Superpowers

As I have faithfully recorded elsewhere, I generally do not leave the house without backup provisions in the eventuality that I am stranded in a part of the world where the only food available is loaded with gluten. My rations of choice are Kind cranberry and almond bars (all natural! certified gluten free! dairy free! loaded with anti-oxidants! doesn't taste like packing material!), an entire box of which I purchased in anticipation of my trip to the UK.

For two reasons, it never made it into my suitcase.

• This holiday involves several train journeys and I wanted to pack as little as possible. Of course, since I like to be prepared for any and all eventualities, my idea of 'packing light' makes most seasoned travellers guffaw with disbelief. A sudden blizzard in August? No worries - I've got gloves, hats and scarves at the ready. We receive an unexpected invitation to a fancy dinner right after taking a 5-mile walk in the rain? I have four pairs of shoes standing by. Snake bite? Covered! But at least I saved a bit of room by leaving my cereal bars behind.
• I considered that the UK is civilized place where g/f snacks must be easily available, rendering my packing of same a bit redundant. Anyway, I love grocery shopping when abroad. How else would I know that there's such a thing as kipper-flavored potato chips?

During my introductory trip to Sainsbury's for holiday staples, I found an admirable substitute:

Sadly, my discovery is lacking in certain essential characteristics. Whereas I rely on my Kind bars to provide innumerable health benefits - including life eternal and riches beyond my wildest imaginings - their Brit equivalents are rather more modest in their claims:

I hope I don't regret leaving my trusted standbys at home.

It has always been my plan, after all, to live forever.

Time for Tea

Campers, you will recall that one of my formerly favorite English tea-time bites was a cherry bakewell. The more curious Yanks amongst you might have been tempted to wonder, 'What on earth is one of those?'

Well, I will tell you. A cherry bakewell (not to be confused with a traditional Bakewell tart, an olde English delicacy from, I believe, Shropshire) is the most excellent of the many little cakes produced by the estimable firm of Mr. Kipling, supplier of sweet factory-made goodies to the masses. Each one consists of an aluminum pie plate roughly 1.75 inches in diameter, filled to the brim with five luscious layers of complex almondy goodness. From bottom to top, the strata are composed as follows:

1. shortcrust pastry base
2. raspberry jam
3. frangipane
4. fondant icing
5. glace cherry (one-half)

They are awesome things and I love them very much. In my previously gluten-filled days, whenever I returned to Blighty I always made a beeline to the supermarket in order to purchase a box of six. I rationed myself to one a day and was utterly content.

Shortly after we arrived in Yorkshire yesterday, we embarked on an expedition to Sainsbury's supermarket in Pocklington (trivia alert for history buffs and Ioan 
Gruffudd fans: Pocklington is where William Wilberforce went to school) to stock up on the various delicacies of which we are deprived for much of the year: Walker's cheese and onion crisps; J20 (the Squid's exotic fruit-juice drink of choice); McVities chocolate digestive biscuits (for the others, of course); and a variety of English cheeses.

My sterling SiL, who had previously researched the g/f situation in preparation for my visit, led me to the appropriate aisle to see if any additional temptations might be found there. And what did I see, about a third of the way down on the right-hand side?

What joy! What excitement! They weren't Mr. Kipling's, but who was I to argue with a box of gluten-free cherry bakewells, whatever their provenance?

I noted on the back of the box that British regulations require rather more information than is required or, possibly, desired by the average American gluten guerrilla:

I am still not sure how I feel about the proviso 'suitable for coeliacs' rather than the less judgemental 'gluten-free' assurance to be found on many American products, but at that moment I decided to let it slide. I was too pleased by my new found treasures and too eager to get them back to the house to fret overmuch about such linguistic subtleties!

I organized a family tasting project during afternoon tea: present were Sir, SiL, BiL (aka 'The Knees'), and myself. The Kid Squid is now boycotting all g/f sampling experiments and refused to participate, so I was additionally gratified by the willingness of the others to serve a guinea pigs.

I sliced two of the cakes into halves, carefully ensuring that each contained a sliver of cherry. I was immediately dismayed by the bakewells' crumbly texture and too-thick layer of fondant:

Persevering, I presented each victim (sorry, I mean taster, of course) with a portion. BiL, foreseeing disaster in an uncanny display of prescience, requested that his half be cut into quarters and I dutifully complied.

We all took a bite of cake and chewed thoughtfully. The taste wasn't bad: a quick check of the label revealed no untoward substances such as lentil powder or bamboo fiber but rather more conventional ingredients such as tapioca starch, rice flour, and a touch of xanthan gum for its adhesive qualities.

Clearly, the xanthan wasn't up to the task - or possibly Sainsbury's inattentive food scientists had misjudged the quantities required. Somehow, the tarts were both too dry and too gummy at the same time - a combination I would not previously have thought possible. BiL was of the opinion that the frangipane lacked the necessary binding to hold it together while SiL declared the tarts 'dry' and 'heavy'. Our jaws and molars received an undeniably vigorous workout, as we chewed and chewed and chewed to aid what would no doubt be a challenging digestion situation later on. The fondant layer, earlier judged too thick, was also too sweet: presumably, posited BiL, to distract the consumer's attention from the unappetizing textures beneath. I myself was moved to brush my teeth shortly afterwards.

The remaining half (I consumed BiL's rejected quarter) was eventually consigned to the compost bin, since no one found the tarts to be worth the 245 calories contained within each. The uneaten two (unlike my adored Mr. Kipling's, Sainsbury's tarts come in boxes of four) are even now sitting in their box on the kitchen counter, somewhat lonely and forlorn, surrounded by more popular goodies such as Tunnock's caramel wafers and sweets from the Hotel Chocolat in York.

Thus ended my first experience of gluten-free products here in Jolly Olde. I am trying to remain upbeat and positive, an effort greatly aided by liberal applications of salted caramels and chocolate-covered sticky toffees.

But nothing will ever quite supplant the place in my heart occupied by the fond memory of Mr. Kipling's cherry bakewells.

Blighty Bound

Tomorrow the family is gallivanting off for two weeks of fun and sun (well, 63 deg F drizzle, anyway) in Jolly Olde Englande and Scotlande.

There is lots of gluten in the UK and I shall be watching sadly as my companions indulge. Here follows a list of my favorite British delicacies, every single one of which is completely jam-packed with the forbidden ingredient:

• Breakfast: fried bread, cereal-filled Wall's sausages, toast and marmalade
• Morning coffee: shortbread
• Lunch: prawn mayonnaise sandwiches, egg mayonnaise and bacon sandwiches, scampi in a basket, a good plowman's, Scotch eggs, pork pies
• Tea: scones (plain or fruit, I don't care); Bakewell tarts; anything from Betty's in York
• Dinner: steak pie, fish and chips, crispy duck with pancakes from a Chinese takeaway, the Fiorentina from Pizza Express 
• Dessert: any pud you care to name, including treacle sponge; sticky toffee pudding; vanilla slices with fondant icing; clootie dumplings; and syrup tarts

The rels have reliably informed me, however, that the anti-gluten leagues are alive, well, and fighting the good fight on their side of the Pond so it is unlikely that I will be able to find nothing at all to eat.

I will not be accompanying the Squid on his onward journey to Venice, thankfully, where I think starvation could be a very real possibility. Poor lamb - to languish in a place where they eat nothing but pasta all day!

This is Fractured Amy signing off for a fortnight while she seeks culture and the good life in the Yorkshire Wolds, London, and Edinburgh.

Of course, I may post from time to time if the gluten situation becomes intolerable.

After all, whingeing is one of the things I enjoy most in this crazy old world ... and isn't enjoying oneself what a holiday is all about?

Just Desserts, Preview: Shoe Pastry

Two days ago Toad wrote to me with breathless excitement, eager to share an important piece of news: on August 24 Just Desserts will return to its appointed place on Bravo's Wednesday night schedule!

Impatient for my introduction to Season Two's crazy new pastry cheftestants, I visited The Official Website to see what sorts of personalities will be greeting me from my trusty DVR bright and early every Thursday morning.

Who have we got, I wonder?

The judges are all familiar faces: there's The Shoes, of course; She Who Isn't Gail; and Hubert Keller, my favoritest crinkly-eyed Frenchman of all time. But who's that rather overweight gentleman in the smart suit and hedge-fund manager haircut? Why, it's none other than Johnny 'I'm Such a Bad Boy' Iuzzini, formerly known as The Pompadour, now immaculately styled and gelled and completely re-imagined. Why, with his long sleeves his tattoos are barely discernible! He also appears to have stopped wearing that absurd key chain on his belt. I wonder if he has developed a personality to accompany his new look? Time will tell, I guess!

Let's see if we can spot among the fourteen pastry pugilists who will implode in a glorious paroxysm of confectionery sugar and who will win the coveted golden cream puff.

Ladies first!

• Rebecca: known currently in Houston as The Sugar Hooker (huh?), she supposedly did time at the Bristol and Daniel. She might have some skills, but her decision to be photographed in a pair of shoes better suited to a French circus artiste circa 1685 compels me to question her judgement.
• Sally: won the 'Best Sportsmanship' medal at the National Pastry Team Championships in 2007 - an honor that sounds suspiciously like a booby prize to me. She is a big fan of pandan leaves and sports in her publicity still a pair of blue sandals that would look not inappropriate on a drag queen. In 1972.
• Melissa: born in Haiti, she is currently the pastry chef at ilili, a restaurant so cutting-edge its name doesn't start with a capital letter. Her Juno-esque form appears to be teetering on a pair of white open-toed nine-inch heels, which at least have the advantage of not showing the stains when a bowl of vanilla buttercream is dropped on them from a great height.
• Megan: her blurb describes her as 'fun and creative', which probably means the producers couldn't think of anything interesting to say about her. Her pink satin pumps were the only shoes of which I actually approved.
• Lina: inspired by Thomas Keller (is there a chef in this country who isn't?), her footwear appeared to be fabricated entirely from silver sequins, although her feet were a bit difficult to see, concealed as they were by a pair of truly outrageous flares.
• Katzie: if she were a food, she'd be 'a bottomless bowl of mussels.' Oh, Sigmund - I'm speechless. Her black flats marked her out as the rebel of the group.
• Amanda: the site details her biography in exhausting detail, including the underwhelming tidbit that she once 'travelled abroad for a few months.' Did she also walk the dog and get her nails done? She chose to strut her stuff in a pair of black leather bondage sandals that boggled the mind and caused the eyes to bleed in their sockets.

Now the gents!

• Vanarin: the Houston-residing son of Cambodian refugees, his favorite fall dessert is 'gerber macaroons'. Does he really make almond petit fours from baby food? His canvas sneakers provided a welcome respite from the girls' eye-popping style choices.
• Orlando: enjoys the 'mind-altering' powers of chocolate and claims to be a devotee of entrements. Since Wikipedia defines entrements as 'desserts', I am left marvelling at the repetitious self-evidence of his statement. His tasteful black dress shoes served as a salutory counterpoint to his unnecessary pomposity.
• Nelson: an Argentinian (ole!) now working in Boston. He loves passion fruit and ridiculous plaid canvas slip-ons.
• Matthew: pastry chef at the Mandarin Oriental in DC, he's another one of Daniel Boulud's protegees (honestly, they're taking over the world, these guys). He appears to be the token straight, although his leather mules might lead one to wonder.
• Craig: expresses himself through cake decorating, which is less harmful than graffiti or blogging, I suppose. His glowing plaid shorts rendered his shoes all but invisible.
• Chris: another straight guy! He is the founder and owner of a pastry school in Vegas because, like Mother Theresa, he has 'a passion for helping people.' His black Converse All-Stars mark him as a Man Who Means Business or Desperate Fashion Dweeb, take your pick.
• Carlos: he may be the father of six, but these days that's no guarantee of respectability. His deck shoes lead one to believe he might moonlight as the pastry chef aboard the S.S. Minnow.

My money is on Carlos and Vanarin for an early departure, mostly because their shoes are so boring. Matthew's mules are a testament to confidence that may or may not be warranted, in a fashion (if not culinary) sense. Sally's sandals belie the adage that the color blue is verboten in the pastry world and I have trouble believing that stripper heels are ever practical in the kitchen, even one totally outfitted in GE Monogram appliances.

Katzie's the one to watch, I think.

I'll go for black flats every time.

How Does My Garden Grow?

Tragically, this past weekend I was unable to prepare any Modernist Cuisine.

Several exigencies contributed to this sorry state of affairs:

• the lab biz being what it is, I had to work the entire weekend. The resulting low morale required that Saturday's dinner be taken under the awning at The Spot.
• it was a bazillion degrees outside, a truth to which any reader living on this continent can attest. I hate to cook when it's hot.
• Sir and I have become addicted to Angry Birds, which is taking up every spare minute of our lives. I know, I know - we're about six months behind the times: my cutting-edge tendencies, such as they are, are generally not tech-related. Yesterday, the Kid Squid, disgusted by our single-minded porcine pursuits, remarked that he feels like he's 'living with two alcies'. If by this he means sharing his domicile with parents who no longer have the will to attend to vital household chores or pay sufficient attention to his considerable needs because they are glued to their Smartyphones, then I suppose his concern is a valid one. I was, however, obliged to point out to The Smug One that, because he has already beaten the entire game and is now in the process of earning his Total Destruction feathers, he is in no position to throw stones. Or, for that matter, tins of anchovies. 

However, since it is almost exactly eight weeks since I planted my kitchen garden, I thought I had better take a few minutes off from pig-slaughter to assess my crops' progress and consider how many Ball and Weck jars I shall require for the preserving extravaganza that is inevitably to come at harvest time.

Naturally, by the time I actually found the time to visit my farm, the weather had broken and it was pouring with rain. When I say pouring, I mean tipping it down in a deluge of Biblical proportions, the kind of weather that makes the clogged-up gutters on the back of the house turn into Victoria Falls and beat the ground beneath to oblivion. I took two snaps as a photographic record and scampered back inside.

Interesting things are definitely afoot out there, with some plantings showing more promise than others. My herbs and peppers are all growing like weeds. My butternut vines, which one month ago had been showing a reluctance to grow big and strong, have responded gratifyingly to my pep talks and are now the proud bearers of at least eight baby squashes, each of which is roughly six inches long and four inches in girth (I was not about to get down in the mud with a tape measure during the tempest and was therefore only able to estimate their dimensions). 

My Italian olde worlde tomatoes are behaving just as they should, with no sign (touch wood) of blossom end rot, aphids, or slug damage. My bush tomatoes, however, have been acting very strangely. I noticed several weeks ago that the plant had very quickly exceeded the height helpfully elucidated on its tag and was convinced I had bought some sort of monster mutant beefsteak variety by accident. Then, two weeks ago, the leaves started to shrivel and die. It was very puzzling  - particularly since the next-door neighbour was a picture of health. I went out to inspect the damage yesterday and was nearly bowled over by the mistral of hot air that was blasting the dessicated leaves and stems. I had unwittingly planted the tomatoes right next to the water-heater vent! I had never done this before because this is the very spot where my ant-infested mint barrel used to be. Lesson learned. Do not plant your tender veg in the paths of Harmattans. Tomatoes may like the effects of a warm breeze to begin with, but they (and you) will regret it in the end.

My cauliflower and romanesco are ... well ... I have no idea what they are doing, to be perfectly honest. After an auspicious early effort, they have turned into weird flowery things with ginormous slug-eaten leaves. I have been on the receiving end of various pieces of well-intended advice, all of which leads me to the conclusion that I planted my brassicas in the wrong place and at the wrong time. Never mind. The flowers are quite pretty (and edible, I suppose, so they are not a total loss) and the plants themselves are quite the conversation piece. They are a bit like triffids except that, to my knowledge, they are not ambulatory.

As for Sir's plums in the front yard, we now have several bushels' worth clinging to his trees' branches, despite the best efforts of nameless beasts (I suspect raccoons) who, in the wee hours, delight in taking great bites out of the unripe fruit and then tossing the remains all over the lawn. Since Sir is unwilling to sit up all night in a rocking chair a la Atticus Finch with one of the Squid's airsoft rifles across his lap, we have decided to accept phlegmatically the odd bit of thievery and consider it the price we must pay to Mother Nature to ensure a bountiful harvest later on. 

Besides. We've perpetrated enough verminicide in Angry Birds to last a lifetime.

Ahead of the Curve

Yesterday I received my mysterious monthly issue of Bon Appetit, gratis and snail-mailed right to my front door. You may recall that I have been somewhat bemused by these regular deliveries, offering as they do dubious gluten-free recommendations, tantalizing but ultimately inauthentic recipes, and product placement of the most egregious sort.

However, I dutifully flip through them before I consign them to the recycling bag just to ensure I am not missing anything important in the wonderful world of advertising. After all, one never knows from whence the next great culinary inspiration will spring, does one?

Imagine my surprise when I discovered that, for the second time this year, I have beaten to the punch Those On the Forefront of Trends. What is it that floppy-haired, skinny-jeaned, sockless, retro-glasses adorned twenty-somethings are up to when they're taking time off from their jobs with graphic design firms, environmental NGOs, and second-hand vinyl boutiques?

Why, they're jamming up a storm, of course, preserving and pickling their little hearts out! Bon Appetit told me so in an eight-page spread devoted to a group of Los Angelinos with names like Josh, Ryan, Ashley and Mackenzie (OK, I made those up) who do just that.

And in what sorts of vessels are the Kids' vinegars, syrups, conserves, and jams resting quietly, waiting for rebirth this winter?

Glass jars courtesy of the noble firms of Ball and Weck, of course!

In a life characterized by utter geekiness and a woeful lack of cool, it's not often I'm able to say, 'Been there, done that.'

Pineapple pickle with pink peppercorns (pint Ball jar)
and blackberry and apple conserve (Weck 0.2 litre mold jar):
so three weeks ago!

Berries Blue

I have learned this summer that when one sees awesome fruit going for a song, one buys as much as will fit into one's recycled grocery bag and worries later about what to do with it.

Such was the case with the eight pounds of soft fruit I bought at a super-low discounted rate at my local market's 'Blueberry Festival' on Saturday. 

The tonnage piled up into a veritable blueberry butte when I heaved it onto my kitchen counter not long afterwards. However, with something like six hundred Weck, Ball, and Bormioli preserving jars at my disposal, I was confident that my mountain would be become a molehill in no time.

And, somehow, in between simmering eggs the modernist way, spinning more ice cream, attending to laboratory duties, seeing Harry Potter, and engaging in the usual weekend frivolities that punctuate our lives here a chez Fractured Amy, that's just what happened.

I took as my inspiration the Ball Complete Book of Home Preserving, which is a fantastic resource for American jammers suddenly confronted with a glut of summer produce. I like to think that Ball's test kitchens (no doubt decorated with embroidered samplers and gaily-colored hex signs) are staffed by sweet little old ladies whose sole purpose in life is to pass on the wisdom of ages to suburban putter-uppers like me.

On this occasion, like so many others, the ginghamed grandmas proved their worth, exhorting me to prepare my bounty in such a way as to fabricate two completely different products from the same batch of fruit. Their idea was to make syrup and jam, but I had another idea - rather like the time I was able to coax home-made pectin and thick rich apple sauce from the same bag of Sir's rejected Granny Smiths.

Here's how you make silky sweet Blueberry Jelly and thick rich Blueberry Butter from a single assemblage of fruit.

First, get yourself twelve cups of fresh blueberries. I used about six pounds of fruit to make up the volume, leaving two left over. After all, one still needs some for eating out of hand and fresh fruit salad, doesn't one? You need to put all the blueberries into a huge non-reactive pan (I used my gorgeous maslin pan, which - to its great chagrin - hardly gets any rest these days) with three cups of water. Bring the berries to a boil, smashing and smushing them all the while with a potato masher. Bubble them until they've released a fair amount of juice and the skins start to break down - about five minutes more.

Then, decant the lot into a large colander lined with a triple layer of cheesecloth. Do not press on the berries or agitate the bowl lest your jelly become cloudy and sad. Leave the apparatus undisturbed overnight.

Next morning, you will find you have lots of juice, a pile of blueberry pulp, and an irretrievably blue piece of cheesecloth. Never mind, it's all in a good cause!

Now it's time to make the jelly. Measure out four cups of the juice and dump the rest back into the pulp. Combine the four cups of juice with one-quarter cup of fresh lemon juice and seven and one-half cups of sugar (I know, I know - but believe me, you'll be glad you did!) in your preserving pan (the pan needs to be huge, as this stuff quadruples in volume when it gets to a rolling boil). Slowly heat the mixture, stirring occasionally, until the sugar has melted. Then turn the heat to high until you get boilage. Dramatic boilage. The kind that, no matter how hard you stir with your favorite wooden spoon (soon to be stained purple forever and for always) refuses to be assuaged. When that happens, stir in all at once two 3-oz packets of liquid pectin.

You heard me. Liquid pectin. From the store. It's amazing stuff. It gels things in no time, so you don't have to boil mixtures for all eternity, waiting them to get syrupy and thick. This means that your beautiful fresh fruit doesn't have to cook for a long time and thus retains its essential flavor. Some people would disagree (yes, Madame, I'm looking at you) but sometimes it pays to do what grandma says. Since the surrogates at Ball told me to use liquid pectin with my blueberries, that's what I did. Besides, I've indulged Madame's idiosyncrasies quite enough for one month.

Once you've added the pectin (stirring madly while you've done so), get the mixture to a full boil as quickly as possible (this is the stage where it bubbles up alarmingly, threatening the top of your beautiful Wolf cooker with molten blueberry goo). Boil hard, stirring, for exactly one minute.

When you've done that, remove the pan from the heat and skim the pink foam off the surface. Pour the jelly into your prettiest jars and process them for ten minutes. When they are utterly cool, you will be rewarded with something really special. We spread the jelly on some soft cheese and were in raptures.

But you are only half done! Now it's time to address your pulp and make your butter.

Dump the blueberries into your food processor - the one fitted with the blade that looks like it's out of the Pit and the Pendulum - and whizz it around until it's utterly smooth.

Return the puree to your preserving pan with the juice and zest of one lemon, three cups of sugar, and whatever spices take your fancy. I used several generous grates of nutmeg and made up a spice bag with a stick of cinnamon, several whole allspice berries, and some cloves. Heat the mixture up slowly until the sugar dissolves then boil it for half an hour or so until it is pretty thick and mounds on a spoon. Interestingly, in my case it took exactly the same amount of time as it took to simmer my thirty-five minute eggs. How's that for multi-tasking?

When think you have butter, fill up your jars and process them for ten minutes. Since I no longer employ spread on toast or scones, I shall eat mine on top of yogurt, spooned over ice cream, and as an accompaniment to cheese and salmon. I will also be giving some away to folks who still lead gluten-rich lives. They are, of course, free to do with it as they will.

The yield from six pounds of blueberries is something like three and three-quarters pints of jelly plus three pints of butter.

We'll get through it in no time.

Devil in the Details

Today I made myself some deviled eggs the Modernist way - that is, deconstructed, backwards, and inside-out.

And completely amazing.

First, I simmered four room-temperature eggs at exactly 72 degrees C for exactly 35 minutes. Loyal readers may recall that maintaining a stable water temperature had proved immensely challenging during last week's Egg Blossom brouhaha, but now I have the whole cooker-knob twizzling routine down to a science. Taking account of the inevitable lag caused by thermal inertia, I was able to maintain my ideal temperature for the entire time, never venturing beyond a one degree (or 1.39%) error. Not bad, in my humble opinion, for a gal without an immersion circulator to call her own.

At the end of cooking, I plopped the eggs into a bowl of icy water to cool.

While that was happening, I assembled the mis en place for my mayonnaise: 25 g of white wine vinegar; 10 g of Dijon mustard; 100 g of good olive oil; and tarragon from the garden. I added salt and pepper at the end.

Time to peel the eggs! This is where things got interesting. The white was the same consistency as one would find in a soft-boiled egg. I carefully scooped it out of the shell, revealing the yolk beneath. Each one was a solid sphere, the texture of ... well, it was hard to describe. Think creamy fudge. Egg-yolk flavored creamy fudge.

Weird, but awesome.

I removed all the yolks from their white blankets and spooned the albumen into my blender. This was because ... wait for it ... I needed the whites for the mayonnaise. Yes, Nathan Myhrvold et al make their mayonnaise with egg whites rather than egg yolks. And guess what? It works!

I blended the four egg whites with the vinegar and the mustard, then drizzled in the olive oil to make an emulsion. I seasoned the result with salt and pepper and, hey presto, Modernist Mayonnaise! It was rich and creamy and delicious.

In the book, the gorgeous pic of the finished dish involved complicated schmears and sprinklings of Bottarga di Muggine. Sir and I thought it would be funnier to plate the dish like a sunny-side-up egg. We arranged a little flattened mound of mayonnaise on a pretty blue bowl and popped one of the cold yolks on top. A few pinches of chopped tarragon and we had a fine Deviled Egg.

Another impressive appetizer for guests! After all, what is a better ice-breaker than a good laugh prompted by a funny yolk? 

Ballad of the Gluten-Filled Cafe

Today was our shopping trip, held twice a year -

To replace all the Kid Squid's outgrown outdoor gear.

We travelled some distance to an outfitters renowned,

For shorts and safari shirts, khaki and brown.

We were out rather late since the drive was so far,

And ate at the restaurant before we returned to the car.

A quick look at the menu - a veritable game-meat tour!

There was ostrich, elk, bison, and - of course - wild boar.

But this was my first visit since I'd gone gluten-free,

Can you imagine my feelings, when what did I see?

Kaiser rolls! Rye loaves! And flatbreads for wraps!

The countertops nothing but gluten-filled traps.

Salads with macaroni and penne - oh my!

And on the buffet - fish cereal-coated and fried.

Chips that were battered and onion rings too.

Of side dishes sans gluten there wasn't a clue.

But there! In the distance! A salad bar, chums!

But the veggies all lay underneath crisp crouton crumbs.

Desserts? Only a brownie, or torte, cake, or pie -

With all of the wheat flour such a choice would supply.

I couldn't have yogurt, since thickeners were used:

They might contain gluten and so I refused.

As I watched my son chomp on his sandwich with glee,

I felt a strong pang of green-eyed envy.

Sometimes I admit to a sense of defeat -

But it's a rare meal indeed I can find nothing to eat.

Allons Enfants!

Aux armes, citoyens!

Le jour de gloire est arrive!

I like to think that Bastille Day commemorates the occasion when the sans culottes decided once and for all to ignore Marie Antoinette's advice and go gluten-free. And what better way to honor their heroism than with some fine fruit conserve courtesy of Madame Ferber, fiere guerriere of the grande armee of anti commercial-pectin bataillons?

Ironically, Madame is a true member of the Ancien Regime when it comes to her preserving methods. Quel outrage! Quels transports il doit exciter! ... when she beholds boxes of Sure-Jell (or the French equivalent) at a supermarche Marseillais.

Although I suppose one could conclude that, as a true enfant de la Patrie she views Ball Fruit Jell Pectin as a blasphemous symbol of American imperialism: des cohortes etrangeres feraient la loi dans nos foyers!

Grand Dieu!

Whatever her motivations might be, in honor the great patriotic holiday de la France I have decided to indulge Madame's idiosyncrasies and present one of her recipes with no editorializing, complaining, or whining.

Marchons, marchons! On a day such as today, we must all cast off our ignobles entraves and be les maitres de nos destinees.

At least where pectin is concerned.

Christine Ferber's Apricot and Raspberry with Citrus Zest

1 lb 2 oz quartered apricots, stones removed
1 lb 2 oz raspberries
2 cups sugar plus 2 cups
juice of one small lemon
finely grated zest of 1/4 lemon
finely grated zest of 1/4 orange

In a bowl, combine the apricots, 2 cups of sugar, the lemon juice, and the citrus zest. In another bowl, combine the raspberries and 2 cups of sugar. Cover each bowl with a sheet of parchment paper and let the fruit macerate for one hour.

Pour each preparation into a separate preserving pan and bring to a simmer. Pour back into the bowls and cover each mixture with a sheet of parchment paper. Refrigerate overnight.

Next day, bring each mixture to a boil separately in preserving pans and continue cooking over high heat about 5 minutes, stirring gently. Combine the two mixtures in one preserving pan. Return to a boil, skimming again, if need be. Check the set and put the jam into jars and seal.  Yield a chez Fractured Amy: five 0.2 litre jars. 

 Ah, Madame - Voient ton triomphe et notre gloire!

Egg-citing Cuisine

Last night, Sir and I spent almost two hours cooking four eggs for dinner.

It was quite the production and at times bordered on the hilarious, if not the hysterical. The project involved many pots and pans, two sets of eyes, four hands, and nerves of steel - and for that we have to thank Modernist Cuisine, which (if its chapter on eggs is anything to go by) never makes do with two or three easy steps when ten complicated ones will do.

We had a ball.

Here's how we made Egg Blossoms a la Nathan Myhrvold et al.

We assembled our mis en place (we added another egg later on).
The blue-flowered Japanese rice bowl contained melted duck fat.

We heated up a big pot of water to 85 deg C and watched it like a hawk.



We lined small glass prep bowls with heat-resistant plastic wrap.



We brushed the wrap with an olive oil/duck fat mixture,
at a ratio of approximately 1:2.



We broke a room temperature chicken egg
into each bowl and added more fat and salt on top. 

We gathered up the wrap to make a ball, being careful that
the yolk was fully enclosed in albumen.
We tied off the parcel to make a neat spheroid.

We placed the eggs into the simmering water and attempted
to leave them there for exactly twelve minutes.

Keeping the water at the correct temperature (even in such a large pot)
proved to be quite a challenge,
especially as the egg parcels tended to bob and float.
While I held them down with two wooden spoons,
stirring occasionally to keep the water moving,
Sir watched the thermometer and twizzled the
cooker knobs to keep the apparatus at optimum simmering conditions.

We subsequently engineered a setup whereby the eggs were weighted with
a spoon, thus freeing up two hands and one pair of eyes for
temperature control duty. Cutting off the excess plastic wrap
simplified things considerably.

When time was up, we carefully removed the eggs from the pot
and sliced their wrappings open with a pair of scissors.

The result was the Cutest Egg in the World,
which looked like a perfect little Chinese dumpling.

Here's an aerial view of the CEitW.
Note its little folds and anfractuosities!

In the interest of full disclosure, I am bound to admit that none of the eggs was cooked perfectly. The first two were a shade overdone (the yolk slightly set rather than oozy and runny) because we left the eggs in the pot for two extra minutes (getting them out of the water proved to be a task for which we were woefully under-prepared). We cut the timing of the next egg to eleven minutes, which proved inadequate. We had every intention of cooking the fourth egg for twelve minutes exactly, but somehow we accidentally sabotoged this specimen by allowing the temperature to creep up briefly to 88 deg C, thus rendering useless our careful timing.

Nonetheless, the eggs were creamy and tasty, with an utterly consistent custard-texture all the way through. The whites were fluffy but firm - and not at all rubbery. The eggs didn't drip water the way inexpertly poached ones sometimes do and tasted pleasingly of the fat in which they were bathed.

Sir and I agreed their dim-sum-like appearance was witty and fun.

We enjoyed our eggs thoroughly as part of a light Sunday supper. Sir arranged his next to a leftover piece of poached salmon and I perched mine atop a golden disk of polenta. As we munched away, we considered whether the Blossoms might be a bit too involved to serve to company, requiring as they do twelve minutes of uninterrupted concentration on the cook's part. Of course, if the victims - sorry, I mean guests - in question are particulary good sports, the cooking of their appetizer could be part of the show. They might even be encouraged to participate, particularly if they are of a scientific turn of mind.

Naturally, with an immersion circulator the job would be made much more straightforward and foolproof. All I need to build one are an immersion heater, an aquarium pump, a thermocouple, a temperature controller, a solid state relay, and a variety of easy-to-find bits and bobs (rocker switch, sheets of acrylic, silicon caulking, a soldering iron), many of which may be scrounged from my workplace's extensive knick-knack collection.

The Kid Squid has volunteered to be the project's Chief Engineer and I am tempted to take him up on the offer.

Although in saner moments, I think it seems like a lot of trouble for simmered eggs.

Even done the Modern Way.

Cherry on Top

Although I was extremely busy this weekend attending to laboratory duties; carrying out much-needed farm maintenance; worrying about my Wensleydale; and pouring over Modernist Cuisine in search of my first project (let's see - Foie Gras Parfait Spheres? Cheese in a Tube? Flourless Gnocchi? Cocoa Nib Curd? Parmesan Creme Brulee with Caramelized Onion Sugar?) I was forced to come up for air when the boys started screaming for ice cream.

We're going through quite a lot of the stuff these days, both in-house and by filling the Requests of Others, so it's proving difficult to keep adequate supplies in the freezer. The current favorite version of basic chocolate (6 egg yolks, one and one-half cups of sugar, 3/4 cup of Dutch process cocoa powder, two and one-half cups of heavy cream, two and one-half cups of half-and-half, ten ounces of milk chocolate, and two ounces of bittersweet) is proving to be the biggest crowd-pleaser yet and I was therefore obliged to get cracking on a fresh batch. That's OK - I can stir custard and browse Modernist Cuisine Volume 6 (the kitchen manual) at the same time, since it is helpfully spiral-bound and printed on spongeable paper.

But since there is no way I will able to maintain my size 00 self if I eat ice cream all summer long, I generally only observe benevolently as others scarf up great bowlfuls. Worry about calories did, however, get me thinking about other uses to which my fabulous ice cream bowl might be put - especially when, as I was attempting to make room in the freezer for two more quarts of creamy dreamy home-made ambrosia, four pounds of frozen cherries (left over from early Spring's chutney sessions) leaped out at me from the chill chest's upper reaches and throttled me on the right temple.

Eager for revenge and additional lebensraum, I decided then and there to make the malefactors into a new kind of icy treat.

Here's how I made Life is a Bowl of Cherries Sorbet.

I zapped in the microwave four pounds of frozen dark sweet cherries until they were reasonably soft. I whizzed them with the food processor's big metal blade for ages and ages until they were utterly smooth. At this point I considered straining the mixture, but I decided I wanted the sorbet to have some heft, so I left it the way it was. I added the juice and zest of one lemon and a few tablespoons of water. It was already dark outside and I didn't feel brave enough to fight the mosquitoes for fresh herbage, but next time I will definitely infuse some lemon thyme in the mixture overnight. I covered the bowl and left it in the fridge for twelve hours.

The next day I added about a cup of simple syrup (I always have some in the fridge, don't you? so useful for sweetening iced tea and coffee!) and gave the whole thing a good stir. This resulted in about one and one-half litres' worth, which is the maximum my bowl will allow. I spun the batter in my frozen contraption and in about twenty minutes I had one and one-half quarts (yes I know - I'm mixing metric and US units: what can I say? I like keeping people on their toes) of vibrantly-colored frosty deliciousness.

I served it with a splash of berry compote and felt extremely health-conscious and virtuous. Not only do the good people at Nutritiondata tell me that cherries are awesome in terms of weight loss (four out of five stars!) and optimum health (four more stars!), but they are also fantastically anti-inflammatory and loaded with Vitamin A.  If I eat enough sorbet, I'll be able to see in the dark!

This will come in very handy when, lacking sufficient hours in the day, I'll be up all night studying Modernist Cuisine.

Next up: Sir and I go for broke and poach some eggs in the Modern Manner.

My Cup Runneth Over

I faced today with the equanimity that results when one has just received the most amazing present in all the world, a pristine copy of Modernist Cuisine delivered right to the front door.

Such was my joie de vivre that, when I returned home from work this afternoon I decided I could face just about anything. Come what may - dismay, disappointment, or even disaster - I was convinced I could handle it with dignity, forbearance, and sangfroid.

It was time to taste my home-made Wensleydale.

Followers of the Camembert Case and my subsequent ego-bruising will understand why I needed to be in the proper mental space when I cut into my next cheese. There was no reason to suspect it had gone wrong, but I was suffering the lack of confidence that comes from being presented with four jaundiced dried-out disks of rubbery blandness.

I requested Sir's presence for moral support. You may recall that the entire project was Sir's idea - so it seemed only fitting that he should be there for the Great Unpeeling. Also, I needed his opinion as to the authenticity of the cheese - I didn''t recall ever having tasted Wensleydale and wasn't sure what the final product was supposed to be like.

Fortified by mugs of Earl Grey, we addressed the cheese. Judging that it was too big to eat in just one go (providing that it was edible, of course) we decided to slice off about a third with the aim of rewaxing the rest to eat after we returned from our summer hols in a few weeks' time.

I grasped my largest chef's knife and did the deed.

We were both surprised and gratified that the knife seemed to cleave the truckle in twain with minimum effort or fuss. We examined the exposed surfaces and were mightily encouraged by their wholesome buttercup hue; porous appearance (just as it should be, according to Sir); and slightly crumbly texture.

We cut the third into two wedges. The cheese held its shape! We carefully peeled the wax off one of the portions. It still held its shape!

With great care we sliced off two thin slivers and tasted them.

And what do you think? The cheese was delicious!

The texture was not rubbery or dry, but delightfully yielding with a hint of fragile breakability. Sir declared it a triumph and claimed that even if he hadn't been forewarned he would have recognized it for the breed it was. We ate some plain, and some with dates, and some with butter, and some with dried figs before reluctantly wrapping the remaining smidgen and placing it in the box a fromages for later. The surplus two-thirds have been returned to the cave, for experimental purposes. We are curious to see what it tastes like after a few more weeks of aging. 

In the meantime, I am flush with success.

Dare I say it? Can it be true?

I am a cheesemaker after all.