Notes from Scotland.

Edinburgh, Scotland.

After numerous flights, trains and ferries through various parts of Europe¹, Sharon and I find ourselves in Edinburgh, enjoying a few days of genuinely lovely weather. Just last night, as we arrived from Athens, the last of the rain had moved along, delaying flights before ours but letting us through unscathed. I'll be posting a fair bit about our travels once we return home - and I've had a chance to sort through the more than four hundred photos² - and I can transfer my notes from miscellaneous, brief throughts into a coherent series of narratives.

Until then, a brief bit to keep the post-to-post span from stretching too long:

Stopped into a wonderful little Scottish gem this morning: the Edinburgh Farmers' Market. Situated in the shadow of Edinburgh Castle, it's a dual row of vendor stalls set up along the sidewalk. Walking space is a little tight, but the variety and quality of local Scottish food available at the end of March was a very pleasant surprise. We'd just eaten breakfast beforehand - forgetting that these UK markets aren't restricted from preparing food there, to serve, unlike in Madison - and were wishing we'd had room for dry-aged Aberdeen-Angus burgers, or heritage pork sandwiches, or any of the other sizzling goodies that smelled so wonderful.³

Instead, we picked up some Scottish oatcakes, a mixed bag of gourmet truffles - with flavors like blackcurrant and pastis, and white chocolate with violet - and chatted with Nick Paul, who was busy double-frying up batches of fresh potato chips at The Crisp Hut. He was selling copies of The Scottish Farmers' Market Cookbook, a collection of recipes based on the local meats and produce available at Scottish markets. Specifically Scottish, since he felt that the Scots were underrepresented in some of the most recent British market books published.⁴ For a few pounds, it was worth picking up a copy.

Signed, too, which is always a hoot. I'll work my way through the recipes in the coming months, adapting them for the local Wisconsin markets. Those that work out well - a quick scan suggests that's not a problem - I'll post about as I get to them.

* * * * *

¹London and southern England, then Athens and the Cycladic island of Naxos, in Greece, and now Scotland.

²So far. It'll be pushing the six hundred mark should I actually end up filling up the memory card; thus far, the battery seems like it's going strong.

³To be precise: I was longing for the meat products; Sharon had her eye on the pastries.

⁴Not to mention that the two popular ones he noted - the names of which I've forgotten - were written by foreigners.

Kölsch update.

Madison.

I've had a number of folks ask about the status of the last batch of homebrew, and, in short, I still don't know. My position at this point is that, should there be two cases of intact bottles when I return from Europe after two weeks, I'll consider it a success. Here's the breakdown, as I understand it:

• The January basement temperature was far too cold for ale yeast, but wouldn't keep cold long enough for lagering, so the fermentation had to take place in the apartment proper. I managed to make this work last year, but it appears that the temperature swings for this batch forced a large proportion of the yeast to precipitate out prematurely.¹ When I racked to the secondary, not a whole lot of yeast made the trip.
  
  
• After a week in the primary, the specific gravity had dropped to 1.022, well above the 1.013 target for this batch. So, I gave it a three weeks in the secondary, until all signs of fermentation had stopped, before bottling.
  
  
• When prepping for bottling, I dropped the hydrometer.² Crossing my fingers, I went ahead and bottled anyway, then tested again a week later when I had a chance to pick up another hydrometer. The result? 1.022 again, meaning there's plenty of sugars left in those bottles to keep any remaining yeast well-fed. And producing copious amounts of carbon dioxide inside closed, breakable containers.
  
  
• Two weeks after bottling, the beer's fully carbonated, and the gravity's dropped to 1.020. At this point, the beer smells pretty good, but the continuing fermentation has me worried. Perhaps the cooler basement temperatures can slow the process down.
  
  
• Now, the bottles are inside their cases, wrapped in a dual layer of heavy-duty trash bags. If they break - assuming that any bottle explosions aren't violent enough to tear open the bags - at least I'll have less mess to clean.

In two weeks: drinkable beer or an expensive lesson learned. Also: pictures or brand-new labels or broken glass!

* * * * *

¹Yeast are really finicky about temperature, which is why I usually ferment in the basement, where the earth's thermal mass really moderates the temperature variation. Too much temperature change will usually cause them to go dormant, as will temperatures below their preferred range; too high and they simply die en masse; and differences of just a few degrees can drastically affect the flavor profile produced during fermentation.

²Not that this really needs to be said, but don't drop one of these. In addition to making it impossible to check the beer's gravity, they're made of very thin, delicate glass that's alarmingly difficult to find when scattered across the kitchen floor.

Sea cucumber, anyone?

Chicago.

For my last night¹ in Chicago, some coworkers and I went out for dinner and drinks, with the extra bonus that it got us out of a frighteningly dull and awkward trade organization meeting. Chinese food at Silver Seafood, followed by drinks and jazz at the Green Mill Jazz Club, one of Al Capone's old haunts.

There's nothing quite like going to a restaurant that serves - the the standard American palate - genuinely bizzare food. Granted, not everything at Silver Seafood is odd; in fact, the majority of the twelve-plus page menu was filled with only slightly less Americanized versions of Chinese staples. Think less deep-fried, more seafood. But when I see a list packed with things I've never seen, much less tasted, I've got to try something unusual. After all, when's the next time I'll get to a place that serves shark fin soup?

No, I didn't order it. Aside from the ethical and sustainability issues it would raise, it's spectacularly expensive ($78, I think) and requires ordering a day in advance. But I did manage to creep out the other six people at the table with what I did order. Honestly, when the menu categories include Frog and Abalone and Sea Cucumber in addition to the usual Pork and Chicken, someone's got to get something out of the ordinary. And the rest of the table just wasn't up to the challenge.²

I was genuinely tempted by the abalone and the sea cucumber, but they were just too pricey, especially since I knew no one would let me pay for dinner. The "duck tongue in X.O. sauce" was also calling to me, as were the jellyfish, the fried intestines, and the fish bladder soup, but there's only so much that one person can eat in a sitting. So I ended up going with the boneless duck webs as an appetizer, followed by the frog in black bean sauce. And I managed to convince one person to get a hot pot with head-on shrimp, which I consider a victory.

I don't know that I'd order the duck webs again, though that's more because they have no flavor. Zero. The sauce was nice, slighty spicy-sweet, but the webs - the feet, sans bones - were all about the cartilaginous texture, a dense, rubbery chewy that fell just short of crunchy. The best part, I must admit, was the "Are you sure?" I got from the waitress. Either that, or when I was able to convince three other people to try them.

The frog, which consisted of leg chunks, was decent, but pretty low on the flavor scale, too. The meat, fall-apart tender and still wrapped around its little bones, was halfway between chicken breast and whitefish, only milder, which would explain why it was always served with a strongly-flavored sauce, like black bean or curry. Not bad, even though you have to constantly be vigilant so as not to chomp down on a bone.

The head-on shrimp were stellar. The shrimp flavor was more intense than you'd expect, though I only ate one. After making a phenomenal mess of my fingers peeling the shell, I used most of my napkin just cleaning off the sauce. But sucking the juices out of the head? Delicious. And the meat - and everything, really - seemed to take on so much more shrimp flavor from those shells.

There were so many leftovers, from everything, that we've got a lunch buffet ready for today. At least now I can eat the shrimp next to a sink.

After that, we waddled across the street to the Green Mill, and spent a few hours listening to a sixteen-piece swing band and watching the mostly older crowd - a very nice woman was telling us about how she learned to dance in 1939 - dance up a storm. Sure, the music wasn't anything earth-shattering, but it made for a nice backdrop that was at that right level of loud to allow conversation only when you wanted it. Glass of bourbon, sit back, and enjoy.

* * * * *

¹Last night I was obligated to be here for work, that is. Potential future visits to do fun things don't count.

²Not even Miory, who, like me, will happily eat fish eyes. Though, to give her credit, she was willing to try everything, and gave her approval of the duck webs. They reminded her of squid, which she's apparently only ever had overcooked.

Poached egg ravioli.

Madison.

How, you ask,¹ can one make the poached egg unnecessarily complicated? One way - as I'm sure your choices are manifold - is to make ravioli.



It's really more of a novelty than the sort of dish you might make on a regular basis, but it definitely opens up the door for some unusual sorts of filled pastas in the future. Maybe.

The impetus for the poached egg ravioli - for lack of a better term - came because I've been putting together a special menu for my friend Melissa's upcoming birthday. We'll be in London to visit her then, and I'm planning a multi-course meal² to celebrate. Keeping in mind that I'll be working in a foreign³ kitchen, scrambling for time and battling jet lag, it's a fine balancing act between food that tries to be elegant and a little innovative - or at least less than ordinary - and stuff that I can prepare and serve before the night disappears. I start with ideas that may be over the top, then scale them back.

Ravioli with a liquid center were definitely over the top. Pasta encasing its own sauce, if you will.⁴

I'd tossed about a few variations, considering how they might work. It could be as simple as tomato (or other) sauce, held inside and warmed through as the pasta cooked. Or, stepping up the complexity, a sauce bound with gelatin that could hold its shape while cold, then melting as it cooked. The problem, though, is that there didn't seem to be any benefit to doing things that way, except for the fun of cooking it. I don't suppose that egg yolk's significantly different, though making a poached egg in this way does offer an advantage or two.

The primary benefit, as I see it, is that this is a way to introduce additional flavors into the egg, while still maintaining that magical, breakable pouch of yolk. For this first attempt, I added some salt, black pepper and thyme, just to see how it would turn out, but the potential's pretty limitless. I'd really like to try it with a squid ink pasta sometime, assuming I can find some.



The process was fairly straightforward, though I made every effort to move quickly to keep the pasta supple and to avoid having the yolk filling's moisture oversaturate and weaken the ravioli. It went more or less like so:

• Separate the eggs. I used the yolks for the filling, and the whites to make the pasta dough.⁵ One could go the other direction, allowing the whites to set in the filling, for an interesting variation.
  
  
• Beat and flavor the yolks. With care, you could keep the yolks intact, using one per raviolo, but I don't trust myself with something that delicate. This way, I could mix in the flavorings as thoroughly as I liked, and could fill ravioli of any size.
  
  
• Knead and roll out the pasta. A pasta machine isn't necessary, assuming you've got fantastic rolling skills. I don't. So I ran the dough through the Atlas to number six, because I was hurrying and hadn't sufficiently developed the gluten network to go thinner. I'd recommend rolling it out as thinly as possible - eight, if you can - for the best texture. At that thickness, you might even be able to see a hint of the golden filling through the dough.
  
  
• Fill the ravioli. I used some tall, skinny glasses as forms, allowing a layer of pasta to droop down to form a small bowl. Then, with a pastry brush, I daubed on a little water, pressed on another layer of pasta to seal, and trimmed the edges on the cutting board. You'll have a lot more pasta than filling, so be generous with the pieces used to create the ravioli and eat the scraps later.
  
  
• Poach very gently. Sliding them carefully into a barely simmering⁶ pot of water, I waited three minutes, and plucked them out with a slotted spoon.

The result?



Al dente pasta filled with an herbed, runny yolk. If you look closely, you can see how the outer layers of yolk, against the pasta shell, have solidified, leaving just the core to run out onto the plate. Instant, rich, eggy sauce. Gimmicky? Yes. But they tasted great, and I'm thrilled that it worked out on the first try.

Enough to try it again, for sure.

* * * * *

¹You did ask, right?

²I know the menu, and Sharon has a pretty good idea, but otherwise it's a secret. Besides, it's all dependent on what's available at the Borough Market, so any plans are tentative, at best.

³Quite literally.

⁴Like the dog food that makes its own gravy. Only... never mind.

⁵Flour plus liquid, kneaded to develop the gluten, is the basic recipe for fresh pasta. Egg, especially the yolk, gives it a golden hue and a distinct richness, but I suspect that just about anything would work. For flavored pastas, I still use an egg-based dough, adding enough pureed spinach or tomato paste or whatever for flavor and color.

⁶Simmering, not boiling. There should be just the barest hint of bubbles breaking the water's (or stock's) surface.

Further baking experiments.

Madison.



Better than cornbread? It's a yeasted cornbread, and it's fantastic.¹ I'd commented that I wanted to continue experimenting with the no-knead bread recipe, and I've been at it pretty regularly. The cornmeal variation is, perhaps, the best version so far. Follow that recipe, with the following ingredients:

No-Knead Cornmeal Bread

• 2 cups bread flour
  
• 1 cup cornmeal
  
• ¼ teaspoon instant yeast
  
• 1 tablespoon kosher salt
  
• 1 5/8 cups water

It seems that one-third cornmeal is pretty near the breaking point for holding together into a sliceable loaf, without the crumbly nature of the usual quick-style cornbread. The crumb had some definite chew to it, but was soft and weak enough to break apart without much effort, though not under its own weight. Enough gluten had formed to hold it together, and to allow the formation of a series of small air pockets throughout, not unlike in a milk-based bread.

And the flavor was really quite nice, a bread with a balance of sweet corn and yeasty bread flavors. Toasting brought out another layer of crispy, browned goodness, asking just for a little spread of butter to make it perfect.



Of course, a good, buttermilk-based quick cornbread is still a wondrous thing, especially right out of the oven. We've tried numerous recipes around here,² and I've never been particularly thrilled by any, except the one I keep coming back to. I can't recall where I first came across it, a few years ago, but the recipe goes something like this:

Buttermilk Cornbread

Notes: This works best in a nine-inch cast-iron skillet, but also comes out well in muffin form, in a loaf pan, or whatever's handy. Preheating the cast iron, though, gives the best underside crust possible, well-browned and crispy. Also, this is a recipe that takes well to adding stuff, from chopped onions to diced chillis to grated cheddar cheese. If you're using cheese, be sure to save a little to sprinkle across the top.

Ingredients

• 1 cup cornmeal
  
• 1 cup all-purpose flour
  
• 1/2 tablespoon baking powder
  
• 1/2 teaspoon kosher salt
  
• 2 eggs
  
• 1 ¼ cups buttermilk
  
• ¼ cup butter, melted

Directions

1. Preheat the oven and a nine-inch cast-iron skillet to 425°F.
   
   
2. Mix together the dry ingredients throughly: cornmeal, flour, baking powder and salt.
   
   
3. Mix together the wet ingredients, whisking to get a uniform texture. Pour over the dry ingredients, and stir together quickly to incorporate.
   
   
4. Pour the batter into the hot skillet, and bake in the oven for fifteen to twenty minutes, or until the top starts to brown. Alternately, you can check the interior with a tootpick; Dry means it's done.
   
   
5. Allow to cool briefly on a rack before serving. As soon as it's cool enough to handle, it's ready to eat.

What makes this so appealing - aside from the fact that it tastes great - is the speed with which you can put it together. Essentially, you can whip this up while the rest of dinner is cooking, and, like pancakes and other quick batters, it's quite forgiving of a cavalier approach to measuring and mixing.

I feel I should also note that both the New York Times and LA Times food sections ran articles on quickbreads last week. Most useful bit of information to be gleaned from these: in lieu of buttermilk, you can use clabbered milk,³ which is simply warm, fresh milk with a little vinegar added. Since we only buy buttermilk when we're planning to make cornbread (or muffins, or whatever), it's good to know there's a handy fallback. I hadn't ever done this before, but Sharon had been baking muffins that way back in high school.

Her baking skills, incidentally, are distinctly superior to mine. In particular, she's got a better knack fr pie crusts than I do. I'm terrible at pie crusts, and I'm always on the lookout for a recipe which'll forgive my incompetence. I just tried another new one last night, which was okay, but not great - though I think it would make an excellent crust for a fresh fruit tart.

This recipe comes from Thomas Keller by way of the LA Times. Now, in the recipe's defense, I suspect that I overworked the dough, resulting in a tasty shortbread-like crust, rather than the flaky pie ideal. And to make it worse, I made a sour cherry pie:



Sour cherry pies, in my experience, tend to be more along the lines of cherry soup in a crust, and, in all cases, overwhelm the crust beneath the pie. This pie, as can be seen in the photo, is probably the driest I've ever made, but even so, the crust gave up the ghost. (Still tastes great.) I modified the recipe slightly, replacing some of the butter with lard, which gives a savory note that I adore. And it is, no doubt, a very easy recipe that would likely work wonders for a tart of fresh custard and strawberries, or any sort of breakfast quiche.

As for that elusive perfect cherry pie crust, I'm still searching.

* * * * *
¹It lasted all of two days around here, which isn't bad, considering that there are only two of us.

²I insist on two things for cornbread. One: there should be no sugar in the ingredients list, although honey or maple syrup after the fact is perfectly fine. Two: buttermilk makes a better cornbread than anything else.

³Approximately 2 tablespoons of vinegar per 1 1/2 cups milk.