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.
26 November 2007
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:
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:
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.
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:
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:
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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:
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.
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.
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.
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!
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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