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.
Saturday, December 31, 2011
Proof of the Pudding
Having finally undertaken my annual end-of-year pantry clear-out, I found myself in possession of several unopened bags of organic stone-ground corn flour (hooray!); a long-forgotten container of xanthan gum (now consigned forever and for always to the Pitiless Purgatory of Dreadful Ingredients); a few packs of ramen left over from our hurricane scare of several months ago (the Kid Squid will eat them happily, for I sure can't); and two gluten-free panettone from Schär, which I had purchased some time ago in anticipation of the holidays.
I considered these last items somewhat glumly, I must confess. Although I am big fan of Schär's chocolate hazelnut wafers, I have yet to find a gluten-free bread worth the calories and did not hold out much hope for the loaves staring at me (somewhat impudently, I might add) from my kitchen counter. Fortunately, they contained no truly scarifying ingredients such as pea protein or bamboo roots - although their lack of lactose struck me as unnecessarily ascetic in this season of bounteous indulgence.
Upon opening the box, I was heartened to find something that looked suspiciously like the wheat-filled specimens of my dim and distant past - they were soft and spongy when tentatively poked and had a nice airy texture. I was so encouraged by my discovery that I decided on the spot to attempt its substitution in my favorite panettone application of all time: bread pudding!
I softened a stick of butter and mixed in enough cinnamon and freshly-grated nutmeg to make it taste zesty and festive. I sliced the panettone into half-inch slices and spread them liberally - they didn't disintegrate into oblivion! I felt almost optimistic as I layered them into a shallow baking dish:
Next, I whisked together nine egg yolks (well, it is the holidays, after all) and three-quarters of a cup of sugar. I heated up four cups of dairy (more or less evenly divided between cream and 2% milk: my arteries can only stand so much abuse) in the microwave until the mixture was steamy. I slowly whisked the hot moo into my eggs-and-sugar then added a splash of vanilla.
At this point there was only one thing for it: I was obliged by the laws of bread-pudding chemistry to introduce the custard to the panettone pieces. What would happen when the two substances came into contact? I had a pretty good idea: the panettone would dissolve utterly, leaving me with a dish full of raisin-laced mush. I screwed my courage to its sticking place and did the deed:
The bread didn't disappear! In fact, even after ten minutes of soaking it held its shape in a way that made me quite emotional. Not wanting to push my luck, I rushed it into a 350 deg F oven - even though traditional b/p requires at least half an hour of steeping to achieve creamy custardy deliciousness.
Half an hour later, I retrieved my creation from the hot box and scrutinized it with some satisfaction. The slices had retained their integrity and were starting - joy of joys - to get crispy on top. I sifted a heavy layer of powdered sugar over all and returned the dish to the oven for ten more minutes.
When time was up and the custard was set (but still slightly wobbly, of course) I placed the pud on a cooling rack and salvaged my chef's torch from its secret location in the rubber-band drawer. I bruleed the dessert's surface until it was brown and caramelized and toasty and then stood back, waiting impatiently for the thing to cool sufficiently for slicing.
And what do you think? My panettone pudding was delicious! Soft and creamy and eggy within - crusty and crispy on top. It was a reminder of an almost-forgotten treasure and I was filled with hope and optimism for 2012.
My happiness might even last until Monday.
Coming soon: I ponder uses for the bestest hostess present of all time, a box of cunning blue medicine bottles containing exotic small-batch bitters (cassia, camomile, and dried fruit! caramelized orange, coriander, and cardamom!) all the way from sunny Milwaukee, Wisconsin.
I considered these last items somewhat glumly, I must confess. Although I am big fan of Schär's chocolate hazelnut wafers, I have yet to find a gluten-free bread worth the calories and did not hold out much hope for the loaves staring at me (somewhat impudently, I might add) from my kitchen counter. Fortunately, they contained no truly scarifying ingredients such as pea protein or bamboo roots - although their lack of lactose struck me as unnecessarily ascetic in this season of bounteous indulgence.
Upon opening the box, I was heartened to find something that looked suspiciously like the wheat-filled specimens of my dim and distant past - they were soft and spongy when tentatively poked and had a nice airy texture. I was so encouraged by my discovery that I decided on the spot to attempt its substitution in my favorite panettone application of all time: bread pudding!
I softened a stick of butter and mixed in enough cinnamon and freshly-grated nutmeg to make it taste zesty and festive. I sliced the panettone into half-inch slices and spread them liberally - they didn't disintegrate into oblivion! I felt almost optimistic as I layered them into a shallow baking dish:
Next, I whisked together nine egg yolks (well, it is the holidays, after all) and three-quarters of a cup of sugar. I heated up four cups of dairy (more or less evenly divided between cream and 2% milk: my arteries can only stand so much abuse) in the microwave until the mixture was steamy. I slowly whisked the hot moo into my eggs-and-sugar then added a splash of vanilla.
At this point there was only one thing for it: I was obliged by the laws of bread-pudding chemistry to introduce the custard to the panettone pieces. What would happen when the two substances came into contact? I had a pretty good idea: the panettone would dissolve utterly, leaving me with a dish full of raisin-laced mush. I screwed my courage to its sticking place and did the deed:
The bread didn't disappear! In fact, even after ten minutes of soaking it held its shape in a way that made me quite emotional. Not wanting to push my luck, I rushed it into a 350 deg F oven - even though traditional b/p requires at least half an hour of steeping to achieve creamy custardy deliciousness.
Half an hour later, I retrieved my creation from the hot box and scrutinized it with some satisfaction. The slices had retained their integrity and were starting - joy of joys - to get crispy on top. I sifted a heavy layer of powdered sugar over all and returned the dish to the oven for ten more minutes.
When time was up and the custard was set (but still slightly wobbly, of course) I placed the pud on a cooling rack and salvaged my chef's torch from its secret location in the rubber-band drawer. I bruleed the dessert's surface until it was brown and caramelized and toasty and then stood back, waiting impatiently for the thing to cool sufficiently for slicing.
And what do you think? My panettone pudding was delicious! Soft and creamy and eggy within - crusty and crispy on top. It was a reminder of an almost-forgotten treasure and I was filled with hope and optimism for 2012.
My happiness might even last until Monday.
Coming soon: I ponder uses for the bestest hostess present of all time, a box of cunning blue medicine bottles containing exotic small-batch bitters (cassia, camomile, and dried fruit! caramelized orange, coriander, and cardamom!) all the way from sunny Milwaukee, Wisconsin.
Wednesday, December 28, 2011
Gifts of the Magi
It's been a banner year for Christmas swag a chez Fractured Amy, with three notable standouts on the culinary front.
I plan to be buried in it.
- A copy of On the Line to sit beside last year's Ripertian addition to my Metro shelving. I am now in possession of much valuable intelligence, including the procedure for preparing unilaterally-cooked salmon (the fish 'develops a custard-like consistency!' swoons the author) as well as tempting recipes for corn sorbet, beurre noisette ice cream, and banana creme brulee - all of which I shall be fabricating at the first available opportunity. Armed as I am with the bitter experience of last year's caramelized white chocolate panna cotta episode, I shall be sure to set aside several days for experimental purposes. Watch this space for exciting R & D updates.
- My very own one-pint cream whipper, complete with ten extremely cute but woefully non-biodegradable cartouches creme chantilly (better known to the geeks among us as N2O chargers). The sleek pressurized vessel and alchemical implications of this marvelous device appeal greatly to my engineering side and I am looking forward not only to the production of beaucoups espumas a la Adria but also Modernist mozzarella, a sort of water-balloon-like burrata squirted full of homemade fresh cheese, for which manufacture a cream whipper is de rigueur (Not incidentally, Myhrvold et al make heavy use of gaseous technology in their section entitled - fittingly enough - Foams. Who can resist something called Siphoned Souffle a la Lorraine? Not me, that's for sure!). Wanting to start modestly, I am currently debating what to make first - chilled zabaglione or Amarula and white chocolate mousse - and how to organize the recycling of the mountains of stainless steel cartouches that will no doubt soon be accumulating in my garage.
- A new T-shirt from the Kid Squid in stunning lab-coat blue. Inspired by one of his favorite games, the message emblazoned on its front is perfectly a propos - a tribute to the struggles of gluten guerrillas everywhere. I have worn it now for three days straight, such is my devotion to the truth of its message.
I plan to be buried in it.
Friday, December 23, 2011
Ructions
Once again, I have missed the current installment of Pads and the Unibrow Do Texas. I'm not sure, but I think the episode involved Tweets (or possibly twits) and Heather getting sent home in a hail of gunfire.
Or so I gather.
The reason I missed my favorite show this week was that I was having a Top Chef experience all my own courtesy of Sir, the holiday season, and the good people at our local high-end pan-Asian-but-mostly-Japanese chow house, of which we have been loyal fans for years. The restaurant has proved to be one of those places where a wheat-free warrior can present herself for a post-movie meal and - with minimum fuss - be rewarded with gluten-free delights such as foie gras with roasted pineapple and eel salsa; sous vide salmon with pistachios and pine nuts; and tuna with tomato yuzu chutney. Wash it all down with a sake-and-cucumber on ice and one is able either to celebrate a new four-star-find or recover from a regrettable two-thumbs-down turkey. Either way it's difficult to lose.
Since none of the flicks we are desperate to see has as yet come to the Valley (although there are tantalizing rumours that Gary Oldman's new Tinker, Tailor etc. will be appearing only 40 miles away come mid-January), we showed up for dinner sans cinematic hors d'ouevre. The Kid Squid's absence and something akin to holiday giddiness led us absentmindedly to peruse the chef's tasting menu, something we rarely do for three reasons:
But how, on this occasion, could we resist oysters, quail eggs, diver scallops, and (be still my heart) wild boar? Not easily, that's for sure. Besides, the number of times I've seen wild boar on a menu hereabouts I could count on one hand and not even worry about carpal tunnel syndrome.
The bill of fare was admirably effuse in its descriptions and all the offerings looked pretty safe, gluten-wise. I double-checked with our server, who said she would, in turn, double-check with Chef and that was that. Sir and I sat back with our ridiculous cocktails and waited expectantly for the delights that would no doubt soon be coming our way.
Soon afterwards, the First Course arrived: a quicksmoked Kumamoto oyster with Reisling caviar, pickled cornichon, pearl onion and paddlefish roe. The dish was served in a large glass snifter with a lid on it, just like they have been doing at Alinea since time immemorial and everywhere else on the planet for the past three years or so. Still, it was the first time I'd experienced such sophistication in the Valley and it was pretty exciting, I must say. Chef had clearly been practicing with his spherification kit to produce the sparkly-sweet caviar and we contentedly slurped away, enjoying the play of sea and smoke. Sir thought the cornichon was briny overkill and a long discussion about acidity and its desirability ensued.
Our conversation became so involved that we failed, at first, to notice the rather excessive hiatus between our first and second courses. Soon, however, just as my fascinating exposition about traditional Japanese pickling methods was winding down, our server appeared. She apologized for the delay and explained that Chef was in the process of knocking his be-toqued head against the wall, since most of the upcoming courses contained soy sauce in various guises and required, in her words, 'reworking'.
You will no doubt remember that over a year ago, newly reeling from my quack's gluten-free decrees, I engaged in some extensive internet research and concluded that - even though wheat is used in its production - shoyu contains no gluten because during its distillation the protein chains are broken down into their constituent amino acids. Since I have not yet been able to raise sufficient funds to undertake the necessary laboratory testing myself, I must confess this belief is more a matter of faith than hard science. Nonetheless, I stick by it and defy anyone to convince me differently.
Clearly, though, Chef had failed to receive the memo.
I was instantly filled with remorse. My desire to cause as little fuss in restaurants as is humanly possible is well-recorded. If I had known I was going to cause a kitchen kerfuffle I would have either a) ordered off the a la carte menu as per usual or b) kept my mouth shut and discreetly left to one side any obviously gluten-filled morsels. It had certainly not been my intention to require that every dish coming out of the expeditor's window (at a Japanese restaurant, no less) contain no soy sauce! I considered passing my wheat wisdom on to the cooks (who were no doubt by this point cursing the heavens and punters like me who have outrageously faddy dietary requirements), but Sir threatened to walk out if I did. We were at this point committed, he pointed out, and who were we to say the establishment's hash slingers weren't enjoying the thrilling novelty of cooking something new? Dubiously but obediently, I agreed to take what came with good grace.
From this point onwards the dishes Sir and I ate differed in several important respects, so I decided to document the meal for posterity. I didn't have my trusty wee Olympus with me and was therefore obliged to use my Smartyphone. An additional technical snafu occured when I accidentally set the camera to 'video' and I was forced subsequently to edit the footage using the device's rather troublesome screen-capture function. This was helpfully demonstrated to me by the Kid Squid when we finally returned home six hours later.
Second Course
Tuna poke with caramelized onion puree, tasaka seaweed salad, Hawaiian sea salt and a poached quail egg. We detected few obvious dissimilarities except for the soy schmear on Sir's gluten-filled plate. It is possible I was also missing the onions, but it was hard to tell without a direct taste comparison (an impossibility without the risk of approbation and flying santoku hurled from the direction of the kitchen). The quail egg was roughly the size of my thumbnail and oozed everywhere when I jabbed it. It was like eating a very diminutive steak tartare. Divine.
Third Course
The restaurant's signature sushi tasting, which has long been a soyless sakana serenade. On this occasion it consisted of maguro with onion, hamachi with yuzu paste, sake with mustard miso and mint, and suzuki with lemon and shiso:
Fourth Course
Wild mushroom soup with truffle oil. This took ages and ages since, as it turned out, they had to come up with something completely different for me. I was presented with a bowl of heavenly clam soup with enoki. The enoki were a revelation - they acted and tasted just like very al dente strands of pasta. I was inspired.
Fifth Course
A pan-seared diver scallop with edamame humus, green peas, haricot verts, and cinnamon foam. This was a complete triumph. The scallop sat atop a nabe of hot salt on which were arrayed toasty cinnamon sticks and star anise. I was lacking the cinnamon foam but didn't really miss it what with all the aromatic waftings going on. The scallop was the size of a hockey puck, and the texture of one, too - if the puck in question were made of warm melting butter.
Sixth Course
The much-anticipated wild boar chop with a sweet potato croquette, lamb meatball, and mustard greens. This was the only course about which I had actually been concerned in the first place and with good reason, as it turned out. Chef duly pulled out all the stops to give me something special. He went to the trouble of de-boning the chop and adorning it with all manner of deliciously wasabi-enrobed veg, such that I felt healthy and virtuous as well as gluten-free. The meat itself was pink, juicy, and rich. I permitted Sir to pick up his bone and gnaw on it, just this once.
Final Course
Pumpkin souffle. As far as we could tell, the two plates were identical: the souffle (unfortunately fallen by the time I was able to arrange a suitable composition) was accompanied by sweet cinnamon cream and homemade eggnog ice cream. As I scraped my cup clean I pondered the beauty of souffles and made a new year's resolution to produce some of the sweet variety in my own kitchen when the first available opportunity presented itself.
So ended my first experience of special handling in a restaurant. The meal took about seven times longer than might usually have been the case, but the staff imdulged my weirdness with grace and aplomb. I went from feeling downright guilty and regretful to pleased and satisfied - pleased because the kitchen had clearly gone to a good deal of trouble to appease me and satisfied because I had been served a wonderful gluten-free meal that had neither the feeling of 'second best' nor 'making do.' The kitchen outdid itself to make my holiday dinner a memorable and enjoyable one, despite the inconvenience and trouble I had no doubt caused.
But then, as Sir pointed out, it wouldn't be Top Chef without the challenge.
Next up: requiring a holiday challenge of my own, I attempt to make spiced bread pudding from Schar's gluten-free panettone.
Or so I gather.
The reason I missed my favorite show this week was that I was having a Top Chef experience all my own courtesy of Sir, the holiday season, and the good people at our local high-end pan-Asian-but-mostly-Japanese chow house, of which we have been loyal fans for years. The restaurant has proved to be one of those places where a wheat-free warrior can present herself for a post-movie meal and - with minimum fuss - be rewarded with gluten-free delights such as foie gras with roasted pineapple and eel salsa; sous vide salmon with pistachios and pine nuts; and tuna with tomato yuzu chutney. Wash it all down with a sake-and-cucumber on ice and one is able either to celebrate a new four-star-find or recover from a regrettable two-thumbs-down turkey. Either way it's difficult to lose.
Since none of the flicks we are desperate to see has as yet come to the Valley (although there are tantalizing rumours that Gary Oldman's new Tinker, Tailor etc. will be appearing only 40 miles away come mid-January), we showed up for dinner sans cinematic hors d'ouevre. The Kid Squid's absence and something akin to holiday giddiness led us absentmindedly to peruse the chef's tasting menu, something we rarely do for three reasons:
- the Squid refuses to sit still long enough for the rest of the family to eat more than two courses. Since he is not a dessert eater, this tragic state of affairs used to result in my being denied my favorite part of a restaurant meal. As most eateries of my acquaintance are unable to offer a gluten-free sweet other than creme brulee, however, this is no longer the heartbreaker it was in my distant cake and tart-consuming past
- Sir and I have a deep suspicion of chefs' menus. Having experienced (let there be no mistake) a few by chefs of great renown, we have come to the conclusion that sitting through a four-hour dinner of small courses is like watching avant garde theater or a runway show of Lacroix couture. To be sure, one admires the artistry and skill on display and utters knowingly appreciative oohs and aahs, but it's difficult to come away with a sense of one's soul having been satisfied. But that's just us. Heathens.
- Sir and I are usually too fiscally responsible to spring for a tasting menu. See above.
But how, on this occasion, could we resist oysters, quail eggs, diver scallops, and (be still my heart) wild boar? Not easily, that's for sure. Besides, the number of times I've seen wild boar on a menu hereabouts I could count on one hand and not even worry about carpal tunnel syndrome.
The bill of fare was admirably effuse in its descriptions and all the offerings looked pretty safe, gluten-wise. I double-checked with our server, who said she would, in turn, double-check with Chef and that was that. Sir and I sat back with our ridiculous cocktails and waited expectantly for the delights that would no doubt soon be coming our way.
Soon afterwards, the First Course arrived: a quicksmoked Kumamoto oyster with Reisling caviar, pickled cornichon, pearl onion and paddlefish roe. The dish was served in a large glass snifter with a lid on it, just like they have been doing at Alinea since time immemorial and everywhere else on the planet for the past three years or so. Still, it was the first time I'd experienced such sophistication in the Valley and it was pretty exciting, I must say. Chef had clearly been practicing with his spherification kit to produce the sparkly-sweet caviar and we contentedly slurped away, enjoying the play of sea and smoke. Sir thought the cornichon was briny overkill and a long discussion about acidity and its desirability ensued.
Our conversation became so involved that we failed, at first, to notice the rather excessive hiatus between our first and second courses. Soon, however, just as my fascinating exposition about traditional Japanese pickling methods was winding down, our server appeared. She apologized for the delay and explained that Chef was in the process of knocking his be-toqued head against the wall, since most of the upcoming courses contained soy sauce in various guises and required, in her words, 'reworking'.
***
I'd forgotten that the rest of the world believes soy sauce is filled with gluten!
***
I'd forgotten that the rest of the world believes soy sauce is filled with gluten!
***
You will no doubt remember that over a year ago, newly reeling from my quack's gluten-free decrees, I engaged in some extensive internet research and concluded that - even though wheat is used in its production - shoyu contains no gluten because during its distillation the protein chains are broken down into their constituent amino acids. Since I have not yet been able to raise sufficient funds to undertake the necessary laboratory testing myself, I must confess this belief is more a matter of faith than hard science. Nonetheless, I stick by it and defy anyone to convince me differently.
Clearly, though, Chef had failed to receive the memo.
I was instantly filled with remorse. My desire to cause as little fuss in restaurants as is humanly possible is well-recorded. If I had known I was going to cause a kitchen kerfuffle I would have either a) ordered off the a la carte menu as per usual or b) kept my mouth shut and discreetly left to one side any obviously gluten-filled morsels. It had certainly not been my intention to require that every dish coming out of the expeditor's window (at a Japanese restaurant, no less) contain no soy sauce! I considered passing my wheat wisdom on to the cooks (who were no doubt by this point cursing the heavens and punters like me who have outrageously faddy dietary requirements), but Sir threatened to walk out if I did. We were at this point committed, he pointed out, and who were we to say the establishment's hash slingers weren't enjoying the thrilling novelty of cooking something new? Dubiously but obediently, I agreed to take what came with good grace.
From this point onwards the dishes Sir and I ate differed in several important respects, so I decided to document the meal for posterity. I didn't have my trusty wee Olympus with me and was therefore obliged to use my Smartyphone. An additional technical snafu occured when I accidentally set the camera to 'video' and I was forced subsequently to edit the footage using the device's rather troublesome screen-capture function. This was helpfully demonstrated to me by the Kid Squid when we finally returned home six hours later.
Second Course
Tuna poke with caramelized onion puree, tasaka seaweed salad, Hawaiian sea salt and a poached quail egg. We detected few obvious dissimilarities except for the soy schmear on Sir's gluten-filled plate. It is possible I was also missing the onions, but it was hard to tell without a direct taste comparison (an impossibility without the risk of approbation and flying santoku hurled from the direction of the kitchen). The quail egg was roughly the size of my thumbnail and oozed everywhere when I jabbed it. It was like eating a very diminutive steak tartare. Divine.
 |
| Gluten-filled poke |
 |
| Gluten-free poke |
Third Course
The restaurant's signature sushi tasting, which has long been a soyless sakana serenade. On this occasion it consisted of maguro with onion, hamachi with yuzu paste, sake with mustard miso and mint, and suzuki with lemon and shiso:
Fourth Course
Wild mushroom soup with truffle oil. This took ages and ages since, as it turned out, they had to come up with something completely different for me. I was presented with a bowl of heavenly clam soup with enoki. The enoki were a revelation - they acted and tasted just like very al dente strands of pasta. I was inspired.
Fifth Course
A pan-seared diver scallop with edamame humus, green peas, haricot verts, and cinnamon foam. This was a complete triumph. The scallop sat atop a nabe of hot salt on which were arrayed toasty cinnamon sticks and star anise. I was lacking the cinnamon foam but didn't really miss it what with all the aromatic waftings going on. The scallop was the size of a hockey puck, and the texture of one, too - if the puck in question were made of warm melting butter.
 |
| Gluten-filled scallop |
 |
| Gluten-free scallop |
Sixth Course
The much-anticipated wild boar chop with a sweet potato croquette, lamb meatball, and mustard greens. This was the only course about which I had actually been concerned in the first place and with good reason, as it turned out. Chef duly pulled out all the stops to give me something special. He went to the trouble of de-boning the chop and adorning it with all manner of deliciously wasabi-enrobed veg, such that I felt healthy and virtuous as well as gluten-free. The meat itself was pink, juicy, and rich. I permitted Sir to pick up his bone and gnaw on it, just this once.
 |
| Gluten-filled boar chop |
 |
| Gluten-free boar chop |
Final Course
Pumpkin souffle. As far as we could tell, the two plates were identical: the souffle (unfortunately fallen by the time I was able to arrange a suitable composition) was accompanied by sweet cinnamon cream and homemade eggnog ice cream. As I scraped my cup clean I pondered the beauty of souffles and made a new year's resolution to produce some of the sweet variety in my own kitchen when the first available opportunity presented itself.
So ended my first experience of special handling in a restaurant. The meal took about seven times longer than might usually have been the case, but the staff imdulged my weirdness with grace and aplomb. I went from feeling downright guilty and regretful to pleased and satisfied - pleased because the kitchen had clearly gone to a good deal of trouble to appease me and satisfied because I had been served a wonderful gluten-free meal that had neither the feeling of 'second best' nor 'making do.' The kitchen outdid itself to make my holiday dinner a memorable and enjoyable one, despite the inconvenience and trouble I had no doubt caused.
But then, as Sir pointed out, it wouldn't be Top Chef without the challenge.
Next up: requiring a holiday challenge of my own, I attempt to make spiced bread pudding from Schar's gluten-free panettone.
Friday, December 16, 2011
Top Chef Texas, Episode 7: L Words
L is for Tim Love, the cutest guest judge to appear on Top Chef in some time. 'Good tequila is made to be sipped - like a fine wine or a good craft beer,' he winsomely declared, before tasking our culinary combatants with a quickfire challenge involving food pairings with many varieties of Mexican agave juice.
L is for Lush, Lighthearted, and Lubricious, all of which are useful adjectives that might be employed to describe tequila's impish profile. Sadly, the marketing folks at Don Julio have not cottoned on to these valuable modifiers, requiring our chefs to shill for their product using descriptors such as 'aloe vera green-ness,' 'caramel woodsy notes,' 'sweet, smoky, and earthy,' and 'crisp and clear.' To be fair, aloe vera does have an L in it.
Lacklustre seemed an adequate summary of the quickfire dishes, although Chris J. paired his blanco with pan-seared chicken, lime vinaigrette, and something called 'puffed quinoa', which I thought sounded intriguing. A 45-minute search on Bravo's appalling website revealed that one puffs the substance in question by frying it in 350 deg oil until it becomes crispy and - you guessed it - inflated with its own importance. If I weren't boycotting quinoa until such time as Bolivian agriculture gets its priorities straight, I'd try it myself. It would make for a lively and luring gluten-free accompaniment to plain grilled proteins - especially if one used the red stuff.
L is also for my girl Lindsay who got a shout-out for her excellent pairing of anejo with salmon, fennel puree and brown butter sauce (tragically, she didn't win the $5000 - the prize went to Ty-Lor, whose name might start with an L. I'm not really sure, but I suppose it's possible that his unusual sobriquet is quite common in the distant galaxy from which he no doubt hails). Poor Lindsay! Upon hearing from her fellow cheftestants that her rack of boar-adorning kohlrabi slaw was watery, she lagubriously admitted that the news was 'gut-wrenching.' Never mind, Lindsay, I still think you're laudably lovely, with the sweetest little old accent this side of Lee County!
Loopy is how Heather behaved when working with Bev for the game-inspired elimination challenge. I say working, but it would be more correct to call it heckling, baiting, bossing, and bullying. Attempting to defend a substandard dish of insufficiently-rendered duck breast and pickled cherries, she blethered on and on about Bev's deficiencies in the kitchen during challenges past - causing Bev's allies (of whom there were legion) to spring into a sort of fending-off action. It was an unedifying spectacle, calling to mind the words 'snotty' and 'bitch', even though neither of them contains the letter of the day.
Losing heart is how I would describe the Heimlich Maneuver at this point, disappointed as he was by polenta side-dishes; black-and-blue venison; sweat-covered plates draped with 'bouquets of greens' (we call them salads in my house, but what do we know?); sweet-potato daisy chains; and nervous breakdown-inducing squab sausage. Is it my imagination or is the HM losing his enthusiasm for the process? He certainly doesn't seem to be enjoying himself at judges' table these days.
I know he feels: let down and listless. Or as Che would say, desinteresado.
I would say it too - but it doesn't start with an L.
L is for Lush, Lighthearted, and Lubricious, all of which are useful adjectives that might be employed to describe tequila's impish profile. Sadly, the marketing folks at Don Julio have not cottoned on to these valuable modifiers, requiring our chefs to shill for their product using descriptors such as 'aloe vera green-ness,' 'caramel woodsy notes,' 'sweet, smoky, and earthy,' and 'crisp and clear.' To be fair, aloe vera does have an L in it.
Lacklustre seemed an adequate summary of the quickfire dishes, although Chris J. paired his blanco with pan-seared chicken, lime vinaigrette, and something called 'puffed quinoa', which I thought sounded intriguing. A 45-minute search on Bravo's appalling website revealed that one puffs the substance in question by frying it in 350 deg oil until it becomes crispy and - you guessed it - inflated with its own importance. If I weren't boycotting quinoa until such time as Bolivian agriculture gets its priorities straight, I'd try it myself. It would make for a lively and luring gluten-free accompaniment to plain grilled proteins - especially if one used the red stuff.
L is also for my girl Lindsay who got a shout-out for her excellent pairing of anejo with salmon, fennel puree and brown butter sauce (tragically, she didn't win the $5000 - the prize went to Ty-Lor, whose name might start with an L. I'm not really sure, but I suppose it's possible that his unusual sobriquet is quite common in the distant galaxy from which he no doubt hails). Poor Lindsay! Upon hearing from her fellow cheftestants that her rack of boar-adorning kohlrabi slaw was watery, she lagubriously admitted that the news was 'gut-wrenching.' Never mind, Lindsay, I still think you're laudably lovely, with the sweetest little old accent this side of Lee County!
Loopy is how Heather behaved when working with Bev for the game-inspired elimination challenge. I say working, but it would be more correct to call it heckling, baiting, bossing, and bullying. Attempting to defend a substandard dish of insufficiently-rendered duck breast and pickled cherries, she blethered on and on about Bev's deficiencies in the kitchen during challenges past - causing Bev's allies (of whom there were legion) to spring into a sort of fending-off action. It was an unedifying spectacle, calling to mind the words 'snotty' and 'bitch', even though neither of them contains the letter of the day.
Losing heart is how I would describe the Heimlich Maneuver at this point, disappointed as he was by polenta side-dishes; black-and-blue venison; sweat-covered plates draped with 'bouquets of greens' (we call them salads in my house, but what do we know?); sweet-potato daisy chains; and nervous breakdown-inducing squab sausage. Is it my imagination or is the HM losing his enthusiasm for the process? He certainly doesn't seem to be enjoying himself at judges' table these days.
I know he feels: let down and listless. Or as Che would say, desinteresado.
I would say it too - but it doesn't start with an L.
Monday, December 12, 2011
Holiday Blues
This past weekend, as is customary at this time of year, the denizens a chez Fractured Amy stalked, cornered, dispatched, and brought home triumphantly our trophy of the season - a huge Douglas Fir that is now resplendently decorated in a corner of the family room, twinkling merrily and smelling sweetly of holiday cheer.
The Great Tree Hunt on Saturday was more than usually fraught. Naturally, getting three people to reach a consensus on anything (especially when they are as opinionated as Sir, the Kid Squid, and myself) is never easy, but we had great difficulty this year in agreeing on a tree that was suitably conical (but not pear-shaped); tall enough to Make A Statement (but not too altitudinous to fit into the back of my stalwart silver Element); sufficiently green (there were a lot of brown needles this year, presumably from the trees' sitting in puddles for months on end during the wettest summer on record); and possessing of copious numbers of little sticky-up branches for displaying small ornaments and the piece de resistance, our gold paper Moravian star.
When we finally did spot a suitable victim, poor Sir spent almost ten minutes on the cold wet ground, hacksawing away like one possessed. The Squid and I would have offered to spell him for a while, but we know (even though he denies it) that deep down he loves the kill. It's traditional.
When we got home Sir looked so cold and downtrodden from his labours that I decided he needed a treat. Earlier in the week he had plaintively texted me that he'd finished the last of the homemade cheese 'that smelled like feet' (in fact, an impish little washed-rind creation made with bacteria linens - the same bugs that give a red bloom to reblochon and Muenster), so I decided to crack open the much-anticipated BCSSP (Blue Cheese in the Style of Stilton, Perhaps). Much anticipated by others, I hasten to add. I dislike blue cheese. Intensely. Always have.
I was dubious about the BCSSP for other reasons, too, mostly to do with the worrying transmogrifications that have bedevilled it since its introduction into my cave oh-so-many weeks ago. First, it started to grow red fuzzy mold. Then it started to give off an odour not unlike our basement after it has been flooded for a week. In something of a panic, I consulted a variety of expert sources only to discover that such disquieting developments were perfectly normal and nothing at all to be concerned about. I was instructed to give it a good scrape with a sharp knife whenever I thought the situation was getting out of hand and await the appearance of 'the smear'. Then I would really know I was getting somewhere!
As promised, my cheese soon became covered in brown goo that looked like and had the texture of extremely smooth yet sticky peanut butter - although the color was more tahini-hued, now that I come to think on it. The odiferousness was truly dreadful. I scraped and fretted for several more weeks, convinced that I had a real disaster on my hands.
Then, miraculously, a period of time went by when the BCSSP developed a fresh, clean aroma (although unmistakably blue, if you know what I mean) and scraping became a far less urgent task. On Saturday, I decided the time was right.
I cut the truckle into halves around its equator and rejoiced to see inside a creamy pale cheese interlaced with gossamer veins of purest azure. I dared to try a smidgeon and was relieved to discover that it wasn't the worst thing I'd ever tasted. Sir carefully carved some into wedges and ate them with a thinly sliced apple, in which manner blue cheese is often enjoyed in his culture. While not crumbly enough to be Stilton, or creamy enough to be Roquefort, it was nonetheless declared an excellent example of the species.
The Great Tree Hunt on Saturday was more than usually fraught. Naturally, getting three people to reach a consensus on anything (especially when they are as opinionated as Sir, the Kid Squid, and myself) is never easy, but we had great difficulty this year in agreeing on a tree that was suitably conical (but not pear-shaped); tall enough to Make A Statement (but not too altitudinous to fit into the back of my stalwart silver Element); sufficiently green (there were a lot of brown needles this year, presumably from the trees' sitting in puddles for months on end during the wettest summer on record); and possessing of copious numbers of little sticky-up branches for displaying small ornaments and the piece de resistance, our gold paper Moravian star.
When we finally did spot a suitable victim, poor Sir spent almost ten minutes on the cold wet ground, hacksawing away like one possessed. The Squid and I would have offered to spell him for a while, but we know (even though he denies it) that deep down he loves the kill. It's traditional.
When we got home Sir looked so cold and downtrodden from his labours that I decided he needed a treat. Earlier in the week he had plaintively texted me that he'd finished the last of the homemade cheese 'that smelled like feet' (in fact, an impish little washed-rind creation made with bacteria linens - the same bugs that give a red bloom to reblochon and Muenster), so I decided to crack open the much-anticipated BCSSP (Blue Cheese in the Style of Stilton, Perhaps). Much anticipated by others, I hasten to add. I dislike blue cheese. Intensely. Always have.
I was dubious about the BCSSP for other reasons, too, mostly to do with the worrying transmogrifications that have bedevilled it since its introduction into my cave oh-so-many weeks ago. First, it started to grow red fuzzy mold. Then it started to give off an odour not unlike our basement after it has been flooded for a week. In something of a panic, I consulted a variety of expert sources only to discover that such disquieting developments were perfectly normal and nothing at all to be concerned about. I was instructed to give it a good scrape with a sharp knife whenever I thought the situation was getting out of hand and await the appearance of 'the smear'. Then I would really know I was getting somewhere!
As promised, my cheese soon became covered in brown goo that looked like and had the texture of extremely smooth yet sticky peanut butter - although the color was more tahini-hued, now that I come to think on it. The odiferousness was truly dreadful. I scraped and fretted for several more weeks, convinced that I had a real disaster on my hands.
Then, miraculously, a period of time went by when the BCSSP developed a fresh, clean aroma (although unmistakably blue, if you know what I mean) and scraping became a far less urgent task. On Saturday, I decided the time was right.
I cut the truckle into halves around its equator and rejoiced to see inside a creamy pale cheese interlaced with gossamer veins of purest azure. I dared to try a smidgeon and was relieved to discover that it wasn't the worst thing I'd ever tasted. Sir carefully carved some into wedges and ate them with a thinly sliced apple, in which manner blue cheese is often enjoyed in his culture. While not crumbly enough to be Stilton, or creamy enough to be Roquefort, it was nonetheless declared an excellent example of the species.
Just like our Christmas tree.
Friday, December 9, 2011
Top Chef Texas, Episode 6: Feeling Saucy
Did you know that the position of saucier is the most prestigious on the line in any commercial kitchen? Neither did I. In fact, I'll bet an entire boatful of bordelaise that in 98% of the restaurants frequented by yours truly, the substance in question comes straight out of a jar - and I don't suppose a specialist is required to do the scraping. To be fair, though, some of those lids can be pretty tough to unscrew and accessing the last belligerent dollop from the bottom of its vessel can be a trial if you're in a hurry and the spoon is slightly too large to fit.
But I'm willing to play along with Bravo's most-recent conceit, particularly when it's perpetrated by as preeminent a guest judge as Dean Fearing, of whom - before his appearance on my favorite show - I had previously heard not at all. The competitors sure had, though, and worried whispers about 'classical training' and 'James Beard Awards' percolated throughout the Top Chef kitchen faster than a lumpy mornay through a China cap.
The quickfire challenge he set our coulis contenders? To make an original dish using a prototypal variation of one of Escoffier's mother sauces. Just in case our gravy gladiators didn't know what on earth The Dean of Dallas Dining was on about, the customary knives of doom were distributed with helpful clues: espagnol, bechamel, veloute, tomate, and hollandaise. Furrowed brows, full-blown panic, and mutinous rumblings about 'putting a spin on things' ensued as the cheftestants labored for one and one-half hours to put together suitably-sauced Fearing-pleasing plates.
Dismayedly watching flour zephyrs wafting from saucepans and the furious whisking that followed, it immediately became clear to your gluten-free correspondent that a preponderance of roux were in production all over the GE monogram stovetops. I feared the worst.
Sure enough, roux were a recurring theme during the QF judging. Paul (who had earlier THd that a classic espagnol was made with tomato paste - an assertion that didn't seem quite right to me), was asked what color his roux was before he constructed his sauce. He laid a proverbial oeuf by explaining to Mr. Classically-Trained James Beard Award Winner that he hadn't, in fact, bothered to create a roux at all. Disbelief all round.
Whitney (who kept referring to her creation as 'tomato sauce') was asked, 'What roux did you use?' Her answer of 'none' was greeted with the pitying reply that a classic tomate never fails to have one. She rebelliously THd that 'I have never used a roux in my tomate nor would I ever. The judges can just go jump in a raging river of rouille!' I made that last part up, of course, but her intent was clear.
Dean's disappointments didn't end there. None of the hollandaise handlers clarified his butter before making his sauce, prompting a barely-disguised sneer from our now-disillusioned guest judge. Beverly destroyed her espagnole by adding so much soy sauce she was obliged to put very little on the plates, inviting criticism of imbalance and stinginess. Dakota's bechamel drizzled and dripped all over her dish like thin cream, much to the consternation of all. Many sauces were deemed 'over-acidic', while others were 'too sweet'. A few displayed 'good seasoning', but clearly not enough to please the judges.
The competitors were sent abashedly away to try and cook some beef for cow pokes and their gals, but even this relatively simple task proved defeating. Overdone steaks, safe sides, and insipid salads received a disenchanted 'What are they doing here?' from an incredulous HM, who finally sent home Whitney for serving raw potato gratin in 104 degree heat. Poor HM - he seemed pretty discouraged by the whole experience.
I must confess my mind was elsewhere as the bovine bother unfolded. A few comments during the quickfire and my own hazy knowledge of classical cuisine had got me to thinking about how much flour is used in the creation of traditional French sauces. Was my next trip to Paris doomed before the tickets were even booked? I'd long ago accepted that my favorite breakfast of pains aux chocolats was forevermore denied me, but was it possible I wasn't going to be able to eat dinner, either?
My usual go-to source of wisdom and knowledge, the internet, was forbidden me because Sir was hogging the family computer, futilely attempting to get his ancient copy of Company of Heroes up an running. I therefore retrieved my battered edition of the New Larousse Gastronomique (grandfathered in and therefore exempt from my dead-tree book embargo) from its hallowed place on my kitchen's Metro shelves and got to work.
It was a sobering experience. The section on sauces (not including those for desserts) in my faded blue tome extended from page 806 to 827. At an average of 16 entries per page (with a few photographs thrown in for excitement), that made for something like 320 varieties. Indeed, the introductory text explained there are almost 200 sauces to be found in classic French cuisine, not including variations (of which there are legion).
That's a lot of sauce.
Of course, the Larousse differs from Top Chef in its definition of 'mother' or 'great' sauces in a number of important ways. It divides sauces into two groups only: brown (including espagnol and tomate plus lots of others); and white (bechamel and veloute are only two examples). Hollandaise is listed as only one of dozens of compound white sauces, which also include bearnaise, butter sauces, curries, zingara, and something called ravigote, which is mind-bogglingly described as being appropriate 'for offal and US-style meat and poultry'. A quick dip into Julia revealed yet another organizing construct: she divides French sauces into white and brown (like Larousse) but lists hollandaise and tomate as their own thing. Sigh. Why is nothing ever simple? I was just about to dive into Careme when I realized I had become, as usual, distracted by minutiae.
I needed to find out how many sauces spelled certain death for gluten guerrillas such as myself!
Hollandaise I already knew was safe, since I am a dab hand with a blender version I have been using for years. Just on the off-chance that old Escoffier had a few tricks up his sleeve, I double-checked the classic recipe. Sure enough, not a molecule of gluten in sight, although I was surprised to see that lemon juice features as only a few drops for seasoning, rather than the full tablespoon I am wont to use. A few grates of nutmeg are also considered de rigeur - I shall be adjusting my strategy next time I have five egg yolks to spare.
The rest of of the news was not so rosy:
I'll be damned if Whitney wasn't right after all. Of course, having been ingloriously auf'ed, she will unlikely be taking much satisfaction from her small victory - but her resistance should serve as inspiration for the wheatless warriors who will no doubt follow.
But I'm willing to play along with Bravo's most-recent conceit, particularly when it's perpetrated by as preeminent a guest judge as Dean Fearing, of whom - before his appearance on my favorite show - I had previously heard not at all. The competitors sure had, though, and worried whispers about 'classical training' and 'James Beard Awards' percolated throughout the Top Chef kitchen faster than a lumpy mornay through a China cap.
The quickfire challenge he set our coulis contenders? To make an original dish using a prototypal variation of one of Escoffier's mother sauces. Just in case our gravy gladiators didn't know what on earth The Dean of Dallas Dining was on about, the customary knives of doom were distributed with helpful clues: espagnol, bechamel, veloute, tomate, and hollandaise. Furrowed brows, full-blown panic, and mutinous rumblings about 'putting a spin on things' ensued as the cheftestants labored for one and one-half hours to put together suitably-sauced Fearing-pleasing plates.
Dismayedly watching flour zephyrs wafting from saucepans and the furious whisking that followed, it immediately became clear to your gluten-free correspondent that a preponderance of roux were in production all over the GE monogram stovetops. I feared the worst.
Sure enough, roux were a recurring theme during the QF judging. Paul (who had earlier THd that a classic espagnol was made with tomato paste - an assertion that didn't seem quite right to me), was asked what color his roux was before he constructed his sauce. He laid a proverbial oeuf by explaining to Mr. Classically-Trained James Beard Award Winner that he hadn't, in fact, bothered to create a roux at all. Disbelief all round.
Whitney (who kept referring to her creation as 'tomato sauce') was asked, 'What roux did you use?' Her answer of 'none' was greeted with the pitying reply that a classic tomate never fails to have one. She rebelliously THd that 'I have never used a roux in my tomate nor would I ever. The judges can just go jump in a raging river of rouille!' I made that last part up, of course, but her intent was clear.
Dean's disappointments didn't end there. None of the hollandaise handlers clarified his butter before making his sauce, prompting a barely-disguised sneer from our now-disillusioned guest judge. Beverly destroyed her espagnole by adding so much soy sauce she was obliged to put very little on the plates, inviting criticism of imbalance and stinginess. Dakota's bechamel drizzled and dripped all over her dish like thin cream, much to the consternation of all. Many sauces were deemed 'over-acidic', while others were 'too sweet'. A few displayed 'good seasoning', but clearly not enough to please the judges.
The competitors were sent abashedly away to try and cook some beef for cow pokes and their gals, but even this relatively simple task proved defeating. Overdone steaks, safe sides, and insipid salads received a disenchanted 'What are they doing here?' from an incredulous HM, who finally sent home Whitney for serving raw potato gratin in 104 degree heat. Poor HM - he seemed pretty discouraged by the whole experience.
I must confess my mind was elsewhere as the bovine bother unfolded. A few comments during the quickfire and my own hazy knowledge of classical cuisine had got me to thinking about how much flour is used in the creation of traditional French sauces. Was my next trip to Paris doomed before the tickets were even booked? I'd long ago accepted that my favorite breakfast of pains aux chocolats was forevermore denied me, but was it possible I wasn't going to be able to eat dinner, either?
My usual go-to source of wisdom and knowledge, the internet, was forbidden me because Sir was hogging the family computer, futilely attempting to get his ancient copy of Company of Heroes up an running. I therefore retrieved my battered edition of the New Larousse Gastronomique (grandfathered in and therefore exempt from my dead-tree book embargo) from its hallowed place on my kitchen's Metro shelves and got to work.
It was a sobering experience. The section on sauces (not including those for desserts) in my faded blue tome extended from page 806 to 827. At an average of 16 entries per page (with a few photographs thrown in for excitement), that made for something like 320 varieties. Indeed, the introductory text explained there are almost 200 sauces to be found in classic French cuisine, not including variations (of which there are legion).
That's a lot of sauce.
Of course, the Larousse differs from Top Chef in its definition of 'mother' or 'great' sauces in a number of important ways. It divides sauces into two groups only: brown (including espagnol and tomate plus lots of others); and white (bechamel and veloute are only two examples). Hollandaise is listed as only one of dozens of compound white sauces, which also include bearnaise, butter sauces, curries, zingara, and something called ravigote, which is mind-bogglingly described as being appropriate 'for offal and US-style meat and poultry'. A quick dip into Julia revealed yet another organizing construct: she divides French sauces into white and brown (like Larousse) but lists hollandaise and tomate as their own thing. Sigh. Why is nothing ever simple? I was just about to dive into Careme when I realized I had become, as usual, distracted by minutiae.
I needed to find out how many sauces spelled certain death for gluten guerrillas such as myself!
Hollandaise I already knew was safe, since I am a dab hand with a blender version I have been using for years. Just on the off-chance that old Escoffier had a few tricks up his sleeve, I double-checked the classic recipe. Sure enough, not a molecule of gluten in sight, although I was surprised to see that lemon juice features as only a few drops for seasoning, rather than the full tablespoon I am wont to use. A few grates of nutmeg are also considered de rigeur - I shall be adjusting my strategy next time I have five egg yolks to spare.
The rest of of the news was not so rosy:
- Espagnol. There are two versions, grasse (meat) and maigre (fish). Both begin with a roux simmered with stock, to which are added mirepoix, bacon, white wine, thyme, and bay. The fish version also contains mushroom skins. Of tomato paste, there was no mention.
- Bechamel. No surprise there, as my previous understanding of roux, milk, chopped onion, thyme, bay and nutmeg went unchallenged. I was, however, surprised by the inclusion of diced veal in the classic recipe.
- Veloute. Three versions (meat, chicken, and fish), all of which are simply created from a roux and stock. Seasoning is not required, since the stock should have enough going for it in that department, although mushroom skins may be included for additional 'delicacy.'
- Tomate. Three versions (meat, meatless, or au naturel). The first two are made with a roux enriched with bacon fat and mirepoix to which are added tomatoes, garlic, a ham knuckle, bouquet garni, and stock. The third, most natural version is made - hold onto your toque blanche - without any roux at all!
I'll be damned if Whitney wasn't right after all. Of course, having been ingloriously auf'ed, she will unlikely be taking much satisfaction from her small victory - but her resistance should serve as inspiration for the wheatless warriors who will no doubt follow.
Tuesday, December 6, 2011
Fifth Columnists
Christmas preparations are in full swing a chez Fractured Amy. The stockings have been hung from the chimney with care; the house has been festooned with pine branches and holly sprigs; and Sir has done his usual sterling job of bedecking the gazebo in the woods with twinkly white fairy lights. The Messiah can be heard more or less round the clock (except when interrupted by carol services from Wells Cathedral) and the Kid Squid leaps from his bed every morning to see what new delight may be found in his personally-prepared advent calendar.
Since this is my favorite time of the year, it has proved somewhat difficult of late to work myself into my customary lather of gluten-free indignation. It's not easy to snipe and snark when one is cheerfully humming Good King Wenceslas and Lo How a Rose E'er Blooming, as is my wont once December 1 rolls around.
Still, today is a terribly rainy Tuesday, which means I must rouse myself from contented satisfaction to indulge in some well-deserved testiness prompted by Things To Which I Take Exception.
What is the object of my current ire, you may well ask? Well, I will tell you. Today's travails and tribulations come to me courtesy of The New York Times, a publication that in my humble - but generally agreed-upon opinion - is typically above reproach. The specific source of my torment is a feature from last Sunday's magazine section headlined Beat the Wheat. This unfortunate choice of titular phraseology alerted me to the likelihood of anger-causing content such that I only just got round to studying it today. My particularly good mood of late has caused me to avoid strenuously potential buzz-harshers.
The piece turned out to be a bit of puffery about how General Mills, ConAgra, Anheuser-Busch and other stalwarts of the gluten-industrial complex have discovered that beaucoup dosh can be obtained by benevolently shilling wheat-free convenience food to perplexed passengers on the gluten-free bandwagon.
A few interesting factoids emerged during my perusal:
But here's something that came as a shock to my already-delicate system: there are entire battalions of g/f guerrillas colluding with the enemy!
That's right. Infiltrating our cadres are traitors to the cause who in their spare time are advising the Sinister Forces of Food Processing as to the best ways of luring freedom fighters over to the dark side.
The example cited by the article was The Casserole Coup, which was sneakily perpetrated recently by a consulting board of (I'm sure otherwise blameless) gluten-free do-gooders.
The problem with which the quislings confronted their handlers was the impossibility of creating a one-dish wonder from Progresso gluten-free cream of mushroom soup, which (according to informants) is neither sufficiently 'gelatinous' nor 'gluey' for the production of 'a great casserole'. General Mills have seized upon the opportunity and are now working overtime to engineer a can of condensed g/f soup that will work as well (or as badly) as its mucilaginous counterpart.
Just for fun, I looked up the nutritional info on said product. I discovered that over half its calories come from fat (and that's before you add all your other delicious casserole ingredients) and that one cup gives you 37% of your daily sodium requirement. The casserole-defying gluten-free version has similar characteristics, with the added bonus of a healthy dose of modified food starch (appearing on the label near the top, just after soybean oil).
After receiving this intelligence hyperventilation caused me to fall off my computer chair, rendering further research impractical.
Is this really an improvement? Is there not a better way? Of course there is. We can be thoughtful about what we eat and the ingredients with which we cook. We can decide that convenience does not out-trump quality and accept that we alone - and not profiteers from the wheat wars - must be responsible for what we put on our own tables. And we must bring these misguided wheat-free warriors back into the fold.
But such revolutionary fervor will have to wait until January.
At this time of year, my righteous indignation never lasts for long.
Since this is my favorite time of the year, it has proved somewhat difficult of late to work myself into my customary lather of gluten-free indignation. It's not easy to snipe and snark when one is cheerfully humming Good King Wenceslas and Lo How a Rose E'er Blooming, as is my wont once December 1 rolls around.
Still, today is a terribly rainy Tuesday, which means I must rouse myself from contented satisfaction to indulge in some well-deserved testiness prompted by Things To Which I Take Exception.
What is the object of my current ire, you may well ask? Well, I will tell you. Today's travails and tribulations come to me courtesy of The New York Times, a publication that in my humble - but generally agreed-upon opinion - is typically above reproach. The specific source of my torment is a feature from last Sunday's magazine section headlined Beat the Wheat. This unfortunate choice of titular phraseology alerted me to the likelihood of anger-causing content such that I only just got round to studying it today. My particularly good mood of late has caused me to avoid strenuously potential buzz-harshers.
The piece turned out to be a bit of puffery about how General Mills, ConAgra, Anheuser-Busch and other stalwarts of the gluten-industrial complex have discovered that beaucoup dosh can be obtained by benevolently shilling wheat-free convenience food to perplexed passengers on the gluten-free bandwagon.
A few interesting factoids emerged during my perusal:
- for reasons unknown to science, young people today are nearly five times as likely to have celiac disease as they were in 1950. Not to be diagnosed with it, mind you - which would be understandable - but actually to have it.
- celiac disease is now appearing in countries with little history of the disorder, including Mexico and India
- the gluten-free market is up by 33 percent since 2009 and is now something like a $6.3 billion industry (this according to Spins, a market research and consulting firm for natural-product producers)
- 80% of that market is driven by core commando consumers - that is, individuals who must avoid gluten because their quacks have told them to. The article is silent on who the other 20% are, but we know, don't we? It's the crazies who think gluten-free diets will help their candidates win elections and inspire the world's remaining dictators to embrace democracy.
But here's something that came as a shock to my already-delicate system: there are entire battalions of g/f guerrillas colluding with the enemy!
That's right. Infiltrating our cadres are traitors to the cause who in their spare time are advising the Sinister Forces of Food Processing as to the best ways of luring freedom fighters over to the dark side.
The example cited by the article was The Casserole Coup, which was sneakily perpetrated recently by a consulting board of (I'm sure otherwise blameless) gluten-free do-gooders.
The problem with which the quislings confronted their handlers was the impossibility of creating a one-dish wonder from Progresso gluten-free cream of mushroom soup, which (according to informants) is neither sufficiently 'gelatinous' nor 'gluey' for the production of 'a great casserole'. General Mills have seized upon the opportunity and are now working overtime to engineer a can of condensed g/f soup that will work as well (or as badly) as its mucilaginous counterpart.
Just for fun, I looked up the nutritional info on said product. I discovered that over half its calories come from fat (and that's before you add all your other delicious casserole ingredients) and that one cup gives you 37% of your daily sodium requirement. The casserole-defying gluten-free version has similar characteristics, with the added bonus of a healthy dose of modified food starch (appearing on the label near the top, just after soybean oil).
After receiving this intelligence hyperventilation caused me to fall off my computer chair, rendering further research impractical.
Is this really an improvement? Is there not a better way? Of course there is. We can be thoughtful about what we eat and the ingredients with which we cook. We can decide that convenience does not out-trump quality and accept that we alone - and not profiteers from the wheat wars - must be responsible for what we put on our own tables. And we must bring these misguided wheat-free warriors back into the fold.
But such revolutionary fervor will have to wait until January.
At this time of year, my righteous indignation never lasts for long.
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