It was exactly one year ago today that I obeyed - reluctantly, angrily, and not a little sceptically - the quacks' decree to go gluten-free or else.
I feel the need to mark the occasion in some meaningful way. But how? Cook a banquet from Modernist Cuisine? Give away all my jars of homemade preserves? Produce an extra-special cheese (parmigiano, perhaps) that will be ready for unveiling next September 12? Fabricate, at long last, a gluten-free croquembouche - something I have been meaning to do since this whole catastrophe began?
Nope. Too much work like hard work, especially as I'm still trying to dry out the basement.
But I do need a change. For that reason, I have decided to take a hiatus from writing for the next four weeks and redesign my blog. I have been thinking about this for a while now and concluded that this first anniversary of my enlistment into the Brigade of Gluten Guerillas is an appropriate time for action. I have lots of ideas about how I want my Wit and Wisdom to look and, although I have consciously decided to eschew any sort of formal rumination or philosophizing this evening, a certain amount of reflection about the past year does come into play. Last September I couldn't possibly have foreseen the direction in which my gluten freedom-fight would lead me, as revealed by the hasty and ad hoc cobbling-together of this framework for my thoughts. Now that my course has become clearer, I want the organization of my scribblings to reflect better the way I have come to view food and cooking.
There are many dangers lurking ahead. Perhaps in my eagerness I will accidentally press some sort of doomsday button and all my hard work will go *phoom* - like a bad transporter accident in Star Trek. It's possible the Blogger interface won't allow me to do what I want. Maybe I'll decide to invest in my own domain name and become rich and famous! Experimentation will be the order of the day and I have no idea how it will all turn out in the end.
Four weeks from today is October 10th, but it makes more sense for the grand unveiling to take place on a Sunday, when I will have fewer laboratory responsibilities with which to contend. But I think I'll need to build into the schedule an extra week's buffer in case I am suddenly struck down by apoplexy or some other dire nervous condition brought on by the stress of web design. That takes me to October 16, which is Sir's birthday. I'll probably be planning all manner of extravagant festivities - or at least, baking a cake.
October 25th it is.
Hope to see you then!
Monday, September 12, 2011
Friday, September 9, 2011
The Rain Is Gone
For a few brief minutes today the downpour ceased, the clouds parted, and the sun shone bright.
And as the fates would have it, the firmament above wasn't the only thing in my life bedecked in blue:
And as the fates would have it, the firmament above wasn't the only thing in my life bedecked in blue:
Thursday, September 8, 2011
Just Desserts, Episode 3: Gummy Wares
Dear friends, we surely all agree
There's almost nothing worse to see
Than some repulsive little bum
Who's always chewing chewing gum.
~ Roald Dahl
The Unibrow came back. Oh, no -
As guest judge on my favorite show.
Not at all my favorite guy ...
Was mean to Craig and made him cry!
The quickfire made me very glum,
Desserts inspired by bubble gum.
I left the room, grossed out somewhat -
so many made with coconut.
The final challenge, pink pink pink!
With Housewives too botoxed to wink.
They needed straws for little sips
So not to mess up Lancรดmed lips.
Poor Nelson made a dreadful flop:
A cotton-covered lollipop.
The winning team showed 'wit' and 'class'
But not Orlando. What an ass.
Next up: ironically enough, a Willy Wonka challenge!
Wednesday, September 7, 2011
Feeling Blue
I think I may have mentioned (once or twice) that the weather in the past few weeks has been, as the poet said, godawful. It has pelted down unremittingly for days and days, flooding the basement and causing the entire house to take on the faint scent of wet dog. A clash of weather fronts in the library caused it to rain inside my cave, where the cataract down the back wall promptly froze against the cooling element, requiring that I take the whole apparatus outside (yes, in the rain - are we detecting a theme, here?) to defrost it on the front lawn where a few additional gallons of water couldn't possibly do any harm.
It didn't really matter that I needed to unplug my fridge for a bit, since there was only one cheese remaining - the wax-dipped cheddar that I am saving for Christmas and was quite happy, during its home improvements, to spend a bit of time elsewhere.
But the revelation that I had only one cheese to call my own got me thinking. How better to spend a rainy weekend than up to one's elbows in a cheese vat?
That's a rhetorical question, of course.
Since the family have decided that Wensleydale is my signature cheese, I first made one of those.
Then, deciding I needed a new challenge (although I do plan to tackle mold-ripened fromage again prontissimo, I can't just now as various scheduling commitments make the constant vigilance required by such a project nigh on impossible until October).
But there was something I'd been meaning to try as soon as the weather got a bit cooler ... I seized my chance and made some Blue-Cheese-In-The-Style-Of-Stilton-Perhaps.
Why, you may ask? Although I don't claim to love blue cheese - in fact, I don't even like it very much - I'm surrounded by folks who do. Also, I confess to a scientific curiosity, rather like the one that motivated me to see how all the holes in Swiss cheese come about.
Haven't you ever wondered how a blue cheese gets its varicose veins?
I will tell you. They come from a little foil packet labelled penicillium roqueforti, easily purchased from the Cheese Queen and delivered right to one's door by one's friendly neighborhood UPS man. The powder within looks like the sort of mildew that festoons all the old textbooks stored in our swamp - sorry, I mean basement.
When you add the fungi to your beautiful raw milk, the milk turns blue:
It is quite unnerving.
The rest of the process seems designed to keep the cheese curds as porous, loose, slimy, and moist as possible, so that ideal spore-nurturing conditions will exist throughout the cheese. Instead of cooking the curds for ages and ages to dry them out, I simply scooped them into a cheesecloth bag and let them drain quietly for a couple of hours:
Instead of pressing them to oblivion in a small tomme, I merely applied an eight-pound workout weight to the whole unmolded mass:
The next morning, I had a big moist oozy pancake:
I tore it into little moist oozy pieces ...
... and lightly pressed them into my mold. I added a fetching (and very damp) cheesecloth chapeau to keep the whole thing moist:
After a few days of turning and draining, this was the result:
Instead of the utterly smooth protective rinds I rejoiced to see in my Swiss, Wensleydale, and cheddar cheeses (the less said about the rinds on my camemberts, the better) the surface of my BCSSP was full of holes and anfractuosities such that one could almost see to Leicestershire! Thus, life-giving oxygen might get all the way to the interior of the cheese, nourishing the little mold spores and encouraging them to do their worst.
Or best.
I'll know which in December.
Coming soon: just to be sure my cheese is adequately permeable, I attack it viciously with the sort of tiny knitting needle more commonly employed in the manufacturing of socks and gloves.
It didn't really matter that I needed to unplug my fridge for a bit, since there was only one cheese remaining - the wax-dipped cheddar that I am saving for Christmas and was quite happy, during its home improvements, to spend a bit of time elsewhere.
But the revelation that I had only one cheese to call my own got me thinking. How better to spend a rainy weekend than up to one's elbows in a cheese vat?
That's a rhetorical question, of course.
Since the family have decided that Wensleydale is my signature cheese, I first made one of those.
Then, deciding I needed a new challenge (although I do plan to tackle mold-ripened fromage again prontissimo, I can't just now as various scheduling commitments make the constant vigilance required by such a project nigh on impossible until October).
But there was something I'd been meaning to try as soon as the weather got a bit cooler ... I seized my chance and made some Blue-Cheese-In-The-Style-Of-Stilton-Perhaps.
Why, you may ask? Although I don't claim to love blue cheese - in fact, I don't even like it very much - I'm surrounded by folks who do. Also, I confess to a scientific curiosity, rather like the one that motivated me to see how all the holes in Swiss cheese come about.
Haven't you ever wondered how a blue cheese gets its varicose veins?
I will tell you. They come from a little foil packet labelled penicillium roqueforti, easily purchased from the Cheese Queen and delivered right to one's door by one's friendly neighborhood UPS man. The powder within looks like the sort of mildew that festoons all the old textbooks stored in our swamp - sorry, I mean basement.
When you add the fungi to your beautiful raw milk, the milk turns blue:
It is quite unnerving.
The rest of the process seems designed to keep the cheese curds as porous, loose, slimy, and moist as possible, so that ideal spore-nurturing conditions will exist throughout the cheese. Instead of cooking the curds for ages and ages to dry them out, I simply scooped them into a cheesecloth bag and let them drain quietly for a couple of hours:
Instead of pressing them to oblivion in a small tomme, I merely applied an eight-pound workout weight to the whole unmolded mass:
The next morning, I had a big moist oozy pancake:
I tore it into little moist oozy pieces ...
... and lightly pressed them into my mold. I added a fetching (and very damp) cheesecloth chapeau to keep the whole thing moist:
After a few days of turning and draining, this was the result:
Instead of the utterly smooth protective rinds I rejoiced to see in my Swiss, Wensleydale, and cheddar cheeses (the less said about the rinds on my camemberts, the better) the surface of my BCSSP was full of holes and anfractuosities such that one could almost see to Leicestershire! Thus, life-giving oxygen might get all the way to the interior of the cheese, nourishing the little mold spores and encouraging them to do their worst.
Or best.
I'll know which in December.
Coming soon: just to be sure my cheese is adequately permeable, I attack it viciously with the sort of tiny knitting needle more commonly employed in the manufacturing of socks and gloves.
Monday, September 5, 2011
Labor Day
Needing to make some room in my cave for a freshly-hatched Wensleydale and a new Blue-Cheese-in-the-Style-of-Stilton (reportage to come), I decided today to reap the benefits of some of my own hard work and slice into the Swiss cheese, now judged sufficiently mature for tasting.
You may recall that my Alpine Kleine has been quietly percolating since the beginning of May when, coincidentally enough, most of the rest of world celebrates Labor Day.
Don't you just love it when everything comes together like that? Synchronicity.
So far, my success rate de fromage is 50%. My camemberts, you may recall, had a thick gritty rind (subsequently discovered to be caused by too-vigorous mold growth) whereas my Wensleydale's perfection exceeded my wildest dreams. How would my latest creation fare?
The results were mixed. It had the fresh, grassy aroma of Swiss cheese and the deliciously unmistakable flavour of Swiss cheese, but I'm afraid its texture was totally unacceptable.
It was full of holes!
You may recall that my Alpine Kleine has been quietly percolating since the beginning of May when, coincidentally enough, most of the rest of world celebrates Labor Day.
Don't you just love it when everything comes together like that? Synchronicity.
So far, my success rate de fromage is 50%. My camemberts, you may recall, had a thick gritty rind (subsequently discovered to be caused by too-vigorous mold growth) whereas my Wensleydale's perfection exceeded my wildest dreams. How would my latest creation fare?
The results were mixed. It had the fresh, grassy aroma of Swiss cheese and the deliciously unmistakable flavour of Swiss cheese, but I'm afraid its texture was totally unacceptable.
It was full of holes!
Sunday, September 4, 2011
Blue Ribbon Glory
We here a chez Fractured Amy are keen habitues of the Great Allentown Fair, a gluten-filled funnel-cake and fried-Twinkie fest to which we are drawn, like flies to a lemonade stand, every Labor Day Weekend. All the traditional diversions of an old-fashioned county fair are to be found here: pig races, sideshows, a carnival midway, various tests of air-rifle shooting and ping-pong ball throwing skill; live music; and more saturated fat than a sane mind can comfortably imagine.
For me the real action takes place somewhat off the main drag, in the neighborhood of the Agricultural Hall. Earnest young 4-H'ers solemnly prepare their Angora rabbits and Nubian goats for showing while proud farmers display their best peaches, strawberries, and cabbages. In one corner, would-be Food Network Stars vie for prizes in contests involving Ghirardelli chocolate or Pillsbury pie crusts, while in another quilters and embroiderers display their cold-weather projects in the hopes of applause and cash awards (up to three whole dollars for a coveted blue ribbon!).
Sir is accustomed every year to winning at least one ribbon for his photography (he always submits one color pic and one in black-and-white), but fears he will never again equal his 2010 triumph in which he was awarded a huge flouncy purple Best-In-Show extravanganza for his delightful composition involving a small yellow bird (possibly a Japanese White-Eye) on a plum blossom branch, taken during one of his many Tokyo sojourns.
This year, as I have hinted elsewhere, I decided to get in on the act. What better way to celebrate my new-found love of home preserving than by joining the gingham-aproned grandmas and submitting some Ball jars for assessment by the area's leading experts? I polled various family-members and tasters and selected two varieties: my famous banana jam (category: jam, other) and my not-so-famous but (if I may be so immodest) devastatingly delicious small-batch, crystal-clear blueberry jelly (category: jelly, other).
And what do you think I found yesterday when I presented myself nervously at Ag Hall, where the literally hundreds of jars of pickled vegetables, jams, jellies, chutneys, and canned fruit lay neatly arrayed along rows and rows of white wooden shelves?
I just may hang up my lab coat and go into business. Fractured Amy, award-winning preserver and jelly-maker to the stars!
But first, I need to take my three-dollars' winnings and get myself a gingham apron.
For me the real action takes place somewhat off the main drag, in the neighborhood of the Agricultural Hall. Earnest young 4-H'ers solemnly prepare their Angora rabbits and Nubian goats for showing while proud farmers display their best peaches, strawberries, and cabbages. In one corner, would-be Food Network Stars vie for prizes in contests involving Ghirardelli chocolate or Pillsbury pie crusts, while in another quilters and embroiderers display their cold-weather projects in the hopes of applause and cash awards (up to three whole dollars for a coveted blue ribbon!).
Sir is accustomed every year to winning at least one ribbon for his photography (he always submits one color pic and one in black-and-white), but fears he will never again equal his 2010 triumph in which he was awarded a huge flouncy purple Best-In-Show extravanganza for his delightful composition involving a small yellow bird (possibly a Japanese White-Eye) on a plum blossom branch, taken during one of his many Tokyo sojourns.
This year, as I have hinted elsewhere, I decided to get in on the act. What better way to celebrate my new-found love of home preserving than by joining the gingham-aproned grandmas and submitting some Ball jars for assessment by the area's leading experts? I polled various family-members and tasters and selected two varieties: my famous banana jam (category: jam, other) and my not-so-famous but (if I may be so immodest) devastatingly delicious small-batch, crystal-clear blueberry jelly (category: jelly, other).
And what do you think I found yesterday when I presented myself nervously at Ag Hall, where the literally hundreds of jars of pickled vegetables, jams, jellies, chutneys, and canned fruit lay neatly arrayed along rows and rows of white wooden shelves?
I just may hang up my lab coat and go into business. Fractured Amy, award-winning preserver and jelly-maker to the stars!
But first, I need to take my three-dollars' winnings and get myself a gingham apron.
Friday, September 2, 2011
Picture of Wit
Whenever I sit down in the morning to peruse my weekly copy of the New Yorker - fountain of all wisdom, source of excellent movie reviews, and provider of much-needed giggles and grins - the first thing I do is flip to the back page where the results of the cartoon-caption contest are posted. I always check to see whether anybody I know has won, since several individuals of my acquaintance are apt to submit suggestions on a regular basis. Not me, I hasten to add: my mind goes infuriatingly blank when presented with a drawing of a giant badger sitting on a bar stool or any of the other surreal situations likely to spring from the fevered imaginations of the magazine's famed artistes.
This morning, I was greeted by an excellent surprise. Although there were no familiar names among the finalists, there was a caption of such transcendence, such on-the-nose zeitgeist-mirroring, such perfection, that I share it here. It's the second one down, in case you are unable to guess:
Michael Hicks of New Orleans, LA, I salute you!
This morning, I was greeted by an excellent surprise. Although there were no familiar names among the finalists, there was a caption of such transcendence, such on-the-nose zeitgeist-mirroring, such perfection, that I share it here. It's the second one down, in case you are unable to guess:
Thursday, September 1, 2011
Just Desserts, Episode 2: Lost in the Ether
I friskily scampered downstairs at 4:30 this morning with Nelson, my latest Moleskine notebook, to partake of my favorite Thursday-morning diversion - a happy hour with a cup of Sumatra Mandheling (amazingly, my coffee maker is still going strong after, what, almost five months?); my DVR; and Just Desserts' screwball sweet-course samurai. What new escapades lay in store for me, I wondered, as I settled into my favorite toile-upholstered armchair, notebook and mug placed handily by, my remote-control gadget and new favorite pen of all time (a black 005 Prismacolor drafting implement fabrique au Japon) at the ready.
The DVR became worryingly confused when I jabbed impatiently at its power button. The device spluttered for a bit. A few lights flashed as the clock blinked on and off, followed by the announcement - delivered rather guiltily, in my opinion - that it was rebooting. A few seconds later (certainly no more than that - I don't want to be accused of exaggeration or inaccuracy by any of my thousands of loyal fans!) the awful truth became clear.
My cherished machine's recording schedule had been wiped.
This is a fairly major catastrophe, and that is no hyperbole, I assure you. We do a lot of recording a chez Fractured Amy, since we can't be bothered to organize our lives sufficiently to watch our favorite programs when they're actually on. Also, all the family's choices conflict with one another, requiring careful timing and negotiations of the most subtle complexity. I, of course, have a standing commitment with every iteration of Bravo's Top Chef franchise and Food Network's Chopped. Plus the Next Iron Chef whenever it happens to be on. The Kid Squid, true to his demographic, keeps up with current events and the state of the media circus by reviewing the Daily Show every morning before he trots off to school. And Sir - well, Sir is a devotee of those appalling crime procedurals where, every time I walk into the room anyway, a gruesome autopsy or post-mayhem briefing is generally underway, with trendy 'invesigators' exchanging culturally up-to-the-minute bon-mots while blood, entrails, and brain matter drip upon their heads from the ceiling above.
But I digress. Rendered peevish by my missed dose of frenzied foodie-fighting, I retired back upstairs with my java and latest read (William Golding's Close Quarters, for those of you keeping track), wondering in vain who had won the proverbial golden apple and who had suffered the ignoble raspberry of defeat.
As the day went on, I was able to glean from Others the gist of this cake-related episode and its gluten-filled highlights. Several of these I note below as a public service for those fans whose DVRs have also gone on the fritz:
The DVR became worryingly confused when I jabbed impatiently at its power button. The device spluttered for a bit. A few lights flashed as the clock blinked on and off, followed by the announcement - delivered rather guiltily, in my opinion - that it was rebooting. A few seconds later (certainly no more than that - I don't want to be accused of exaggeration or inaccuracy by any of my thousands of loyal fans!) the awful truth became clear.
My cherished machine's recording schedule had been wiped.
This is a fairly major catastrophe, and that is no hyperbole, I assure you. We do a lot of recording a chez Fractured Amy, since we can't be bothered to organize our lives sufficiently to watch our favorite programs when they're actually on. Also, all the family's choices conflict with one another, requiring careful timing and negotiations of the most subtle complexity. I, of course, have a standing commitment with every iteration of Bravo's Top Chef franchise and Food Network's Chopped. Plus the Next Iron Chef whenever it happens to be on. The Kid Squid, true to his demographic, keeps up with current events and the state of the media circus by reviewing the Daily Show every morning before he trots off to school. And Sir - well, Sir is a devotee of those appalling crime procedurals where, every time I walk into the room anyway, a gruesome autopsy or post-mayhem briefing is generally underway, with trendy 'invesigators' exchanging culturally up-to-the-minute bon-mots while blood, entrails, and brain matter drip upon their heads from the ceiling above.
But I digress. Rendered peevish by my missed dose of frenzied foodie-fighting, I retired back upstairs with my java and latest read (William Golding's Close Quarters, for those of you keeping track), wondering in vain who had won the proverbial golden apple and who had suffered the ignoble raspberry of defeat.
As the day went on, I was able to glean from Others the gist of this cake-related episode and its gluten-filled highlights. Several of these I note below as a public service for those fans whose DVRs have also gone on the fritz:
- Rebecca (rice pudding isn't just for old people!) somehow broke her wrist and kept right on whisking. A truly impressive display of culinary chops, if not misguided masochism. The fracture happened mysteriously overnight rather than in the kitchen, more's the pity. What a boost for ratings that would have been! As an aside, I would like to reach out with a message of solidarity to the unfortunate victim. As one who regularly breaks bones for no good reason (a sad side-effect of my gluten-related condition), I urge her to stop eating wheat-flour cakes, tortes, and choux pastry without delay. She'd find it so much easier to juice lemons with all her limbs and digits in full working order!
- Orlando (I'm the villain of the piece!) revealed that he is allergic to lemons. She-Who-Isn't-Gail had never before heard of this condition. Really? I'm astonished! In fact, I'll wager a million dollars that's because it doesn't exist! Intolerance to lemons' acidity, perhaps, or a dislike of their mouth-puckering tartness, maybe, but an actual full-blown allergy? I can't believe lemons have anything in them that oranges, grapefruits, and other citrus fruits don't share. Orlando is officially now the Guy I Can't Stand, proving himself to be - unlike me - hysterically hyperbolic.
- Carlos (father of six) uses liquid nitrogen like it's going out of style. Ironically enough, it is!
- The winning cake by Matthew (leather mules) and his team caused the judges to revisit an apparently common debate in the food world: whether or not cardamom is a 'safe' flavor. Erratum. This would be a debate in the American food world. There are many other parts of the globe where cardamom is used, I believe, like ketchup.
- Vanerin (I have a crush on the Pompadour!) was aufed for his role in a very 'hideous' showpiece inspired by trombones, or Sousaphones, or something. I'm sorry he left before his inevitable on-screen implosion, which promised to be such an edifying spectacle - especially among the GE Monogram appliances. Oh well, that's the way the really ugly cake crumbles!
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