Farmer on the Hill

On Saturday, I planted my kitchen garden.

But this bland statement does not even begin to describe the preceding days of painful preparation (made seemingly endless by a truly stunning case of jet lag) or the orgy of weed-pulling, compost-raking, garden-center indecision, hole-digging, and stake-planting required for my few modest herbs and vegetable plants.

I am not sure why the early-summer sowing is always a Production of the Highest Magnitude. My garden is, by necessity, extremely small and convenient to the house, consisting of just two beds hard up against the back wall of the kitchen and family room. Its diminutive size is related mostly to the fact that the greater part of our back yard is shaded by the woods for a good part of the day, as well as swampy and squelchy due to its underlying foundation of good honest Marcellus shale (I have been waiting expectantly for some fracking company to come and bestow upon me a small fortune for the rights to the limitless supply of natural gas lying in wait underneath - sadly, to date none has been forthcoming).

Anyway, what with the shade, the mud, the impossibility of excavation, the covens of evil-eyed groundhogs, and the vast herds of rabbits infesting the place, I find it best to keep my farm petite, manageable, and where I can keep a close eye on it.

Even so, of course, I have had my share of gardening snafus. Cleverly determined to plant my mint in a large barrel, for example (keeping in mind the old adage that the best approach with this freely-spreading herb is to 'dig it in and stand back'), I did so with great self-satisfaction only to chart its transformation into a teeming ant hill - right outside my kitchen door! - within a few weeks.

On another red-letter occasion I decided to adopt the romantic theme of an apothecary's patch - and discovered that 'easy-to-grow' is heirloom-speak for 'will overrun the rest of your plantings before you can say 'Where's the Roundup?'. I spent the rest of the summer grumpily yanking clumps of lemon balm, horehound, and wormwood from between the cracks in the paving stones and, catastrophically, throughout the lawn the following year.

My carefully-tended tomatoes all died before harvesting the summer I had the audacity to go on vacation during a particularly dry July - and slugs ate all my peppers during a wet June the year before (maybe it was the year after - I know it was two seasons in a row and the next time 'round I didn't even bother).

Last year, given a variety of extenuating circumstances, I didn't plant anything at all with the result that the beds became totally choked with weeds, unkillable lemon balm, and (I think) peanut seedlings from legumes dropped over the winter by snacking squirrels.

The beds I surveyed with a sinking heart on my return from SA were, resultingly, a bit of a mess.

However, I had a number of reasons for wanting real vegetal and herbal success this year - and a similar abundance of hopeful circumstances led me to believe triumph might be within my grasp.

Good omens first:

• Sir and I had resolved to start the garden afresh this year, and previously removed the ant-infested barrel and as much of the lemon balm and catmint (why on earth did I ever plant that?) as possible. My beds may have been unsightly, but they could have been way, way worse.
• Since the garden lay fallow last year, it wasn't that difficult to weed out (get it?) the hearty keepers that would form the basis of the new plantings: three kinds of thyme (golden, French, and another one), chives, and some flat-leaf parsley. Everything else was easily pull-outable by its roots.
• Unusually, I will be able to monitor the tender plantings through June and most of July, since the family hols are brief this year and later in the season than is customary. Everything should have a good chance to get established before we go away and I may even start harvesting before that, reducing the feeling of total despair if everything croaks while we gone. I might even be sufficiently motivated to organize a watering locum this year.

My reasons for wanting a garden this summer are almost entirely the result of the momentous culinary changes that have occurred a chez Fractured Amy in the past year:

• As a newly-minted home preserver (and conflicted disciple of Madame Ferber) I am finding an increased need for the sorts of greenery that are easy to grow but expensive to buy: lavender, rosemary, the aforementioned thyme, basil, and mint (peppermint, to be precise) to name but a few.
• I also need herbs for all the gluten-freedom fighting I am doing these days, requiring copious amounts of fresh tarragon, bay, oregano, and parsley for my stock-making, side-dishes, and confit fabrication.
• My new devotion to peppers as a means of enlivening the family's tastebuds (peppadews® are going into, like, everything these days) and their beauty on the vine (prettier than summer flowers, I tend to think) meant that the planting of at least two or three varieties was just plain common sense.
• Ditto tomatoes - plus, I feel guilty having to rely on others for their summer harvest when I am perfectly capable of growing - and when the time comes - canning my own.
• How can a wannabe suburban homesteader such as myself be worthy of the name without back-yard organic produce gracing the table? Some of my favorite new ingredients (such as butternut squash and cauliflower - well, cauliflower isn't new, exactly, but I've never tried to grow it before) will taste much much better, I am sure, having been nurtured by my own fair hands.
• Romanesco I am growing solely for its cool mathematical properties.

So that's the current plan. I shall be on bunny and slug patrol from dawn til dusk, watering can filled and snippety-snips at the ready. My trowel will be nearby always and my stylish supply of eccentric gardening hats standing by.

Just call me the Fractured Farmer.

Click to enlarge for exciting details!

It's A Miracle

Remember how one month ago I lamented that this was an 'off' year for Sir's plum trees, rendering me without organic home-grown stone-fruit for preserving purposes?

Well, lookit what I found as I was lugging my souvenir-stuffed suitcase up the driveway!

I'm gonna need more Ball jars.

Loot

Having contentedly sipped and slurped my way through many of the wines, spirits, and liqueurs that South Africa has to offer, I was more than usually excited about my pilgrimage to the duty free emporium at Joburg's Tambo International Airport before my long flight home.

Not only was I eager to purchase some representative specimens of my tasting adventures, but I also had an order or two from the gang. The Squid wanted at least one can of his favorite beer in the world, Windhoek - brewed in Namibia and to my knowledge obtainable nowhere outside southern Africa - or at least, not at Wegmans or our local beer distributor. Sir was less specific in his request and heartwarmingly trusted me to use my judgement when selecting a suitable souvenir. Feeling guilty for having deserted him for two weeks, I was determined to get him something fabulous.

TIA's duty free is fairly awe-inspiring. Not only are the usual bottles of gin, vodka, and rum to be found, but the shelves are full to bursting with litres and litres of peculiarly South African nectar. I was spoiled for choice! Should I buy of bottle of excellent Cathedral Cabernet, some Klipdrift Gold, or Nederburg Potstill? Perhaps a bottle of Wild Africa, Cape Velvet, or Boschendal Chenin Blanc?

Vexingly, my allowance only permitted two bottles of wine and one bottle of spirits - but this challenge did help to focus my thinking. I decided to allot the spirit to myself (Amarula, of course - so handy for gussying up ice cream, buttercream, and custards) and splurge on wine for Sir. Reasoning that we can obtain palatable New World Grenache, Semillon, and Chardonnay at our local state store, I decided to go the sweet and syrupy route. Sir is a big fan of fortified wine, having cut his teeth (as it were) on port and madeira during the various gala functions that punctuated his somewhat rarified experience of higher education.

I chose two bottles for Sir's delectation. The first was a full cream sherry that I thought would appeal to his liking for enamel-challenging wine. Did you know that South African producers' use of the designator 'sherry' is commonly reckoned to be in violation of the EU's TRIPS (Trade-Related Aspects of International Property Rights) agreement? Apparently, the Spanish believe they have sole right to the descriptor (a corruption of Jerez, as we all well aware), in the same way that Champagne can only come from Champagne and Stilton can only come from Stilton. This belief persists in spite of the fact that much Spanish sherry production takes place outside Jerez, thus rendering the term meaningless even within its own country. Every time the South Africans are hauled into court (I take it this happens with some regularity) they argue that nobody could possibly think a bottle stamped 'Stellenbosch' might have originated in sunny Spain and, regardless, it is tacky and demeaning that they be required to label their fine products 'sherry-style fortified plonk'. They continue to call their elixir 'sherry', bless them, and the Spanish trade delegation continues to get its ropa interior in a twist.

Sir thought his sherry was delightful and managed to drink about a third of the bottle in the first sitting. His enjoyment belied the fact that he doesn't particularly care for sherry - for my part, a late and unwelcome discovery after approximately 102 years of marriage. Oh, well - it's the thought that counts!

He has yet to open his second cadeau, a bottle of Laborie Pineau. A quick check on Wikipedia reveals that in France, Pineau is most-commonly produced from Cabernet or Merlot, but Sir's vin de liqueur was fabricated from South Africa's very own invention, Pinotage - one of my favorite varietals (right up there with Malbec and Syrah), despite many commentators' assertion that it tastes like bananas mixed with nail polish remover. Sir's bottle promises to be 'well balanced, with a lingering fruity aftertaste'; have a pH of 3.7; and to contain 17% alcohol by volume. The tasting notes recommend it be served slightly chilled, so it shall be stored in my cave a fromages.

Tragically for the Squid, there was no beer available at the duty free. Suspecting this might be the case, I had earlier secured for him several consolation prizes, including two Bok van Blerk CDs; a new 'Bush Lover' T-shirt to replace the one I'd unwittingly shrunk in the dryer the day we returned from our last SA trip; and a huge bag of springbok and kudu biltong. As an added bonus, I unearthed at the big fair-trade market in Cape Town a beautiful and unusual elephant sculpture constructed from - you guessed it - an empty Windhoek can.

As I said: it's the thought that counts.

Lusty Tarts

Campers, I have a confession to make.

On my last morning in South Africa I undeniably, unashamedly, unabashedly, unpardonably, and without remorse drank a whole glass of lactose and ate a whole plateful of gluten.

I do not apologize for my lapse or feel the overwhelming need to defend myself, but I do believe that in the interest of full disclosure my transgression deserves an explanation. It is important, after all, that individuals in the spotlight admit their human frailties and allow the public to judge for themselves the degree to which they are in a position to cast stones.

I hope readers will understand that sometimes, a girl's gotta do what a girl's gotta do. 

As I have already argued, I have been extremely diligent in my quest for gluten freedom and have - apart from the two minor accidents of which I am aware - been 100% successful since September 12 of last year. I continued to maintain my perfect record throughout our two weeks in the Western Cape and felt none the worse for it (despite a close call with brownies and something called 'jungle oats' offered up tantalizingly at The Power & The Glory, Cape Town's hippest coffee joint). As the end of the holiday approached I felt neither deprived nor tempted, since (as I have been faithfully recording) I had spent the previous fortnight eating the finest food the locals had to offer.

But DMR and I had an hour to kill before we were due to climb into our Toyota for the drive to Cape Town Airport and the beginning of our long trip home. We decided to while away the time having morning coffee at the jocularly-named wine estate of Vrede en Lust, through the gates of which we had driven every day to gain access to the wonderful country inn we were calling home. I think you'll agree that Vrede en Lust is picture-perfect in every way:

As we sat down in the farm's lovely cafe, surrounded by happy families enjoying breakfast and lone intellectuals perusing the morning's paper for election results and analysis, we decided a latte was in order. Who could resist such creamy, foamy transcendence? The espresso was served separately in little pitchers, for extra innovative fanciness. It was dreamy.

Having just eaten breakfast, I was not in the mood for eggs or protein - but I did feel the need for a bite to accompany the caffeinated bliss. What imp of the perverse caused me to request the dessert menu at 10:30 in the morning? I'm not sure - fickle fate, I suppose, because that is the only explanation for the two slices of warm fig tart with Chantilly cream that materialized on our table a few minutes later.

I seem to remember that my logic went something like this:

1. I have been a very, very good girl and I deserve a treat.
2. I am on vacation.
3. If I can't have a treat on vacation, I might as well curl up my toes heavenwards and bid this vale of tears farewell.
4. Speaking of which, if my SAA Airbus goes down in a flaming ball over the mid-Atlantic in a few hours' time, do I really want my last thought to be, 'Oh wow, I'm so glad I denied myself pastry this morning' ?
5. QED: it's perfectly all right to indulge in a slice of gluten-filled goodness, just this once.

The tart turned out to be more spectacular than would have been possible in my wildest imaginings. Warm and almondy, with a flaky crust and exotic-tasting fig quarters concealed within, it was enrobed in lightly-sweetened citrus-scented cream. I savored every bite and washed each one down with a sip of divine milky coffee.

Was it worth it?

Hell yes.

And I'd do it again.

Snack Attack

How does the intrepid gluten-freedom fighter keep up her strength when driving over heuwel and veldt, exploring the highways and byways of Paarl, Franschhoek, and Stellenbosch?

By ensuring she consumes a proper balance of vitamins, minerals, and other important nutrients, of course!

After painstaking research, I hit upon a winning combination of locally-produced, tasty, good-for-me nibbles: Safari-brand fruit-flavored blokkies for fiber and vitamin C; South African nougat with roasted almonds for manganese and iron; Amarula-filled chocolate bars for calcium and vitamin D; and peppadews® for vitamin E and magnesium.

Biltong and droewors provide much-needed protein, sodium, and fat ... 

... although these specimens went untasted.

Why? Because they had been carefully packaged for smuggling past inquisitive customs inspectors! The diligence of these otherwise irreproachable public servants, who are often distressingly single-minded in their search for confiscationable foodstuffs, is the reason why the gods invented vacuum-sealers, dirty laundry, and plastic luggage-wrap - judicious use of which renders such delectable contraband undetectable to the CBP's state-of-the-art hell-hound sniffer dogs.

Most of the time.

Place Settings

As DMR and I toured the Western Cape and South African winelands, I was lucky enough to partake of several memorable gluten-free meals in highly picturesque surroundings.

I ate scrambled ostrich eggs down on the farm ...

... Cape Malay chicken curry on the veranda at Laborie, the restaurant at KWV (Kooperatiewe Wijnbouwers Vereeniging), home of the famous Cathedral Cellar ...

... and an incredible fyndraai (food of origin) lunch at Solms-Delta, an innovative estate in Franschoek dedicated to the uplifting of local residents. There I enjoyed braised blesbok with gestoofde rooikool (red cabbage), witwortel (parsnip) and soetpetat (sweet potato) emulsions, roasted apricots and a green peppercorn gemoedsrus (fortified Shiraz) ...

... followed by lavender and boegoe (an indigenous Khoe herb)-flavored creme brulee with chilli and klapper (coconut) chocolate mousse and lemmetjie (lime) sorbet.

In order to study the glossary thoughtfully provided by my hosts I was required to don my reading glasses - but I didn't need them to see that I was in the midst of some of the most breathtaking vinicultural scenery on the planet.

Election Day

It's a big day in South Africa, with the Democratic Alliance and African National Congress fighting it out in municipal elections across the country.

Who will prevail? The ANC ...

... party of liberation and Mandela (but widely regarded as having become corrupt and ineffectual - if not downright scary - under the leadership of Zuma and Malema)?

or the DA ...

... the formerly all-white party that stunned the nation when it won the majority vote in Gugulethu, one of Cape Town's most troubled townships, in 2010?

The papers are full of analysis and hand-wringing - not to mention the latest salacious details of the Terrible Township Toilet Torments - but only time will tell whether the people have voted for change.

In order to celebrate the triumph of democracy (whatever the outcome), DMR and I repaired to Arnold's - one of the best restaurants in the world - for an extremely lekker meal of peppered springbok loin with Hunter sauce, mash, and veg ...

... and a toast to this incredible country's future with a glass of the house's special dry red wine.

Game for Gluten

After a long morning's game drive, during which we saw many things ...

... I was happy to belly up to an excellent lunch of beef curry, samp, and beans. Not wanting to be rude to my hosts, I gobbled up the proffered side-dish, ignorant of both its origin and constitution. Better known as mngqusho (not a hugely helpful description, I'm sure most Pennsylvanians would agree), my samp was undeniably exotic but horrifyingly grain-like. I was terrified that I'd ingested whole spoonfuls of gluten!

Fearing the worst, I raced to the internet as soon as the day's excitement was over and discovered, to my great delight and relief, that samp is the same thing as cracked hominy - again, an ingredient with which I am not over-familiar, but am confident is made from corn, like putu or mealies.

That makes me four-for-four gluten-free days and counting!

I might not need my Kind cranberry and almond bars (all natural! certified gluten-free! dairy-free! loaded with anti-oxidants! doesn't taste like packing material!) after all.

The Protein Problem

In South Africa's Western Cape, some proteins are gluten-free ... but not very good eating.

Other proteins are very good eating, but not gluten-free.

Happily, a fine dinner of grilled kingklip with garlic butter is both!

'Boks & Brulee

After a day spent on Robben Island hearing from former political prisoners about the Great Man Himself, it is very pleasant to relax with a glass of Pinotage and a dinner of impala, kudu, and springbok. These bad boys were served with putu (maize meal) and chakalaka (a sweet and spicy tomato, onion, and vegetable relish).

To finish? Who needs gluten-filled malva pudding or koeksisters when there is Creme Brulee in the house, enriched with South Africa's liqueur of choice, Amarula, and topped with local berries?

Gluten-Free in Cape Town

An early dinner of rare roast ostrich with orange marmalade sauce and mash (together with an off-camera glass of Shiraz) ...

... always tastes better when accompanied by a view of mist-covered Table Mountain.

Lekker on the Veldt

Well, Campers - this time tomorrow I will be bouncing over the Atlantic Ocean, strapped into one of South African Airways' Airbuses on my way to the Western Cape. DMR and I are finally off to the land of boerewors, Malva pudding, Amarula, pinotage, and ostrich curry.

To my knowledge, only one of these delicacies has wheat in it.

This is my first big trip since my gluten freedom-fighting began back in September and I am a little bit trepidatious about how it is all going to wash out, food-wise. Fortunately, South Africa (well, the entire Sub-Saharan region of the continent, I suspect, although I can't speak from direct experience) is a place that lends itself to gluten and lactose-free cuisine. Lean protein and veg are generally the order of the day, accompanied by starches such as rice, potatoes, and mealies - a sort of white corn pudding like grits or polenta that is especially delicious as an accompaniment to 'bok tenderloins and warthog ribs grilled on the braai.

Milk is not hugely evident in the country's traditional cuisine, although Cape Town has a lively cafe culture with lattes available on every street corner. Cheese-making is on the rise - particularly goats cheese, of course, artisanal versions of which are fast becoming a specialty product of the Winelands, which I will be lucky enough to visit for the first time during this trip.

As a backup, I am taking one box of Kind cranberry and almond bars (all natural! certified gluten-free! dairy-free! loaded with antioxidants! doesn't taste like packing material!) in case I find myself stranded in the middle of nowhere with nothing in sight but crocodile sandwiches and bobotie (which is too bad, as I love bobotie: sadly, its sauce is thickened with bread).

Of course, I won't suddenly drop down dead if I indulge in a slice of melktert, roosterkoek or some koeksisters. I have, after all, been an extremely good girl and ingested no gluten (knowingly, at least) since my Jordan almond episode back in December. My bones will probably not turn to dust after one wildebeeskastaiing, although the mental defeat may be too much to bear. I guess I'll just wait and see how the krakelinge crumbles.

The Tasting Team will no doubt be indulging in all manner of gluten-filled delights while I am gone and best of luck to them. This is Fractured Amy officially signing off for two weeks of sun, fun, and fynbos.

Unless the blogging compulsion overwhelms me.

One can never tell what will happen When Rhinos Attack.

Separation Anxiety

After three weeks of heating, stirring, coagulating, breaking, foreworking, molding, pressing and brining, I can now leave my seven home-made cheeses in peace.

The timing is no accident. My goal was to have arrived at the point where my hatchlings were mature enough to take care of themselves before I abandoned them for two weeks while on my much-anticipated holiday with DMR (details to come). Fortuitously, if not miraculously, I achieved my goal with two whole days to spare.

Here is where we are in the grand scheme of things.

Wensleydale. Not much to report. After waxing, the cheese went straight into my cave where it will slumber until it's ready for consumption at the beginning of July.

Cheddar. Same situation, longer time frame. Waxed and caved, my bionic bad boy will probably not be good to go until September.

Camembert. After two weeks in the cave, my four bebes were completely covered in their white velvet anoraks. I wrapped them each in ripening paper and placed them in the bottom crisper drawer of the family fridge, where the lower temperature of 45 deg F has been slowing down the bugs' activity. A Do Not Disturb sign has been placed strategically to warn off intruders. The cheese should be ready in two weeks or so - we will sample the first as soon as I return from my adventure.

Swiss. Easily the most exciting of my projects in the last week or so. After a week of sitting in the basement, during which time it developed a lovely rind, I moved the cheese and its mini-cave into the dining room to warm it up to a toasty 70 deg F and encourage the bugs to blow their bubbles.

Anticipating momentous changes in the cheese's profile, I measured it carefully and took before and after photos to chart its progress. They grow up so fast, you know!

The cheese two weeks ago. Note its straight sides
and diameter of 4 and 3/8 inches.

Taken the same day as the above pic.
Its circumference was 14 and 1/4 inches

The same cheese eight days later.
My, how it had ballooned!
Its circumference had decreased to 14 inches,
but its height increased to three and one-half inches.
A stunning transformation!

The cheese at this point was extremely plump and firm to the touch. Although its rind appeared to be providing sufficient structural integrity such that an explosion was not imminent, I nonetheless feared it might start to split if subjected to too much additional pressure. My Kleine had a delicious milky-sweet aroma that led me to believe it was time for a move into the cave to join my Wensleydale and cheddar for a much-deserved gathering of strength. There it will lie until August (possibly longer), when I will take a core sample and decide whether it is ready for consumption.

It is now time to bid my babies a fond adieu. Sir has promised to check in on them from time to time over the next fortnight in order to flip them every so often, check their mats for dampness, and ensure they don't develop abandonment issues.

I know they're in good hands.

Cheese Without the Cake

On Friday night, for a variety of celebratory reasons - and, I  might add, against my better judgement - I ate a piece of vegan, gluten-free strawberry 'cheesecake'.

I will spare readers the gory details. Suffice it to say, the 'cheese' filling was a leaden, sticky lump; the white 'chocolate chips' on top tasted like wax (ditto the 'chocolate-dipped' unripe strawberry garnish); the 'graham-cracker style crust' consisted of twenty-seven ingredients, none of which can be found in nature; and the sickly-sweet decorative piping around the edges was nothing more (if I'm not mistaken) than vegetable shortening whipped up with a lot of sugar. A lot of sugar.

I think in future I will stay away from desserts that require so many inverted commas in their descriptions. They cause nothing but dashed expectations and woe.

My convivial duty done, however, I got to thinking. Since the star of a cheesecake is the cheese, and I am definitely not a dairy-shunner (despite my lactose-free condition, I still use cream and full-fat cheese in moderation), I found myself wondering whether a crust was all that necessary. Why not do a cheese-cake without it?

Inspiration struck. Panna cotta! Rich, creamy, dreamy and delicious - and one of the easiest and most impressive gluten-free sweet options imaginable. Needing a festive dessert for Sunday's dinner (my weekend was nothing if not a gay social whirl) I quickly found the perfect antidote to my Calamitous Cheesecake Contretemps, a sweet (but not too sweet!), tangy (but not acidic!), ethereal counteragent made with fresh goats' cheese.

One of these days, I will make this dessert with chevre produced in my own kitchen - for this batch, I used store-bought and very delicious it was, too.  I considered sprinkling the unmolded creams with some caramelized hazelnuts for added crunch but was voted down by the boys, who felt nothing should interfere with the cheese's silky smoothness. I adorned the panna cotta instead with home-made cherry/blueberry preserves and it was damn fine. 

The recipe is adapted from one in my second-favorite cheese-making book, 200 Easy Homemade Cheese Recipes by Debra Amrein-Boyes.

Goats' Cheese Panna Cotta

• one envelope (0.25 oz) of powdered gelatin, sprinkled on one-quarter cup of water and allowed to soften for five minutes
• one cup milk
• one-half cup sugar
• one teaspoon vanilla extract
• three cups whipping cream
• eight oz fresh chevre

Heat the milk and sugar to simmering. I left it plain, but will be experimenting with infusions in due course. Lemon zest is an obvious choice, but fresh herbage (I'm thinking lavender, rosemary, or basil - possibly lemon thyme if I remember to plant some this year) or a couple of grinds of black pepper would also be nice. This is one of those recipes where the sky really is the limit, I'm happy to say.

When the milk is hot (but not boiling!) remove the pan from the burner and stir in the softened gelatin.

Meanwhile, beat the chevre with an electric mixer until it is very soft and light. Drizzle in the cream slowly and continue beating like one possessed until the contents of your bowl is utterly smooth and perfect. Beat in the vanilla extract.

Beat the milk mixture into the chevre mixture and you are done.

Pour into ramekins (I got four large and three small ones out of my eight ounces of cheese) and chill overnight until set. Serve the desserts straight from their vessels or dip them in hot water and unmold onto pretty plates for extra fanciness. Adorn as your heart desires.

The result is even better than cheesecake.

Pillar to Post with Mysost

Friends and family members - particularly those of scientific mien - have shown great interest in and enthusiasm for my recent cheese adventures. I like to think this is a result of intellectual curiosity rather than what Sir calls 'cupboard love' - but heck, what does it matter? It's been great fun sharing my successes and near misses (no total failures yet, touch wood) with curious parties who have displayed a gratifying support for my latest obsession.

Now the requests are starting to come in - and I am happy to oblige. I currently have at my disposal the cultures to coagulate goats' milk for fresh chevre; ash (food-grade activated charcoal, actually) for Valencay; and Penicillium roquefortii for blues and bleus of all descriptions. Of butter muslin, sushi mats, and supporting paraphernalia I have an abundance. I am, as they say, good to go.

Or I thought I was - until HSR, all innocent-like, asked me if I had the means to make one of his favorites, gjetost.

I had to tell him truthfully that I had no idea. Although I was pretty sure it had something to do with milk solids and Maillard browning, I hadn't come across a procedure in any of my reading - and since I am not over-fond of the product myself, I had not really given fabrication much thought. I decided to look it up so I could at least give him the satisfaction of an answer.

Last Saturday, since I had a bit of free time whilst keeping tender watch over my CurdNuggets®, I dug out my cheesy resources and had a look see. They all agreed: to make gjetost, all one requires is the whey left over from goats'-milk cheese production and a big pot in which to boil it. There was also mention of a caramelized cows' milk cheese called mysost, which in all other respects looked identical.

And what did I just happen to have sitting in two huge bowls on my dining room table? Almost two gallons of raw Jersey whey, that's what, distilled not three hours previously.

Talk about synchronicity! I got to work with a will, determined to surprise HSR with both my thoughtfulness and my ingenuity. If Norwegian housewives can do it, I reasoned, so can I.

What hubris! What foolishness!

My recipes stipulated that all one has to do is reduce the whey (any amount will do, they claimed) until it's creamy and thick and looks like a brown brick. My sources agreed that the particular characteristics of the final result are up to the cook - whether the cheese is the color of light caramel or dark molasses, for example, or scoopable with a spoon as opposed to sliceable with a knife. What could be simpler or easier? After all the messing around I'd been doing with cultures, flocculation, and brine baths, I thought a simple boiled cheese sounded like the most straightforward thing on earth - and with plenty of room for error, too.

I was not really sure what to expect as I decanted the whey into my maslin pan. I didn't know the concentration of milk solids in my whey or to what degree the sugars alone would be sufficient for browning. My destructions were silent on these points, unless you count the rather casual aside in one of them that said, basically, 'Boiling can take a few hours depending on how big a batch you are making.'

At about 11:00 am I cranked up my Wolf and let her rip.

At 2:00, the pot was still going with no end in sight - although by that time, the liquid had reduced by about a third.

At 4:00, I was down to less than half the original volume but there was still no sign of thickening or color. I began to worry about my gas bill.

Two hours later, the mixture was reduced to about an inch in my pan and had acquired a vague sort of sepia tone. The entire kitchen smelled like caramel and the windows were completely steamed up. The cheese was a grainy mess, but one of my recipes advised putting it into a blender to make it smooth and silky. This I did, with predictable results - geysers of mad hot liquid mysost erupted all over the place, scalding dramatically the palm of my right hand and splattering the kitchen cabinets to oblivion. I rethought my strategy and, working in small batches, was able to salvage a fair amount of the sticky goo. This I returned to my smaller round-bottomed chef's pan for additional cooking.

When the cheese started to scorch (it was well past seven o'clock by this point and I was approaching hysteria), I poured the bubbling lava into three four-ounce preserving jars (yes, from one and a half gallons of whey to twelve ounces of cheese at the cost of goodness-knows how many units of gas) and placed them in the fridge. What would happen next? Frankly, I was beyond caring.

On Wednesday, I discovered the cheese had separated and gone weirdly crystalline - as though small shards of icy particles had somehow found their way into the jars. They tasted disgusting, too.

I was dismayed. But when my pride is wounded and my reputation at stake I tend to go into determined overdrive. I decided HSR was going to get his mysost no matter what.

I thought about my predicament for a couple of days, visited the cheese counter at Wegmans to see what gjetost is really supposed to look like, and concluded in defiance of all logic that I had cooked mine insufficiently.

Back onto the burner! I cooked my twelve ounces of shard-filled glue over low heat in a desperate bid to salvage the situation. After about an hour and a half of patient stirring and whisking (during which the glassy orts disappeared and the cheese returned to utter smoothness) the mixture suddenly got very, very thick - it looked a lot like creamy peanut butter, in fact. It also started to taste rather good. I was onto something!

I added a pinch of cinnamon and kept stirring madly. I was now able to roll the cheese around in the bottom of the pan like a big lump of burnt-umber-tinted choux pastry. It was velvety, soft, and held its shape.

Just as I was considering what I was going to do next it began to seize up - clearly, I had done too much of a good thing and dried it out.

Curses! I quickly removed the ball from the pan (its surface cracking slightly in the process) and pressed it into a muffin tin, where it filled one aluminum dimple almost to the top. That's right - one and one-half gallons of whey and something like ten hours of boiling (with the associated CCFs charged at an outrageous 73 cents each by my gas company) over two days had yielded one muffin-sized block of cheese weighing exactly 4.5 ounces.

Gjetost may be purchased with ease at my local cheese counter for nine dollars per pound.

Believe me. It's worth every hard-earned penny.

Top Chef Masters, Episode 5: Fast Food Haiku

When wheat-wrap'd, cheap eats
from a drive-thru can be good

but not gluten free.

The Six Million Dollar Cheese

The first cheese I learned to make from the meister was cheddar - but it took me until this past weekend to work up the courage to attempt production in my own kitchen. I wanted, I suppose, to get a few simpler specimens under my belt before tackling one of these bionic bacterial babies, since cheddar is amongst the most voracious of all cheeses and requires copious doses of effort and care at just about every one of its manufacturing stages.

Don't believe me? I've collected the evidence to prove my point.

Curd production. My camembert was soft and moist going into its mold - and had required very little in the way of watchful cooking. And although I thought I had foreworked, stirred, and heated my Wensleydale for as long as was humanly possible, my cheddar demanded even more cauldron-tending. By the time I was done the CurdNuggets® were squeaky, chewy, tough, salty, and pretty darn desiccated, if you want to know the truth. It took hours!

Pressing. My Swiss cheese required fifteen pounds of pressure for the better part of a day. My cheddar required a whopping fifty pounds of pressure for even longer, until every one of its curds was smushed to smithereens. The loading apparatus consisted of a hunk of steel bar stock liberated from my lab's extensive inventory of metallic knick-knacks and two of Sir's workout weights, the larger of which weighed thirty-five pounds. I kept the jury-rigged press on the floor, fearing that if it fell off the counter, disastrous damage to the house's foundation would result.

Waxing. This dramatic compaction resulted in a cheese only about half as tall as my previous two, requiring the closer proximity of my tender digits to the blisteringly hot (and, I can confirm, very combustible) Scarlet Solution of Death. Nonetheless, by applying the lessons learned during my previous perilous paraffin project, I was able to dip myself a fine-looking result, if I say so myself.

Affinage. My cheddar won't be ready for ages and ages - three months at least and more if we have the patience. All my other kinder will have been enjoyed (hopefully) long before that.

See what I mean? Drier, hotter, heavier, and older than all the cheeses that have gone before.

But that's OK.

I have the technology.

None of Your Beeswax

On Saturday, I made Wensleydale cheese for Sir.

It was his special request.

You may well be wondering (if you are reading this on the American side of the Pond) what on earth a Wensleydale cheese is, and I will happily tell you (you must imagine at this point in the proceedings I am standing with one hand on my hip, the other gesticulating in a professorial manner).

Wensleydale is one of Sir's favorites from his childhood in the far north of England: he remembers that the cheeses came shrink-wrapped in thick crinkly cellophane secured with a metal clip that, as a small boy, he found intriguing and a little dangerous-looking. Wensleydale is also a firm favorite of Wallace (of Wallace and Gromit fame) - Wikipedia reports that after the release of Curse of the Were-Rabbit, sales increased by a whopping 23%. That alone is enough to recommend it, I'm sure you'll agree.

But being of an historical/cultural turn of mind, I was most interested in the cheese's provenance. Wensleydale is in North Yorkshire - not too far from where the rels currently live, as it happens - and the cheese was first made by French Cistercian monks who settled in the region way back when (although they used sheeps' milk rather than the bovine article). It is one of the treasures of English cheese-making and there are currently efforts underway to secure its Protected Designation of Origin status from the EU. This means I may have to call my specimen Truckle-in-the-Style-of-a-Wensleydale or Pennine-ish Dairy Product, which, in my opinion, just doesn't have the same ring to it. 

The finished product comes in many varieties, characterized mostly by age, although there is a blue version available. The cheese is crumbly and moist and possessed of a mildly acidic flavor. They are often waxed before their hibernation.

There was quite a lot about this cheese that made it worth yet another Saturday spent laboring in front of my maslin pan. First, of course, was its status as Sir's expressed wish. Sir has proved himself a stirling soul recently, gallantly helping with the heavy lifting and plongeur duties associated with cheese-making and equally valuably staying out of the way when required to do so. I am generally quite single-minded when it comes to new projects (of which cheese-making is only the latest) and I wanted to reward him for his stoical support.

Another benefit was the cheese's relatively short time in the cave: I wanted a cheese that would be ready to eat after the camembert was finished but before the Swiss was ready, and Wensleydale fit the bill nicely.

Also, I wanted to play with a new toy: wax. I ordered a ruby-red block of the stuff from (where else?) the New England Cheesemaking Supply Company and got to work. The destructions said to heat it up in a double boiler, but I had only allotted the one-half hour that comes between dinner and my Monday evening walk for the task and could afford no more time than that.

So I used the microwave (watching the bowl like a hawk to make sure it didn't burst into flames) and got that paraffin/microcrystalline wax concoction up to 225 deg F in no time at all. It took time, burnt fingertips, and all of my patience to get the hang of the dip and flip technique required but I think for a first attempt I didn't do too badly - even if I did miss my walk.

Wax off ...

... wax on.

I should have kept my dipping mixture hotter while I worked so it didn't make unsightly surface blobs and will be sure to reheat often when I wax my cheddar (surprise!) in the next day or so.

I shall secure my new baby in the cave, where it can sit unattended during its snooze. Its wax jacket should provide protection from external infection and contagion whilst keeping the cheese moist and delicious - I read somewhere (a crazy survivalist website, actually) that cheese that has been treated in this way will keep more or less indefinitely, so I am hopeful it will serve as a pleasing accompaniment for the crickets we'll be cooking up in the basement during the next zombie attack.

Or with sweet blueberry chutney in five weeks' time.

Whichever comes first.

Unsung Hero

In December, I lauded my favorite cookware unto the heavens in gratitude for their unstinting efforts in support of my gluten freedom-fighting.

Since then, I have added another weapon to my arsenal - a pan of such size, composition, utility and beauty than it has become my new go-to piece of equipment for culinary projects of all descriptions. It has enabled me in the past few weeks to produce home-made camembert, Swiss cheese, Wensleydale and cheddar, as well as mango chutney, sweet blueberry chutney, cherry and pistachio chutney, and cherry/blueberry jam. It is perfect for large batches of stew and soups and is big enough to serve as a stove-top smoker.

It is a Demeyere maslin pan and came to me all the way from Belgium, where the company has been making cookware since 1908. I am not sure why it is called a maslin pan, except that this appears to be the accepted designation for preserving pans on the other side of the Atlantic. A quick search reveals that maslin is Olde English for mixture or medley, so I guess it makes sense, given the melanges that one typically brews in such a vessel.

I bought it at great expense (although not nearly as much as if I'd bought my fantasy pan, a Mauviel copper wonder that would have required a second mortgage and a secret dip into the Kid Squid's college fund) after two disastrous jamming episodes involving the eruption of boiling sugar lava all over the enameled surfaces of my beautiful Wolf cooker. Every recipe and expert out there says you really need to use a specialized pan for this sort of job, but did I listen? The still-visible residue and pits on my baby's burner grates are mute testament to my hubris.

But jam-making is only one of my new paragon's awesome capabilities. Coincidentally, it holds exactly two gallons of raw milk - the ideal quantity for small-batch cheese-making. Its 18/10 stainless steel exterior is impervious to whey's notoriously corrosive effects and its aluminum inner core conducts heat evenly and quickly. Naturally, the whole apparatus is freaking heavy when filled with unpasteurized Jersey goodness and that is when the cunningly-placed handles prove their exceptional worth. Best of all, the pan fits perfectly inside my huge cheap enamel canner, thus allowing me to construct the perfect water bath for milk-ripening, coagulation, and curd-nurturing.



And it's shiny, too!


News flash: in my last post, I bemoaned the inaccessibility of raw goats' milk to home fromagers in my vicinity. I have since been alerted to the existence of not one but two establishments providing that selfsame nectar to enthusiastic locals. I will be investigating these valuable resources in June: stay tuned for adventures in chevre and Columbier!