Once a month or so, my mother sends me a box from home filled with food. The last one, timed perfectly for lunar new year, included a batch of rice cakes. Before I even saw them, though, I knew there was treasure buried somewhere deep beneath her homemade peanut brittle, gingery mustard pickles from the last greens in her garden and bags of candied coconut used as packing material. The distinctive green-tea aroma of banana leaves had emerged as soon as the packing tape was cut.

Throughout the tropical sun belt, banana leaves appear as easy, inexpensive, natural, sanitary--and most importantly--delicious packaging. From Mexican tamales to Indian wedding feasts, Malaysian lunches to Vietnamese fast food, the leaves provide pliable wrapping, compostable tableware and a lovely flavoring for steamed or simmered specialties. Throughout Southeast Asia, you'll see banana-wrapped foods for sale as street food. Food sealed within their layers and then cooked slowly will keep for days without being refrigerated. Traditional foods for the lunar new year period are often cooked in banana leaves, especially for serving during the first three days when families are supposed to be enjoying each other's company rather than cooking.

For my mom and all my generous, food-loving aunts, banana leaves are perfect for the three-day priority mail period between the Midwest and California.



BUYING BANANA LEAVES

Virtually all Asian and Latino markets with a freezer section will stock banana leaves that have been folded and frozen into large squares. Though more delicate than fresh leaves, they're easy and convenient to use. If you're lucky enough to have a pesticide-free tree somewhere in your neighborhood, you might offer a trade in sweet or savory treats for an armful of fresh leaves. Berkeley Bowl often stocks fresh leaves, and there are also numerous mail-order sources for fresh leaves, such as Florida-based Greenearth.

USING BANANA LEAVES IN YOUR KITCHEN

Here are just a few simple suggestions for experimenting with banana leaves:

Golden Rice
Cook long-grain rice, substituting 1/4 to 1/2 cup of the water or stock with coconut milk. Add a few slices of ginger, a cinnamon stick and a pinch of turmeric. After the rice is cooked, stir gently and then prepare small packets of the rice. Steam for 20 minutes and then serve with curries or grilled fish.

Tamales
Rick Bayless offers a recipe for banana-leaf wrapped Red Chile Pork Tamales at his Frontera website. We're lucky enough to live in an area where tamale dough is available pre-made in Latino markets. Leftover or take-out chicken mole is a most excellent substitute for slow-cooking your own filling. For variety, sprinkle green olives, bell peppers or corn kernels over the filling before enclosing and cooking.

Fish with Red Curry
Small packets are a fun alternative at summer grill parties, while a hot oven is a perfectly decent rainy-weather option for a dramatic yet simple dinner-party dish. Rub sea bass or salmon with a generous amount of prepared Thai red curry paste thinned with a small amount of oil. I prefer using a whole fish and filling its cavity with scallions and lime wedges, but you can easily use steaks or fillets. Wrap a whole fish completely in three layers of banana leaves, alternating the grain of the banana leaf to crisscross from layer to layer for added stability. Individual portions can be wrapped in one large rectangle on a bed of scallions and lime slices. Tie tightly with wet string and then grill over medium high coals or roast at 400 degrees, allowing 10 minutes base time plus 10 minutes for every inch thickness of the banana leaf packets.

Mushrooms with Tomatoes and Ginger
Thinly slice full-flavored mushrooms and toss them with diced tomatoes (drain well if using canned), chopped scallions, grated ginger, cilantro, salt and black pepper. Wrap in individual packets and bake or grill until completely charred on the outside. Serve as a side dish with steamed rice and grilled chicken or pork.

Sweet Rice with Coconut and Peanuts
Cover about 2 cups of sticky rice with 3 inches of water and let soak for at least 4 hours, preferably overnight. Drain well. In a small bowl, mix together 1 cup each of grated coconut and chopped, roasted peanuts. Stir in a few spoonfuls of brown sugar to taste (omit if using pre-sweetened coconut) and then a healthy sprinkling of salt. At the center of a large square of banana leaf, mound 1/4 cup of sticky rice, layer 1/4 cup of the filling, then finish with 1/4 cup more of sticky rice. Fold the leaf in thirds like a letter, then fold in the two side-flaps to overlap at the center; tie securely with string. Steam for one hour, then let cool completely before serving as mid-morning or afternoon snacks with strong tea.



WORKING WITH BANANA LEAVES

If you're used to Saran wrap or foil, there's a bit of an adjustment to using natural material that's irregularly shaped and varied in texture from package to package, leaf to leaf. But banana leaves are immensely fun to work with, and their flavor is far, far superior to plastic or metal. Like crepes, practice with one or two or three first to get into the groove. Each thin package of banana leaves doesn't look like much, but there's a lot folded up in there. The leaves are inexpensive enough that you can get an extra one for back-up if it's your first time working with them.

• A couple of hours in the fridge or a few minutes submerged in very hot water will thaw out frozen leaves. I usually place the leaves in my empty sink, and then pour boiling water over them to clean and soften them. I keep them in the hot water until just before I need them, wiping a few at a time with a cloth to absorb excess moisture. Always wipe in the direction of the grain to prevent splitting the leaves.

• Soak some toothpicks or kitchen string at the same time. I prefer string for larger parcels of food, since the toothpicks can cause more damage then their convenience is worth. If you forget to soak the string or toothpicks, expect to see them char completely if grilled or roasted. If you're making very small packets, you can use thin strips of the banana leaf itself as ties.

• With a pair of scissors, trim away the hard, center vein of the leaf. Sometimes, I use the hard edges as extra support for larger packages, such as whole fish, but it can cause the leaf to split, so it's best to remove them until you're comfortable working with larger leaves. For appearance sake, you might also want to trim away any yellow streaks.

• To repair and reinforce a split leaf, just place it on top of another leaf with its grain running perpendicular.

• When grilling large items, such as a whole fish, use a cookie sheet and two wide spatulas to transfer the package to the rack, to turn it halfway through the cooking period and to remove it when done cooking.

• For easier and more attractive serving, especially on a buffet table, use shears to snip open the packets.

• Banana leaf packets are perfect for preparing ahead of time and cooking later. They hold up to moist fillings and they're easy to carry to potlucks and parties. Cover with a damp cloth to keep them moist in the fridge. Don't wait more than three days to cook them, though. They're organic material, after all, and will start fermenting if left raw too long. Once cooked, though, they and the food they hold last a surprisingly long time even at room temperature. While we have become spoiled by the apparent safety of refrigerators, much of the world still enjoys prepared snacks wrapped securely and deliciously in banana leaves.

Labels: asian food, recipes, thy tran

After our wild night of haggis, neeps, and tatties, we had a least half a stockpot full of my husbands' famous, delicious, light and fluffy mashed potatoes. The only reason they hadn't been demolished during our Burns Night feast is because we stowed them away on top of the fridge and promptly forgot about them in our whisky-induced haze. Fortunately they were discovered before the night was over, and secured for later use.

But what do you do with all those leftover clouds of deliciousness? I have a knack for making way too much food, so this is often a question I ask myself or pose to those around me. Mostly my husband. Who agrees wholeheartedly that I like to cook for an army. Or at least a family of 10.

Anyway, faced with a giant pot of mash, I starting flipping through cookbooks and searching online, trying to think about what I could make. I mean, who isn't often left with extra mashed potatoes?

Ok, so here are some ideas I came up with:
• tattie scones (which I made from my Scots Cooking Cookbook, and were delicious)
• potato-leek soup (just add chicken broth and sauteed leeks to the mash, and warm through)
• any kind of pie with mashed potato topping: shepherd's or cottage pie, chicken pot pie, roasted root vegetable pie
• potato bread

I adapted this recipe from an old one I found by Mary Sue Milliken and Susan Feniger. It turned out delicious. And it filled our house with that amazing home-baked smell of fresh bread.

Potato Bread

Ingredients
1 1/4 cup whole milk
3 tablespoons unsalted butter
2 teaspoons kosher salt
2 teaspoons sugar
1 cup mashed potatoes, warmed
2 packages active dry yeast
5 cups bread flour

Preparation
1. In a saucepan, combine the milk, butter, salt and sugar. Warm over medium heat just until steaming. Stir in the mashed potatoes, then set aside to cool to room temperature.

2. In a mixing bowl, combine the yeast with 1/3 cup warm water (about 105°F), stir, and set aside until foamy, about 5 minutes. When the potato mixture has cooled, add it to the yeast mixture.

3. Add 4 cups of the bread flour. Using an electric mixer fitted with a dough hook, mix until the dough starts to come together (you can also use a wooden spoon and elbow grease!). Add up to 1 cup more flour, kneading with the dough hook (or your hands), until the dough is smooth, about 5 minutes.

4. Dump the dough onto a lightly floured work surface and knead for a minute or two with your hands. Get your hands in that dough! Form the dough into a ball. Grease up the mixing bowl with butter. Place the dough into the buttered bowl, cover with plastic wrap, and set aside in warm place (like inside your oven, but don't turn it on!) to rise about 1 to 1 1/2 hours.

5. Butter two standard loaf pans. Dump the dough out of the bowl onto a lightly floured work surface. Divide it into two equal pieces. Flatten one piece into a thick even square that is as wide as your loaf pan is long. Starting at one end, tightly roll the piece of dough into a tube. Pinch the seam together and place the dough, seam side down, into the loaf pan. Repeat with the other piece of dough. Cover each loaf with plastic wrap, and let them proof (rise) until doubled, about 45 minutes to 1 hour. Don't let them over-proof though, or they will collapse in the oven.

6. When the loaves are about 1/2 hour from proofing, preheat oven to 375°F. Bake the loaves for about 25 minutes, or until the bread is golden brown, and sounds hollow when you tap the top of the loaf.

This bread is the ultimate versatile white bread. Great for toast and sandwiches, and it even makes mean French toast. Oh and for those of you trying to figure out what to do with all that leftover haggis (we had not a whisper left), here are some ideas.

Labels: kim laidlaw, mash, mashed potatoes, potato bread, recipes

Before I start talking about Homemade Macaroni and Cheese, I wanted to say hello and introduce myself, as I'm a new blogger on BAB. I am a writer, editor, and mother of two 7-year old twin girls. I am also obsessed with food and so spend a lot of time thinking about what to feed those two girls (as well as my husband and myself). Meals at our house are often a struggle between what I want to make and what they want to eat, with compromises on both sides. Luckily we all have pretty open palates so everyone is usually happy.

Last Friday night was a perfect example for how this little game of tug-of-war works. I wanted to make a brisket (a lovely Prather Ranch grass fed cut that I got at the farmer’s market). My daughters, however, had other plans. When I mentioned in the morning that I would make them a barbecued brisket during our traditional Friday Movie Night dinner, they both looked at me and frowned. Maddie said she wanted macaroni and cheese and Sophie agreed. As we were late for school, I ignored the comment so we could finish our morning routine, find shoes and rain jackets, and leave the house five minutes late for the bell. Although I like my children to want to eat whatever I make, my general rule is that I'm the mom and the cook, so I get to decide and I was determined to make brisket. Later that day, however, as I walked toward the grocery story in the cold rain, shivering and trying not to step in puddles, I realized that my daughters might be on to something. It really was the perfect day for homemade macaroni and cheese, all oozy and gooey and warm. My cold body started to crave it.

One thing I love about macaroni and cheese (other than its wonderful comfort food appeal), is that you can tweak it to suit your family’s needs. You can pretty much use whatever cheeses you like: I’ve had Italian versions with mozzarella and provolone, traditional versions with cheddar and American cheeses, and more epicurean types made with a roux, beautiful European cheeses, and heavy cream. You can add meat (such as ham, which I think tastes delicious), vegetables and herbs (parsley, peas, spinach and wild mushrooms are great), eggs (to fluff it up in the oven), or even toasted nuts (which I once saw and, I must admit, found appalling).

At our house, however, macaroni and cheese is usually simply what the name suggests –macaroni, cheese, and some milk and butter along with seasonings for a little extra flavor. I'm a food purist (well, at least most of the time) and so don't like to add too many ingredients to the dish as I want to taste the delicious cheese and pasta flavors. I also like to use at least three different types of cheeses as it gives the dish a richer and more nuanced taste. It's great to throw in something creamy (I like medium Tillamook cheddar or Colby), something sharp like aged provolone, Parmesan, or Gruyère, and something with a slightly distinct taste like Fontina or Cotswold.

A general rule for homemade macaroni and cheese is to make sure that every piece of pasta is covered in some creamy goodness. You don’t want a rude awakening from comfort-food nirvana by biting into a piece of plain pasta instead of bubbling savory cheese-coated noodles. Likewise, it's unappealing when the cheese clumps together in separated blobs.

To coat each piece of pasta, I make a roux and then add in some warm milk and whatever creamy cheese I'm using, which makes a thick cheesy sauce. I then pour this over some previously cooked al dente pasta. I try to cook the pasta ahead of time, so it's room temperature or cool when I use it, which in turn brings the cheese sauce down in temperature when you mix them together. The pasta, now blanketed in the cheese sauce, is ready to mix with the other cheeses. Because the pasta isn't hot, the other cheeses don't immediately melt when you add them in, allowing them to instead melt into and permeate the pasta while it's baking. This also allows the three cheeses to maintain more distinct flavors in the final dish as they melt on their own instead of together. Once I add the pasta to the buttered baking dish, I top it all with fresh breadcrumbs (usually heels of sliced bread chopped in the Cuisinart), which end up melting into the cheese on top to create a crunchy and slightly salty topping for the dish.

When I pulled the final dish from the oven last Friday, the cheeses were bubbling up and the top was crispy and crunchy. I served everyone a healthy portion alongside a plate of green salad (the cool crispness of the lettuce nicely accented the hot cheesy pasta). So there we were, kids and adults devouring homemade macaroni and cheese while watching Home on the Range. As I sat there watching Maggie and Mrs. Calloway outwit Alameda Slim, I realized this was really the perfect dish for our evening. If you’re unfamiliar with the movie, Maggie and Mrs. Calloway are cows, and so it would have been unseemly to have the beef brisket for dinner.

Homemade Macaroni and Cheese

Ingredients

1 lb smallish pasta (such as celentani, small penne, or elbow)
1 ½ cups grated and packed Tillamook medium cheddar or Colby cheese
1 cup grated and packed Fontina or Cotswold cheese
1 cup grated and packed Gruyère, Parmesan, or aged provolone cheese
2 cups whole milk plus ½ cup to pour in later
1 Tbsp butter
1 tsp flour
½ - 1 tsp salt
½ tsp pepper
A dash of nutmeg
½ cup fresh bread crumbs

Preparation

1. Cook pasta until al dente. Run cold water over it in a colander until it cools. Set aside. Preheat oven to 350 degrees.
2. Butter a large casserole dish.
3. Grate cheeses and set them aside.
4. Heat the milk in a sauce pan, being sure not to let it boil. Turn off heat and cover until ready to use.
5. In a medium sauce pan, melt butter on medium heat. Whisk in the flour when it starts to bubble, making a roux .
6. Add in the 2 cups of warm milk, whisking to incorporate it into the roux. Warm on medium until small bubbles start to form in the milk.
7. Turn off the heat and add the Tillamook or Colby cheese, stirring until it evenly melts and becomes smooth.
8. Add a ½ tsp salt, the nutmeg and the pepper to season.
9. In a large pot or bowl, mix the cooled pasta with the cheese sauce. Stir until the sauce is completely incorporated. Taste a piece of pasta and add the other ½ tsp of salt and more pepper if desired.
10. Add in the other two cheeses and gently stir so most of the cheese retains its grated appearance.
11. Place pasta and cheese in the buttered casserole dish and drizzle the remaining half cup of milk on top.
12. Spread the fresh bread crumbs evenly on top.
13. Oil a piece of aluminum foil large enough to cover the casserole dish and tighten it around the sides, oil side down.
14. Bake for 20 – 25 minutes or until the cheese starts to bubble up from inside the pasta.
15. Uncover the dish and bake for another 5-7 minutes or until the top starts to nicely brown and crisp up. Serve immediately.

Labels: denise lincoln, kids food, mac and cheese, macaroni and cheese, recipes

Are you as tired of 2008 as I am? The stock market is tanking as miserably as the housing market, winter storms have left us without power for days (and, in one case I know, without a roof), and I just might scream if I listen to any more caucus coverage. The general mood is anything but sanguine. Is there any good news?

Well, yes. California's citrus crops have been doing rather nicely, especially when compared to last year's disastrous freeze. I realize this isn't the most exciting news in the world, but I feel the need keep my joys simple this year, and what could be simpler than a small, roundish piece of fruit?

Of all the known oranges in the universe, my favorite is the Citrus sinensis, or blood orange. There are three common varieties of which I am aware: the Sicilian Tarocco, the Spanish Sanguinello, and the Moro, which is grown right here. Not exactly "right here", but rather in San Diego. And Texas and Florida, but those are two states I generally try not to think about.

Blood oranges aren't exactly a revelation to most foodies today. In fact, some may think them overplayed and mildly pretentious (before you say anything, remember: glass houses). But, if you can reach back into your past, when you weren't so jaded about food a moment...

The first time I encountered a blood orange, I was fascinated. Don't tell me you weren't. The stupid thought of, "It's an orange, but it's red!" popped out of my mouth. Thank God I was among friends. I think I also used the word "neat". The flavor was, of course, citrusy, but tinged with berries. The acid wasn't overpowering and there was a hint of bitterness behind the sweet of it. It was a fruit I could wholly identify with. I bought up several and ate them out-of-hand, I put them into salads, I squeezed them for juice, which I still do. Apparently, so should you. Read on:

Anthocyanin, the pigment, which gives the orange its distinctive interior color (and possibly gives the fruit its subtle berry-flavored notes), is a powerful antioxidant that neutralizes the effects of free-radical chemicals within our bodies. Free radicals, if you haven't heard, are in part responsible for cancer and, even more horrifying to some people, aging. Anthocyanins also help prevent ulcers and improve one's vision, so drink and eat up.

Blood Orange Salad



I want to thank Erik Cosselmon of Kokkari for this one. There are innumerable ways to slip blood oranges into salads, but this is my favorite method, by far. It's great to eat as either a salad course or as dessert.

Ingredients:

3 blood oranges (Moro are used here, but use whichever you want or can find)
2 to 3 dates (I used Medjools), pit removed and cut into slivers
1/4 cup walnuts, either toasted and salted or candied. I vote candied.
Olive oil for drizzling, the best you've got.
Rose water for more drizzling.

Preparation:

1. With a very sharp knife, cut skin from the oranges. Slice the flesh into 1/2-inch pieces, across the grain, so that they look rather like bleeding morning glories. Arrange on your serving dish of choice.

2. Sprinkle slivered dates and walnuts over and around the orange slices.

3. Drizzle with olive oil.

4. Drizzle with rose water (orange blossom water works very well, too, if rosewater reminds you too much of your grandmother). Be very sparing with the rose water, otherwise your salad will smell rather whorish, in my opinion.

5. Serve and eat. Exhausting recipe, I know. I'll do my best to present you with something easier next time.

Labels: blood oranges, michael procopio, recipes

Chef Sanjay Thumma is my current favorite time suck.

It's refreshing to watch someone demonstrate mouth-watering dishes with uninhibited joy, a matter-of-fact globalism and minimal make-up. It helps that I love so many cuisines in India, but what immediately appealed to me is his stance as a teacher. It's a very different experience to learn about traditional foods from someone who assumes, from the beginning, that his audience is not comprised of outsiders. Like a student whose teacher sets high expectations, viewers and home cooks rise to the challenge.

His balance of expert advice with friendly reassurance is neither oversimplified nor condescending. He's a professional who knows his stuff, yet he doesn't gleam with that over-polished, over-packaged look of television. Each video, from 2 to 10 minutes, covers one specific dish -- just enough for a mouth-watering work break if not dinner inspiration.

Don't expect super-high production value. Two still cameras and a complete lack of location shots does not a sexy food show make. But what Thumma's demos lack in glamour, he more than makes up with passionate enthusiasm (a taste of Hydrabadi mutton biryani literally brings him to tears), humor and generosity. Both veg and non-veg recipes appear in his demos, and he discusses the food of diverse communities across India.

Thumma seamlessly blends traditional techniques and modern adaptations. His simple yet brilliant two-step rice cooking for biryani ensures perfectly cooked basmati throughout the pot. His secret ingredient for butter chicken reveals the wonderful ways that food crisscrosses the oceans. Mentioning Indian restaurant cooks in the U.S. and England, Thumma holds up a bottle of "tomato ketchup" and squirts some into his sauce to finish it with just the right texture and tangy flavor.

While cooks already familiar with basic Indian spices will have a headstart, the demonstrations are geared to beginners, whether you're mixing your first raita, simmering a batch of comforting chana masala, making your own herb-infused paneer or--for the ambitious--rolling and stretching roomali roti to serve with kebabs.

There are many, many cooks demonstrating recipes on YouTube. I'm looking forward to watching the better ones emerge as new stars of the wide, wild culinary world.

Labels: india, recipes, thy tran, video, youtube

My friend Ed works crazy long hours making sure people are fed well. Fortunately, he also knows how to party. More to the point, he knows how to throw down one hell of a spread and mixes generous, powerful drinks.

Thus, I blame him for my momentary lapse of politics. It's been roughly a year since I gave up shrimp, confused and frustrated and devastated. Then, at a recent bash, Ed laid out platters piled high with buttery, herby, perfectly poached shrimp. My powers of resistance were strong for a good half hour, then slowly, steadily, the other guests' swoons of delight and the potency of sangria convinced me to try one...just one....

Two dozen plump prawns later, I remembered my boycott. I ate another dozen while contemplating their deadly deliciousness. I convinced at least two other guests to consider not eating shrimp while finishing my last plate. And when I got home, I emailed Ed for the recipe.

He obliged me with his secrets, which I offer now verbatim for anyone looking for easy holiday party food:

Ed's Party Shrimp

• I filled a stock pot with water and about enough salt for it to taste like the sea (about 1/2 to 3/4 cup).
• I added about 3 cups of dry vermouth. (It's what I had left over after a night of martinis).
• I then threw in one tin of the fish rub that I found in the spice rack at the grocery store. If you are morally opposed to using pre-packaged fish rub then I suppose you could substitute with about 1/2 cup of the following chopped/ground and combined: rosemary, thyme, sage, marjoram, parsley, onion, garlic, pepper, celery seed, oregano, basil (basically a mystery basket of cupboard spices)
• I quartered 2 lemons, squeezed the juice into the broth..and then threw in the rinds too.
• Here's the secret.....two sticks of butter (sshhh!). Just throw it in too.
• Bring to a boil...then simmer for 15 minutes.
• I used frozen shrimp. Cook the shrimp in the simmering liquid in small batches for about 3 minutes each.

Voila! Yummy...BUTTERY shrimp!



THE DARKER SIDE OF SHRIMP

As someone raised happily on my mother's spring rolls, black pepper shrimp, caramelized shrimp, shrimp dumpling soup, shrimp fried rice, and just plain ol' spicy stir-fried shrimp, giving them up has been one of the most difficult diet changes I've tried to make. They're so succulent and versatile and easy to cook. And they're everywhere -- which is, unfortunately part of the problem.

It was during one of my early trips back to Vietnam that I first realized the devastating effect on my homeland as rice farmers and fishermen moved to the lucrative, fast, easy promises of shrimp farming. I could hardly blame war-torn, embargo-crippled families for trying to make a living. Through the 90s, though, shrimp and prawns became a standard item on every restaurant menu, and as Southeast Asian food became popular, so did one of its staples. Jumbo shrimp became gourmet rather than simply an oxymoronic joke. They became affordable and, for the home cook, approachable.

However, that popularity came at a steep price. Nearly 40 percent of the world's mangroves, crucial to the health of the oceans, has been destroyed because of shrimp farming along coastal areas. In Thailand, it takes roughly three years for a shrimp farm to ruin the local ecosystem; many farms simply pick up operations and move further along the coast, hopscotching until there's no clean coast available.

Inland ponds require heavy use of chemicals to clean the water and kill the viral invasions endemic to intensive farming. The European Union bars all shrimp from China, where carcinogenic chemicals appears frequently in farmed shrimp; the U.S. still imports it.

Another heavy impact comes hidden in the shrimp's feed: while in the wild they scavenge, on farms they're fed fish much higher on the food chain.

THE SILVER LINING

Fortunately, there's a tiny tiny bit of light for shrimp lovers.

The strongest among us have already become vegetarians, but for others like me, with weaker wills tied more directly to emotional and sensual cravings, searching out good shrimp is possible.

The Monterey Bay Aquarium's Seafood Watch lists a few options for those who still crave a taste of shrimp now and then. Currently best on the list are wild-caught prawns and spot shrimp from British Columbia, and wild-caught ocean or cocktail shrimp from Oregon. Small, cold-water shrimp are the most sustainable. True, they're not as sexy as those big, lusty, warm-water prawns. However, anyone even remotely worried about the future of our planet should avoid these oversized, striped crustaceans.

Wild-caught is no guarantee, as by-catch is always a problem, but look for those from domestic companies. Small pink or white shrimp are generally -- very generally -- a safer bet for the conscientious eater than large, brown, imported shrimp.

Sustainable shrimp farming is still in its infancy. That said, Ecuador has surpassed other countries in developing organic, nonpolluting shrimp farms. EcoFish imports it under the name "Henry & Lisa's Natural Shrimp." Look for their bags of cooked or raw shrimp in the freezer section of naturally-minded, full-service markets.

I was dreading lunar new year without my family's recipe for spring rolls. The tofu version is fine the rest of the year, but it never inspires me to heights of celebration. So, I'm very glad to know that, come February, I'll be able to make my mom's cha gio.



MORE INFO

Some links for those interested in learning more:

• NASA's Earth Observatory shows before and after Landsat images of shrimp farming effects along the Pacific Coast of Honduras, one of the largest importers of the crustaceans to the U.S.

• The Environmental Justice Foundation created a short film about shrimp farming along the eastern coast of Brazil.

• Shrimp News International offers a detailed description of shrimp farming. Food wonks immune to industry spin might like scrolling down to see the charts and illustrations showing the life cycle of shrimp (missionary position!) or how El Nino affects the supply of larvae . Be forewarned: the text is a strong reminder that shrimp are, after all, just swimming insects.

• The Chefs Collaborative's communique with recommendations for sustainable shrimp was directed at restaurants, but the home cook can also use their excellent information.

• The White Boot Brigade, based in New Orleans, is a nonprofit dedicated to developing a sustainable shrimp industry in Louisiana. They work to educate businesses and consumers about the economic, environmental and social benefits of supporting small family fleets that harvest shrimp from the Gulf.

• And, finally, what's the difference between a shrimp and a prawn? In the U.S., nothing. Though there's sometimes a vague sense of "specialness" about prawns, the two words appear in menus and markets interchangeably. Australians, however, apparently make a point of remembering that prawns have evenly overlapping abdominal segments and that their females release eggs to currents rather than brooding them. For them, Americans are silly and confusing for calling shrimp prawns and vice versa.

Labels: recipes, seafood, sustainability, thy tran

Last week, still heavily under the influence of jet lag, Shannon, my oldest friend in the world, whisked me down to Redwood City late Saturday night so that I might spend some time with her family, make breakfast, and later accompany my goddaughter to a community theater production of Annie Get Your Gun. Typical, wholesome Sunday fun.

When I awoke to the various sounds of three children trying to be quiet-- enjoyable to someone like me who merely borrows the children of others but does not have to live with them-- I wandered into the kitchen to find that, not only had the morning's menu been decided, but preparations had been made in advance-- enjoyable to someone like me to whom the words "let's make breakfast!" are sometimes uttered, but the planning and execution are invariably a solo effort, in which case I try to dirty as many dishes as possible.

Craig, my college roommate and the man Shannon had the good sense to marry, announced that he and my goddaughter had been foraging for acorns. Acorns. When I think of foraging, if at all, my mind goes to truffle pigs and strange old men materializing back around the kitchen door with boxes of strange looking mushrooms in their arms and cigarettes dangling from their weather-beaten lower lips. Acorns call to the mind irritatingly industrious and moralizing rodents of fable. I had always thought of foragers as edgy, marginalized, or borderline crazy. Modern foragers do not go to spas for Rolfing sessions or have cable television. I was now faced with performing a quick and rather drastic reassessment. The only two foragers I actually knew were standing in front of me with a bowl of acorns-- a 38-year-old man and an 8-3/4-year-old girl. Based upon the new information at hand, I had to decide that foraging was not necessarily a desperate reaction to hunger performed by those who are either too chicken or too lazy to go out and hunt wild animals. Nor was it necessarily a rejection of supermarket commercialism. As I looked into their proud faces, I decided that foraging was painfully cute. It was an act, in this case, of optimism and resourcefulness.



Shannon mused that she was glad to know she would now be able to feed her family in the event of the Apocalypse. We spent the next two minutes explaining what the Apocalypse was to my goddaughter. She was unimpressed.

Suddenly, foraging for acorns seem like a very, very good idea. I was saved from spending too much time figuring out how I would survive in San Francisco when the world finally goes to Hell by the fact that there were three hungry children and an equal amount of adults who needed to be fed. With acorns.

Though I am technically 1/8 Native American, genetically speaking, I received none of the famous resourcefulness of these ancestors. Neither did I inherit their characteristic lack of body hair or intolerance to alcohol, but those are topics for other blogs. Besides, my ancestors were from the Great Plains. They couldn't walk ten steps without falling over a bison. I had no idea what to do with acorns. Fortunately, Craig has an intimate understanding of both the Internet and how to read cookbooks. He did a little research and got some ideas, the best of which was pancakes. Acorn pancakes.

According to Siouxme.com, acorns were once the main food staple of nearly 3/4 of the Native Californian population. The most common oak trees found in the Bay Area are the Tan Oak, the Black Oak, the Live Oak, and the Valley Oak. (If you don't know why I'm talking about oak trees... please say you know why I'm talking about oak trees.) The Pomo Tribe preferred the acorns from the Tan Oak, feeling that they had superior flavor. The Miwoks preferred Black Oak acorns, because it took less leeching to rid them of their bitter tannic acid. The conflict between what is good and what is convenient is as old as the ages, it would seem. These original food snobs of the Bay Area pronounced the acorn of the Live Oak as "too wormy" and "too easy to get-- nothing that plentiful can be very good."



Craig performed a similar experiment and came to basically the same conclusion. I am also grateful that he took the time to leech the acorns himself, sparing me the effort. So, with thoughts of feeding his hungry brood, he handed me a bowl of acorn meal and recipe for pancakes, Shannon turned on the griddle, and I proceeded to make the pancakes.

The results were great. The meal had a flavor reminiscent of chestnuts. When combined with honey and butter? I would use an expletive here to convey how good they were, but I thought better of it.

Three cheers for acorn pancakes.

Acorn Pancakes



If foraging on your own, look down-- you want the ones which have fallen from the tree. You might consider wearing protective headgear, since Autumn is the only time to gather acorns and, since one invariably spends a good amount of time directly beneath the canopy of oak trees when one is gathering the goods, odds are decent that some might leap to their death from the branches and on to one's head. Lawsuits against oak trees can be costly and, most likely, pointless.

Speaking of headgear, look for acorns still wearing their "little hats". Those found without these hats are likely to be infested with weevils, which some might consider appealingly value-added, in terms of protein content. I doubt these would add much value to pancake batter.

Ingredients:

1 cup acorn meal *
1 cup white flour
1 teaspoon salt
2 teaspoons baking powder
2 eggs
1/4 cup of oil (vegetable or some other neutral-flavored type.)
1/2 cup honey
2 cups milk

Preparation:

1. Preheat griddle to medium heat.
2. Combine dry ingredients in whatever large bowl you like. One with a spout is most welcome.
3. Combine oil, honey, eggs, and milk until smooth in consistency.
4. Combine the wet with the dry ingredients into the large bowl.
5. Adjust by adding more milk if the batter appears too thick, more flour if too thin. The nature
of all acorn meal is not equal. The batter should be thin enough to pour, but not runny, as
one might imagine.
6. Drop an experimental dollop of batter onto griddle. Adjust heat accordingly.
7. Griddle dollar-sized pancakes until the bottoms are browned and the top side bubbles.
About three minutes. Flip and cook until cakes are barely firm to the touch.
8. Remove pancakes to a warm plate. I hold mine in a warm oven covered with a towel until
all the pancakes have been made.
9. Serve hot with butter and honey. Or whatever you feel like. I don't really care. As long as
it makes you happy and harms no one.

Makes about 36 dollar-sized pancakes. I was not anal-retentive enough in this case to count them. We were too busy eating them as they came off the griddle to get an accurate number.

* I know I have not walked you through the process of leeching acorns, but I have not walked down that road myself. Go do an internet search or something. It's not like you have anything better to do, seeing that you've managed to waste enough time reading about my pancakes.

Labels: acorns, foraging, michael procopio, pancakes, recipes

Which newspaper food sections do you read? I subscribe to the San Francisco Chronicle, so I always check out that food section, but I also like to peruse several others online. Here's what you'll find this week.
Note: Each require registration, which is free.

The New York Times
My first stop on Wednesday is usually the New York Times. There is often some provocative article there. This week it's about a chef suing over intellectual property. Apparently a past sous chef at one restaurant has opened a restaurant that may have copied everything from the interior style to the recipes of his past employer.
This week there are also articles about the sexy look of women chef on television, a report on Thai fruits that are no longer banned in America and The Minimalist column by Mark Bittman. In the current column he takes on tuna, explaining the differences between bluefin and yellowfin and sharing cooking techniques and a recipe.

The Los Angeles Times
This week there is an article about the chocolatiers of Barcelona that caught my eye and brought back memories of my trip and chocolate excursions just a year ago. The incomparable Russ Parsons writes about this years crop of stone fruit. He also includes a recipe for cobbler, which sounds more like a crumble to me. There are also some paella recipes that make me think I need to run out and buy a paella pan, like today.

The Washington Post
An article on how Pinot Noir pairs with salmon is timely now that wild salmon is showing up in markets. Also worth checking out are the recipes from the Smithsonian Folklife Festival for Brunswick Stew, Buttermilk Pancakes and Yunnan Style Cold Rice Noodles.

If you have a favorite food section, let me know in the comments section.

Labels: amy sherman, news, recipes

I've been feeling a bit nostalgic lately, which isn't terribly surprising considering the fact that I am usually found in a state of past-reflection. That's not to say that I can't focus on the present as well as others. I can, especially since paying close attention to the here-and-now comes in handy when, well, the here-and-now eventually becomes the there-and-then.

A short while ago, I made a comment to friends that my mother didn't really cook. What I meant was that, unlike the fantasy version of my mother I wish I had had (culinarily-speaking), my real-life mom was never seen floating about the kitchen baking pies or putting up strawberry preserves from fruit picked ripe from our garden. We did, in fact, have strawberries growing in our back yard but, in the heat of summer, it was generally a race to see who could get to them first-- us or the garden snails. Besides, one was never certain if one of the dogs hadn't peed on them.

The truth is that my mother did cook. And she did it rather well, I think. It sounds noble of me, I know, but I have forgiven her lack of enthusiasm for daily meal preparation. The fact that she, as a single mother, managed to feed two sullen teenagers and a hyperactive pre-adolescent without relying heavily on fast food take-out while working 40 hours a week now strikes me as utterly amazing.

Often, she was time efficient-- making large batches of food stuffs that froze well. She'd make a gallon of pasta sauce and meatballs and freeze them in empty plastic containers that once housed whipped topping or Country Crock margarine. Though the former contents may not have been especially noteworthy, her red sauce and meatballs were as good as my Sicilian paternal grandmothers-- apparently, learning to make them was a pre-condition to marrying my father. Not bad for a white girl.

The traumatizing effects of stew night aside (I would sometimes cry when I saw it simmering on the stove top, spend dinner time loading mouthfuls of it into my heavily-napkined lap and request to make repeated trips to the garbage can), dinners were generally tasty affairs. One of my favorite non-special occasion meals she'd prepare was stuffed bell peppers.

It struck me as odd that I would remember this dish as one of my favorites, considering the fact that the peppers in question were invariably green as they pretty much all were thirty-odd years ago. I still don't much care for them. What I loved about them was the fact that the pepper (which I ignored) was simply a bit of negative space waiting to be filled by what was basically my mother's meatballs, but with a little rice mixed in to make it stuffed-peppery.

I'd never made stuffed peppers before, but I decided to give it a go this week. What I find appealing about stuffed peppers is that, basically, one can stuff them with whatever you want. As long as it's edible, I mean. I take that back. Stuff them with whatever the hell you feel like stuffing them with. I would hate to be accused of stifling anyone's creativity.

Mexicans have probably been stuffing peppers ever since they began cultivating them some 6,000 years ago. When they were brought to Europe from the New World, the Italians, Greeks, Hungarians and Spanish took a liking to them. When they made their way back to the Americas (yes, they were here the whole time, I know), Southerners took to stuffing them, too. Meat, rice, bulgar wheat, cheese-- you name it-- has made it's way into the sweet pepper with more or less successful results.

I chose a somewhat Greek approach to stuffing a pepper. Perhaps stating that I used typically Greek ingredients, for the most part, might avoid unnecessary giggling. I just thought my particular attack was tasty. Remember, there is no right and there is no wrong. At least, not that I am willing to get into this morning.

Stuffed Peppers

Ingredients

4 red bell peppers (or whatever color most pleases you and your budget)
1 pound ground lamb
1 yellow onion, finely chopped
4 cloves of garlic, finely chopped
1 zucchini, diced fairly small
3 tablespoons of olive oil
1/2 cup cooked white rice, cooled
1 teaspoon salt
a rather large amount of black pepper
1 teaspoon ground nutmeg
1 teaspoon gound allspice
1 large egg
1/4 cup feta or goat cheese

Preparation:

1. Pre-heat oven to 375 F.
2. Saute (or sweat, in this case) onion and garlic in one tablespoon of olive oil on medium heat until translucent. Set aside. Turn up the heat and add the second tablespoon of oil and then the ground lamb. Brown, please. Add third tablespoon of oil and then zucchini. Cook until just slightly softened and a tad brighter in color. Toss the onion mixture, lamb and zucchini together.
3. I suppose before you've taken on steps one and two you could have washed and sliced the tops of the peppers and, if they aren't behaving as they should and sitting up straight, you might cut their bottoms and forcibly make them do so. Free them of their seeds and ribbing. I choose to blanch the peppers as well, which cuts down on oven time.
   
4. Add salt, pepper, allspice, nutmeg, egg, cheese and rice to the stuffing mixture, combining well.
   
5. Fill the empty inner spaces of the peppers with the stuffing and place in a casserole or dutch oven-- something not too shallow. Peppers are fairly social creatures, so keep them close together, but do allow them some space-- they need to feel the hot oven air circulate around them. Oh, and add some water or stock to the bottom of the dish to prevent the peppers from burning. At this point, I rub the tops of the peppers with olive oil and salt and place them in a pan to roast along side the peppers themselves. Not necessary, but I don't see why not.
6. When the peppers are sufficiently roasted (like, in about 30 minutes), dot the top of the stuffed peppers with more cheese and place under the broiler to brown.
7. Serve hot.

My mother, and lots of other people besides her, serve peppers with some sort of tomato sauce. I decided to accompany mine with something a little lighter and sharper. It's almost completely mindless...

Garlic and Mint Yogurt Sauce:

Ingredients:

1 cup plain yogurt (Greek is good, but I think too thick for this. Save it for eating with honey)
4 cloves garlic, minced
several leaves of mint, chiffonaded
a pinch pr two of salt

Preparation:

Mix all the above ingredients in a bowl and whisk together. Serve. Or, better to let this sit in the fridge overnight so the flavors can get to know each other better. I hope you took notes on that one.

Labels: michael procopio, recipes, stuffed peppers

One of the first cookbooks in my collection is also one of my favorites: Polish Heritage Cookery. I came across this heavy tome at a quirky bookstore that once lived on Polk Street, before a fire ravaged the floors above and water rained down upon its randomly, precariously stacked books. The store's hours were irregular, and those who paid in cash received half off new cover prices. While it was the absolute last place a claustrophobe would want to spend time, Books and Co. was heaven for lovers of books about art, history and food. It epitomized the browsing experience at its most enjoyable.

Polish Heritage Cookery has the voice I miss in old recipes, where strong opinions and sometimes random advice were sprinkled in among the teaspoons and tablespoons. The authors, Robert and Maria Strybel, gathered an impressive 2,200 recipes covering a wide expanse from vanilla sugar to air-dried Pomeranian pork sausage. While illustrated with helpful drawings for the more complicated recipes, the book is free of photographs. Instead, the recipes unroll in story-like paragraphs and Polish names add poetry to every title. Old World classics and their multiple variations reveal Lithuanian, Italian, French, Jewish, Bohemian and Bavarian influences and trace a fascinating culinary history of Eastern European food.

Whey Soup with Rice (or the sweeter Whey Soup with Raisins), Roast Hare in Sour Cream Polonaise, Carp Baked with Apples, Carpathian Mountain Cake, Cherry Butter, and pages upon pages of pickle recipes include hints that only a grandmother might pass along. Adding skins from black bread helps "hurry-up" the curing of pickles. A glass of cold sour milk is recommended for the morning after "an overabundance of partying." At the end of a baked potato recipe, the authors note that adding a piece of kielbasa and a tomato would make a balanced meal, while on the next page, hearty Potato and Salt Pork Sausage is not recommended for "those with delicate stomachs."

The most stained pages in my own copy of the Strybels' cookbook span the pastry and preserve chapters. For the last two years, I've been hosting Doughnuts of the World brunches. A loose definition of doughnut allows me to experiment with angel wings, churros and beignets. Polish jam-filled paczki, however, would please even the most hard-core of the purists.

Below are excerpts from the Strybels' detailed description for making small paczki.


Homemade raspberry jam stands in for the rose-hip jelly, cherry preserves or powidla (thick plum butter) suggested in the original recipe.

"Although these luscious doughnuts are available year-round at Polish pastry shops, they reign supreme on Thusty Czwartek (Fat Tuesday), which begins the final fling of the Pre-Lenten karnawal of zapusty. More paczki are sold that day than at any other time of the year. You can try your hand at making your own by proceeding according to this recipe. Dissolve 2 cakes crushed yeast in 1 c. lukewarm milk, sift in 1 c. flour, add 1 T. sugar, mix, cover, and let stand in a warm place to rise. Beat 8 egg yolks with 2/3 c. powdered sugar and 2 T. vanilla sugar until fluffy. Sift 2 1/2 c. flour into bowl, add sponge, egg mixture, and 2 T. grain alcohol or 3 T. rum, and knead well until dough is smooth and glossy. Gradually add 1 stick melted lukewarm butter and continue kneading until dough no longer clings to hands and bowl and air blisters appear. Cover with cloth and let rise in warm place until doubled. Punch down dough and let rise again. Transfer dough to floured board, sprinkle top with flour, and roll out about 1/2 inch thick. With glass or biscuit cutter, cut into rounds. Arrange on floured board." [NB: I substituted 1 1/2 packets of dry yeast for the yeast cakes.]


The soft dough feels lovely. Still, some of my guests decide flat, American-style jelly doughnuts are easier to form and fry.

"Place a small spoonful of fruit filling (rose-hip preserves, cherry preserves, powidla, or other thick jam) off center on each round. Raise edges of dough and pinch together over filling, then roll between palms snowball fashion to form balls. Let rise in warm place until doubled."


The Strybel's write that Polish pastries like paczki "may be fried in vegetable shortening or oil instead of lard, but they won't be as tasty. The choice is yours."

"Heat 1 1/2-2 lbs. lard in deep pan so paczki can float freely during frying. It is hot enough when a small piece of dough dropped into the hot fat immediately floats up. Fry packzi under cover without crowding several min. until nicely browned on bottom, then turn over and fry uncovered on the other side another 3 min. or so. If fat begins to burn, add several slices of peeled raw potato which will both lower the temp. and absorb any burnt flavor. Transfer fried paczki to absorbent paper and set aside to cool, When cool, dust generously with powdered sugar, glaze or icing."

Labels: doughnuts, pastries, polish, recipes, thy tran

As we draw smaller and smaller circles around our food community, we often forget the power of recipes to connect us to each other.


Nancy's "Benz Cake" recipes in her baker's shorthand.

Recipes in the personal sense. I'm not talking about the results of a keyword search or a formula in that latest best-selling cookbook, not the pasta-of-the-month at the back of a magazine or the marketing copy on the back of a box. Along with vegetables grown by farmers with real names and faces, a local food system includes dishes with memories of people we actually know.

It's difficult, I know. Epicurious is a bookmark in my browser, and one of my favorite pastimes is decorating cookbooks with little sticky notes. I can't argue against the lure of convenience, the promise of infallibility or the excitement of the exotic.

Like with many lessons in life, however, it took a hard loss to remind me of what's important. I took for granted personal recipes until that fateful day when I couldn't find the torn, black pocket folder that had followed me from home to home. In it were recipes collected from years of Christmas cookie exchanges, letters from my mom transcribing dishes we ate together in Vietnam, my college roommate's family's tortillas, how to ferment injera from my DC neighbor, my babysitter's microwave chile. Notes to myself, notes to share with others.


Recipe cards sent -- along with said cake and chocolate sauce -- to celebrate a long-distance birthday.

You don't have to spend all your days in the kitchen to value recipes. We need kitchen messengers as much as we need cooks. The next time you hear yourself saying, "This is soooo good!" ask for the recipe. Then pass it along, often and with love.

It's Mother's Day. Ask the favorite mother in your life (yes, it's not always our own...) for her story of a dish, any dish. It could be a lifeline from the war ration years or a treasure enjoyed only once a year or the soup that gets her from Monday over Wednesday to Friday. Get the recipe and add it to your stash. Then someday soon, give it away.


Notes on the back of a napkin, the curious cook's antidote to NDAs.

Labels: recipes, thy tran

Shuna Lydon & Sherry Yard, both on team #1.

A number of months ago I received an email from an old pastry chef of mine, Stephen Durfee, who is now an instructor at The Culinary Institute of America, Greystone campus in Napa Valley. He was letting me know I would soon receive an invitation to The Fifth Annual Worlds of Flavor Baking & Pastry Arts Invitational Retreat.

But I thought I would have to respectfully decline, because I am not currently working for a specific establishment. The only name on my chef's jacket is my own. I could not be more grateful that Stephen talked me out of my no.

For 3 1/2 days at the end of April I breathed, thought, emoted, questioned, hypothesized, puzzled over, laughed about, informed, taught, learned, listened, typed, photographed, argued and dreamt pastry and dessert making. {I also "live-blogged" it. Find the blow-by-blow by clicking on this link.}


Notes from the Ideation Session before we went into the kitchen to start creating.


The dessert ideas and chef teams that were formed our team's Ideation Session.

From 8:30 am until near 8 pm every day our 70 plus pastry chef and industry representatives' gaggle went from demonstration, to lecture, to lunch, and then at night many of us went out to dine and commiserate. On the last day and a half we were broken up into 5 teams on the basis of various themes and asked to create 4 desserts each.

Team #1, my own, was themed "Health and Agriculture." In the one hour Ideation Session Sherry Yard and I threw out a lot of excited ideas, were reigned in, we all picked partners and then walked into the palatial kitchens that make up CIA's kitchen classroom. For the 'fruit dessert' my cohort/teammate was Master Bread Baker Mark Furstenberg from Washington DC.

The idea was we would showcase one ingredient, rhubarb. Although rhubarb is not a fruit, it's what's most in season right this minute, and I wanted to show off a special method I have of cooking/treating it, so as to preserve its original integrity, its rhubarb-ness. I like to hot-sugar poach the stalk in such a way as to keep it's crunchy, sour nature. {For a full explanation and recipe, order the Spring 2006 issue of Edible San Francisco, where I went into great detail about osmotic reciprocity and why rhubarb always turns into mushy, stringy baby food when it's introduced to heat.}


Verbena from the Julia Child Gardens at CIA, infused cream and rhubarb juice.

Mark made a slightly savory biscotti of cornmeal and toasted almonds, and besides the rhubarb I wanted something to mediate the textures and flavors of the rhubarb and cornmeal cookie. Plated dessert making is about balance. Pastry chefs are always thinking about texture, flavor, presentation, sweetness, acid, production, size, plating speed, accessibility, temperature, and the food you ate before eating our courses. The best desserts are the ones not made on autopilot. Don't get me wrong, I like my lemon bars, chocolate eclairs and creme brulee, but I want the pastry chef to be paying attention to all the ingredients to produce the best possible taste sensation.

Because of rhubarb's high acid content, it likes to be married with fat. I ate at Gary Danko recently and was not surprised to see rhubarb paired with foie gras. Rhubarb likes butter, cream, creme fraiche, and eggs. But the actual flavor of rhubarb is fairly subtle. If I want a diner to really taste it, I try and make pairings that are of complementary, not competitive flavors.

To this end, I made a light and aromatic, herbaceous sabayon. Instead of wine or alcohol, though, I juiced rhubarb raw through an extractor. If you have time for all these steps I can guarantee you an elegant and voluptuous, seasonal dessert.

David Winsberg of Happy Quail Farms said that he'll have rhubarb through 'til August, but Sabayon is a perfect foil for most fresh fruits, especially berries and stone fruit.





RHUBARB-VERBENA SABAYON

Large Egg Yolks 4-6 each
Sugar 1/4 cup
Honey 3 Tablespoons + (2 Tablespoons: later)
Sea or Kosher Salt Pinch

Rhubarb Juice 3/4 Cup

*Verbena, fresh The leaves from 3 stalks
Heavy Cream, not ultra pasteurized 2 Cups (I use Clover Organic.)

*Knoll Farms has some of the best Verbena available in the Bay Area.

1. Infuse cream and lightly crushed Verbena leaves and stems in a non-reactive pot by heating with low flame until hot. Shut off heat and let steep for at least one hour, preferably more. Do not allow mixture to boil. You can sprinkle in a little sugar to help with infusion.
2. After cream has steeped, turn flame to medium until hot to the touch and strain through a fine meshed sieve. Chill cream in ice batch until very cold. (This step may be done 1-2 days before making Sabayon.)
3. Combine first four ingredients in the bowl of a stand mixer. Whisk yolks to break apart before adding sugar and salt.
4. Set bowl over a pot of boiling water. Bottom of bowl should not touch water. The steam is what's cooking the Sabayon.
5. Whisk thoroughly and rapidly, without pause, and, using your other hand, pour rhubarb juice into yolks a little at a time, letting custard thicken a little before adding more. When all liquid has been added, whisk until mixture holds a visible "trail" and has become quite thick.
6. Place bowl on stand mixer fitted with a whisk attachment and set speed to medium. Add extra 2 Tablespoons of honey now. If it looks like honey spun to attach itself to the side of the bowl, stop mixer and scrape down Sabayon with a spatula to combine.
7. Increasing speed incrementally, whisk until custard is light and voluminous.
8. Whisk Verbena infused cream until soft peaks form.
9. When Sabayon is ready, transfer into a larger bowl.
10. Using the most pliable spatula in your kitchen, fold whipped cream into Sabayon in three distinctive additions. Fold intentionally, from the inside of the bowl to the outermost edge. Each stroke counts. If you over mix these two ingredients your Sabayon will deflate to the point of liquidization.


Rhubarb-Verbena Sabayon with Crunchy Poached Rhubarb, Corn-Almond Biscotti and Marshall Farms Star Thistle Honey. Pastry Chef Authors: Shuna Lydon & Mark Furstenberg.

Sabayon keeps, refrigerated, for 1 day, but it is best the day it is made.

Labels: agriculture, chefs, culinary education, dessert, events, gluten-free, Napa, recipe, recipes, shuna lydon, vegetables

Continued from Part One on Monday April 16.

In California we have more than our fair share of live yeast in the air. Catching it and turning it into "sourdough starter" or "natural starter" is pretty easy. All one needs to do is to feed one's starter with cold water and bread flour every week or so. The concept of the 100 years old starter, though, is negligible. But I'm not here to rain on your sourdough starter parade. Although I will mention that sourdough is just that. It was not, originally, a nice thing to say about one's bread. It meant bad. It meant that your bread had gone off.

Like trifle, sourdough was originally a mistake. Or an exaggeration of a mistake. I have heard more than one Master Bread Baker disparage sourdough bread.

Also, for the sake of clarity, sourdough bread and sourdough starter are not the same. It is possible to make bread from live yeast cultures, whether they are from wheat or grapes or some other source, and not have it "taste sour." Although the nomenclature is the same, there's an argument here for saying starter when one means just that, and sourdough starter when one means the starter to make sourdough bread.

Now, who's on first?



All this being said, I had quite a lot of fun and education whilst hanging out with the humble Dylan of Sourdough Monkey Wrangler. A student of the live yeast culture, this man has come far in his self-education of all things involving bread flour. And he's neat and clean to boot.

Is there someone in your community you want to learn from? Maybe pick up a new skill? What stops you from calling them? Do you feel like they need to be paid for their time? Do you have anything to barter?

In my profession we have open doors for barter. I can give my time to just about any chef in whose kitchen I want to learn. We call this a "trail" or a stagiere.

In March, Dylan came to one of my classes, and afterwards brought me some sourdough inspired gifts. Very lucky for me there was a generous bag of homemade English muffins. I could not have been happier!

I love English muffins.



Dylan's English muffin recipe is based on one he found at Nicole's Baking Bites. He adapts his to include favorite locally grown and milled whole wheat flour from Full Belly Farm, as well as milk instead of water.

Milk is a traditional addition to English muffins, as well as Crumpets, which are basically English muffins, but griddled on only one side. In bread, milk becomes a softener. It feeds the yeast an alternative, tastier sugar, and the butterfat relaxes the crumb for a more pliable mouth feel.




When one bakes bread, a baked good of few ingredients, one must really know what each ingredient does, can do and is doing. Yeast, obviously, helps things rise. But the more you use, the faster bread goes stale. (The same goes for baking powder.) Flour and water combine to bind bread. But inherent in most flours is gluten. Gluten is protein, in its simplest terms, and, once "activated," is the structure builder, the 2X4's of bread doughs. Without gluten, there is no barn to raise. This, as we well know in Northern California, does not mean bread cannot be made without gluten. Tall, light bread, though, cannot be made without gluten.

Sugar, even the sugar that exists in the starch of the flour, feeds the yeast. Yeast is an animal, albeit a small single-celled one. (Ask the vegans if yeast is an animal they won't eat, and you will get a myriad of answers.) It eats sugar and emits gas (carbon dioxide), creating the bubbles that will, hours later, become the holes, or the nooks & crannies, in your bread. When flour has enough protein in it, the bubbles will keep their shape as they encircle the gas.

In bread, everything after yeast, flour, and water is dessert. Fat, in any form, is a softener. I'm not talking Wonder Bread here; I'm talking a palatable mouth feel. Think matzoh compared to challah, or French bread compared to brioche. Most people would rather make bread pudding or French toast with brioche, rather than ciabatta.

Flavorings are just that.



When working with natural starters one can develop far more flavor in bread. This is a funny sentence if you've not made bread. The concept is that the longer it takes to "proof" bread, or make it rise, the better the overall end result will be. Yeast does not like to be rushed. In turn, if you give it all the atmospheric elements it loves: humidity, mild warmth, time, it gives you rewards tenfold.

Bread tastes best when all you taste is bread. It's why Tartine's bread has such a following, even though it has more restrictions than a reservation at The French Laundry.

I have never been the type of person to have and keep a natural starter around. Dylan has a worm farm in his kitchen for easy apartment composting. I guerilla compost. Dylan rides his bike, I drive. Dylan feeds his starters on a schedule, I water my plants to keep them looking pretty on my window ledge.

But in the past weeks I've done some natural starter experiments. The recipes he gave me are a 3-day process. Day one you feed the starter and keep it out on the counter. Use a larger bowl than you need and make sure it's not metal. Day two combine starter with milk and flours. Day three add rest of flour, baking soda, salt and sugar, proof and begin muffin production.



English muffin production looks like this:

Knead dough a bit. The longer you knead it, the more likely it will hold it's round shape later and rise evenly. Roll dough out, cut, lay on heavily floured (or cornmeal covered) sheet, proof in a warm-ish, moist place (Dylan puts a measuring cup of very hot water in the oven for a more controlled atmosphere), and griddle until done. "Fork" to open, toast and eat with the best butter you can get your hands on. Have you eaten Clover's new Organic butter line yet? It's the bomb. So to speak.

I wouldn't call this the simplest, most efficient way to get to English muffins, but I will say that all the steps are important and worth it in the end.

Dylan and I use King Arthur bread flour, the blue paper bag. King Arthur has been extremely helpful when it comes to answering my questions about the protein contents and wheat origins of their flours. (Northern wheat is considered "stronger" with higher protein than Southern grown wheat that is considered "softer," White Lily being the best example.) Giusto's is a local company, but I can't seem to get them on the phone to answer questions to save my life. If you long to buy flour in bulk, which is less expensive than paying for the pretty packaging, head over to Rainbow Grocery in SF or Berkeley Bowl in the East Bay.

Most "sourdough" people will share a bit of their starter with you if this is the extra hobby you've been waiting for. For all your spare time.



But even if you take the time to make a starter which you keep alive for a few months in order to make two or three batches of these glorious homemade English muffins, I can guarantee you at least one happy mouth, your own, if not a messianic following. Not to mention the immeasurable learning one acquires from understanding the basics in the relationship between flour, yeast, air and water.

There's a chance that Dylan and I will co-teach a class on this very subject. Keep up with this link for announcements.

Labels: bread, culinary education, foodblogs, local, recipe, recipes, shuna lydon

Let's play a little word association. I say "recipe". You say "card"? Recipe cards are so retro they might just be poised for a return to fashion. They actually take up a lot less room than cookbooks and are amazingly easy to sort and browse through. I really hadn't thought very much about them until a few boxes passed my way recently. Not all of them were worthwhile but here are three I do recommend.

1. Sumptuous Small Plates
This delectable deck of cards is written by local entrepreneur Bibby Gignilliat the founder and executive chef of Parties That Cook. Because she has a background as a cooking teacher and organizer of cooking parties, the recipe instructions are clear and easy to follow. The photographs on these cards are gorgeous and the recipes are very enticing. Rather than pull out a dozen cookbooks you could easily throw a party using a handful of cards.

Some typical recipes? Lamb Skewers with Basil Mint Pesto, Crostini of Goat Cheese with Tomato Marmalade, Sweet Potato Galettes with Bacon and Sour Cream. There are even a handful of desserts. I am looking forward to trying Kofte with Melted Feta Center and Garlicky Tahini and the Coconut Butter Cupcakes with Coconut Cream Frosting. Except for one recipe, they all fit neatly on one card. The deck also includes entertaining tips and menu suggestions. There are 30 recipes in all.


2. 86 San Francisco
Local food maven GraceAnn Walden edited this impressive set of restaurant recipes, and the focus here is on restaurants. All the photographs are of the restaurants, not the recipes themselves. Sometimes restaurant recipes don't translate well to the home kitchen but for the most part these recipes seem workable and a nice taste of what you'd get at the restaurant.

The restaurants featured in the pack are all topnotch. Actually it would be interesting to compare them to the infamous Chronicle 100! The restaurants include Acme Chophouse, A16, Bocadillos, Cyrus, Manresa, Incanto, Slanted Door, Yank Sing, etc. Recipes run the gamut from an Apple Galette from Chez Panisse, Duck Gumbo from Town Hall to Butter-Poached Lobster with Vanilla Crepe from Michael Mina.

My only quibbles are the number of recipes that take up two cards and a recipe for macaroni and cheese that calls for "a box elbow macaroni". Come again? Is there one standard size box of macaroni I should know about? There are 86 recipe cards, but about 80 86 recipes. All in all it's still a very good pick. This deck not only serves as a great source of recipes but also as a great source of restaurant info. It's a good way to get a sampling of what's cooking in and around San Francisco without adding yet another coffee table sized restaurant cookbook to your collection.


3. My A-Z Recipe Box
Developed by a former chef, mother and cooking teacher, this box is a good cooking starter kit for kids. There are 26 recipes which each serve as alphabetized tabs in the recipe box which has ample room for more cards. There is a stack of blank cards in the back for adding recipes and two pages of stickers to decorate the cards.

Some recipes require adult supervision but many can easily be made by kids with no help from mom or dad. The recipes are very kid-friendly both in cooking techniques and in style, and include colorful illustrations throughout. Choose from Cheesiest Cheese and Macaroni, Perfect Popovers, Krazy for Kebabs, Gimme More Granola or even more whimsically named dishes like Ants in My Applesauce or Quick-As-A-Wink Quesadillas.

Labels: amy sherman, recipe cards, recipes

Almost 15 years ago, at the beginning of my career, I worked at Lulu (SF). Unbeknownst to my very naive self at the time, I would never work at another restaurant that would make all its own table bread. At Verbena (NYC), under the tutelage of Diane Forley, the pastry department was responsible for a number of breads, especially on the weekends when we would produce gorgeous ficelle, brioche and any number of elegant quick breads for the toast cart.

But no other kitchen would be like Lulu. With two stacks of bread ovens, a full time bread baker (who came in at 10 pm and left near 8 am) and custom designed wooden shelves to display and sell the massive pain de campagne (looking much like Poilane's signature loaf) Lulu's bread program was serious.



So serious, an entire walk-in was devoted to the bread's starter, loaf proofing, and our overstock of dairy. A separate refrigerated room for ingredients lacking in strong scents. Except the time when I backed into whole lambs hanging, waiting for butchering. But that's another story.

Because the restaurant made so much bread, our starter was kept in a plastic rolling garbage can sized container. Massively huge. Lets call it 50 gallons for the sake of a good guess. Whoever arrived first thing in the morning was required to roll it out of the walk-in, pull a few gallons for that nights bake and feed the monster. The last duty meant we had to lean over the lip, reach into the sticky abyss, and stir the gloopy gurgling mixture with a large wooden spoon.

No matter how much we rolled up the sleeves of our chef's jackets, some of the starter would creep into our uniform. But this wasn't the worst of it. Natural starter is stickier than glue. When we were done with our duties, we held out our arms like surgeons and entered the dish room, tackling skin with hot water and the high-pressure sprayer.

Even after countless showers, little teardrops of dried starter stuck to my arm hairs, eventually rendering me as soft and hairless as a Tour De France cyclist.



One day I arrived in the kitchen earlier than anyone. I turned on ovens, flipped light switches and then noticed something very weird. The 2nd walk-in door was slightly ajar. Walk-ins come equipped with self-closing doors and, for safety, door handles on the inside as well as the outside. Doors do not stay open, as they are pressure sealed and close with the fwooop! to prove it.

I was alone in the kitchen.

I stood in front of the door. I held my breath. Listened very closely. Nothing but the whir of the fan.

Then I tried the door. Although it was ajar I had a hard time getting it more open. I tried to peer inside. Nothing. Pulling as hard as I could, the door flew open, throwing me on the ground. Recovering just in time to catch the door before it closed again, I stepped inside.

Someone had not sealed the starter's lid. Usually we closed the lid and weighted it with a few half gallons of dairy. To keep the bears out.



Starter grew out of the 50-gallon bucket. Crept down the sides. Grew across the floor like lava. Scaled the cold box walls. Spread its wings, traversing 90-degree angles, and defied gravity by covering the ceiling. Starter dripped on my head, plop. Starter was everywhere. Alive, happy, wet, sticky, growing. I looked down. Like the first man on the moon I saw my shoes disappearing into foreign goo. Starter naughtily walked out the door.

The starter was having a party.

And I would spend the next many many hours cleaning up after it.

Lesson number 1:
Never leave a starter unattended. Never assume it sleeps a deep dormant sleep in a cold box. Never question the power of wild yeast you've wrangled in, microscopically, from the air. Never forget that day. Never say pshaw to a Californian sourdough.

Part 2: Monday April 23.

Labels: bread, culinary education, local, recipe, recipes, shuna lydon

A recent breakfast at T-28 Cafe in the Outer Sunset reminded me just how good a cup of hot, strong milk tea tastes on lazy weekend mornings. Although the richness of a well-aged pu-erh or the emerald sweetness of a spring shin-cha give me great pleasure as a tea drinker, neither have a place in my heart like down-home milk tea.

Milk tea is its own religion in Hong Kong, intertwined in the colony's history and culinary culture. It's a topic not taken lightly, and I know I enter dangerous territory writing about it as an outsider. I've hosted visitors insisted on traveling with their own packets of instant "3-in-1" milk tea to ensure that their morning cup wouldn't be compromised. Although the boba generation may not remember, milk tea helped defined the intersection of east and west. Enjoyed from morning to midnight, it was served on nearly every street corner. Establishments guarded their secret recipes, and even McDonald's began offering its own version of milk tea.


One of the 28 remaining dai pai dong in Hong Kong. Ubiquitous in the 50s and 60s, these street stalls specialized in both hot and cold milk tea as well as fast fare at all times of the day and night. I love those little, built-in, square stools -- perfect for hunching over a bowl of noodles.

As with any ritual that combines comfort with caffeine, there's much debate over the specifics, from the type of tea leaves to the brand of milk to the precise mechanics of combining the two. Generally, though, most can agree on some basic tenets for milk tea: a blend of Ceylon and Assam leaves brewed for an extended period, a generous stir of evaporated milk, and a hint of sweetness from a spoonful of condensed milk or sugar. Purists will insist on Black & White brand milk (the one with the cow on the label) and a cloth brewing bag to mimic the fine-textured, oblong filters that lend milk tea its nickname in Cantonese: "silk stocking tea." I'm perfectly okay with English and Irish Breakfast teabags, but even the pragmatist in me admits that milk tea with anything else but evaporated milk falls far from its creator's intent.

The key is brewing the tea over low heat for a very long time. The extra tannin gives enough body and bitterness to balance the milk, so the result is a strong yet silky smooth, creamy, and full-bodied drink that's as easy to identify by sight as a properly made espresso. In fact, even before the cup arrives, you'll know: walk into any cafe that makes its own milk tea and you'll pick up instantly milk tea's distinctive scent.


Marrying into the Wu family means learning new habits. The morning after my wedding, Ba Wu brews a big pot of milk tea for all our guests.

Yes, I know, Anglophiles and expats all shudder in horror at the thought of milk tea. But just like a tall glass of Southern sweet tea or a mug of cowboy coffee, the moment you sip one made with integrity and generosity, you'll understand.

For your first cup of milk tea, don't order from a place that makes it from an instant mix. Instead, look for Hong Kong eateries or bakeries where it appears on a separate drink menu. The popularity of bubble tea means a true milk tea has become extremely difficult to find. Try it at Sweetheart Cafe on Grant, D&A on Broadway, or ABC Bakery on Jackson in SF Chinatown. Slanted Door has an excellent version, lifted out of its Chinese diner ambience but honest, strong and good. My favorite source, T-28 Cafe out on Taraval at 28th Avenue, has an extensive menu that also highlights lemon tea, ginger coke, and other lovely libations.

Making Hong Kong Milk Tea

Experiment with various combinations of Ceylon ("English Breakfast") and Assam ("Irish Breakfast") teas. I personally like the redder, warmer flavors of more Assam leaves, but many prefer the darker, more robust Ceylon. If you use a large mesh ball or one of those muslin tea brewing bags, it'll be easier to strain loose tea leaves. Of course, teabags sidestep this entirely.

Bring a small pot of water just to the boiling point, but do not let it actually bubble up. Lower the heat to as low as possible. Add three times as many tea bags or twice as much loose tea as you would normally. Cover and leave the tea to brew for at least 10 minutes and up to 30 minutes. Strain out the tea leaves or remove the teabags; for this, it's okay to squeeze teabags to get the extra boost. Stir in evaporated milk until the tea is the color of caramel, then bring the tea back to very hot serving temperature.

Divide the tea among several cups and invite your guests to stir in a spoonful of sweetened condensed milk or sugar.

Labels: asian food, history, recipe, recipes, tea, thy tran