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

• 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.

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.

1. 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.
2. 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.
3. 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.

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:

• 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.

Great Pumpkin

Thanksgiving dessert continues to present problems a chez Fractured Amy.

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

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

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

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

A very happy Thanksgiving to all!

Pumpkin Ice Cream

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

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

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

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

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

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

Nothing Plain About Vanilla

There's no sense crying over every mistake.

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

~ 'Still Alive' from Portal

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

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

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

But sometimes a girl needs cake. Without delay.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

This was a triumph.

I'm making a note here: huge success.

It's hard to overstate my satisfaction

... This cake is great!

- more wisdom from Portal

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

Cruel to Be Kind

It has been a frantic few days here a chez Fractured Amy, what with all the myriad post-Irene tasks and responsibilities that have presented themselves for my attention. I've had two flooded basements with which to deal (I'm currently house-sitting for the 'rents, who decided that - with a hurricane on its way - fleeing the country seemed like a Wise Idea); a yard that looks like, well, like it was hit by a hurricane, actually; and - for some reason - a lab where the electricity is choosing to go off and on at odd moments throughout the day, requiring my constant vigilance.

Why the power should be fluctuating now when it managed to survive the entire weekend without incident, I have no idea. I blame rogue forces in the troposphere.

I list these agenda items not because I'm complaining, you understand, although complaining is undeniably one of my favorite past-times. No, I'm merely explaining that current exigencies are interfering somewhat with my carefully orchestrated existence as a gluten guerrilla par excellence. Not only have I been unable to engage in any exciting culinary experiments recently, but I have also been denied the opportunity for my usual weekly lunch preparations, requiring me to depend on cereal bars and pre-washed salad greens for my noon-time sustenance.

Normally, this would not be too terribly onerous. I dearly love my Kind cranberry and almond bars (all natural! certified gluten free! dairy free! loaded with anti-oxidants! don't taste like packing material!) but my box of fifty, purchased wholesale from one of the internet's less objectionable health-food sites, became water-logged and icky during the recent deluge. In addition, actually reaching the box on its Metro shelf under the front step requires fording through quite a bit of standing water, and you know what they say - water may be deeper than it appears! Fearful that I might trip over something and accidentally submerge - bubbling quietly, never to be seen again - I decided to find an alternative convenience lunch to tide me over.

Tide me over. Get it? The aqueous conditions in our basement are no doubt putting me in a nautical frame of mind.

I presented myself in our supermarket's cereal/nutrition/sports bar aisle, conveniently located near the organic/socialist/bleeding heart department where I do so much of my shopping these days. There were literally hundreds of possibilities from which to make my selection! Wherever to begin?

Well, if there's one quality honed by gluten freedom-fighting, it's clarity of purpose. I was immediately able to discount roughly seven-eighths of the offerings, since they were visibly bulging with the sorts of grains I avoid, rather as a small craft avoids winds greater than Force 6 on the Beaufort scale.

I was subsequently able to eliminate about half the choices remaining, since they were sullied by coconut - my least favorite ingredient of all time and a troublingly common constituent in these sorts of products.

This left roughly four possibilities. Exhausted by my trials of late (see above) and the examination of so much fine print, I seized a couple from the middle of the pack, noting with some satisfaction that in addition to being labelled all natural and gluten free in bold letters right on the front label, they also contained chocolate and peanut butter, two substances with which it is difficult to go wrong. The fact that the manufacturers promised they would help me lose weight (my size 00 jeans are getting a shade tight, these days - I blame adverse atmospheric conditions) was an added bonus.

Tied by wayward electrons to my sputtering tests all day today, I decided to eat one of my new finds for lunch. To protect the guilty, let's call it a Think Again - pronounced as it might be on the Dukes of Hazzard, where again rhymes with belaying pin (should Bo, Daisy May, Jesse et al ever find themselves at sea).

First, I examined the label in the cold light of day. The first thing that came to my attention was the fact that each of these astonishing adipose-shedding miracle bars contained 230 calories, 80 of which were from fat. Now, I'm no expert, but that seemed like a lot considering the thing only weighted sixty grams. A quick trawl of trusted resources confirmed my suspicion: the equivalent serving size of one of my favorite nougat-filled candy bars contains only 11 calories more (easily burned through one minute's leisurely jump-roping, should I feel so inclined) and slightly less fat!

While we're on the subject of comparison, I should point out that neither contains anything significant in the way of vitamins (which my Kind bars possess in abundance), but my candy bar exceeds the Again's stores of calcium and fiber. My sweet treat does admittedly boast less protein, but then so does my Kind bar. No feelings of guilt there.

Finally, since you know what a stickler I am for the Trade Description Act, I am compelled to ask what is 'all natural' about the Again's whey protein isolate, sugar alcohol (huh?), maltitol, soy lecithin, or 'coating'? My candy bar has some suspicious ingredients too, of course (although fewer than you might suppose), but since it is making no claims for itself other than pure deliciousness, I am unmoved.

But all this would be as nothing if I'd found a tasty substitute for my Kind bars. A bit of variety to brighten my routine, a welcome change of pace, something to recommend to other gluten guerrillas suddenly finding themselves with too few leftovers for a tasty brown bag lunch.

And more virtuous-feeling than a candy bar, whatever the facts might be.

So I tasted it.

And guess what?

The Again went straight in the bin.

Next up: starving upon my return home at work-day's end, I unwrap a bar of Lindt milk chocolate and eat several squares spread thick with Banoffee sauce.

Good and Polenta-y

Campers, the wet cold dreichness of a Scottish August seems to have followed us home to Pennsylvania - and my compulsion to conserve the ripest, freshest summer produce has duly transformed into an urgent need to bake. This often happens when I am faced with rainy weather and many, many loads of laundry.

Inspired, perhaps, by my recent holiday and yearning once again for a slice of Valvona and Crolla's excellent syrup-soaked gluten-free orange polenta cake, I did something I don't normally do - I spent a few moments trawling the web for likely-looking procedures.

Now, I am on record as being distrustful of internet recipes and the ten minutes I devoted to the task were largely spent in vain. Most of the schemes I discovered involved the use of some proportion of *shudder* wheat flour; quick-cooking polenta (non in questa vita!); or strange manufacturer-specific sugars that I do not keep in the house.

No, I needed to be able to produce a gluten-free cake without any weird or convenience ingredients and did what I usually do in these circumstances: I made it up as I went along.

As a foundation for my cake I decided to use my favorite corn flour (organic! stone ground!) rather than coarse polenta, which I thought would provide too challenging a texture in the final product - if it even cooked at all. One of the recipes I found included some ground almonds in the batter, which I thought sounded like a fine idea - so I stole it. For the syrup, I decided to use turbinado sugar because I thought the brown caramel earthiness would provide a nice counterpoint to the oranges. I considered adding some orange liqueur or Amaretto to the syrup but didn't, in the end, as I'm pretty sure the cake at V&C was alcohol-less.

The fabrication of the cake proved to be simplicity itself, apart from the fact that in the process my trusty handmixer gave up the ghost with a fearful screeching and clanking and, if I'm not mistaken, a small puff of smoke. This alarming event necessitated the hasty retrieval of my standmixer from its appointed Metro shelf and production resumed without further incident. 

The result was extremely delicious, if I say so myself - one of my best yet, in fact. It was as moistly sweet and toothsome as the cake I enjoyed in Edinburgh (and looked like it, too!) and sufficiently cheerful and zesty to drive away gloomy thoughts of rain.

Orange Polenta Cake alla Scozzese

For the cake

• 3 eggs
• 7 oz granulated sugar
• 7 oz butter, melted and cooled
• 5 oz ground almonds
• 5 oz corn flour (organic! stone ground!)
• 1 1/2 tsp baking powder
• 1 tsp vanilla
• grated zest of one orange
• pinch o' salt

For the syrup

• strained juice of 2 oranges
• 5 oz turbinado sugar
• splash of booze, if desired

Preheat your oven to 350 deg F. Butter and line a 9" round cake pan with silicon parchment.

Beat the eggs and sugar together vigorously until you get a light mousse. Slowly beat in the melted butter.

Add the almonds, corn flour, and baking powder and combine well. Mix in the remaining ingredients.

Pour the batter into your prepared tin and bake for 45 minutes or until the cake is done.

While that is happening, combine the orange juice and sugar in a small pan and heat slowly until the sugar is dissolved. Raise the heat and boil for about three minutes, or until you have a nice syrup. Add the booze at the end if you are using it.

As soon as the cake comes out of the oven, brush the hot syrup over the top - you might not need it all. Leave the cake on a rack and remove it from the pan when it is cool. Serve at room temp (or slightly heated in the microwave) with powdered sugar, thick cream, or ice cream.

The Eyes Have It

Ten days ago I bought two huge bags of organic russet potatoes during my Whole Foods buying bash. Normally, I don't buy spuds in such large quantities, preferring to purchase them as needs arise. However, since the Market is, like, a million miles away and I don't get there very often, buying in bulk seemed like a sensible option.

I kept the sacks on the bottom-most of my Metro shelves, just inside the garage door, judging that they would benefit from the cool drafts thus provided whilst at the same time being near to hand whenever the urge to cook them became unbearably strong. After a fair amount of time during which I served the taters in a variety of delicious ways, you can imagine what happened. They all sprouted! Every single one! Four pounds of potatoes with little shoots bursting out in all directions, looking like so many porcupines after one of those home perms that, urban legend tells us, causes one's hair to turn green.

Now, I am not afraid to eat sprouted potatoes but they are no longer aesthetically suitable for serving in their formal jackets. So I hurriedly peeled them and boiled them, put them through my ricer, and bought myself some time by making a huge bowlful of mash that is lasting forever (more on its myriad uses later).

All this kerfuffle (smack dab in the middle of my mozzarella experiments, no less) reminded me of the DDT and fungicide-filled specimens lurking in my basement. It may be recalled that they were part of another food study, begun on December 10, which was prompted by the Rodale Press' rather rash claim that it is impossible to sprout a commercially-grown, non-organic potato.

I'm afraid that in the grand whirl that is my life, I quite forgot about those benighted tubers languishing under the kitchen stairs.

Down the rickety steps I went, clump clump clump, into the dark, bleak basement. I retrieved the brown paper bag from its hiding place next to the beer, wine, bags of rice, and rolls of paper towels. I hesitated for a moment before peeking inside. What would I find? There could have been almost anything in there! My heart thumped wildly and a cold sweat broke out upon my furrowed brow. Almost afraid to look, I carefully opened the bag and peered into the dark recesses.

Guess what I discovered?



Those are sprouts - unless my eyes deceive me!

In Praise of Pots and Pans: Second Canto

Yesterday, I composed a hymn to all the cooking vessels and accoutrements that have made my gluten freedom possible. Today, I am celebrating the bakeware that has enabled my wheatless dessert fabrication - a much more difficult and fraught task, to which they have risen (get it?) with aplomb.

The list below is by no means complete. My kitchen scales, for example, have been lauded elsewhere. My piping bag, ever modest and shy, has asked not to be included in any public display of thanks. The large 18" x 12" baking sheets on which I produce profiteroles and gougeres were having a bad hair day and also begged to be excused.

These are the instruments without which very little of my confectionery success would be possible:

My gigantic stainless steel mixing bowl with very deep sides and small footprint.

Ideal for whipping up egg whites for macarons and mousses, cake batters,

sponge mixtures, and buttercream.

My trusty electric handmixer, for use with above.

Although I possess a KitchenAid standmixer, I prefer my wee pal

for almost every job imaginable - the only exceptions being madeleines

(which take so long to mix I can walk away from them)

and frangipane (the batter for which is pretty thick).

My handmixer is also useful for whipping up

potatoes for mash, once they have been through the ricer.

I am not a great believer in having too much specialist equipment about the place,

but my madeleine tins are always easily accessible on my Metro shelving.

I can make 24 at a time, and often do.

My mini-muffin tins are worth their weight in gold.

I produce all manner of petites gateaux but financiers

are hands down the family's favorite.

My views on the ridiculousness of cupcakes are well-known,

but a full-size muffin tin is necessary for Yorkshire puds.

Almost all my cake-baking is carried out in this standard nine-inch round tin.

It is versatile and awesome - in a pinch, I can roast potatoes in it.

My silicon parchment rolls make all baking possible.

I use them rather than Silpats for just about any application you might care to name

and they have never let me down.

Next up: a sonnet for Moleskine, who will be retiring on December 31 after fifteen weeks of sterling service

Fat Chance

On Sunday, we enjoyed a fine meal at Les Halles in NYC, where Sir ate duck-leg confit and almost fainted with joy. Through his chewing and slurping I was able to discern the adjectives 'unctuous,' 'gorgeous,' and 'amazing', but that was about all the sense I was able to get out of Sir until he was half-way through the dish and the initial thrill had subsided somewhat. At that point I was permitted a small taste. Sure enough, the duck was rich and delicious - crispy on the outside and melting within. I've only ever had confit prepared by others and shredded up in a cassoulet - seeing it in a big anatomically-correct section like that was a revelation. I was forced to admit, upon Sir's urgent enquiry about how the dish was made, that my knowledge of the cooking techniques of southwest France is a bit sketchy. 'Poached in fat' was about all I could tell him with any certainty. Clearly disappointed by my ignorance, Sir thoughtfully resumed his chomping and I resolved to research the matter when we got home.

Safe and sound back in my own kitchen, I went first to Julia Child, reasoning that she would provide the necessary recipe and background material and - hey presto - that would be that. Julia has this to say on Confit D'Oie (see Mastering the Art of French Cooking, Vol I, Index: 'Goose, Preserved'):

It can usually be bought in cans from one of the food-importing stores.

Horrors! My world-view was shifted pretty badly by this and I had to make myself a cup of Earl Grey to recover. Luckily, my cookbooks are on the Metro shelving next to the fridge and I spied two other French references while I was, rather shakily, getting the [organic] milk for my tea.

The first, The Taste of France by Robert Freson, is a yellowing reprint of a series of articles that appeared in the Sunday Times (London) about a zillion years ago. The book divides La France into culinary regions and then describes the cuisine du terroir of each in mouth-watering, eye-popping food-porn detail. In the section on Languedoc (where I have never been, alas), there are beaucoup references to cassoulet, langoustines, escargots, Roquefort, foie gras and, of course confit (note to self: must book a trip to this foody paradise ASAP). Turns out I was mostly right in my supposition: confit is what you get when your preserve large pieces of a goose or duck in its own fat.  'There seems to be no good reason,' writes the author (somewhat plaintively, in my opinion), 'why the technique should be used only in the southwestern quarter of France. It is an ideal method of preservation, and why it should be practiced in so restricted an area is a mystery.'

A mystery indeed - and a challenge if I ever heard one! I have decided, therefore, to postpone further gluten-free holiday baking experiments this weekend in order to introduce confit production to my small corner of Pennsylvania. I can get duck locally, so that is what I shall work with. Fortunately my second text, The Country Cooking of France by Anne Willan, includes a fairly detailed preserving procedure. I will not yet reveal how much duck fat I require to get started: suffice it to say, it's a shocking amount and I have an insufficient supply in the larder at this time. An appropriate tonnage has been duly ordered and should arrive on Friday, all being well with my friendly FedEx man. I will try to ignore the fact that each delectable tablespoon contains over 21% of the USDA recommended daily allowance of total fat.

Never mind. Could there be a more luscious and delightful way to spend the Saturday before Christmas than tending a pot of ducky deliciousness?

If all goes well, we should should have confit de canard ready to eat by the New Year.

Chemistry Set

Last Wednesday, whilst pondering gluten-free cooking in general and the Xanthan Conundrum in particular, I recounted how up-to-the-minute chefs have been dropping by the science faculty at Harvard University to teach ignorant undergraduates a thing or two about chemistry and physics via the medium of food science. Over the weekend I was musing about how I would dearly love to go to Harvard and study with Professors Dufresne and Achatz, even though the film 'Social Network' made that venerable educational institution look like a bit of a hell hole, frankly. Suddenly, a eureka moment! I didn't need to go Crimson to experiment with molecular gastronomy - I had the means in my very own kitchen, thanks to Albert and Ferran Adria and the good people at Dean and Deluca.

I am speaking of my chemistry set.

My chemistry set, or more punctiliously, my MiniKit Sferificacion, was purchased some time ago because, living in the hinterlands as I do, I was relatively certain that if I wanted to experience the molecularly gastronomic delights of airs, foams, and spherical comestibles, I was going have to make them myself. History has borne me out on this one: local restaurants have yet to embrace even a modicum of innovation in the kitchen, despite the fact that the craze for freeze-dried mayonnaise and deconstructed sauce Bearnaise has already come and gone everywhere else on the planet. Thankfully, I have now encountered these marvels in more forward-thinking parts of the world, and I suppose that is the reason why the chemistry set has been languishing in a forgotten corner of my Metro shelving, the urgency of experimentation having diminished somewhat. Also, I confess to having been a little bit afraid when I first read the blurb inside the box: what if, like Frankenstein, I let loose forces beyond my control? 

In my new spirit of adventure, unleashed by the gluten-free gods, I decided to give my chemistry set a second look. I dug it out from its hiding place beneath the bread bin and brushed a few of last year's Christmas tree needles off the lid (to get the tree in and out of the house, we have to drag it through the kitchen).  The fact that the MiniKit's promo materials were in Spanish did little to reassure me, although I just about comprehended the stipulation of infinitas posibilidades para ampliar su abanico de elaboraciones. With some hesitation, I opened the jet-black lid.

Imagine my shock/horror when the first thing that caught my eye was a tin of Xanthan gum (known to the Adrias as Xantana). Well, at least it was a familiar ingredient, even if it has been causing me nothing but angst for the last six weeks or so. I delved deeper into the box's inky recesses. I found Algin (vital for producing the edible spheres that made the Adrias a household name - in my household, anyway); Gluco (also for spherification); Agar for gelatins (ho hum) and Lecite for making air (now that's more like it!). I also discovered nifty little lab gadgets, such as a syringe for making caviar out of grape juice or tomato water (or any other substance you can call to mind), a larger round spoon for dosing out marbles (ditto); and a perforated spoon for collecting spherical preparations from their algin baths. What fun!

Suddenly, instead of fear I am overwhelmed with excitement. Molecular gastronomy will be a valuable complement, I believe, to my gluten-free R &D, if only because I will benefit from an enhanced understanding of some of the insane ingredients with which I am compelled to work. Also, I think it will be very, very cool. So, what first? Asparagus spheres with a quail's egg 'yolk'? A fruit salad garnished with muscatel marbles? Perhaps a fillet of salmon with lemon air or shoyu jelly.

Who needs gluten when such delights await?

The MiniKit Sferificacion:
watch this space for exciting developments!

Mad About Madeleines: Premier Partie

Emboldened by my financier success of two weeks ago and with my spaghetti-testing on hiatus, I decided yesterday to tackle the next gluten-free baking challenge on my docket, madeleines. Madeleines could not be simpler to produce: whip together sugar and eggs until they turn white and triple in volume; add a splash of vanilla; fold in flour, baking powder, and melted butter; invigorate with some grated lemon or orange zest and you are done. The result is a subtle yet complex little cake, slightly dry but aromatic -  perfect with tea a la Proust. The only tricky part might be locating the shell-shaped tins in which madeleines are traditionally baked, but mine are always conveniently stacked on their Metro shelves, ready to go when fever strikes.

I predicted that madeleines would be less amenable to g/f ingredients than financiers had proved to be. For one thing, the proportion of flour was much higher, with no ground almonds to provide added support. The lack of almonds also meant that the aroma and flavor of the flour would be front and center, with no opportunity to hide behind marzipan-y goodness. In the good old days, I baked my madeleines with cake flour, which had both positive and negative implications for my current project. On the one hand, cake flour is very finely milled, which helps to keep the final product light and ethereal. On the other hand, cake flour is low in gluten, which keeps the final product tender. I suspected, therefore, that the lack of gluten in Bob's Red Mill all-purpose flour might not be a problem, but I wasn't sure what the effects of its texture might be. 

First things first. Determined to render the g/f flour as fine as possible, I whizzed it in my food processor, as I often do with granulated sugar. The outer electrons in the flour molecules objected to this treatment, however, and  rewarded me by clinging to the food processor bowl in unsightly lumps, so charged that I had difficulty removing them from my silicon spatula. I discarded the machine and sifted the flour several times through my finest mesh sieve until I was satisfied that it was as minute as I could make it.

I then proceeded as I had during the financier experiment, adding one-quarter of a teaspoon of Xanthan gum to half the dry ingredients (3 oz, or just over half a cup of flour). Whereas during my previous investigation the effects of Xanthan were only discernible after baking, its presence this time was perceived at once. When I poured the non-Xanthaned batter into its shell shapes, it went spludge and flattened out immediately to the edges of the tins. The Xanthaned batter, however, was fulsomely thick, and needed to be spooned (rather than poured) into its molds, where it held its shape as a cake mixture should, with a lovely little mound in the center.

Into the oven! The non-Xanthaned cakes required a solid three minutes of extra cooking, but that may have been the result of their initial placement on the bottom oven shelf. At the end of baking, the Xanthaned cakes were more evenly browned, more risen, and springier to the touch than the others, which, in addition to being flatter and paler, stuck to the pan in an irritating way when it came time to remove them.

Aerial view of the finished cakes:
the more physically appealing Xanthaned specimen is on the right

The proof of the madeleines is in the eating, I always say. Sir, currently gallivanting around Tokyo, could not attend the subsequent tasting, but the Kid Squid and KSGP (see Financiers: Part 1) were both available. Fortuitously, the 'Rents showed up for a surprise visit and enthusiastically agreed to take part. I asked for comments regarding appearance, texture, taste, and overall appeal. Concerned about subjects' preconceptions, I did not inform the tasters which cakes contained the Xanthan.

The results were unanimous, intriguing, and not a little troubling:

• Non-Xanthaned madeleines. Five out of five tasters agreed they were less appealing to look at than the Xanthaned cakes, with flat, almost concave bottoms and large pores. The flavour was described as 'sweet,' 'good,' 'buttery,' and 'melt-in-your-mouth.' Every taster agreed that the cakes had an unexpected texture that was slightly gritty or sandy, which HSR likened to cornbread (hastily adding that it was 'not unpleasant,' which I call damning with faint praise). The general consensus was that they were fine little cakes, but texturally inconsistent with madeleines.
• Xanthaned madeleines. Five out of five tasters agreed they were beguiling to look at, with a more evenly-browned, slightly crisper crust and uniform texture, which DMR (who kindly left me her tasting notes) described as 'airy.' She was moved to dunk hers in her tea, where it unexpectedly dissolved and disappeared forever - an important finding! All the tasters, given the greater physical appeal of the Xanthaned cakes, were (I believe) unpleasantly surprised by their eating quality. The cakes proved 'blander' and 'less tasty' than the others, with a metallic aftertaste not unlike some artificial sweeteners. HSR reported that the residue irksomely coated his molars and I myself felt the need to brush my teeth shortly afterwards. 

The airiness of the Xanthaned cake
may be clearly seen on the right

In summary, all the tasters preferred the flavour and mouth-feel (despite the slight grittiness) of the non-Xanthaned cakes over the Xanthaned ones, despite the latters' advantages in appearance and texture. The Kid Squid, ever truthful, said he wouldn't eat either of them very happily in the future, but the rest of the panel found sufficient appeal in the non-Xanthaned cakes to eat them if tendered on subsequent visits.

I believe there is still room for improvement and will be refining the procedure during future trials. It is possible that the addition of less Xanthan gum will provide textural benefits without detriment to flavor. I will also try using a different, perhaps less aggressive g/f flour mixture (there are several on the market, plus many formuli for creating one's own). The recipe will be withheld until perfection has been achieved and I am able to produce a little cake worthy of the name madeleine.