A long time ago in a faraway land there lived seven dwarfs. Their names were Whiny, Cutie-Pie, Kentucky (Bluegrass), Freckles, Top Knot, The Unobjectionable One, and The Girl Who Never Went to Sleepovers.
The dwarfs complained a lot - especially Whiny - because they were being held captive in a GE Monogram kitchen by The Minions of Bravo. Sometimes there were four Minions but usually there were only three because The Unibrow was often so busy hunkering under bridges with trolls that he forgot to come to work. The Minions forced the dwarfs to cook delicious meals using strange ingredients from conveyor belts and barbecue huts, which made the dwarfs distracted and a little crazy - especially The Girl Who Never Went to Sleepovers.
Whenever The Minions were displeased by a dish, they fed its creator to wolves. Thus the prisoners lived in perpetual fear - except for The Top Knot, who thought he was better and smarter than all the other dwarfs.
One day it so happened that an Evil Queen (also known as Charlize the Movie Star) descended from her lair to visit the captives and demand a Gothic Feast full of creepies and crawlies and long-legged beasties. 'Frighten me with your wicked cuisine!' she ordered, 'Or I will condemn you all to a life slinging hash at franchise family eateries!'
The dwarfs, horrified by the prospect of the witch's curse, put their imaginations into overdrive and came up with a seven-course dinner to appease her dread appetites.
Kentucky (Bluegrass) decided to create a plate of tuna tartare with one white sauce (Asian pear vinaigrette) and one black sauce (made with black garlic and ponzu). 'It represents good and evil!' he helpfully explained, just in case the Queen was a little slow on the uptake. His addition of deep-fried fish skins with the scales still on was deemed both gross and exciting by the Minions, thus saving the hapless dwarf from a fate worse than death.
Whiny decided to satisfy the Malevolent One's taste for blood with red risotto cooked with Amarone and lambs' hearts. Although the dish was judged 'flavorful' by the Minions, they also declared it undercooked and too cheese-intense. It was a near-run thing for Whiny, who in her nervousness had forgotten the lessons from the dwarves' dark history, in which risotto cookery inevitably leads to ruin and despair.
Cutie-Pie doubled, doubled, toiled, and troubled over a witches' stew made from short ribs, scallops, and dragon beans. The Minions licked their plates clean and said the stew was 'damn good', leaving the wolves in the wings disappointed that, this week at least, there would be no Southern belles served up as a tasty hor d'oeuvre.
Freckles went outside her usual comfort zone and created a 'crime scene on a plate' consisting of black chicken, beets, foie gras, and a fried quail egg to 'represent the baby chicken that lost its life.' The Minions revelled in the dish's audacity and bloodthirstiness - and remarked how revolting it was to be served a black chicken foot with the nails still on it. Tragically, Freckles' greens were oversalted and only her wicked under-the-bus tossing of a fellow dwarf at judges' table saved her from the dining dungeons of suburban strip malls.
The Top Knot retrieved his magic bag of tricks from its hiding place and put together a poisoned apple with cherry pie. He billowed liquid nitrogen all over the place to make it like like cauldron smoke. For once, the Minions liked what he had done and rewarded him by not throwing him into a bottomless chasm full of quicksand and miracle berry tablets.
The Unobjectionable One made an enchanted forest with beets every way, cherries and lots of other stuff. The piece de resistance was a big bloody handprint - SPLAT! - in the middle of each plate. The Evil Queen thought it was 'beautiful and scary' - just like her - and her magic mirror sycophantically agreed. The Unobjectionable One was crowned the winner, and for his pains was subsequently turned into a toad.
The poor Girl Who Never Went to Sleepovers doomed herself to eternal torments with the conceit that 'Snow White is a halibut'. The Minions agreed that her dish was 'nice' but not 'wicked or dark' as per the challenge's brief. Even worse, her sauce suffered from a 'weird texture' caused by a surfeit of arrowroot and newts' eyes, causing the unlucky Dwarf to beg for her life at judges' table. Never one to be deterred by sentimentality, trails of breadcrumbs, or Princes Charming (yes, Eric - we're looking at you!), The Evil Queen banished the GWNWtS from the GE Monogram kitchen forever and for always, cackling horribly as she did so.
As the Minions rode away on their broomsticks, the remaining six Dwarves were left in the kitchen to ponder - of the two fates, which was worse?
Tuesday, January 24, 2012
Wednesday, January 18, 2012
Daily Bread
I was idly surveying the kitchen, as one is wont to do whilst occupied in such a concentration-requiring yet otherwise stupefyingly boring task as Gouda curd-stirring - when my eyes lit upon two brown wizened objects in the fruit bowl. 'What on earth could those be?' I wondered. I risked the dreaded matting that apparently takes place if one leaves one's cheese vat for even a single second and gave the Mystery Items a suspicious poke with my right index finger.
Turns out they were organic bananas: brown, mushy, and way past their prime.
Subsequent investigation unearthed the reason for their languishing amidst the lemons, clementines, Williams pears, and Gala apples (new! improved! snack-sized!). Sir thought I had designs on them (why he thought this I have no idea: I never eat bananas out of hand - they're fattening, you know - and two is far too few to be of any practical use for chutney or jam-making). For my own part, I always assume fruit on the kitchen table is for general consumption and rely upon Sir to make steady progress through the pile as the week progresses. Somehow these two horrible specimens had wormed their way through the family net, with the unfortunate result that at any moment the juices of their decomposition would start to stain my booteek renewably-harvested rainforest-wood fruit bowl.
Banana bread! What better way to spend flocculating time, after all, than engaged in an exciting new gluten-free baking adventure?
To be fair, I wouldn't describe much of my baking as experimental at present. As a result of a number of disasters, near-misses, and - yes - successes, too, I am now reasonably adept at scanning potential recipes for gluten-free pitfalls. These days I rarely do the math required by the ever-valuable high-ratio method, but am fairly good at eye-balling ingredients and their proportions for judging the degree to which they will prove suitable for The Struggle. I try to make sure there's a good deal of fat and sugar in the mix, sufficient eggs for binding, and I am always happy to see an addition that possesses some moisture and heft - apple sauce, say, or bananas.
I went to the repository of all wisdom and knowledge for recipes Américaines, Irma Bombauer (aka 'Mrs. Joy'). She didn't let me down and in a trice the kitchen was filled with the heady aroma of good things baking in the oven. The result was nicely-risen, moistly sliceable, and delicious in the way that only something utterly free of xanthan and guar gums has the capacity to be.
We ate warm slices with butter and home-made fig jam amidst much rejoicing.
And my cheese never even noticed I was gone.
Gluten-Free Banana Bread After Mrs. Joy
Preheat your oven to 350 deg F and butter a 6-cup loaf pan.
Beat together the butter and sugar. I tried to use my new electric handmixer for this job - purchased after many months' worth of comparison shopping - and found it woefully underpowered for the task. Disaster! I was forced to drag my standmixer from its place on the Metro shelves and my bread production proceeded with no subsequent snafus.
Whisk together the flour, salt, baking powder and baking soda. Gradually add this to your butter/sugar, beating madly all the while. Mrs. Joy characterizes the resulting substance as 'the consistency of brown sugar' and I am obliged to agree.
Beat in the two eggs (the mixture was still disturbingly stiff and dry at this point) followed by the bananas (Eureka! bananabatter!).
Glop the batter into your prepared pan and bake it in the bottom third of your oven for an hour or so or until it's cooked. Cool on a wire rack. The bread is excellent as is on the first day, but like many g/f productions doesn't hold brilliantly. On the second day Sir toasted a slice and declared it perfection, while I heated some up in the microwave - also a successful strategy. It was still pretty good, heated, on the third day.
Turns out they were organic bananas: brown, mushy, and way past their prime.
Subsequent investigation unearthed the reason for their languishing amidst the lemons, clementines, Williams pears, and Gala apples (new! improved! snack-sized!). Sir thought I had designs on them (why he thought this I have no idea: I never eat bananas out of hand - they're fattening, you know - and two is far too few to be of any practical use for chutney or jam-making). For my own part, I always assume fruit on the kitchen table is for general consumption and rely upon Sir to make steady progress through the pile as the week progresses. Somehow these two horrible specimens had wormed their way through the family net, with the unfortunate result that at any moment the juices of their decomposition would start to stain my booteek renewably-harvested rainforest-wood fruit bowl.
Banana bread! What better way to spend flocculating time, after all, than engaged in an exciting new gluten-free baking adventure?
To be fair, I wouldn't describe much of my baking as experimental at present. As a result of a number of disasters, near-misses, and - yes - successes, too, I am now reasonably adept at scanning potential recipes for gluten-free pitfalls. These days I rarely do the math required by the ever-valuable high-ratio method, but am fairly good at eye-balling ingredients and their proportions for judging the degree to which they will prove suitable for The Struggle. I try to make sure there's a good deal of fat and sugar in the mix, sufficient eggs for binding, and I am always happy to see an addition that possesses some moisture and heft - apple sauce, say, or bananas.
I went to the repository of all wisdom and knowledge for recipes Américaines, Irma Bombauer (aka 'Mrs. Joy'). She didn't let me down and in a trice the kitchen was filled with the heady aroma of good things baking in the oven. The result was nicely-risen, moistly sliceable, and delicious in the way that only something utterly free of xanthan and guar gums has the capacity to be.
We ate warm slices with butter and home-made fig jam amidst much rejoicing.
And my cheese never even noticed I was gone.
Gluten-Free Banana Bread After Mrs. Joy
- six tablespoons softened butter
- two-thirds cups granulated sugar
- one and one-third cups King Arthur gluten-free multi-purpose flour (the only kind I use!)
- one-half teaspoon salt
- one-half teaspoon baking soda
- one-quarter teaspoon baking powder
- 2 large eggs, slightly beaten
- 2 very, very ripe bananas
Preheat your oven to 350 deg F and butter a 6-cup loaf pan.
Beat together the butter and sugar. I tried to use my new electric handmixer for this job - purchased after many months' worth of comparison shopping - and found it woefully underpowered for the task. Disaster! I was forced to drag my standmixer from its place on the Metro shelves and my bread production proceeded with no subsequent snafus.
Whisk together the flour, salt, baking powder and baking soda. Gradually add this to your butter/sugar, beating madly all the while. Mrs. Joy characterizes the resulting substance as 'the consistency of brown sugar' and I am obliged to agree.
Beat in the two eggs (the mixture was still disturbingly stiff and dry at this point) followed by the bananas (Eureka! bananabatter!).
Glop the batter into your prepared pan and bake it in the bottom third of your oven for an hour or so or until it's cooked. Cool on a wire rack. The bread is excellent as is on the first day, but like many g/f productions doesn't hold brilliantly. On the second day Sir toasted a slice and declared it perfection, while I heated some up in the microwave - also a successful strategy. It was still pretty good, heated, on the third day.
Monday, January 16, 2012
It's Good, But Is It Gouda Good?
On Saturday, I made myself some Gouda. Several factors contributed to this sudden madness:
Here's how I did it.
1. I did my usual thing with mesophilic cultures and rennet, the satisfying result of which was a maslin pan full of custardy jigglyness well before ten o'clock in the morning. At this point, we discovered that the gale-force winds howling outside the kitchen window meant that Junior Birdman was grounded, releasing me from flying lesson-ferrying duties. Relieved that my cheesemaking would not be interrupted at a critical juncture, I pressed ahead (get it?).
2. I broke up the curds with my biggest wire whisk (the one that's roughly the size of a rolling pin) and gave 'em a good stir. Normally when I am making cheese, I stir and stir (often up to my elbows in the highly corrosive whey) until the correct temperature and acidity have been reached. Not this time! I decanted about a third of the whey from my vat - about nine cups' worth.
3. Over the next fifteen minutes or so, I replaced the whey with an equal volume of water, held at 130 deg F in a spaghetti pan on an adjoining burner. Well, not adjoining exactly. In fact the bowl into which I had previously poured my surplus whey was not adjoining, either. What with all the splashing, sloshing, and general mayhem the floor became a bit sticky, to tell the truth.
4. I stirred my cauldron some more and rejoiced to discover that the diluted curds were far less harsh on my knuckles' ladylike skin than the acidic broth to which I am accustomed. No doubt this is why those women in the KLM commercials always look so dewy.
5. I repeated the whole process about thirty minutes later. Having earlier removed my slippers, which were sticking to the floor, my socks now became sodden as they sloshed through the puddles forming on the vinyl at my feet.
6. I pledged that I would give the kitchen a good mopping at some point in the future.
7. I removed the soft curds (so much more delicate than the desiccated lumps one requires for Cheddar or Swiss) from their jacuzzi and hastily filled my mold. Here I hit my first snag of the day. You know how Gouda is round and plump, whereas so many other cheeses are all sharp edges? Turns out you need a special mold to make the genuine article. I didn't have one, naturally, and made do with the same trusty contrivance I employ for Wensleydale, Swiss, faux-loumi, and Alpine cheeses.
8. I applied the first press after I'd returned the cheese to its bath. This unusual step guarantees - guarantees, I tell you! - a creamy hole-free texture.
9. I applied a weight of approximately two pounds, cleverly achieved (if I may be so immodest) with a water jug. A pint's a pound the world around!
10. Fifteen minutes' of squashage later, I transferred the sodden mass to my more conventional press and applied additional weight:
11. The next morning, I unmolded my cheese and thrilled to its soft texture, snowy white appearance, and mild aroma.
12. Since Gouda is brined before it's waxed (although I'm reliably informed that Dutch Gouda intended for domestic consumption is often left un-waxed and allowed to develop its own protective rind), I whipped up a saturated salt swimming pool and popped my new baby in. Reassured by its buoyancy, I skipped town for the rest of the day, having first left strict instructions for Sir to flip the cheese at the half-way point and then remove it from its tub and tuck it into the cave overnight. This he did with admirable attention, going so far as to text me about my cheese's progress when The Relo had been accomplished.
13. This evening after work I heated up a bowl of wax in the microwave until the molten liquid reached a blistering (I mean that literally) 220 deg F. Second snag: whereas Gouda for export is traditionally bedecked in scarlet (or sometimes yellow) I had only black wax at my disposal. It looked very dramatic against my creation's snowy whiteness:
14. When all was said and done I had - instead of an ample, pleasingly rotund, cheerful ball of ruby red goodness - a sinister onyx obelisk of disquieting doom.
But that's OK. Even though it doesn't look Gouda, I'm pretty sure it will still taste Gouda.
- the Kid Squid, prowling the free samples' orgy that is Wegmans at the weekend, had a few weeks ago sampled some of the Dutch cheese and declared it 'quite tasty.'
- this same Squid recently remarked that he 'rather liked' the way I cook brown rice - brown rice! - and would heretofore withhold his objections to its being served as a side dish. Not only does this mean I no longer have to cook two batches of sushi gohan for dinner (a major inconvenience, since I have but one glass-covered chef's pan suitable for rice cookery), but he was kind enough to assert his position in the presence of company - thus forever cementing my reputation as a good mother who encourages healthy eating in her offspring. I was so gratified by his unexpected display of support that I immediately went out and bought him a gluten-filled slice of mud pie as a reward. I also resolved to make him some Gouda as soon as the opportunity presented itself.
- Gouda differs from all the myriad cheeses I have produced to date. It is a washed-curd wonder (similar to Colby, Edam, and some Cheddars), in which the whey is exchanged for hot water while the curds are stirred and cooked. By reducing the amount of milk sugar in the vat, the bacteria are starved of the fuel they require for acid-production, resulting in a sweet cheese with a very smooth texture.
A new challenge, hooray! Eager to try out an unfamiliar procedure, I procured two gallons of fresh raw Holstein moo, rolled up my sleeves, and got to work.
Here's how I did it.
1. I did my usual thing with mesophilic cultures and rennet, the satisfying result of which was a maslin pan full of custardy jigglyness well before ten o'clock in the morning. At this point, we discovered that the gale-force winds howling outside the kitchen window meant that Junior Birdman was grounded, releasing me from flying lesson-ferrying duties. Relieved that my cheesemaking would not be interrupted at a critical juncture, I pressed ahead (get it?).
2. I broke up the curds with my biggest wire whisk (the one that's roughly the size of a rolling pin) and gave 'em a good stir. Normally when I am making cheese, I stir and stir (often up to my elbows in the highly corrosive whey) until the correct temperature and acidity have been reached. Not this time! I decanted about a third of the whey from my vat - about nine cups' worth.
3. Over the next fifteen minutes or so, I replaced the whey with an equal volume of water, held at 130 deg F in a spaghetti pan on an adjoining burner. Well, not adjoining exactly. In fact the bowl into which I had previously poured my surplus whey was not adjoining, either. What with all the splashing, sloshing, and general mayhem the floor became a bit sticky, to tell the truth.
4. I stirred my cauldron some more and rejoiced to discover that the diluted curds were far less harsh on my knuckles' ladylike skin than the acidic broth to which I am accustomed. No doubt this is why those women in the KLM commercials always look so dewy.
5. I repeated the whole process about thirty minutes later. Having earlier removed my slippers, which were sticking to the floor, my socks now became sodden as they sloshed through the puddles forming on the vinyl at my feet.
6. I pledged that I would give the kitchen a good mopping at some point in the future.
7. I removed the soft curds (so much more delicate than the desiccated lumps one requires for Cheddar or Swiss) from their jacuzzi and hastily filled my mold. Here I hit my first snag of the day. You know how Gouda is round and plump, whereas so many other cheeses are all sharp edges? Turns out you need a special mold to make the genuine article. I didn't have one, naturally, and made do with the same trusty contrivance I employ for Wensleydale, Swiss, faux-loumi, and Alpine cheeses.
8. I applied the first press after I'd returned the cheese to its bath. This unusual step guarantees - guarantees, I tell you! - a creamy hole-free texture.
9. I applied a weight of approximately two pounds, cleverly achieved (if I may be so immodest) with a water jug. A pint's a pound the world around!
10. Fifteen minutes' of squashage later, I transferred the sodden mass to my more conventional press and applied additional weight:
11. The next morning, I unmolded my cheese and thrilled to its soft texture, snowy white appearance, and mild aroma.
12. Since Gouda is brined before it's waxed (although I'm reliably informed that Dutch Gouda intended for domestic consumption is often left un-waxed and allowed to develop its own protective rind), I whipped up a saturated salt swimming pool and popped my new baby in. Reassured by its buoyancy, I skipped town for the rest of the day, having first left strict instructions for Sir to flip the cheese at the half-way point and then remove it from its tub and tuck it into the cave overnight. This he did with admirable attention, going so far as to text me about my cheese's progress when The Relo had been accomplished.
13. This evening after work I heated up a bowl of wax in the microwave until the molten liquid reached a blistering (I mean that literally) 220 deg F. Second snag: whereas Gouda for export is traditionally bedecked in scarlet (or sometimes yellow) I had only black wax at my disposal. It looked very dramatic against my creation's snowy whiteness:
14. When all was said and done I had - instead of an ample, pleasingly rotund, cheerful ball of ruby red goodness - a sinister onyx obelisk of disquieting doom.
But that's OK. Even though it doesn't look Gouda, I'm pretty sure it will still taste Gouda.
Thursday, January 12, 2012
Tuesday, January 10, 2012
A Final Word on Foams
I confess to feeling a bit remorseful about my snarky attitude towards Beverly's foam failure, which provided me with no end of schadenfreude when I finally watched the latest episode of Top Chef on Sunday.
I had, after all, just one successful espuma to my name, and that only after several days' and N2O cartridges' worth of effort. In the interest of preserving my right to cast stones, therefore, I decided to put my fabulous new cream whipper to work on a spur-of-the-moment project, first-time success of which would forever allow me to criticize (constructively, of course) the bungled attempts of others.
I put all my hard-won experience and new-found knowledge to work and adapted a recipe that appeared in one of the many, many booklets provided by my siphon's manufacturer. I altered the ingredients somewhat and converted all the crazy metric measurements to good old-fashioned American ones, coming up with a fine recipe for a new dessert that I will employ to delight dinner guests in the months to come.
In addition to my confounding cream whipper, I utilized my microwave to melt the chocolate - mostly because a microwave is another device that appears to drive top cheftestants insane. I call my creation ...
White Chocolate and Amarula Mousse, Just to Show 'Em
Before you begin, make sure your very best cream whipper is good and cold from having been stored in the fridge for an hour or two. Don't forget, Myrhvold et al have demonstrated - exhaustively - that temperature is the keyest ingredient to foaming success!
Break up five ounces of good quality white chocolate in a bowl and zap it in the microwave until it's melted and creamy. I suppose you could melt the chocolate in a double boiler if you weren't feeling superior. Set aside to cool for a few minutes.
Meanwhile, whip together one whole egg; one additional egg yolk; and one ounce of Amarula. Any cream liqueur would do, probably: Bailey's, Heather Cream, Advocaat, whatever. Amarula is our favorite, though, and I've still got half a bottle to get through. What a hardship!
Temper the white chocolate with a little of the egg mixture, then beat it all up together. Finally, add about eight-and-one-half ounces of heavy whipping cream and whisk vigorously. Strain the concoction into your cream whipper. Straining is very important: even the tiniest little speck of scrambled egg will cause the mousse to spurt from your device in a prolonged series of gassily rude eruptions!
Screw on an N2O cartridge and release the gas into the vessel. Remove the cartridge for ease of squirting later on and give the apparatus a few vigorous shakes. We are not German, so we are not going to bother with specifying an exact number. Five seconds or so seems about right.
Return the siphon to the fridge where it should be stored on its side for at least a couple of hours and at most 3-4 days.
When you are ready to enjoy your mousse, screw on your favorite dispensing nozzle. I like the one shaped like a mumps-infected saw-toothed triffid.
Give your whipper a few final shakes for good measure, hold it vertically (upside-down, of course) and gently dispense the deliciousness contained within. I've discovered it's a good idea to do a trial run on a small plate in the kitchen, out of range of your guests' line of sight or the outfits of any TC judges that might be lurking about. You can always give the mixture a few more shakes if it seems too runny. When you are confident you are a good to go, you can foam away with a suitable public flourish.
The mousse would be awesome on fresh fruit, particularly strawberries - although it would also be a fine adornment to gluten-free vanilla cake.
Addendum: I am told by reliable sources that the garment onto which Bev's curry foam was spritzed was not, in fact, a 'rather tacky skirt' but a Missoni creation that probably cost, like, a gazillion dollars. I trust Pads has learned her lesson and will no longer sport designer duds in the vicinity of would-be molecular gastronomists.
I had, after all, just one successful espuma to my name, and that only after several days' and N2O cartridges' worth of effort. In the interest of preserving my right to cast stones, therefore, I decided to put my fabulous new cream whipper to work on a spur-of-the-moment project, first-time success of which would forever allow me to criticize (constructively, of course) the bungled attempts of others.
I put all my hard-won experience and new-found knowledge to work and adapted a recipe that appeared in one of the many, many booklets provided by my siphon's manufacturer. I altered the ingredients somewhat and converted all the crazy metric measurements to good old-fashioned American ones, coming up with a fine recipe for a new dessert that I will employ to delight dinner guests in the months to come.
In addition to my confounding cream whipper, I utilized my microwave to melt the chocolate - mostly because a microwave is another device that appears to drive top cheftestants insane. I call my creation ...
White Chocolate and Amarula Mousse, Just to Show 'Em
Before you begin, make sure your very best cream whipper is good and cold from having been stored in the fridge for an hour or two. Don't forget, Myrhvold et al have demonstrated - exhaustively - that temperature is the keyest ingredient to foaming success!
Break up five ounces of good quality white chocolate in a bowl and zap it in the microwave until it's melted and creamy. I suppose you could melt the chocolate in a double boiler if you weren't feeling superior. Set aside to cool for a few minutes.
Meanwhile, whip together one whole egg; one additional egg yolk; and one ounce of Amarula. Any cream liqueur would do, probably: Bailey's, Heather Cream, Advocaat, whatever. Amarula is our favorite, though, and I've still got half a bottle to get through. What a hardship!
Temper the white chocolate with a little of the egg mixture, then beat it all up together. Finally, add about eight-and-one-half ounces of heavy whipping cream and whisk vigorously. Strain the concoction into your cream whipper. Straining is very important: even the tiniest little speck of scrambled egg will cause the mousse to spurt from your device in a prolonged series of gassily rude eruptions!
Screw on an N2O cartridge and release the gas into the vessel. Remove the cartridge for ease of squirting later on and give the apparatus a few vigorous shakes. We are not German, so we are not going to bother with specifying an exact number. Five seconds or so seems about right.
Return the siphon to the fridge where it should be stored on its side for at least a couple of hours and at most 3-4 days.
When you are ready to enjoy your mousse, screw on your favorite dispensing nozzle. I like the one shaped like a mumps-infected saw-toothed triffid.
Give your whipper a few final shakes for good measure, hold it vertically (upside-down, of course) and gently dispense the deliciousness contained within. I've discovered it's a good idea to do a trial run on a small plate in the kitchen, out of range of your guests' line of sight or the outfits of any TC judges that might be lurking about. You can always give the mixture a few more shakes if it seems too runny. When you are confident you are a good to go, you can foam away with a suitable public flourish.
The mousse would be awesome on fresh fruit, particularly strawberries - although it would also be a fine adornment to gluten-free vanilla cake.
Addendum: I am told by reliable sources that the garment onto which Bev's curry foam was spritzed was not, in fact, a 'rather tacky skirt' but a Missoni creation that probably cost, like, a gazillion dollars. I trust Pads has learned her lesson and will no longer sport designer duds in the vicinity of would-be molecular gastronomists.
Sunday, January 8, 2012
Top Chef Texas, Episode 9: Modernist Malfunction
I only just got round to spending some quality time with Che, my DVR, and Bravo's crazy cheftestants, but I've got to say - this episode was worth its weight in GE Monogram appliances!
Not because of the elimination challenge, I hasten to add, a barbecue blowout that demonstrated only the degree to which a wife-beater is inevitably a poor fashion choice, no matter how good-looking the wearer might believe himself to be. I'm afraid my knowledge of and enthusiasm for smoky, saucy, slow-cooked goodness (I mean barbecue, of course, not Chris C. and his questionable undergarment) are limited by a variety of geographical disadvantages, not least of which is the fact that my formative culinary years were spent in a culture where barbecue means any al fresco cooking of chicken or sausages over an open fire - what we Yanks, in fact, call grilling. What The Others call grilling we call broiling. And don't even get me started on the confectionary confusion wrought by Mars Bars, Milky Ways, and Marathons.
But I digress.
No, my interest was piqued in the show's first five minutes, while our contenders were sitting around in the Top Chef House, smoking (!) and complaining, well, about pretty much everything as far as I could tell. A sinister knock at the door was followed by a flunkie rolling into the kitchen - be still my beating heart! - a trolley laden with all five volumes of Modernist Cuisine, nestled resplendently in their Plexiglas sarcophagus. What thrills! What excitement!
At my house, anyway. It may have been my imagination, but a number of the gladiators adopted the sort of blank stare that often appears on the faces of people who are aware they're expected to know what they're looking at, but emphatically do not. A kinder correspondent than yours truly would probably characterize the response as tepid rather than pathetically ignorant, as I am tempted to do.
It was the job of Edward to TH that Modernist Cuisine is 'like, a game changer about how to approach all of cuisine with a modernist mindset.' Not perhaps the most profound insight into the contribution of Myhrvold et al, but at least he tried. The best Chris ('I wear top knot') J. could come up with was that 'it is the most elite cookbook in all of America' - a pitiful description of a treatise that considers foams (a subject about which I have lately been reading a good deal) in terms of the Kelvin Problem, Weaire-Phelan structures, and the Beijing National Aquatics Center.
Chris ('I wear a wife-beater') C. dismissed the work as containing 'way too many graphs' while the rest of the chefs paged frantically through the volumes - looking, one supposed, for easy recipes to pull out during the next day's Quickfire.
Che and I sat back in our favorite toile-upholstered armchair, confidently predicting disaster.
Sure enough, our stunned wannabes dribbled onto set the following morning, to be greeted by Pads and my newest hero, Nathan Myhrvold. Given forty-five minutes to create a dish 'that best illustrates modernist cuisine' they all hurriedly got to work with their thickeners, starches, and gels, eager to demonstrate the one molecularly gastronomical trick they'd memorized over breakfast and would no doubt forget before lunch.
All except The Top Knot, that is. Chris J., it transpired, was already a bona fide expert - to such a degree that he seemed surprised Myhrvold et al had not thought to consult him during their painstaking research. 'A lot of the techniques in this book I've maybe done first,' he modestly TH'd - an assertion that, even without his ridiculous hairstyle, I might have had trouble taking seriously. He decided to introduce the judges to his secret weapon - a miracle berry tablet - a super-protein that 'blocks the tastebuds so that sour tastes sweet', allowing an unsuspecting victim to suck on a lemon without his face puckering into one of those wizened heads carved from dried apples.
Chuckling delightedly at his own cleverness, The Top Knot got down to creating a plate of deconstructed cheesecake and diet soda made from grapefruit, witch hazel, and battery acid. Meanwhile, The Wife Beater whittered on about how his own production of execrable 'modernist' paintings (thank you, Bravo, for sharing video of his primitive nudes - I almost went off my breakfast!) put him in good stead to walk away with the Quickfire prize. Ty-Lor prepared watermelon the way they do, presumably, on the planet Xarxax, with olive oil powder fabricated with tapioca maltodextrin. 'When it hits your tongue, it turns back into olive oil!' he gushed. Che and I were somewhat dismayed by this intelligence: I mean, when one is happily scarfing watermelon at a picnic, is a sudden mouthful of olive oil anything other than an unwelcome surprise?
The rest of the chefs thankfully limited their efforts to spherification and the output of cream whippers.
When time was called and the modernist mercenaries lined up for judgement, poor Beverly was first to present. She gave her siphon a few good shakes and prepared to squirt curry cream all over her dish. 'Foam away!' ordered out host, and with a hiss, a gurgle, and an appalling blast Pads received a healthy dose of goo all over her rather tacky skirt. Horrified by this turn of events, Beverly waved her cream whipper around in dismay, only to knock all her pots and pans off the prep table with a resounding crash. While the unlucky molecularist scrabbled around on the floor picking up the largest, most dangerous items, The Glamorous One demurely attempted to hose herself down. Nathan, in a heartwarming display of support, joked that it was truly modernist to serve food on the guests, and gave Bev a few hints on how to use her device. She had failed to hold it vertically, for one thing, and left on the N2O charger - two rookie mistakes that I, as an espumier of an entire week's standing, would not have countenanced. Muttering something about never being allowed to attend sleepovers as a child (huh?) Beverly slunk back to ignominy while the judges moved on to more successful plates.
Sarah's breakfast raviolo was a big hit ('Pasta is a high technique food!' enthused Nathan) as was The Alien's watermelon creation. The Top Knot's dish was welcomed more cautiously. Pads thought the miracle berry was beyond fabulous and swigged rapaciously from the proffered lemon, but Nathan was somewhat reserved in his praise, I thought. He informed the increasingly-deflated chef that he already knew all about miracle berries - indeed, he grew them in his own basement - and upon being told that he was about to taste 'the world's first soda made without artificial sweeteners,' he quipped, 'You just have to suck on the right pill first.' The Top Knot giggled nervously, lost the quickfire, and that was that.
While the barbecue brouhaha unfolded, I did some quick research on miracle berries, of which I had not previously heard. It's possible they're discussed in Modernist Cuisine, although that reference's lack of an index (that I've been able to locate, anyway), makes such an inquiry difficult to organize. Google directed me not, astonishingly enough, to Wikipedia, but the good people at Think Geek, providers of holiday stocking stuffers to the stars. 'Truly, words can't describe the life-altering sensations caused by these little tablets,' rhapsodized the modernist marketers. 'Join the new craze for hosting flavor tripping parties!' Quite apart from the chagrin caused by the realization that I have missed out on yet another culinary trend, I was still in the dark about the mechanism behind the phenomenon. The geeks told me miracle berries (Synsepelum dulficum from West Africa, to be exact) were 'first documented by a French dude in 1725' and that the active ingredient was a protein called miraculin, which somehow binds to taste buds in ways unknown to science.
Further reportage on this intriguing discovery will be forthcoming. I am reliably informed that in addition to being modernist, hip, and mind-bendingly awesome, miracle berry tablets are also - wait for it - gluten-free.
Not because of the elimination challenge, I hasten to add, a barbecue blowout that demonstrated only the degree to which a wife-beater is inevitably a poor fashion choice, no matter how good-looking the wearer might believe himself to be. I'm afraid my knowledge of and enthusiasm for smoky, saucy, slow-cooked goodness (I mean barbecue, of course, not Chris C. and his questionable undergarment) are limited by a variety of geographical disadvantages, not least of which is the fact that my formative culinary years were spent in a culture where barbecue means any al fresco cooking of chicken or sausages over an open fire - what we Yanks, in fact, call grilling. What The Others call grilling we call broiling. And don't even get me started on the confectionary confusion wrought by Mars Bars, Milky Ways, and Marathons.
But I digress.
No, my interest was piqued in the show's first five minutes, while our contenders were sitting around in the Top Chef House, smoking (!) and complaining, well, about pretty much everything as far as I could tell. A sinister knock at the door was followed by a flunkie rolling into the kitchen - be still my beating heart! - a trolley laden with all five volumes of Modernist Cuisine, nestled resplendently in their Plexiglas sarcophagus. What thrills! What excitement!
At my house, anyway. It may have been my imagination, but a number of the gladiators adopted the sort of blank stare that often appears on the faces of people who are aware they're expected to know what they're looking at, but emphatically do not. A kinder correspondent than yours truly would probably characterize the response as tepid rather than pathetically ignorant, as I am tempted to do.
It was the job of Edward to TH that Modernist Cuisine is 'like, a game changer about how to approach all of cuisine with a modernist mindset.' Not perhaps the most profound insight into the contribution of Myhrvold et al, but at least he tried. The best Chris ('I wear top knot') J. could come up with was that 'it is the most elite cookbook in all of America' - a pitiful description of a treatise that considers foams (a subject about which I have lately been reading a good deal) in terms of the Kelvin Problem, Weaire-Phelan structures, and the Beijing National Aquatics Center.
Chris ('I wear a wife-beater') C. dismissed the work as containing 'way too many graphs' while the rest of the chefs paged frantically through the volumes - looking, one supposed, for easy recipes to pull out during the next day's Quickfire.
Che and I sat back in our favorite toile-upholstered armchair, confidently predicting disaster.
Sure enough, our stunned wannabes dribbled onto set the following morning, to be greeted by Pads and my newest hero, Nathan Myhrvold. Given forty-five minutes to create a dish 'that best illustrates modernist cuisine' they all hurriedly got to work with their thickeners, starches, and gels, eager to demonstrate the one molecularly gastronomical trick they'd memorized over breakfast and would no doubt forget before lunch.
All except The Top Knot, that is. Chris J., it transpired, was already a bona fide expert - to such a degree that he seemed surprised Myhrvold et al had not thought to consult him during their painstaking research. 'A lot of the techniques in this book I've maybe done first,' he modestly TH'd - an assertion that, even without his ridiculous hairstyle, I might have had trouble taking seriously. He decided to introduce the judges to his secret weapon - a miracle berry tablet - a super-protein that 'blocks the tastebuds so that sour tastes sweet', allowing an unsuspecting victim to suck on a lemon without his face puckering into one of those wizened heads carved from dried apples.
Chuckling delightedly at his own cleverness, The Top Knot got down to creating a plate of deconstructed cheesecake and diet soda made from grapefruit, witch hazel, and battery acid. Meanwhile, The Wife Beater whittered on about how his own production of execrable 'modernist' paintings (thank you, Bravo, for sharing video of his primitive nudes - I almost went off my breakfast!) put him in good stead to walk away with the Quickfire prize. Ty-Lor prepared watermelon the way they do, presumably, on the planet Xarxax, with olive oil powder fabricated with tapioca maltodextrin. 'When it hits your tongue, it turns back into olive oil!' he gushed. Che and I were somewhat dismayed by this intelligence: I mean, when one is happily scarfing watermelon at a picnic, is a sudden mouthful of olive oil anything other than an unwelcome surprise?
The rest of the chefs thankfully limited their efforts to spherification and the output of cream whippers.
When time was called and the modernist mercenaries lined up for judgement, poor Beverly was first to present. She gave her siphon a few good shakes and prepared to squirt curry cream all over her dish. 'Foam away!' ordered out host, and with a hiss, a gurgle, and an appalling blast Pads received a healthy dose of goo all over her rather tacky skirt. Horrified by this turn of events, Beverly waved her cream whipper around in dismay, only to knock all her pots and pans off the prep table with a resounding crash. While the unlucky molecularist scrabbled around on the floor picking up the largest, most dangerous items, The Glamorous One demurely attempted to hose herself down. Nathan, in a heartwarming display of support, joked that it was truly modernist to serve food on the guests, and gave Bev a few hints on how to use her device. She had failed to hold it vertically, for one thing, and left on the N2O charger - two rookie mistakes that I, as an espumier of an entire week's standing, would not have countenanced. Muttering something about never being allowed to attend sleepovers as a child (huh?) Beverly slunk back to ignominy while the judges moved on to more successful plates.
Sarah's breakfast raviolo was a big hit ('Pasta is a high technique food!' enthused Nathan) as was The Alien's watermelon creation. The Top Knot's dish was welcomed more cautiously. Pads thought the miracle berry was beyond fabulous and swigged rapaciously from the proffered lemon, but Nathan was somewhat reserved in his praise, I thought. He informed the increasingly-deflated chef that he already knew all about miracle berries - indeed, he grew them in his own basement - and upon being told that he was about to taste 'the world's first soda made without artificial sweeteners,' he quipped, 'You just have to suck on the right pill first.' The Top Knot giggled nervously, lost the quickfire, and that was that.
While the barbecue brouhaha unfolded, I did some quick research on miracle berries, of which I had not previously heard. It's possible they're discussed in Modernist Cuisine, although that reference's lack of an index (that I've been able to locate, anyway), makes such an inquiry difficult to organize. Google directed me not, astonishingly enough, to Wikipedia, but the good people at Think Geek, providers of holiday stocking stuffers to the stars. 'Truly, words can't describe the life-altering sensations caused by these little tablets,' rhapsodized the modernist marketers. 'Join the new craze for hosting flavor tripping parties!' Quite apart from the chagrin caused by the realization that I have missed out on yet another culinary trend, I was still in the dark about the mechanism behind the phenomenon. The geeks told me miracle berries (Synsepelum dulficum from West Africa, to be exact) were 'first documented by a French dude in 1725' and that the active ingredient was a protein called miraculin, which somehow binds to taste buds in ways unknown to science.
Further reportage on this intriguing discovery will be forthcoming. I am reliably informed that in addition to being modernist, hip, and mind-bendingly awesome, miracle berry tablets are also - wait for it - gluten-free.
Tuesday, January 3, 2012
Whipped Into Shape
My latest obsession began, as so many do, with an innocent enquiry. After a particularly fraught bout of camembert wrangling some time ago, a concerned citizen (it might have been Sir) suggested a dive into Modernist Cuisine to see what Myhrvold et al had to say on the subject of cheesemaking. Three hours later (MC is a bit difficult to navigate), having finally found the appropriate section in Volume 4 under the heading Gels: Dairy and Tofu, we located the dispiriting caveat that 'a detailed treatment of cheesemaking is beyond the scope of this book', after which followed intriguing procedures for protein curds; cocoa nib curds; green pea yuba; milk skin with grilled salsify; and mozzarella balloons.
The family became quite excited about this last one, which required the stretching of fresh formaggio over the nozzle of a culinary siphon and squirting the thing full of cream filling, such that the cook was rewarded with something like a big squishy burrata. That was the theory, anyway, but I was unable to test it due to my kitchen's egregious lack of gaseous infrastructure.
Further perusal of MC's section on Foams confirmed this dismaying deficit. Recipes for citrus air, seawater foam, corn froth, and barbecued eel with whipped caramel would forever remain tantalizingly out of reach unless some remedy could be found. For months, froth-creation remained nothing but a girlish fantasy.
So when in early December DMR asked me what I wanted for Christmas, without hesitation I replied, 'A one-pint cream whipper, please.' Roughly three weeks later I had a sleek and steely dairy dispenser to call my own.
Yesterday, needing a pick-me-up after the desultory labor of taking down the Christmas decorations and wanting to get rid of the remaining holiday eggs-and-cream stash, I felt the time was right to try out my long-awaited treasure. Reasoning that the cream whipper would provide no great challenge, I nonetheless decided that mushroom and bacon cappuccino would have to wait and I would start simply with a straightforward recipe for chilled zabaglione thoughtfully provided by my new toy's manufacturers.
The contents of the box proved to be delightfully engineery, all but demanding they be disassembled and inspected from every angle. I spread the bits out on the dining room table in an attempt to catalogue the myriad components. The destructions to which I referred labelled the diagrams with part numbers instead of useful descriptors, but by process of elimination I was eventually able to identify various head gaskets, valves, and transportation locks. I deemed the ten N2O chargers would be more than sufficient for my needs and noted with satisfaction that I had two decorative nozzles from which to choose.
I was eager to get cracking and managed to get the thing together in less than half an hour. Its splendid pressure vessel was positively blinding in the bright winter sunshine!
Although I was tempted to call it a day and rest on my laurels, I had of course won only half the battle. I still had zabaglione to make! I hastily whisked together in my favorite deep-sided mixing bowl four egg yolks (unpasteurized, but I figured the alcohol would neutralize any unwanted bugs); 7 oz heavy cream; 5 oz Marsala (my dairy instantly curdled - ick! - at this point); and 6 tblsp powdered sugar. The result looked and smelled like extremely boozy tan-colored egg nog.
I consulted the destructions to find out what I had to do next. I discovered at this juncture that the manufacturer had seen fit to distribute key information across three different users' guides, requiring that I play hide-and-seek to find the necessary info. I do not claim to be an expert on technical writing, but wouldn't it make sense to have what is (after all) a fairly linear process laid out in some sort of numerically logical fashion? I found hints and tips for success littered randomly about, punctuated with lots of achtungs (did I mention my siphon was German-engineered?) warning of dire consequences should the pressure inside the thermos approach critical levels.
Undaunted, I persevered. I filled the bottle with my mixture, screwed on an N2O charger, and heard it discharge its contents into my soon-to-be zabaglione.
At this point, the destructions became very German indeed. Needing to shake vigorously the apparatus in order to distribute the fat-soluble gas into my soupy sauce, I was ordered to agitate the bottle 3-6 times, depending on the fat content of my cream. A carton-check revealed I had the 36% variety (anything less than 28% won't do the job, don't you know), and after a few more achtungs alerting me to the perils of both over and under-agitation, I concluded that four shimmies would do the trick.
I removed the charger, screwed on the protective cap, aimed the nozzle downwards (Achtung! Anything other that strict verticality will result in loss of pressure!), and let 'er rip.
The result was not encouraging. What came out of the dispenser amidst a good deal of spitting and burping was undeniably foamy and delicious, but hardly the photo op for which I had been hoping:
I consulted the trouble-shooting guide, which explained that I had either shaken my foam too much or too little. Achtung! Either extreme can lead to disaster and woe, but the symptoms are identical! Concluding that if it was over-shaken there was no remedy but that I had nothing to lose by shaking it some more, I gave it a really good workout and tried again. I thought I perceived some attractive surface swirling, but my dessert still resembled a big khaki-colored splat:
I began frantically to leaf through the many how-to booklets in mounting alarm. The device's hissing and belching might have been a sign that the nozzle was clogged with a microscopic mote of undissolved powdered sugar. The only way to clean it was to disassemble the entire thing. I discharged the pressure (Achtung! Keep away from your eyes, pets, and small children!), gave everything a good wipe-and-stir and started over with a fresh N2O cartridge, trying not to think about the damage I was doing to the ozone layer in pursuit of dessert perfection.
A definite improvement (no obscene noises this time) but my mixture was still too loose:
It was now getting late in the day and I was losing heart. Because N2O is bacteriostatic, I knew my project would be safe in the fridge until I could come up with a new strategy. I released the pressure again and placed the bottle on the bottom shelf of my chill chest while I pondered my foam fabrication failings, desperately seeking an answer in my pitiless pile of documentation. I finally found it, hidden towards the end in a discussion of gelatin and warm mixtures: Achtung! The whipper and mixture must be chilled in the refrigerator for several hours before use!
Oh, for crying out loud. Why didn't they say so in the first place?
When I returned home from work today, I retrieved the glaciated vessel from the fridge, clapped on N2O charger #3, exercised the lot with a good 5-second mambo, and had at it.
Success at last!
Of course, I could have saved myself a lot of trouble if I'd thought to consult MC, which has a stupefyingly complete guide to siphon use, including a fabulous photographic cross section on p. 261 of Vol. 4. Myhrvold et al play down the importance of the exact number of shakes, while stressing the vital role of temperature. Indeed, they recommend giving dairy the hot-cold treatment, whereby cream that is destined for frothy glory is heated to 86 deg F, held at temperature for 30 minutes, then chilled to 41 deg F before action. This process anneals and modifies the crystal structure of the fat droplets in much the same way that tempering does for chocolate.
Carp and cauliflower cappuccino might be within my grasp after all.
But first, I'll need to order several hundred more N2O chargers.
The family became quite excited about this last one, which required the stretching of fresh formaggio over the nozzle of a culinary siphon and squirting the thing full of cream filling, such that the cook was rewarded with something like a big squishy burrata. That was the theory, anyway, but I was unable to test it due to my kitchen's egregious lack of gaseous infrastructure.
Further perusal of MC's section on Foams confirmed this dismaying deficit. Recipes for citrus air, seawater foam, corn froth, and barbecued eel with whipped caramel would forever remain tantalizingly out of reach unless some remedy could be found. For months, froth-creation remained nothing but a girlish fantasy.
So when in early December DMR asked me what I wanted for Christmas, without hesitation I replied, 'A one-pint cream whipper, please.' Roughly three weeks later I had a sleek and steely dairy dispenser to call my own.
Yesterday, needing a pick-me-up after the desultory labor of taking down the Christmas decorations and wanting to get rid of the remaining holiday eggs-and-cream stash, I felt the time was right to try out my long-awaited treasure. Reasoning that the cream whipper would provide no great challenge, I nonetheless decided that mushroom and bacon cappuccino would have to wait and I would start simply with a straightforward recipe for chilled zabaglione thoughtfully provided by my new toy's manufacturers.
The contents of the box proved to be delightfully engineery, all but demanding they be disassembled and inspected from every angle. I spread the bits out on the dining room table in an attempt to catalogue the myriad components. The destructions to which I referred labelled the diagrams with part numbers instead of useful descriptors, but by process of elimination I was eventually able to identify various head gaskets, valves, and transportation locks. I deemed the ten N2O chargers would be more than sufficient for my needs and noted with satisfaction that I had two decorative nozzles from which to choose.
I was eager to get cracking and managed to get the thing together in less than half an hour. Its splendid pressure vessel was positively blinding in the bright winter sunshine!
Although I was tempted to call it a day and rest on my laurels, I had of course won only half the battle. I still had zabaglione to make! I hastily whisked together in my favorite deep-sided mixing bowl four egg yolks (unpasteurized, but I figured the alcohol would neutralize any unwanted bugs); 7 oz heavy cream; 5 oz Marsala (my dairy instantly curdled - ick! - at this point); and 6 tblsp powdered sugar. The result looked and smelled like extremely boozy tan-colored egg nog.
I consulted the destructions to find out what I had to do next. I discovered at this juncture that the manufacturer had seen fit to distribute key information across three different users' guides, requiring that I play hide-and-seek to find the necessary info. I do not claim to be an expert on technical writing, but wouldn't it make sense to have what is (after all) a fairly linear process laid out in some sort of numerically logical fashion? I found hints and tips for success littered randomly about, punctuated with lots of achtungs (did I mention my siphon was German-engineered?) warning of dire consequences should the pressure inside the thermos approach critical levels.
Undaunted, I persevered. I filled the bottle with my mixture, screwed on an N2O charger, and heard it discharge its contents into my soon-to-be zabaglione.
At this point, the destructions became very German indeed. Needing to shake vigorously the apparatus in order to distribute the fat-soluble gas into my soupy sauce, I was ordered to agitate the bottle 3-6 times, depending on the fat content of my cream. A carton-check revealed I had the 36% variety (anything less than 28% won't do the job, don't you know), and after a few more achtungs alerting me to the perils of both over and under-agitation, I concluded that four shimmies would do the trick.
I removed the charger, screwed on the protective cap, aimed the nozzle downwards (Achtung! Anything other that strict verticality will result in loss of pressure!), and let 'er rip.
The result was not encouraging. What came out of the dispenser amidst a good deal of spitting and burping was undeniably foamy and delicious, but hardly the photo op for which I had been hoping:
I consulted the trouble-shooting guide, which explained that I had either shaken my foam too much or too little. Achtung! Either extreme can lead to disaster and woe, but the symptoms are identical! Concluding that if it was over-shaken there was no remedy but that I had nothing to lose by shaking it some more, I gave it a really good workout and tried again. I thought I perceived some attractive surface swirling, but my dessert still resembled a big khaki-colored splat:
I began frantically to leaf through the many how-to booklets in mounting alarm. The device's hissing and belching might have been a sign that the nozzle was clogged with a microscopic mote of undissolved powdered sugar. The only way to clean it was to disassemble the entire thing. I discharged the pressure (Achtung! Keep away from your eyes, pets, and small children!), gave everything a good wipe-and-stir and started over with a fresh N2O cartridge, trying not to think about the damage I was doing to the ozone layer in pursuit of dessert perfection.
A definite improvement (no obscene noises this time) but my mixture was still too loose:
It was now getting late in the day and I was losing heart. Because N2O is bacteriostatic, I knew my project would be safe in the fridge until I could come up with a new strategy. I released the pressure again and placed the bottle on the bottom shelf of my chill chest while I pondered my foam fabrication failings, desperately seeking an answer in my pitiless pile of documentation. I finally found it, hidden towards the end in a discussion of gelatin and warm mixtures: Achtung! The whipper and mixture must be chilled in the refrigerator for several hours before use!
Oh, for crying out loud. Why didn't they say so in the first place?
When I returned home from work today, I retrieved the glaciated vessel from the fridge, clapped on N2O charger #3, exercised the lot with a good 5-second mambo, and had at it.
Success at last!
Of course, I could have saved myself a lot of trouble if I'd thought to consult MC, which has a stupefyingly complete guide to siphon use, including a fabulous photographic cross section on p. 261 of Vol. 4. Myhrvold et al play down the importance of the exact number of shakes, while stressing the vital role of temperature. Indeed, they recommend giving dairy the hot-cold treatment, whereby cream that is destined for frothy glory is heated to 86 deg F, held at temperature for 30 minutes, then chilled to 41 deg F before action. This process anneals and modifies the crystal structure of the fat droplets in much the same way that tempering does for chocolate.
Carp and cauliflower cappuccino might be within my grasp after all.
But first, I'll need to order several hundred more N2O chargers.
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