My daughter is taking chemistry. Sophomore year. She's into science, which I admire and envy at the same time. Her English-major Mother avoided chemistry. Even now, I prefer to call those tried-and-true reactions "Magic."
We enjoyed science experiments after school. That little brain and I changed the liquid from red to blue: Ooooh! We created static electricity on a balloon and watched the salt leap up to attach itself: cool! We made our own playdough, silly putty, papier-mache. We got the egg into the bottle. We even transformed an oval egg into a square! (vinager...)
But that Table of Elements. Yawn. There it is, on our kitchen wall. We glance at it over ice cream. We discuss. We quiz ourselves. Mostly I listen. Make jokes...about myself.
My daughter's chemistry teacher had the audacity to give me homework last week. I have to write, my teenager claimed, then nagged, how chemistry appears in our everyday lives. Hmmm.. You mean it's my job to explain why she's learning this?
As that Liberal Arts Joke goes, I know nothing about chemistry. I could write a poem for you...about chemistry...and what I don't know.
But I've got another profession up my sleeve: Chef. It's still slightly artsy, but there's science in there. I get it.
I start with Yeast. It's ALIVE! Already this chemistry thing is cool! In cooking school, I had the pleasure of waking up at four in the morning, trudging to school to make the bread. Boulangerie. Breadmaking. This art/science has more chemistry than any other culinary art, alcohol aside! Not only do we measure precisely when making bread, we also take temperature: the flour, the water. If your water is too warm, you will kill the yeast. If it is too cold, the yeast will not wake up. Yeast creates a reaction in the mixture of flour, water, and salt that creates gluten. Stretchy, gluten needs to rest after its creation. The yeast, like The Blob, grows and oozes. If you keep this reaction too cold, the process will stop. If you keep this mess too warm, it really does become the Blob.
This chemistry lesson gives you wonderful yeasty holes in your baguette. Splash some water in your oven just before you slide in that baguette and the steam it creates will leave you with a shiny, crunchy crust. (You know, the one you can't find to save your life at the grocery store...) Eat a slice of this baguette while it's hot, and the gases created by the yeast will work on you, too. You've been warned!
We make some quick bread. Why is it quick? No yeast. No waiting around for the Blob. Instead of yeast, we use Baking Powder. Just a little. It works like yeast: leavening for Impatient People. What happens if we forget our baking powder? You get quick brick. No fluff. No air in there. No rising. Chew it. and chew it. and chew it. It's actually hard to eat. It actually kind of hurts to swallow. What happens if we beat our baking powder too hard? Too much? Tough bread. Dry. Crumbly. You're eating dust. You've killed the chemistry.
We make some brownies. We praise the Judaic community for their anti-leavening stance. No baking powder. No baking soda. No chemistry. Just sugar, flour, butter, chocolate. Why people think they need a box in order to make these I'll never understand.
Transformation! Transformation! I can turn raw, sliced onions--onions that make you cry, attack your taste buds, make you burp--into sweet, caramelized jam with a little fat, a little heat, a long, long time. I can chop some shallots, boil them in white wine until I have a millimeter at the bottom of my pan, add some vinager and do it again, and then, whisking like a madwoman, add knob after knob of butter until I have what some have deemed the best sauce in the world: beurre blanc. Thick, creamy, smooth. Weird? No! Chemistry! What is mayonnaise but egg yolks, mustard, and oil? It's all in the technique. And what is technique but chemistry, step by step. Creme anglaise is not creamy at all until you've heated your milk to transform the lactose.
Chemistry. No, you can't live without it. You could live in ignorance, but chemistry is cool. It is magic, explained. Even then, it still feels like Christmas morning when your sauce suddenly thickens, your souffle poufs, your angelfood cake rises and rises!
There's chemisty happening every second in our bodies. Exchanges at the atomic level. Firing of neurons. Eat some chocolate. Feel happy? Chemistry! Have a good cry! Feel better? Chemistry! Spoon in that comfort food! Those carbs--they make you feel better: chemistry. We are, after all, Stardust. Every interaction we have with another person creates a chemical exchange at the atomic level! Yes! The people in your life truly do change and influence you! Chemistry! Knowing the Why doesn't take anything away from this experience. It leaves you in awe of this World. This Universe. Ourselves.
Sunday, September 25, 2011
Sunday, September 18, 2011
Winter on a Spoon
Ice Cream. This frozen treat is an obsession for some--not only a favorite dessert but a snack. Marco Polo, it is said, observed the Chinese enjoying "ice cream" as early as the 1300s, but there are records dating back to the T'ang Period (618-907) of an ice milk product at court.
"Ices" didn't reach Europe--via the Moors-- until the early 1600s, and this was simply sorbet. The idea of egg custard as an ice cream base didn't take off until the 18th century. And then it went, divisively, into gelato, kulfi, sherbet, granita, and spooms, depending on egg, cream, milk, and cultural tastes.
Ice cream: a puzzlement. You must cook it in order to freeze it. A simple creme anglaise with your favorite fruit (cooked!) becomes an airy, glacial surprise: the cream coaxes out the sugary fruit, the acidity tamed by eggs and milk.
My ice cream maker was one of the first major appliances that I bought. I saved and saved, returning to stare longingly at the machine in the Williams & Sonoma window. I felt the urge to go beyond the grocery store offerings. I had never heard of Cold Stone. Ben and Jerry were just taking off. I had had a Haagen Daas Pear Sorbet with a fudge ripple that I couldn't find in the States. I couldn't get it out of my head, so I made it. ( I still do!)
I've learned a lot about ice cream making since I churned my first strawberry. I strongly believe that cream cheese doesn't belong anywhere near my machine. I know that there's a balance between milk and heavy cream for a reason. I know that inverted sugar --honey, or glucose--will keep that apple cider sorbet from getting hard and grainy, and that granitas usually benefit from a little alcohol. I believe that coconut ice cream kicks butt, but coconut sorbet lacks...and that coconut anything surely is better when coupled with pineapple, mango, banana, papaya...
I've done some experimenting, because I, like Ben, can't help myself. There are certain flavors that stand alone. Others need help. White chocolate ice cream, yes, is good, but becomes Queen with strawberries, blueberries, cherries, raspberries! Caramel makes anything better. Fudge rippling through your ice cream does too. Chocolate ice cream is awesome, but really hard to perfect. A little chili powder or sea salt changes everything. Milk chocolate ice cream with malt...oh my! Chocolate sorbet is that fudgesicle we used to enjoy as kids, but if you use premium dark dark dark chocolate, it is over the top! Rocky Road is Classic. Creme fraiche ice cream pairs magically with a scoop of strawberry. A deep, ripe tomato sorbet is the perfect foil for pan-seared tuna. I've had the occassion, in the mazes of Old Nice, to try lavender ice cream: unforgettable. Seriously, that pastel violet hue, the subtle perfume. I've smeared my face black enjoying licorice ice cream. (Thank you, Baskin Robbins!) I've celebrated St. Patrick's Day with my own Guiness ice cream. Nutty, chocolatey, yum! I've bravely spooned Dijon ice cream--yes! it works!--and the list goes on. I am one of those who never wants the same flavor twice.
This "winter on a spoon" makes my children literally jump for joy. It brings a smile to my French man's face. He reverts to childhood and I get to witness him as a little boy, licking his bowl. Ice cream is a celebration without reason: the ultimate "just because." We make ice cream soup, we whine between gulps about our "ice cream headache," we linger at the table: maybe just one more scoop....
I Scream! You Scream! We all Scream for Ice Cream!
"Ices" didn't reach Europe--via the Moors-- until the early 1600s, and this was simply sorbet. The idea of egg custard as an ice cream base didn't take off until the 18th century. And then it went, divisively, into gelato, kulfi, sherbet, granita, and spooms, depending on egg, cream, milk, and cultural tastes.
Ice cream: a puzzlement. You must cook it in order to freeze it. A simple creme anglaise with your favorite fruit (cooked!) becomes an airy, glacial surprise: the cream coaxes out the sugary fruit, the acidity tamed by eggs and milk.
My ice cream maker was one of the first major appliances that I bought. I saved and saved, returning to stare longingly at the machine in the Williams & Sonoma window. I felt the urge to go beyond the grocery store offerings. I had never heard of Cold Stone. Ben and Jerry were just taking off. I had had a Haagen Daas Pear Sorbet with a fudge ripple that I couldn't find in the States. I couldn't get it out of my head, so I made it. ( I still do!)
I've learned a lot about ice cream making since I churned my first strawberry. I strongly believe that cream cheese doesn't belong anywhere near my machine. I know that there's a balance between milk and heavy cream for a reason. I know that inverted sugar --honey, or glucose--will keep that apple cider sorbet from getting hard and grainy, and that granitas usually benefit from a little alcohol. I believe that coconut ice cream kicks butt, but coconut sorbet lacks...and that coconut anything surely is better when coupled with pineapple, mango, banana, papaya...
I've done some experimenting, because I, like Ben, can't help myself. There are certain flavors that stand alone. Others need help. White chocolate ice cream, yes, is good, but becomes Queen with strawberries, blueberries, cherries, raspberries! Caramel makes anything better. Fudge rippling through your ice cream does too. Chocolate ice cream is awesome, but really hard to perfect. A little chili powder or sea salt changes everything. Milk chocolate ice cream with malt...oh my! Chocolate sorbet is that fudgesicle we used to enjoy as kids, but if you use premium dark dark dark chocolate, it is over the top! Rocky Road is Classic. Creme fraiche ice cream pairs magically with a scoop of strawberry. A deep, ripe tomato sorbet is the perfect foil for pan-seared tuna. I've had the occassion, in the mazes of Old Nice, to try lavender ice cream: unforgettable. Seriously, that pastel violet hue, the subtle perfume. I've smeared my face black enjoying licorice ice cream. (Thank you, Baskin Robbins!) I've celebrated St. Patrick's Day with my own Guiness ice cream. Nutty, chocolatey, yum! I've bravely spooned Dijon ice cream--yes! it works!--and the list goes on. I am one of those who never wants the same flavor twice.
This "winter on a spoon" makes my children literally jump for joy. It brings a smile to my French man's face. He reverts to childhood and I get to witness him as a little boy, licking his bowl. Ice cream is a celebration without reason: the ultimate "just because." We make ice cream soup, we whine between gulps about our "ice cream headache," we linger at the table: maybe just one more scoop....
I Scream! You Scream! We all Scream for Ice Cream!
Sunday, September 11, 2011
Think Outside the Lunch Box
It's that time of year. Cool mornings blossom into hot afternoons. My mind turns to the coming onslaught of holidays, and my alarm gets set again. I awaken in the dark, start the coffee like a thief in my own house. It's Back to School. New pencils. Clean shoes. The optimism of a fresh start. "We're all in our places With bright shiny faces!" I begin making breakfast and lunch. I am Short-Order Cook!
I've got half a cup in me, my babies gather focused on waking up around my scratch- and -dent table, each with breakfast their first of many tasks for the day. Boxes of Batman, Hello Kitty, and a sorry brown bag line up in front of me. I am Sysiphus! Each day a new conundrum.
Batman is easy. He'll eat anything. He gets a banana, an awesome PB&J, some Laughing Cow and crackers, those ubiquitous baby carrots. This one eats with concentration. His brow is scrunched. He doesn't have time to chat. I put a napkin in knowing he'll use his shirt.
Hello Kitty has a list of things NOT ALLOWED. No fresh fruit...(what will people say?) "Applesauce?" No thank you. "Cheese?" Only string cheese. "String cheese tastes like plastic," I say. "How about a sharp cheddar?" She shakes her head adamantly. "A nice triangle of Brie?" She stomps her foot and frowns. String cheese. I throw it in, frowning slightly.
She'll eat PB&J. Sometimes she allows Ham and Swiss. I've got her hooked on leftover quiche, but only if I remind her that it's Egg Pie. I've sneaked in cold tortellini. Miss Picky gets a steady rotation of graham crackers, veggie sticks, organic Goldfish substitute. She may allow a hard-boiled egg; it may or may not get eaten.
She's pretty sure she deserves a dessert every day. "Really?" I regard Little Miss shoveling Lucky Charms while I finish her lunch. "Figs are Nature's Candy. Wouldn't you like some?" She nods enthusiastically until she sees me packing them. Tears well in those stormy blue eyes. My drama queen has vetoed the dried figs. I pop one in my mouth and mumble "More for me..."
All of this drama may turn to dust during lunch. She may choose to giggle and conspire at the lunch table, abandoning her precious Hello Kitty for the jungle gym. This social butterfly may traipse out of her classroom without it at all and follow her friend to the school lunch line! I close the box and move on down the line.
My Brown-Bag-It Girl grunts from the breakfast table as I pack her lunch. She's turned vegetarian on me, this teenager who adores bacon, orders escargot with glee whenever she can, puts proscuitto on her grilled cheese. I fill a tupperware with mesclun. I layer thick slices of juicy heirloom tomatoes with soft buffala mozzarella. I mumble something about proscuitto...She glares from above her smoothie. I pop in my balsamic vinaigrette and a fork. She may eat this standing up, sitting on the grass surrounded by friends and the Top 40 glaring across the Quad. She may eat this during a game of D&D, or while practicing for Academic League. But she'll eat it! She may even smile, but I won't see that...
It's the only meal My Pack eats separately, the only Table where my Young are on their own. I send them out with a box, a reminder of Home, Mommy, Us. I watch them trudge toward School, the Great Corruptor, and hope. I just hope.
I've got half a cup in me, my babies gather focused on waking up around my scratch- and -dent table, each with breakfast their first of many tasks for the day. Boxes of Batman, Hello Kitty, and a sorry brown bag line up in front of me. I am Sysiphus! Each day a new conundrum.
Batman is easy. He'll eat anything. He gets a banana, an awesome PB&J, some Laughing Cow and crackers, those ubiquitous baby carrots. This one eats with concentration. His brow is scrunched. He doesn't have time to chat. I put a napkin in knowing he'll use his shirt.
Hello Kitty has a list of things NOT ALLOWED. No fresh fruit...(what will people say?) "Applesauce?" No thank you. "Cheese?" Only string cheese. "String cheese tastes like plastic," I say. "How about a sharp cheddar?" She shakes her head adamantly. "A nice triangle of Brie?" She stomps her foot and frowns. String cheese. I throw it in, frowning slightly.
She'll eat PB&J. Sometimes she allows Ham and Swiss. I've got her hooked on leftover quiche, but only if I remind her that it's Egg Pie. I've sneaked in cold tortellini. Miss Picky gets a steady rotation of graham crackers, veggie sticks, organic Goldfish substitute. She may allow a hard-boiled egg; it may or may not get eaten.
She's pretty sure she deserves a dessert every day. "Really?" I regard Little Miss shoveling Lucky Charms while I finish her lunch. "Figs are Nature's Candy. Wouldn't you like some?" She nods enthusiastically until she sees me packing them. Tears well in those stormy blue eyes. My drama queen has vetoed the dried figs. I pop one in my mouth and mumble "More for me..."
All of this drama may turn to dust during lunch. She may choose to giggle and conspire at the lunch table, abandoning her precious Hello Kitty for the jungle gym. This social butterfly may traipse out of her classroom without it at all and follow her friend to the school lunch line! I close the box and move on down the line.
My Brown-Bag-It Girl grunts from the breakfast table as I pack her lunch. She's turned vegetarian on me, this teenager who adores bacon, orders escargot with glee whenever she can, puts proscuitto on her grilled cheese. I fill a tupperware with mesclun. I layer thick slices of juicy heirloom tomatoes with soft buffala mozzarella. I mumble something about proscuitto...She glares from above her smoothie. I pop in my balsamic vinaigrette and a fork. She may eat this standing up, sitting on the grass surrounded by friends and the Top 40 glaring across the Quad. She may eat this during a game of D&D, or while practicing for Academic League. But she'll eat it! She may even smile, but I won't see that...
It's the only meal My Pack eats separately, the only Table where my Young are on their own. I send them out with a box, a reminder of Home, Mommy, Us. I watch them trudge toward School, the Great Corruptor, and hope. I just hope.
Saturday, September 3, 2011
Fruit of my Labors
My oven is officially off. No more gratins, not one baking sheet of cookies, quiche is over. It's summer and my kitchen has changed guards: the comfort food has gone, the meat banished to the grill, and dessert, like everything else I place on the table, becomes simpler.
I don't cook dinner anymore. I make. I assemble. It's my three-month vacation: the season of California's best. I visit the markets and stores to whiff those aromatic peaches as I saunter by, gaze at the bounty of berries, and, for sure, grab the cherries and figs while I can.
Fuzzy peaches and nectarines barely have time to hit the fruit bowl before the sandbox hands take them out. Watermelon chunks and halved strawberries cool in rosewater. Dulcinea melons become a casual bowl for berries, or port and proscuitto, or sea salt and pink peppercorns. Apricots get devoured in twos and threes.
My spice drawer gets busy this time of year: Fruits get dressed up in simple syrups: blueberries and nectarines swim in a bath infused with star anise, lemon peel and ginger. Plums and pluots with cardamom. Pineapple and papaya spears loll in white ginger. Lemongrass, kaffir lime leaves, and tamarind all perfume fruit salads. I pluck mint and toss it with reduced balsamic vinegar to mingle with chopped strawberries and crystallized ginger.
By mid-August, I start getting frantic. I see the end of the season and wonder who thought Thanksgiving belonged in November. I imagine this American holiday smack in the middle of summer when this cornucopia of nature's candy collides with a plethora of fresh vegetables.
Tomatoes, zucchini, peppers, ramps and green onions meld with red, pink, and white radishes, mache, watercress. This plethora of greens and reds feels like culinary Christmas in July. I introduce juicy pineapple and mango to my arugula; I sprinkle my mesclun with julienned radishes, red peppers, baby beets; I present a coupling of melons and figs to proscuitto-laced red and green lettuce, their sturdy leaves supporting a cool port vinaigrette.
Classic ratatouille gets redressed inside peppers and giant sweet onions. Sliced into a layered pie (a tian, they call it over there...) Stacked into a tower of summer and pesto, shimmering on that cool white plate with a teaspoon of tapenade surveying the table. Served rustic in a thrown-together crust (that's a galette!) Even wrapped in a tortilla with tuna, chicken, or rice.
The best part of summer, however, is my French man's morning gift to me: a green smoothie. In the summer time, this thick liquid might contain pineapple, peaches, watermelon, mango, or a handful of grapes, topping off that blender stuffed full of kale, radish greens, swiss chard and romaine. I get my 5 a day along with my coffee, knowing that everything else I eat is bonus.
Whatever gets me through the day? Yes! But summer is the best time to give yourself this ritual: a green smoothie gives you more than just an awesome breakfast. It turns you into Energizer Bunny. And yes, that liquid goes down so much easier sweetened with juicy peaches, sweet, sweet pineapple, dripping mango to offset the bitter leaves that give me the energy to chase my kids around the house after work, cook dinner, and still have some Me left for post night-night time.
I'm first up. I do the coffee. Yes, I resent it! ( I'm a princess, what can I say?...) But there he is, handing me that big glass of green. I feel so healthy, gulping down greens, peppers, beets, and ginger. I feel so energized, leaving for work with this cholorphyll rhapsody evolving inside me. Most of all, I feel so loved....My French Man is watching out for me.
I don't cook dinner anymore. I make. I assemble. It's my three-month vacation: the season of California's best. I visit the markets and stores to whiff those aromatic peaches as I saunter by, gaze at the bounty of berries, and, for sure, grab the cherries and figs while I can.
Fuzzy peaches and nectarines barely have time to hit the fruit bowl before the sandbox hands take them out. Watermelon chunks and halved strawberries cool in rosewater. Dulcinea melons become a casual bowl for berries, or port and proscuitto, or sea salt and pink peppercorns. Apricots get devoured in twos and threes.
My spice drawer gets busy this time of year: Fruits get dressed up in simple syrups: blueberries and nectarines swim in a bath infused with star anise, lemon peel and ginger. Plums and pluots with cardamom. Pineapple and papaya spears loll in white ginger. Lemongrass, kaffir lime leaves, and tamarind all perfume fruit salads. I pluck mint and toss it with reduced balsamic vinegar to mingle with chopped strawberries and crystallized ginger.
By mid-August, I start getting frantic. I see the end of the season and wonder who thought Thanksgiving belonged in November. I imagine this American holiday smack in the middle of summer when this cornucopia of nature's candy collides with a plethora of fresh vegetables.
Tomatoes, zucchini, peppers, ramps and green onions meld with red, pink, and white radishes, mache, watercress. This plethora of greens and reds feels like culinary Christmas in July. I introduce juicy pineapple and mango to my arugula; I sprinkle my mesclun with julienned radishes, red peppers, baby beets; I present a coupling of melons and figs to proscuitto-laced red and green lettuce, their sturdy leaves supporting a cool port vinaigrette.
Classic ratatouille gets redressed inside peppers and giant sweet onions. Sliced into a layered pie (a tian, they call it over there...) Stacked into a tower of summer and pesto, shimmering on that cool white plate with a teaspoon of tapenade surveying the table. Served rustic in a thrown-together crust (that's a galette!) Even wrapped in a tortilla with tuna, chicken, or rice.
The best part of summer, however, is my French man's morning gift to me: a green smoothie. In the summer time, this thick liquid might contain pineapple, peaches, watermelon, mango, or a handful of grapes, topping off that blender stuffed full of kale, radish greens, swiss chard and romaine. I get my 5 a day along with my coffee, knowing that everything else I eat is bonus.
Whatever gets me through the day? Yes! But summer is the best time to give yourself this ritual: a green smoothie gives you more than just an awesome breakfast. It turns you into Energizer Bunny. And yes, that liquid goes down so much easier sweetened with juicy peaches, sweet, sweet pineapple, dripping mango to offset the bitter leaves that give me the energy to chase my kids around the house after work, cook dinner, and still have some Me left for post night-night time.
I'm first up. I do the coffee. Yes, I resent it! ( I'm a princess, what can I say?...) But there he is, handing me that big glass of green. I feel so healthy, gulping down greens, peppers, beets, and ginger. I feel so energized, leaving for work with this cholorphyll rhapsody evolving inside me. Most of all, I feel so loved....My French Man is watching out for me.
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