05 December 2007

Ah, Choux.

Lewisburg.

Cream puffs? I suppose I'm rather ambivalent. If they're fresh and not too sweet - the downfall of many a dessert - they can be good, but they really seem to scream for something interesting. Something more than ice cream.1

So I go for savory. With a stack of various winter squash lying around, it only seems like the appropriate thing to do. Sure, you could make bite-size pumpkin pies - I could go for that - but I'd rather make it more of a surprise. There's a potluck later today, and I see no reason to play it low-key.

Choux

And thus we have: curried squash cream puffs. Crispy on the outside, creamy in the middle, with a chilli warmth that appears at the tail end and lingers a moment. I swiped one for a taste, and now I half-wish I'd made an attempt to write down the recipe.

It's not as though I don't know what I did, because it's all straightforward, if rather time-consuming. Roasted squash went into the food processor with well-drained, homemade ricotta cheese to make a smooth puree. Then I adjusted the filling to taste with a curry of shallots, coriander, black pepper, cumin and a whole mess of chillis: sanaam, ancho and chipotle.

The puffs were remarkably easy, too. It's a basic pâte à choux - flour, milk, water, butter, salt and eggs - spiked with just enough paprika2 and ground mustard to give it some flavor of its own. And since I don't have a set or large pastry bag tips, I used a cookie scoop to dollop out even-sized mounds of pastry, then smoothed them over with a finger dipped in cold water. Slide 'em into the oven, and what look like little mounds of dumpling batter burst into delicate, crispy, air-filled puffs.

Slice the tops and pipe in the filling. You could also puncture the bottoms and pipe it in that way, but I found that I could fill all of the air chambers by lifting the lid. Besides, then it's a bright orange warning on the potluck table. Cream puffs? In a sense.

* * * * *

1Though everyone's gotta love that scene in Down By Law. "I scream-a. You scream-a. We all scream-a for ice cream-a."

2Yes. More chilli.

01 December 2007

Saturday morning oatmeal.

Lewisburg.

Aaaand... it seems as though winter's settling in. The weather forecast is calling for snow showers overnight, with daily highs barely eking above freezing. And, to rub it in that this really is December, we picked up the year's last delivery of fresh, local, organic produce last night. So it's a few more days with good brussels sprouts and some other assorted vegetables before it's back to strategic hunting at the grocery stores.

It's also time to think about things that had been more or less ignored when we could get nigh-endless amounts of fresh food. Particularly anything that requires the oven for extended periods of time. If I'm going to heat the house, why not get a little something on the side?

The latest Penzey's catalog arrived in the mail the other day. Chances are slim that I'll actually order anything - inasmuch as I loaded up on spices in an order a few months ago, supplemented with a bag full of hot chillis while I was in Madison - but the recipes are always worth a look. For a business based on providing a wide range of top-quality spices, there are a few things about their recipes that surprise me.
  • They really don't play up the exotic aspect, even though they do a brisk business in spices I've not yet tried. (Ajwain, anyone?) Many of the recipes focus on comfort foods. This issue includes roast turkey and stuffing, for example.

  • The recipes tend to use a minimum of Penzey's spices. In this issue, the Egg and Bacon Casserole only uses a teaspoon of mustard powder. Even I'd be tempted to add some fresh herbs or black pepper.1 Instead, it gives a definite impression that these are good, basic recipes that a practiced cook could easily modify to taste, rather than a means to sell spices that'll only be used once.2

  • In general, the recipes are pretty damned good. We're still using the Happy Brownies recipe we'd picked up from them years ago, because it's both simple and excellent.3 And honest. There aren't shortcuts like boxed mixes; recipes call for butter, not margarine.
So I was rather excited to spot a recipe for Baked Oatmeal. We're having friends over for brunch next weekend, and it seemed like a good idea - provided it had a test drive.

Baked oatmeal

Yes, it's definitely good enough. Firmer than a traditional stovetop oatmeal, it has a slightly custardy consistency that binds it all together. And since there's no need to worry about sticking to the pan, it's more or less foolproof. Mix everything together, toss it in the oven, and sit back to make the difficult decision of: tea or coffee?

Baked Oatmeal
Serves six to eight
Adapted from Penzey's Spices - Christmas 2007 catalog

Ingredients
  • 2-3/4 cups rolled oats
  • 2/3 cup brown sugar
  • 3/4 cup raisins or dried cranberries
  • ½ cup chopped walnuts
  • 1 tsp. cinnamon
  • ½ tsp. salt
  • 3-1/3 cups milk
  • 3 eggs, beaten
  • 1 tsp. vegetable oil
  • 1 tsp. vanilla extract
Directions
  1. Preheat the oven to 350°F. In a large bowl, combine the oats, sugar, raisins, walnuts, cinnamon and salt, and mix well. In another bowl, combine the milk, eggs, oil and vanilla. Add the wet ingredients to the dry and mix until well combined.

  2. Pour the mixture into an 8x8 inch glass baking dish. Bake for 55-60 minutes, or until the center has set and is firm to the touch. Allow to cool slightly before serving.
The only revision I've made was to replace the 4 egg whites in the initial recipe with 3 whole eggs. I'm not sure of it's noticeably richer, but it saves me the trouble of finding something else to make with just yolks. In the future, I'd probably also spice it more like I do granola - some nutmeg and anise in with the cinnamon, and maybe some diced caramelized ginger to replace part of the raisins/dried cranberries. I think the vegetable oil is probably also unnecessary - though replacing it with some melted butter could be a nice touch.

* * * * *

1Chilli peppers of some sort, too. I'll add them to anything I can get away with, because a little capsaicin makes everything better. Sharon's developing a taste for spicier food these days - intentionally - and there's a reason I keep the red pepper flakes beside the salt and pepper.

2A good number of the sweet baking recipes use cinnamon as the primary flavoring. Who doesn't keep cinnamon around? We tend to swap it out for a mix of spices - sometimes a Penzey's blend, sometimes our own - but even your average grandmother wouldn't be alienated by any of it.

3It's good enough to have made its way into the family recipe book we're giving my brother and his wife as a (belated) wedding gift, alongside cookie recipes that predate my grandparents.

26 November 2007

The post-turkey-day report.

Lewisburg.

Thanksgiving has come and gone, and I'm pleased to note that I'm not inundated in leftovers for the first time in years. To be honest, aside from the year I was in the UK, I can't recall the last time that I didn't have a week's worth of turkey, mashed potatoes and cranberries to contend with. My grandmother, you see, is rather adamant about having enough food on the table to send everyone home with loads of it. It was simply luck that Sharon and I weren't spending the rest of the holiday weekend at home, and thus couldn't take any with us. Other than a pair of slices of my mom's Jewish Apple Cake,1 for breakfast the next morning.

I was responsible for the turkey this year, since my grandmother's tendency is to overcook any and all meats. For example: she uses the little pop-up timer from a grocery-store bird as a guideline. By which I mean that she waits for it to pop - which is often a sign that poultry's already overcooked - and will then wait another half hour or longer before taking it out of the oven. But my uncle will only eat stuffing that's been cooked inside the bird, and I refuse to do that.

It's a pretty basic temperature concern. In order to heat the stuffing - a pretty fine insulator - to a sufficiently high temperature to kill pathogens, you're all but guaranteed to cook the bird thoroughly dry. So, basically, you're looking at either a dry turkey or potential food poisoning, neither of which has a whole lot of appeal. Growing up, the solution was always to drown the turkey in gravy. Grandma has always made potful of gravy, using the turkey juices. All of the juices that have been squeezed out of the bird by the muscle proteins seizing tight at the high temperatures.

At any rate, we were at a bit of a bump in the road. Grandma's solution was to roast a second bird, stuffed, while I'd still do the main turkey my way. Sounded good - especially when I though it might be a stuffed chicken - until I realized that she meant a stuffed turkey. An eighteen-pounder, which was enough meat to feed all of us. So there was plenty of turkey to go around. Though it's worth noting that my brother leapt up immediately after dinner, snatching up all of the remaining pasture-raised, brined, carefully-roasted meat.

The other goodies we brought for dinner - some local, frost-sweetened brussels sprouts, a homemade loaf of whole wheat, rosemary bread, and Sharon's wonderful chocolate-covered cherry cookies and snickerdoodles - went over especially well with my immediate family. Not so much with the pickier eaters at the table, but at least everyone found enough to fill their plates. Anymore, in the attempt to please a wide variety of tastes, that seems like the best I can hope for. Unfortunately, it's an understood fact in my family that preparing Thanksgiving like I did last year - an all-local, all-homemade extravaganza - wouldn't make everyone happy. I have relatives who won't eat any vegetables other than corn or potatoes.2 Even in the realm of pies, they'll only eat a sugar-loaded chocolate pudding pie; even pumpkin and apple pies will be left untouched.

So it was a genuine pleasure to do a sort-of-Thanksgiving dinner for Sharon's dad and sisters that was well-received. They'd spent the holiday at a resort near Cancun, and arrived back just in time for Bill's birthday. After a week's worth of resort food - some of which they found questionable - a dinner of "recognizable" food was just the ticket. Roast chicken with caramelized onions; milk bread rolls; broccoli; salad and vinaigrette; and a chocolate cherry cake for dessert. Even the broccoli received accolades, along the lines of "How did you make this so good?" It's amazing how careful blanching in thoroughly salted water can be so good.

And now there's just the remaining turkey in the freezer.

See, when searching for a local, pasture-raised bird, I mistakenly gave the impression that I wanted a bord to two different farms. Rather than call up one and cancel, I simply bought both. One went to Thanksgiving. The other's now sausage: one batch of Mexican chorizo; another spiced with the flavors of a Moroccan tagine; and the last flavored with fresh rosemary and shallots.

So I guess I've got some Thanksgiving leftovers, after all. But I'm entirely okay with that.

* * * * *

1It's a well-known recipe where I grew up, but some folks find the name a good enough reason to get uppity. But it's simple: the recipe modifies a traditional German apple cake to eliminate the dairy, thus making it okay with meat or dairy if you're one who keeps kosher. The one who pointed this out to me was the original chef at the Twin Bays Cafe in Phoenixville. He was Jewish; his wife was Catholic. But he preferred his mother-in-law's recipe to his family's, and so that was the one he kept on the menu.

2On the plate, I don't count those as vegetables. They're starches in my book.

06 November 2007

Radishes and birds' nests.

Lewisburg.

As long as I keep finding these things, I might as well keep mentioning them. The odd thing, to me, is that I'm repeatedly finding new and different mushrooms, all while walking the same streets of town. For example, I'd walked past the place I found this one at least ten times in the past week or so:

Hebeloma mushroom

Today, I just happened to notice a few buttons, because they looked too smooth and, well, fuzzy about the edges to be stones. I had to actually get down on my knees and touch them to be sure they weren't just a few errant bits of smooth gravel kicked out of someone's garden.

Turns out they're something in the Hebeloma genus, though I can't say for sure which it is. H. crustuliniforme, maybe, but as it's poisonous, I'm comfy enough with just a genus identification. The tip-offs - after examining the spore print and various physical features - were the little beads of liquid scattered about the gills and the definite odor of radishes. Apparently they taste like radishes, too.

The real find, though, was this little patch of fungi:

Bird's nest mushroom

And when I say little, I mean it. The biggest of them was maybe 3/8 inch across; they were so tiny that I had a hell of a time getting a steady picture with the macro lens, even on a sunny day. I even had a hard time finding them again when I went back with the camera.

They're Crucibulum laeve, more commonly known as the bird's nest fungus. The "nest" is a peridium, a sort of "splash cup" for dispersing the "eggs", which are little sacs filled with spores. Even though these are so tiny, they've evolved so that a raindrop falling into the peridium will cause the peridioles to be flung up to several feet away.

05 November 2007

More mushrooms.

Lewisburg.

For the time of year that's supposed to signal the trailing end of mushroom season around here, I'm certainly finding a lot more than I'd expect. And it isn't as though I'm looking very hard, or even going out of my way.

Basically, if it's not on my route to pick up a newspaper, I'm not going to find it.

American slippery jack

Thursday's find: the American slippery jack, Suillus americanus. I'd stumbled across a patch of them in the button stage, just barely visible against the grass around them. I picked the two in the photograph, so I could identify them when I got home, and figured I'd go back for the rest when they'd had a chance to mature. Wishful thinking.

When I went back, they were gone. Not harvested - though it is an edible species - but just kicked all over the place. Apparently the yellow caps were just too tempting a target, and too close to the sidewalk. Must have seemed like a good place to toss a banana peel and some candy wrappers, too. At least I managed to find a budding little turkey tail, Trametes versicolor, so I can go back and check it out in the future. It's not hard to find from the sidewalk, either, but the stump it's growing on makes it a decidedly less tempting target.

Shaggy mane

Today's find: the shaggy mane, Coprinus comatus. It's an ugly mushroom, with its scaly cap dissolving into black gunk. But, I hear, a rather choice one for the table - assuming you catch it before it "deliquesces" into a decidedly unappealing goo. I didn't find enough to bother cooking up, but I don't expect to have difficulty finding more of these in the future.

The problem with these particular two mushrooms - and any I might find while out walking the streets of Lewisburg - is that shaggy manes have a tendency to take up whatever toxins may be in the soil. While not an issue in an untreated lawn, or out in the woods, I'm wary of any lawns that aren't mine. (Especially the one down the street that's far too lush and green for November in Pennsylvania.) And anything near a road with significant traffic means there's the potential for heavy metal uptake due to car exhaust and tire abrasion, among other things.

So that wild mushroom meal will probably have to wait until spring. It is, after all, National Novel Writing Month once more, which means that any walks in the woods will have to wait until at least December.

Or later, since that'll be prime wear-bright-orange-or-get-shot season around here. Maybe I'll just hold off until morel season.

31 October 2007

Wild mushrooms.

Lewisburg.

I found some wild mushrooms today. But, as I can't quite figure out what they are, I'm not eating any. See, I've been reading up on wild mushroom hunting lately - my interest piqued by a variety of factors1 - and it's an entirely new world of things out there to eat.

Potentially. Given some of the charming descriptions of various mushroom toxins, this is the sort of thing best taken slowly.

Agaricus mushrooms

So here they are. Most of them, anyhow; it was an overflowing handful. I'm fairly sure that there were a few more coming up where I found them, as well. As soon as I got them home, I started searching through the various identification books2 I've got. The verdict? Unsure. I've narrowed it down to (most likely) the Agaricus genus, but can't find a clear match. The good old field mushroom, Agaricus campestris, is the closest thing, but just not close enough.

Ring on the stalk, with a delicate texture, missing on some? Yup.

Lack of a cup-like volva at the base of the stalk? Yup.

Gills free from the stalk? Yup.

Stalk separates easily from the cap? Yup.

Gills pink when young, becoming dark chocolate in maturity? Yup.

Spores chocolate brown to blackish? Yup. (Chocolate brown, I'd say.)

Staining yellow? Nope. Not staining any color.

Cap color? Ranging from pale tan to chocolate brown around the edge, especially on the largest and oldest one.

It even smells just like a crimini or white button mushroom. Even a brief taste3 suggests that.

The primary reason it doesn't seem like Agaricus campestris? The edges of the caps are irregularly turned up on the older mushrooms. I've seen pictures and descriptions of other mushrooms that do that, but rarely for the Agaricus species. I'd think that would be a distinctive enough feature to be worth noting - and of the three books handy, not a single one mentions it. But, hey, I'm getting some good use out of these books, all of which are careful to note that there are untold species out there, either unidentified or not well enough known to make it into any (let alone every) guide.

Agaricus mushrooms closeup

They're also alerting me to the many, many bizarre characteristics of the fungi out there. As just one example, take the range of mushroom toxins. Utterly fascinating.

A few include:
  • Amatoxins

    About a half dozen of these chemicals appear in the group called the deadly amanitas, as well as some Lepiota and Galerina fungi. They even occur, in extremely tiny amounts, in chanterelles and porcini, which are pretty much tops in terms of edibility.

    One book notes amatoxin poisoning as being "of the worst type". Six to twenty-fours hours pass before abrupt, violent vomiting and diarrhea begins. This coincides with serious damage to the liver, kidneys, heart, and central nervous system. No wonder that species such as Amanita virosa and A. phalloides have picked up names like destroying angel and death cup.

  • Gyromitrins

    These potentially fatal compounds are usually found in the false morels. Some old guides considered these mushrooms edible - following parboiling and discarding the water or drying, both of which destroy nearly 99 percent of the toxin - but that doesn't seem to be the case anymore. Even the small amount that remains has proven highly carcinogenic in small mammals, and there's always the possibility of not doing it well enough.

    Especially since the toxins have a similar delayed onset, followed by up to two days of vomiting and diarrhea, then potential liver and/or heart failure. So, even if it doesn't kill you, you might wish that it did.

    It's interesting to note that one of the false morels that contains gyromitrins is Gyromitra esculenta. The esculenta portion of that means "edible", which it most certainly isn't. Not on my list, anyhow.

  • Orellanine (Cortinarin A and B)

    This, I think, has to be the most insidious mushroom poison. It show up in some Cortinarius species, and isn't too different, chemically, from the amatoxins. The symptoms include an intense, burning thirst, gastrointestinal disruption, headaches, aches and pains, spasms, and loss of consciousness. Then rolls in the kidney (and sometimes liver) damage. But why's it so insidious?

    The onset of the symptoms usually comes three to fourteen days after eating the mushrooms. Up to two weeks? Even if there were something to do about it - the book notes that "[n]o specific therapy is known" - how the hell would you figure out what was causing the problem?

  • Muscarine

    Even though this one's characteristic in the fly amanita - the red toadstool white white spots from a million illustrations - it's not the primary toxin there. It does show up in a variety of other species, including Clitocybe dealbata, the so-called "sweating mushroom".

    So-called because the symptoms of muscarine poisoning include greatly increased secretions of sweat, saliva and tears, in addition to the usual diarrhea and vomiting. It can be deadly in severe cases.

  • Ibotenic acid and Muscimol

    Here're the main toxins in Amanita muscaria. Sometimes it results in serious vomiting, though it's best known for the hallucinogenic (and related) effects: confusion, muscle spasms, delirium, and hallucinations. In certain areas - specifically parts of Siberia - these mushrooms were (or are) used for their intoxicant effects.

    Here, though, the toxins skew a little more to the vomit-all-day-and-wish-you-were-dead side. Apparently, at least in central Pennsylvania, there are virtually none of the hallucinogenic side effects - one book notes that some here have tried, but the author couldn't find anyone who'd even entertain the notion of trying again.

  • Psilocybin-Psilocin

    These would be the chemicals causing "particularly vivid and dramatic" hallucinations. I'm also informed that simply picking mushrooms containing these toxins can be a federal crime - i.e., possession of illegal substances of some sort - so it pays to be careful about what goes into the harvesting basket.

  • Coprine

    If I could have a favorite mushroom toxin, this would be it. Hands down.

    As near as I can tell, this only occurs in the alcohol inky cap, Coprinus atramentarius, an edible mushroom that's generally considered quite tasty. See, it's not toxic on its own; it's only when consumed with alcohol that it becomes a problem. One source suggests abstaining from alcohol twenty-four hours prior to and up to five days after eating, just to be safe.

    Symptoms don't take long to appear; about thirty minutes is all. First, the person feels hot and the skin flushes red, and breathing becomes rapid and difficult. Then come the usual suspects of violent headache, nausea, vomiting, and more or less feeling like hell for a few hours. Some people are more or less sensitive, but it's worse with more mushrooms, more alcohol, and a shorter period between consumption of the two.

    It seems that a certain cycolopropyl amino-acid derivative in the mushroom gets turned into cyclopropanone in the body, which then interferes with the liver's ability to metabolize ethyl alcohol. A synthetic drug, disulfiram, does pretty much the same thing when given to alcoholics to them curb their drinking. Neat!
And there's so much else that's just genuinely amazing about these fungi, which I'll get around to as I actually see some of it in person.4 Potential options: mushrooms that taste like chicken; mushrooms that bleed blue milk; mushrooms that glow in the dark; mushrooms that look like undersea coral; mushrooms that smell like maraschino cherries, or anise, or rose and apricots.

Of course, I'd be thrilled if I could just find a few good morels or chanterelles next year.

* * * * *

1For starters, I'm anxious to go morel hunting come spring. Assuming that I can actually spot them, they're dead easy to identify. Then there's the fact that chanterelles and black trumpets grow in this area - two mushrooms of significant culinary renown. Top that off with the recent "Steve, Don't Eat It!" on the sulfur shelf, and I'm anxious. Oh, and finding edible Coprinus micaceus and Coprinus comatus mushrooms while out walking in Madison didn't hurt.

2The Mushroom Hunter's Field Guide by Alexander H. Smith and Nancy Smith Weber; The New Savory Wild Mushroom by Margaret McKenny and Daniel E. Stuntz; and Field Guide to Wild Mushrooms of Pennsylvania and the Mid-Atlantic by Bill Russell. Thanks, library card!

3At least one of the guides notes that it's impossible to poison oneself by simply touching a mushroom to the tongue for a taste. It uses the specific example of the destroying angel, Amanita virosa, perhaps the deadliest mushroom in the world. Half a cap of that mushroom will most likely kill an adult.

4I'm planning on leaving the whole poisoning aspect in the realm of abstract understanding.

08 October 2007

Yeast.

Lewisburg.

The house smells like yeast.

This is okay. It's a yeast-intensive time around here. A loaf of sourdough has just gone into the oven; my first-ever batch of cider is fermenting, the airlock bubbling away furiously. Unlike the more usual loaves of bread and bagels made in this kitchen, there's an air of uncertainty about these. Except in the unusual case where the yeast has been around too long1 and no longer leavens, a regular loaf of bread is very predictable. Temperature and humidity keep it from running like a Swiss watch, but even so, you can schedule it into your day. Sourdough and alcoholic fermentation, however, fit you into their schedule.

Sourdough can be frustrating. Feedings2 aside, the process of making a loaf involves multiple additions of flour and long, separate risings. It also takes more effort to knead; the dough likes to remain sticky, and can form long, highly elastic gluten strings that make it look like the kneading'll never be finished. Even the timing's difficult, as the timing of the latest feeding (among other things) may mean the initial rise should be anywhere from twelve to eighteen hours. But it does make a wonderful loaf of bread.

Alcoholic fermentation - in this case, apple cider - is another crapshoot when it comes to timing. From what I've gathered, the primary fermentation should take roughly seven to ten days; time in the secondary should be at least another two weeks, plus two to four more for bottle conditioning and carbonation. On the upside, cider - unlike beer - doesn't require boiling five gallons of sugary liquid, meaning there's less to clean.

While there are distinct differences in how these two yeast-driven processes work - sourdough is leavened by yeasts of the genus Candida and soured by Lactobacillus bacteria, while alcoholic beverages are fermented by different species in the Saccharomyces genus3; for bread, the aerobic processes of the yeast produce carbon dioxide, letting the bread rise, and for cider, the anaerobic processes generate alcohol - it's worth noting that working with either requires you to observe it all indirectly. Yeast cells are really difficult to see, even when squinting, so you have to watch the results of their action and hope for the best.

Signs to look for: the expansion of a loaf of bread dough, seeing that it's risen enough (and thus won't be too dense) but not too much (and so won't rise in the oven, but might fall instead), all while making sure that the acids and enzymes produced by the yeasts don't break down the gluten network and reduce the loaf to a sticky sourdough batter; the vigorous bubbling from a fermentor's airlock (though if it gets too vigorous, the airlock may get ejected by the force of the carbon dioxide produced); or even the smell. The kitchen smells of a combination of yeasty action - the aroma of rising bread - with the changing cider, moving from the sweet richness of freshly pressed apples to a more delicate scent, lighter, like a distillation of the qualities of the apple. It sure seems like it's going well... but it'll be weeks before I know with any certainty.

It's the risk - and the rewards, of homemade goods not quite like anything available in a store - that makes it all interesting. Will it all turn out well in the end? Probably. But I've failed before. And been pleasantly surprised, too.

* * * * *

1It's never happened to me, but I suppose it's bound to eventually.

2I've changed my regular feedings slightly to cut down on the salt. Though it didn't kill off the starter culture, the salt definitely slowed it down - to the point where the yeastly/bacterial enzymatic action breaking down the gluten threatened to outpace the bread's rising. I still add some, in every second or third feeding, and it's definitely improved.

3In this case, I'm using a strain of Saccharomyces bayanus from Champagne, hoping to keep a neutral - and still apple-y - flavor profile.

03 October 2007

Too much at the market.

Lewisburg.

Ah, farmers' markets. The impulse-buy opportunities alone are a wonderful means to expanding the range of cooking experiences. Novelties in central Pennsylvania are few and far between, but just the act of buying too much of this or that forces a certain sort of creativity. This week, a surplus of pears and a sign for Cornish game hens was all I needed.

Cornish hen

They're definitely small birds; though the price per pound's higher than your average pasture-raised bird, they still make for an occasional treat. Plus, everything takes less time and makes less mess.1 Brining takes just a few hours, and the birds cook so quickly that they'll race to overdone if you let your attention lapse. Roasting would make for a nice, if a bit precious, presentation, but I wanted some more char.

I'd strongly considered the grill, and I'm sure it would have worked well.2 But the extra effort and time to get the grill going meant we wouldn't eat until late. The broiler, however, fires up in moments. It may not have much in the way of smokiness to offer - except for occasionally setting off the smoke alarm - but it does get very, very hot. After butterflying3 the birds, just sixteen minutes4 under the broiler had it over and done with. A fresh mesclun salad and some buttered, whole wheat spätzle rounded out the meal.

Dessert was an equally rustic5 affair. I'd bought too many pears, and they were all turning ripe and threatening to become overripe more or less immediately. If they'd been apples, maybe I'd've made a pie. Or applesauce. Pears aren't the best pie fruit, though, and while I like adding a few to applesauce for variety, it's not exactly their forte. A galette, though, had a few things going for it.

Pear galette

For starters, my pie-fluting skills are adequate at best. And though a pie is a good way of using up lots of extra fruit, I didn't have that much. I had four. More than we were going to eat that night, but hardly enough to fill a pie pan. So I sliced them, tossed with a little sugar and flour, piled them atop a thin layer of blueberry jam on the crust, and called it good enough.

The galette - pretty much a fruit pizza - is supposed to look rustic. Or so I tell myself. And less filling means there's more crust to enjoy; more buttery, flaky crust. Which I'm finally beginning to get the knack for. (Note: the food processor makes it nearly idiot-proof.) And, in one of my favorite realizations, I found that there's no worry about burning the rim of the crust. Without the worry of undercooking the filling - without a two-inch-deep layer of apples to soften - the galette's done as soon as the crust looks perfectly browned.

Would I make it again? Inasmuch as I now have too many apples sitting on the countertop... the Magic 8 Ball says, "Signs point to yes".

* * * * *

1Assuming you don't count that point where you decide it's much easier to eat with fingers rather than utensils.

2Especially with some wood chips to add a smoky flavor. I'd done that with a sirloin tip roast just a week or two earlier, and it was a reminder of just how spectacular a carefully cooked piece of meat can be.

3Cutting out the spine with a pair of scissors, then pressing it all flat. Flattening the bird means it'll cook through much faster and more evenly, and puts almost all the skin on one side for controlled crisping.

4Ten minutes on the "skinless" side, followed by six minutes of charring up the skin to crispy deliciousness.

5Read: lazy.

23 September 2007

The new, old-school kitchen tool.

Lewisburg.

We've been eating a lot of Thai food lately, due in part to two (relatively) new nigh-essential kitchen items I wish I'd had long ago: Real Thai: The Best of Thailand's Regional Cooking by Nancie McDermott and a real Thai mortar and pestle. It's an eight-inch-wide, fifteen-pound monster, carved from solid granite:

Thai mortar with green curry

Here it's filled with a green curry paste, which took less time and effort than in either of my other two mortars.1 Not that they don't have their uses, but big batches of curry paste aren't their forte. The food processor's not ideal, either; it's okay, but the texture usually ends up chunkier than I'd like.

Besides, this beast really gives you the feeling that you're making something through honest work. I'd picked it up from ImportFood.com, a specialty Thai mail-order website, which seemed to offer the best price, as well as the best shipping rate. As for the shipping, I now know why: they managed to fit it - just barely - inside a US Postal Service Priority Mail Flat Rate box. Judging by the beating that box had taken by the time it arrived on my doorstep, it stretched the capacity of that box to the limit - but at least the mortar's nigh indestructible.

I'm almost convinced I could pulverize gravel in it, should the need ever arise.

Now, don't be fooled by those little cans of red, green, yellow, mussaman, etc. curries in the corner Asian grocery. You know, the ones that look like pet food, with the smiling image of an elderly Thai grandmother on the wrapper? They're not bad, especially if you're pressed for time, but the flavor's essentially one-dimensional compared to the real thing - made from high-quality, fresh ingredients - and they're loaded with salt. You'll probably be adding a fair bit of salt to the rest of the recipe, between the fish sauce, soy sauce, shrimp paste, or whatever else a recipe calls for2, so it's not like extra's helping. And I get a kick out of making the most of whatever ingredients happen to be handy.

Sometimes I like to add in a handful of roasted peanuts; other times, I like including some Szechuan peppercorns to get that mouth-numbing ma-la sensation. Chilli peppers will inevitably be whatever's available in season, so summer's the time for green curries, while red curries can wait until the string of peppers in the front window are dry.

Tonight's dinner'll probably be the last of the green curries for a while, as I expect last weekend's frosts put an end to fresh chillis for the year. But it's an opportunity to start enjoying the sweetness of the newly arrived winter squashes as a counterpoint to the chilli fire. Below's a modified version of a traditional Thai green curry paste, much like the one sitting in the mortar above - since some southeast Asian ingredients can be hard to come by - lemongrass and galangal, for example - this is the sort of version I'll end up making.
Green Curry Paste
Adapted from Nancie McDermott

Ingredients:
  • 1 tablespoon whole coriander seed
  • 1 teaspoon whole cumin seed
  • 5 whole peppercorns
  • 1 tablespoon finely chopped ginger
  • 3 tablespoons chopped garlic
  • 2 tablespoons chopped shallots
  • 1 tablespoon lime zest
  • ½ cup fresh green chillis, seeded and coarsely chopped
  • ¼ cup fresh mint leaves
  • 1 teaspoon salt
  • 1 teaspoon shrimp paste
Directions
  1. Toast the coriander and cumin seeds in a dry skillet over medium heat until fragrant, about three to five minutes. Shake the pan occasionally to prevent them burning. Set aside to cool, then add to the mortar with the peppercorns and grind to fine powder. Set aside.

  2. Place the ginger, mint leaves and lime zest in the mortar, and pound until broken down. Add the garlic and shallot and continue grinding to create a smooth paste. Add the chillis and continue grinding.

  3. Add the ground spices, salt, and shrimp paste and work until smooth. Use immediately or store, tightly sealed, in the refrigerator for up to a week.
* * * * *

1The oldest is a small marble mortar that works well, but is small enough that it's really limited to grinding spices. The other's a Japanese suribachi, a ridged clay bowl, that's phenomenal for turning sesame seeds into sesame butter - particularly for fresh batches of hummus - but suffers from the same size limitation as the marble mortar.

2Salty is one of the essential dimensions of Thai cuisine, along with sweet, sour, spicy-hot and sometimes bitter. Even Thai limeade's got a salty edge to it.

11 September 2007

Gelatin clarification.

Lewisburg.

Molecular gastronomy: cooking for the gadget- and science-obsessed. Cool, complicated, and making use of anything and everything in the race to be different. So, for the most part, not the sort of cooking any of us do at home.

Exception: gelatin clarification, as explained by Harold McGee in last week's New York Times. It's slow - which is why I'm writing about it nearly a week after the article - but remarkably effective. For example:

Gelatin clarification

On the right, unclarified duck stock. On the left, the same stock after the clarification. Pale, clear, and with a more intense flavor. It's a trade-off for the lack of body, of gelatin, which served as the filter.

So, yes, it works. Well, and without much effort - though I do find that the process works better in a slightly warmer environment than my refrigerator, which I keep cool enough that the stock was quite slow to melt. Things moved along much better once I took to transferring the straining consommé to an insulated cooler with an ice pack, replacing it every so often (and keeping it all in the refrigerator when I wasn't around to keep tabs on it).

Next step: creating consommés out of unusual ingredients. In addition to their uses in cooking - broths, poaching liquids, etc. - they'd be perfect for infusing flavors into new places. Sorbets with flavors beyond fruit juice and infused herbs. Brilliantly clear cocktails - the Bloody Mary, the Bellini - with traditional or new flavor combinations; it's like creating the nonalcoholic equivalent of homemade bitters or vermouth. Breads - from crusty loaves to tender crepes - that don't have to sacrifice texture to get aromas of fruits, nuts, or cheeses. In essence, any place that water would go, there's now an opportunity to add another layer of flavor.

If only I had another refrigerator and freezer.

06 September 2007

Chawan-mushi.

Lewisburg.

Chawan-mushi

Custards are neat. I've mentioned it before, but I find the structural potential of egg proteins absolutely amazing. Plus, I really like the flavor of a good egg - it's hard to go wrong with those from local, free-range birds - and the trick becomes thinking of new ways to incorporate them into a meal.

Not that eggs, essentially plain, aren't a regular feature around here. Poached, fried or scrambled, they tend to make a breakfast appearance at least once a week.

Custards, though, are a big step in elegance for minimal effort. Aside from taking extra care and time to prevent them overcooking, they're hardly any more difficult or complicated than scrambled eggs. Crème brûlée always surprises me with its enduring popularity, thought I suspect that it's because people don't realize how effortlessly simple it is. Then again, most people won't take the time or effort to make chocolate-chip cookies.

Dessert custards - the crème brûlée, the flan - are well and good every great once in a while, but they're rich and sweet. Quiche is more to my taste, being a pie and an egg custard all at once. But if I'm not in the mood for making a crust? There's always chawan-mushi.

Chawan-mushi's a savory Japanese egg custard, filled with vegetables and chicken or seafood. Because of the juices and fibrous material in the vegetables, the custard overcoagulates in places and accumulates pockets of the juices. Though this would be a disaster for crème brûlée, as Harold McGee notes, "the Japanese expect chawan-mushi to weep and treat it as a combination of custard and soup." It sounds odd, but is surprisingly good; even the unusual texture remains soft and smooth, with a custard so soft it's nearly liquid itself. And, unlike other custards, it's at its best when served hot.

I have two recipes for chawan-mushi in two different Japanese cookbooks, but they're quite similar. Both use about two cups' worth of dashi to three eggs1; both feature boiled gingko nuts, shiitake mushrooms and chicken. One also includes shrimp; the other is titled "Egg Custard with Chicken, Shrimp and Vegetables" but doesn't actually have any in the recipe. Granted, it's the one that actually came from Japan, Japanese Home Style Cooking, and it does suffer from the occasional minor translation error. But the recipe's spot-on.
Chawan-mushi
Serves four
Adapted from Japanese Home Style Cooking

Ingredients
  • 3 eggs
  • 2 cups dashi
  • 1 teaspoon kosher salt
  • 1 teaspoon soy sauce, plus extra for marinade
  • 1 teaspoon mirin
  • 3 ounces chicken
  • Sake
  • 4 shiitake mushrooms
  • ¼ cup water
  • ¼ teaspoon sugar
  • 8 boiled gingko nuts
  • 1-inch slice of kamaboko (boiled fish paste)
  • Mitsuba, for garnish
Directions
  1. Mix the salt, mirin and ½ teaspoon soy sauce with the dashi and set aside.

  2. Dice the chicken and sprinkle with soy sauce and sake; let marinate for at least fifteen minutes. Cut the kamaboko into four slices.

  3. Place the mushrooms, water, ½ teaspoon soy sauce and sugar into a pan; simmer until the mushrooms are tender. When done, cut into bite-size pieces.

  4. Whisk the eggs in a mixing bowl, blend in the dashi mixture, and strain through a fine-mesh sieve. Divide the chicken, mushrooms, kamaboko and gingko nuts evenly into four ramekins, and slowly pour the custard mixture overtop.

  5. Steam the custards - either in a water bath or in a steamer basket - for fifteen to twenty minutes, or until set. Garnish with the mitsuba, and serve immediately.
That all sounds well and good, except that I don't often have many of those ingredients around the house. Fortunately, the method is readily adaptable to whatever happens to be handy.

The picture above is of a chawan-mushi made with duck stock and sauteed shiitake mushrooms; I'd been making duck confit and had a lot of carcass left over. Any meat, seafood or vegetable broth would fit the bill perfectly, and any tender - or cooked until so - vegetables or other ingredients would fit well inside. Do be sure to leave enough room for the custard, though - that smooth, soft texture is really a highlight of this dish.

Oh, and one more thing: The Oxford Companion To Food, interestingly, points out that chawan-mushi "is the only dish in the whole repertoire of Japanese cookery to be eaten with a spoon."

* * * * *

1McGee points out that three yolks per cup of liquid are necessary for a custard to be unmolded; the more eggs per unit of liquid, the firmer the custard. At half that ratio, chawan-mushi is a decidedly soft-textured custard.

02 September 2007

The Museum To Summer Produce.

Lewisburg.

Pickles with chilli

Canning isn't exactly at the height of its popularity these days; mason jars show up more commonly as cups at coffeeshops than filled with the overflow of garden tomatoes. But I'm not one who regularly follows popular trends1 or, honestly, even has a strong clue of what's going on in popular culture.

So I've begun my "museum to summer produce". I recall an article in the New York Times a few years ago, by Matt and Ted Lee, about quick pickling techniques; they noted that they had no interest in recreating that type of museum that their grandmother had painstakingly built every year to put up summer's bounty for winter consumption. They used those same techniques, sans the boiling-water canner, for near-immediate gratification. And I can't argue with that - I've got quick-pickled jalapeños in the refrigerator right now.

But I've also set aside jams. Blueberries, sour cherries, and even a few elderberries are hunkered in the freezer, bound for winter pies and cobblers. Tomato seconds are carefully sealed in jars in the basement, for chili and pasta sauces when it's no longer too hot to let dinner simmer away on the stovetop for hours. Pickles are curing in spices and vinegar brine; for the first time in years, we don't have dill overtaking, so they're garlicky, spicy pickles instead. And a string of cayenne chillis are slowly drying in the front window.

Drying chillis

No, it's not the simplest solution, but the effort now helps alleviate the depression of the all-too-frequent supermarket trips throughout the winter. Especially in a small town, where "local" and "organic" are more difficult to come by, even at the peak of the summer season. Perhaps most importantly - this year, when we're essentially off-balance, without the established networks and relationships and personal production that kept us well-stocked in excellent food - it's an opportunity to keep the practice going. No, we won't have enough tomatoes to last all winter, unless we decide to eat significantly fewer than usual. But it's a step, and my skills stay sharper for next year, when we'll be better able to stock up as summer arrives.

And, one of these days, I'll be growing those tomatoes and peppers and such again.

* * * * *

1No, I don't know anything about any current shows on television - we've been watching old episodes of The Tick, the cartoon version from 1994-1996. I don't know what's playing on the radio these days - I've been listening to John Zorn's Bar Kokhba (1996) and Tom Waits' Closing Time (1973). And I live in a place where the localsa still consider the jalapeño pepper something of a novelty.
aIn central Pennsylvania, like numerous other predominantly rural areas, you're bound to be considered an outsider for an alarmingly long time; around here, I'm told it's about thirty years. On the other hand, if you've grown up here, you can move away for twenty years, and still be considered a local. So most of the folks at the University aren't locals; I'm definitely not.

31 August 2007

Tomato de Bergerac.

Lewisburg.

I picked a tomato the other day, and I'm quite sure it's the oddest one I've ever seen. Add a pair of little plastic eyes, and it'd belong in a Joost Elffers book.

Striped Cavern

It might be a nose. Sharon insists it's flipping her the bird. I'm sure the imagination delights in finding anatomical correlations.

Incidentally, the variety is called Striped Cavern. They're a great stuffing tomato, being virtually empty - at least a third air space before coring and deseeding - inside; the flesh is sturdy, too, and holds up quite well in the oven. The flavor's nothing special, so I wouldn't include it in a Caprese salad, but they're still leagues better than any picked-unripe grocery store tomato.

19 August 2007

Homemade bagels and goat cheese.

Lewisburg.

Living in a small town has its pleasures: calm, quiet evenings; an absolute dearth of traffic; a small enough population base that you regularly recognize folks around town in almost no time at all. Trying to find, say, good Thai food is where you begin to realize that this may be an occasional problem. Unless you're the sort of person who thinks eating pizza with pepperoni is adventurous, the dining options in small-town America are bound to become a source of frustration at some point.

Thai food - as well as Indian, Chinese, Mexican, Caribbean and Japanese cuisines, among others - is on the list of things I need to learn to cook. Of course it would be. Finding good ingredients becomes a challenge, but it can be done. Learning new techniques and honing those skills creates a goal worth aiming for. We knew this would be the case before we moved.

Then there are those things that we'd more or less taken for granted, by which I mean bagels. There are others, and we'll certainly find those in due time, but knowing that it's a twenty-mile drive to the nearest mediocre bagels is disheartening. So I might as well add bagels to the learn-to-make list.

Bagels

And it turns out that they're fairly easy, especially with a standing mixer handy. I made the first batch with molasses - lending the bagels a rich, brown color and good molasses flavor - and topped some with sesame seeds, some with chive seeds, some with salt and a few not at all. The recipe is slightly modified from the one in Mark Bittman's How To Cook Everything to use the standing mixer, rather than the food processor.
Bagels
Makes eight to twelve

Ingredients
  • 3½ cups bread flour
  • 2 teaspoons kosher salt
  • 1 teaspoon instant yeast (Note: use less yeast to effect a longer rise, which will give a better flavor)
  • 2 tablespoons sweetener: molasses, honey, maple syrup, sugar, etc.
  • 1¼ cups water
  • Sesame seeds, poppy seeds, etc. for toppings (optional)
Directions
  1. Using the stand mixer's paddle attachment, mix together the flour, salt and yeast until well combined. Add the sweetener and mix for thirty seconds.

  2. With the mixer running, pour in the water. Mix until everything comes together into a mass of dough.

  3. Switch to the dough hook and knead for five to ten minutes, until the dough has become smooth and very elastic. Knead briefly on a lightly floured board, and form into a ball. Return the dough to the bowl, cover in plastic, and allow to rise at room temperature for about two hours, or until doubled in size.

  4. Deflate the dough ball on a lightly floured board, and allow to rest, covered, for ten minutes. Cut into eight to twelve equal pieces, and knead and roll each into a smooth ball. Pinch a hole through the center of each and stretch out, gently, into a bagel shape. Allow these to rest, covered, for thirty minutes.

  5. Preheat the oven to 400°F and bring a large pot of water to a boil. Being careful not to crowd them, drop the bagels into the boiling water. Work in batches as necessary. Boil for one minute on each side, then remove with a slotted spoon and allow to drain on a rack.

  6. Place the drained bagels on a (greased if necessary) baking sheet. If adding toppings, brush or spray the tops lightly with water and sprinkle toppings on as thickly as desired. Spray the oven with water to create steam and place the bagels inside. Bake for five minutes, spray with water again, and continue baking for another twenty to twenty-five minutes.

  7. Cool on a rack. For a shinier crust, spray the bagels lightly with water as soon as you remove them from the oven.
They're crispy-skinned bagels, densely chewy and leagues better than the typical pillowy-soft bagels out of the grocery store. I'd suppose that you could vary them in nearly as many ways as you would bread, though anything that limits the effectiveness of the gluten network deserves a careful approach. An overnight rise; milk instead of water; onions or raisins or cheese kneaded into the dough; all of these would, I suspect, make great bagels.

And, for those who insist on spreading cream cheese all over a perfectly good toasted bagel - I prefer good butter - I'd recommend considering a good, fresh, homemade goat cheese instead. It's remarkably easy to make, assuming you have access to good milk, and hardly takes any active effort. I stumbled across a recipe for fresh neufchâtel that takes just a tad more work than the fresh ricotta recipe I've been making from time to time. It's more cheese-flavored than milk-flavored - more acidic tang, a little less sweet - and takes more planning, but it's well worth the effort.

Fresh neufchâtel

I followed Fankhauser's recipe as closely as possible, so it's not worth repeating the recipe here. After salting the cheese, I used a muffin pan, lined with plastic wrap, as a mold. After allowing the cheeses a little time to firm up in the refrigerator, I sprinkled them with some herbes de Provence1 from Penzey's Spices, but that's about it.

Spread it on toast or crackers; have it with some of the season's ripe heirloom tomatoes.

* * * * *

1Rosemary, cracked fennel, thyme, savory, basil, tarragon, dill weed, oregano, lavender, chervil, and marjoram.

14 August 2007

Sourdough and sausages.

Lewisburg.

Less than a week in, the sourdough starter has taken up residency in the refrigerator; twice-daily feedings quickly outstrip all but the most ambitious baking schedules. Even in the past week I've baked two loaves of bread and made a big batch of pancakes. Two people just can't eat that much. Even when it looks this fine:

Sourdough loaf

The crumb's dense, soft and chewy; the taste is intensely sourdough. It's great simply toasted (or not) and spread with butter. But it takes more attention and effort than I'd like to give it: a wet, near-batter dough sits overnight; in the morning, it requires kneading with additional flour; after several hours of proofing, it's time to shape, followed by several more hours of proofing before it's ready to bake. I'd originally tried it using the no-knead recipe, but that only yielded an uninflated, gluten-free mass of dough. The sourdough, it seems, prevents that lazy method of gluten formation that I've become such a fan of.

This wasn't such an issue with sourdough pancakes, however. Normally a pancake recipe that's allowed an overnight rest to develop bubbles from instant yeast, I'd decided to give it a shot with the sourdough starter. There was no recipe to follow for this one, so I just had to wing it.

Pro: They were pancakes with real sourdough flavor.

Con: They weren't so much pancakes as crepes.

The difficulty, it seems, is that sourdough just doesn't produce the same vigorous bubbling that commercially available yeasts do. So, when the yeasts were supposed to metabolize the available sugars faster and faster as the pancakes cooked on the griddle, they just weren't up to the task. Hence the sourdough crepes. Sourdough blueberry crepes, actually, which was definitely messier than expected, but worth the cleanup.1

And, speaking of irritating kitchen cleanups, I've also finished my first batches of sausage since moving to Pennsylvania. Nothing quite like a sinkful of bowls, grinders, and other items crusted with bits of raw meat to make one wonder if the effort's really worth it.2

The first sausage, at Sharon's request, was another batch of the "chicken marsala" sausage that had been such a hit before. It's chicken, with sauteed shiitake mushrooms, roasted garlic, onions and marsala wine, loaded with enough fat to keep it all moist through the cooking. It's great with some relatively simple starches - fresh egg pasta or spätzle would be a fine choice - and whatever green vegetables are in season. Though, as an accompaniment, it's hard to go wrong with some garlicky spinach, just barely wilted.

The other sausage, since I had some extra meat, was a chicken variation on Mexican chorizo. It's normal to have it loose, rather than stuffed in casings, and I couldn't complain about not having to clean the sausage stuffer twice. A pair of leg quarters from an older bird - hence liberally studded with fat - plus salt and a range of spices, run through the grinder and moistened with a little tequila and vinegar. It's the sort of sausage I could make on a whim one night.

Toss it in a hot pan with onions and garlic, sear up a few scallops, and add some chopped tomato until just barely softened, and you're ninety percent of the way to a great dinner.

Scallops and chorizo

Assuming you don't have a meat grinder, or that it's too much effort to use it and clean it, here's a version using ground meat. Turkey or pork would work equally well, though in all cases it's best to get the fattiest ground meat available. Good sausage is about 30% fat, which not only adds a lot of flavor, but also contributes enough moisture to keep the meat from seeming dry and rubbery if overcooked.
Mexican-style chicken chorizo
Makes approximately one pound of loose sausage

Ingredients
  • One pound ground chicken, or ground chicken with added pork fat (30% fat is ideal)
  • 8 grams kosher salt, or slightly more than half a tablespoon
  • ½ tablespoon ancho chilli powder
  • ½ teaspoon paprika
  • ½ teaspoon chipotle chilli powder
  • ¼ teaspoon ground black pepper
  • ¼ teaspoon dried oregano (or ½ teaspoon fresh)
  • 1/8 teaspoon cumin
  • ½ tablespoon tequila
  • ½ tablespoon cider vinegar
Directions
  1. In a bowl, mix together the meat and spices for about a minute, until thoroughly combined. Add the tequila and cider vinegar, stirring until completely absorbed.

  2. If desired, cook up a small piece to check the seasonings, and adjust as necessary. Store in the refrigerator and use within a few days or store in the freezer, tightly wrapped in plastic.
* * * * *

1This stands in stark contrast to the one and only time I made blueberry waffles. Delicious, yes, but cleaning caramelized blueberry out of the waffle iron is one of the least enjoyable kitchen tasks I've ever undertaken.

2It is. I wonder the same thing after every batch of homebrew, but it always is.

08 August 2007

The Bitch is back.

Lewisburg.

In this case, I'm referring to the latest sourdough starter,1 not the Elton John song. Though that episode of This American Life where Starlee Kine and Jon Langford assemble a band from the classified ads to play "Rocketman" is pretty sweet. But I digress.

This is my second attempt at a sourdough starter, a few years after the last one succumbed to what I suspect was a bacterial infection. Regular time at home - necessary for the frequent feedings and baking a starter requires - had been in short supply from then until now. So far, so good, as you can see:

Sourdough starter

The summer heat, it seems, is moving the process along briskly. This may present some problems, especially over the long term, but I'll just have to wait and see. A sourdough starter is essentially a living colony of wild yeasts and bacteria - usually lactic acid bacteria, hence the "sour" quality - that offers a handful of pros and cons in bread baking. Some sourdough facts gleaned from Harold McGee's On Food And Cooking:
  • The bacteria help delay staling, and the acids help prevent spoilage.

  • The more acidic conditions of the dough reduce Maillard browning reactions, resulting in a lighter-colored loaf.

  • Sourdoughs don't rise well; the bacterial populations outnumber the yeasts by several orders of magnitude, inhibiting gas production. In addition, the acids and protein-digesting enzymes weaken the dough's gluten network.

  • Starters require frequent feedings, since microbes consume nutrients rapidly, and refreshing the starter dilutes the buildup of acids and other growth-inhibiting substances. Twice a day is the standard, though some starters may require more than that. Liquid starters, in which the microbes have easier access to nutrients, require more frequent attention than more solid starters.

  • Starters work best for breadmaking when they're at their most active, bubbling away.

  • Temperature control is important. Yeasts thrive best at 68-78°F; bacteria at 86-96°F. Thus, starters and rising doughs work best when kept relatively cool.

  • Salt's a good thing. It limits the effects of the protein-digesting enzymes from the starter's bacteria, and helps tighten the gluten network.
With that in mind - though limited by the fact that I have no control over temperatures in the house2 - I've modified the (previously successful) recipe for a wild yeast starter from Joy. The only real modification I've made is to include salt, guessing that the same proportion I use for bread ought to work well; a teaspoon salt per cup flour doesn't seem to inhibit yeast growth. Joy also mentions that some starters are made with fresh or dried hops - originally used in beer brewing to retard bacterial spoilage - but, as I don't have any handy right now, they'll have to be part of a future batch.
Wild Yeast Sourdough Starter

Ingredients
  • Bread flour
  • Salt
  • Water
Directions
  1. In a very clean, small mixing bowl, mix together ½ cup bread flour, ¼ cup room-temperature water, and ½ teaspoon salt. Stir together until you start to see signs of gluten formation - the development of stringiness and elasticity. Cover tightly with plastic wrap, and use the tip of a sharp knife to poke half a dozen holes in the plastic. Let stand at room temperature, away from drafts, for 12 hours.

  2. Mix another ½ cup bread flour, ¼ cup room-temperature water, and ½ teaspoon salt into the starter. Re-cover the bowl and let stand another 12 hours.

  3. Transfer the starter to a clean bowl, and stir in another feeding (½ cup bread flour, ¼ cup room-temperature water, and ½ teaspoon salt). Re-cover and let stand another twelve hours. If, by this point, the starter has not risen and started bubbling, discard and start over.

  4. Stir in another feeding, and cover the bowl with new plastic, without holes. Continue feeding, every 12 hours, for another day. The starter should have a slight sour aroma, and is best used when at its bubbliest, about halfway between feedings. If twice-daily feedings result in more starter than you can use, refrigerate and feed weekly.
I'll try to post more as the sourdough-making process continues. Provided, of course, that I remember to feed The Bitch, or she'll die.

* * * * *

1As I'd noted before, the name comes from Anthony Bourdain's Kitchen Confidential, and will, before long, result in a kitchen sign reading, "Feed The Bitch or she'll die!"

2No air conditioning. And the rather small basement keeps nice and toasty due to the oil furnace that provides us with hot water and, come wintertime, heat throughout the house. So, unless I come across an inexpensive secondhand refrigerator that I can override with a controllable thermostat, the starter'll just have to deal with ambient air temperatures. Unfortunately, the same limitations apply to homebrewing, which is decidedly less forgiving than bread baking - and which is all the more reason to keep my eyes open for a spare fridge.

02 August 2007

Blueberry-peach jam.

Lewisburg.

We have - at long last - a fully-functioning kitchen. Or as close as we're going to get.

New kitchen

With shelves - so that we're no longer digging spices out of boxes and bubble wrap - and counter space - so that cooking needn't be intensely choreographed - we can finally make food like we're used to. Like yesterday's foray into jam-making.

We missed the boat for strawberry jam; it wasn't possible before we moved, which coincided with the end of the season anyway. So far, we haven't had much luck finding orchards that offer pick-you-own - one for sour cherries; another for blueberries - so our options are rather limited. Facing the prospect of no homemade jam, for ourselves or for holiday gifts, we decided to see what we could do with blueberries.

My mom had suggested blueberry-peach jam, which she'd made years ago, long before she gave us her old canning equipment. So, armed with ten quarts1 of handpicked blueberries and a big basket of peach "seconds", we went to work.

Sharon found a recipe for a spiced blueberry-peach jam from the "National Center for Home Food Preservation" online, which seemed as good a place to start as any. We didn't mess with it too much, except to change the spices: keep the cinnamon, but swap out the cloves and allspice for star anise and lavender. That, and to double the recipe, which produced well more than twice their estimated yield.

This seems to happen to me with some regularity. I always end up with more jam than the recipe thinks I might. This is only a problem when there aren't enough clean jars and I'm busy trying to deal with the spilled jam that's managed to catch fire beneath the electric burner, licking flames up the sides of the pot. It certainly added a little excitement to the day.

But the result was a definite success, coupled with a fair amount of cleaning:

Blueberry-peach jam

Blueberry-peach jam with star anise and lavender
Makes about 4 pints

Ingredients
  • 4 cups blueberries
  • 4 cups peaches, chopped
  • 2 tablespoons lemon juice
  • ½ cup water
  • 5½ cups sugar
  • ½ teaspoon salt
  • 1 3-inch stick cinnamon
  • 4 points star anise
  • ½ tablespoon dried lavender
Directions
  1. Place the water in a small saucepan with the cinnamon and star anise. Bring just to a boil, then cover and remove from the heat. Allow to steep at least thirty minutes before removing the spices.

  2. Place the spice-infused water, fruit, and lemon juice to a large pot and bring to a boil. Boil for ten minutes., stirring occasionally.

  3. Add the salt, sugar, and lavender, stirring to dissolve. Bring back to the boil, and stir constantly until the jam thickens. Remove from the heat.

  4. If canning into pint or half-pint jars, leave ¼-inch headspace and process in a boiling water bath for 10 minutes. Alternately, refrigerate and use immediately.
Just try not to eat it all in one sitting.

Edit: I've revised the quantities of spices in the jam; I'd originally listed them as I'd measured for the doubled recipe.

* * * * *

1Not that all of those were ever destined for jam. There are two pies' worth in the freezer, as well as a bunch of small bags set to go for pancakes, muffins, or whatever sounds good. Then there's the pandowdy recipe that looks good - something like a cobbler - and blueberry pancakes planned for brunch on Sunday.

29 July 2007

Bathed bread.

Lewisburg.

Adapting to a new kitchen is always tricky, whether it be cooking dinner at a friend's place or, currently for me, making the adjustments to a new home. Cooking is now complicated by a variety of factors: the sink's in a separate room from the stove and refrigerator1; the only counter space is what we've provided2; and the contents of our pantry are still in boxes until the new shelves are delivered. Tomorrow, assuming all goes well.

On the upside, we've been fortunate in finding good, fresh, local food. The growers' market, which takes place on Friday afternoons, is fairly small, so the result is that the vegetables have pretty much been harvested that morning. Our new potatoes were dug the night before, and the farmer actually apologized for it. As though we were capable of discerning the difference.

So, what to do with all that fresh food? Since good bread's tougher to come by, and I've been making the no-knead recipe pretty regularly, it's seemed like a good time for sandwiches. Nice, keep-the-apartment-cool-style sandwiches. A boule, though, doesn't make for great sandwich slices, not like one done in a loaf pan. And I haven't rigged up a loaf pan enclosure for that wonderfully crispy crust just yet.

Plus, summer's a great time to fire up the grill. We'd gotten an unusual chicken - I forget the breed name - at the market, one with massive legs and, as a result, loads of dark meat. Grill plus chicken tends to mean barbecued chicken, even if a whole bird's more than the two of us could possibly eat at once.

So? I looked in one of my new books, Mark Bittman's How To Cook Everything, which is essentially a different take on the same ground that Joy covers. With Bittman's usual minimalist twist, of course. Good, simple ideas; easily adaptable. The result?

Pan bagna

Pan bagna, or bathed bread. It's a monstrous sandwich, enough to feed four, or six with a couple of hearty side dishes. Since I already had the coals going for the barbecued chicken, I took advantage and tossed on the chicken breasts and some eggplant, as well. The whole process takes a long time - overnight, at least - but without much active cooking. The day of, you've got an easily-sliced, readily-transportable, pre-made and heat-free meal. A side salad, pickles and chips, and you're all set.

Suffice to say, the following recipe's just a very basic guideline. What follows is what I made, given what I had lying about; every subsequent sandwich is going to be unique.

Pan Bagna
Serves four

Ingredients
  • One 1½ lb. boule loaf
  • Two chicken breasts, grilled, with salt and pepper
  • One medium eggplant, in ¼-inch slices, salted and grilled
  • One large tomato, thinly sliced
  • Two small onions, slowly caramelized in butter
  • Three hard-boiled eggs, thinly sliced
  • A handful of fresh mint leaves
  • Parmesan cheese, freshly grated
  • Salt and pepper to taste
Directions
  1. Slice the bread horizontally - as if it were a giant hamburger bun - and open it up. Pull out approximately half of the crumb, trying to leave an even layer all around.

  2. Fill the cavity with layers of ingredients. Since you'll eventually be slicing it like a cake, arranging layers of varying colors looks best. Pile it high, and set the top of the loaf back on.

  3. Wrap the sandwich tightly in foil. Set on a plate, with another plate on top, upside down, and weigh it all down. The more weight, the better; boxes of salt or large cans work well. Place in the refrigerator overnight.

  4. To serve, unwrap from the foil and slice in quarters (or sixths). The overnight pressing will have allowed the bread to soak up all of the meat and vegetable juices, while compacting it all into a stable sandwich that can be eaten with one hand.

    It's possible to slice it into eighths, as well, though it's tougher to keep it all together as the wedges get smaller; I wouldn't try for anything less than that. Alternately, you could reheat the entire sandwich - still in foil - in a 300F oven for fifteen or twenty minutes before slicing.
* * * * *

1It seems as though the house was originally built without indoor plumbing; a subsequent small bumpout on the side houses everything that needs water.

2So, in other words, it's minimal. We're working on it, but for now cooking takes a significant amount of planning for anything but the simplest meals.

20 July 2007

The central PA movie scene. Or lack thereof.

Downingtown.

Sure, we don't (currently) own a television. This makes the DVD collection somewhat difficult to put to good use, but it'll be remedied in due time. No Four Star-equivalent, so I suppose Netflix'll have to fill the void.

Could be worse, I suppose. It could be Blockbuster or nothing. Last I'd checked, they won't carry anything with an NC-17 rating. Any place that refuses to carry Crash likely won't have a great selection of envelope-pushing art films.

And Lewisburg doesn't have much in the way of movie theaters. The Campus Theatre is a sweet, Art Deco, single-screen cinema from 1941, literally around the corner from our house. They can get some interesting films - including an annual documentary film festival - but the single screen limits the selection. There's a multiplex over in Selinsgrove, and probably another somewhere north of town, but nothing that'll show anything that's not intended as a mass-market blockbuster.

None of that quashes the need for movies. We'd caught Ratatouille at the Campus, which is well worth anyone's seven bucks. (Or whatever.) With the Pixar and Disney - especially Disney - labels, I get the impression it's been unfairly pigeonholed as a "family film". As in, something that kids can watch that won't give their parents epileptic fits. I got that impression from one of Sharon's co-workers, who'd basically dismissed it as popcorn fare. Summer season filler.

But it's Brad Bird! After three1 films, he's toeing the line of auteur. Yes, he makes films that any child can watch, but are intended to communicate to an adult audience. He has, after all, commented that "animation can do any genre; it's unfortunately limited by what people are willing to pay for. I think you could make an animated horror film. You could make an animated film about divorce if you wanted to, and make a good one."2 And, as A.O. Scott writes in his review, Ratatouille "provides the kind of deep, transporting pleasure, at once simple and sophisticated, that movies at their best have always promised."

Think of any great director's work, and how that comment sums it up. From Akira Kurosawa to Billy Wilder to, say, Richard Linklater, that seemingly effortless combination of complexity and accessibility makes for cinema that draws you in, engages you, and brings you back again and again. Whether it be to watch the film once more or to simply to recall it, to think about it more profoundly days or weeks later. Though that may not be the surest sign of a great film, it describes one that's made a connection.

And for films that connect - sometimes with a gentle caress, sometimes with a thunderous, earth-shattering impact - there's no more reliable source than the Criterion Collection. It doesn't contain all of the greatest films ever made, though that's likely more an issue with publishing rights than anything else. Reading through the Laserdisc list - all out of print - in addition to the expanding DVD list gives a thorough picture of the films that Criterion would release, given the chance. (For example: Kubrick films other than Spartacus.) If it's on that list, you can feel assured that it's worth your time.

It's also exciting to note that Criterion has an offshoot label now: Eclipse. In order to make important films from cinema history more available and affordable, these boxed sets forgo the lavish extras, the commentaries and documentaries. Instead, they're lovely little capsules of cinema art, tiny explorations of a single director's work, whether it be the early (or late) work of a world-class auteur or the little-known side projects. Genuinely cool.

And while I'm at it, I might as well mention that it's within striking distance for the latest Cronenberg film, Eastern Promises. It's hard to know quite what the film is about, even from the trailer; the more straightforward Cronenberg's work seems at first glance, the more subtle the actual message turns out. I'm avoiding summaries and potential spoilers, figuring that I'd rather be shocked and surprised the first time through. From the trailer, it almost looks like it's retracing the steps of A History of Violence, but somehow I doubt that very much.

After all, trailers can be deceptive.

* * * * *

1The Iron Giant, The Incredibles, and Ratatouille. Plus two Krusty-centered episodes of The Simpsons and the fantastic Family Dog short.

2Also in the A.V. Club interview: "That's what I would like, to do something that's cool a hundred years from now."

13 July 2007

Lewisburg - the new local.

Lewisburg.

It's official: we've moved back east. There are certainly things to be missed from Madison - dinner and drinks at Natt Spil; the jam-packed aisles of Four Star Video Heaven; Lake Louie beer - but it's time to make do with the best of what's available here. And there is a small, but entirely adequate, local growers' market on Friday afternoons.

SVGM sign

They call it the growers' market to distinguish it from the farmers' market, which is significantly larger, though it's hard to tell who there is actually a farmer. That one's on the edge of town, partly inside an enclosed building and partly sprawling outside; there's plenty of food, but not much of it exciting. Not a single organic sign anywhere; only about a third of the produce was labeled as "homegrown";1 none of the meat seemed to be grass-fed, or pastured, or hormone/antibiotic free - it could be, but there wasn't a sign in sight; and there were stands selling all sorts of assorted crap, from used romance novels to jewelry and coin appraisals to airbrushed t-shirts of fish2 and deer. We did pick up some sour cherries and black raspberries - an east coast luxury we never did find in Wisconsin - and lingered a bit at the fish counter, but that was about it.

The Susquehanna Valley Growers' Market, on the other hand, is an all-local, producer-only market, with perhaps a dozen vendors. It sets up in the parking lot behind the municipal building, so close to our new place that we can see it from the front porch. For a market so small, the selection's remarkably good; in its third year, things seem like they're becoming well-established.

SVGM

You can find: heirloom vegetables; pasture-raised poultry and pork; grass-fed beef; raw-milk cheese; baked goods; hot sauces and salsa; flowers; and hot food to eat while you meander. Our neighbors - who'd lived in San Francisco and Austin prior to Lewisburg - had recommended it to us, but made sure to warn us that it was small. Even so, we came home with a mighty haul, having spent a good while getting to know the new folks who'll provide us with our food.

Market haul

Suffice to say, we're just about set for the week. We were so thrilled by the stuff we found, that I feel a need to list it all:
  • Pasture-raised chicken, slaughtered yesterday.

  • Pasture-raised Pekin duck, slaughtered yesterday.

  • Blueberries, along with an invitation to go pick our own.3

  • Raw-milk, washed-rind cheddar from grass-fed cow's milk.

  • Golden beets, white beets, and red beets.

  • Heirloom cucumbers, including the yellow lemon cucumbers.

  • Cut-this-morning salad mix with herbs and edible flowers.

  • Rainbow carrots.

  • Snap beans, both purple and green with purple striations.

  • Garlic.

  • Fresh bulb onions.

  • Eggs from free-range chickens.

  • New potatoes - though I forget the name of the variety, they sounded just like Purple Vikings: purple skin with a creamy, white interior.

  • Jalapeno-Vidalia onion salsa.

  • Sour cherry BBQ sauce.

  • Baked goods: a mixed-berry spelt scone and a spelt cinnamon roll.

  • And a fresh bouquet of flowers, including Black-Eyed Susans and four different colors of snapdragons.
So it's not the Madison markets so near and dear to us, but it's what we have. And I'm happy to have it.

Plus, most of the vendors had heard of Madison's DCFM. I don't think that any of them had ever been there, but they reckoned it was a sight to be seen.

* * * * *

1Or, in other words, local. Those big piles of watermelons sure aren't from this far north, at least not yet.

2The airbrush, that sure sign of American sophistication. For several fine examples of the airbrushed-fish style, check out the extras on the A History Of Violence DVD; specifically, the "Fish Friday" bit in the making-of documentary.

3Since the timing was all wrong for us to make a big batch of strawberry jam this year, we'll have to give blueberries a try. My mom recommended blueberry-peach jam, which sounds rather tempting.

10 June 2007

Strawberries!

Madison.

Strawberry patch

'Tis the season for strawberries, that sure sign of summer's imminent arrival. Local strawberries, of course, and preferably organic ones. I don't care if California berries are available virtually year-round; if the tips aren't red when they're picked, I'm not interested. And the shelf life of a ripe strawberry1 isn't enough to get them very far.

We're just shy of pick-your-own strawberry season on the farm - it starts on Friday - but being an employee means I get the perk of stopping by to harvest as the urge strikes. So, on Saturday afternoon, Sharon and I picked a little over two quarts' worth of ripe berries to enjoy for the week. Or as long as they last.

Strawberries

They're great just brushed clean - washed only when necessary - or macerated in sugar and booze, be it wine, rum or Grand Marnier. Or, in our case, the Triple Sec that's hanging about from the last time we made margaritas. Add a little of your favorite rich, dairy goodness - cream's traditional, but there's nothing wrong with yogurt, a soft cheese or ice cream - and it's about as good as dessert gets.

Of course, when you also have a few pounds of fresh rhubarb lying about, a little extra effort's highly rewarding. Though most people seem to think of the strawberry-rhubarb combination2 first and foremost, their seasons don't overlap for long, at least around here. The flavors complement each other well, but it's a short window in late spring.

So, when the chance is there, it's best to run with it. Saturday night, with fresh berries and rhubarb, it was time for cobbler. Yes, pies are nice, but my crust-making skills are marginal. And I wanted something with more crunch to it than shortcake or clafoutis. What could possibly be better - or easier - than fruit cooked with free-form biscuits? That's all that a cobbler is - fruit and sugar on the bottom, with biscuits baked on top.

Strawberry rhubarb cobbler

This recipe's swiped (nearly) directly from Joy, but it was good right out of the oven, a day later on a picnic, and so easy that it's worth making again.
Strawberry Rhubarb Cobbler
Makes six to eight servings

Ingredients
  • Cornmeal cobbler biscuit dough (below)
  • 1¼ pounds rhubarb, sliced into ¼-inch pieces
  • 1 pint strawberries, hulled and cut into bite-size pieces
  • ½ cup sugar
  • 2 tablespoons flour
Cornmeal cobbler biscuit dough:
  • 1 cup all-purpose flour
  • 1/3 cup cornmeal
  • 2 tablespoons sugar
  • ½ tablespoon baking powder
  • ½ teaspoon salt
  • 5 tablespoons cold, unsalted butter
  • ½ cup cold milk
Directions
  1. Preheat the oven to 375°F. Mix the rhubarb, strawberries, sugar and flour together in a bowl, and allow to sit for at least fifteen minutes. Pour the mixture - juices and all - into a 9-inch pie pan, an 8x8-inch baking pan, or any dish of similar size.

  2. Prepare the biscuit dough, as follows: whisk together the flour, cornmeal, sugar, baking powder and salt in a bowl. Using a pastry cutter or a pair of knives, cut in the butter until there are chunks no larger than small peas. Add in the milk, stirring just until the dough comes together. Knead against the side of the bowl a few times until any loose pieces are incorporated.

  3. On a lightly floured board, roll or pat out the cobbler dough until roughly the shape of the baking dish. (Alternately, you can cut it into shapes, make a lattice, or simply pinch off walnut-sized wads.) Set on top of the fruit mixture - cut a few steam vents if covering the fruit completely - and dust with sugar.

  4. Bake until the juices are bubbling and the dough is golden brown, approximately 45 minutes. All to cool for 15 minutes before serving, either on its own or with some vanilla ice cream.
* * * * *

1Which is still more than ripe raspberries, another seasonal delight that's unparalleled straight from the berry patch.

2Strawberry-rhubarb pie being the usual, but I'm partial to the strawberry-rhubarb bars from Cress Spring Bakery. I've been enjoying one nearly every week for the past month and a half.

How to cut apart a whole chicken.

Madison.

Selling chickens at the farmers' market, there's one question I often get that's always a little depressing:
Typical question: Do you have chicken breasts?

Typical response: Yes. They're attached to the rest of the bird.
Some people are mildly amused by this, but it doesn't do much to sell chickens. It's part of that dance you have to do with people you know'll never buy anything. Then there's a step beyond, where the (unlikely) customer's comment is a dismissal, a slight apology that she1 would feel bad buying a whole bird. Think of all that waste!

As if purchasing boneless, skinless chicken breasts at a grocery store - shrink-wrapped in plastic, free of any evidence of their origin - didn't result in waste. Who buys chicken backs? Or excess chicken skin? Or even a quantity of dark meat to offset the sheer volume of chicken breasts consumed? Presumably some of it does get sold, somewhere, somehow,2 though I haven't any real idea as to the details. Heavily processed food products or CAFO animal feed, I suppose.

I then discovered that most of the other workers on the farm - all of whom have the opportunity to take a chicken home each week - didn't really know how to cook a chicken. Four of them did manage to roast a chicken one night, though they spent a good deal of time second-guessing each other. Parts are easier to deal with, as a general rule, but none of them knew how to cut up a chicken. In the end, it turned out well; that said, four people spending three hours roasting a chicken each week seems a bit much.

Below's my preferred method for breaking down a whole chicken. Sure, there are all sorts of different ways to do it, depending on what the end product's supposed to be, but this method covers most of the bases. Leaving the breasts on the bone is another good alternative, as is butterflying, but those'll have to wait until another time.

How to cut apart a whole chicken.

Step one: Purchase a whole chicken and thaw it thoroughly, if necessary. The refrigerator's a good place, if you have a few days; a sink full of cold water's even better.3 Microwave defrosting's generally poor, as it tends to partially cook some sections while leaving others still frozen; a kitchen countertop's an open invitation to food poisoning. Same goes for a low oven.

Make sure to remove the neck and giblets from the chicken's gut cavity. Cook 'em up as you like or save them for the stockpot. (Except for the liver. Liver in stock equals unpleasantness.)

Get a large, sharp knife, if possible. I like to use a heavy chef's knife with an eight-inch blade, but I've done it with a bargain-bin serrated steak knife when pressed. The results aren't as nice, and it certainly takes longer, but you work with what you've got.

Latex gloves are helpful, but not necessary. I use one for my left hand, to keep it clean, and don't let my right hand touch anything but the knife handle so it's free to turn the water on and off, grab paper towels, etc. If you go bare-handed, you'll just need to wash thoroughly with hot, soapy water before touching anything around the kitchen. A faucet that can be operated with your elbows is a real plus in this case.

Set the whole chicken on a cutting board, breast side up, like so:

whole chicken

The first step is to remove one of the leg quarters. Grasping the end of the drumstick, pull the leg away from the body until the skin pulls taut. Slice down through the skin, and through the flesh surrounding the hip joint, all the way around. You should be able to figure out where the joint is located by moving the leg around.

When you've cut down to the joint, roll the bird on its side and, holding firmly on the thigh, bend the leg over the back until it the bone pops out of the hip joint. Use the knife to cut the connecting tendons - the blade should be able to slide easily through the space between the ball and socket of the joint - and set the leg quarter aside. Repeat with the other leg.

removing chicken leg

Removing the wings is a similar process, although the joint is a little more difficult to locate. Rotate the wing until you can identify the shoulder joint, and cut carefully all around, through the skin and flesh around the bone. Bend the wind over the back until the joint pops loose, and cut the tendons with the knife, just like with the leg quarters. Set aside and repeat with the other wing.

removing chicken wing

To remove the breast meat from the rib cage, locate the ridge of the keel bone with your finger. Make a long, shallow cut just to one side of the bone, following the edge of the keel bone and turning to following the curve of the wishbone near the neck.

Using the tip of the knife, slide the blade against the surface of the bone. The blade will follow the curve of the bone, allowing you to remove the breast in one clean piece. Until you get the knack for it, use small, brief strokes; the skeletal shape will reveal itself as you work. Repeat for the other breast.

removing chicken breast

Now's the time to cut apart the leg quarters into thighs and drumsticks. Like before, you'll want to flex the joint - in this case, the knee - to determine where to cut. Slice all the way around, until you can see the connection between the two bones. Rather than snap them apart, you'll want to work the tip of the knife into the joint, cutting apart the tendons; do it correctly, and the two pieces will simply fall apart.

This may be the toughest joint to locate visually, and requires the most care with a knife. If you're not confident with your knife skills, consider leaving the leg quarters intact until after cooking.

splitting chicken leg

This leaves the following chicken pieces:
  • Two (2) boneless breasts
  • Two (2) thighs
  • Two (2) drumsticks
  • Two (2) wings - which could also be broken down into smaller pieces at the joints
  • Miscellaneous chunks of carcass and giblets (not pictured)
chicken parts

The remains of the carcass are best used in the stockpot; freeze the parts in zip-top freezer bags until you're ready. Some small pieces, like the heart, gizzard, pope's nose, etc., can always be cooked up as a little snack while you're making the rest of dinner. You can also keep an eye out for large fat deposits - there's often one around the tail, and a smaller one around the throat - for rendering schmaltz (chicken fat).

Though it may seem imposing the first time around, cutting apart a chicken becomes easy with just a little practice. This time, I was able to go from bird to pieces in seven minutes, including the pauses to take photos with my clean hand. The same process applies to other birds, including ducks and turkeys, though be sure to watch carefully for places where the bone structure is slightly different.

More work than buying shrink-wrapped meaty bits right off the shelf? Yes, but not by much.

* * * * *

1It could be anyone of any gender, but the first time I heard this was from a middle-aged woman, so she's the one I picture each time I think of it.

2I recall reading in the New York Times that most of the chicken wingtips - that half-bone, half-skin, no-meat bit beyond the typical Buffalo wing parts - in the United States are shipped to China. For what I don't know.

3Moving water's even better, having to do with better heat transfer with water rather than air, and with moving fluids rather than still ones.