It has been a frantic few days here a chez Fractured Amy, what with all the myriad post-Irene tasks and responsibilities that have presented themselves for my attention. I've had two flooded basements with which to deal (I'm currently house-sitting for the 'rents, who decided that - with a hurricane on its way - fleeing the country seemed like a Wise Idea); a yard that looks like, well, like it was hit by a hurricane, actually; and - for some reason - a lab where the electricity is choosing to go off and on at odd moments throughout the day, requiring my constant vigilance.
Why the power should be fluctuating now when it managed to survive the entire weekend without incident, I have no idea. I blame rogue forces in the troposphere.
I list these agenda items not because I'm complaining, you understand, although complaining is undeniably one of my favorite past-times. No, I'm merely explaining that current exigencies are interfering somewhat with my carefully orchestrated existence as a gluten guerrilla par excellence. Not only have I been unable to engage in any exciting culinary experiments recently, but I have also been denied the opportunity for my usual weekly lunch preparations, requiring me to depend on cereal bars and pre-washed salad greens for my noon-time sustenance.
Normally, this would not be too terribly onerous. I dearly love my Kind cranberry and almond bars (all natural! certified gluten free! dairy free! loaded with anti-oxidants! don't taste like packing material!) but my box of fifty, purchased wholesale from one of the internet's less objectionable health-food sites, became water-logged and icky during the recent deluge. In addition, actually reaching the box on its Metro shelf under the front step requires fording through quite a bit of standing water, and you know what they say - water may be deeper than it appears! Fearful that I might trip over something and accidentally submerge - bubbling quietly, never to be seen again - I decided to find an alternative convenience lunch to tide me over.
Tide me over. Get it? The aqueous conditions in our basement are no doubt putting me in a nautical frame of mind.
I presented myself in our supermarket's cereal/nutrition/sports bar aisle, conveniently located near the organic/socialist/bleeding heart department where I do so much of my shopping these days. There were literally hundreds of possibilities from which to make my selection! Wherever to begin?
Well, if there's one quality honed by gluten freedom-fighting, it's clarity of purpose. I was immediately able to discount roughly seven-eighths of the offerings, since they were visibly bulging with the sorts of grains I avoid, rather as a small craft avoids winds greater than Force 6 on the Beaufort scale.
I was subsequently able to eliminate about half the choices remaining, since they were sullied by coconut - my least favorite ingredient of all time and a troublingly common constituent in these sorts of products.
This left roughly four possibilities. Exhausted by my trials of late (see above) and the examination of so much fine print, I seized a couple from the middle of the pack, noting with some satisfaction that in addition to being labelled all natural and gluten free in bold letters right on the front label, they also contained chocolate and peanut butter, two substances with which it is difficult to go wrong. The fact that the manufacturers promised they would help me lose weight (my size 00 jeans are getting a shade tight, these days - I blame adverse atmospheric conditions) was an added bonus.
Tied by wayward electrons to my sputtering tests all day today, I decided to eat one of my new finds for lunch. To protect the guilty, let's call it a Think Again - pronounced as it might be on the Dukes of Hazzard, where again rhymes with belaying pin (should Bo, Daisy May, Jesse et al ever find themselves at sea).
First, I examined the label in the cold light of day. The first thing that came to my attention was the fact that each of these astonishing adipose-shedding miracle bars contained 230 calories, 80 of which were from fat. Now, I'm no expert, but that seemed like a lot considering the thing only weighted sixty grams. A quick trawl of trusted resources confirmed my suspicion: the equivalent serving size of one of my favorite nougat-filled candy bars contains only 11 calories more (easily burned through one minute's leisurely jump-roping, should I feel so inclined) and slightly less fat!
While we're on the subject of comparison, I should point out that neither contains anything significant in the way of vitamins (which my Kind bars possess in abundance), but my candy bar exceeds the Again's stores of calcium and fiber. My sweet treat does admittedly boast less protein, but then so does my Kind bar. No feelings of guilt there.
Finally, since you know what a stickler I am for the Trade Description Act, I am compelled to ask what is 'all natural' about the Again's whey protein isolate, sugar alcohol (huh?), maltitol, soy lecithin, or 'coating'? My candy bar has some suspicious ingredients too, of course (although fewer than you might suppose), but since it is making no claims for itself other than pure deliciousness, I am unmoved.
But all this would be as nothing if I'd found a tasty substitute for my Kind bars. A bit of variety to brighten my routine, a welcome change of pace, something to recommend to other gluten guerrillas suddenly finding themselves with too few leftovers for a tasty brown bag lunch.
And more virtuous-feeling than a candy bar, whatever the facts might be.
So I tasted it.
And guess what?
The Again went straight in the bin.
Next up: starving upon my return home at work-day's end, I unwrap a bar of Lindt milk chocolate and eat several squares spread thick with Banoffee sauce.
Wednesday, August 31, 2011
Sunday, August 28, 2011
Damp Squib
Despite a fair amount of Irene-related devastation round and about, up here on the hill we escaped today's hurricane relatively unscathed. A flooded basement and some downed trees were about all we had to show for the storm of the century, which came and went with only a few half-hearted power outages to remind us that Big Things Were Afoot.
The good news is I can now confirm the Wolf works just fine in a blackout, thank you very much. I feel a bit disloyal for ever having doubted the sure-fired sturdiness of my splendid steely stove and have resolved never again to doubt its steadfastness in the face of storms and setbacks.
One problem I am left with, however, is the mountainous supply of non-perishable and hurricane-proof provisions I laid in late last week. The bottled water is no hardship, of course, and the Squid is quite content to live off instant ramen and mac and cheese from a box for as long as needs require. Over time we will happily deplete the chocolate and alcohol inventory and since the fridge was never off for any length of time our perishable items are - as they say - safe as houses.
But I also bought a few cans of sweetened condensed milk for our coffee. I discovered (rather late in the game) that - even in the face of calamity - Sir would rather take his coffee black than pollute it with tinned moo, so I was left with a bit of a conundrum. The milk sat on the kitchen counter all day today, daring me to take some sort of action.
In the time it takes the Coriolis force to develop into a full-blown cyclonic vortex, I had it. Banoffee sauce! You know the stuff: it's the rich, dark, dulce de leche-type substance used as a pie filling with a digestive-biscuit crust, sliced bananas, and mountains of whipped cream. These days traditional pies are off the menu here a chez Fractured Amy, but the sauce has innumerable additional applications. One can make like Jamie Oliver and serve it as a 'mess' with crushed-up meringues, cream and fruit. Top it with bruleed bananas and you've got something really special. Glop it over ice cream or use it as a dipping sauce for apples.
One can even, I believe, it eat straight from the spoon, but I could not possibly confirm such an outrageous rumor. For a gluten freedom-fighter to engage in such greedy behavior would show an utter lack of self-control and disregard for lady-like deportment, wouldn't you agree?
To my knowledge there is only one bona fide way to make banoffee sauce. You take a can of condensed milk and put it on a plate, which you in turn place on the bottom of a big saucepan. You fill the pan with water so the can is completely covered and slap a lid on it. Bring the water to a boil, then reduce the heat and simmer it for the rest of the afternoon. Take care not to let the top of the can peek above the water level and in several hours you will be rewarded with fourteen ounces of thick, unctuous caramel goodness.
Oh, I know that some people of an unscientific mien are apt to warn would-be banoffee busters that the can will explode all over the wallpaper if they dare try this time-tested and traditional method. The internet (of course) is full of counterfeit procedures for the over-cautious cook, such as decanting the milk into a water bath for cooking in the oven or even - horrors! - using prepared dulce de leche from a jar.
Stuff and nonsense! I grasped one of the cans firmly and prepared to peel off the label in preparation for its submersion. Guess what met my eye?
Even the manufacturers are climbing aboard the bandwagon of timorousness! How they can justify financially the discouragement of a vital use for their own product I have no idea. I admit, though, to a second of hesitation. Was my luck about to run out, forcing me to scrub molten caramel off kitchen surfaces for all eternity?
I decided to risk it. Since disaster-wise I'd already dodged one bullet this weekend, I resolved boldly to face another and let the banana chips fall where they might. After all, life is just that much more sensational when a bit of danger is thrown into the mix.
Having done the deed, I confess that an hour or so later my confidence waned somewhat. Was it my imagination, or did we all find urgent tasks elsewhere while the pot simmered malevolently on the back burner? I went for two walks to survey damage in town (our local creek will probably burst its banks later tonight, but otherwise the place was quiet this afternoon) and spent a fair amount of time picking up plums and downed branches from the lawn. Sir decided to work upstairs in the farthest reaches of the house and the Kid Squid hid in his room, ostensibly getting himself emotionally prepared for the first day of school (since postponed). Every so often I went to check on the water level in the pot, standing at some distance and tentatively nudging the lid with my longest pair of metal tongs.
But - again! - I need not have worried. At four o'clock I removed the still in-tact can from its bath and, after waiting for it to cool a bit, pulled back its ring tab to survey the elixir within.
A practical and family-pleasing use having been found for the condensed milk, I am now left only with my twenty-four hours' worth of surplus butane, which - given its own explosive potential - I would rather not have hanging around the house for too long. Since the cans fit handily on my chef's torch, I foresee a good deal of bruleeing in my future (in addition to the bananas above, there's always traditional creme brulee - now perfected - as well as Modernist Cuisine's recipe for Parmesan Creme Brulee with Onion Sugar, the next egg experiment on my docket).
I suppose I could always take my portable burner camping (there's a first time for everything!) and use the butane in the manner for which it is intended, but that would necessarily require that I venture outdoors.
And haven't you heard?
The weather scares me.
The good news is I can now confirm the Wolf works just fine in a blackout, thank you very much. I feel a bit disloyal for ever having doubted the sure-fired sturdiness of my splendid steely stove and have resolved never again to doubt its steadfastness in the face of storms and setbacks.
One problem I am left with, however, is the mountainous supply of non-perishable and hurricane-proof provisions I laid in late last week. The bottled water is no hardship, of course, and the Squid is quite content to live off instant ramen and mac and cheese from a box for as long as needs require. Over time we will happily deplete the chocolate and alcohol inventory and since the fridge was never off for any length of time our perishable items are - as they say - safe as houses.
But I also bought a few cans of sweetened condensed milk for our coffee. I discovered (rather late in the game) that - even in the face of calamity - Sir would rather take his coffee black than pollute it with tinned moo, so I was left with a bit of a conundrum. The milk sat on the kitchen counter all day today, daring me to take some sort of action.
In the time it takes the Coriolis force to develop into a full-blown cyclonic vortex, I had it. Banoffee sauce! You know the stuff: it's the rich, dark, dulce de leche-type substance used as a pie filling with a digestive-biscuit crust, sliced bananas, and mountains of whipped cream. These days traditional pies are off the menu here a chez Fractured Amy, but the sauce has innumerable additional applications. One can make like Jamie Oliver and serve it as a 'mess' with crushed-up meringues, cream and fruit. Top it with bruleed bananas and you've got something really special. Glop it over ice cream or use it as a dipping sauce for apples.
One can even, I believe, it eat straight from the spoon, but I could not possibly confirm such an outrageous rumor. For a gluten freedom-fighter to engage in such greedy behavior would show an utter lack of self-control and disregard for lady-like deportment, wouldn't you agree?
To my knowledge there is only one bona fide way to make banoffee sauce. You take a can of condensed milk and put it on a plate, which you in turn place on the bottom of a big saucepan. You fill the pan with water so the can is completely covered and slap a lid on it. Bring the water to a boil, then reduce the heat and simmer it for the rest of the afternoon. Take care not to let the top of the can peek above the water level and in several hours you will be rewarded with fourteen ounces of thick, unctuous caramel goodness.
Oh, I know that some people of an unscientific mien are apt to warn would-be banoffee busters that the can will explode all over the wallpaper if they dare try this time-tested and traditional method. The internet (of course) is full of counterfeit procedures for the over-cautious cook, such as decanting the milk into a water bath for cooking in the oven or even - horrors! - using prepared dulce de leche from a jar.
Stuff and nonsense! I grasped one of the cans firmly and prepared to peel off the label in preparation for its submersion. Guess what met my eye?
Even the manufacturers are climbing aboard the bandwagon of timorousness! How they can justify financially the discouragement of a vital use for their own product I have no idea. I admit, though, to a second of hesitation. Was my luck about to run out, forcing me to scrub molten caramel off kitchen surfaces for all eternity?
I decided to risk it. Since disaster-wise I'd already dodged one bullet this weekend, I resolved boldly to face another and let the banana chips fall where they might. After all, life is just that much more sensational when a bit of danger is thrown into the mix.
Having done the deed, I confess that an hour or so later my confidence waned somewhat. Was it my imagination, or did we all find urgent tasks elsewhere while the pot simmered malevolently on the back burner? I went for two walks to survey damage in town (our local creek will probably burst its banks later tonight, but otherwise the place was quiet this afternoon) and spent a fair amount of time picking up plums and downed branches from the lawn. Sir decided to work upstairs in the farthest reaches of the house and the Kid Squid hid in his room, ostensibly getting himself emotionally prepared for the first day of school (since postponed). Every so often I went to check on the water level in the pot, standing at some distance and tentatively nudging the lid with my longest pair of metal tongs.
But - again! - I need not have worried. At four o'clock I removed the still in-tact can from its bath and, after waiting for it to cool a bit, pulled back its ring tab to survey the elixir within.
Perfection! And with nary a pop or hiss to justify all the scaremongering. We celebrated with great lashings of sauce straight from the spoon.
A practical and family-pleasing use having been found for the condensed milk, I am now left only with my twenty-four hours' worth of surplus butane, which - given its own explosive potential - I would rather not have hanging around the house for too long. Since the cans fit handily on my chef's torch, I foresee a good deal of bruleeing in my future (in addition to the bananas above, there's always traditional creme brulee - now perfected - as well as Modernist Cuisine's recipe for Parmesan Creme Brulee with Onion Sugar, the next egg experiment on my docket).
I suppose I could always take my portable burner camping (there's a first time for everything!) and use the butane in the manner for which it is intended, but that would necessarily require that I venture outdoors.
And haven't you heard?
The weather scares me.
Friday, August 26, 2011
Après moi, le déluge
Campers, you may not have heard - but there's a hurricane headed my way!
I have spent the last 24 hours or so feverishly preparing for every foreseeable circumstance.
The bathtubs are sparkly clean and ready to receive their last-minute fillings of cold water. In addition, twenty gallons of bottled water for drinking and cooking are lined up neatly in the basement. The ice cube maker in the freezer has been going full tilt, preparing chilling fodder for the insulated chests which will harbor milk and other perishables when the electricity goes off, as the weather-prediction panjandrums cheerfully and tirelessly inform us it inevitably will. After the fresh moo runs out, I have a few cans of sweetened condensed milk standing by for our coffee and whatever else strikes our fancy. There are laid in bottles and bottles of alcohol (for medicinal and antiseptic purposes, of course); about six pounds of chocolate and roughly three hundred jars of home-made preserves. The Squid has sufficient personal supplies of iced tea, apple juice, and chocolate chip cookies to last the duration, even if through some freak downdraft or cyclonic inversion he is trapped in his bedroom for several days, unable to make his way downstairs to the kitchen where the more conventional supplies are warehoused.
Although I have no fear of the house blowing or floating away, weighed down as it is by the Wolf (the thing has a mass equivalent to that of a small pickup truck), there is some dispute as to whether my beautiful cooker will function without electricity. Some Folks in the Know assert that it's only the electric starters that stop working, while Others assure me that the supply of gas is automatically cut off as a safety precaution. Since our power fails with some regularity up here on our hill, I am at a loss to explain why I myself am ignorant about the Truth of the Situation. I shall report on the Wolf's blackout operations in due course, but to be on the safe side I have thoroughly tested the portable shabu-shabu burner and placed it on a convenient countertop together with twelve cans of butane (roughly 24 hours' worth of high heat) ready and willing to do their bit.
In the process of readying the family for the upcoming Apocalypse, however, I have discovered that in the disaster-preparedness arena - as in so many others - gluten freedom-fighters are at a distinct disadvantage.
Take as evidence the imperative to stock the household with three days' worth of food, minimum. Easy as anything for the gluten lovers among us: sandwiches with fresh fillings for as long as they hold out, switching to peanut butter and/or Nutella on the fourth or fifth day; followed in due course by instant ramen, Kraft macaroni and cheese, and tinned soup (many cans of which contain gluten, for shame!). The Boys could live in this manner quite happily, I believe, for months and months - in fact, I believe most college students subsist on such a diet for years with few obvious ill effects.
I, of course, couldn't eat a bowl of instant ramen (not even the tasty gourmet variety from Myojo Foods in sunny Sendagaya, Shibuya-ku) if my life depended upon it. No, my backup rations (apart from the above-mentioned gin, whisky, apricot preserves, and Lindt special recipe) are Kind cranberry and almond bars (all natural! certified gluten free! dairy free! loaded with anti-oxidants! don't taste like packing material!); Heinz baked beans (my favorite under any circumstances and only available from the fancy foreign food aisle at Wegmans); and a good deal of positive thinking.
After all - it might never happen!
Next up: I emerge after the storm to survey the damage and re-boot my computer.
I have spent the last 24 hours or so feverishly preparing for every foreseeable circumstance.
The bathtubs are sparkly clean and ready to receive their last-minute fillings of cold water. In addition, twenty gallons of bottled water for drinking and cooking are lined up neatly in the basement. The ice cube maker in the freezer has been going full tilt, preparing chilling fodder for the insulated chests which will harbor milk and other perishables when the electricity goes off, as the weather-prediction panjandrums cheerfully and tirelessly inform us it inevitably will. After the fresh moo runs out, I have a few cans of sweetened condensed milk standing by for our coffee and whatever else strikes our fancy. There are laid in bottles and bottles of alcohol (for medicinal and antiseptic purposes, of course); about six pounds of chocolate and roughly three hundred jars of home-made preserves. The Squid has sufficient personal supplies of iced tea, apple juice, and chocolate chip cookies to last the duration, even if through some freak downdraft or cyclonic inversion he is trapped in his bedroom for several days, unable to make his way downstairs to the kitchen where the more conventional supplies are warehoused.
Although I have no fear of the house blowing or floating away, weighed down as it is by the Wolf (the thing has a mass equivalent to that of a small pickup truck), there is some dispute as to whether my beautiful cooker will function without electricity. Some Folks in the Know assert that it's only the electric starters that stop working, while Others assure me that the supply of gas is automatically cut off as a safety precaution. Since our power fails with some regularity up here on our hill, I am at a loss to explain why I myself am ignorant about the Truth of the Situation. I shall report on the Wolf's blackout operations in due course, but to be on the safe side I have thoroughly tested the portable shabu-shabu burner and placed it on a convenient countertop together with twelve cans of butane (roughly 24 hours' worth of high heat) ready and willing to do their bit.
In the process of readying the family for the upcoming Apocalypse, however, I have discovered that in the disaster-preparedness arena - as in so many others - gluten freedom-fighters are at a distinct disadvantage.
Take as evidence the imperative to stock the household with three days' worth of food, minimum. Easy as anything for the gluten lovers among us: sandwiches with fresh fillings for as long as they hold out, switching to peanut butter and/or Nutella on the fourth or fifth day; followed in due course by instant ramen, Kraft macaroni and cheese, and tinned soup (many cans of which contain gluten, for shame!). The Boys could live in this manner quite happily, I believe, for months and months - in fact, I believe most college students subsist on such a diet for years with few obvious ill effects.
I, of course, couldn't eat a bowl of instant ramen (not even the tasty gourmet variety from Myojo Foods in sunny Sendagaya, Shibuya-ku) if my life depended upon it. No, my backup rations (apart from the above-mentioned gin, whisky, apricot preserves, and Lindt special recipe) are Kind cranberry and almond bars (all natural! certified gluten free! dairy free! loaded with anti-oxidants! don't taste like packing material!); Heinz baked beans (my favorite under any circumstances and only available from the fancy foreign food aisle at Wegmans); and a good deal of positive thinking.
After all - it might never happen!
Next up: I emerge after the storm to survey the damage and re-boot my computer.
Thursday, August 25, 2011
Just Desserts, Episode 1: Ogres, Witches, and Wolves, Oh My!
I woke up an hour early this morning - lately it's been staying noticeably darker into the early morning hours, I've observed - to skip downstairs and share some quality time with my DVR and Bravo's latest batch of baking bandits.
That's right, Campers, it's the second season of Just Desserts!
Since we already know our sweet strivers from the thoughtfully-provided bios on the show's website, let's get straight to it, shall we?
We open with The Shoes and The Pompadour sashaying into an olde ice cream shoppe to set our competitors their first challenge - to create a modern soda fountain treat that provides a twist on 'classic American nostalgia.' The first item of note is that The Pompadour's ridiculous keychain is back. The second is that a good deal of time is spent rubbishing last season's pastry cheftestants, with the damning declaration that this time round each dessert will be assessed 'on how it looks as well as how it tastes.' I can only suppose this is a not-so-subtle dig at dear Zac and his outrageous alimentary accoutrements. Does this mean we will not be treated to the sugary spectacles of fairy dust and blue food coloring this season? I for one will be extremely disappointed if this is the case.
But at least I can console myself with the fact that the chilly Quickfire has limitless gluten-free possibilities! I ponder the myriad things you can do with ice cream as the gladiators 'run around like idiots' - especially the ones choosing to wear those paper soda-jerk hats so beloved of old Jimmy Stewart movies. There's the usual frenzied food flurry and not-so-usual (for this show, anyway) macho posturing (yes, Orlando, I'm looking at you) and in no time at all the results are presented for the judges' inspection.
Of course, there's gluten in just about every single offering. Wafers, malted milk powder, sponge cake, micro-cake (huh?), and Captain Crunch (really?) all make an appearance, thus spoiling my enjoyment no end. My interest is piqued briefly by something called banana carpaccio, but further details are not forthcoming. I choose to believe that this delicacy is something more than cold, raw, sliced bananas but don't really hold out much hope. Our saccharine scrappers can't really help themselves, can they?
On to the elimination challenge! The pastry pugilists must work in teams to produce showpieces and associated plated desserts inspired by four fairy tales. Nelson, the Argentinian quick-fire winner, is immediately thrown into a tizzy. 'I don't eefun know khoo dees Goldeelux eez,' he sadly THs, but apparently fails to challenge the producers over the culturally-biased premise underpinning the task ahead.
Very little about the food is discussed, but we do learn a bit more about the personalities gracing our LCD displays.
That's right, Campers, it's the second season of Just Desserts!
Since we already know our sweet strivers from the thoughtfully-provided bios on the show's website, let's get straight to it, shall we?
We open with The Shoes and The Pompadour sashaying into an olde ice cream shoppe to set our competitors their first challenge - to create a modern soda fountain treat that provides a twist on 'classic American nostalgia.' The first item of note is that The Pompadour's ridiculous keychain is back. The second is that a good deal of time is spent rubbishing last season's pastry cheftestants, with the damning declaration that this time round each dessert will be assessed 'on how it looks as well as how it tastes.' I can only suppose this is a not-so-subtle dig at dear Zac and his outrageous alimentary accoutrements. Does this mean we will not be treated to the sugary spectacles of fairy dust and blue food coloring this season? I for one will be extremely disappointed if this is the case.
But at least I can console myself with the fact that the chilly Quickfire has limitless gluten-free possibilities! I ponder the myriad things you can do with ice cream as the gladiators 'run around like idiots' - especially the ones choosing to wear those paper soda-jerk hats so beloved of old Jimmy Stewart movies. There's the usual frenzied food flurry and not-so-usual (for this show, anyway) macho posturing (yes, Orlando, I'm looking at you) and in no time at all the results are presented for the judges' inspection.
Of course, there's gluten in just about every single offering. Wafers, malted milk powder, sponge cake, micro-cake (huh?), and Captain Crunch (really?) all make an appearance, thus spoiling my enjoyment no end. My interest is piqued briefly by something called banana carpaccio, but further details are not forthcoming. I choose to believe that this delicacy is something more than cold, raw, sliced bananas but don't really hold out much hope. Our saccharine scrappers can't really help themselves, can they?
On to the elimination challenge! The pastry pugilists must work in teams to produce showpieces and associated plated desserts inspired by four fairy tales. Nelson, the Argentinian quick-fire winner, is immediately thrown into a tizzy. 'I don't eefun know khoo dees Goldeelux eez,' he sadly THs, but apparently fails to challenge the producers over the culturally-biased premise underpinning the task ahead.
Very little about the food is discussed, but we do learn a bit more about the personalities gracing our LCD displays.
- Craig, known to us previously only as a cake-decorating self-expressionist, now reveals himself to be a big Harry Potter fan and even bigger sad sack. His team, desperately hunting for a responsibility to which he can prove himself equal, relegates him to the task of cutting the cake.
- Megan (described as 'fun and creative' in her Bravo blurb) proves her mettle by winking - winking! - at The Pompadour as she presents her dessert. I immediately award her five out of five for cheekiness.
- Orlando is a pompous ass who clearly feels it's his duty to be the villain straight from central casting. He alienates me utterly and without possibility of parole when he declares rice pudding - one of my all-time favorite things - as being for 'old people'.
- Rebecca is a whiny infant (at least, in Orlando's estimation) who unaccountably objects to the substitution of steel cut oats for the rice in her pudding recipe.
- Chris implies he's inevitably Slated for the Big Win, but is otherwise unobjectionable.
- Vanarin seems to have a crush on both The Shoes and The Pompadour, making the astonishing statement that 'Johnny's eyes stare deep into your soul.' This guy needs serious watching: I fear he may be the first to have an emotional implosion, since he is clearly several profiteroles short of a croquembouche .
- The bottomless Katzie turns out to be really boring. What a pity - I had such high hopes for her!
- Lina, who boasts that she's world-recognized as the producer of 'the best cupcakes in Austin', seems to think that gingerbread is not cake. There follows a very confusing discussion (confusing to me, anyway) where she and Melissa talk at cross purposes about the possible components of the house belonging to Hansel and Gretel's wicked witch.
- Melissa, who I predict will be this season's Spike clone, decides she hates Lina within five minutes of having the above discussion. She also has an unedifying hissy fit at judge's table, perpetrating the first Throwing Under a Bus.
- Sally (she of the 'Best Sportsmanship' Award), Matthew (leather mules), and Carlos (father of six) make absolutely no impression whatsoever.
- Our judges have a dread fear of NFGs (non-functional garnishes).
- It's very important, when engineering an edible showpiece, to balance the structure so the weight is on top, a feat the Little Red Riding Hood team (Chris, Carlos, Amanda, and Matthew) managed with aplomb.
- Being the Lone Star State's cupcake queen is no guarantee that one will make it through the first round, especially when one is unceremoniously thrown under the bus.
- Hubert Keller is so completely wonderful that he is able to carry off even the most ridiculous Sgt. Pepper costume with the grace and style of Prince Charming himself.
- I experience a sudden craving for rice pudding.
Tuesday, August 23, 2011
Breakfast Reading
I am still without a morning newspaper, since I continue to be philosophically conflicted about the NYTimes' online subscription plan. My fervent hope is that the Powers That Be will see the error of their ways and give up the paywall as a failed experiment before election season gets into full swing, but in the meantime I am without my early-morning current-events fix. I therefore spend the happy twenty minutes (the time it takes me to enjoy my Breakfast of Gluten-Free Champions) checking e-mail, catching up on Facebook, and perusing dead tree magazines, chief among these being my cherished New Yorkers and mysterious gratis issues of Bon Appetit.
Two items of note caught my eye this morning as I spooned up my chia seeds, organic yogurt, and home-made banana and strawberry compote.
The first, which filled my heart with unutterable joy, was the notification from Amazon - sent to me personally! - that Neal Stephenson's next novel is due out on September 20. Those who know me - and are familiar with my slavish devotion to Stephenson's oeuvre - will immediately understand the significance of this news. I have been waiting ages and ages for him to produce his next herniating tome and getting quite impatient, frankly. I'd already re-read his previous four books, like, six zillion times (I find novels to be uncomplaining companions at the stove, particularly when one is stirring for the long periods required by custard, cheese curds, and risotto) and was beginning to despair there would ever be another one to brighten my life. The notification this morning was as manna from heaven and I hastily pre-ordered a copy.
Such was my delight that it took some effort and concentration to get annoyed and provoked by the second item of note, but I managed it nonetheless. Never let it be said that I allow a good mood to get in the way of self-righteous indignation!
The source of my consternation was, of course, the September issue of Bon Appetit, delivered to my door yesterday by Glenda, our otherwise valuable and doughty mail ma'am. What did I see as I perused the contents of the so-called Restaurant Issue? My spine was chilled by an item appearing on page 62 under the heading Good Health:
Ye gods.
I have observed before that everybody is going gluten-free these days - often for dubious reasons, in my opinion. I'm afraid I am not one of the faithful who believes that the eschewal of cereal proteins will cure autism, left-handedness, debt in the Euro-zone; or atmospheric perturbations such as the hurricane currently bearing down on all of us (the less said about earthquakes, these days, the better).
I'm not even sure a gluten-free diet will help one overcome 'fatigue and brain fog (in just three days!)' as the medical experts quoted in the article assert. Quite apart from my previous ignorance that 'brain fog' was a scientific term and the laughable claim that 'now it's easier than ever to find decent baked goods,' I found the piece objectionable in many, many different ways.
My views on the gluten-free bandwagon are firm and well-documented elsewhere. I would, however, like to add to my not-inconsiderable list of grievances the fact that I'm pretty sure the last time I went into a restaurant and made mention of my dietary restriction (the staff did ask, after all) there followed a certain amount of discreet eye-rolling in response. I can only suppose this is because every third person is presenting herself with a 'gluten intolerance' these days and chef is getting fairly fed up with diners turning up their noses at his glorious home-made bread, delicate spaetzle, and perfect tart crust.
The last thing we bona fide gluten guerillas need is a bunch of newly-converted enthusiasts creating extra work and bad mojo in our favorite kitchens - especially since said campaigners will soon have moved on to some other fear, leaving us to deal with the fallout. I speak as an old gluten freedom-fighter of almost an entire year's standing (I mark my twelve-month anniversary on September 12), with no end in sight - and none of my quacks' promised health improvements, either.
Resentful? Maybe.
Sceptical? Definitely.
I think I need to stop reading Bon Appetit.
But that's OK.
I'll have Neal Stephenson for consolation.
Two items of note caught my eye this morning as I spooned up my chia seeds, organic yogurt, and home-made banana and strawberry compote.
The first, which filled my heart with unutterable joy, was the notification from Amazon - sent to me personally! - that Neal Stephenson's next novel is due out on September 20. Those who know me - and are familiar with my slavish devotion to Stephenson's oeuvre - will immediately understand the significance of this news. I have been waiting ages and ages for him to produce his next herniating tome and getting quite impatient, frankly. I'd already re-read his previous four books, like, six zillion times (I find novels to be uncomplaining companions at the stove, particularly when one is stirring for the long periods required by custard, cheese curds, and risotto) and was beginning to despair there would ever be another one to brighten my life. The notification this morning was as manna from heaven and I hastily pre-ordered a copy.
Such was my delight that it took some effort and concentration to get annoyed and provoked by the second item of note, but I managed it nonetheless. Never let it be said that I allow a good mood to get in the way of self-righteous indignation!
The source of my consternation was, of course, the September issue of Bon Appetit, delivered to my door yesterday by Glenda, our otherwise valuable and doughty mail ma'am. What did I see as I perused the contents of the so-called Restaurant Issue? My spine was chilled by an item appearing on page 62 under the heading Good Health:
Gluten-Free for All: We get to the bottom
of the diet du jour
Ye gods.
I have observed before that everybody is going gluten-free these days - often for dubious reasons, in my opinion. I'm afraid I am not one of the faithful who believes that the eschewal of cereal proteins will cure autism, left-handedness, debt in the Euro-zone; or atmospheric perturbations such as the hurricane currently bearing down on all of us (the less said about earthquakes, these days, the better).
I'm not even sure a gluten-free diet will help one overcome 'fatigue and brain fog (in just three days!)' as the medical experts quoted in the article assert. Quite apart from my previous ignorance that 'brain fog' was a scientific term and the laughable claim that 'now it's easier than ever to find decent baked goods,' I found the piece objectionable in many, many different ways.
My views on the gluten-free bandwagon are firm and well-documented elsewhere. I would, however, like to add to my not-inconsiderable list of grievances the fact that I'm pretty sure the last time I went into a restaurant and made mention of my dietary restriction (the staff did ask, after all) there followed a certain amount of discreet eye-rolling in response. I can only suppose this is because every third person is presenting herself with a 'gluten intolerance' these days and chef is getting fairly fed up with diners turning up their noses at his glorious home-made bread, delicate spaetzle, and perfect tart crust.
The last thing we bona fide gluten guerillas need is a bunch of newly-converted enthusiasts creating extra work and bad mojo in our favorite kitchens - especially since said campaigners will soon have moved on to some other fear, leaving us to deal with the fallout. I speak as an old gluten freedom-fighter of almost an entire year's standing (I mark my twelve-month anniversary on September 12), with no end in sight - and none of my quacks' promised health improvements, either.
Resentful? Maybe.
Sceptical? Definitely.
I think I need to stop reading Bon Appetit.
But that's OK.
I'll have Neal Stephenson for consolation.
Monday, August 22, 2011
Marco Polo Returns
The Kid Squid is back from Venice, where he had a tempo meraviglioso strolling along the canals, exposing himself to art, and soaking up all the delights that La Serenissima has to offer.
Chief among these, of course, was gluten.
It was with a look of some guilt and disquiet that he addressed my usual question to a returning traveller, 'What was the best thing you ate?' At first he skirted the issue with the excuse that it was difficult to choose just one dish - or even one particular meal - since they were all so perfectly prepared, delicious, and memorable, etc. etc. Ever persistent, I finally winkled the truth out of him - he did nothing for a week but gorge himself on tortellini, lasagne, pizza, sweet breakfast pastries and his new favorite food of all time, gnocchi (the potato ones that look like little kidneys, rather than the Roman ones made with semolina - not that that it makes a difference, since both varieties are loaded with gluten).
Apologizing for his disloyalty and allowing that I would have an emotionally difficult time in Venice these days, he added that he did notice a few allowances were made for gluten guerillas vacationing in the centro storico. The Squid even took a picture to prove that a) he was not insensitive to my plight and b) he was thinking of me while he was away.
Isn't that sweet?
I think later this week I'll make him gnocchi for dinner.
Chief among these, of course, was gluten.
It was with a look of some guilt and disquiet that he addressed my usual question to a returning traveller, 'What was the best thing you ate?' At first he skirted the issue with the excuse that it was difficult to choose just one dish - or even one particular meal - since they were all so perfectly prepared, delicious, and memorable, etc. etc. Ever persistent, I finally winkled the truth out of him - he did nothing for a week but gorge himself on tortellini, lasagne, pizza, sweet breakfast pastries and his new favorite food of all time, gnocchi (the potato ones that look like little kidneys, rather than the Roman ones made with semolina - not that that it makes a difference, since both varieties are loaded with gluten).
Apologizing for his disloyalty and allowing that I would have an emotionally difficult time in Venice these days, he added that he did notice a few allowances were made for gluten guerillas vacationing in the centro storico. The Squid even took a picture to prove that a) he was not insensitive to my plight and b) he was thinking of me while he was away.
Isn't that sweet?
I think later this week I'll make him gnocchi for dinner.
Saturday, August 20, 2011
The Doctor is In
Deciding that Sir's lingering flu required drastic intervention, I went to work and came up with a remedy more efficacious than any pharmaceutical preparation known to science: Sweet Hellfire Jelly. The treatment contains syrupy Sauternes to sooth Sir's scratchy throat; ripe red garden-fresh cherry peppers for sinus-clearing purposes; lemon juice (Vitamin C for both its cold-curing and anti-scorbutic properties - you can't be too careful, these days!); and Hunza raisins (famous for their anti-inflammatory powers).
He'll be better in no time.
He'll be better in no time.
Friday, August 19, 2011
Fruit and Veg
While Sir lay on the sofa with a box of tissues and a bottle of cough medicine, sipping Earl Grey and gathering his strength, I decided it was high time to take advantage of the second day of fine weather (in a row!) to carry out my monthly inspection of the farm. I had given it a quick once-over the day we returned from our hols, but hadn't had the chance to do a proper evaluation since.
With some trepidation, I snuck around the back to see what was The Situation.
Not bad, as it turned out! Here's where we stand:
All my herbs are growing like proverbial weeds. I can report it has been a particularly fine year for tarragon, thyme, and lavender, although my basil is quite respectable, too. Even my leggy and bedraggled basilico Genovese, which I bought cheap very late in the season (to replace the borage that I yanked out, discovering it was Too Ugly To Live), has grown to shrub-size, auguring many gallons of pesto in October.
The tomatoes are doing their thing, of which I have written elsewhere. Even the poor heirloom plant situated directly in front of the hot air vent seems to have developed a liking for its growing conditions and has been performing its duties admirably. I have heard a number of complaints from gardeners round and about that their tomatoes are a strange shade of orange this year (rather than their traditional ruby red) but I have had no such difficulties here on the hill. Perhaps the altitude has something to do with it.
The butternuts are growing nicely but still have some way to go. I assume they will make like pumpkins and be ready some time in October, should the warm weather last that long. I hope it will - they are my favorite things in the garden, at present. They are so cute!
My peppers are hugely successful, but I think I will have insufficient numbers for the bottling project I had originally planned. Never mind - I have found an awesome recipe for Sweet Hellfire Jelly, made with finely-diced peppers, Sauternes, and lemon. This is so exciting I will probably be whipping up a batch tomorrow, together with the banana jam I am preparing for the Allentown Fair. Next year I will cultivate twice as many plants and there will be no stopping me.
Of my experimental veg, the less said the better. My cauliflower went completely to seed, as previously predicted, and the romanesco - two feet tall with fearsome spikes on top - was blown over in a gale while we were away. I removed both eyesores from their beds and dumped them in the woods, where somebody or something is bound to enjoy them. Lesson learned: brassicas are a no-go, given my rather laissez-faire gardening style.
Sir's plums are, as per usual, falling to the ground with great determination. He has been too sick to do any harvesting, more's the pity, but there's still plenty on the trees awaiting his attention. And very pretty they are, too.
Oh no ... what's that I hear? Guess what?
It's raining again!
*sigh* I better go and close all the windows.
With some trepidation, I snuck around the back to see what was The Situation.
Not bad, as it turned out! Here's where we stand:
All my herbs are growing like proverbial weeds. I can report it has been a particularly fine year for tarragon, thyme, and lavender, although my basil is quite respectable, too. Even my leggy and bedraggled basilico Genovese, which I bought cheap very late in the season (to replace the borage that I yanked out, discovering it was Too Ugly To Live), has grown to shrub-size, auguring many gallons of pesto in October.
The tomatoes are doing their thing, of which I have written elsewhere. Even the poor heirloom plant situated directly in front of the hot air vent seems to have developed a liking for its growing conditions and has been performing its duties admirably. I have heard a number of complaints from gardeners round and about that their tomatoes are a strange shade of orange this year (rather than their traditional ruby red) but I have had no such difficulties here on the hill. Perhaps the altitude has something to do with it.
My peppers are hugely successful, but I think I will have insufficient numbers for the bottling project I had originally planned. Never mind - I have found an awesome recipe for Sweet Hellfire Jelly, made with finely-diced peppers, Sauternes, and lemon. This is so exciting I will probably be whipping up a batch tomorrow, together with the banana jam I am preparing for the Allentown Fair. Next year I will cultivate twice as many plants and there will be no stopping me.
Of my experimental veg, the less said the better. My cauliflower went completely to seed, as previously predicted, and the romanesco - two feet tall with fearsome spikes on top - was blown over in a gale while we were away. I removed both eyesores from their beds and dumped them in the woods, where somebody or something is bound to enjoy them. Lesson learned: brassicas are a no-go, given my rather laissez-faire gardening style.
Oh no ... what's that I hear? Guess what?
It's raining again!
*sigh* I better go and close all the windows.
Thursday, August 18, 2011
Preventive Medicine
I have been unable to do any serious gluten freedom-fighting this week as my attention has been focused on Sir, who has come down with a virulent case of summer flu. Unable to think, go to work, or attend to yard responsibilities, he has been lying on the sofa for the last two days whimpering, playing Angry Birds, and nibbling on home-made Wensleydale (now aged and awesome!) with fig jam, the only food he seems able to digest at present.
Poor lamb!
Although the exact causes of Sir's condition are medical mysteries, I have two theories:
Since Sir requested only 'a small bowl of lobster bisque for dinner, please' I was on my own for the evening meal. It was the work of only a moment to decide what I needed: something cheering after my long hours of drudgery on the estate; something cool and refreshing (ditto); and something with body-bolstering and flu-fighting properties, should Sir's germ's decide to migrate in my direction.
The answer? A heroic bowl of vanilla ice-cream (not home-made, but you can't have everything) with warmed almond-scented fresh berry compote and Original Cool Whip (now richer and creamier! contains milk!).
I am unabashed and make no apologies.
It is, after all, pure therapy.
Poor lamb!
Although the exact causes of Sir's condition are medical mysteries, I have two theories:
- He is pining for the Kid Squid, at present incommunicado as he gallivants around Venice (the one in Italy) with his favorite aunt. Their home-away-from-home in La Serenissima is apparently without Wi-Fi, causing a vexing news blackout and prompting our imaginations to run amok.
- He has lost the will to live after hearing the results of the Iowa Straw Poll. It might be a coincidence, but as I recall he took to his bed shortly after the news broke, crying 'We're all doomed!' to nobody in particular. It is but a short hop-skip-and-a-jump from political despair to general malaise, and although I'm sure Sir will rally in due course, I am becoming increasingly concerned about the turn his health might take once the presidential campaigning gets into full swing.
Since Sir requested only 'a small bowl of lobster bisque for dinner, please' I was on my own for the evening meal. It was the work of only a moment to decide what I needed: something cheering after my long hours of drudgery on the estate; something cool and refreshing (ditto); and something with body-bolstering and flu-fighting properties, should Sir's germ's decide to migrate in my direction.
The answer? A heroic bowl of vanilla ice-cream (not home-made, but you can't have everything) with warmed almond-scented fresh berry compote and Original Cool Whip (now richer and creamier! contains milk!).
I am unabashed and make no apologies.
It is, after all, pure therapy.
Monday, August 15, 2011
Good and Polenta-y
Campers, the wet cold dreichness of a Scottish August seems to have followed us home to Pennsylvania - and my compulsion to conserve the ripest, freshest summer produce has duly transformed into an urgent need to bake. This often happens when I am faced with rainy weather and many, many loads of laundry.
Inspired, perhaps, by my recent holiday and yearning once again for a slice of Valvona and Crolla's excellent syrup-soaked gluten-free orange polenta cake, I did something I don't normally do - I spent a few moments trawling the web for likely-looking procedures.
Now, I am on record as being distrustful of internet recipes and the ten minutes I devoted to the task were largely spent in vain. Most of the schemes I discovered involved the use of some proportion of *shudder* wheat flour; quick-cooking polenta (non in questa vita!); or strange manufacturer-specific sugars that I do not keep in the house.
No, I needed to be able to produce a gluten-free cake without any weird or convenience ingredients and did what I usually do in these circumstances: I made it up as I went along.
As a foundation for my cake I decided to use my favorite corn flour (organic! stone ground!) rather than coarse polenta, which I thought would provide too challenging a texture in the final product - if it even cooked at all. One of the recipes I found included some ground almonds in the batter, which I thought sounded like a fine idea - so I stole it. For the syrup, I decided to use turbinado sugar because I thought the brown caramel earthiness would provide a nice counterpoint to the oranges. I considered adding some orange liqueur or Amaretto to the syrup but didn't, in the end, as I'm pretty sure the cake at V&C was alcohol-less.
The fabrication of the cake proved to be simplicity itself, apart from the fact that in the process my trusty handmixer gave up the ghost with a fearful screeching and clanking and, if I'm not mistaken, a small puff of smoke. This alarming event necessitated the hasty retrieval of my standmixer from its appointed Metro shelf and production resumed without further incident.
The result was extremely delicious, if I say so myself - one of my best yet, in fact. It was as moistly sweet and toothsome as the cake I enjoyed in Edinburgh (and looked like it, too!) and sufficiently cheerful and zesty to drive away gloomy thoughts of rain.
Orange Polenta Cake alla Scozzese
For the cake
Beat the eggs and sugar together vigorously until you get a light mousse. Slowly beat in the melted butter.
Add the almonds, corn flour, and baking powder and combine well. Mix in the remaining ingredients.
Pour the batter into your prepared tin and bake for 45 minutes or until the cake is done.
While that is happening, combine the orange juice and sugar in a small pan and heat slowly until the sugar is dissolved. Raise the heat and boil for about three minutes, or until you have a nice syrup. Add the booze at the end if you are using it.
As soon as the cake comes out of the oven, brush the hot syrup over the top - you might not need it all. Leave the cake on a rack and remove it from the pan when it is cool. Serve at room temp (or slightly heated in the microwave) with powdered sugar, thick cream, or ice cream.
Inspired, perhaps, by my recent holiday and yearning once again for a slice of Valvona and Crolla's excellent syrup-soaked gluten-free orange polenta cake, I did something I don't normally do - I spent a few moments trawling the web for likely-looking procedures.
Now, I am on record as being distrustful of internet recipes and the ten minutes I devoted to the task were largely spent in vain. Most of the schemes I discovered involved the use of some proportion of *shudder* wheat flour; quick-cooking polenta (non in questa vita!); or strange manufacturer-specific sugars that I do not keep in the house.
No, I needed to be able to produce a gluten-free cake without any weird or convenience ingredients and did what I usually do in these circumstances: I made it up as I went along.
As a foundation for my cake I decided to use my favorite corn flour (organic! stone ground!) rather than coarse polenta, which I thought would provide too challenging a texture in the final product - if it even cooked at all. One of the recipes I found included some ground almonds in the batter, which I thought sounded like a fine idea - so I stole it. For the syrup, I decided to use turbinado sugar because I thought the brown caramel earthiness would provide a nice counterpoint to the oranges. I considered adding some orange liqueur or Amaretto to the syrup but didn't, in the end, as I'm pretty sure the cake at V&C was alcohol-less.
The fabrication of the cake proved to be simplicity itself, apart from the fact that in the process my trusty handmixer gave up the ghost with a fearful screeching and clanking and, if I'm not mistaken, a small puff of smoke. This alarming event necessitated the hasty retrieval of my standmixer from its appointed Metro shelf and production resumed without further incident.
The result was extremely delicious, if I say so myself - one of my best yet, in fact. It was as moistly sweet and toothsome as the cake I enjoyed in Edinburgh (and looked like it, too!) and sufficiently cheerful and zesty to drive away gloomy thoughts of rain.
Orange Polenta Cake alla Scozzese
For the cake
- 3 eggs
- 7 oz granulated sugar
- 7 oz butter, melted and cooled
- 5 oz ground almonds
- 5 oz corn flour (organic! stone ground!)
- 1 1/2 tsp baking powder
- 1 tsp vanilla
- grated zest of one orange
- pinch o' salt
- strained juice of 2 oranges
- 5 oz turbinado sugar
- splash of booze, if desired
Beat the eggs and sugar together vigorously until you get a light mousse. Slowly beat in the melted butter.
Add the almonds, corn flour, and baking powder and combine well. Mix in the remaining ingredients.
Pour the batter into your prepared tin and bake for 45 minutes or until the cake is done.
While that is happening, combine the orange juice and sugar in a small pan and heat slowly until the sugar is dissolved. Raise the heat and boil for about three minutes, or until you have a nice syrup. Add the booze at the end if you are using it.
As soon as the cake comes out of the oven, brush the hot syrup over the top - you might not need it all. Leave the cake on a rack and remove it from the pan when it is cool. Serve at room temp (or slightly heated in the microwave) with powdered sugar, thick cream, or ice cream.
Sunday, August 14, 2011
Tomato Catch-Up
For the last two weeks I have been cold, damp, and windblown for much of the time. It had been difficult, during the family's UK sojourn, to remember that there were still parts of the world where it was hot and humid as a greenhouse and where the growing season could support more than cold-weather veg such as brussels sprouts and cabbages.
As a result, when I returned home I was confronted with a bumper harvest of tomatoes (both from my own farm and from the Gardens of Others) for which I was not adequately prepared. What with all the post-holiday tasks with which I was faced (thirty-four loads of laundry; a lawn as tall as grass on the high prairie; a mountain of bills to pay; and the usual laboratory duties besides) I found myself at 5:30 this morning chopping and prepping all manner of ingredients for my latest canning project, Very Ripe Tomato and Apple Relish, adapted from a recipe in Mary Anne Dragan's Well-Preserved.
The final condiment - finished well before lunch-time, I'm pleased to say - has the texture of a soft chutney and the flavour of extremely sophisticated ketsup. The apples, while retaining their shape, somehow soak up all the tomato flavor and color while at the same time releasing a certain sweetness into the mix, leaving one to wonder about secret and mysterious ingredients. Tangy and complex, the ruby-hued relish will be fantastic spooned atop scrambled eggs or as an accompaniment to fish.
Very Ripe Tomato and Apple Relish
Add the rest of the ingredients and cook briskly, uncovered, until the mixture is good and thick and allows a channel to be made with your favorite long-handled wooden spoon. It took me about 45 minutes, during which time I was able to get caught up on my e-mail and do some ironing.
Ladle into jars and process for 10 minutes.
Yield: 4 eight-ounce Ball jars and 3 small Weck deco jars, whose volume is the subject of some dispute.
As a result, when I returned home I was confronted with a bumper harvest of tomatoes (both from my own farm and from the Gardens of Others) for which I was not adequately prepared. What with all the post-holiday tasks with which I was faced (thirty-four loads of laundry; a lawn as tall as grass on the high prairie; a mountain of bills to pay; and the usual laboratory duties besides) I found myself at 5:30 this morning chopping and prepping all manner of ingredients for my latest canning project, Very Ripe Tomato and Apple Relish, adapted from a recipe in Mary Anne Dragan's Well-Preserved.
The final condiment - finished well before lunch-time, I'm pleased to say - has the texture of a soft chutney and the flavour of extremely sophisticated ketsup. The apples, while retaining their shape, somehow soak up all the tomato flavor and color while at the same time releasing a certain sweetness into the mix, leaving one to wonder about secret and mysterious ingredients. Tangy and complex, the ruby-hued relish will be fantastic spooned atop scrambled eggs or as an accompaniment to fish.
Very Ripe Tomato and Apple Relish
- 8 cups chopped ripe tomatoes (I seeded mine, but didn't bother to peel them)
- 6 cups peeled and chopped Granny Smiths
- 1 cup chopped sweet onion
- a variety of finely-minced hot red peppers from the garden, to taste
- 1 cup red wine vinegar
- 2 cups brown sugar
- 1 tblsp mustard seeds
- 1 tsp each ground cumin, coriander, and cinnamon
Add the rest of the ingredients and cook briskly, uncovered, until the mixture is good and thick and allows a channel to be made with your favorite long-handled wooden spoon. It took me about 45 minutes, during which time I was able to get caught up on my e-mail and do some ironing.
Ladle into jars and process for 10 minutes.
Yield: 4 eight-ounce Ball jars and 3 small Weck deco jars, whose volume is the subject of some dispute.
Saturday, August 13, 2011
Gluten-Free in the Kitchin
On our last night in Edinburgh, I abandoned Sir and the Kid Squid and skipped off for a Fabulous Facebook Foodie Fandango at one of Scotland's finest restaurants. Joining me for an evening of gossip, catching-up, political debate and locally-sourced sustainable fare were the Good [Scotch] Egg and the IWOM, recently arrived from Cairo and visibly suffering from the rainy chill that characterizes August above the 55th parallel north.
Our meal was punctuated by rich sauces, deep flavours, and unctuous textures - although her choice of roasted bone marrow followed by a variety of lambs' innards proved too much for the IWOM's delicate sensibilities, these days more accustomed to Mediterranean simplicity than offal-centered northern European cuisine. Though I myself was a bit leery of dishes such as boned-and-rolled pig's head with crispy ear salad, I happily snarfed my bone marrow with snails and girolles followed by saddle of rabbit stuffed with foie gras and spinach. Of gluten-free desserts on the menu there were none (may I point out to carte-composers everywhere that descriptors such as Delice of Blackcurrant are completely unhelpful to gluten guerillas such as myself?), but chef cheerfully put together a poached peach, raspberry, soft meringue and ice cream arrangement that compensated admirably for this deficiency.
We chatted agreeably about this and that, eyeing the large windows at the front of the restaurant and keeping watch for masked brick-throwing looters (none appeared, thankfully - Scots are far too sensible to riot in the rain). We discussed likely outcomes of the revolution in Egypt and the flammability of houseboats on the Nile; the efficacy of rolling pins when repelling would-be boarders; the difficulties of acculturation in foreign parts; and northern Scotland's woeful lack of broadband internet access.
Since in a few days' time the G[S]E and IWOM were due to depart on a road trip to a Highland village somewhere near the Arctic Circle, I presented them with a jar of my home-made blueberry jelly for self-catering breakfast purposes. Tragically, the preserve appeared to have suffered disturbing transmogrifications during its travels: inside its airtight Weck jar was no longer a firm, set, wobbly mass but rather a pool of purple syrup with a blob of jelly floating in the center.
Although my companions accepted my less-than-perfect cadeau with good grace, I was deeply concerned by this turn of events. Before leaving for our vacation I had committed a sample of my crystal clear conserve to the Jelly [Other] category of comestibles for judging at the Great Allentown Fair on Labor Day weekend. Would I get back to sunny Pennsylvania only to discover that all my jelly had separated, thus disqualifying me from Blue Ribbon Glory?
Upon arriving home yesterday, the first thing I did was scurry to the green corner cabinet where I keep my hundreds of jars of precious preserves. I dug out the blueberry jelly and tipped the glasses on their sides, shaking them slightly to assess their condition. Thankfully, they were all still set and potentially prize-worthy - which leads me to wonder what happened to the jar I schlepped across the ocean. Does pectin suffer some sort of reversal in planes' cargo holds? I know that if you cook jams at high altitudes allowances must be made, but I cannot imagine why they would experience any sort of retroactive effect.
I shall be investigating this matter in due course but am in the meantime reassured that I will have something to present for scrutiny in a few weeks.
As for the jar currently making its way north to Gairloch, I assume that a quick stir with a spurtle will restore it to rights - that is, if it hasn't already been frozen solid by the Atlantic's howling gales.
Either way, it's nice to think that I've left a little something behind in Scotland.
Until next time.
Our meal was punctuated by rich sauces, deep flavours, and unctuous textures - although her choice of roasted bone marrow followed by a variety of lambs' innards proved too much for the IWOM's delicate sensibilities, these days more accustomed to Mediterranean simplicity than offal-centered northern European cuisine. Though I myself was a bit leery of dishes such as boned-and-rolled pig's head with crispy ear salad, I happily snarfed my bone marrow with snails and girolles followed by saddle of rabbit stuffed with foie gras and spinach. Of gluten-free desserts on the menu there were none (may I point out to carte-composers everywhere that descriptors such as Delice of Blackcurrant are completely unhelpful to gluten guerillas such as myself?), but chef cheerfully put together a poached peach, raspberry, soft meringue and ice cream arrangement that compensated admirably for this deficiency.
We chatted agreeably about this and that, eyeing the large windows at the front of the restaurant and keeping watch for masked brick-throwing looters (none appeared, thankfully - Scots are far too sensible to riot in the rain). We discussed likely outcomes of the revolution in Egypt and the flammability of houseboats on the Nile; the efficacy of rolling pins when repelling would-be boarders; the difficulties of acculturation in foreign parts; and northern Scotland's woeful lack of broadband internet access.
Since in a few days' time the G[S]E and IWOM were due to depart on a road trip to a Highland village somewhere near the Arctic Circle, I presented them with a jar of my home-made blueberry jelly for self-catering breakfast purposes. Tragically, the preserve appeared to have suffered disturbing transmogrifications during its travels: inside its airtight Weck jar was no longer a firm, set, wobbly mass but rather a pool of purple syrup with a blob of jelly floating in the center.
Although my companions accepted my less-than-perfect cadeau with good grace, I was deeply concerned by this turn of events. Before leaving for our vacation I had committed a sample of my crystal clear conserve to the Jelly [Other] category of comestibles for judging at the Great Allentown Fair on Labor Day weekend. Would I get back to sunny Pennsylvania only to discover that all my jelly had separated, thus disqualifying me from Blue Ribbon Glory?
Upon arriving home yesterday, the first thing I did was scurry to the green corner cabinet where I keep my hundreds of jars of precious preserves. I dug out the blueberry jelly and tipped the glasses on their sides, shaking them slightly to assess their condition. Thankfully, they were all still set and potentially prize-worthy - which leads me to wonder what happened to the jar I schlepped across the ocean. Does pectin suffer some sort of reversal in planes' cargo holds? I know that if you cook jams at high altitudes allowances must be made, but I cannot imagine why they would experience any sort of retroactive effect.
I shall be investigating this matter in due course but am in the meantime reassured that I will have something to present for scrutiny in a few weeks.
As for the jar currently making its way north to Gairloch, I assume that a quick stir with a spurtle will restore it to rights - that is, if it hasn't already been frozen solid by the Atlantic's howling gales.
Either way, it's nice to think that I've left a little something behind in Scotland.
Until next time.
Wednesday, August 10, 2011
Morning Coffee
As buona fortuna would have it, the world's best Italian deli is right around the corner from our home-away-from-home whilst we are in Edinburgh.
Requiring fortification for a day of intensive activity, we presented ourselves at the establishment's wonderful cafe and ordered three cappuccini - just to hold us over until lunch, you understand. Then I spotted a crystal bowl full of meringues as big as my head and ordered one, reasoning that a meringue is low-fat and mostly air, anyway (I didn't realize it would come to the table smeared with Nutella and served with a small jug of heavy cream - a presentation I myself shall be adopting henceforward). The boys decided I would feel lonely eating by myself and ordered two huge bombolini - as a sort of solidarity gesture, I guess. Subsequently, I espied in the glass case something called 'orange polenta cake' that turned out, upon enquiry, to be gluten-free. Well, I had to try a slice, didn't I? It turned out to be syrup-soaked and delicious.
I think the lovely young Scottish waitresses were a bit nonplussed by my greediness.
An hour later, waddling somewhat but duly energized, Sir went off to subject himself to some experimental theatre on the Fringe while the Kid Squid and I climbed Arthur's Seat to admire the view.
I'm afraid only two-thirds of the group worked off the morning's calories.
Requiring fortification for a day of intensive activity, we presented ourselves at the establishment's wonderful cafe and ordered three cappuccini - just to hold us over until lunch, you understand. Then I spotted a crystal bowl full of meringues as big as my head and ordered one, reasoning that a meringue is low-fat and mostly air, anyway (I didn't realize it would come to the table smeared with Nutella and served with a small jug of heavy cream - a presentation I myself shall be adopting henceforward). The boys decided I would feel lonely eating by myself and ordered two huge bombolini - as a sort of solidarity gesture, I guess. Subsequently, I espied in the glass case something called 'orange polenta cake' that turned out, upon enquiry, to be gluten-free. Well, I had to try a slice, didn't I? It turned out to be syrup-soaked and delicious.
I think the lovely young Scottish waitresses were a bit nonplussed by my greediness.
An hour later, waddling somewhat but duly energized, Sir went off to subject himself to some experimental theatre on the Fringe while the Kid Squid and I climbed Arthur's Seat to admire the view.
I'm afraid only two-thirds of the group worked off the morning's calories.
Monday, August 8, 2011
Up North
Today the family decamped from London and took the train from King's Cross to Edinburgh - famed as the city where Sir and I met and - many, many years later - where the Kid Squid was born.
It's always wonderful returning to Scotland and within a few hours of our arrival I experienced three gluten-free triumphs of note, which taken together serve as excellent omens for the days to come.
First Triumph
Our hostess, the Most Wonderful Landlady in the World, informed me (with no prior notice from me, I might add) that she had gluten-free sausages on hand for breakfast. Such delight! Such excitement! I have not eaten a sausage this whole vacation and have been feeling the sacrifice keenly. I will be leaping out of bed and roaring downstairs tomorrow morning with rare alacrity.
Second Triumph
I paid a visit to the Most Amazing Italian Deli This Side of Rome, where I discovered a jar of banana chutney that I just had to buy. Never having seen such a product outside the kitchen a chez Fractured Amy, I am looking forward to getting my treasure home for a taste comparison. And it's Scottish, too!
Third Triumph
We ate an incredible dinner down by the waters of Leith in the latest One of My Favorite Restaurants of All Time. Mere words cannot do the meal justice - suffice it to say, we were all weeping with gratitude and joy by the time the dessert wine rolled around.
While the boys ate haggis with neeps and tatties, oysters, and banoffee pie, I enjoyed ...
It's always wonderful returning to Scotland and within a few hours of our arrival I experienced three gluten-free triumphs of note, which taken together serve as excellent omens for the days to come.
First Triumph
Our hostess, the Most Wonderful Landlady in the World, informed me (with no prior notice from me, I might add) that she had gluten-free sausages on hand for breakfast. Such delight! Such excitement! I have not eaten a sausage this whole vacation and have been feeling the sacrifice keenly. I will be leaping out of bed and roaring downstairs tomorrow morning with rare alacrity.
Second Triumph
I paid a visit to the Most Amazing Italian Deli This Side of Rome, where I discovered a jar of banana chutney that I just had to buy. Never having seen such a product outside the kitchen a chez Fractured Amy, I am looking forward to getting my treasure home for a taste comparison. And it's Scottish, too!
Third Triumph
We ate an incredible dinner down by the waters of Leith in the latest One of My Favorite Restaurants of All Time. Mere words cannot do the meal justice - suffice it to say, we were all weeping with gratitude and joy by the time the dessert wine rolled around.
While the boys ate haggis with neeps and tatties, oysters, and banoffee pie, I enjoyed ...
cod wrapped in smoked bacon with sweet potato puree,
puy lentil/herb vinaigrette, and a balsamic reduction
loin of venison with savoy cabbage, venison chorizo,
peppered potato wedges, and cider gravy
(broccoli, carrots, and haricots verts off camera)
raspberry and bramble jelly with
mascarpone ice cream
And to cap off the evening, the Kid Squid discovered a pub around the corner doling out his tipples of choice, Castle and Windhoek lagers all the way from Southern Africa.
It really is good to be back.
Sunday, August 7, 2011
Down South
With north London going *phoom* and the cold rain unremitting, we decided to head for sunny Portsmouth for the day. We reasoned that, being closer to the equator, we might perhaps find a ray of sunshine and temperatures hovering somewhere above, oh, 60 deg F (I knew my coats, hats, and gloves would come in handy). Also, the good citizens thereabouts did not seem to be setting any police cars on fire, which is always a desirable state of affairs when one is holiday.
Sure enough, the sun was shining; the brass on HMS Warrior was polished to mirror brightness; Victory was done up shipshape and Bristol fashion; the RN's jolly tars were back from Libya; and the harbour was full of pleasure craft and ferries coming in from the Isle of Wight.
Best of all, there was risotto to be had - liquid as the ocean, wavy as the waters off Selsey Bill, lapping against the sides of the bowl like a high tide. The dish was flavored with pumpkin, pancetta, sage, and creme fraiche and eaten with as agreeable a view as one could wish for.
Yo ho ho - a gluten-free life for me!
Best of all, there was risotto to be had - liquid as the ocean, wavy as the waters off Selsey Bill, lapping against the sides of the bowl like a high tide. The dish was flavored with pumpkin, pancetta, sage, and creme fraiche and eaten with as agreeable a view as one could wish for.
Yo ho ho - a gluten-free life for me!
Saturday, August 6, 2011
Devotion
As we ambled along Fleet Street and the Strand during our explorations of City streets, we passed St. Clement Danes (church of the Royal Air Force), St. Bride's (journalists and printers), St. Andrew's (trade guilds), St. Stephen Walbrook (the Samaritans), St. Mary-le-Bow (true Londoners), and St. Margaret Pattens (shoemakers).
I feel compelled to add my own shrine to this illustrious list - an altar before which I would happily bow down and worship, if it didn't mean kneeling in the gutters and getting my knees muddy:
I feel compelled to add my own shrine to this illustrious list - an altar before which I would happily bow down and worship, if it didn't mean kneeling in the gutters and getting my knees muddy:
Friday, August 5, 2011
Falling Behind
Whilst we are visiting London, our home-away-from-home is just near the Fulham Road.
Near the tube station may be found ...
They claim to have lots of British cheese for sale ...
... and they do! Their collection is jaw-droppingly awe-inspiring.
But as I - in dreamy wonderment - admired all those creamy, semi-soft, and aged beauties, I was reminded of a sobering fact: the only English varieties of cheese currently slumbering in my own Pennsylvanian cave are cheddar and Wensleydale.
I have some catching up to do when I get home.
Near the tube station may be found ...
They claim to have lots of British cheese for sale ...
... and they do! Their collection is jaw-droppingly awe-inspiring.
But as I - in dreamy wonderment - admired all those creamy, semi-soft, and aged beauties, I was reminded of a sobering fact: the only English varieties of cheese currently slumbering in my own Pennsylvanian cave are cheddar and Wensleydale.
I have some catching up to do when I get home.
Thursday, August 4, 2011
Out of the Rain
We took in the sights of London today during the worst downpour in the city's recent memory.
We saw the Tower ...
... and St. Paul's ...
... and afterwards enjoyed a fine lunch.
Since the chicken accompanying my curry rice was plainly grilled and not fried in a panko crust, I boldly decided to believe that it was gluten free.
We saw the Tower ...
... and St. Paul's ...
... and afterwards enjoyed a fine lunch.
Since the chicken accompanying my curry rice was plainly grilled and not fried in a panko crust, I boldly decided to believe that it was gluten free.
Wednesday, August 3, 2011
Not Good for What Ales You
Campers, I know you are all concerned that there is nothing for a gluten freedom fighter to eat whilst holidaying in Yorkshire.
Let me hasten to add that there is also nothing to drink!
Let me hasten to add that there is also nothing to drink!
Tuesday, August 2, 2011
Judge and Jury
To those readers who are of the opinion that I am exaggerating about the dire gluten situation here in the Vale, I submit the following evidence. These photos were taken during a short walk in the centre of York.
I rest my case.
I rest my case.
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