What's French for 'I Surrender'?

Readers waiting breathlessly for my recap of Thursday's Top Chef: Texas will, I'm afraid, be suffering disappointment this week. Despite four days' passing and the temptations provided by a hot-pepper Quickfire and chili cook-off elimination challenge, I have so far been unable to sit down with my DVR to enjoy the spectacle.

Thanksgiving, of course, intervened. Once again, I am forced to question the judgement of Bravo's producers: how can fans such as myself, with Turkey-Day cooking commitments of our own, possibly be expected to spend a whole hour watching TV? It's not possible.

I had planned to get caught up on the cheftestants' latest adventures on Friday but fate once again intervened. It intervened on Saturday, too. And today. In fact, I'm not sure I'm going be able to see TC:T at all before the DVR - full to bursting with Sir's and the Kid Squid's crime procedurals and sci-fi sagas - wipes my favorite show from its memory forever.

And who, you might wonder, is the fell transgressor in this saga? What sinister individual has unforgivably come between me, Pads, and the HM?

Can you guess?

That's right, Campers. Madame has struck again.

* * *

It started as a very simple plan, really. Several weeks ago I purchased two boxes of lovely little tulip-shaped Weck jars for the particular purpose of filling them with Christine Ferber's chestnut jam and giving them away as holiday gifts to sundry special folks. I adore candied chestnuts (marrons glaces and the Japanese dessert monburan are two of my favorite things in the whole wide world) and have been intrigued by the jam recipe ever since I first purchased Mes Confitures last Spring.

As a public service to readers I offer the recipe below, together some additional details garnered through the hard experience of Yours Truly.

Are you sitting comfortably? We shall begin.

Ahem.

Make a deep cut in each chestnut with the point of a knife.

Did I mention the recipe called for three pounds of whole uncooked chestnuts? That's a lot. Also, the shells are extremely durable. Using my priceless Japanese paring knife with the watered steel blade I was able, at the cost of severe blistering to my right thumb and index finger, to make deep gouges on the nuts' flat sides. Reasoning that one always cuts a cross into roasted chestnuts to facilitate peeling, I had at it with these bad boys as well. Fearing the worst (a premonition, perhaps), I made a big X on each of their curvy sides, too. It took forever and was extremely dangerous, what with an exceedingly sharp tachi, increasingly slippery cutting board, and customary Ferber-induced anxiety.

Put the chestnuts in boiling water. After three minutes you will be able to remove the outer shell and the inner skin. Chestnuts can be easily peeled if they don't cool off.

I looked at the daunting pile and realized there was no way I could cook them all at once if they were to stay warm for peeling. I decided, therefore, to cook them in batches of five. After the stipulated three minutes, I pulled the first lot out of the water. Although the tough outer shell came off, the brown-paper inner skin stuck stubbornly to the flesh beneath, causing angst and vexation on my part. I threw the nuts back into the pot for additional boilage and was eventually able to peel them with some success. After experimenting with several hundred specimens, I concluded ten minutes was the minimum processing time required for straightforward shell removal.

Sir, alarmed by my cursing and impatient slamming of pan lids, came into the kitchen, bless him, to see if he could help. I called his bluff and set him to work peeling. After some initial whining about the effects of the red-hot chestnut epidermi on his delicate fingers, he settled down and performed admirably. An hour into our task, I asked him if he wouldn't rather be outside raking leaves. He responded that there was nothing in the world he would rather do than provide jam-making assistance and redoubled his efforts.

Psychologists, take note.

Roughly two hours after I first brought my water to the boil, we had two pounds of warm peeled chestnuts. They looked like small tan-colored brains ...

... and I was already sick of the sight of them. 'Never mind,' I thought. 'From this point forward the recipe seems like child's play!'

In a preserving pan, combine the chestnuts with four and two-thirds cups sugar, one and three-quarters cups water, and a vanilla bean. Bring to a boil and cook for fifteen minutes, stirring gently. The chestnuts will be soft.

Soft my eye! After fifteen minutes of cooking my chestnuts were still the texture of driftwood. Thinking that perhaps I was supposed to have chopped them into pieces before introducing them to their bath (no, Madame never said I had to, but one has to be a bit of a mind-reader where Mes Confitures is concerned), I removed them from the molten sugar lava and gave them a rough chop on my cutting board.

Back into my maslin pan! I cooked them for a further ten minutes. Then ten minutes more. Finally, forty minutes had elapsed and my chestnuts were kind of soft, sort of. Not cooked exactly, but not the consistency of an antique oaken chair leg, either. More importantly, the syrup had by this time reached 220 deg F, betokening imminent crystallization should I not get the contents off the heat ASAP.

Pour the mixture into a ceramic bowl. Cover with a sheet of parchment paper and refrigerate overnight.

Oh, for crying out loud. I used a Pyrex bowl like a normal American and covered it with plastic wrap. I couldn't put it in the fridge because it was already nine o'clock at night and the contents of the bowl were still mad hot. I could have returned to the kitchen later that night, I suppose, but the adjoining family room was disturbingly full of huge pizza-eating teenage boys. Under such circumstances, I try to keep my distance from that end of the house.

Next day, bring the preparation to a boil, stirring constantly. Remove the vanilla bean. Crush the large pieces of chestnut with a wooden spoon.

Is anybody keeping track? At this point I was 24 hours into my consternating confiture contretemps. Of course, that is no more than an academic point because I never got to this stage of the recipe. In the cold light of day I realized my chestnuts were still tooth-challengingly hard. I couldn't return them to the stove for extra cooking whilst they were in their syrup (and yes, a few accusatory crystals were already forming about the edges of the bowl) so I rinsed them well and returned them to a pan full of boiling water.

After another half hour of cooking, they became soft. Also tasteless. The long boiling had leeched every ounce of flavour from the precious $15 supply over which Sir and I had labored so long. After consigning the glop to my garbage disposal I considered my options and decided that Madame had left the recipe unfinished.

I've taken the liberty of completing her work.

You don't want to peel three more pounds of chestnuts, do you? That's why god invented vacuum packs. Get into your silver Element and drive to the supermarket. Present yourself in the produce section and buy the last two packs of pre-cooked and pre-peeled organic Italian chestnuts ($4.99 for 6 ounces!) and one jar of French beauties from the baking aisle ($9.99 for seven ounces!). Decide that you cannot possibly afford to make the full recipe and conclude that half will be sufficient for your purposes. How many people do you know that really deserve homemade chestnut jam, anyway?

Take your chestnuts home and taste the Italian ones. Realize that they are stupefyingly disgusting and cannot possibly be used as anything but garden mulch. Ponder your jar of French marrons sadly but with resolve. Do some quick mental math and realize that you can produce  roughly one-quarter of Madame's recipe with minimum fuss. Pop the nuts (already soft and scrummy-tasting, praise be) into your maslin pan with one and one-sixth cup of sugar and seven-sixteenths cup of water. Don't forget to retrieve the vanilla bean from your failed batch of jam! Bring the water to a boil and continue to cook until the syrup reaches 220 deg F. Pour the mixture into a very small Pyrex bowl and cover with plastic wrap.

Since it's now after dark on the second day, you should probably have a stiff drink and maybe go to a movie. Not necessarily in that order.

The next morning (Day 3!), whizz up the mixture in your food processor using the big metal blade that looks like the sort of fearsome implement you might find in a defunct sawmill. Scrape the jam into a very small saucepan and bring to a boil. Put a little bit of the vanilla bean into each jar and pour the jam over. Madame never reveals the yields for her recipes, but I will: one-quarter of her original ingredients produces eleven ounces of chestnut jam - less than two little Weck tulip jars.

Sigh deeply and survey all the empty jars arrayed upon the table before you. Whip up some pineapple conserves with some fruit you bought on special offer a few days ago and the leftover vanilla beans.

Vow never ever to be tempted by one of Madame's recipes again. Not even in a million years.

Or until next time. Whichever comes first.

Coming soon: whilst enjoying my annual gala lunch with DMR at Le Bernardin this Thursday, I also manage to miss the next episode of Top Chef Texas.

Great Pumpkin

Thanksgiving dessert continues to present problems a chez Fractured Amy.

In the good old days, I typically contributed two pies to the festivities: pumpkin (I always used the traditional recipe off the Libby's pumpkin-can label) and Julia's Tarte Normande aux Pommes (a custard-filled apple tart topped with a dusting of caramelized powdered sugar - you serve it warm and it's totally divine). Both these delights are now, of course, off the menu.

I suppose there exist no insurmountable obstacles between me and a return to pie-baking, except that somehow - even after a year+ of gluten freedom-fighting - I have still not got round to experimenting with shortcrust and sweetcrust pastry. This is a dreadful oversight on my part and one that I had not fully appreciated until, oh, two days ago when the subject of Thursday's dinner-afters came up with DMR. By that time, of course, it was too late to embark upon the intense (and no doubt extremely time-consuming) R & D such an undertaking would require, so I cast around for some alternate possibilities.

Sir demanded chestnut brownies since they are his favorite sweet of all time, gluten-free or gluten-filled. I acquiesced to his wishes, since chestnuts are seasonal and festive and unusual enough in desserts to preserve my reputation as an outside-the-typical-cornucopia kind of gal. But what to serve with them? Last year, I made Craig Claiborne's Pumpkin Mousse to rave reviews, but this year I had a hankering to do something different. The solution presented itself when I went down to the basement to get some more paper towels. There, on the Metro shelving just beside them and all my hundreds of spare plastic affinage boxes, lay my freezer bowl - full of inspiration and ready to go.

Ice cream! Not only that, but pumpkin ice cream, yum. I already had some pumpkin butter in the fridge, so it was the work of only a few minutes to make some spice-infused custard. I glopped in some of the velvety terra-cotta elixir and - hey presto - a stunning accompaniment to smoky-sweet chestnut brownies. A garnish of chocolate leaves wrapped in suitably earth-toned foil will provide the final flourish on the big day.

A very happy Thanksgiving to all!

Pumpkin Ice Cream

Combine 2.5 cups of whipping cream and 2.5 cups of half-and-half in a large saucepan. Toss in a couple of cinnamon sticks and several whole dried allspice berries. Apply medium heat until the pan's contents are all steamy. At this point, the kitchen will take on delightful smells and you will not mind a bit that there will be no pumpkin pie tomorrow. Clap a lid on the pan and let the contents infuse for 20 minutes or so.

Meanwhile, beat together 8 room-temperature egg yolks and a cup of sugar until pale and creamy. When the dairy has done its thing, strain it then slowly ladle it into the egg mixture, whisking all the time.

Return the whole lot to the burner and cook slowly, stirring continuously with your favorite wooden spoon, until the custard coats its back or the temperature reaches 170 deg F. Alchemical processes being what they are, these events should transpire at roughly the same time.

Strain the custard into a bowl set inside another bowl filled with ice. Grate in several lashings of fresh nutmeg.

When the mixture is utterly cold, fold in about a cup of pumpkin butter, more or less - the precise amount will be determined by how tawny you wish the final product to be. I admit I did not use homemade pumpkin butter for this batch of ice cream, but some perfectly respectable all-natural stuff I found locally. I suppose you could also use garden-variety pumpkin puree. Check for spice and adjust to taste. If I were feeling wild I might add a pinch of cayenne pepper at this point.

Chill the custard overnight. Next day, spin it in your favorite ice cream device then - if you can wait that long - chill for several hours before eating.

Camembert Repair

You may recall that my very first foray into proper cheese-making last Spring (not counting mozzarella and ricotta, of course) was also my least successful to date. By least successful I mean that after two months of napping in my refrigerator's crisper drawer my four little mold-ripened babies emerged as unappetizing rubber hockey pucks coated with a thick gritty rind that resisted all but my sharpest chef's knife.

It was extremely disappointing.

Faint heart never won fair fromage, however, so as soon as the weather got a bit cooler and I had several weeks to devote to The Cause I decided to try again.

Ever the good scientist, I first I attempted to analyze where I went wrong with my first batch. All the evidence indicated that I had done everything right during fabrication: my rennet had set the cheese nicely; I obtained a good yield from my two gallons of beautiful raw Jersey milk; and the cheeses' fur coats had grown right on schedule. There had been no unwanted visitors in the form of black mold or the dreaded poil de chat and my cheese smelled fresh and clean with no hint of ammonia.

Only the texture had been off. Undeniably off. Disastrously off. Like that of dried-out husks filled with the stuff from which they make golf balls.

I reasoned, therefore, that the damage had occurred during affinage, when the wee bugs in the cheese - left to their own devices - work overtime ripening and softening the paste to spreadable heaven. I had known - intellectually, at least - that the microbes required quite a lot of humidity if they were to do their worst (or best, in this case), so I had placed two big bowls of water in the bottom of my cave, trusting them to do the trick. Later, when the cheeses were suitably fuzzy and I had moved them to the bottom drawer of the fridge, I made do with one small rice-bowl of water, figuring the ambient humidity of my chill chest would be sufficient.

Obviously, it wasn't.

So this time, I left nothing to chance. Instead of allowing my four babies to ripen in the cave free range (where at any rate they would have risked catching a skin condition from the Blue-Cheese-In-The -Style-of-Stilton-Perhaps that is quarantined on the top shelf), I engineered for them simple but effective humidity chambers comprised of lidded Oxo storage containers, sushi mats, and rolled-up sheets of wet paper towels. After a week of this treatment at 55 deg F, my new camemberts had lovely downy coats that were soft and supple and depressed easily under thumb-applied pressure. No sign of grittiness now!

I wrapped the cheeses and moved them - still inside their boxes, the interiors of which were by this time covered in little dewy drops of moisture - to the bottom of the fridge, where the lower temperature of 45 deg F slowed down mold growth and jump-started the ripening process. I rotated the containers and opened their lids every other day to allow gas exchange and check for signs of trouble. I perhaps poked the cheeses rather more than they would have liked, but that is, after all, typical behavior in an anxious parent.

After four weeks of fretful anxiety, Sir and I could stand the suspense no longer. We allowed one of the camemberts to come to room temperature and carefully sliced ourselves a small wedge. We examined it from all angles: the rind appeared to be appropriately thin and there was a hint of runniness right at the edges. Success!

We tasted the cheese and found it to be delicious delicious delicious. We gobbled some plain, and some with homemade fig jam, and I think Sir might have spread some of his on Ritz crackers. We considered sharing the remainder with others but finished the whole thing before we deciding upon suitable victims.

A blissful and satisfying experience to be sure, but during the post-mortem that always concludes a tasting event here a chez Fractured Amy we considered the camembert with a dispassionate eye. I was forced to admit there had been a hint of chalkiness towards the middle of the cheese (just visible on the cut surface of the wedge, below) - indicating we had opened it a little too early. A slight tanginess confirmed that it wasn't quite ready. Never mind - there were still three left!

Homemade camembert, week four

The following Saturday (week 5 for those of you keeping track), we opened the next one. The runniness had expanded towards the cheese's center and all lemony flavors were extinguished by unmistakable camembertness. I almost wept with joy and Sir declared it my best cheese since the Wensleydale. The following picture was taken at room temperature - observe the ooey-gooey wonderfulness!

Homemade camembert, week five

Finally, this past Saturday, we opened Cheese Number Three. It differed from the previous one not at all, leading us to believe that the peak of perfection had been reached and it was time to get snacking before those remaining started to roll down the wrong side of the Hill of Ripeness. This cheese was consumed by third parties before I was able to take a picture of it - one small wedge was all that remained by the time I got round to preserving it for posterity:

Homemade camembert, week six

Is it not a thing of beauty?

I still have one cheese from this batch left. It will be my offering with cocktails before the annual turkey-fest on Thursday, where it shall be called Walking-on-Air Camembert.

And for that, I am truly thankful.

Can Androids Make the Gluten-Free Leap?

I am not, as a rule, a gadget maven although my two favorite objets techniques of all time - you know, the ones I will grab before fleeing from a burning building - are my Smartyphone and my Kindle. And my iPad.

Three objets techniques.

I love my Smartyphone because of all the cool stuff it allows me to do. I can save myself a fruitless trip all the way upstairs by texting the Kid Squid from the kitchen to find out whether he wants to join me in a cup of tea or go for a walk. I can keep track of the gluten-free shopping and take pictures of all the exotic ingredients I require so others can reconnoitre the supermarket without me. I can play Angry Birds and Scrabble to my heart's content - much-needed relaxation after an afternoon wrestling with a g/f baking experiment. I am able, now that I have given in and paid the introductory fee of 99 cents, to follow all the latest happenings (and recipes!) as revealed by the New York Times. I can even obtain directions to that fabulous new boite that's been the subject of so much local buzz lately.

I'm just kidding about that last one: the Valley is scandalously short on boites and their ilk, but a girl can dream.

My iPad is necessary for streaming Netflix videos and downloading volumes with pretty pictures or diagrams - such as cookbooks and On Food and Cooking - which don't transfer well to Amazon's 'reads like a book' device. It is also useful for downloading photos when I am travelling, so I can free up valuable space on my camera's wee memory chip.

As for my Kindle, well, you know that I refuse to buy dead tree anything anymore and that's that.

But none of these devices, tragically, does it all. I don't really like reading novels on my iPad (there's too much glare and I don't like the tricky swiping maneuver required to turn the pages - also the battery doesn't last that long) while the Kindle is useless for movies and web browsing. The Blogger interface is compatible with exactly none of them, so when I think the mood will strike I have to ensure access to a computer: when we travel, that means I need to carry my little HP netbook or borrow the Squid's laptop when he isn't looking.

True story: when DMR and I presented ourselves at security at JFK in May before our flight to Johannesburg, I was taken aside and questioned at length by the TSA for having my iPhone, my Kindle, my iPad, and my netbook in my carry-on bag. 'You don't need all four,' the big scary guy exclaimed, while pulling them out of my bag and spreading them accusingly on the metal table. 'Why do you have all four?' I light-heartedly quipped that my husband had asked the same question while I was packing, ha ha ha, but the Uniformed One was having none of it. It was touch and go there for a bit, I kid you not, but I was eventually allowed to proceed despite the alarm-raising profile prompted by all my redundant technology.

Sometimes, though, one can't help oneself. From curiosity, or aggressive marketing, or the need to be au fait with the cultural currency (such as it is) of this modern age we live in, one finds oneself doing something outrageous. And that is why, despite the fact that I didn't really need it, I bought myself an early Christmas present this week: a shiny new Kindle Fire. It arrived fortuitously yesterday while I was lying on my Second Empire fainting couch, recovering from Sir's long-distance lecture about I-forget-what. I am pleased to report the improvement to my mental and physical well-being was instantaneous. I removed the device from its earnest-looking recycled cardboard box (it might have been constructed from the leavings of gluten-free bread manufacturing), charged it up, and stood back to see what would happen.

Joy of joys! My entire Kindle collection was already on its virtual library shelf in full and glorious technicolor. I discovered that I now have access to the New Yorker (an exclusive contract with Amazon, oh my), Saveur and yes, even Bon Appetit if I feel so inclined, without a single tree having to give up the ghost for the cause. My cookbooks look awesome and I can access the USDA nutritional database on the web if I need to do some sudden high-ratio baking. I can watch movies, hooray, and play Angry Birds to my heart's content.

But best of all, thanks to non-Apple technology I am now able to do this:

Huzzah for Androids: now I can blog on the go.

Top Chef Texas, Episode 3: Nobody Likes a Smartass

As is my custom on Thursdays, I woke up at 4:30 this morning ready to caper down the stairs so I could watch our sixteen qualified culinary competitors cook themselves some rattlesnakes. First, though, I decided to check my Smartyphone for e-mail, just to make sure I wasn't missing anything important out there in the big wide world.

Imagine my chagrin when I discovered in my Inbox a diatribe from an outraged West Coast reader berating me for yesterday's gluten-free chocolate/hazelnut bar posting in which I maligned (unfairly in this camper's opinion) Wegmans' frozen-turkey bowlers and their cavalier price-labelling policies. Aggressive questioning from said fan ('To what did the weight refer, each bar or all of them together?') was followed by a link to a Wikipedia entry that described in stupefying detail a wide variety of mass-measuring strategems. The note went on to accuse me of an incomplete (well, let's not mince words - 'totally perverse' was the implication) understanding of the meaning of the term net weight. The e-mail closed with the hypothesis that ambiguous verbiage on the part of the manufacturer, rather than the rotten education of my supermarket's employees, was to blame for the misunderstanding and that I should be a bit less quick to cast stones, already.

The epistolarian - you will no doubt have guessed - was Sir, currently three hours' behind the times in California and with nothing better to do than bury me under smug pedantry. What did the details of the case matter when I had been confronted by specious signage that led me to believe my new-found coffee-time accompaniments were three times more expensive than they actually were? I was so upset by my spouse's disloyalty and lack of sympathy that I had to send Che down to watch Top Chef without me while I stewed, grumbled, and plotted revenge.

An hour later my faithful notebook reported that rattlesnake had indeed been on the Quickfire menu (very tasty, apparently, when covered in tempura beer-batter and served with zucchini-almond gazpacho) and that Keith from Wilmington (the one in North Carolina) got auf'ed for serving a soggy and disgusting chicken enchilada made with a wheat tortilla. Che, in an heart-warming bid to provide me with some much-needed cheer, empathically editorialized that it served Keith right for preparing gluten-filled wraps when the blameless corn variety would have been both tastier and more auténtico.

I was forced to agree and took comfort from the fact that my notebook, at least, knows where his true allegiance lies.

Gluten Free by the Gram

In the past year, the marketing mutations undergone by Wegmans' gluten-free products have been nothing short of astounding. Are all these changes for the better? It's not my place to judge. But sit back, relax, and let me tell you my latest tale, which contains more ups-and-downs than a xanthan gum bread-baking experiment. Then you can decide.

First, a bit of background. I reported previously on the sudden appearance in June of two huge freezers bursting with g/f baked goods - freezers past which I am forced to walk every time I buy garlic bread, five-cheese ravioli, and oven fries for the boys. Since it is no hardship to ignore blueberry muffins polluted with lentils and chocolate doughnuts loaded with pea protein, I am now able to saunter by these so-called temptations without much difficulty, thus ending successfully my first journey on the supermarket's gluten-free bandwagon.

I also went on record with a diatribe concerning the obnoxious touting of the gluten-free condition of foodstuffs that never had gluten in them to begin with - fresh green beans, for example, or unfiltered apple cider. My local banch recently reached new heights of craziness (first observed by me on Monday) with the installation of a special fridge in the deli section, with a ginormous sign hanging from the ceiling above proclaiming the contents GLUTEN FREE. What do you think the chill chest contained? I won't keep you in suspense: sliced cheese, ham, and other cold cuts for sandwiches!

First of all, I cannot begin to conceive in what universe chickens contain gluten, making their freedom from same so worthy of note. Second of all, I am compelled to wonder why the Powers That Be think advertising ingredients for gluten-free sandwiches is desirable or worthy of precious floor space since - wait for it - there is no such thing as a gluten-free sandwich!

I was just concluding that the world had gone completely mad when I stumbled into the gluten-free aisle itself. Normally, I avoid this area of questionable and very expensive products: questionable because they often contain gluten (recall the fateful flax-seed finding) or other dread ingredients such as bamboo fiber; and expensive because, well, everything in the vicinity costs roughly twelve times what it would if our planet had its priorities straight. However, I am compelled to visit these precincts every so often because they form a sort of demilitarized zone directly between fresh produce and the bleeding-heart/socialist/foreign territory where my Hunza raisins are to be found.

I should not have been surprised to see that in the past year the Dispensers of Gluten-Free Snacks and Such have discovered the marketing potential of the holidays, when (I suspect) self-pitying gluten freedom-fighters are more than usually susceptible to the unrelenting bombardment of cakes, cookies, and the like. Still, it was a bit of a shock to find the path to my cherished Himalayan beauties obstructed by a towering cardboard ziggurat filled with 'traditional' gluten-free pannetone in two delightful flavors - chocolate and another one - brought to us by the good folks at Schär. Can you please explain why an Italian company employs in its name an umlaut? Neither can I. The cakes were, like, a million dollars each. No doubt as Christmas approaches I shall be taking out a second mortgage on the house in order to taste test one of these creations (anything in the name of research!) but in the mean time I was moved - whimsical girl that I am - to try one of Schär's other offerings.

I do, after all, love nothing so much as being disappointed by the confections peddled by the Evil Minions of Gluten-Free Agribusiness: it gives me a sense that there is something upon which I can depend in this crazy old world of ours.

I chose Schär's Chocolate Hazelnut Bars, since they looked a lot like the creme-filled crispy wafer rectangles (you know the ones - sometimes they're pink) I used to gobble by the packet in my wheat-filled days of yore. The label hanging on the shelf indicated the box cost (gram per gram) roughly the same price as imported black truffles or fine ossetra from Petrossian. Despite the extortionate fee, I popped them into my basket for afternoon coffee accompaniment purposes. See what I mean? Whimsical.

Did I mention the biscuits were certified gluten-free? I may complain vociferously about American labelling practices, but I am obliged to confess the Europeans have the whole thing sussed:

I got them home and organized a quick tasting panel comprised of myself, Sir, and the Kid Squid. A gross error of judgement on my part alerted the Squid to my nefarious plan, and he refused to judge impartially the wafers on their objective merits. He has, in recent months, become dismissive of g/f products (his approval of Dowd and Rogers' Dark Vanilla Cake being a notable exception) and claimed to 'taste a lot of that gluten-free stuff in there that I don't really like'. He compared the insides to communion wafers, which Sir and I thought was hilarious considering he has not had one of those since he was seven years old. I chose to treat these findings with the grain of salt they deserved.

Sir, on the other hand, ate his 'perfectly good' bar quite happily and reported that he would be very pleased to eat another if it were offered. I was forced - rather against my own prejudices - to concur. The chocolate was of sufficiently high quality to be free of waxiness and the hazelnut filling was aromatic and exotic-tasting. The biscuit-parts themselves were crispily indistinguishable from their wheat-filled cousins - so indistinguishable, in fact, that my suspicions were aroused. Did the non-certified versions so easily available in the cookie aisle in fact contain wheat by-products or was this just another ploy to dupe gluten guerrillas such as myself into paying twelve times the sum required by the strict laws of supply-and-demand?

I hurried back to the supermarket to investigate further and found that the situation was a complicated one. The German wafers I used to consume by the ton were indeed made with wheat but on the same generic cookie shelf I found others that were wheatless (Italian, this time) - though not certified gluten-free. I was willing, therefore, to grant the nice people at Schär a bit of leeway in this respect.

But there was still the exorbitant price tag to consider. Here is where things broke down completely. A quick calculation on my Smartyphone revealed that my most recent purchase cost 71% more per gram than the wheat-filled variety of my youth! I'm sure you would agree that by any standards - even those that seem to pervade the gluten-free marketplace - this was an outrageous violation of business ethics, such as they are in these troubled times. But something didn't seem right. When we had tried our hazelnut bars at home, they had seemed weighty and filling to the point where I was quite satisfied after having eaten just one. The entire packet of German biscuits seemed hardly any larger - if not more diminutive.

I returned to the g/f aisle to confirm my math, where I discovered that the same mischievous shelf-stocker responsible for my flax seed fiasco had been hard at work in between bouts of frozen-turkey bowling and whatever other hijinks the night shift are wont to pursue. The box of Schär cookies was clearly labelled '3 bars, net weight 105g' but the ridiculous tag on the shelf - you know, the one that's supposed to make it easy to compare prices? - contained the unconscionable disinformation that $4.99 was the price for 105 g.

No! $4.99 was the price for 315 grams!

The miscreant clearly did not know the meaning of the term 'net weight.' I cursed the woeful state of the American school system and its deleterious effects on my already-fragile emotional constitution.

Armed with this startling price-point intelligence, however, I was able to calculate that my new-found treats cost only 13% more than their gluten-rich comrades (which, admittedly, were not chocolate-covered) and a full 57% less than the gluten-free (but uncertified) Italian jobs.

Dare I speak the words? The good people at Schär may prove to be valuable allies in the gluten-freedom fight after all. Reports on their pannetone will be following in due course.

As far as my local supermarket is concerned, well - my view is that with friends like that, who needs enemies?

Faux-loumi

My cheesemaking-mania, which went into hibernation during the hot weather, returned with a vengeance in October and continues without abeyance. A number of factors have contributed to this resurgence:

• my cave became sadly depleted over the summer months, containing in September only one ripening Blue-Cheese-In-The-Style-of-Stilton-Perhaps and a vacuum-packed quarter-of-cheddar, both of which are being saved for the holidays.
• I needed to have more than two varieties of cheese to offer guests over the holidays (see above).
• my desire to perfect my mold-ripening technique (duly accomplished with a peerless batch of Camembert and a washed rind cheese of my own invention: details to come in two or three weeks' time, when all my data have been collected).
• the imperative to try out my fabulous new cheese press, purchased from the Cheese Queen as an early Christmas present.

This last factor represents the single most important improvement to my cheese-making career so far. Loyal readers will remember that my first forays into aged hard and semi-soft fromages were accomplished with a complicated apparatus constructed from Sir's workout weights, baking trays, and crossed fingers. On average, each system experienced something like four or five crashes, at least two of which resulted in permanent dents to the kitchen's vinyl flooring. Even after I started setting up my MacGyverpress on the floor itself (not an ideal situation with a cat sniffing around the house, I'm sure you will agree), I continued to suffer from toe-crushing collapses. As a result, I declared a moratorium on Wensleydale production until the Situation Was Sorted. Sir, alarmed by this turn of events and concerned that his newfound supply might be cut off in perpetuity, sprang into action and a week later a shiny new press appeared on the front step, exciting new cultures and inspiration included in the price!

I took a day off from laboratory duties and got down to it. After having produced Sir's Christmas Wensleydale and another Swiss cheese (my personal favorite), I still had a few gallons of raw milk left and considered my options. My newly-acquired devotion to haloumi, which I consumed all summer long with fresh greenery and home-made sweet fruit chutney, beckoned me with its siren song.  Of course, haloumi is made from sheeps' milk, but why let a detail like that get in the way of a thrilling new adventure? I was most curious to see how its fabrication differed from the other cheeses I have created so far and set to work with a will.

Here's how I made fauxloumi®.

I did my curds-and-whey thing and pressed the result in my wonderful new device, use of which enabled me to multi-task elsewhere for whole hours at a time without having to worry about the structural integrity of my kitchen's load-bearing members. Isn't it cute? The wee dancing mouse etched upon it cheers me no end.

After squashage, the cheese looked pretty much like every other I have made.

But wait - there's more!

I heated up the reserved whey (which is generally employed for plant watering since it is so full of lactose it gives me the screaming heebie-jeebies) and popped large-ish slices of my not-yet-fauxloumi® into the pot. Fearing they would disintegrate into oblivion, I watched them like a mother hen until they popped to the surface some time later, reassuringly in tact and floating like so much flotsam and jetsam.

They came out of their bath tough and rubbery, like overcooked chicken. If I hadn't known that this a desirable state for hard cheeses to be in, I might at this juncture have run howling into the night (yes, it was after dark by stage in the proceedings, despite my having started this vacation-day project at 4:30 am).

I decanted the cheese chunks into plastic containers full of saturated brine and left them for three weeks. I forgot to take a picture, but I am confident you can render a sufficiently-accurate image in your mind's eye. The only problem was the leeching of the salt all over my cave for the duration - it was a bit of a mess, I assure you. Never mind, it was all in a good cause!

When I deemed the cheese sufficiently cured, I removed two of the slices and rinsed them well. I reconsidered and soaked them in cold water for a bit to render them less challengingly saline.

Into my trusty cast iron skillet for toasting!

The pieces emerged golden and crusty with melty buttery insides that squeaked when we chewed 'em. They were awesome!

I did a quick mental calculation to see if my fauxloumi® was financially viable. Reasonable sheeps' milk haloumi (from sunny Cyprus, even!) may be had from my local supermarket for $10 per 8 oz package. I obtained two pounds of cheese from $9 worth of wholesome raw Holstein milk. If I discount the investment I have made in the purchase of bulk cultures and infrastructure (which I will be amortizing over the next several years) and pay myself minimum wage for labor, I ... well, I have no idea, really.

It's a lotta work for not a whole lotta cheese.

But it's very fun and the bragging rights are beyond measure.

And frankly, that's my most pressing concern.

Top Chef Texas, Episode 2: Mussels and Brussels

This morning Che and I got up an hour early, skipped downstairs, and poured ourselves a cup of coffee with extra sugar before addressing our latest DVR'd installment of the ninth season of Top Chef. What awaited us were no less than the third qualification round and long-awaited Back-of-the-Pickup Cook-Off, which taken together would determine the occupants of the final places in the GE Monogram kitchen. My notebook and I settled into our favorite toile-upholstered armchair, got up again to search for the remote, and returned to our seat in anticipation of the spectacle to come.

Once again, we were foiled by technology. Loyal readers are painfully aware that my DVR has become somewhat temperamental of late and sure enough, it had failed to record the latest adventures of Pads, the Heimlich Maneuver, the Unibrow, et al. Disconsolate, I retreated back upstairs with my latest read (Cruise Confidential by Brian David Bruns), while Che had harsh words with the mischievous device.

Several hours later, Sir figured out the reason for the malfunction. Having been programmed to record Top Chef, it had subsequently failed to recognize Bravo's use of the qualifier Texas when scanning the schedule and neglected to spring into action when my favorite show aired at 10:00 last night. I'm not blaming anyone, but I suspect that nefarious agents of certain candidates' presidential campaigns have infiltrated and sabotaged my cable box's search parameters. I shall be writing a sternly-worded letter to the Republican Party of the Lone Star State as soon as I can find the time. Fortunately for me, Bravo repeats every episode of every series like, a zillion times a day, so we were able to record the mayhem while I was at work today. Wasn't that lucky? I knew you would.

Off to the Top Chef kitchen, where our last group of culinary combatants was confronted by Pads wearing something that looked suspiciously like a circus tent. Unibrow, smirking beside her, was introduced as an ex-Master and responded with a lame comment about how good it was to be on the other side of the judging table for a change. This rather obvious statement was greeted with the sort of sycophantic giggles one might expect from ten chefs about to have a collective nervous breakdown.

As well they might! Each competitor was given an ingredient and a random amount of time in which to make from it something reasonably edible, if not truly fabulous. The challenges ranged from What's the Fuss? (trout in twenty minutes, Brussels sprouts in forty) to Full-Blown Panic Stations (forty-minute short ribs and sixty-minute oxtails). The customary frenzy ensued, during which we were introduced to Chaz who - despite having to cook risotto (the downfall of more would-be Top Chefs than any other single dish) - took the time to TH about his love of our bodacious host, 'the most beautiful woman in the world'. He confided to the camera (and however many hundreds of sad sacks like me who watch the show) that throughout his middle-school career, he hung in his locker a poster of Pads before which he bowed down and duly worshipped.

All I can say to that is if she knew, she'd probably feel really really old.

Fatally distracted by his memories and daydreams (a quick trawl of the internet reveals that his poster might have been quite salacious indeed!), Chaz was unable to plate his risotto in a timely fashion and got sent home for failing to feed anything to the judges. Although the editors made it look as though the HM was lobbying to try the dish anyway, Pads wasn't having any of it. I imagine the poster went straight onto the compost heap upon the would-be-arborio-artiste's ignominious return to wherever.

A lot of the not-quite Top Chefs were booted in this round. Kim, concerned by her fennel's failure to cook properly, was auf'ed instead for a greasy, over-cooked 20-minute lamb chop. Jonathan was sent home for 40-minute Brussels sprouts that were neither 'cooked nor seasoned'. Bernice's short ribs were so appalling they didn't merit a comment or an explanation, just an admonishing finger pointed towards the door. Ashley was dismissed for her failure to cook her oxtails sufficiently: I myself would have sent her packing for her incompetent handling of her pressure cooker. She claimed never to have used one before (that's almost as bad as a microwave phobia, in my opinion) and, watching her attempt to open it while it was still on the burner - angrily hissing and steaming - I could well believe it.

Two were sent to the Back of the Pickup: Andrew (who looked like he was suffering from apoplexy), for greasy spinach, gritty mushrooms, and a sloppy plate; and Laurent, a guy from France. 'Een Fraaahhhnz, you eyezair beecalm a kook, a preest, or an arhmy guy. Zee whairst beecalms a kook.' Whatever: he's the sort of French kook that in Paris probably couldn't get a job as a plongeur. Into the Back of the Pickup for a dish that left the judges, to put it politely, embrouillé.

This left six Bubblers to fight it out for the remaining two places. Janine, showing remarkable mathematical insight for one about to go into deadly combat, remarked that they each had a 33% chance of certain stardom - not bad for a gal lacking computational aids of any description. Tragically for one of such intellect, she failed to impress the judges with the 'raw-tasting' relish that accompanied her scallop. Molly overcooked her shrimp; Andrew produced a baffling panna cotta to accompany his otherwise praiseworthy mussels; and Laurent made a scallop tartare in a shade of unappetizing grey - just like they do at Le Grand Vefour, no doubt. Grayson emerged victorious with her bacon-wrapped shrimp and intriguing fig sauce, and Edward (despite very nearly amputating his finger and having to cook one-handed while the medic tried to sew the errant digit back on) squeaked through despite an overcooked duck breast.

So that's that. Two weeks of foodie fisticuffs and we've only just now decided who the final sixteen will be. The previews make it look as though we're going to be in for a pretty rough ride, Texas-style. I just hope my DVR is up to the task.

Yee haw.

Addendum: My money is on dear sweet Lindsay, who cooked a dish of sixty-minute veal chops that managed to stun the HM into an admiring 'Well done'. And somehow she still found the time to instruct Ashley on the use of her pressure cooker!

Sealed With a Hiss

I have a fabulous new hobby that requires I spend much of my previously free time vacuuming everything in sight.

I do not mean the sort of vacuuming I accomplish with my Dyson, even though I do experience immense satisfaction when floors previously covered with dust bunnies, Airsoft BBs, and orange maple-leaf skeletons (they always cling so maddeningly to one's work boots at this time of year!) are miraculously made clean by means of patented Cyclone technology. Although hoovering admittedly provides a certain frisson of instant gratification, I would not go so far as to say it is sufficiently pleasurable to qualify as a hobby.

Nor do I refer to the sort of vacuuming that involves fresh produce, pectin, and Ball jars - and to which I contentedly dedicate so many a happy Sunday afternoon. I have been jamming up a storm since February, which in gluten-free years is a very long time. So even though I count home preserving as a hobby, it isn't exactly new.

No, my latest mania involves a fabulous new piece of kitchen equipment without which I am hard pressed to explain how I have lived so long. Ungrammatical, but true.

I speak of my incredible vacuum sealer.

I first became aware of my overwhelming need for such a device during my last visit to see dear Toad, who extolled the virtues of her own appliance with convincing enthusiasm. Quite apart from its efficacy - indeed, necessity - for so many sous vide preparations (never mind that I am still without an immersion circulator to call my own), it can be used for subdividing 15 lb. bags of rice from Mitsuwa (there's always a run on the smaller, more practical bags when the new-season kome appears in October); storing leftover cornbread wedges in the refrigerator for all eternity (I'm the only one in the family who will eat it, you may recall); and securing jars of homemade jam for gift-giving purposes when travelling abroad (we don't want them exploding in our suitcases, now, do we?).

Recently, I have come to see a whole new functionality in my invaluable new kitchen companion: the preservation of homemade cheese at its peak of perfection.

It started with some tasty and highly-successful new creations of my own devising, two Alpine numbers inspired by the Vacha Toscano developed by Jim Wallace, my mentor in all things curd-related. When we sliced into the first of the cheeses at the weekend, we were gratified by its mild, grassy taste and slight tang - reminiscent of a young Gruyere, with the same springy texture and wholesome buttercup hue. The problem was that I didn't want the second specimen to get any funkier with further aging, but (people's schedules being what they are) was unable at that precise moment to recruit sufficient numbers of victims to consume it all. What to do, what to do?

Salvation was at hand, provided by my cunning culinary contrivance. It was the work of a moment to pop the cheese between two sheets of food-safe plastic; heat-seal one end; suck all the air out with a roar of machinery and a gassy exhalation like a deflating balloon; heat-seal the other end and - hey presto - cheese that can sit forever and forever unto Doomsday, the little bugs starved of air and unable to do unwanted damage. My Alpine Kleine was subsequently moved back into the cave until a suitable tasting can be organized.

Emboldened by our success, we also dared cut into the cheddar that I had made back in April and was saving for Christmas. Can you imagine the disappointment if we'd first sampled the cheese publicly at a gala holiday bash, only to find out it was dreadful-tasting, foul-smelling, or moldy? No fear - we sliced the thankfully-triumphant cheese into four pieces, ate/gave away three of them, and vacuumed the final quarter for eventual Yuletide enjoyment. I know I could have rewaxed the last bit (a procedure that would have allowed the cheese to continue aging), but it's so much more fun to play with my splendiferous new gadget.

I can't vacuum seal all my cheese, of course. My soft and mold-ripened wonders (so many coming into their own now, the darling things!) will have to be eaten quickly and on their schedules, not mine. My whole waxed and brined truckles are safe just the way they are - until I start to dissect them, that is. Then, they will require the Full Mechanical Treatment.

I don't mind. They'll be mightily enjoyable even if they've got no atmosphere.

Nothing Plain About Vanilla

There's no sense crying over every mistake.

You just keep on trying till you run out of cake.

~ 'Still Alive' from Portal

Campers, you are all well aware that for me the hardest part about being a gluten guerrilla is the lack of easily-available, moist and delicious, common-or-garden cake.

As a result of adjusted expectations, however, my position on this sacrifice has softened somewhat in the past year. I now consider cake-on-demand a privilege rather than a right, a philosophy for which my waist-line is truly thankful. I have learned to walk past my local supermarket's bakery counter with sang froid and no longer look with green-eyed jealousy upon those lucky folks (sometimes they seem to lurk around every corner) enjoying layers of gateau smothered in snowy icing, oblivious to their good fortune and taking for granted the convenience of their access to sweet morning-coffee accompaniments.

As I said, all these discomfitures I am now able to take in my stride.

But sometimes a girl needs cake. Without delay.

She does not want to peel carrots or have to fabricate special ingredients such as apple sauce or pumpkin puree. She does not want to do the math required by the otherwise invaluable high-ratio cake concept.

Under such urgent circumstances it is a great boon to have a few boxes of good cake mix standing by. Although in my gluten-filled past I shunned such conveniences it is also true that in the good old days I could pick up a slice of something delicious just about anywhere. That, of course, is no longer possible. Nowadays, I must be more self-sufficient.

Many mixes, I have been forced to report with chagrin, are pure heartbreak. A notable exception to this maxim is the lemon cake mix manufactured by the wonderful employees of Dowd and Rogers, purveyors of almond and Italian sweet chestnut flours to Those In The Know. Although the company's flours and mixes are marketed as gluten-free products, I can testify to their equal appeal to discerning connoisseurs of all persuasions.

When Sir requested chestnut brownies as a welcome-home treat after his long flight back from Shanghai, I was dismay to discover that the Whole Foods in Edgwater, NJ no longer carries Down and Rogers products. For shame! I was forced to turn to one of the internet's gluten-free markets for satisfaction and discovered in the process that D&R offer a variety of mix I had not previously tried, Dark Vanilla Cake, hooray. I ordered two boxes and with high hopes finally got round to baking one this morning. A girl requires cake when she has been raking leaves and clearing gutters all day, am I right?

As usual, the ingredients in the tastefully-designed box were unobjectionable. Organic evaporated cane juice (I think that means sugar, but what do I know?); rice, chestnut, and tapioca flours; buttermilk; vanilla; baking powder; baking soda; and a little bit of xanthan gum. I added my own eggs, butter, and a splash of H20 and had the thing in the oven in less than ten minutes. The most laborious part of the process was retrieving my thirty-five-pound standmixer from the Metro shelving at the opposite end of the kitchen - attentive readers may recall that my loyal handmixer gave up the ghost in a puff of burning vapor back in August and has yet to be replaced.

As anticipated, the final cake was awesome in every respect. Sir declared it a winner and even the Kid Squid (who, having suffered disappointment on so many previous occasions, usually refuses to try the results of my baking efforts these days) remarked that it was 'not at all bad'.

The destructions on the box helpfully suggested a garnish of fresh raspberry sauce, but I chose instead to serve the cake with some whipped cream and home-made pineapple and vanilla preserves. I dusted the plate with some powdered sugar and dubbed the result The Madagascar Marvel, to much rejoicing.

It's good enough for company. But better yet, it's quick and easy enough to satisfy those sudden cake cravings.

This was a triumph.

I'm making a note here: huge success.

It's hard to overstate my satisfaction

... This cake is great!

- more wisdom from Portal

Acknowledgement: many thanks to the Squid for sharing with me the closing song to one of his favorite games. The lyrics contain such poetry and truth as to bring a tear to the eye of even the most hardened veteran of the War on Wheat.

Top Chef, Episode 1: Texas Toast

Previously on Top Chef Just Desserts:

As luck would have it, almost the entire second season of Just Desserts coincided with my blogging hiatus. In the final analysis, this mattered not at all, since Chris 'I Have a Passion For Helping People' Hanmer won the whole catastrophe. I know, I know - like we didn't see that coming from a mile away. I predicted his eventual triumph the minute I espied his black Converse All-Stars and he himself had no doubt of his final victory, which he foresaw in the very first episode. So really, I saved us all a lot of time and trouble in the end. Don't bother to thank me, just consider it another valuable public service courtesy of Fractured Amy!

On to the Lone Star State, where Pads, the Heimlich Maneuver, and the Shoes awaited our next group of culinary contenders. In anticipation of an overwhelming flurry of names, faces, and personalities (such as they are), last night I logged on to Bravo's appalling website before the festivities began in order to introduce myself to the cheftestants. I clicked on 'bios' and duly waited while a bazillion adds for GE Monogram appliances scrolled by, only to be then confronted by the sneering Voltaggio brothers shilling for Samsung. I axed all the pop-ups cross-promoting various housewives and matchmakers and tried to ignore the exhortation to sign myself up for two free issues of Food and Wine magazine (could it be any worse that Bon Appetit?). When my desired link opened up roughly two hours later, I was dismayed by two equally disturbing revelations.

• First, only the judges' smiling faces appeared, which I thought was bizarre. Usually Bravo are at great pains to get as much mileage out of the competitors as possible, so it was strange to have their presence so blatantly ignored on the website. I concluded that the fact there were more than twenty would-be top chefs in the running this time round might have had something to do with their absence - or perhaps Bravo had already used up all their webserver space on that ridiculous 'Tweet Tracker' and Top Chef merchandise marketing.
• Second, the identity of the judges themselves came as something of a shock. Instead of my cherished Eric Ripert and Hubert Keller were the smirking mugs of ... wait for it ... Emeril and the Unibrow! Hyperventilating ensued as a result of this unwelcome development. In order to recover, I was forced to make myself a soothing cup of Earl Grey and take to my bed, not to emerge until this morning when I had calmed myself sufficiently to address to horror.

With no great optimism Che (my new Moleskine notebook) and I presented ourselves in front of the DVR at 4:30 this morning, ready to see what havoc the producers had wrought on my favorite show. It wasn't that bad, actually. The reason for the website's omission became obvious immediately: Pads announced to the crew (whilst standing rather incongruously before the Alamo - make of the symbolism what you will), that not all the cheftestants would be proceeding to the show proper. Rather, they would have to submit themselves first to a qualifying challenge, after which only sixteen would be chosen to take part in the festivities. The competitors, clearly gutted by this turn of events, gnashed their teeth and furrowed their foreheads in suitably dramatic fashion.

The chefs were divided into three groups (not enough GE Monogram appliances to go around, I guess!) for the fun. In the process, the rather complicated rules for the qualifying round were explained. For each competitor, three outcomes were possible: s/he could cook well enough to be ushered directly to Bravo-sponsored immortality; s/he could make a dish of such an egregious nature as to be sent summarily packing; or s/he could be relegated to something called 'The Bubble', the middling residents of which would have to cook again in a sudden-death elimination before admission to the Promised Land. Why the producers chose to call this purgatory The Bubble and not some sort of Texas-appropriate conceit (The Border Fence? The Chain Gang? The Pickup Truck?) I am unable to explain satisfactorily.

The first group crept warily into the kitchen to be confronted by a butcher's block with a lovingly slaughtered pig stretched out upon it, looking rather like a 3-D version of one of those anatomical diagrams one finds in better cookbooks detailing where on the animal all the different cuts may be found. We were simultaneously introduced to Tyler, the creepiest individual to grace my LCD in some time, who THd endlessly about his experiences as a personal chef cooking for 'international celebrities' and other gourmets. 'Uh oh,' Che and I thought. 'Here comes another one!'

Sure enough, given the task of chopping the large porcine pieces into something called sub-prime cuts (I'd never heard the term before, but they sounded a lot like sub-prime mortgages, with equally disastrous results), he retrieved a hacksaw from somewhere and with a fearsome cackle was soon sending bits of bone and skin flying all around the place. He was opining how amazing he was and how the other competitors might as well go home and leave him to it, when the Heimlich Maneuver - angered by such disrespectful treatment of 'the protein' - rushed over and bodily stopped him from doing any further damage. Quivering with rage - or the nearest Colicchio equivalent - the HM sent Tyler out of the kitchen before he'd even had a chance to put pan to burner. It was some of the most gratifying television I've seen in some time - it isn't often that such obviously incompetent crazies are dispatched even before the party has begun.

The rest of the show proceeded with minimal shenanigans. Into the Back of the Pickup were sent Molly (who earns her living making soup on cruise ships) for a mediocre soup (quite) and Grayson, who was fatally hampered by a tenderloin butchered to three-inch smithereens by the aforementioned Villain of the Piece. Sent packing were Colin the Vegan from Seattle, too grossed out by Wilbur to think straight; and Simon, who overcooked his pork to stringy oblivion. I was sad to see Simon go - he was one of those self-taught tattooed guys that probably got his start washing dishes and peeling spuds. Che expressed the hope that one day such a chef will run away with the whole shebang, showing the Voltaggios a thing or two, but alas, it has yet to happen. Maybe in Season 10.

The second group cooked its rabbits without incident. The only drama was provided by Edward, who couldn't get the vacuum sealer to work properly. The undercooked result of his machinations got him relegated to the Back of the Pickup ('There's talent in there somewhere,' the HM ruefully admitted) to be joined by Janine, who didn't get her sauce onto the plate. Nina was sent home for somehow forgetting to serve the rabbit, thus ignoring the cardinal rule that the secret ingredients must always take center stage.

Oops - wrong show.

Next week: the results of the final group's qualifying challenge and the long-awaited Back-of-the-Pickup Cook-Off.