Minor Setback

A number of concerned citizens have, in recent weeks, enquired about my homemade camembert, wondering about the cheeses' status and asking if I have forgotten about the bebes gently molding in my cave.

Of course, what the interlocutors really want to know is where their free samples have got to, already.

The truth is the camemberts have been on my mind quite a bit lately - but like all small children, they are proving to have a will of their own and an insubordinate streak, besides.

I have been waiting for them to mature.

Loyal readers will recall that after my four offspring had grown their white anoraks, I wrapped them in ripening paper and moved them (together with a small bowl of water for humidification purposes) into the bottom crisper drawer in the fridge, where the chillier-than-cave temperature was intended to slow down mold growth and allow the fromages to age in peace. I had anticipated the cheese would be ready for tasting around the first week of June and blithely went on vacation, leaving Sir in charge.

When I duly reported back for a situational assessment, the camemberts looked exactly the same as when I had left - disturbingly so, in fact. I was assured by many experts, however, that the only way to tell for sure whether a mold-ripened cheese is ready for consumption is to bring it to room temperature over several hours and then give it a good squeeze, like old ladies do to the cheeks of diminutive relatives. If the texture seems soft and squidgy between thumb and index finger then you're good to go.

So that's what I did. Two weeks ago I removed one of my children from the fridge and allowed it to thaw out for a good few hours. But it didn't get soft - not even a little bit. It steadfastly (some might say stubbornly) retained its hockey-puck-like consistency no matter how warm it got. The rind on the outside felt hard and gritty.

I was nonplussed and, desiring a second opinion as well as a pep talk, hurriedly consulted with Sir. We decided the next logical step was to cut the cheese open, as a sort of scientific sacrifice, to see whether we could discern anything untowards within.

It wasn't pretty. In fact, so dismayed was I by my cheese's appearance that I didn't have the heart to take any photographic evidence of what we found. The rind under the white mold was thick  and yellowish - it appeared to extend about 3 mm into the interior. The cheese itself was the consistency of factory-made mozzarella - rubbery and stiff rather than yielding and runny. The taste was - well, it didn't really taste much like anything at all.

I concluded that the lack of camembert flavor was a vital clue as to where I'd gone wrong. There was no evidence of spoilage or the dreaded ammonia odor that spells certain ruination, so I wondered if my cheese had somehow ceased to age as it should have - become frozen in time, as it were. It is true that I moved it into the fridge about a week earlier than my recipe had stipulated (it was one of those maddening procedures that said something like 'move your cheese into a 45 deg F environment when it's covered in white mold in about two weeks'). Since mine was covered with mold in less than one week and I had places to go, perhaps I had moved it undesirably early. Also, there is a certain amount of dissension among the experts about the ideal temperature at which mold-ripened cheese should age - a difference of about ten to fifteen degrees F, as it happens, depending upon to whom one listens.

Was it possible that the cold temperature, applied too soon, had arrested my babies' development? Was it too late to salvage the situation?

Only one way to find out! I moved the remaining three cheeses back into the cave, where I hoped the warmer 55 deg F climate might act as a growth stimulant. I figured at this point I had nothing to fear from their potentially contagious presence in my cave: my Wensleydale and cheddar cheeses are both protected from unwanted mold growth by their wax jackets, and my Swiss has a thick rind from all the brining to which I subjected it back in April.

Plus I was desperate.

Yesterday, I decided it was time for reexamination. I took one of the camemberts out of the cave at about two o'clock, when I returned home early to pick up the Kid Squid for his flying lesson. The cheese sat on the kitchen counter for the next four hours at an ambient temperature of about 78 deg F.

After dinner, we addressed the monster.

It was definitely softer than it had been two weeks earlier and the taste and aroma much more pronounced. If I closed my eyes and ignored the texture, I could definitely tell I was eating camembert. It lacked the creaminess of a fine mold-ripened cheese, however, and the yellow rind was still too thick. In fact, I'm not sure it had improved at all from our previous tasting episode.

Quelle catastrophe! Or at least, a very very disappointing state of affairs.

I have a couple of theories. The first is that I cooled the cheese to quickly and too much, thus arresting its development. The fact that its flavor evolved while sitting in the warmer cave would appear to bear this out.

To test this hypothesis, I am going to leave one of the remaining two cheeses in the cave for another two weeks as a control. The second cheese I am moving to the mini-cave in the basement, to see if the even warmer temperature down there has any beneficial effects.

But there is probably more than one thing going on here. I am now also wondering whether my cheeses didn't get too dry during their time in the crisper drawer. An ambient relative humidity of about 85%-95% is recommended - and I don't think my tiny rice-bowl of water was up to the task. In retrospect, I should have organized moisture levels so that my hatchlings got positively rained upon.

In order to avoid sinking into a purple funk it is important that I keep in mind the successful aspects of the project so far. I was able, after all, to get my curds to set and obtained a good yield from my initial two gallons of milk.  My camemberts didn't develop dreaded black or blue mold. They didn't collapse into oozy puddles. They didn't turn to ammonia.  I did, however, make the common rookie mistake of failing to age my fromages in the precisely correct environment - in fact, many experts advise against newly-minted cheesemakers producing camembert until they have mastered easier-to-keep hard cheese. Did I listen? Of course not. Hubris.

After an initial bout of wanting to give up and never ever ever make camembert again (or even eat camembert again, for that matter), I have regained my equilibrium and come up with a revised ripening strategy for the batch I shall attempt after returning from the family hols in August. I will watch the temperature like a hawk to make sure it doesn't fall too low. I will be sure to increase the humidity levels to prevent the cheeses' rinds from turning into tough, desiccated husks.

And I will be sure not to take the project too seriously.

A good plan? I think so. But I'm afraid everybody is going to have to wait just a little longer for their samples of Fromage de Fractured Amy.

True Grits

Sure I've heard of grits.

I just never actually seen a grit before.

~Joe Pesci in My Cousin Vinny, one of Sir's all-time favorite flicks

As the Diva and I enjoyed our boffo brunch on Sunday, the subject of food came up in conversation as it almost inevitably does. She wondered what we were doing a chez Fractured Amy for side dishes these days, and I was forced to confess that in the area of starches we are somewhat limited, relying mainly on potatoes and rice. Gluten-free pasta, of course, is nothing but heartbreak. Quinoa has been off the menu ever since I was alerted to the dire effects its international marketing is having on the good people of Bolivia. I am having trouble getting behind such earthy-crunchy grains as buckwheat and amaranth. The boys despise beans of all kinds and although Sir will eat a lentil if it's concealed in a spicy dahl, the Kid Squid wouldn't touch one with a pair of eighteen-inch grilling tongs. Chickpeas are acceptable to all, but consuming them in side-dish-sized quantities is something one only does at extreme peril to one's digestive well-being.

Recently, though, I have been turning to maize products with great success - most notably in my untangling of the samp mystery and the invention of my newest protein-rich dish, South African Style Hominy and Beans (which, sadly, the boys dislike intensely). Maize meal also appeared on my radar recently when I mistakenly thought Floyd used it as the centerpiece for this Top Chef Master-worthy dish of upma with mushrooms - and although it turned out his upma was made from semolina, it still got me to thinking.

I currently use organic yellow cornmeal in various delicious applications such as corn bread, hasty pudding and hoecakes, but I had to ask myself why I haven't yet tried that traditional all-American down-home side-dish of gluten-free champions, grits?

Determined to redress this deficit ASAP, I popped into the supermarket on my way home only to be immediately brought up short by the realization that grits, like so many other things in my life at present, are complicated.

I found two different varieties. The first, from Bob and His Red Mill, I located in the organic/health food/bleeding-heart liberal aisle. They were called Organic Corn Grits and through the clear bag I observed their rough texture (like coarse sand) and bright yellow hue. I noted from the label that the contents were low in fat, reasonably high in fiber, protein-bearing and packed with iron. I also saw that they require refrigeration after they've been opened: I discovered later that such ground corn retains its oily germ and starchy endosperm. While this wholesomeness is what accounts for the grits' awesome nutritional value, it also causes them to spoil quickly if not kept cool. No problem - there's plenty of room left in the chill chest ever since the great February Fridge Purge.

The second breed of grits I found in the breakfast cereal aisle. The tubular blue-striped packaging sported a rather smug-looking eighteenth-century religious non-conformist of the pacifistical persuasion, and the label declared the contents to be Old-Fashioned Smooth and Creamy Enriched White Hominy Grits. I found it interesting that old-fashioned Friends understood the importance of niacin, thiamin, riboflavin, and folic acid, and reasoned that they had to add these substances in order to gain any sort of nutritional benefit whatsoever from their degerminated product. When I got the grits home I discovered that these too had a rough texture but were snowy white in color, just like my nixtamilized hominy.

Trivia alert: did you know that if you eat hominy slaked with lime or lye you will never get pellagra? FYI!

Anyway. I decided to cook up the yellow variety for the evening meal, because I thought it would provide a pleasingly colorful counterbalance to the rather beige plate of grilled pork and cauliflower I had planned.

I consulted a number of culinary references and concluded that my grits should be cooked in liquid at a ratio of around 1:3. I brought three cups of salted water to the boil (I'm low on stock, at present, and will not be making more until the Fall), sprinkled in one cup of grits (stirring all the while), and let them bubble quietly for fifteen minutes, giving them the occasional scrape 'n stir with my best wooden spoon. When they were good and thick and soft and clapped the lid on the pan and let them sit for five more minutes. At the end of that time I removed the lid and peeked expectantly into my pan to see what my efforts had wrought.

What they had wrought was an extremely polenta-like substance. So polenta-like, in fact, that I was moved to add a blob of butter; some fresh grated parmesan cheese; a few grinds of black pepper; and some sage leaves from the garden. My Southern-Style Pork Loin with Cauliflower and Creamy Grits became Carne di Maiale al'Italiano con Cavolfiore e Polenta Cremosa - a fine dish to be sure, but not what I'd originally had in mind.

I thought it was awesome but the boys were adamant: no matter what the name, they hated the dish. Hated ... the ... dish. Neither of them seems able to embrace maize the way he should, I'm afraid: Sir blames his English upbringing ('It's not in my culture, you know!') and the Kid Squid - well, the Kid Squid has a thing about texture and that's all I feel able to say on the matter.

*sigh*

I guess it's back to potatoes and rice.

Coming soon: True Grits, Take Two. I brown bag white hominy grits to work for a fine microwaved lunch and eat them all by myself.

Something to Hide

Yesterday, I met the Diva for brunch and a good gossip.

We chose for our venue one of Philadelphia's more redoubtable foodie establishments, a 24-7 brasserie a la Les Halles, except without the specter of Anthony Bourdain smirking at the punters while they indulge in The B-Team's rendition of his Least Favorite Meal of the Week. Our boite de brunch ('Ouver tous les jours!') was tres French and very atmospheric: we sat at a prize table half inside and half outside a floor-to-ceiling window and whiled away the lovely and cool June afternoon drinking cups of cafe Vietnamese and enjoying sophisticated cocktails the names of which escape me (the restaurant has failed to post its cocktail menu on its website - just one of its tragic failings, as I shall soon relate).

Now, I am on record as loving brunch - although it can be a challenging meal for a gluten-freedom fighter such as myself. What are Eggs Benedict without the English muffins? Pancakes and syrup without the flapjacks? Or French Toast without the, er, toast?

All too often, brunch is all about the bread.

But I am much braver about eating out than I used to be and have become a pretty dab hand at deciphering menu-speak and anticipating where gluten is likely to lurk. Unwilling as I am to quiz innocent table staff about every molecule in the food chef wishes to put before me, a certain amount of detective work is generally involved when interpreting restaurants' cartes de cuisine.

And unless there is absolutely no other choice, I avoid asking for substitutions, contenting myself with dishes the way the kitchen intended them to be and trusting my instincts not to lead me astray.

I perused the menu with interest, ticking off various unsuitable items with my mental red felt-tip pen. Well over two-thirds of the offerings, including buttermilk pancakes; French toast; croques madame; chicken clubs with avocado, bacon, and rosemary aoli; lamb sandwiches; eggs Benedict; quiches Lorraine; and leek and goat cheese tarts sounded delicious but were, of course, interdite. What on earth was I going to eat without causing a proverbial tizzy at the expeditor's window?

Steak and eggs, that's what! I spied it in Les Ouefs' section at the upper right-hand corner of the menu. I was more heartened than I can say by the description of petite filet, sauce Mornay, and sunny-side eggs. I just love sauce Mornay, don't you? It's my favorite part of a properly-made croque monsieur - and of course, I haven't had one of those pour toujours.

I had another sip of my cocktail and waited expectantly for the feast to arrive.

Right on cue! A big white plate containing a generous pile of sauteed potatoes redolent with black pepper and fresh herbs; an adorable little filet cooked just the other side of black and blue; and with two runny golden-yolked eggs peeping up at me. But where was the rich, thick, unctuous, cheesy sauce promised by the menu?

Hiding under the eggs, that's where, slathered onto a slice of baguette the size of my forearm.

Outrage! I'd been betrayed by my usually reliable gluten-sense!

Before I could properly register my shock at this unwelcome turn of events, the Diva took charge and spirited the gluten-filled sauce-topped culprit onto her side-plate, out of sight (if not out of mind). Chastened, I considered where I'd gone wrong and concluded that - at brunch, at least - one must ask about bread, even in dishes that appear to be above reproach. Much as I hate to be 'that person' there really is no other choice - particularly at an unfamiliar restaurant catering to the Breakfast and Brunch Expectations of Others.

Having learned my lesson and vowed to change my ways  I enjoyed every last bite of my tasty repast and had a second cup of coffee, just to show 'em. The Diva, in a heartwarming and stirring display of solidarity, took up a pen and scrawled a stern remonstration on the comments card, insisting that the restaurant's poorly-considered menu ought to be edited post-haste, lest other gluten guerrillas be brought down by unexpected and unwanted cereal sides. I congratulated her on her forcefulness. After all, it is so much more satisfying to blame others than oneself!

But I just had a sobering thought.

Sauce Mornay is a bechamel creation thickened with *gulp* wheat flour.

Maybe the gluten gods were watching out for me after all.

Eight Carrot Gold

Even the joy of seeing my new brassica babies for the first time was insufficient to quell the longing for cake precipitated by my trip to the gluten-free freezer aisle on Wednesday. Loyal readers may recall that at that time I was mightily tempted by ginger cupcakes with fluffy white icing - only to discover at the eleventh hour that they were adulterated with coconut, my least favorite ingredient of all time.

Still, my hunger for moist cake topped with snowy sweet deliciousness could not be contained, and I resolved to address the situation ASAP. I returned home, rummaged around in the refrigerator, and came up with the perfect solution: carrot cake with cream cheese frosting.

Why do I always have surplus carrots in the house? I'm not sure - but there always seems to be at least one bag in the crisper drawer that requires urgent attention before its contents go all wilty. This is not to say I haven't cooked with them extensively since the commencement of my gluten-freedom fighting. One of my go-to weekday microwave lunches is my famous curried carrot pilaf with toasted pecans and Hunza raisins. I have also made carrot jam with great success, although that happy outcome was tempered by my disastrous Last Resort baking project several weeks later.

But since September I have not attempted an old-fashioned carrot cake. This turns out to have been an unecessary sacrifice on my part, because as I leafed through my traditional recipes - every American cookbook I own seems to contain at least one version - it quickly became clear that almost all carrot cakes are made with high-ratio batters than can (theoretically at least) be adapted to gluten-free ingredients with little or no problem. The recipe upon which I finally settled (from The Joy of Cooking) easily fit the bill for g/f conversion: it contained more liquid than sugar (if you include the liquid in the eggs and carrots, which you should); more eggs than fat (a whopping 100% more, by weight); and, if not more sugar than flour, at least close-to-equal amounts. Anyway, the formula was near enough that I had very few qualms about its likely success.

Sure enough, the finished cake was moist, flavorful, and delicious - hardly distinguishable from its gluten-rich cousins. Some individuals might feel it would benefit from the addition of chopped walnuts, or raisins, or crushed pineapple, but I eschew random bits in my cakes as unwelcome distractions. Already over 24 hours old, the cake still passes the acid test of gluten-free edibility at room temperature.

It was almost too easy.

Gluten-Free Carrot Cake

Butter a nine-inch round cake pan and line the bottom with silicon parchment. Butter that, too. Meanwhile, heat the oven to 350 deg F.

Sift and whisk together one and one-third cups of King Arthur Gluten-Free Multi-Purpose Flour (the only kind I use!); one cup of granulated sugar; one and one-half teaspoons of baking soda and one teaspoon of baking powder. For spice, add one teaspoon of ground cinnamon,  one teaspoon of ground allspice, one teaspoon of ground ginger, and one-half teaspoon of freshly-grated nutmeg.

Whisk together three eggs and two-thirds of a cup of oil (I use canola) and stir that mixture into your dry ingredients.

Finally, add one and one-half cups of finely grated carrots (about eight medium-sized roots).

Note the utter lack of xanthan gum or other strange chemical additives!

Bake the cake for about forty minutes or until it's done. Cool it in the pan on a wire rack for ten minutes or so, then turn out and cool completely.

Ice the cake with your favorite cream cheese frosting - the one you learned to make in home economics (when home ec was still part of the public school curriculum, that is) will work fine. The one I use to cover the top of a nine-inch cake contains eight ounces of cream cheese; five tablespoons of butter; two tablespoons of vanilla extract; about two cups of sifted powdered sugar; and (for carrot cake) the grated zest of an orange.

The result is pure gluten-free gold.

Coming soon: I discover that the next cake recipe in The Joy of Cooking - applesauce gingerbread - also looks promising for gluten-free conversion. An additional use for Lyle's Golden Syrup and my fabulous home-made organic Granny Smith preserves!

Little 'uns

Exactly one month ago  I planted this year's kitchen garden. Yesterday I took advantage of a respite in our bizarre weather (thunder and tornado-like winds one minute, sweltering overcast humidity the next) to go out back, stake my tomato plants, check for slugs, chase off the rabbits, and pull out the lemon balm creepers that are still infesting the entire area.

My disconsolation over my latest gluten-free debacle abated like magic when I discovered that The Stork had left some babies in my brassica patch!

As with any proud parent, I like to show off pics of my offspring:

Cauliflower: it may be a cool-weather vegetable,

but - touch wood - it seems to be doing fine so far.

Romanesco: note the early initiation of its fractal form.

Serrano peppers: I will be pickling in no time.

Butternut: such tiny little flowers! My neighbor's squash blossoms are already rampantly orange and as big as 14-oz coffee mugs, but this isn't a competition, right? Nonetheless, I have given my bebes a rousing hopes-and-dreams speech with the goal of inspiring them to greatness.

Sir's plums: despite the wind's best efforts to blow them all off the trees and into the hurricane fence down the street, there are still several hundred remaining. Speaking of competitions, Sir is thrilled by his fruit's progress and plans to show the six finest specimens at The Great Allentown Fair in September. It is only a matter of time before a big girly purple 'Best In Show' ribbon is hung ceremoniously on his office's vanity wall, to the envy of all his coworkers.

Coming soon: the results of my latest gluten-free experiment, which is baking in the oven even as we speak. Carrot cake!

Tried and Found Wanting

Campers, I was shocked - shocked! - to be accused of letting my emotions get the better of me in last week's posting about the sinister side of the gluten-free business.

In my own estimation, my supermarket screed's rating on the snark-scale (where 1 is glowing praise, as for Le Bernardin, and 10 is utter revilement, as for the Bread That Wasn't) was a middling 5 at worst. Or is it best? I never can tell about these things.

Never one to scorn constructive criticism, however, I decided to examine my conscience to see whether I had, perhaps, been a bit unfair to the Fearsome Peddlers of Gluten-Free Goods To The Masses and the Evil Minions of Agribusiness.

I concluded that I had - maybe - been a tad discriminatory. After all, my judgements were based solely on the information available to me on my supermarket's website - and I have stated categorically elsewhere that I never trust the internet. In addition, a good scientist should withhold conclusions until all the evidence is before her, which I most certainly had not. I had neither seen nor tasted the products I was so quick to condemn, relying instead on past unfortunate experience to mold my perceptions.

Well, shame on me.

Today I presented myself in the frozen food aisle where there has appeared in recent weeks two large glass-fronted freezers dedicated to gluten-free baked goods. I was determined - determined, I say! - to select something from one of these chill chests so I could take it home, try it, and pass my verdict in full knowledge and without bias. The freezers were full to bursting with muffins, breads, cookies, and other potential goodies so the only difficulty was choice. Interestingly, very few of these products had been evident during last week's runway-side web-browsing session, so I approached the problem with a mind doubly open to the possibilities before me.

I started with cookies. Two varieties were available - snickerdoodles and chocolate chip. Now, I was never a big cookie fan even before the onset of my gluten-guerrilla warfare, so perhaps I am ill-equipped to pass comment. However, the cookies looked far too like the Disagrees I have rejected in the past - sawdust-colored hockey pucks with the heft and texture of recycled particle board. I'm sorry, but there was no way they could possibly be worth the calories.

But that's all right - plenty more delicacies from which to choose!

Chocolate brownies, perhaps? Well, when I think of brownies I think of ooey-gooey squares that have been baked in a cake tin. The best specimens, of course, come from the middle of the pan where there are no crunchy edges to detract from the softness within. These frozen examples had been baked in little muffin cups and therefore clearly could not be called brownies in the strictest sense of the word. Since I am a stickler for The Trade Description Act I could not in good conscious buy these cakes, now, could I? That would be hypocritical. Also, they were unnecessarily dairy-free, which I thought was stupid.

Next!

Ooh - muffins! I've always liked a good muffin. I had two varieties available to me: pumpkin and blueberry. Sadly, even the most cursory examination of their ingredients spelled disaster. The first item in the pumpkin muffin's list was sugar. I don't care if it is raw, unrefined, organic, or distilled from the tears of angels - sugar is sugar and it shouldn't be the primary element in anything eaten before two o'clock in the afternoon. It's a well-established culinary rule.

What about a blueberry muffin, then? Its main constituent components were - wait for it - lentils. Lentils!

I don't think so.

I was intrigued by the next item in the freezer, identified by its shelf sticker as chocolate mousse. Well, OK - but mousse is something that shouldn't have gluten in it anyway. Maybe they meant chocolate mousse cake? Now we're talking! Tragically, when I opened the frost-covered door to get a better look I discovered a whole nuther shelf full of snickerdoodle containers.

Foiled again!

How about a box of chocolate-dipped donuts? I adore donuts - in fact, they are something I really long for sometimes, especially as both the boys love them too and have refused to demonstrate solidarity by swearing off them.  I took the box from its appointed place and prepared to pop it into my cart when a couple of unfortunate facts leaped out at me from the label. First of all, the donuts contained pea protein. Huh? What on earth for? I was prepared to overlook this strangeness, reasoning that it at least sounded natural (sort of), when I was brought up short by the cooking instructions. Cooking instructions? For donuts? Apparently, these bad boys must be served warm to 'improve their texture.'

Nope, nope, nope. I do not eat my donuts warm unless they are coming straight out of the fryer with a simple dusting of sugar. What on earth happens to the chocolate coating on a microwaved donut? It melts, that's what - unless it's made of something unmeltable. Which chocolate should never be. If texture is such as issue then the company's food scientists should be put to work developing a new recipe. It is not my job to pay good money and then collude in the concealment of the manufacturer's mistakes.

Pass.

This was proving to me more difficult than I'd imagined but I persevered. I still had several more shelves to get through!

I glossed right over the 'breaded chicken nuggets,' 'breaded chicken cutlets,' and 'breaded chicken breast'. See my position on false advertising, above. Something cannot be breaded unless there is bread involved. Actual bread made from gluten. Also, I have a dread fear of processed frozen chicken.

I was looking for something sweet, anyway.

Perhaps French bread sticks would fit the bill? I decided to ignore the word bread in the designation, having resigned myself to its use by the Unscrupulous Lackeys of Gluten-Free Capitalism. A little shocked by the $5.19 price tag, I searched in vain to see how many breakfast bars the ten-ounce box contained. I had to deduce its contents from a number of clues scattered about the packaging: a serving size equalled four pieces, there were 'approximately' four servings in a box ...  Why not just come out and say so? What were the producers trying to hide? I'll tell you what. The appalling nutritional information, that's what. Each serving contained 170 calories (55 of which were from fat) and 95 grams of sodium! Of vitamins there were precisely none, although there were trace elements of iron, protein, and calcium - far less than my preferred breakfast of champion gluten-freedom fighters, organic super-yogurt and chia seeds. Needless to say, that didn't stop the French breaders from claiming that their product is 'a great start to the day!' and a must-have for the busy moms of rugrats with allergies.

It's easy to see where the childhood obesity/diabetes epidemic is coming from, that's all I'm saying.

But what was that at the end of the shelf? Be still my heart - vanilla gingerbread cake! I carefully removed the plastic box from the freezer and examined the four cupcakes within. I know, I  know. I think cupcakes are silly. But I was running out of options and I was determined not to let irrational prejudice get in the way of empirical judgement. The cakes looked nice enough and they were each covered in pristine swirls of white buttercream. The ingredients seemed wholesome, too - brown rice flour, molasses, ginger, various traditional leavening agents, and xanthan gum way way down the list.

Pay dirt! Satisfied that I had found a winner, I perused the tasteful packaging one more time - more out of habit than any fear of the unknown. And what did I find?

Coconut. The only edible article on this planet I dislike so much that I will actually avoid it all costs - even in suntan lotion or mixed drinks. I hate the aroma, the texture, and everything about it. It's gross.

With a sigh, I returned my cakes to the freezer where they belonged and turned my back on the gluten-free aisle forever.

But honestly, I tried.

Really I did.

Goat Note

Although I still have not produced any home-made chevre, I generally have quite a lot of cultured goats-milk goodness in the fridge's cheesebox. Due to various gala cooking projects of late - and despite the efficiency of my Smartyphone shopping app - I found myself over the weekend in possession of one and one-half pounds of delicious tangy buches waiting patiently for some imaginative application to come their way.

Cheesecake!

We all like a big slab of cheesecake a chez Fractured Amy - Sir, particularly, is a fan. But we disagree on the small matter of what a cheesecake actually is. 

Sir was raised on what I think of as the English version of the confection, which is made from a variety of soft cheeses, set with *shudder* gelatin, and covered with a thick layer of red fruit set with cornstarch. The result is fairly sweet, though light and creamy - more a rich mousse than anything else.

To me, there is only one cheesecake on the planet, which I have often made in my own kitchen when my budget and waistline allowed. The recipe may be found in Marquis and Haskell's Cheese Book, although the cheesecake itself is purported to be the one made famous at the redoubtable Lindy's Restaurant in NYC. The procedure (I acquired my copy in 1986 and it is now yellow with age) calls for two and one-half pounds of cream cheese, five eggs (with two additional yolks), heavy cream, lots of sugar, and a heavenly cookie crust. With a bit of grated orange and lemon zest added to the batter, it is the nec plus ultra of baked cheesecakes: rich, creamy, four inches tall, and - let's not kid ourselves - dense as a brick.

Why not try to make a baked cheesecake with all my lovely fresh goat's cheese? Since Sir was due to be jetting off to sunny California this week, I didn't want to commit myself to a whole nine-inch cake. Fortunately, I had in the cupboard a five-inch springform pan, bought ages and ages ago for some reason now lost to the mists of time. A perfect size for a few small slices to wish Sir a bon voyage with maybe a bit left over for breakfast in the days to follow.

The only problematic parts of the recipe were the three tablespoons of flour (not much, when all is said and done, and I reasoned I could use cornstarch instead) and the gluten-rich cookie crust. But really, I asked myself, what is the point of a cheesecake's crust anyway? A baked cheesecake is quite sturdy on its own and really needs no structural support. I reasoned chopped nuts bound together with melted butter would provide a nice crunch and toasty-tasting complement to the sweet cheese. I found some hazelnuts in the freezer (left over from my praline milk jam adventure, I think) and set to work.

This is what I did to make Cheesecake That Gets Your Goat.

I buttered a five-inch springform pan and lined its bottom and sides with silicon parchment.

I toasted one cup of hazelnuts in a 350 deg F oven for ten minutes or so until they were brown and delicious. I ground them up in my food processor until they were chopped finely - but before they turned into an oily powder.

I blended about one-quarter cups' worth of the not-quite-powdery nuts with one tablespoon of melted butter and pressed the mixture into the bottom of the pan.

I beat the twenty-four ounces of chevre until it was soft, then beat in one tablespoon of corn starch, four eggs, and a cup of sugar (I wanted the cake to be sweet, but not too sweet). I also grated in the zest of an orange.

I plopped the resulting batter into my pan, right to the tippy top. But I still had some left over! I hastily buttered two ramekins, dusted their insides with more of the processed hazelnuts, and filled them with the remaining batter.

Into the oven until they were fully cooked! The five-inch cake took an hour and ten minutes, the ramekins about half that time (I should have cooked them in a water bath, but didn't think of that until about half-way through baking). I cooled them on wire racks and put them in the fridge overnight to set up.

I served the big cake with blueberry and raspberry compote poured over the top and it was amazing, I thought, although Others Who Need Not Be Named (Sir, it pains me to say, was not the only one) insisted on their preference for lighter, creamier, more gelatinized versions of the dessert. There's no accounting for taste, I guess!

I unmolded the chevrettes before topping them with some fresh berries held back from compote production. The petits gateaux were very cute - and suffered not at all from a lack of gluten in their crusts - or indeed, from a lack of crust generally.

Rich? Yes. Gluten-free? Of course. Light as a feather? Not in your wildest dreams.

Delicious? Absolutely.

No matter what people say.

At Your Disposal

Having emerged from the fug of the worst summer cold in living memory, yesterday morning I stumbled back into the world - rested, if not refreshed - only to be greeted by an entirely new crisis.

In my absence, the garbage disposal in the kitchen sink had taken its last breath and turned its toes up unto the heavens. It no doubt lost its will to live after nine months of chewing on bean and packing excelsior-laden baking mixes; unaccustomed fibrous vegetable matter; and a whole host of strange substances associated with gluten-freedom fighting.

I know the feeling.

After fifteen minutes of frantic trouble-shooting during which we established that the problem lay nowhere obvious, Sir and I decided to splurge and buy a new machine. This was a fairly easy decision to make, since the deceased article had come with the house when we bought it eleven years ago and operated at a decibel level equivalent to a fully-loaded Airbus A-380 revving for takeoff.

The main question was how to effect its replacement. In honor of Father's Day I offered to do the deed. It is a salient fact that Sir loathes and despises Father's Day and refuses to allow its observance a chez Fractured Amy. While this lets the Kid Squid off the hook nicely - releasing him from customary shoe-shining and ashtray-fabrication duties - I am reluctant to allow Sir's stirling strivings throughout the year go unrecognized. Taking responsibility for an urgent household repair seemed an excellent way to mark the occasion and demonstrate my esteem.

Now, I like to think of myself as a Gal With Skills, particularly where culinary matters are concerned. I plumbed in the new refrigerator's ice dispenser even though I was obliged to drill a hole in the kitchen floor for the purpose of tapping off the basement water line. I carried out the initial soffit excavations to prepare the kitchen's western wall for the mounting of the industrial-sized fan required by my beautiful Wolf cooker. Installation of the Wolf also required some re-wiring of the wall circuits that I carried out with (if I may be so immodest) aplomb. I even engineered the construction and hanging of the pot rack that hangs, Sword-of-Damocles-like, over the kitchen table. Replete with saucepans, lids, colanders, mixing bowls, frying pans, my potato ricer and my food mill, I estimate (conservatively) that the entire apparatus weighs ninety pounds or so - and it hasn't yet fallen on the heads of any unsuspecting diners underneath.

Still, there's something about a garbage disposal that instills fear in even the stoutest heart. First of all, there's that no-man's-land precinct under the kitchen sink, dark and damp and rarely investigated. Anything at all could be lurking under there! Then there's the possibility that the appliance itself - in one last death throw - might suddenly whir into activity (kind of like a proverbial chicken with its head cut off) and slice and dice one's hand and forearm to smithereens. There could be a flood. I could be electrocuted. I might put the thing in backwards so that it blows rather than sucks, sending geysers of broccoli peelings spraying all over the kitchen ceiling.

I reasoned, however, that a girl who goes gluten free is capable of anything. With Home Depot's invaluable YouTube video How To Replace a Garbage Disposer streaming on my helpfully-positioned iPad; my trusty toolbox and generic Azapirone supply conveniently to hand; and with Sir providing much-needed moral support and the occasional refreshing cup of Earl Grey, I set to work.

A mere two hours later I had a safely-grounded, fully-operational, sucking-rather-than blowing disposal at my disposal. It was quite gratifying. Since it has 50% more oomph than the old one (in total more than one-third the horsepower of our first car ) I estimate it will be good for at least five years of gluten guerrilla action, no matter how many tapioca dinner rolls or loaves of Bread That Isn't I introduce into its gaping maw.

Plus, we discovered four unopened boxes of dishwashing detergent in the dark recesses under the sink.

Sir declared it the best Father's Day ever.

Erratum

Thank you to the sharp-eyed reader who pointed out that, were I to duplicate Floyd's Top Chef Master-worthy dish of upma with braised mushrooms, I would be violating the quacks' standing orders and inviting the wrath of the gluten gods.

Upma is, in fact, made from semolina.

I blame Bravo's editors, who in their weird menu-speak designated the dish upma polenta. Naturally, given this description, I assumed that the Indian breakfast/snack food was made from corn meal like grits, mielies, or putu (or polenta, for that matter). It looked a lot like polenta, too, albeit the creamy soft stuff from the eastern part of Italy, rather than the stiff mixture from Rome and the west - hence my confusion.

I also blame my NyQuil-addled brain, which is never at its sharpest when in the throes of a common (though fearsome) cold.

I still feel like death warmed up.

I'm sorry Floyd's comfort food of choice is off the menu.

That's just what I need right now.

Top Chef Masters Finale: Pity Party

Right now, I am supposed to be sitting in state in the grand dining room of Philadelphia's Ritz Carlton Hotel (the marble dome is 'majestic', according to 10 Arts' website), enjoying Spanish rock octopus with grilled romaine and parmesan black pepper vinaigrette; brook trout with bok choy and hazelnut brown butter; and chocolate rice pudding with cocoa nibs, butterscotch, and sour cream sauce.

Oh, well. The best-laid plans of mice and men gang aft agley, as the poet said, so instead of sipping on Campari whilst considering an amouse bouche I am coughing and sputtering, my eyes a-water and my throat a-swollen.

I'm sick!

At least I got to watch Top Chef Masters in a timely fashion, although that is small consolation as I languish in my tuile-upholstered armchair surrounded by used tissues and bottles of cough medicine. Perhaps it's my mood (sour, depressed, and self-pitying) but I watched with a certain amount of detachment and disinterest, not really caring all that much about the outcome.

I don't feel well!

The challenge set by What's-His-Name for Floyd, Traci, and Mary Sue? To cook the best three-course meals of their lives (what else were they supposed to do? pave driveways? tame wild horses? run for office?) based on key culinary moments in their pasts and those of their judges [yawn]. I'd already thought the food memory thing to death after Episode 15 of Top Chef All-Stars, so I was unmoved - and did we really need to hear about Gael's love life again?

*cough cough*

The ending was in some doubt thanks to the disinformation and foreshadowing seeded by Bravo's desperate editors in an attempt to whip up some suspense. Would Floyd be able to recover from time wasted in Los Angeles' famously bad traffic? Would he be brought down by his poorly-butchered fish? Did ever a cheftestant utter more potentially-damning words than, 'You have to have a discerning palate to get my dish'? (Floyd again). And what about his attempting to braise his oxtails in two sessions - with a break in the fridge overnight? 'Yes,' he TH'd, 'It's a very dangerous thing to do.'

Sir says I sound 'positively awful'!

Now that I come to think about it, the only doom hinted at by the producers was Floyd-related, so naturally he was declared the winner. Traci cooked a 'very technical and very correct' meal and Mary Sue's lemon souffle was the single best course of the evening, but neither could beat the cumulative success of Floyd's upma with braised mushrooms or rendang with beef two ways. Both these dishes looked positively delicious, particularly the upma, which I shall be attempting in my own kitchen as soon as I am able to face food again.

Did I mention? I'm miserable and my nose is running!

So Top Chef Masters comes to a close and for the first time since the middle of September there will be no foodie fisticuffs on my DVR when I wake up an hour early on Thursdays. Yes, I know - Rocco's Dinner Party will be taking over the time slot, but the Botoxed One will have to get on without me.

I don't have the strength.

Big Business

It seems everybody is on a gluten-free diet.

I'm serious. You can't open a dead-tree newspaper these days without seeing a gushing article about a bored soccer mom who opened up a suburban g/f cupcake bakery or launched a line of sugared-and-iced cutout cookies made from styrofoam and sticking plaster. Yes, she cured her angel's ADD by withdrawing wheat flour and now she wants to share the Good News with the rest of world!

Big Bad Agribusiness is hopping on the g/f bandwagon, too, with everybody from Duncan Hines to Aunt Jemima offering cereal-free versions of their convenience mixes. And more than one hand-wringing editorial piece has bewailed the fact that many companies, hoping to profit from desperate parents' desire to cure their kids' complaints (both real and imagined, I suspect), have started labelling their products gluten-free and upping the price, even though said cans and packages never had any gluten in them to begin with.

It is all very worrying. If everybody suddenly goes gluten-free, what will happen to my treasured status as an eccentric go-it-alone, hewing to my g/f diet in the face of insurmountable adversity and an uncaring world? I mean, if it suddenly turns out that being gluten-free is as simple as going to the supermarket and stocking up on a trolleyful of easy-to-find wheatless goodies, where's the challenge? How will I be able to indulge in my two favorite pastimes, complaining and whining?

Fearing for my status as an ahead-of-the-curve gluten guerrilla nonpareil, I decided to do some research immediately to find out whether things were really as bad (or do I mean as good?) as they seemed.

I had an hour to spare while the Kid Squid was at his flying lesson, so I parked myself on a park bench by the runway, iPad and Mme. Malaprop close at hand. It could have been very pleasant sitting there, enjoying the shade of a big tree and the first cool day in weeks, watching the planes taking on and off while making use of the airport's free wireless network - but I had more serious things on my mind.

I logged onto my local supermarket's web site and tapped 'gluten-free' into its search engine. Hey presto - over sixteen hundred items! I had no idea I had access to so many comestibles sans wheat, rye and barley. Of course, my supermarket has been known to hide gluten-polluted items in the so-called gluten-free aisle, so I knew some seriously skeptical scrutiny of the list was in order. Fortunately, the site's clever designers had included beaucoup nutritional info and quite a lot of shilling for the manufacturers in question, so I was able to do a fair amount of investigating and comparison shopping as I sat listening to the roaring of birds and the chirping of jet engines.

I quickly discovered that the roster of my supermarket's offerings broke down into many of the same categories already identified by the liberal media.

Food that never had any gluten in it, for crying out loud. Campers, you will be relieved to know that solid white albacore tuna in water; salted butter; cans of garbanzo beans; apple juice; parmesan cheese; all-natural turkey breast; organic milk; apple juice; bacon; and brussels sprouts are all gluten-free. Thank the gods - worry about the gluten content of my brussels sprouts had previously been keeping up at night.

Questionable processed food that might be perceived as containing gluten but that I have learned from bitter experience is not labeled by any protocol known to man or beast. I don't usually buy most of these things and not just because I can't make sense of the labels. 'Memphis' barbecue sauce; mayonnaise; baked beans; mild Italian sausage links; and cans of cream of mushroom soup are all deemed safe by The Powers That Be. By clarifying these items' status, I am forced to confess that an important public service has been carried out. If you can believe the internet. Which I never do.

Products I have never heard of and don't know what the heck they are. 'Cran-Max herbal/vegetarian capsules.' The mind boggles. However, I do not appear to be alone in my stupefaction: when the list is sorted by popularity, these mysterious Matrix pills show up almost dead last, although before 'French maritime pine bark extract'. What that tells us about the dietary priorities of the Lehigh Valley's health food nuts I leave for readers braver than myself to consider.

Then we get to the fun stuff - Gluten-Free Products That Are Pretending To Be Something Else - easily my most favorite category.

Sure enough, the big name brands are now muscling in on territory previously held by a few companies earnestly banging the gluten-free (and organic, and often vegan) drum. Yes, the good people at Betty Crocker now make g/f cake mixes - at only three times the cost of their wheat-flour based ones! As an added bonus, in their products' description they tout the importance of a gluten-free diet for children's 'well-being'. I have no words.

Cookies are a common area of gluten-free experimentation and the site was full of crazy substitutes, some of which I have seen and some that I avoid by making a detour through the family-sized-jumbo-bottles-of-cream-soda-and-celery-tonic aisle. All sophisticated foodies are familiar with Black & White cookies, those NYC delicacies consisting of yin & yang chocolate and vanilla fondant atop a soft, spongy cookie (you know the one - it's almost exactly the texture of a Jaffa cake). Well, you can pick up g/f versions under the banner Cookies? I Disagree! Now, a true Black & White cookie is yielding and elastic, dimpling under the pressure of a thoughtfully-applied index finger. The Disagrees are hard, thick hockey pucks that clang against their metal shelving but refuse to shatter no matter how much force one applies to one's swing. I have never even been tempted to taste one. They are the color of sawdust and I have no doubt that is their dominant flavour as well.

There are also gluten-free Oreo-like wonders, with only 32% more calories than the standard sandwich cookies they seek to emulate. Something called Brownie Bites caught my eye because for some inexplicable reason they contain whole soybeans - and organic soybeans, at that. Fruit-flavored g/f breakfast bars were notable for containing absolutely no nutritional value whatsoever within their packing-excelsior-like pastry (I am projecting, here, about the pastry's characteristics, since I've never eaten one - but I'll bet a whole box of $4 g/f cake mix I'm right). That's right - zero vitamins or minerals, although they do boast 11 grams of sugar and 2 grams of fat. Oh well, that's one way to get started in the morning!

Frozen food is another area where the g/f imperative is having a real impact. Let's see, what delicacies await in the further reaches of my virtual supermarket? Pizza (36% of your daily recommended sodium!); fettucini alfredo (35% of your daily saturated fat allowance!); carrot cake and blueberry muffins (no doubt loaded with sugar to cover up the awful metallicism of the bean flour used to boost the protein content of g/f flour blends, with predictably tooth-tingling results); and chicken and cheese burritos (oh, those last ones don't look too bad, actually - they appear to be made from corn tortillas, which - if not strictly autenticos - at least makes sense).

But I have saved the best for last, a product that I feel confident is right up there with Gluten-Free Screams; The Bread That Wasn't; The Cocoa and Cayenne Panic; and We'll Sees. I refer, of course, to OMG Tapioca Dinner Rolls - each of which contains 150 calories and 11% of your daily fat requirement. They contain, among other things, methylcellulose, tapioca syrup, guar gum, glucono delta lactone (huh?) and - wait for it - bamboo fiber! But that's not even the best part. No, the piece de resistance is the warning thoughtfully provided by the manufacturers at the bottom of their product blurb:

If toasting, use caution when removing from toaster.

Do not leave toasting appliance

unattended due to possible risk of fire.

Are they saying that gluten-free dinner rolls are more combustible than the traditional variety? Is all that methylcellulose and bamboo fiber likely to burst spontaneously into flames, bringing down my kitchen cabinetry in a roaring inferno of self-righteous indignation?

Sure sounds like it!

I am relieved to conclude that my bitching and moaning days are far from over.

**

Breaking Top Chef related news: tomorrow I will be dining at 10 Arts, lair of Jen Carroll, the imploding Ripertian protegee of Season 6 and All-Stars fame. This is an ironic turn of events, as my culinary hijinks at Philadelphia's Ritz Carlton will preclude my timely commentary on the Top Chef Masters finale. Watch this space for details of my meal a chez Not-Quite-Eric and Bravo's nail-biting culinary denouement.

Mineral Rights

Last weekend I made vanilla ice cream to prove that I could. Then I made some pistachio and cardamom ice cream to satisfy my own eclectic tendencies. With the family's arteries clogging and my frighteningly full-fat (but low-lactose!) dairy inventory running low I prepared to take a break from frozen treats for a while - or at least, until I next assaulted my local supermarket's cream and half-and-half supply.

But the boys wouldn't let me pack away my new freezer bowl just yet.

They wanted chocolate ice cream.

And who could blame them? It's pretty fundamental stuff - basic and honest, guaranteed to please just about anybody. Of course, I couldn't just make any chocolate ice cream - it had to rich and velvety; slightly sweet but not - heaven forbid - cloying or sugary. I wanted it to be adult and proudly proclaim, 'Yes! I am home-made ice cream! I can't be found in the shops!'

Also, I wanted to use up my Ghirardelli 60%. I have written before that I dislike having chocolate in the house - it causes too much temptation and competitive unpleasantness. To be fair, the Kid Squid prefers milk chocolate and doesn't generally go for the darker varieties: Lindt 'classic recipe' is his dessert-island choc of choice. Sir, on the other hand, goes for bittersweet every time - unless Dairy Milk is on offer. You know how you should never stand between a hippo and his watering hole in the morning, lest you get yourself stampeded into oblivion? It's the same thing with Sir and Cadbury's signature sweet: the wisest course is to get out of his way when he hears its Siren Song. I myself am not a huge cacao fan (difficult though that might be to believe) although I do like white chocolate on occasion (I know, I know) and praline-filled marbled seashells.

None of us goes for the really challenging single-origin straight-from-the-tree product (you know the stuff: 120% cacao harvested only in Northern Ghana when the moon is full, lovingly pre-digested by wombats and crafted by indigenous peoples into hand-made cassava-leaf-wrapped bars that cost $27 each). Nope, reasonably good supermarket chocolate is fine with us - but most supermarket chocolate ice cream is definitely not. Haagen-Dazs Five isn't bad if you can afford the second mortgage on your house to pay for it - but let's face it, a second mortgage isn't worth what it used to be.

Faced with this new challenge, I hunted around for a likely-looking recipe and found one in the big Yellow Gourmet cookbook. I didn't have the exact ingredients in the house, so I made do with what I had on hand and adapted the procedure accordingly. At the end of the first phase, I had a rich chocolate custard that was as thick as pudding: the Squid licked the beaters and the spatula quite clean and then asked for a bowlful for dessert. Since he was sick and sniffly, poor lamb, I allowed it just this one, admitting in the process that the custard was scrumptious just the way it was. With some whipped cream, booze, and maybe some fresh fruit and sugared nuts scattered round and about it would be good enough for company.

Frozen into ice cream it became thick and unctuous and rich beyond belief. No kidding - it tasted like it came straight out of the ground from a substratal seam of pure burbling dark deliciousness. It was a little too much for the Squid, actually, who preferred it in its chilled semi-liquid state. Sir was having none of it, however, and declared the ice cream intense, toothsome, creamy and triumphant.

And very, very tasty.

Elemental Chocolate Ice Cream (adapted from the big yellow Gourmet cookbook)

• one and one-half cups of sugar
• one cup of unsweetened Dutch-process cocoa powder
• good pinch of salt
• three cups of heavy cream
• two cups of half-and-half
• 6 egg yolks
• eight ounces of bittersweet chocolate, chopped into tiny bits

Whisk together the sugar, cocoa powder, and salt in a saucepan. Slowly whisk in the dairy. Bring the mixture to just short of the boil, stirring often.

Beat the egg yolks until they are pale and creamy. Dribble in the hot cream mixture, beating all the while. When that's done, pour it back into the pan. Heat it up, stirring constantly, until it coats the back of your best wooden spoon (usually around 170-175 deg F).

Remove the pan from the heat and whisk in the chocolate bits until they are all melted.

Strain the mixture into a clean bowl set inside another bowl filled with ice. Cool the custard, stirring occasionally. At this point, it is a delicious thick pudding that may be enjoyed as is.

If you still want ice cream, put the bowl in the fridge, uncovered, for an hour. Then cover it and chill overnight. The next day, freeze it in your ice cream maker and put it in the freezer to harden (several hours or overnight). You'll get about two quarts of a very adult frozen confection.

Fluffernutter

In a desperate bid to reassert my foodie credentials after last week's devastating drive-in related revelation, I decided to make a very adult frozen dessert with my fabulous new standmixer attachment. And what is more sophisticated than fragrant pistachio ice cream? Well, a Chanel couture suit (circa 1960) probably, or a marble fireplace designed by William Adam (circa 1720), but you know what I mean.

I made the ice cream with my now-favorite custard base of eight egg yolks; five cups of dairy (equal portions of heavy cream and half-and-half); one cup of sugar; and a pinch of salt. Before assembling the custard, I heated the cream in a saucepan with twenty-five green cardamom pods (cardamom is a member of the ginger family, don't you know), which I'd smushed to smithereens with my big knife.

I allowed the mixture to steep and aromaticize while I went and had a good gossip at the hairdressers', as one is wont to do.

When I returned home, freshly-coiffed and up-to-date on the latest news, I heated the dairy to near-boiling; whipped the egg yolks with the sugar; dribbled the cream through a strainer onto them; and reheated (stirring constantly!) the custard to 170 deg F. I cooled the mixture quickly in an ice-filled bowl and refrigerated it over night.

The next day before work I brought another saucepan of water to the boil and dropped in one cup of shelled, unsalted pistachios. I blanched them for one minute to prepare them for skinning, a task that took far longer than anticipated. Sir - eager to help and sensing my mounting alarm - attempted to assist, but his notorious color-blindness rendered him unable to tell the difference between the undesirable brown seed-coats and the merrily-green nuts underneath. I excused him and labored on by my lonesome. The job took a full twenty-five minutes of my life (minutes that I will never get back, I am compelled to point out) plus I was late for work.

Lesson learned. Nuts take time.

After my workaday duties were complete I roared home in my trusty silver Element  and retrieved my new ice cream bowl from the freezer. I considered my custard and decided it was too-too vanilla-looking - so I added a drop of green coloring, just to be whimsical. After all, one doesn't want to take ice cream too seriously, does one?

Into the bowl for churning! A few minutes before I adjudged the dessert to be sufficiently frozen I added the chopped pistachios. A few hours in the cold-chest and I had delicious ice cream with the texture of frozen nougat and an indefinably exotic aroma.

But since I didn't want to get too high-falutin', I also made marshmallow sauce to pour over the top. Indian spice met The Spot in the final result - and I didn't even have to leave the comfort of my own kitchen.

Pistachio and cardamom ice cream
with home-made marshmallow sauce

Marshmallow Sauce (from the big green Gourmet cookbook)

3/4 cup granulated sugar
2 tblsp light corn syrup
a pinch of salt
1/4 plus 1/3 cup cold water
1/2 tsp unflavored gelatin
1/2 teaspoon vanilla extract

Bring the sugar, corn syrup, salt and 1/4 cup of water to a boil, stirring until the sugar is dissolved. Continue boiling without stirring until you reach 260 deg F.

Meanwhile, sprinkle the gelatin over the remaining 1/3 cup of water and let soften for a minute.

When the sugar syrup reaches its required temperature, carefully beat it into the gelatin.

Whip madly with your electric mixer until the mixture is cool, tripled in volume, white, and very thick - about 10 minutes.

Beat in the vanilla.

Refrigerate, uncovered, for an hour then cover and keep refrigerated for up to a month. It's great over ice cream and awesome straight off a spoon. Or so I've heard.