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.

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.

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.

Just like our Christmas tree.

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:

• 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.

This much I already knew: the evil minions of agribusiness are determined to unload (at exorbitant prices) certified maltodextrin-free breakfast cereal on unhappy gluten-freedom fighters who clearly don't take as much joy from plain organic super-yogurt, chia seeds, and homemade preserves as I do.

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.

Anniversary

It was exactly one year ago today that I obeyed - reluctantly, angrily, and not a little sceptically - the quacks'  decree to go gluten-free or else.

I feel the need to mark the occasion in some meaningful way. But how? Cook a banquet from Modernist Cuisine? Give away all my jars of homemade preserves? Produce an extra-special cheese (parmigiano, perhaps)  that will be ready for unveiling next September 12? Fabricate, at long last, a gluten-free croquembouche - something I have been meaning to do since this whole catastrophe began?

Nope. Too  much work like hard work, especially as I'm still trying to dry out the basement.

But I do need a change. For that reason, I have decided to take a hiatus from writing for the next four weeks and redesign my blog. I have been thinking about this for a while now and concluded that this first anniversary of my enlistment into the Brigade of Gluten Guerillas is an appropriate time for action. I have lots of ideas about how I want my Wit and Wisdom to look and, although I have consciously decided to eschew any sort of formal rumination or philosophizing this evening, a certain amount of reflection about the past year does come into play. Last September I couldn't possibly have foreseen the direction in which my gluten freedom-fight would lead me, as revealed by the hasty and ad hoc cobbling-together of this framework for my thoughts. Now that my course has become clearer, I want the organization of my scribblings to reflect better the way I have come to view food and cooking.

There are many dangers lurking ahead. Perhaps in my eagerness I will accidentally press some sort of doomsday button and all my hard work will go *phoom* - like a bad transporter accident in Star Trek. It's possible the Blogger interface won't allow me to do what I want. Maybe I'll decide to invest in my own domain name and become rich and famous! Experimentation will be the order of the day and I have no idea how it will all turn out in the end.

Four weeks from today is October 10th, but it makes more sense for the grand unveiling to take place on a Sunday, when I will have fewer laboratory responsibilities with which to contend. But I think I'll need to build into the schedule an extra week's buffer in case I am suddenly struck down by apoplexy or some other dire nervous condition brought on by the stress of web design. That takes me to October 16, which is Sir's birthday. I'll probably be planning all manner of extravagant festivities - or at least, baking a cake.

October 25th it is.

Hope to see you then!

Labor Day

Needing to make some room in my cave for a freshly-hatched Wensleydale and a new Blue-Cheese-in-the-Style-of-Stilton (reportage to come), I decided today to reap the benefits of some of my own hard work and slice into the Swiss cheese, now judged sufficiently mature for tasting.

You may recall that my Alpine Kleine has been quietly percolating since the beginning of May when, coincidentally enough, most of the rest of world celebrates Labor Day.

Don't you just love it when everything comes together like that? Synchronicity.

So far, my success rate de fromage is 50%. My camemberts, you may recall, had a thick gritty rind (subsequently discovered to be caused by too-vigorous mold growth) whereas my Wensleydale's perfection exceeded my wildest dreams. How would my latest creation fare?

The results were mixed. It had the fresh, grassy aroma of Swiss cheese and the deliciously unmistakable flavour of Swiss cheese, but I'm afraid its texture was totally unacceptable.

It was full of holes!

Allons Enfants!

Aux armes, citoyens!

Le jour de gloire est arrive!

I like to think that Bastille Day commemorates the occasion when the sans culottes decided once and for all to ignore Marie Antoinette's advice and go gluten-free. And what better way to honor their heroism than with some fine fruit conserve courtesy of Madame Ferber, fiere guerriere of the grande armee of anti commercial-pectin bataillons?

Ironically, Madame is a true member of the Ancien Regime when it comes to her preserving methods. Quel outrage! Quels transports il doit exciter! ... when she beholds boxes of Sure-Jell (or the French equivalent) at a supermarche Marseillais.

Although I suppose one could conclude that, as a true enfant de la Patrie she views Ball Fruit Jell Pectin as a blasphemous symbol of American imperialism: des cohortes etrangeres feraient la loi dans nos foyers!

Grand Dieu!

Whatever her motivations might be, in honor the great patriotic holiday de la France I have decided to indulge Madame's idiosyncrasies and present one of her recipes with no editorializing, complaining, or whining.

Marchons, marchons! On a day such as today, we must all cast off our ignobles entraves and be les maitres de nos destinees.

At least where pectin is concerned.

Christine Ferber's Apricot and Raspberry with Citrus Zest

1 lb 2 oz quartered apricots, stones removed
1 lb 2 oz raspberries
2 cups sugar plus 2 cups
juice of one small lemon
finely grated zest of 1/4 lemon
finely grated zest of 1/4 orange

In a bowl, combine the apricots, 2 cups of sugar, the lemon juice, and the citrus zest. In another bowl, combine the raspberries and 2 cups of sugar. Cover each bowl with a sheet of parchment paper and let the fruit macerate for one hour.

Pour each preparation into a separate preserving pan and bring to a simmer. Pour back into the bowls and cover each mixture with a sheet of parchment paper. Refrigerate overnight.

Next day, bring each mixture to a boil separately in preserving pans and continue cooking over high heat about 5 minutes, stirring gently. Combine the two mixtures in one preserving pan. Return to a boil, skimming again, if need be. Check the set and put the jam into jars and seal.  Yield a chez Fractured Amy: five 0.2 litre jars. 

 Ah, Madame - Voient ton triomphe et notre gloire!

Flag Waving

Here a chez Fractured Amy we take a somewhat nuanced approach to the Fourth of July. We are enthusiastic participants in all the celebratory brouhaha, of course, but our rationale and methods are perhaps somewhat different from those of many around us.

Sir, of course, has his own reasons for rejoicing. Confronted with the realities of Independence Day when we moved from The Sceptered Isle to Colorado thirteen years ago, I assumed his mood would be dark, gloomy, and mournful for Lost Imperial Days of Yore. He surprised me enormously by asserting that - on the contrary - getting rid of the thirteen colonies and their troublesome inhabitants was the smartest move old Georgie Porgie ever made. 'Good riddance to bad rubbish!' is Sir's battle cry as he somehow manages to turn English defeat into English triumph. That's the way of history, I suppose, and it's fine as long as the neighbours don't catch on.

I remember we spent that first Fourth at the Greeley Stampede doing some cultural bridge-building of our own. We cheered on bull riders, six-year-old mutton busters, rodeo clowns, monster truck drivers, and competitive lumberjacks while eating barbecued turkey legs the size of triceratops-thighs and drinking fine local microbrews. A great time was had by all.

My own outlook on the holiday is colored by the fact that I am facing it this year, for the first time, as a gluten-freedom fighter. Fitting symbolism to be sure, but not unencumbered with difficulties. Hot dogs! Burgers on the grill! Apple pie! Blueberry cobbler! Many of the culinary accompaniments to fireworks are so gluten-enrobed or gluten-filled that finding edible picnic-hamper fare (in this part of the country, anyway) can be a bit challenging, to say the least.

So, I am spending some time this weekend honoring the Stars and Stripes in my own inimitable way - by preserving up a storm with the beautiful fruit that is coming to market now that summer is well and truly upon us. We might find the Fourth of July problematic in some respects, but at least we'll be able to spend the months to come honoring the Red, White, and Blue.

At Your Disposal

Having emerged from the fug of the worst summer cold in living memory, yesterday morning I stumbled back into the world - rested, if not refreshed - only to be greeted by an entirely new crisis.

In my absence, the garbage disposal in the kitchen sink had taken its last breath and turned its toes up unto the heavens. It no doubt lost its will to live after nine months of chewing on bean and packing excelsior-laden baking mixes; unaccustomed fibrous vegetable matter; and a whole host of strange substances associated with gluten-freedom fighting.

I know the feeling.

After fifteen minutes of frantic trouble-shooting during which we established that the problem lay nowhere obvious, Sir and I decided to splurge and buy a new machine. This was a fairly easy decision to make, since the deceased article had come with the house when we bought it eleven years ago and operated at a decibel level equivalent to a fully-loaded Airbus A-380 revving for takeoff.

The main question was how to effect its replacement. In honor of Father's Day I offered to do the deed. It is a salient fact that Sir loathes and despises Father's Day and refuses to allow its observance a chez Fractured Amy. While this lets the Kid Squid off the hook nicely - releasing him from customary shoe-shining and ashtray-fabrication duties - I am reluctant to allow Sir's stirling strivings throughout the year go unrecognized. Taking responsibility for an urgent household repair seemed an excellent way to mark the occasion and demonstrate my esteem.

Now, I like to think of myself as a Gal With Skills, particularly where culinary matters are concerned. I plumbed in the new refrigerator's ice dispenser even though I was obliged to drill a hole in the kitchen floor for the purpose of tapping off the basement water line. I carried out the initial soffit excavations to prepare the kitchen's western wall for the mounting of the industrial-sized fan required by my beautiful Wolf cooker. Installation of the Wolf also required some re-wiring of the wall circuits that I carried out with (if I may be so immodest) aplomb. I even engineered the construction and hanging of the pot rack that hangs, Sword-of-Damocles-like, over the kitchen table. Replete with saucepans, lids, colanders, mixing bowls, frying pans, my potato ricer and my food mill, I estimate (conservatively) that the entire apparatus weighs ninety pounds or so - and it hasn't yet fallen on the heads of any unsuspecting diners underneath.

Still, there's something about a garbage disposal that instills fear in even the stoutest heart. First of all, there's that no-man's-land precinct under the kitchen sink, dark and damp and rarely investigated. Anything at all could be lurking under there! Then there's the possibility that the appliance itself - in one last death throw - might suddenly whir into activity (kind of like a proverbial chicken with its head cut off) and slice and dice one's hand and forearm to smithereens. There could be a flood. I could be electrocuted. I might put the thing in backwards so that it blows rather than sucks, sending geysers of broccoli peelings spraying all over the kitchen ceiling.

I reasoned, however, that a girl who goes gluten free is capable of anything. With Home Depot's invaluable YouTube video How To Replace a Garbage Disposer streaming on my helpfully-positioned iPad; my trusty toolbox and generic Azapirone supply conveniently to hand; and with Sir providing much-needed moral support and the occasional refreshing cup of Earl Grey, I set to work.

A mere two hours later I had a safely-grounded, fully-operational, sucking-rather-than blowing disposal at my disposal. It was quite gratifying. Since it has 50% more oomph than the old one (in total more than one-third the horsepower of our first car ) I estimate it will be good for at least five years of gluten guerrilla action, no matter how many tapioca dinner rolls or loaves of Bread That Isn't I introduce into its gaping maw.

Plus, we discovered four unopened boxes of dishwashing detergent in the dark recesses under the sink.

Sir declared it the best Father's Day ever.

Pass Over the Gluten

As a devout heathen, religious holidays often pass by me without creating so much as a radar blip. The exception is Christmas, of course, my absolute favoritest celebration of all the year and to which much of December is happily given over for planning, cooking, socializing, and other festive purposes.

This year for some reason, despite my pagan tendencies, I have been keenly aware of the approach of Passover. I suppose I am more than usually alert to food in the media these days - and Passover seems to have a lot more culinary brouhaha attached to it than I would have previously thought possible.

Two news flashes caught my eye in the past few days that had particular relevance to my gluten freedom-fighting.

The first concerned quinoa, an ingredient with which I have a complicated relationship. It so transpires that I share my ambivalence (although not my reasoning) with some pretty heavy-weight intellectuals these days, as there's currently a lot of debate in rabbinical circles about whether or not this South American chenopod is kosher. Astonishingly enough, quinoa was unknown to the ancient Israelites and its absence from the kashrut's list of proscribed grains is consequently problematic. A number of deep thinkers are, like, 'Who do we think we're kidding?' and puzzlement and lively disputation have commenced. I imagine that this could go on for years.

In my view, however, this controversy is as nothing compared to the sinister politics of the Current Quinoa Case. Kosher or not, and despite its awesome nutritional value and amusing texture, I am boycotting the seeds until such time as the Powers That Be sort out the Bolivian Pricing Problem and thus solve the Childhood Hunger Situation in Salinas de Garci Mendoza. Only then will I again be able to eat my favorite Annapurna Pilaf with a clear conscience.

The second current-events alert came late last week via DMR, who e-mailed me that there was a likely-looking g/f recipe for carrot cake in our local rag. DMR is an excellent scout for these sorts of things, refusing as I do to buy dead-tree newspapers. Sure enough, the online edition did not include the recipe, but I eventually tracked it down in the Seattle Times. That e-paper in turn revealed that the cake had originally appeared in a cookbook published by a certain doyenne of Jewish cookery, who shall remain anonymous in the interest of protecting myself from the inevitable lawsuits that will surely follow the disclosures to come.

I will conceal the recipe's origin with my usual rhyming nomenclature and refer to it as the Carrot of Last Resort.

The Last Resort was gluten-free because, as I am newly aware, the Passover seder may not include any chametz - that is, the five grains (wheat, oats, rye, etc.) deemed to leaven eighteen minutes after they're hit by moisture. I guess cookbook authors work overtime at this time of year, trying to come up with tasty desserts made from matzo and gluten substitutes such as nuts and veg. Oh, if only they'd asked me - I could have told them they were on a hopeless quest!

Nonetheless, this recipe looked propitious so I decided to give it a whirl while my camembert curds were coagulating. Sir helpfully cautioned that this multi-tasking rather defeated the zen-like meditation that camembert-production is supposed to engender, but I pointed out that I was using a hand-grater for the carrots, thus rendering the kitchen's calm uninterrupted by the roaring of the food processor. He harumphed and retreated to his favorite chair and laptop, washing his hands of my foolishness.

I won't detail the recipe, since I would recommend it to nobody. It consisted, essentially, of sweetened beaten egg whites, into which the hapless cook was required to fold ground almonds or hazelnuts; grated carrots; and a [very] modest quantity of spice. I had thought on first cursory perusal that the cake would be something like a carrot-flavoured dacquoise, but I realized after I'd mixed it that the batter was more of an angel-food cake consistency - not enough nuts for a crispy/chewy product, not by a long shot. The destructions specified that the Last Resort was to be baked in a 10-inch spring-form pan and I was a bit dubious that it would set properly given the substance in my mixing bowl.

I was right to be incredulous. The recipe didn't work at all.

The cake didn't cook completely in the middle before the edges were brown and done, and it glopped when I scraped it out of the pan (I think a tube pan would have solved this problem, but I'll never know since I have no intention of experimenting further). The carrots still tasted raw, the nuts tasted like nothing at all, and the whole thing was watery and insipid. The Squid wasn't home at the time, but I'm fairly sure he would have refused a slice on principle. Sir and I tasted two bites each (one of sodden middle, one of overcooked crust) and gave up in disgust.

In fact, it was quite ekldik and barely warranted being called a kukhn at all. Sir, who had earlier (and rather rashly, in my opinion) promised a slice of the cake to his SOFAC (Seder-Observing Friend and Colleague) was forced to e-mail an apology note, reporting that no offering would be leaving my kitchen because the remains of my project had been consigned to the bin. The SOFAC's almost instantaneous reply was disappointed but resigned. I quote: 'Welcome to my world.'

Left with the remains of a gargantuan bag of organic carrots I quickly whipped up some Carrot Marmalade, as a sort of consolation prize, while Sunday's dinner was in the oven. The recipe is quick, easy, and to the point: take 2 cups of grated carrots, the juice and zest of one lemon, the juice and zest of one orange, two cloves, and 1 and 1/2 cups of sugar. Mix the ingredients together and let them sit for an hour. Bring to a boil and cook until the magic temperature of 220 deg F is reached. Remove from the heat, add a splash of vanilla, and let cool for a little before removing the cloves, pouring into jars, and processing for ten minutes if you feel the need (I always do). You get two 8 oz. jars of bright orange love. 

The result is gluten-free and delicious - not to mention very, very geshmak.

Next up: I show off my cave and discuss aging issues

More on Shopping and a Sincere Apology

Yesterday, I drove to Philadelphia to meet The Diva and her Significant Other for a Vietnamese meal in Chinatown. On the way, I made a pit stop at the Whole Foods in Plymouth Meeting, which according to the market's website is - at a mere 45 miles away - the closest of their stores to my humble abode.

This was only my second visit ever to this temple of organic eating, my first being back in November when I quickly ducked into its sister establishment in Fort Lee, NJ during my Mitsuwa pilgrimage. Readers may recall that some of my most successful gluten-freedom ingredients and products were serendipitously purchased during this brief foray, including Dowd and Rogers chestnut flour and lemon cake mix and King Arthur Gluten-Free Multi-Purpose Flour, the only flour I will now use for general baking.

There were a few things listed in my shopping app for which I was on the prowl. Since my last WFs visit, I have become passionately devoted to organic russet potatoes and cauliflower, which are not always available locally.

In addition, I had been hearing a lot buzz on the web and elsewhere about Bionaturae pasta, an Italian gluten-free product that is supposedly beyond excellent. That, too, is unavailable nearby. I have not eaten pasta in weeks and weeks, as the only varieties to which I have access are not worthy of the name. I was briefly encouraged by a locally-available brand of corn spaghetti until a batch literally disintegrated and disappeared down the drain one evening when I accidentally tipped the colander into the sink. It was heartbreaking and I swore never again. But I am a sucker for the shilling that goes on in Bon Appetit magazine, so I was determined to give the Italian stuff a try. What do the Canadians know about pasta, anyway?

I presented myself at Whole Foods at 2:30 pm sharp, iPhone and recycled shopping bags in hand, and didn't get out of there until an hour later. Sadly, the Plymouth Meeting branch doesn't carry Dowd and Rogers products (shame! shame!) but there were many other riches to console me:

Two kinds of Bionaturae pasta (rigatoni and spaghetti); King Arthur Flour g/f chocolate cake mix (which I just know will be awesome); a new variety of spice cake mix; sweet biscuits from Glutino, makers of the best g/f crackers of all time; and two beautiful jars of fancy-schmancy preserves for corn-bread* adornment. I am also the proud new owner of several bags of organic vegetables and tubers, which should keep us going for weeks.

I now have the material for several days' worth of trial and experimentation and will be reporting my findings in due course. Who knows? This time next week, I just might be eating pasta again.

*
Fractured Amy apologizes for an egregious typographical error in her cornbread recipe. The blooper was discovered this morning, after a disastrous episode involving a hungry family anticipating Sunday breakfast; two newly-opened jars of sour cherry jam and bitter orange marmalade; and an over-leavened pan of burnt cornbread that proved inedible to man and beast. A hasty check of the recipe revealed that tablespoons rather than teaspoons of baking powder and soda were mistakenly specified in the relevant posting. This inaccuracy has now been rectified.

Fractured Amy's only defense is that the procedure was published on January 1st, when a girl is never at her best. She humbly apologizes to any readers inconvenienced by the lingering effects of her New Year's Eve revelries and assures one and all that she has now Learned Her Lesson.

Boxing Day

The day after Christmas is sacrosanct in our family: we generally refuse to leave the house for any functional reason, preferring to hunker down with movies, leftovers, and perhaps the odd healthy walk. It is a tradition dating back to our time in Jolly Old, where Boxing Day (as December 26th is known) is seen as an antidote to all the holiday brouhaha - a time for a bit of quiet, reflection, and much-needed digesting.

Having cooked more or less non-stop for the last few days, I consider the Boxing Day moniker to be an especially appropriate one, since I steadfastly refuse to prepare meals for the duration and Sir and the Kid Squid must scavenge through the fridge on their own (a pastime they quite enjoy, it must be said). I spend happy hours (when not out on the aforementioned walks - or shovelling snow, which looks increasingly likely today) in front of the tube or curled up on a chair with my Kindle, boxes of my favorite sweets conveniently at hand. Get it? Boxing Day? Boxes of candy?  It can't be a mere coincidence.

My stash (which this year includes chocolate-dipped apricots, cordial cherries, pecan turtles, beautiful marzipan fruits, and something called Figaro fudge) is the result of taking out a second mortgage on the house for the annual trip to our local family-owned candy business, an Allentown outfit that has been doling out a wide range of traditional chocolate and fruit-filled confectionery delights for, like, forever. You know the cut-glass candy-dishes nice old ladies used to put on their coffee tables, filled with nonpareils, fruit slices, Dutch mints, and vanilla caramels? Chances are, said matriarch bought them somewhere just like this place, staffed entirely by sweet elderly women with blue hair and frequented mostly by grandmas buying foil-covered Santas and Christmas trees. There is no cinnamon, cayenne, lavender, or any other newfangled bon-bon component to be found anywhere on the premises. The Squid, a hulking teenager with otherwise sophisticated tastes, would be outraged if his Yule-tide stocking failed to contain at least two bouquets of their gaily-wrapped milk-chocolate lollipops, which he has been receiving regularly since he was four years old. Such is the power of traditional holiday sweets.

For me, the annual pilgrimage must include the acquisition of a fourteen-ounce tub of Jordan almonds enrobed in festive seasonal colors. Inside each crispy outer shell may be found one perfect whole almond, sweet and delicious, tooth-shatteringly crunchy at first but with a satisfying, sugary nougat-like yielding at the finish.  My passion for these confections is amplified greatly by the fact that I ration myself to one purchase per calendar year, to which I look forward in the same way one anticipates the first strawberries in June or the commencement of soft-shell crab season.

They are heaven. And since I am the only one in the family that actually likes these treats, they are all mine!

Until now. You would think that at this point, over three months into my gluten-free career, I would read labels as a matter of course. In fact, I'm pretty sure I did read all the labels at the shop as insurance against unwanted cereal-consumption over the hols. Somehow, however, the almonds got by me and it wasn't until yesterday (maybe the day before - it's all a blur) that in my casual perusal of the packaging the words 'wheat flour' leaped out at me, the fourth item on the ingredients list. I'd already eaten quite a few of the tainted nuts, so this probably counts as the worst infraction yet (more serious by far than September's spaghetti-tasting episode and possibly even direr than the Twizzler incident at Halloween). All the guilt that accompanies the over-indulgence of the season is compounded by this disastrous turn of events - and multiplied by its repetition over several days.

Normally, I would be depressed and demoralized by such a state of affairs and, in penance, eat nothing but brown rice and broccoli for twenty-four hours. Not today! There are two factors contributing to my ataraxy in the face of this latest mischance. The first is the joy and good feeling that inevitably accompany the holidays and my utter inability to be downhearted at this time of year. The second is a most thoughtful Christmas present from Sir - a wonderful and thoroughly practical how-to reference entitled Problogger: Secrets for Blogging Your Way to a Six-Figure Income, which has given me a whole new outlook on my inevitable future financial triumph. 

A girl has to think ahead. After all, without a little bit of gluten enlivening my daily life and supplying angst-ridden blogging fodder, how will I ever be able to afford my yacht on the Riviera?

Mad About Madeleines: Troisieme Partie

The collision of several stars resulted in my baking madeleines today.

• we needed a treat to leave on the hearth for Santa, since none of us fancied coal in our stockings this year
• Christmas Eve is always an auspicious time for baking 
• I had earlier this week stumbled upon an intriguing new recipe using chestnut flour 
• I have had chestnut flour on hand for some time and chestnuts are nothing if not seasonal
• I was full of holiday cheer thanks to Sandra and the lovely folks at Dowd & Rogers, who have promised to send a Christmas present of one of their flour blends for me to try

Readers already know that madeleines are a favorite treat any time of the year chez Fractured Amy and the production of gluten-free specimens (with and without xanthan gum) was the subject of some fraught experimentation back in October.

Readers are also aware that I have recently become a big fan of Dowd & Rogers, whose lemon cake mix is the best I have tried and which I would recommend to anybody, be they adherers to the gluten-free imperative or not. I was anxious to see whether their chestnut madeleines would appeal equally to wheatavores, since I'm fairly sure Santa does not mind a bit of gluten in his baked goods. I picked up the chestnut flour during my Whole Foods trip: tragically, it is (to my knowledge, anyway) unavailable within 45 miles of my humble abode.

I set to work, first examining the chestnut flour itself. It was a lovely dark tawny color, very fine, and a bit sampled from my finger proved sweet and complex-tasting: dark, slightly caramelized, with a slightly bitter top note. It was difficult to imagine what the final cakes would be like and I whipped up the batter with great anticipation. I used the recipe thoughtfully provided by D & R, but applied my own madeleine fabrication method (not that different from theirs, truth be told, although I don't generally rest the batter for such a length of time before baking). I am unashamedly reproducing the recipe below (with a few additional notes), to avoid all that tedious hyperlink business.

The final cakes were delicious. They had a very fine texture, nice crisp edges and a tender crumb. The flavor was elusive, until Sir - in an inspired moment - identified molasses behind the subtle nuttiness. I was so pleased with the result that I hurried several still-warm specimens over to the 'Rents for a second opinion. Unfortunately, the bitter cold winds we are currently experiencing sapped the cakes' residual heat - but the happy tasters nonetheless concurred that the madeleines were top drawer and would be enjoyed by anyone.

In future I think I will bake them in mini-muffin tins rather than madeleine molds to avoid comparison with the Proustian cake, which (though splendid) they do not really resemble. They are perfect to give as a gift to Santa and for enjoying with egg nog after walks in the snow and Christmas church services.

Happy holidays to all!

Gluten-Free Chestnut Madeleines

• 1 cup plus 4 tblsp D&R Italian chestnut flour
• 1 stick unsalted butter, melted and cooled (I added some extra and used that to butter my madeleine molds)
• one-half cup plus 1 tblsp sugar
• 3 eggs
• 1 teaspoon baking powder
• 1 tblsp honey (I used orange blossom honey, which I thought would go nicely with the chestnut flavor - and it did)

Brush some of the melted butter into the madeleine molds and set aside. You can also use mini-muffin tins, if you are so inclined.

Sift the flour together with the baking powder. Beat the eggs in your standmixer until very light and frothy. Add the sugar and honey and continue beating until light and fluffy and increased in volume. It should do the ribbon thing. Fold in the flour/baking powder in several batches, then gently stir in the butter.

Cover the bowl and let the mixture rest in the fridge for two hours.

Preheat the oven to 420 deg F.

Fill the buttered tins about 3/4 of the way to the top and bake for six minutes. Reduce the heat to 350 deg F and continue to bake for another 5 minutes or so. They are done when they spring back upon gentle poking.

Let them cool briefly then turn them out onto a backing rack. I  made 23 madeleines.

Next chestnut project: in the belief that the molasses notes of the chestnut flour will be a perfect complement to chocolate, I will be returning to the recipes at Dowd & Rogers to produce a batch of their chocolate chestnut brownies. They will probably be served as dessert to The Cycling Scientist and His Lovely Wife when they come to dinner next week.

Yorkshire Pud

Another crucial element in a traditional English roast dinner - and the only really problematic one from the gluten-freedom fighter's point of view - is the Yorkshire Pudding. Extensive profiterole experimentation some while back emboldened me to try baking YorkPuds on a number of previous occasions with happily successful results (no xanthan gum required!). My main challenge had been to find a flour blend that provided sufficiently crisp outsides and tender insides with no hint of a metallic aftertaste. I tried several brands of all-purpose gluten-free baking flours and found I needed to add white rice flour (in varying proportions) to each in order to ensure a satisfactory outcome - until, that is, King Arthur Gluten Free Multi-Purpose Flour came into my life and changed it forever. I found that a one-to-one substitution of KAGFMPF for all-purpose wheat flour worked admirably in my trusty YorkPud recipe (its origins lost to the ages, I'm afraid), removing the last obstacle to a bountiful and time-honored Christmas custom.

We love YorkPuds the whole year round (though I tend not to cook them during the summer). I don't just serve them with roasts, since they add a certain flair to just about any dark protein you care to think of. Similar to popovers, they are a nice change from the usual carbs, although at this time of year they are served as a conspicuous addition to, rather than substitution for, the other stodge on the plate.

There are a couple of service options. Often, the Pud is made in a single big roasting dish (if you layer sausages in the bottom, you get Toad in the Hole, and very delicious it is, too). I never do it this way, however, because the result is lovely fluffy crispy edges that everybody fights over and a big flat eggy pancake in the middle that nobody can get excited about. If you do as I do and make your Puds in muffin tins, each diner gets the perfect balance of inner and outer textures with none of the unseemly scuffling at the table caused by more traditional approaches. Also, roundish puds fit better than square slices on a plate already overladen with beast, potatoes, and two veg.

The real challenge with the Puds when doing a full roast dinner is timing and temperature. In many ways, they are the trickiest of the dishes - the beast can sit for quite a bit, resting, and there is a certain amount of wiggle-room with the potatoes, but the Puds must be served exactly when they choose or they will fall spitefully and cause ruination and gnashing of teeth. Fortunately, experience from many previous holidays has provided me with a detailed timing chart: I put them into the oven ten minutes after I have turned the potatoes (they can share the hotbox if you jiggle the temperature a little bit) and they all come out at the same time.

Here's how to make 'em: this recipe makes about five in a standard muffin tin.

Gluten-free Yorkshire Puddings

• 1 cup KAGFMPF (see above)
• 2 eggs
• 1 cup milk
• pinch of salt
• some sort of cooking fat (I generally use drippings drawn from the bottom of the roast beast pan, but lard, shortening, or any sort of high-temp cooking oil would work)

Preheat your oven to 450 deg F.

Whisk together all the ingredients except the fat and pour the resulting batter (it should be pretty thin, like crepe batter) into a jug with a lip on it.

Place some cooking fat in your muffin tins to cover the bottoms to a depth of about an eighth of an inch. Whether you are using solid fat or oil, place the tin in the hot oven for a good five minutes or so, until the pan is good and hot and the fat is, too.

Give your batter a final stir and thin it with water if is too thick. Remove the pan from the oven and, moving quickly so it doesn't cool off, pour in the batter so the tins are about two-thirds full each. Your pan should have been hot enough so that the batter sizzles and starts to puff immediately. If not, well, it's too late and you'll know better next time. You'll probably still get perfectly acceptable Puds.

They should be done in 15 to 20 minutes. They will be well-risen and golden brown, with a pale moist center. Their sides should come away from the tin easily - if not, leave them for another couple of minutes.

Eat them piping hot, with a bit of gravy poured into their middles.

One of Two Veg

I described previously how Christmas chez Fractured Amy means a traditional English roast dinner. Thanks to scrupulous record-keeping over many festive seasons, I can say with some self-satisfaction that I have the production of the holiday feast pretty much down to a science, resulting in my judiciously calm demeanor this year. Another reason I am not panicking overmuch is that a roast dinner is, by its very nature, almost entirely gluten-free (apart from the Yorkshire puddings, about which more will be revealed tomorrow).

One of the side dishes to the annual repast is always Pear and Parsnip Puree, which DMR, in particular, enjoys with boundless enthusiasm. It is a luscious, smooth-as-silk bowlful of cream-colored goodness with a depth of flavour that makes people sit up and take notice. The taste is secretive and subtly aromatic, with a bit of booze and exotic spice thrown in. Remarkably, I sometimes entertain guests who have never previously experienced parsnips. Can you imagine never having these wonderful roots? They are one of my favorite things - a relative of parsley, don't you know. They are very ancient and were introduced throughout northern Europe by the Romans, who discovered that they (the parsnips, that is) thrived in cold climates.

I fancy that, like Agricola and his legions, I have converted more than a few people to parsnips in my time: if any dish could do it, this is the one. I think the recipe originally came from one of the early Silver Palate cookbooks, but my version was copied out on a legal pad many years ago and filed in the holiday dossier.

It can be made a day or two ahead because, like all purees, it reheats beautifully in the microwave. One less thing to worry about on the big day! The recipe feeds about 8 people, if there is lots of other food.

Pear and Parsnip Puree

• 3 large parsnips, peeled and chopped into small-ish pieces (about 6 cups total)
• half a stick of butter
• 2 ripe pears, peeled and chopped
• 1 tablespoon of booze (brandy is good)
• one-half cup of sour cream
• a pinch of allspice
• salt and white pepper (you could use black pepper, but it would add unsightly specks to the final mixture)

Fill a large saucepan with water and bring it to a boil. Drop in the parsnips like you are cooking pasta (those were the days!). Simmer them until they are tender and poke easily with a knife, which takes about 15 minutes or so. Stir them frequently, otherwise they will stick to the bottom of the pan and turn brown. Drain them and decant them into a food processor fitted with a steel blade.

Melt the butter in a saucepan and saute the pears over a low heat. Add the brandy after five minutes or so and continue cooking the pears until they are tender. Add them to the parsnips in the food processor.

Whizz them around until they are smooth, smooth, smooth as velvet. Add the sour cream and the rest of the ingredients and whizz it some more. Taste for seasoning, but don't overdo it. I put the finished puree in a glass bowl, tightly covered with plastic wrap to prevent oxidation (if the top does discolor a little bit, whisk it up vigorously and nobody will ever know). It microwaves in no time at all and is delicious beyond belief.

You Like Potato, I Like Pot-aaah-toe

Preparations for Christmas dinner are in full swing chez Fractured Amy. This time of year I go into a requisition mode that would be the envy of any army: lists are retrieved from their appropriate files, shopping accomplished with efficiency (if not economy); and the refrigerator and larder stocked so no supermarket visits of any kind will be required between December 23 and December 28. Quite honestly, if I'd been Napoleon's quartermaster, today they'd be speaking French and eating moules in Moscow.

The key is organization.

And, it must be said, predictability. Christmas dinner at our house means a traditional English roast dinner. Sir would not have it any other way and I am happy to oblige, since it leaves me off the hook for the rest of the year. The menu is comfortably unvarying: roast beast (which Sir insists on calling 'the joint'); proper roast potatoes; Yorkshire pudding (gluten-free this year, but more on that in a future posting), and two vegetables: one is always my famous pear and parsnip puree, although the other - generally a green veg of the family Brassicaceae - is still up for grabs.

Yesterday, I bought the potatoes. As loyal readers are aware, there has in my house been a certain amount of spud kerfuffle lately, with the result being that I am currently buying organic Russets. Skeptical at first, I am now forced to admit that we all prefer the taste and texture of these all-natural tubers. Who knew there would be such a difference between the organic and DDT-filled varieties? I have not carried out a double blind tasting, as good science would normally dictate, because the dissimilarity is so pronounced: the organic specimens are sweeter and fluffier; their skins are softer (though still crispy under the appropriate circumstances); and I have found fewer instances of weird black spots insde them. Although I am officially waiting for the outcome of my basement sprouting experiments to announce my final verdict, I must say $1.40 per pound is not an outrageous sum for seriously delicious potatoes, especially at this time of year when they are one of the stars of the show.

In my opinion, Crunchy Potatoes en Anglais (I made that up) are one of the triumphs of farmhouse cooking. I say 'farmhouse' because, without one of those huge cast iron cookers I so admire, you really need two ovens if you are going to make potatoes with a roast (excuse me, 'joint'). This is because the two dishes cook at completely different temperatures. If you try to use the beast's low oven for the spuds, the crispy, crunchy exterior (gold-hued, with charred bits here and there) so prized by connoisseurs will forever elude you. It is a fact that, in the days before my Wolf, guests for a roast dinner had to bring their own oven for the potatoes. That they were willing to do so says a lot about how fantastic they were (both the potatoes and the guests).

A few additional notes about roasted spuds. I have cooked them in beef dripping, lard, and (in a pinch) shortening, but this year  - for extra amazingness - I am going to do them in the duck fat left over from my confit project. Some effete types turn their potatoes after peeling them to make regular ovoid shapes, but I eschew this practice. First of all, it ruins the rustic appearance of the final dish. Second of all, without the well-defined angles that result from rough chopping, you don't get the crispy caramelized edges that add such depth and mystery.

Here is how I make proper golden roast potatoes, crunchy on the outside with tender, not-at-all-greasy insides. Believe me, they are aces.

Roast Potatoes

1. Fill a large pot with plenty of salted water and bring it to a boil. Preheat your oven to 425 deg F.
2. Peel sufficient potatoes for the number of people you will be feeding (I use Russets). Add a couple extra because seconds will be required. Chop them into rough chunks: I favor pieces approximately one-and-a-half to two inches in diameter.
3. Parboil the potatoes for ten minutes then drain them well. Here follows the key step, which I learned from Delia Smith. Return the potatoes to the empty but still-warm pot, put the lid on (hold it down tightly with your thumbs!), and give the whole thing a few really good shakes. I mean, give yourself a strenuous workout - the idea is to fluff up the edges of the potatoes by agitating them with some force against the sides of the pan. When you remove the lid and peek inside, the potatoes' surfaces should be all floury and soft. You can put them aside now while you get the fat ready.
4. You will need about 2 oz. of fat (see above) for every pound of potatoes. Put the fat into your sturdiest roasting pan and put the pan in the oven to get hot. When the fat is all melted, transfer the pan to your stove top over medium high heat. This will keep the fat hot and sizzling while you add the potatoes - a crucial step for ensuring grease-free crunchiness!
5. Transfer your potatoes to the hot pan. Be careful, obviously, because if there is any residual water on them they will go up like one of those deep-sea thermal vents the Discovery Channel is always on about. Stir them around to make sure they are coated with the fat.
6. Into the oven for about an hour, turning them half-way through. Pull them out when they are tender on the inside (stick 'em with a knife if you aren't sure) but golden and crunchy on the outside. I do not generally salt them, but a couple grinds of pepper are appropriate. You could garnish them with fresh herbage, I suppose, but why bother? They are gorgeous just the way they are.
7. Serve them immediately, since they will lose their crisp outer shells if left to sit too long.

They are awesome with roasts, of course, but also gussy up grilled meat and stews in a very impressive way. They are certainly easier with the latter choices, because only one oven is required. They are always a hit.

Lord, Love a Duck ... A Pictorial History of Confit Production

Here is how I made confit de canard this weekend.

To begin, I sectioned the ducks into quarters,

leaving the bones where they belonged:

I didn't forget to save the carcasses, wings,

and other bits and pieces for stock fabrication:

I retrieved the last of the thyme from the garden ...

... and assembled the rest of my mis en place

(peppercorns, kosher salt, bay leaves):

I salted the duck pieces liberally, layered them with the herbs and spices,

and stored the lot, covered, in the fridge for 7 hours:

I isolated myself in a secret location

and wrapped Christmas presents:

When the time was up, I rinsed the duck sections, dried them carefully,

and fried them over low heat until they were nicely brown

and the fat started to render in the pan. It took about half an hour

in three pans. The aromas in the kitchen were amazing:

I decanted the pieces into my small French oven:

I poured in all the rendered fat, but didn't have enough to cover the pieces.

Luckily, my friendly FedEx man had delivered extra tubs on Friday:

In it went!

I covered the pot tightly and placed it in a 300 deg F oven for three hours.

During this time, I scrubbed all the kitchen surfaces (and the floor, too!)

of splattered duck fat:

When the duck was tender, melting, and falling off the bone,

I removed it from the oven and placed it on a clean dish. We tasted a morsel

that fell off during this process. It was rich and amazing.

With Sir's help, I strained the duck fat through my favorite piece of cheesecloth, made a thin layer in the bottom a plastic container, and piled the duck on top.

I finished with the rest of the rendered fat.

When it had cooled in the garage for a while, it looked like this:

I popped a lid on the container and placed it in the back of the fridge,

where it will mellow and marinate.

In a couple of weeks we will heat the container to liquify the fat;

excavate the duck pieces; crisp them up under the grill or in a saute pan;

and slurp them happily.

Who needs a trip to France when there's duck confit in the house?