Manchego with crispy carrots. figs, golden raisins, and sherry; Naomi's Chaumes with apples, skirt steak, onions, and balsamico; and Traci's Columbier with prosciutto and arugula. I had more or less decided that these three cheeses were the ones I needed to fabricate in my own kitchen without delay, but was brought up short when I looked up their recipes in my Cheese Tome (get it? tome? tome? never mind). Tragically, Manchego is made from sheep's milk, which is unavailable to me locally. Columbier is made from raw goat's milk, ditto (although I would dearly love to keep some Nubians in the back yard, there is a local ordinance against it). That leaves Chaumes, a washed-rind cow's milk cheese that we used to eat by the pound when France was on our doorstep. My tome tome does not contain a recipe for this orange-skinned wonder, but a washed-rind cheese is now definitely on the List of Things I Need to Make. I shall brew up some Reblochon instead and be content (but not this weekend: this is Wensleydale weekend, as per Sir's special request).
As if to punish the viewers for worshipping all those fat calories, the quickfire was followed by a weight-loss challenge, where our gladiators were required to slim down horrifically-laden plates of corned beef, cheeseburgers, meatball sandwiches, and something called a 'Chinese buffet' for contestants on Biggest Loser (another one of those cross-schedule promotions for which Bravo is justifiably famous). The guest judge was BL's preserved-in-vinyl host, accompanied by two fitness trainers who looked like an escaped Vegas lounge act.
After the usual stunned consternation at being faced with the sort of food than normal Americans supposedly eat every day (Unibrow commented that he could feed his entire family for a week on just one of the plates set before him), the chefs got down to it and produced some tasty-looking substitutes that pleased their customers no end.
Except for Suvir. Oh, Suvir, whatever were you thinking? Tasked with creating some sort of healthy alternative for a lover of bacon cheeseburgers, my guy completely lost his grip. He decided that by presenting his client with any sort of beef he was pronouncing her death sentence and instead went totally off the rails with a hare-brained scheme to convert her to veggie-burgers. 'It's about changing the paradigm!' he proclaimed as everybody else looked on in disbelief. 'She may not enjoy it,' he continued, 'but there's a statement to be made.'
Yikes.
I knew he was doomed even before he got up onto his soap box and went on and on and on about how beef was killing more Americans than any other fatalistical agent this side of a Black Death epidemic and how it was his responsibility - nay, his duty! - to bring The Message to all heathens unfortunate enough to be within earshot. It was a cringe-making performance that succeeded only in shaming his poor Loser to red faced embarrassment (although she recovered sufficiently to steal Unibrow's beef portions from her table-mates' plates) and irritating his fellow cheftestants no end.
Now I know something about what it feels like to be told what to eat. I also know that one's first instinct at being preached to by Those in the Know is to stick one's fingers in one's ears and start humming Jerusalem. But I also know what it feels like, as a proselyte, to see others crazily ignoring what (in one's own mind, anyway) is sheer common sense. Was it only last October that I vowed I wouldn't jump onto the natural foods bandwagon just because I couldn't eat cake anymore? Now I can barely contain myself when I stand in supermarket lines behind people loading up the conveyor belt with hormone-filled chicken breasts (Those chickens were quartered in China, you know!) and huge bags of frozen shrimp (Their aquaculture is destroying the oceans and they are full of chemicals!) and ice cream barely worth the name (I know it's only fifty cents a gallon - but it's disgusting!) All I want to do is escort these lost souls personally to the produce section and organic aisles to show them the light - or at least what real food looks like.
Luckily common sense, a certain sense of decorum and, I admit it, timidity usually prevail - although I did once warn an unwary shopper about the perils of gluten-free pancake mix, a testament for which she expressed seemingly joyous gratitude.
I would not like to turn into a Suvir, all self-importance and scolding 'I know what's good for you better than you do' - and that is always a danger with a new convert.
I'd rather be a prophet of blooming cheese than a prophet of unceasing doom.
Friday, April 29, 2011
Thursday, April 28, 2011
Cherries for a Jubilee
Will the denizens at chez Fractured Amy be waking up at the crack of dawn tomorrow to huzzah Wills and Kate as they sashay down the aisle?
We will not.
Fine people though the Royals undoubtedly are, and with all due credit to bunting and souvenir-mug manufacturers here and abroad, we will be boycotting the nuptials. I am, as has been recorded elsewhere, a committed 'small arr' republican and have been so ever since a gross oversight resulted in my failing to receive an invitation to the Queen's Garden Party at Holyrood Palace in 1991. Sir, confident that his humanitarian and professional accomplishments are deserving of a knighthood (or an OBE at least) was passed over for the honours list again last year and is showing his displeasure by sleeping until 7:00.
As a result, the happy couple will just have to get on as best they can without us.
This is not to say I haven't been following the Balmoral Ballyhoo with interest and amusement. My favorite nugget of trivia so far concerns, of course, the food to be served at the reception. My sources tell me that for the first time since the Conquest, there will be no formal sit-down lunch for wedding guests after the ceremony. Several reasons for this striking breach of protocol have been cited, chief among them the tackiness of pulling out all the stops when Britain is in the middle of its fiercest austerity campaign since the War. Can't have the aristos licking caviar off gold plates while the peasants are queuing for National Health beds, now, can we? There would be outrage, or at least, a certain tsk-tsking among the hoi polloi.
Another stated reason for making the hundreds of guests mill about, canapes clutched in paper serviettes, was the shortage of tables and chairs at Buck House (or Windsor Castle - I can't remember where the shindig is supposed to take place). Lack of chairs? Really? I guess they don't have party rental places over there in Blighty - or access to card and poker tables such as normal people use when suddenly they find themselves with too many mouths to feed.
A number of solutions to these vexing problems were apparently mooted by the civil servants and flunkies in charge of such events. My favorite (ultimately rejected) plan was a buffet lunch. Now I think this would have made a fabulous statement, which is probably why the idea was discarded. It was considered that the Queen of Greece, for example, might object to having to stand in line for luke-warm offerings in chafing dishes - and that it would be more fitting to have nibbles brought round by liveried footmen. While I think standing in a buffet line would probably do the Queen of Greece nothing but good (I'm convinced the current Middle Eastern situation would not be nearly as dire as it is if all those despots had ever experienced a salad bar first hand), I suppose I can see the point. Buffets are a bit sloppy and all the related shenanigans under heat lamps can ruin one's coiffure and carefully-composed decolletage.
Still, it's quite fun to imagine the King of Denmark being ordered to 'Scoop from the bottom, please!'
But, alas no, it will be picky-bits and champagne all around: the usual sausage rolls, vol au vents, and smoked salmon will probably be on offer, with maybe the odd mini-pizza and samosa thrown in for the vegetarians.
It's too bad they didn't ask me to do the catering because I have a new favorite finger food that I think would please just about everybody: Grilled Haloumi with Cherry and Pistachio Chutney. It's gluten-free, vegetarian (though not vegan - you can't have everything in this sadly imperfect world); sophisticated; and very delicious. It's internationally-inspired but reminiscent of that old John Bull standby, cheese and pickles, centerpiece of a Ploughman's Lunch. It can be eaten sans cutlery, provided you don't put on so much of the glistening gem-like condiment that it spills off the sides of its cheesy trencher.
If you add a few greens, you have a salad course or light lunch fit for a queen.
Just pray she doesn't spill it down her decolletage.
Cherry and Pistachio Chutney
Grilling haloumi is child's play (I brush mine with a bit of olive oil and sprinkle it with some black pepper as soon as its done) but here is the recipe for the chutney. It's awesome with any sort of cheese or game and tarts up plain chicken with flair. Warmed a little, it makes a good dressing for fresh greens. The recipe was adapted from one in the big Ball book of home preserving.
Next up: I make a somewhat delayed foray into Top Chef Masters World and consider the duelling imperatives of artisanal cheese consumption and weight loss.
We will not.
Fine people though the Royals undoubtedly are, and with all due credit to bunting and souvenir-mug manufacturers here and abroad, we will be boycotting the nuptials. I am, as has been recorded elsewhere, a committed 'small arr' republican and have been so ever since a gross oversight resulted in my failing to receive an invitation to the Queen's Garden Party at Holyrood Palace in 1991. Sir, confident that his humanitarian and professional accomplishments are deserving of a knighthood (or an OBE at least) was passed over for the honours list again last year and is showing his displeasure by sleeping until 7:00.
As a result, the happy couple will just have to get on as best they can without us.
This is not to say I haven't been following the Balmoral Ballyhoo with interest and amusement. My favorite nugget of trivia so far concerns, of course, the food to be served at the reception. My sources tell me that for the first time since the Conquest, there will be no formal sit-down lunch for wedding guests after the ceremony. Several reasons for this striking breach of protocol have been cited, chief among them the tackiness of pulling out all the stops when Britain is in the middle of its fiercest austerity campaign since the War. Can't have the aristos licking caviar off gold plates while the peasants are queuing for National Health beds, now, can we? There would be outrage, or at least, a certain tsk-tsking among the hoi polloi.
Another stated reason for making the hundreds of guests mill about, canapes clutched in paper serviettes, was the shortage of tables and chairs at Buck House (or Windsor Castle - I can't remember where the shindig is supposed to take place). Lack of chairs? Really? I guess they don't have party rental places over there in Blighty - or access to card and poker tables such as normal people use when suddenly they find themselves with too many mouths to feed.
A number of solutions to these vexing problems were apparently mooted by the civil servants and flunkies in charge of such events. My favorite (ultimately rejected) plan was a buffet lunch. Now I think this would have made a fabulous statement, which is probably why the idea was discarded. It was considered that the Queen of Greece, for example, might object to having to stand in line for luke-warm offerings in chafing dishes - and that it would be more fitting to have nibbles brought round by liveried footmen. While I think standing in a buffet line would probably do the Queen of Greece nothing but good (I'm convinced the current Middle Eastern situation would not be nearly as dire as it is if all those despots had ever experienced a salad bar first hand), I suppose I can see the point. Buffets are a bit sloppy and all the related shenanigans under heat lamps can ruin one's coiffure and carefully-composed decolletage.
Still, it's quite fun to imagine the King of Denmark being ordered to 'Scoop from the bottom, please!'
But, alas no, it will be picky-bits and champagne all around: the usual sausage rolls, vol au vents, and smoked salmon will probably be on offer, with maybe the odd mini-pizza and samosa thrown in for the vegetarians.
It's too bad they didn't ask me to do the catering because I have a new favorite finger food that I think would please just about everybody: Grilled Haloumi with Cherry and Pistachio Chutney. It's gluten-free, vegetarian (though not vegan - you can't have everything in this sadly imperfect world); sophisticated; and very delicious. It's internationally-inspired but reminiscent of that old John Bull standby, cheese and pickles, centerpiece of a Ploughman's Lunch. It can be eaten sans cutlery, provided you don't put on so much of the glistening gem-like condiment that it spills off the sides of its cheesy trencher.
If you add a few greens, you have a salad course or light lunch fit for a queen.
Just pray she doesn't spill it down her decolletage.
Cherry and Pistachio Chutney
Grilling haloumi is child's play (I brush mine with a bit of olive oil and sprinkle it with some black pepper as soon as its done) but here is the recipe for the chutney. It's awesome with any sort of cheese or game and tarts up plain chicken with flair. Warmed a little, it makes a good dressing for fresh greens. The recipe was adapted from one in the big Ball book of home preserving.
- Prepare a spice bag with 2 three-inch cinnamon sticks and five teaspoons of whole allspice. Pop this into a large preserving pan with five pounds of frozen cherries (I cut mine in half); 2 Granny Smith apples, peeled, seeded and chopped; one chopped sweet onion; one cup apple cider vinegar; and one-half teaspoon of salt.
- Bring to a boil and cook for about 20 minutes, or until much of the moisture has evaporated. Stir frequently!
- Add one and one-quarter cups of brown sugar and cook until it's good and thick and your wooden spoon makes a channel when you scrape it along the bottom of the pan.
- Add one and one-half cups of raisins (I use organic Thompson's) and a cup of unsalted pistachios. Give it a good stir and you're done.
Next up: I make a somewhat delayed foray into Top Chef Masters World and consider the duelling imperatives of artisanal cheese consumption and weight loss.
Wednesday, April 27, 2011
Spring is Sprung
Campers, the signs of new life are everywhere.
Birds are chirping, buds are bursting, the groundhogs are out in force, and the weeds have already started to invade the stone paths to the woods. The roar of lawnmowers has replaced the howl of snowblowers (which had previously replaced the screeching of leafblowers) - a sure sign here in suburbia that Summer is just around the corner.
Best of all, our orchard is in full flower.
When I say orchard, I mean the two plum trees that Sir insisted we plant shortly after we undertook landscaping about ten years ago. The trees are in the middle of our front lawn because the back yard turns into a sodden marsh every time it rains, requiring the planting there of wet-loving specimens such as cranberries (I have yet to save any from the birds); pussywillows; red twig dogwoods; and swamp bay magnolias.
The fact that our plum bearers are situated unusually between the house and the street brings with it certain difficulties. For one thing, our bounteous harvests grow under the watchful eyes of all the neighbours, necessitating that we give away a substantial part of our haul every summer for the sake of good relations. Having the growing fruit on public view also means that I am forced to scrabble around under the low-hanging branches for hours on end gleaning fallen plums from the grass, lest they rot where they lie and make unsightly bald brown patches, thus lowering property values all around us.
Lots of plums do fall because, frankly, we never know what to do with all the millions we produce and generally stop picking them about three-quarters of the way through the season. In the past, we have given them away to friends and neighbours in brown paper bags (see above); left them in buckets by our mailbox for any casual takers; and contributed them to Jammers near and far for various preserving purposes. All this generosity makes barely a dent in the yield and so, naturally, some fall by the wayside for dumping in the woods out back for ants, squirrels, rabbits, groundhogs, and the occasional fox (we think) to enjoy.
But not this year! This year, I have joined the ranks of thrifty home canners with Ball jars and seals galore. Let's have a look at all the glorious delights I will be able to make with the fabulous organic produce currently hatching in my own front yard. I have several preserving books to choose from these days, with both jars of sweet and savory condiments to anticipate. I shall think about sweet applications first. I have recipes for plum/apple jam; plum/orange conserve with figs; plum conserve with raisins and pecans; plum and prune paste; plums with vanilla and dried lemon slices; and plums with orange and cardamom (those last two are from Madame Ferber, of course). Savory next: there's plum chutney with cinammon and coriander; sesame plum sauce; and pickled plums, to name a few - any of which would be awesome with the cheese I've got going at the moment.
It's so exciting I can hardly wait for the summer to get underway so I can begin.
Wait a minute.
I just had a sinking feeling. I definitely remember crawling around on all fours for most of last August, unpeeling fallen plums from the long grass under the trees.
And guess what? Our plum trees are biennial.
This year of home-grown stone fruit there will be none.
And that's just plum disappointing.
Birds are chirping, buds are bursting, the groundhogs are out in force, and the weeds have already started to invade the stone paths to the woods. The roar of lawnmowers has replaced the howl of snowblowers (which had previously replaced the screeching of leafblowers) - a sure sign here in suburbia that Summer is just around the corner.
Best of all, our orchard is in full flower.
When I say orchard, I mean the two plum trees that Sir insisted we plant shortly after we undertook landscaping about ten years ago. The trees are in the middle of our front lawn because the back yard turns into a sodden marsh every time it rains, requiring the planting there of wet-loving specimens such as cranberries (I have yet to save any from the birds); pussywillows; red twig dogwoods; and swamp bay magnolias.
The fact that our plum bearers are situated unusually between the house and the street brings with it certain difficulties. For one thing, our bounteous harvests grow under the watchful eyes of all the neighbours, necessitating that we give away a substantial part of our haul every summer for the sake of good relations. Having the growing fruit on public view also means that I am forced to scrabble around under the low-hanging branches for hours on end gleaning fallen plums from the grass, lest they rot where they lie and make unsightly bald brown patches, thus lowering property values all around us.
Lots of plums do fall because, frankly, we never know what to do with all the millions we produce and generally stop picking them about three-quarters of the way through the season. In the past, we have given them away to friends and neighbours in brown paper bags (see above); left them in buckets by our mailbox for any casual takers; and contributed them to Jammers near and far for various preserving purposes. All this generosity makes barely a dent in the yield and so, naturally, some fall by the wayside for dumping in the woods out back for ants, squirrels, rabbits, groundhogs, and the occasional fox (we think) to enjoy.
But not this year! This year, I have joined the ranks of thrifty home canners with Ball jars and seals galore. Let's have a look at all the glorious delights I will be able to make with the fabulous organic produce currently hatching in my own front yard. I have several preserving books to choose from these days, with both jars of sweet and savory condiments to anticipate. I shall think about sweet applications first. I have recipes for plum/apple jam; plum/orange conserve with figs; plum conserve with raisins and pecans; plum and prune paste; plums with vanilla and dried lemon slices; and plums with orange and cardamom (those last two are from Madame Ferber, of course). Savory next: there's plum chutney with cinammon and coriander; sesame plum sauce; and pickled plums, to name a few - any of which would be awesome with the cheese I've got going at the moment.
It's so exciting I can hardly wait for the summer to get underway so I can begin.
Wait a minute.
I just had a sinking feeling. I definitely remember crawling around on all fours for most of last August, unpeeling fallen plums from the long grass under the trees.
And guess what? Our plum trees are biennial.
This year of home-grown stone fruit there will be none.
And that's just plum disappointing.
Tuesday, April 26, 2011
The Briny Deep
A Käser's work is never done.
After standing over my Swiss cheese vat for something like two and a half hours followed by a long night of anxious weight-tending, you might have thought my responsibilities for my latest creation ended with Day One.
Turns out, on Day Two I had to play lifeguard for the better part of the afternoon while my newly-born cheese floated precariously in a salty seawater solution.
Yes, young Swiss (similar to Beaufort, Gruyere, Gouda, and most grana cheeses) need a briny bath before settling down for their long nap. Why? From what I can gather, there are three reasons. First, the saltiness of the brine slows down the bacteria to halt acidification. Second, it makes the cheese nice and zesty (although the cheesy bits I tasted during manufacturing were pleasingly lemony they were a bit bland, I must confess). Third, the salt works to build the cheese's rind. The brine pulls moisture to the surface of the cheese, thus allowing it to form its natural raincoat as protection against unwanted molds, cat hair, strange odors, and other contaminants. Presumably, the rind will also help to keep explosions to a minimum when the bugs inside the cheese start blowing their bubbles.
I made my saturated salt solution with two quarts of water, eighteen ounces of non-iodized pickling salt, a little vinegar and a bit of calcium chloride. I had been reliably informed that calcium chloride is necessary in a new brine, since otherwise its leeching effect would pull calcium from the cheese into the surrounding liquid, causing disintegration, rind-softening, and woe. Eager to stave off disaster, I did as I was told, and added an extra quarter-teaspoon for good measure.
I sprinkled some dry salt on the exposed surface and went for coffee with DMR.
Can you believe there are cafes on this planet that still don't offer soy milk for their lattes? I have said before I live in the back of the beyond, but once again this sad fact was brought home to me with a vengeance.
Disgruntled, black coffee turning to acidic rancour in the pit of my stomach, I returned home in a pessimistic mood, expecting my cheese to have fallen apart in its bath during my absence.
Hurra! (that's German for hooray, according to Google). My cheese was in one piece and looking fine. I flipped it, sprinkled it with more salt, and went for a long walk. Afterwards, I felt much better.
Later that evening, I removed my Kleine from the Schwimmbad and allowed it to drip dry overnight.
The next day (Day Three, if anybody's keeping track - thank goodness it was a holiday weekend), I had a new crisis to consider. Since my cheese was nice and dry with no drops of water adhering anywhere on its pristine baby skin, it was time to move it to a humid 55 deg F location for one week. Eidetic readers will recall that this is the exact temperature at which my camemberts are currently hibernating in their cave, bowls of water beneath providing optimal mugginess.
I was concerned for my newest project, however. What if my camemberts were contagious? My cave is not exactly roomy, and I fretted that if I introduced my Swiss cheese into its confines, it would start to grow a fur coat rather than develop its own characteristic waxy rind. Oh, what to do?
I had noticed during brining that my basement temperature was ideal. I know I said it was an unsuitable place for long-term cheese storage, but I reasoned that not too much harm could befall my Käse in just one week.
With a hot nail, a vise-grip, and a big tupperware container, I hurriedly constructed a chamber that would retain moisture but still allow air to flow:
In went my cheese on its trusty sushi mat with a small glass prep bowl full of water. Hey presto - a mini-quarantine-cave!
The cheese will stay in its private room for a week before moving to a much warmer location (probably a quiet corner of the kitchen) for two weeks while its bulges and swells from bacterial respiration. By then, my camemberts will be ready for a move to the main fridge, and the Swiss can move into the climate-controlled cave without fear of picking up any transmittable conditions.
Lifeguard one minute, infectious-disease-ward nurse the next.
The cheesemaker is indeed a woman who wears many Hüte.
After standing over my Swiss cheese vat for something like two and a half hours followed by a long night of anxious weight-tending, you might have thought my responsibilities for my latest creation ended with Day One.
Turns out, on Day Two I had to play lifeguard for the better part of the afternoon while my newly-born cheese floated precariously in a salty seawater solution.
Yes, young Swiss (similar to Beaufort, Gruyere, Gouda, and most grana cheeses) need a briny bath before settling down for their long nap. Why? From what I can gather, there are three reasons. First, the saltiness of the brine slows down the bacteria to halt acidification. Second, it makes the cheese nice and zesty (although the cheesy bits I tasted during manufacturing were pleasingly lemony they were a bit bland, I must confess). Third, the salt works to build the cheese's rind. The brine pulls moisture to the surface of the cheese, thus allowing it to form its natural raincoat as protection against unwanted molds, cat hair, strange odors, and other contaminants. Presumably, the rind will also help to keep explosions to a minimum when the bugs inside the cheese start blowing their bubbles.
I made my saturated salt solution with two quarts of water, eighteen ounces of non-iodized pickling salt, a little vinegar and a bit of calcium chloride. I had been reliably informed that calcium chloride is necessary in a new brine, since otherwise its leeching effect would pull calcium from the cheese into the surrounding liquid, causing disintegration, rind-softening, and woe. Eager to stave off disaster, I did as I was told, and added an extra quarter-teaspoon for good measure.
I sprinkled some dry salt on the exposed surface and went for coffee with DMR.
Can you believe there are cafes on this planet that still don't offer soy milk for their lattes? I have said before I live in the back of the beyond, but once again this sad fact was brought home to me with a vengeance.
Disgruntled, black coffee turning to acidic rancour in the pit of my stomach, I returned home in a pessimistic mood, expecting my cheese to have fallen apart in its bath during my absence.
Hurra! (that's German for hooray, according to Google). My cheese was in one piece and looking fine. I flipped it, sprinkled it with more salt, and went for a long walk. Afterwards, I felt much better.
Later that evening, I removed my Kleine from the Schwimmbad and allowed it to drip dry overnight.
The next day (Day Three, if anybody's keeping track - thank goodness it was a holiday weekend), I had a new crisis to consider. Since my cheese was nice and dry with no drops of water adhering anywhere on its pristine baby skin, it was time to move it to a humid 55 deg F location for one week. Eidetic readers will recall that this is the exact temperature at which my camemberts are currently hibernating in their cave, bowls of water beneath providing optimal mugginess.
I was concerned for my newest project, however. What if my camemberts were contagious? My cave is not exactly roomy, and I fretted that if I introduced my Swiss cheese into its confines, it would start to grow a fur coat rather than develop its own characteristic waxy rind. Oh, what to do?
I had noticed during brining that my basement temperature was ideal. I know I said it was an unsuitable place for long-term cheese storage, but I reasoned that not too much harm could befall my Käse in just one week.
With a hot nail, a vise-grip, and a big tupperware container, I hurriedly constructed a chamber that would retain moisture but still allow air to flow:
In went my cheese on its trusty sushi mat with a small glass prep bowl full of water. Hey presto - a mini-quarantine-cave!
The cheese will stay in its private room for a week before moving to a much warmer location (probably a quiet corner of the kitchen) for two weeks while its bulges and swells from bacterial respiration. By then, my camemberts will be ready for a move to the main fridge, and the Swiss can move into the climate-controlled cave without fear of picking up any transmittable conditions.
Lifeguard one minute, infectious-disease-ward nurse the next.
The cheesemaker is indeed a woman who wears many Hüte.
Monday, April 25, 2011
Yodelay-hee-hoo
Why did I make Swiss cheese last Friday?
Well, now that my camemberts are slumbering quietly, growing their fur coats and gathering their strength, I needed a new project. I thought that the production of a hard cheese would provide the sort of novel challenge one wants in a day off work and an interesting contrast to my mold-ripened beauties of last weekend.
But mostly, I made Swiss cheese because I wanted to see what would happen. I mean, haven't you ever wondered about all those holes?
It started off much like my other cheese to date except that instead of my usual temperate mesofilics I used heat-loving thermofilic bugs. I also added a new culture to the ripening milk: Proprionic Shermanii, respiration of which (if I'm not mistaken and all goes well) will blow bubbles in my cheese in a couple of weeks' time.
I am now a dab hand at testing the cut ...
... and slicing the curds. Since my Swiss cheese will age much longer than my camembert, the curds needed to be cut smaller and cooked longer and at a higher temperature (for dry-ification purposes) than previously.
Then came a new step: I slowly heated the mixture up to 120 deg F, stirring all the while to keep the curds from clumping. At 113 deg F, the curds started to feel a strong attraction to one another, the sort of behavior I needed to discourage if I was to have any success in my endeavour. My stirring became a two-handed effort: with my right hand I continued to keep things moving with my slotted spoon; my left arm I plunged elbow-deep into the pot so I could break up the curds with my fingers. If I hadn't seen the meister employing this technique I would not have had the nerve to do it myself.
In the end I said to hell with it and got in there with both hands. It was lovely and warm although I discovered later in the evening that the highly-corrosive whey did disastrous things to the delicate lady-like skin on my knuckles.
After forty-six minutes, the temperature had reached the required 120 deg F and my curds looked like fluffy popcorn:
Now for the final cooking! Twenty minutes after I'd reached my target temp, I judged I had the proper break: the curds broke apart into pieces when I rubbed them purposefully between my palms. The cheesy bits were squeaky and tasty, if a bit bland at this point.
I packed them into my cloth-lined mold ...
... and considered how I was going to press them without the traditional paraphrenalia. Fortunately, I had a variety of workout weights at my disposal, courtesy of Sir:
I used one of them to apply my initial load of eight pounds.
After fifteen minutes of pressure, I unmolded the cheese. It didn't break into a million pieces or stick to the cloth!
I flipped it, re-wrapped it, and popped it back into the mold. I applied fourteen pounds of weight for the next 45 minutes and when, at that interval's end, I examined the cheese, I found it had already changed dramatically in appearance:
I really felt like I was getting somewhere! A flip and a wrap and two more hours to go at fourteen pounds. I waited expectantly.
The result was thrilling: an object that looked positively cheese-like and had a lovely tangy aroma. The surface was nice and smooth (except where my cloth had overlapped in the mold) with no cracks or unsightly blemishes:
By now it was extremely late and time to tuck my cheese into bed for the night. For this stage, it required fifteen pounds of pressure, which for exercise-related reasons I was unable to provide with fewer than three weights. This led to a general kerfuffle and a loud crash twenty minutes later as my jury-rigged press went thundering to the floor from atop the kitchen counter.
The next iteration lasted almost two hours before collapsing, scaring the cat into bristle-tailed hysterics and bringing me careening downstairs in a state of high alarm at ten minutes to midnight. Finally, Sir and I were able to engineer a setup we thought would last the night:
It did.
The next morning I was thrilled at what I found when I unmolded the youngest of my kinder:
Next up: my cheese takes a bath
Well, now that my camemberts are slumbering quietly, growing their fur coats and gathering their strength, I needed a new project. I thought that the production of a hard cheese would provide the sort of novel challenge one wants in a day off work and an interesting contrast to my mold-ripened beauties of last weekend.
But mostly, I made Swiss cheese because I wanted to see what would happen. I mean, haven't you ever wondered about all those holes?
It started off much like my other cheese to date except that instead of my usual temperate mesofilics I used heat-loving thermofilic bugs. I also added a new culture to the ripening milk: Proprionic Shermanii, respiration of which (if I'm not mistaken and all goes well) will blow bubbles in my cheese in a couple of weeks' time.
I am now a dab hand at testing the cut ...
... and slicing the curds. Since my Swiss cheese will age much longer than my camembert, the curds needed to be cut smaller and cooked longer and at a higher temperature (for dry-ification purposes) than previously.
 |
| Initial slicing: my biggest wire whisk worked a treat. |
 |
| The curds got smaller ... |
 |
| ... and smaller. |
 |
| I held them at 90 deg F for 40 minutes, foreworking them to expel the whey. |
In the end I said to hell with it and got in there with both hands. It was lovely and warm although I discovered later in the evening that the highly-corrosive whey did disastrous things to the delicate lady-like skin on my knuckles.
After forty-six minutes, the temperature had reached the required 120 deg F and my curds looked like fluffy popcorn:
Now for the final cooking! Twenty minutes after I'd reached my target temp, I judged I had the proper break: the curds broke apart into pieces when I rubbed them purposefully between my palms. The cheesy bits were squeaky and tasty, if a bit bland at this point.
I packed them into my cloth-lined mold ...
... and considered how I was going to press them without the traditional paraphrenalia. Fortunately, I had a variety of workout weights at my disposal, courtesy of Sir:
I used one of them to apply my initial load of eight pounds.
After fifteen minutes of pressure, I unmolded the cheese. It didn't break into a million pieces or stick to the cloth!
I flipped it, re-wrapped it, and popped it back into the mold. I applied fourteen pounds of weight for the next 45 minutes and when, at that interval's end, I examined the cheese, I found it had already changed dramatically in appearance:
I really felt like I was getting somewhere! A flip and a wrap and two more hours to go at fourteen pounds. I waited expectantly.
The result was thrilling: an object that looked positively cheese-like and had a lovely tangy aroma. The surface was nice and smooth (except where my cloth had overlapped in the mold) with no cracks or unsightly blemishes:
By now it was extremely late and time to tuck my cheese into bed for the night. For this stage, it required fifteen pounds of pressure, which for exercise-related reasons I was unable to provide with fewer than three weights. This led to a general kerfuffle and a loud crash twenty minutes later as my jury-rigged press went thundering to the floor from atop the kitchen counter.
The next iteration lasted almost two hours before collapsing, scaring the cat into bristle-tailed hysterics and bringing me careening downstairs in a state of high alarm at ten minutes to midnight. Finally, Sir and I were able to engineer a setup we thought would last the night:
It did.
The next morning I was thrilled at what I found when I unmolded the youngest of my kinder:
Next up: my cheese takes a bath
Friday, April 22, 2011
Thursday, April 21, 2011
Top Chef Masters, Episode 3: Crunchable Bugses
Last week I despaired that, due to uninformed celebrity guests and a paucity of language on the judges' part, we were doomed to a season of Top Chef where drama outweighed cooking and fans were left in the dark as to what was sitting on the plates when all the culinary contending was concluded.
I am pleased to say that the TV gods (or maybe it was the producers at Bravo - same thing, really) heard my lament and last night outdid themselves quickfire-wise with delicious erudition, lots of tasty informational tidbits, and handy hints for cooks at home.
Let's get started, shall we?
Our courageous cheftestants skipped into the kitchen and were greeted by What's-His-Name and a prep table covered with a veritable explosion of rainforest abundance: leaves, flowers, roots, and a variety of other greenery clearly intended for culinary use (we had to guess what many of them were from context, but visible to my untrained eye were aloe leaves, salsify, sparklers, coriander, lemongrass, and amaranth). But wait, whatever could be concealed behind that sinister-looking screen? Jars and tanks of live creepy-crawlies, that's what, unveiled with a half-hearted flourish and a feeble cackle by our forgettable host. The chefs appeared nonplussed as he tried to sell them on the various creatures' nutritional virtues: hornworms (full of protein!); Darkling beetles (also full of protein!); Canadian night crawlers (rich in calcium!); crickets (loaded with iron!); and scorpions (vitamin-laden!). As if these benefits were insufficient, the Australian One had one final perk up the sleeve of his cardie: all the drogos were organic!
Now, I'm not sure it was that big a deal. Although I have never gone to a restaurant and intentionally eaten a bug, I have been known on occasion to make like a monkey and dig termites out of their mounds with a stick. They taste like mint and are not at all objectionable, although in my opinion they are not sufficiently filling to be considered a complete meal. At any rate, I think most foodies these days have come across shock chocs with cayenne and crickets; crispy barbecue-flavoured larvae in foil bags; and ant-containing lollipops - not to mention that much of the rest of the world consumes insects and other similar delicacies as a matter of course. Have we learned nothing from No Reservations and the Discovery Channel?
Before they got down to cook, however, all the contestants dutifully pretended to be horrified and there was much wrinkling of noses and THing about how 'I've eaten eyeballs and ear wax and toenails but bugs is where I draw the line'. Right.
Although there was quite a bit of food footage of crickets frying and beetles in blenders, one matter that was not touched upon was how the actual butchering was accomplished. Somebody appeared to euthanize their night crawlers by chopping them into little wiggly pieces and Mary Sue talked about 'dry-toasting' her beetles, although it was unclear whether or not the creatures were still alive for their adventure in the skillet. I for one would have been most intrigued to hear how one prepares a scorpion for cooking. If, as Glen Beck claims, we'll all soon be eating whatever we can scrounge in our basements as we crouch fearfully in the face of world-wide apocalypse, it would be nice to know the correct and most humane method for silverfish slaughter. Those MREs won't last forever, you know.
Suvir niftily skirted the abattoir issue by serving his hornworms alive and angry in a jar garnished with a blowtorch, thus allowing the diners the satisfaction of preparing their protein to their own taste (don't you hate it when you ask for your annelids rare and they arrive well done?). He claimed that, as a devout Hindu, his 'hand could cook but not kill.' Now, I am no theological expert and am even more woefully ignorant of the Dharmaśāstras than I am of kashrut - but this sounded to me like having your proverbial goat biryani and eating it, too. My hero seemed pretty pleased with himself for so neatly ducking out of his chefly duties and I awarded him ten full points for cheekiness.
The Quickfire guest judges were Ruth England and Mykel Hawke, of the adventure series Man, Woman, Wild. Never seen it - but I was impressed by their obvious knowledge of and enthusiasm for the entomological fare placed before them. Also, 'She' and 'He' seemed to know a lot of words, including adjectives, which enabled the viewer (well, me, anyway) to understand what the chefs were serving up. They had a nice little double act going: She was all posh-English with taste and refinement, He was all down-home Kentucky bluegrass-boy with little patience for ceremony aor cutlery.
It was not clear whether What's-His-Name was tasting the protein component of the dishes or not: his comments seemed limited to the leafy and tuberous items on the plates.
Naomi: tempura-fried night crawlers with elderflower and herb salad and pistachio vinaigrette. She disliked the dish's bitter aftertaste but He announced they were the best worms he'd ever eaten (I would imagine that after twelve years in the Special Forces, He's eaten quite a few and knows of what He speaks).
Suvir: 'Himalayan jungle and market salad' with the above-mentioned jar of live hornworms and a blowtorch. Without the benefit of explanation for the raw protein, She declared the dish a 'cop-out.' He gamely offered to perform the table-side flambé, pulling the poor creatures into two and letting them drain a bit before setting them alight and giving them the 'old stab and jab'. Suvir complacently opined that the tasters had earned his respect for having indulged his cultural idiosyncrasies - but further details on the dish's success were not forthcoming.
John: grilled scorpions with smoked poached eggs and oyster. She didn't have much to say about this one, but He thought the dish 'worked really well' when all mixed together. What's-His-Name was limited to commenting on the smokiness of the egg - which he could have done without tasting the dish at all (it's possible, I suppose, that such was the case). Scorpions, of course, are not insects but arachnids, as we all know.
Unibrow: tempura crickets with sunchoke and carrot puree and a blood orange vinaigrette. This looked awesome to me and the judges loved it. She: 'The puree is really delicate, more of a mousse really.' He: 'It tastes great!' They agreed that inadequate cricket cookery is an all too common problem in this crazy old world, but that these specimens had been sufficiently well done.
Alex: angel hair pasta with beetles and flowers. He: 'This tastes dang good!' She: 'I like the crispiness of the beetle contrasted with the softness of the angel hair.' The dish's creator was clearly surprised and gratified to hear such knowledgeable criticism after last week's travesty.
Mary Sue: Thai sunchoke salad with toasted beetle vinaigrette. She: 'We're big coriander fans, and this is chock full of it!' He: 'Tasty.'
Traci: Carrot and coriander salad with chipotle-dusted fried scorpions and aloe vinaigrette. She: 'The aloe makes it a little bitter.' He: 'This little critter is all swolled up! I don't like it when they do that.' Home cooks take note.
Celina: Soy crickets with salsify salad. Another dish that looked very appealing. She: 'They look exquisite with the hair still on their legs.' He disagreed, pointing out that when crickets are prepared with due attention to detail, the legs are removed since they tend to 'be scratchy going down the throat.' See what I mean? Riches for the foodie survivalist!
Floyd: Omelette of night crawlers, amaranth, shiitakes and bacon. He 'was digging' the addition of worms to an otherwise standard and very delicious dish.
George: Hornworms and coconut soup with lime, lemongrass, ginger, and arugula. He: 'That's awful-tasting!' Apparently, hornworm-skin is 'plasticky', necessitating that the creatures be chopped small for textural delightfulness.
On the bottom? Suvir for his wriggling hornworms, although the judges offered him a ridiculous namaste head-bow prayer-hands pass when they heard his sob story. George had no such excuse to offer and was deemed the Quickfire loser. I predict he will not be around much longer.
The winner was the Unibrow for his tasty and nicely-cooked cricket-sunchoke combo. Having already been auf'd from the show, he felt it necessary to make some sort of Easter-related comment on the Resurrection, which the judges ignored - granting him immunity, nonetheless.
Oh, there was an elimination challenge, too: something about a 10-course dinner, and Naomi acting like a Miss Bossy Pants, and John being sent home for risotto that was 'safe and boring.' (What is it about Top Chefs and risotto? It's always, always, a disaster and yet they can't seem to stop themselves.)
Anyway, it all passed by me because I was busy fantasizing about how I will prepare for the Armageddon that is surely to come. I already have sufficient condiments stashed away to outlast any emergency, and soon there will be cheese to boot. We may not have scorpions living in our basement, but in the summertime we have copious supplies of crickets. A little application of heat from our butane burner and I think we'll be able to outlast any calamity that comes our way.
Dinner, anyone?
I am pleased to say that the TV gods (or maybe it was the producers at Bravo - same thing, really) heard my lament and last night outdid themselves quickfire-wise with delicious erudition, lots of tasty informational tidbits, and handy hints for cooks at home.
Let's get started, shall we?
Our courageous cheftestants skipped into the kitchen and were greeted by What's-His-Name and a prep table covered with a veritable explosion of rainforest abundance: leaves, flowers, roots, and a variety of other greenery clearly intended for culinary use (we had to guess what many of them were from context, but visible to my untrained eye were aloe leaves, salsify, sparklers, coriander, lemongrass, and amaranth). But wait, whatever could be concealed behind that sinister-looking screen? Jars and tanks of live creepy-crawlies, that's what, unveiled with a half-hearted flourish and a feeble cackle by our forgettable host. The chefs appeared nonplussed as he tried to sell them on the various creatures' nutritional virtues: hornworms (full of protein!); Darkling beetles (also full of protein!); Canadian night crawlers (rich in calcium!); crickets (loaded with iron!); and scorpions (vitamin-laden!). As if these benefits were insufficient, the Australian One had one final perk up the sleeve of his cardie: all the drogos were organic!
Now, I'm not sure it was that big a deal. Although I have never gone to a restaurant and intentionally eaten a bug, I have been known on occasion to make like a monkey and dig termites out of their mounds with a stick. They taste like mint and are not at all objectionable, although in my opinion they are not sufficiently filling to be considered a complete meal. At any rate, I think most foodies these days have come across shock chocs with cayenne and crickets; crispy barbecue-flavoured larvae in foil bags; and ant-containing lollipops - not to mention that much of the rest of the world consumes insects and other similar delicacies as a matter of course. Have we learned nothing from No Reservations and the Discovery Channel?
Before they got down to cook, however, all the contestants dutifully pretended to be horrified and there was much wrinkling of noses and THing about how 'I've eaten eyeballs and ear wax and toenails but bugs is where I draw the line'. Right.
Although there was quite a bit of food footage of crickets frying and beetles in blenders, one matter that was not touched upon was how the actual butchering was accomplished. Somebody appeared to euthanize their night crawlers by chopping them into little wiggly pieces and Mary Sue talked about 'dry-toasting' her beetles, although it was unclear whether or not the creatures were still alive for their adventure in the skillet. I for one would have been most intrigued to hear how one prepares a scorpion for cooking. If, as Glen Beck claims, we'll all soon be eating whatever we can scrounge in our basements as we crouch fearfully in the face of world-wide apocalypse, it would be nice to know the correct and most humane method for silverfish slaughter. Those MREs won't last forever, you know.
Suvir niftily skirted the abattoir issue by serving his hornworms alive and angry in a jar garnished with a blowtorch, thus allowing the diners the satisfaction of preparing their protein to their own taste (don't you hate it when you ask for your annelids rare and they arrive well done?). He claimed that, as a devout Hindu, his 'hand could cook but not kill.' Now, I am no theological expert and am even more woefully ignorant of the Dharmaśāstras than I am of kashrut - but this sounded to me like having your proverbial goat biryani and eating it, too. My hero seemed pretty pleased with himself for so neatly ducking out of his chefly duties and I awarded him ten full points for cheekiness.
The Quickfire guest judges were Ruth England and Mykel Hawke, of the adventure series Man, Woman, Wild. Never seen it - but I was impressed by their obvious knowledge of and enthusiasm for the entomological fare placed before them. Also, 'She' and 'He' seemed to know a lot of words, including adjectives, which enabled the viewer (well, me, anyway) to understand what the chefs were serving up. They had a nice little double act going: She was all posh-English with taste and refinement, He was all down-home Kentucky bluegrass-boy with little patience for ceremony aor cutlery.
It was not clear whether What's-His-Name was tasting the protein component of the dishes or not: his comments seemed limited to the leafy and tuberous items on the plates.
Naomi: tempura-fried night crawlers with elderflower and herb salad and pistachio vinaigrette. She disliked the dish's bitter aftertaste but He announced they were the best worms he'd ever eaten (I would imagine that after twelve years in the Special Forces, He's eaten quite a few and knows of what He speaks).
Suvir: 'Himalayan jungle and market salad' with the above-mentioned jar of live hornworms and a blowtorch. Without the benefit of explanation for the raw protein, She declared the dish a 'cop-out.' He gamely offered to perform the table-side flambé, pulling the poor creatures into two and letting them drain a bit before setting them alight and giving them the 'old stab and jab'. Suvir complacently opined that the tasters had earned his respect for having indulged his cultural idiosyncrasies - but further details on the dish's success were not forthcoming.
John: grilled scorpions with smoked poached eggs and oyster. She didn't have much to say about this one, but He thought the dish 'worked really well' when all mixed together. What's-His-Name was limited to commenting on the smokiness of the egg - which he could have done without tasting the dish at all (it's possible, I suppose, that such was the case). Scorpions, of course, are not insects but arachnids, as we all know.
Unibrow: tempura crickets with sunchoke and carrot puree and a blood orange vinaigrette. This looked awesome to me and the judges loved it. She: 'The puree is really delicate, more of a mousse really.' He: 'It tastes great!' They agreed that inadequate cricket cookery is an all too common problem in this crazy old world, but that these specimens had been sufficiently well done.
Alex: angel hair pasta with beetles and flowers. He: 'This tastes dang good!' She: 'I like the crispiness of the beetle contrasted with the softness of the angel hair.' The dish's creator was clearly surprised and gratified to hear such knowledgeable criticism after last week's travesty.
Mary Sue: Thai sunchoke salad with toasted beetle vinaigrette. She: 'We're big coriander fans, and this is chock full of it!' He: 'Tasty.'
Traci: Carrot and coriander salad with chipotle-dusted fried scorpions and aloe vinaigrette. She: 'The aloe makes it a little bitter.' He: 'This little critter is all swolled up! I don't like it when they do that.' Home cooks take note.
Celina: Soy crickets with salsify salad. Another dish that looked very appealing. She: 'They look exquisite with the hair still on their legs.' He disagreed, pointing out that when crickets are prepared with due attention to detail, the legs are removed since they tend to 'be scratchy going down the throat.' See what I mean? Riches for the foodie survivalist!
Floyd: Omelette of night crawlers, amaranth, shiitakes and bacon. He 'was digging' the addition of worms to an otherwise standard and very delicious dish.
George: Hornworms and coconut soup with lime, lemongrass, ginger, and arugula. He: 'That's awful-tasting!' Apparently, hornworm-skin is 'plasticky', necessitating that the creatures be chopped small for textural delightfulness.
On the bottom? Suvir for his wriggling hornworms, although the judges offered him a ridiculous namaste head-bow prayer-hands pass when they heard his sob story. George had no such excuse to offer and was deemed the Quickfire loser. I predict he will not be around much longer.
The winner was the Unibrow for his tasty and nicely-cooked cricket-sunchoke combo. Having already been auf'd from the show, he felt it necessary to make some sort of Easter-related comment on the Resurrection, which the judges ignored - granting him immunity, nonetheless.
Oh, there was an elimination challenge, too: something about a 10-course dinner, and Naomi acting like a Miss Bossy Pants, and John being sent home for risotto that was 'safe and boring.' (What is it about Top Chefs and risotto? It's always, always, a disaster and yet they can't seem to stop themselves.)
Anyway, it all passed by me because I was busy fantasizing about how I will prepare for the Armageddon that is surely to come. I already have sufficient condiments stashed away to outlast any emergency, and soon there will be cheese to boot. We may not have scorpions living in our basement, but in the summertime we have copious supplies of crickets. A little application of heat from our butane burner and I think we'll be able to outlast any calamity that comes our way.
Dinner, anyone?
Tuesday, April 19, 2011
Woman Cave
My cheese is on a schedule.
Having sat at room temperature for close to three days, it now requires an undisturbed rest of two weeks or so while it grows its white fur coat. The temperature needs to be kept at a more-or-less constant 52 deg F for maximum mold efficiency and the RH should hover around 96%. Where oh where can one find such environmental conditions in one's suburban maison?
I made myself a mug of Peet's House Blend in my cafetiere and considered my options. The basement might seem an obvious place but ours, unfortunately, is out of the question. Chilly? Yes. Damp? Undoubtedly. It's also dark, dank, and scary. It floods whenever rain is driven against the front of the house and, despite the prowling of a useless Siamese cat, has been known to harbor mice. It is not a place to which my usual strict hygiene rules are applied and currently accommodates two unused bicycles, a wheelbarrow with a flat tire, a broken ping-pong table, three long strings of defunct holiday lights, and all the surplus kitchen cabinetry from when we installed the Wolf. The stairs are rickety and the entire space is oozing with radon.
Verdict: not a suitable locale for my babies' slumbering.
Another possibility is the cupboard in the upstairs bathroom (dark, damp, and definitely cool at this time of year) but there is very little airflow and we're in there all the time for aspirin, bandaids, vitamins and the like. My cheeses would never get their necessary beauty sleep with the constant disturbance. Also, at some point the sun is bound to come out and the temperature will shoot up to unacceptably high levels.
Next!
Our fridge in the kitchen is a pis aller (thank you, dictionary.com!) but it's too cold for maximum mold growth and again, the door is in constant use.
What is a newly-minted cheesemaker with four recently-hatched camemberts to do?
I decided to purchase a cheap minifridge that I would use only for my cheese and perhaps the odd bottle of wine. One can fashion or acquire nifty thermostatic overrides that allow the temperature to hover wherever one chooses, so I figured I would install one of those, put a couple of bowls of water in the bottom for humidity control purposes and be done.
Off to Lowes I went, with the back seats of my Element neatly folded away in anticipation of my purchase.
What did I find when I got there? The most perfect appliance in all the world - a beer cooler (sorry, 'wine cellar') costing only slightly more than the mini-fridge option, with a temperature range of 45-60 deg F. Rarely have I been so thrilled by a trip to the home improvement warehouse. It was as though the hardware gods were looking down on me and smiling! I hurried my treasure home before they could change their minds and send some lightning bolts my way.
Where to install my fridge? I removed the Squid's dumping-ground for three-year-old English essays, forgotten parental permission slips, and other assorted rubbish (I'm sorry, I meant to say homework desk) from the library and plugged in the chill chest. She immediately began humming away, working towards my desired 52 deg F. One hiccup - I couldn't get the temperature to drop sufficiently - indeed, whenever I adjusted it, it seemed to go in the wrong direction!
Sir was hastily summoned for a second opinion, but could offer no insight. The Squid was also presented with the conundrum, which he of course solved in an instant. 'Max', he pointed out as though it were self-evident, meant 'maximum power' rather than 'maximum temperature', as Sir and I had both assumed. Resultingly, I had been turning the ridiculous dial the wrong way.
Ah, youth - such flexible minds!
Once my desired temperature was reached, I filled two tacky French chocolat bowls with water, placed them in the bottom of the fridge, and shelved my camemberts on their mats, spaced with plenty of room to breath. The cave's fabulous glass door allows me to monitor the temperature and the cheeses' progress with minimum disturbance and its handy ground-floor geography means I can check my bebes whenever I feel the urge (which is about once every five minutes - I'm such an anxious parent!). There's room for more cheese and maybe even a bottle or two of the good stuff after we've made our next trip to the State Store.
We'll have wine and cheese in no time.
Judging that I still have some shelf space in my cave, I have decided to make an Italian pressed cheese this coming Saturday. Vacha Toscano or Asiago? Watch this space for my next exciting formaggio installment!
Having sat at room temperature for close to three days, it now requires an undisturbed rest of two weeks or so while it grows its white fur coat. The temperature needs to be kept at a more-or-less constant 52 deg F for maximum mold efficiency and the RH should hover around 96%. Where oh where can one find such environmental conditions in one's suburban maison?
I made myself a mug of Peet's House Blend in my cafetiere and considered my options. The basement might seem an obvious place but ours, unfortunately, is out of the question. Chilly? Yes. Damp? Undoubtedly. It's also dark, dank, and scary. It floods whenever rain is driven against the front of the house and, despite the prowling of a useless Siamese cat, has been known to harbor mice. It is not a place to which my usual strict hygiene rules are applied and currently accommodates two unused bicycles, a wheelbarrow with a flat tire, a broken ping-pong table, three long strings of defunct holiday lights, and all the surplus kitchen cabinetry from when we installed the Wolf. The stairs are rickety and the entire space is oozing with radon.
Verdict: not a suitable locale for my babies' slumbering.
Another possibility is the cupboard in the upstairs bathroom (dark, damp, and definitely cool at this time of year) but there is very little airflow and we're in there all the time for aspirin, bandaids, vitamins and the like. My cheeses would never get their necessary beauty sleep with the constant disturbance. Also, at some point the sun is bound to come out and the temperature will shoot up to unacceptably high levels.
Next!
Our fridge in the kitchen is a pis aller (thank you, dictionary.com!) but it's too cold for maximum mold growth and again, the door is in constant use.
What is a newly-minted cheesemaker with four recently-hatched camemberts to do?
I decided to purchase a cheap minifridge that I would use only for my cheese and perhaps the odd bottle of wine. One can fashion or acquire nifty thermostatic overrides that allow the temperature to hover wherever one chooses, so I figured I would install one of those, put a couple of bowls of water in the bottom for humidity control purposes and be done.
Off to Lowes I went, with the back seats of my Element neatly folded away in anticipation of my purchase.
What did I find when I got there? The most perfect appliance in all the world - a beer cooler (sorry, 'wine cellar') costing only slightly more than the mini-fridge option, with a temperature range of 45-60 deg F. Rarely have I been so thrilled by a trip to the home improvement warehouse. It was as though the hardware gods were looking down on me and smiling! I hurried my treasure home before they could change their minds and send some lightning bolts my way.
Where to install my fridge? I removed the Squid's dumping-ground for three-year-old English essays, forgotten parental permission slips, and other assorted rubbish (I'm sorry, I meant to say homework desk) from the library and plugged in the chill chest. She immediately began humming away, working towards my desired 52 deg F. One hiccup - I couldn't get the temperature to drop sufficiently - indeed, whenever I adjusted it, it seemed to go in the wrong direction!
Sir was hastily summoned for a second opinion, but could offer no insight. The Squid was also presented with the conundrum, which he of course solved in an instant. 'Max', he pointed out as though it were self-evident, meant 'maximum power' rather than 'maximum temperature', as Sir and I had both assumed. Resultingly, I had been turning the ridiculous dial the wrong way.
Ah, youth - such flexible minds!
Once my desired temperature was reached, I filled two tacky French chocolat bowls with water, placed them in the bottom of the fridge, and shelved my camemberts on their mats, spaced with plenty of room to breath. The cave's fabulous glass door allows me to monitor the temperature and the cheeses' progress with minimum disturbance and its handy ground-floor geography means I can check my bebes whenever I feel the urge (which is about once every five minutes - I'm such an anxious parent!). There's room for more cheese and maybe even a bottle or two of the good stuff after we've made our next trip to the State Store.
We'll have wine and cheese in no time.
Judging that I still have some shelf space in my cave, I have decided to make an Italian pressed cheese this coming Saturday. Vacha Toscano or Asiago? Watch this space for my next exciting formaggio installment!
Monday, April 18, 2011
Pass Over the Gluten
As a devout heathen, religious holidays often pass by me without creating so much as a radar blip. The exception is Christmas, of course, my absolute favoritest celebration of all the year and to which much of December is happily given over for planning, cooking, socializing, and other festive purposes.
This year for some reason, despite my pagan tendencies, I have been keenly aware of the approach of Passover. I suppose I am more than usually alert to food in the media these days - and Passover seems to have a lot more culinary brouhaha attached to it than I would have previously thought possible.
Two news flashes caught my eye in the past few days that had particular relevance to my gluten freedom-fighting.
The first concerned quinoa, an ingredient with which I have a complicated relationship. It so transpires that I share my ambivalence (although not my reasoning) with some pretty heavy-weight intellectuals these days, as there's currently a lot of debate in rabbinical circles about whether or not this South American chenopod is kosher. Astonishingly enough, quinoa was unknown to the ancient Israelites and its absence from the kashrut's list of proscribed grains is consequently problematic. A number of deep thinkers are, like, 'Who do we think we're kidding?' and puzzlement and lively disputation have commenced. I imagine that this could go on for years.
In my view, however, this controversy is as nothing compared to the sinister politics of the Current Quinoa Case. Kosher or not, and despite its awesome nutritional value and amusing texture, I am boycotting the seeds until such time as the Powers That Be sort out the Bolivian Pricing Problem and thus solve the Childhood Hunger Situation in Salinas de Garci Mendoza. Only then will I again be able to eat my favorite Annapurna Pilaf with a clear conscience.
The second current-events alert came late last week via DMR, who e-mailed me that there was a likely-looking g/f recipe for carrot cake in our local rag. DMR is an excellent scout for these sorts of things, refusing as I do to buy dead-tree newspapers. Sure enough, the online edition did not include the recipe, but I eventually tracked it down in the Seattle Times. That e-paper in turn revealed that the cake had originally appeared in a cookbook published by a certain doyenne of Jewish cookery, who shall remain anonymous in the interest of protecting myself from the inevitable lawsuits that will surely follow the disclosures to come.
I will conceal the recipe's origin with my usual rhyming nomenclature and refer to it as the Carrot of Last Resort.
The Last Resort was gluten-free because, as I am newly aware, the Passover seder may not include any chametz - that is, the five grains (wheat, oats, rye, etc.) deemed to leaven eighteen minutes after they're hit by moisture. I guess cookbook authors work overtime at this time of year, trying to come up with tasty desserts made from matzo and gluten substitutes such as nuts and veg. Oh, if only they'd asked me - I could have told them they were on a hopeless quest!
Nonetheless, this recipe looked propitious so I decided to give it a whirl while my camembert curds were coagulating. Sir helpfully cautioned that this multi-tasking rather defeated the zen-like meditation that camembert-production is supposed to engender, but I pointed out that I was using a hand-grater for the carrots, thus rendering the kitchen's calm uninterrupted by the roaring of the food processor. He harumphed and retreated to his favorite chair and laptop, washing his hands of my foolishness.
I won't detail the recipe, since I would recommend it to nobody. It consisted, essentially, of sweetened beaten egg whites, into which the hapless cook was required to fold ground almonds or hazelnuts; grated carrots; and a [very] modest quantity of spice. I had thought on first cursory perusal that the cake would be something like a carrot-flavoured dacquoise, but I realized after I'd mixed it that the batter was more of an angel-food cake consistency - not enough nuts for a crispy/chewy product, not by a long shot. The destructions specified that the Last Resort was to be baked in a 10-inch spring-form pan and I was a bit dubious that it would set properly given the substance in my mixing bowl.
I was right to be incredulous. The recipe didn't work at all.
The cake didn't cook completely in the middle before the edges were brown and done, and it glopped when I scraped it out of the pan (I think a tube pan would have solved this problem, but I'll never know since I have no intention of experimenting further). The carrots still tasted raw, the nuts tasted like nothing at all, and the whole thing was watery and insipid. The Squid wasn't home at the time, but I'm fairly sure he would have refused a slice on principle. Sir and I tasted two bites each (one of sodden middle, one of overcooked crust) and gave up in disgust.
In fact, it was quite ekldik and barely warranted being called a kukhn at all. Sir, who had earlier (and rather rashly, in my opinion) promised a slice of the cake to his SOFAC (Seder-Observing Friend and Colleague) was forced to e-mail an apology note, reporting that no offering would be leaving my kitchen because the remains of my project had been consigned to the bin. The SOFAC's almost instantaneous reply was disappointed but resigned. I quote: 'Welcome to my world.'
Left with the remains of a gargantuan bag of organic carrots I quickly whipped up some Carrot Marmalade, as a sort of consolation prize, while Sunday's dinner was in the oven. The recipe is quick, easy, and to the point: take 2 cups of grated carrots, the juice and zest of one lemon, the juice and zest of one orange, two cloves, and 1 and 1/2 cups of sugar. Mix the ingredients together and let them sit for an hour. Bring to a boil and cook until the magic temperature of 220 deg F is reached. Remove from the heat, add a splash of vanilla, and let cool for a little before removing the cloves, pouring into jars, and processing for ten minutes if you feel the need (I always do). You get two 8 oz. jars of bright orange love.
The result is gluten-free and delicious - not to mention very, very geshmak.
This year for some reason, despite my pagan tendencies, I have been keenly aware of the approach of Passover. I suppose I am more than usually alert to food in the media these days - and Passover seems to have a lot more culinary brouhaha attached to it than I would have previously thought possible.
Two news flashes caught my eye in the past few days that had particular relevance to my gluten freedom-fighting.
The first concerned quinoa, an ingredient with which I have a complicated relationship. It so transpires that I share my ambivalence (although not my reasoning) with some pretty heavy-weight intellectuals these days, as there's currently a lot of debate in rabbinical circles about whether or not this South American chenopod is kosher. Astonishingly enough, quinoa was unknown to the ancient Israelites and its absence from the kashrut's list of proscribed grains is consequently problematic. A number of deep thinkers are, like, 'Who do we think we're kidding?' and puzzlement and lively disputation have commenced. I imagine that this could go on for years.
In my view, however, this controversy is as nothing compared to the sinister politics of the Current Quinoa Case. Kosher or not, and despite its awesome nutritional value and amusing texture, I am boycotting the seeds until such time as the Powers That Be sort out the Bolivian Pricing Problem and thus solve the Childhood Hunger Situation in Salinas de Garci Mendoza. Only then will I again be able to eat my favorite Annapurna Pilaf with a clear conscience.
The second current-events alert came late last week via DMR, who e-mailed me that there was a likely-looking g/f recipe for carrot cake in our local rag. DMR is an excellent scout for these sorts of things, refusing as I do to buy dead-tree newspapers. Sure enough, the online edition did not include the recipe, but I eventually tracked it down in the Seattle Times. That e-paper in turn revealed that the cake had originally appeared in a cookbook published by a certain doyenne of Jewish cookery, who shall remain anonymous in the interest of protecting myself from the inevitable lawsuits that will surely follow the disclosures to come.
I will conceal the recipe's origin with my usual rhyming nomenclature and refer to it as the Carrot of Last Resort.
The Last Resort was gluten-free because, as I am newly aware, the Passover seder may not include any chametz - that is, the five grains (wheat, oats, rye, etc.) deemed to leaven eighteen minutes after they're hit by moisture. I guess cookbook authors work overtime at this time of year, trying to come up with tasty desserts made from matzo and gluten substitutes such as nuts and veg. Oh, if only they'd asked me - I could have told them they were on a hopeless quest!
I won't detail the recipe, since I would recommend it to nobody. It consisted, essentially, of sweetened beaten egg whites, into which the hapless cook was required to fold ground almonds or hazelnuts; grated carrots; and a [very] modest quantity of spice. I had thought on first cursory perusal that the cake would be something like a carrot-flavoured dacquoise, but I realized after I'd mixed it that the batter was more of an angel-food cake consistency - not enough nuts for a crispy/chewy product, not by a long shot. The destructions specified that the Last Resort was to be baked in a 10-inch spring-form pan and I was a bit dubious that it would set properly given the substance in my mixing bowl.
I was right to be incredulous. The recipe didn't work at all.
The cake didn't cook completely in the middle before the edges were brown and done, and it glopped when I scraped it out of the pan (I think a tube pan would have solved this problem, but I'll never know since I have no intention of experimenting further). The carrots still tasted raw, the nuts tasted like nothing at all, and the whole thing was watery and insipid. The Squid wasn't home at the time, but I'm fairly sure he would have refused a slice on principle. Sir and I tasted two bites each (one of sodden middle, one of overcooked crust) and gave up in disgust.
In fact, it was quite ekldik and barely warranted being called a kukhn at all. Sir, who had earlier (and rather rashly, in my opinion) promised a slice of the cake to his SOFAC (Seder-Observing Friend and Colleague) was forced to e-mail an apology note, reporting that no offering would be leaving my kitchen because the remains of my project had been consigned to the bin. The SOFAC's almost instantaneous reply was disappointed but resigned. I quote: 'Welcome to my world.'
The result is gluten-free and delicious - not to mention very, very geshmak.
Next up: I show off my cave and discuss aging issues
Sunday, April 17, 2011
To Boldly Mold
Having spent last weekend learning the rudiments of cheese-making at the feet of the master, yesterday I decided that - before all my recently-received wisdom dripped from my memory like whey from a newly-pressed Tome de Laguiole - I'd better get cracking on some camembert creation of my own.
My project took the better part of two days and caused the sort of uproar that can generally be expected from a new endeavour. The first time I vacuumed a jar of jam, you may recall, it took the better part of a morning, although now I can whip up a batch of preserves in the time it takes to heat up the oven for roast chicken. I trust my cheese-making, too, will become more efficient with practice, since at one low point yesterday afternoon I had draining trays, cheesecloths, bowls of whey, and all manner of related paraphernalia scattered about three different rooms of the house. My kitchen floor became horrifying sticky and my clothing took on the slightly sour aroma of a dairy. The Boys wisely made themselves scarce for much of the time, although Sir valiantly emerged at key moments to help with scullery duties and heavy lifting.
The result? Four positively respectable-looking cheeses sitting on the dining room table, waiting for their final salting. Dare I say it? So far, so good.
Here's what I did:
I first assembled my bugs, molds, and rennet. You will recall that camembert needs a dose of mesophilic culture as well as two different penicillin variations and I had earlier obtained these from the Cheese Queen. Note my ingredients' arrangement on a Dean and Deluca cheese board: I am hopeful that in about five weeks this lovely piece of wood will be adorned with my own fromage and chutney.
I organized my setup. I found I could easily create the sort of water bath I needed by using my canner and jam pan - the sort of awesome equipmental multi-tasking that would make Alton Brown proud. I poured in two gallons of raw milk from my local Jersey herd and plopped my candy thermometer in. I raised the temperature to 90 deg F (this took fifty minutes) and allowed the mixture to ripen for just over half an hour.
I added the rennet, gave it a bit of an up-and-down stir, and checked for flocculation after fifteen minutes. It wasn't quite ready, so I checked again every so often or so until - hey presto - I reached the soft-ball stage at Minute Number Twenty-Six.
The quick calculation C=5F (Total coagulation minutes = 5 x flocculation minutes) told me I had 104 minutes left to wait before the cutting the curds. I therefore busied myself with an ultimately-disastrous gluten-free baking project, reportage of which is to follow.
At the appointed time, I checked to see that the coagulated milk was starting to pull away from the sides of the pan.
Seeing that it had, I checked the cut, which dutifully did its thing. Satisfied, I pulled my longest carving knife from the block and made like a samurai - slash slash slash into the helpless curds! They too, shrank before my assault (which was probably more aggressive than it needed to be, strictly speaking - but g/f cake-production almost always puts me in foul mood).
I cheered considerably when I saw that the curds were behaving themselves and stirred them for a few minutes while I assembled my molds and draining apparatus.
Calmly, slowly and methodically I followed my guru's example and filled up each of the molds a little at a time. My angst disappeared as if my magic! I was additionally heartened by the fact that my yield seemed to be adequate - I filled all four molds right to the tippy top. Some spludged out the bottom of the first one because I neglected to hold it down sternly with my free hand. Lesson learned!
The whey started to seep from the wee mold-holes almost immediately - tears of joy, I think.
I allowed the cheeses to sit undisturbed for two hours, then gave them their first flip.
This was my first truly problematic cheese-procedure of the day, as I did not have cheese boards or the sorts of draining mats championed by the meister. I made due with a large flat plate, a small plastic cutting board, and sushi mats. The resulting kerfuffle required an SOS to Sir for some extra hands. We got the things flipped and drained (I think this is the point in time where the floor became sticky), but all the cheeses' tops sheered off neatly when they stuck to the mats. I poked them back onto the creamy surfaces like little berets, hoped for the best, and decided to carry out my subsequent flipping at sixty-minute intervals. It got easier as time went on: the cheeses became firmer and more obedient and by the third flip their chapeaux no longer needed re-adjusting.
The changes the cheese underwent were swift and dramatic:
This morning, I rushed downstairs to see how my babies were doing. When I lifted the cheesecloth and peered down into one of the molds, an amazing sight greeted my bleary eyes.
It looked like a cheese!
The cheeses measured 1.50 inches high after their slumber, which was exactly the height they were supposed to be. They were ready for their first salting! Carefully, I removed them from their molds, sprinkled 0.50 teaspoons of salt on the top surfaces, flipped 'em, and repeated on the other side. I treated the cheeses to clean racks and drip pans and took advantage of a fine photo opportunity before returning them to their molds.
Tonight, I will salt them one more time. Tomorrow morning I will remove their rings and let them expose themselves to the air until their surfaces are utterly dry. By tomorrow night, I hope to have them tucked up snugly in their cave (more details to come) so they can grow their fur coats.
Just like I always say: Out with the old mold, in with the new!
My project took the better part of two days and caused the sort of uproar that can generally be expected from a new endeavour. The first time I vacuumed a jar of jam, you may recall, it took the better part of a morning, although now I can whip up a batch of preserves in the time it takes to heat up the oven for roast chicken. I trust my cheese-making, too, will become more efficient with practice, since at one low point yesterday afternoon I had draining trays, cheesecloths, bowls of whey, and all manner of related paraphernalia scattered about three different rooms of the house. My kitchen floor became horrifying sticky and my clothing took on the slightly sour aroma of a dairy. The Boys wisely made themselves scarce for much of the time, although Sir valiantly emerged at key moments to help with scullery duties and heavy lifting.
The result? Four positively respectable-looking cheeses sitting on the dining room table, waiting for their final salting. Dare I say it? So far, so good.
Here's what I did:
I first assembled my bugs, molds, and rennet. You will recall that camembert needs a dose of mesophilic culture as well as two different penicillin variations and I had earlier obtained these from the Cheese Queen. Note my ingredients' arrangement on a Dean and Deluca cheese board: I am hopeful that in about five weeks this lovely piece of wood will be adorned with my own fromage and chutney.
I organized my setup. I found I could easily create the sort of water bath I needed by using my canner and jam pan - the sort of awesome equipmental multi-tasking that would make Alton Brown proud. I poured in two gallons of raw milk from my local Jersey herd and plopped my candy thermometer in. I raised the temperature to 90 deg F (this took fifty minutes) and allowed the mixture to ripen for just over half an hour.
I added the rennet, gave it a bit of an up-and-down stir, and checked for flocculation after fifteen minutes. It wasn't quite ready, so I checked again every so often or so until - hey presto - I reached the soft-ball stage at Minute Number Twenty-Six.
The quick calculation C=5F (Total coagulation minutes = 5 x flocculation minutes) told me I had 104 minutes left to wait before the cutting the curds. I therefore busied myself with an ultimately-disastrous gluten-free baking project, reportage of which is to follow.
At the appointed time, I checked to see that the coagulated milk was starting to pull away from the sides of the pan.
Seeing that it had, I checked the cut, which dutifully did its thing. Satisfied, I pulled my longest carving knife from the block and made like a samurai - slash slash slash into the helpless curds! They too, shrank before my assault (which was probably more aggressive than it needed to be, strictly speaking - but g/f cake-production almost always puts me in foul mood).
I cheered considerably when I saw that the curds were behaving themselves and stirred them for a few minutes while I assembled my molds and draining apparatus.
Calmly, slowly and methodically I followed my guru's example and filled up each of the molds a little at a time. My angst disappeared as if my magic! I was additionally heartened by the fact that my yield seemed to be adequate - I filled all four molds right to the tippy top. Some spludged out the bottom of the first one because I neglected to hold it down sternly with my free hand. Lesson learned!
The whey started to seep from the wee mold-holes almost immediately - tears of joy, I think.
I allowed the cheeses to sit undisturbed for two hours, then gave them their first flip.
This was my first truly problematic cheese-procedure of the day, as I did not have cheese boards or the sorts of draining mats championed by the meister. I made due with a large flat plate, a small plastic cutting board, and sushi mats. The resulting kerfuffle required an SOS to Sir for some extra hands. We got the things flipped and drained (I think this is the point in time where the floor became sticky), but all the cheeses' tops sheered off neatly when they stuck to the mats. I poked them back onto the creamy surfaces like little berets, hoped for the best, and decided to carry out my subsequent flipping at sixty-minute intervals. It got easier as time went on: the cheeses became firmer and more obedient and by the third flip their chapeaux no longer needed re-adjusting.
The changes the cheese underwent were swift and dramatic:
- initial height after [M]olding: 4.500 inches
- height at first flip (M + 2.0 hours): 3.750 inches
- height at second flip (M + 3.0 hours): 2.750 inches. Two of the cheeses looked good at this point, one tore a little bit requiring an emergency touch-up, and one turned 90 degrees, somehow, so that it looked inside-out. This catastrophe somehow rectified itself during subsequent manipulations.
- height at third flip (M + 4.0 hours): 2.250 inches high. At this point, I realized the baking racks on which the cheeses were draining had a definite sag in the middle, causing the cheese to list at about 45 degrees. I changed to more robust racks and hoped gravity would do the rest (it did). The dining room (where the camemberts were draining) started to take on a distinctly tangy aroma.
- height at fourth flip: (M + 5.0 hours): 1.8750 inches high. All the cheeses were looking pretty good at this point! The bits that fell off tasted very lemony.
- height at fifth flip: (M + 6.5 hours): 1.75 inches.
This morning, I rushed downstairs to see how my babies were doing. When I lifted the cheesecloth and peered down into one of the molds, an amazing sight greeted my bleary eyes.
It looked like a cheese!
The cheeses measured 1.50 inches high after their slumber, which was exactly the height they were supposed to be. They were ready for their first salting! Carefully, I removed them from their molds, sprinkled 0.50 teaspoons of salt on the top surfaces, flipped 'em, and repeated on the other side. I treated the cheeses to clean racks and drip pans and took advantage of a fine photo opportunity before returning them to their molds.
Tonight, I will salt them one more time. Tomorrow morning I will remove their rings and let them expose themselves to the air until their surfaces are utterly dry. By tomorrow night, I hope to have them tucked up snugly in their cave (more details to come) so they can grow their fur coats.
Just like I always say: Out with the old mold, in with the new!
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