And they said unto me; Capers

And so it came to pass that the clouds did part, and the angels did trumpet, and the coming of...

... Okay, that's not exactly how it went down. But, through some means, nefarious or otherwise (I tend to favor nefarious, but it just takes so much planning) I obtained my first Good Foodie Challenge.

Capers.

My first thought; Just what have I gotten myself in to?

I kid.

Capers tend to be one of those things that you love or you hate. On second thought, I've never heard anyone declare their undying food-love for capers, but it's a lot nicer than saying a lot of people just hate them.

I, at least, get along with them well enough. The flavor is sometimes described as pungeant and piquant.

Piquant? Really? To me, this is one of those words that you throw around when you want to sound like you have every right to be talking about whatever it is you're spouting, but really have no idea. In the end, it's just another way of saying something adds that little something, and it's a good something. In a word? Tasty. Such a term may be too pedestrian for the big wigs, but I've yet to grow into mine, and it suits me just fine.

The question remains, though, as to just what a caper is. And what it is, is, is the bud of a plant. Not to be confused with caperberries, which are the actual fruit, and are roughly grape-sized. Capers, on the other hand, range from the size of the end of your pinkie to, say, the size of a BB pellet. As a rule, the smaller, the better.

Unless you're picking up enough to last you through the next apocalypse, you'll find them in a brine, having been dried first. Imagine a little pea looking thing in a jar of salty liquid. Sounds delicious, no? Fine, fine, but stick with me a little longer, we're getting to the good part.

Now that the quick lesson in food anthropology is dealt with (yes, you can put away the pitchforks), we can get on to the point - just what do you do with them?

Capers have found their way into the hearts of a few dishes, at least, acting as a unique flavor element in a sauce (like remoulade) or simply tieing things together as a garnish (try some with gravlox). One dish in particular stood out to me, though, when deciding on how to bring the capers to bear.

Chicken Piccata.

Usually done with a cut of meat that has been pounded flat (escalope, or scalloped) in order to both tenderize and reduce the required cook time, I figured I'd up the anti a bit and turn it into a roulade. That is to say, put stuff inside, roll it up, and slice it. You also cook it somewhere in there, for the record.

To assist the following description, I posit to you the following visual aide; a picture of the end result.



So my photography is even more amateur than my... everything else.  Surprise, surprise.


As you may have figured out, you clever reader you, taking it from a flat cut to a roulade meant I had to fill it with something.  That something decided to be some good grain mustard and fresh tarragon.  A nice compliment to the more sour and high pitched flavors of the lemon and capers?  A method to my madness, it seems, does rear its head on occasion.

After this treatment (with some salt and pepper, of course), it's a simple matter to roll up the chicken, dredge it in flour, and start searing it in a pan.  After a good sear has formed, pop it into the oven to finish cooking.

But where are the capers!  I can hear the cries from here (yes, that does mean I can hear into the future - I'm full of nifty talents like that).  Fear not, for they will bring their powers to bear in the sauce.  And since we're making a pan sauce, we need those delicious chicken drippings to make it happen.

So once the chicken is cooked (and has been given a bit of a rest so that said drippings will... you know... drip), we start on the sauce.  First a bit of lemon so that the acid will pull all those tasty bits from the pan, then some stock (okay, I was using vegetable broth) for bulk.  A bit of mustard, some more fresh tarragon, and yes, the capers (rinsed - remember that brine means they're basically packaged in salt).  Of course, unless you want this to be a nice caper soup poured over the plate, it needs to be thickened. 

Enter what I affectionately refer to as roux pellets.  All you have to do is take a bit of butter, rub a bit of flour into it (about equal parts) and knock it into little balls.  Toss a few of these into the mix, and you'll have something that looks downright edible instead of something you need a straw for.  Note that, as with all things roux, you'll need at least a good simmer to get it to do its thing.

I suppose I should mention that yes, the chicken was plated over a bed of braised collards.  Do you get the details on those?  'Fraid not.  Patience is a virtue, as they say.  I will say, though, that they were rather tasty.

And there you have it.

They said unto me, capers.  And I say unto them, done and done.

I've sold my soul to the corporate devil

But I still make the best grilled cheese sandwich ever.

Okay, so I won't actually claim that title, but I will say that my version is a lot better than the one you'll get off the menu.

And I didn't completely sell my soul, either... I just made some adjustments. Like suffering through prepackaged, frozen soups in exchange for a relatively normal schedule and most weekends to myself. A rare accommodation, at best. And there's yet hope for me, as I likewise upped my title to that of Catering Coordinator (or catering manager, if I feel like inflating my ego a bit).

Even so, I can sometimes find an oasis in the desert of culinary sedation.

Often enough, this comes in the form of the previously mentioned grilled cheese sandwich.

How does one dig around the dregs to find something worth writing home about? Don't think about it too much. Keep it simple, and keep it good.

So if you work in a bakery cafe, start with bread. That, at least, you can trust. Sourdough, in particular. I'm a fan of good sourdough. Sourdough has soul. I've never tried making my own starter, though it's simple in principle - it's just creating an environment where yeast can grow naturally, so that you don't have to add commercial yeast.

I have, in the past, made bread using a wet primer. The idea is to mix in yeast with the sugar and some water to allow the yeast to grow a bit before you mix the rest together. The added time allows for the yeast to... well... do yeastly things. Remember that this is a living, breathing (at least to an extent) creature. The various processes that the extra few hours allow add substantial flavors to the end product.

A sourdough starter is akin to this process, with just an extra handful of awesome thrown in for additional epic level quality.

So we have the base, time for a little sauce action. Dry bread is sad bread, as far as I'm concerned. Unless it's a crouton. And even then it should be coated in dressing.

Spicy mustard does the trick here. I could try for some of the fancier spreads, like sun-dried tomato pesto, but honestly if I'm going to go for something that complicated, I'd rather make it myself. Of course, that may make me sound a bit heretical, as the mustard had to come from somewhere too, but I've seen and tasted the fresh form. And as with most of everything else, it's just better that way.

Now we're on to cheese selection. Which, sadly, is a bit lacking. I could attempt to sneak some fresh mozzarella out of the walk-in, but I'd probably be hunted down. So I settle for swiss. Not that swiss is what I'd call "settling". Provolone would be nice. A mix would be better. Freshly sliced would trump it all. But I can't do much about that. And it's still pretty good cheese.

And now to make this more than just your average sandwich.

We start with tomatoes. Just a couple of slices on each side, to add a little moisture and flavor. Some fresh basil, if no one forgot to order it. Maybe some thin sliced avocado if I'm feeling particularly frisky. And I am, usually. And, of course, salt and pepper. I like flavor, go figure.

Layer everything between the swiss, and you've got the start of something beautiful.

If no one higher up than my GM is around, I can get away with throwing this bad boy into one of the rack ovens for a few minutes. Without that luxury, I'm stuck with the panini press, which if you're willing to sit around for 10 minutes or so, will actually start to melt the cheese. Why someone would shell out multiple thousands of dollars for a contraption that can be equally rivaled by a pair of hot bricks I may never know. I guess they really like those grill marks.

In any case, let it sit for a while, and you're in business. It could be better. It could enjoy the company of some kalamata olives, of which I could find on premisis. It could have some herb butter to actually slather on the bread.

But hey, if you're in the middle of the desert, you shouldn't be holding out for Dasani.

A pepper by any other name...

Is a completely different pepper, apparently.



I don't know who had the bright idea of renaming peppers once you've applied some sort of cookery to them (what's that, a smoked jalepeno? Noooo friend, *that* is a chipotle!).



Then again, we do it with meats too (I guess 'bacon' has a better ring to it than 'cold-smoked pork belly strips').



It's probably just the language barrier (you'd think a minor in Spanish would have prepared me to remember a few choice words), but I always have to think before I speak when talking about (or attempting to talk about, at least) peppers.



Of course, I can't stay mad long at something that yeilds such delicious spices and flavors. I've always been a fan of paprika. Granted, I've never really used it much (although it does make some delicious croutons at work, combined with a few other seasonings). Just for the record, paprika is a spice of dried sweet chilies. It has a very characterful aroma that makes me want to sit and ponder over the culinary possibilities.



Speaking of sweet chilies, though, I have to wonder - just how many aren't sweet? Now I know most people would classify most as "hot" rather than... well... anything else... but even those that will send you running toward the nearest fire hydrant generally have some sweetness to them. Peppers are, afterall, technically a fruit. Go figure.



Both the hottest (or rather, spiciest) and suprisingly sweetest (that is to say, most suprisingly sweet, not necessarily the sweetest) pepper I've ever eaten is the jabanero. Mind you, it was a very, very small piece, but when prepared for such I have somewhat of a tolerance for the Chuck Norris-style round-house kick to the throat that these things tend to provide. If you snuck one into my milkshake, then maybe I'd start to cry (or maybe not... keep reading).



So yes, there was a distinct burning sensation, but looking past that (or tasting past that, rather) I could actually taste the flavor and sweetness of the pepper. Of course, for those of you who aren't either Catholic or masochistic and like to enjoy the finer things in life (like dinner), there are ways around the heat. Namely, a sharp knife (and maybe a pair of disposable gloves).



See now, all that heat is packed into the seeds and inner membrane of the pepper; the flesh is actually very flavorful and sweet. So, if you want the flavor without the pain, all you have to do is cut out said seeds and membrane (that is, the weird looking white-ish stuff running along the insides of the peppers). This may not be completely foolproof (especially on some of the really fiesty ones), but it will definitely reduce the tears that follow.



And please, please please please, PLEASE - wash your hands. Twice. Okay, once will do it, but do it well. After fiddling with those seeds and pepper-insides and whatsuch, clean your hands, the knife, the cutting board, the cat that brushed by while you were working, all of it. Trust me, you do not want to clean out a jalepeno, forget about it, then rub your eyes. Unless, of course, you really *are* a masochist. Even then, though, I'd suggest working up to it. Maybe start with hot sewing needles first. Just trust me, you don't want those burnination chemicals to get spread around in unwanted places.



Also, if you find yourself in a nasty spot where one-too-many peppers got dropped in the pot and your tastebuds are being ravaged as a result, fear not; there is a cure. Sort of. It's been tested before (by other people, who get paid to do this sort of thing) and you'd be surprised by what works.



Chugging water is pretty useless - those chemicals that cause all the burn aren't water soluble - they're actually alcohol-soluble.

But don't let that make you think you have an excuse to down a six-pack (although it'd probably take that much). Unless you're reaching for grain alcohol, the content will be too low to do you much good before you're passed out anyway.

So what's the solution? Milk.

Yeah, I know, I thought it was weird too. Something in there binds with the burny stuff, and all other sorts of scientific things that I would only confuse you and myself by getting into. Long story short, if you swish some milk and spit it out, it should take the heat out with it.



Huzzah. The beast is dead. Long live the king.



So fear not, gentle readers, for the peppers before you can be calmed. Or not, maybe you like spicy. Either way, go forth and enjoy.

Fresh out of the gate

I remember the good ol' days, days when the first class of the term was spent looking over the syllabus four about ten minutes before we were all dismissed to ponder what to do with our newfound hour of freedom (usually this would be spent either sleeping or watching TV, depending on what time the class was).

Unfortunately these days are behind me, and now the first day of class not only includes going over the syllabus (with the same "don't be late, don't cheat" lecture repeated each time) but jumping right into the thick of things. It wasn't until yesterday that I found out just how thick that could be.

I stared blankly ahead of me as my fellow students started moving about, preparing for the task at hand. Had I really heard right? Create two salads, two plates each, from whatever you can find, using a protein selected by the teacher. Normally I'd jump at this sort of thing. As it stood, I had no idea what was available, would have to fight my way through a veritable zombie horde to find out, had only eaten duck once before (oh yeah, my protein was duck confit) and was running on roughly three hours of sleep.

Awesome.

My gaze turned to my cutting board. At least I had found the common sense to start setting up my workspace. Sadly its plain white surface wasn't giving me any inspiration. I look around again, blinking heavily.

Salad... lettuce... with... stuff...

Okay, so that was a start.

Knives were moving all around me, herbs being chopped, greenery being cajoled into whatever form deemed necessary, meats of all shapes and sizes being worked on to fit the greater design. I look again to my cutting board.

Still nothing.

Guess I have to fight my way through the zombie horde.

Luckily by this time most had returned to their own stations and were hard at work. I scanned the near-barren shelves in hopes of finding something to spark my interest. Boston Bibb. I remembered having seen some radicchio earlier... that could work together. My brain finally started to kick into gear, thinking of possible additions to that mix while still taking in what still remained on the shelves.

And then I saw it; Belgian endive. I'm rather a fan of stuffing things into endive. It's just about the perfect size for finger food, and comes in the perfect boat shape that just begs to be used to cradle something. So grab some endive, tuck in some dressed duck, and maybe throw something on top to give a little extra color.

That's one down, one to go. By now I was dimly recalling seeing some asparagus outside near my station. That could work as a good base. A little duck on top, a bit of something else over that, drizzle some dressing on and it's good to go.

Speaking of dressing, that was the next bit to figure out. At least by this time the gears had been turning long enough to bring me (somewhat) out of my stupor. There were enough fresh herbs that I couldn't resist an herb vinaigrette. Probably best to use that with the endive... find something a bit deeper to meld with the asparagus. Maybe a balsamic... best to see what's available in either case. So with greenery in hand I made my way to take stock of what I could use to make my dressings.

I was on a roll - white wine vinegar would work well with the herbs, and the asparagus would do well with a red wine vinaigrette.

Time to chop.

Herbs were minced, leaves were tripped, asparagus was snapped. Despite my lack of sleep, I managed to not do the same to any fingers.


Someone called out, asking if anyone needed red onion - a julienne of which would be the perfect garnish for my endive. I snag a piece, make the cut, and keep going. Later the same happens with a bit of leftover tomato. A bit of chopping later and my asparagus duck salad has its top layer.

A drizzle of dressing here, a quick circle around the plate there, and my plates are done. Two go off to be served in another room and two go in the reach in, awaiting the judgement of my peers. I'm pleased to say that I even had some time to clean up before time was called.

Getting to go home after ten minutes may have its perks, but pulling this was way more satisfying.

Now, though, it's time to get some more sleep.

How to Boil Water

No, I'm not talking about Emeril's old show. I'm actually talking about boiling water. Specifically, water for pasta.

Don't worry, I'm sure that you're fully capable of turning on both the tap and the stove and waiting until enough bubbles show up - there's more to perfect pasta than that.

When it comes to pasta, there are a few simple tricks that will rid you of the sticky, clumpy, messy noodles that you may have come into contact with in the past.

First of all, use lots of water. I mean lots. I'm talking a good gallon worth. Seem like a lot to you? Good. It is. It's supposed to be.

Pasta likes lots of room to float around, flip this way and that, and all manner of underwater acrobatics (they're quite the active little group once the water comes back to a boil). The bottom line is that if you don't give them enough room, you're going to end up with one giant tangled mess instead of a nice plate of noodles, and no one wants that.

I'll throw in here a bit about oil. Adding oil to the water is said to do a couple of things. First, it supposedly helps keep those noodles from sticking (it's a natural lubricant, afterall). Second, it helps to keep the water from boiling over (saving you a lot of cleaning later).

I can't say much about the bubbling over bit, but I can say that it won't help you in the sticking department. Fat floats on water. This is great if you're trying to clarify butter (that's for another day) but not so great if you expect the stuff floating around under water to get coated by something that will, inevitably, be stuck on top. And what's more, once you pour out water (even though some say not to do this - that starchy water can come in handy later) the fat on top is the first thing to go down the drain. Wonderful.
I will say this, though, on keeping the water from bubbling over. Agitation (such as stiring) when it starts to peak will break things up and keep everything in the pot. It's possible that the oil on top of the water will continually agitate any foam buildup, keeping it to a minimum.

I'll also mention salt, because this is where it should be mentioned. Most people like at least some salt on their food. It does, in fact, have this little habit of pleasantly flavoring things and making them taste (when used judiciously) a bit brighter and just more like themselves. So how are you supposed to evenly salt pasta? By salting the water. Considering that you have a lot of water in that pot, you'll need a lot of salt. I've heard more than once that you want to make the water taste like sea water. I don't quite go that heavy, but do keep in mind that not nearly everything you put into the pot will actually be absorbed into the pasta. With a standard iodized salt package I generally upend it and go for three or four turns around the pot.

Now you're ready to finally add heat to this equation. Easy enough - toss on the lid and turn up the gas. Bring it to a full rolling boil, and toss in the pasta. Make sure that it's all completely under, otherwise it won't cook evenly. Now's the time to start stirring, too. Until everything gets back to a boil and starts swimming around on its own (and I keep an eye on it even then) you want to make sure that nothing's sticking together.

Once you've reached a delicious al dente (for fresh pasta this should only take about three minutes), you're ready to evacuate pasta from water. Into a colander it goes, and if you want to give something new a try hold back just a bit of the water.

Now, proper tossing (and this is important). You've got your freshly cooked pasta, that bit of hot pasta water, and the sauce that you no doubt have hot and ready.

Grab a bowl and pour in the pasta. Now pour on a bit of the sauce - you don't want to drown the noodles, just give them a nice coating. And now, just a bit of that pasta water. The starch will help the sauce stick and give a little flavor boost. Also, if you're planning to use any fresh herbs or cheeses, now's the time. Give the bowl a quick flip to mix everything together, and you're good to go.

One noteworthy note - the shape of the pasta affects how much sauce the noodle will hold on to. Smooth pastas hold less sauce than ridged ones, and the deeper the ridge, the more sauce can soak in and stick. Fun fact, no? At least it's a tasty one.

A simple dish, but still one that deserves a little recognition. With minimal effort, your next plate of spaghetti will be a dish worth raving about.

The reviews are in...

Okay, so it's only one review, and as it's mine you might say it's a tad biased... but unless you're here to get my opinion, I'm really not sure why you're here. This is a review that I wrote for a small Indian place that I found downtown. It's kind of my new favorite hole-in-the-wall place (granted, it's really the only one that I know down here). If you're ever in the area and get a craving for Indian food, I highly suggest it.


Walking into Suruchi’s Indian Cuisine I had no idea what to expect. All I had to go by was a sign outside pointing me in the right direction and a recently renewed hankering for Indian food. After all, the worst thing that could happen would be me going home after a bad lunch and grabbing a quick PB&J, right? Okay, so the worst thing that could happen would be more along the lines of me going back home after a bad lunch and hugging the toilet for the rest of the day. But when I start jonesing for something, there can be but one cure. With this in mind I followed the sign toward my newest culinary conquest.
Upon entering the restaurant proper I took a quick look around to get my bearings. Simple café-style tables were arranged along the walls and would seat one or two persons, while more pushed together on the floor would accommodate larger parties. The chairs reminded me of my high school years, although (thankfully) they turned out to be far more comfortable than those of my youth. No servers were to be seen; instead orders can be picked up from the main counter once your number is called. At this point, your meal is handed to you on a plastic tray complete with individually portioned plastic flatware. The similarities to my high school days just keep on coming.
Then again, it takes more than a lack of linens to deter me. I grabbed a menu off of the counter and started looking over the selections. Thanks to a vast culinary vocabulary (and, no doubt, the pictures on the back) I was able to navigate the menu fairly easily. While I’ve never spent much (read: any) time over in India the menu seemed rather in tune with what I’ve come to associate with the cuisine. There are a few dishes sporting chicken, but the majority favored the vegetable cookery that is so common in the cuisine. This may explain why the vast majority of the customers were Indian themselves. Of course, the price is something anyone can enjoy, with entrees ranging from $5.99 to $7.99, lunch combos all hitting $8.99, and dinner combos going for $11.99. Being a fan of variety I went for Combo #1 which got me a plate of idli with peanut chutney and sambar, a fried samosa, and a mango lassi to drink.
After placing my order and patiently awaiting the sound of my number being called I was rewarded with a tray bearing my meal. Not wanting to miss out on anything I made a quick trip to a small condiment table before digging in. The choices here were limited, but considering the array of dips that I already held I wasn’t about to complain. One small tub held sliced red onions. The next, an odd mass of orange-brown stuff that, even after a small taste, I couldn’t quite put my finger on what was actually in there. The third (and last) container held small green chilies that dared me to test my mettle merely by looking at them twice. I grabbed three and went to my table.
Now, if there is one thing that did not remind me of my high school cafeteria, it was the food. Three steamed rice cakes sat on my plate, each one soft and spongy – all the better for soaking up one of the no less than four dipping sauces that I had to choose from. The sambar was light and thin, but bursting with flavor that I can only describe as quintessentially Indian in the menagerie of spices that I could hardly hope to identify other than the distinct smokiness of cumin. The peanut chutney was a smooth puree, and while the pale grey-brown color might put some off, the rich texture and almost fudge-like sweetness kept me coating my idli.
In addition to what was listed on the menu I had two further sauces for which to dunk my rice cakes. The first was a green puree that had a sweet, pepper-like aroma and, despite insinuating a slight cooling property, hid a not entirely short-lived heat that snuck to the back of my throat like the worst kind of ninja (not unlike those three small chilies that I had picked up earlier). The last was a small amount of a very sweet brown liquid with an exotic flavor that I both recognized yet found nearly impossible to place. I find it difficult to remember a time when I was quite so happy to be eating things that, frankly, I couldn’t tell you what exactly they were.
And this is saying nothing of the samosa. A beautiful, flaky pastry shell encased deliciously seasoned potatoes and peas. I’ve always been a fan of simple pleasures. The lassi as well was rich and creamy with just enough mango to be pleasantly flavored and not overpowering.
So while the ambiance may be a bit lacking if you’re trying to impress a date, the food is sure to please. And, I’m happy to say, neither a PB&J nor a seat by the toilet will be necessary.

When technology fails, cheesecake prevails

In other words, I was planning to put here something that I had saved on my flashdrive, but the powers that be have decided that it's not going to happen.

Rejoice and be merry, for we are in the computer age, and it is a righteous time of error messages and wingdings.

Thankfully, I am not (quite) a one trick pony, and come bearing news of one of my favorite desserts. Oh yes, I come to you with the knowledge and power of cheesecake.

Cheesecake seems to be one of those desserts that people love and hate in equal proportions. If it's good, it's really good. People "ooh" and "aah" and otherwise are swooned by your culinary prowess.

On the other hand, people seem to be put off by the (seemingly) daunting task of creating such an envied treat.

I'm not going to say that things can't go wrong, but I am going to say that, with a little forethought and good sense of what you're doing, you'll get the end result that you (and all the rest of us) so desperately crave.

So where's it all start? What makes this dish so touchy? What is it in the first place? The answer to this last question is the answer to all the rest. I remember a couple years back (now please, don't ask me how this actually happened, but...) I was watching the Martha Stewart show. This very question (or rather, "is cheesecake a cake or a pie?") came up. I was pleased with myself to be able to answer the question before Martha had a chance to pipe up.

It is neither. A cheesecake is, in fact, a custard.

Now what is a custard? The simplest and most basic answer to this is a simple equation: Egg + Dairy + Cooking = Custard. There are, of course, other common ingredients (sugar being a biggy).

Likewise, in the world of custard there are two families (luckily, no feud is going on here). On one side we have stirred custards (easy enough - they're stirred while you cook them) like pudding and zabaglione (which is actually made with wine rather than dairy). On the other side we have unstirred custards (take a guess how you pull that one off) like the cheesecake, creme brulee, and even savories like quiche.

To make the perfect cheesecake, one must first endeaver an anatomy lesson. Don't worry, there's not much to it. A simple cheesecake only has a few ingredients.

Cream Cheese: This is rather important, as it's a cheesecake you're making. Cream cheese is the bulk material you're working with. It gives a good, creamy texture and moderate (and easily altered) flavor. If there's one thing I've learned, it's to not skimp on quality. I've tried the cheap stuff. I've sat with my mixer (granted, not a stand mixer) for minutes on end (when you're mixing roughly four cups of something, it doesn't take a long time to be a long time), and even worked it all through a seive that could double as a fencing mask.

There were still lumps.

For the love of all that is right and good in the world, buy the good stuff. It will make a difference. It will make all of the difference.

Thank you.

Next up, the eggs: these guys are the structure. Proteins in the eggs (after mixing and baking) are laced throughout the custard, acting as I-beams. The thing is, egg protein isn't exactly a quick-drying cement (culinarily speaking, of course). You'll need to give it a nice, long rest in the refrigerator to make sure everything sets up (unless, of course, you were planning on serving soup for dessert). I'm talking hours here. Unless I'm in dire straights, I always let it set overnight. Toss a towel over the top to keep a film from forming (or wrap in plastic, aluminum, or whatever else you happen to have around), and let it set. Patience is a virtue, and will be rewarded.

Third, sugar: do I really need to talk about this one? It's sugar. It's sweet. It's a good thing.

Lastly, flavoring: For a "classic" cheesecake, this is as simple as a little vanilla (the good stuff is prefered). You can, of course, use anything you like. Chocolate, pumpkin, lemon, strawberry, shnozeberry... anything that you like.

Now, on to the method (and the tricks that will keep you in good custard til the end of time).

First comes assembly of the goods. First into the pan (I use a spring-form pan, but I also water-proof it) goes a nice layer of non-stick spray on the bottom. Then in goes the crust (I'm a fan of nuts, myself, but personal choice and other flavors involved make the end decision). This should be baked for 10-15 minutes before the custard goes in (otherwise it's not really going to get the attention it deserves).

Next spray the sides of the pan with the non-stick spray and pour in the custard. This then goes back into the oven. But first, we need to set ourselves up now to have the cheesecake of our dreams in the future.

Even cooking is important. Gentle even cooking is better. The best way to do this? Waterbath.

It's easy to set up. Grab your pan and some sort of vessel (roasting pans are nice) that said pan will fit in. Place the cheesecake pan* inside the large pan and then fill it (no, not the pan with the cheesecake in it) with boiling water. Make sure that the water is even with the cheesecake, otherwise it won't do you any good (the top, not surrounded by water, will cook differently than the rest). Then into the oven (preheated to 350) we go.

*As I mentioned before, I like to use a spring-form pan for easy removal later. This alone, however, does tend to lead to (at least partially) soggy dessert. Fear not, for I shall not leave you to tackle this task alone. Waterproofing your spring-form is as easy as ripping off a sheet of aluminum foil. The foil needs to be wide enough for the pan to sit in the middle of the square and have enough room on either side to come close to the top (at least higher than the water will come). Fold the foil up and push it as tight against the pan as you can - if possible, fold it over the top lip a bit. All you have to do is make sure that the crease on the bottom isn't actually touched by the water and you're good. I'll note that I've tried using the same method with plastic wrap and a rubber band to hold it in place, but the rubber band broke apart sometime during the cooking process. For me, foil is definitely the way to go.

Now a quick note on the waterbath. The point of it is that you won't actually be cooking at 350. Water boils at 212, and stays there. Ergo, the cheesecake is cooking at 212. It's very gentle, very even, and makes for a very smooth, creamy cheesecake. This is why having the water level up to the top is very important... I've made that mistake myself in the past (when I was first fidgiting with my existing recipe) and got something that was kind of a frankenstein half-smooth half-cakey concoction. Still tasted alright, but if you want that creamy texture, you'll want the waterbath.

For how long do you bake it, you ask? Well. For a normal (and by normal I mean 10-11" pan) cheesecake I set my timer for 40 minutes. At this point it shouldn't be done, but I like to err on the side of caution. It should take about 50 minutes to 1 hour to be fully cooked. Pleast note that "fully cooked" may not look (and in fact shouldn't look) "fully cooked". Like all things egg, "done in the pan is overdone on the plate". It should be firm to the touch, but just a tad jiggly. Practice makes perfect on this one. The waterbath (ie, the even cooking) will give you some leeway here.

If it does happen to overcook, you may get some breakage across the top. It's not pretty, but that's about the extent of it. It just means that the egg proteins tightened a bit too much during the cooking process and in the end pulled the custard apartin a few places. It can be covered with a topping of your choice (maybe a nice fruit glaze or sour cream topping). If you watch it, though, you won't have to worry about it in the first place.

Now, I said it before and I'll say it again - once it's out of the oven, let it rest. Overnight if possible. Those eggs need a lot of time to set up, and if you cut it too early you're shooting yourself in the foot.

That's really all there is to it. It takes a bit of work and a lot of patience, but with these and a few tricks along the way you'll have yourself a dessert that's well worth the effort.

Pilaf shmilaf

Tonight I'm inspired by none less than my very own dinner plans. What am I having, you ask, that causes me to run to my computer posthaste to inform the world at large (well, a small part of it, at least) of my dining activities?

I am having a mushroom risotto stuffed green bell pepper.

That's a mouthful, both in the eating and in the typing.

Risottos are, in my opinion, fabulous. They're easy, they're delicious (when done right, of course), and can actually be used in a number of different ways.

Let me pause to give a bit of clarification. Risotto is not, in fact, synonymous with rice. Rice need not come anywhere near this dish. The term risotto refers to a cooking method, using low heat to slowly cook the (starchy) item of choice, gradually adding liquid as you go.

Rice just happens to be very well suited to this particular activity. It's packed full of starch, is pretty cheap to come by, and goes with just about anything else that you have lieing around in your kitchen.

So what's the deal with the starch? Risotto is without a doubt known for it's creamy, rich texture. This is caused by thickening, and thickening is caused by starch. How you ask? For this we look at the other part of the equation - the low, slow cooking style. As you cook the rice (or whatever else you've got in that pan), the starches leak out into the liquid and eventually absorb enough that they blow up. This sends tiny bits of starch all over the place which thickens the whole mess to a deliciously rich consistency.

I've heard people say that they'll get their first impression of a risotto just by looking at what dish it's served on. The proper consistency is not too thick, not too thin (descriptive, I know). It shouldn't hold its shape like play-doh, but it shouldn't run all over the plate, either. It should shmooze lightly (official culinary term, that one) after it's dropped, but should stay in the general location. If a chef will serve a risotto on a plate, (s)he is showcasing that perfect consistency. A bowl, on the other hand, might be a way to sneak an overly-runny product out of the kitchen.

As for an actual recipe, like I said - you can throw in about anything that you like. I'll give you something to go by, though.

Mushroom Risotto

Oil, for pan
1 clove garlic, minced
1/4 c onion, diced
1/2 c Crimini mushrooms (baby portabellos)
1 c White basmati rice (the standard stuff)
Stock*
Milk (or dairy product of your choosing, up to heavy cream)
1/4 c Mozzarella cheese
2 T Parmesan cheese
1/2 T Butter
Salt and Pepper to taste

Saute garlic and onions in the pan. Add mushrooms and cook down (cook out any water that comes from the mushrooms).

Lightly saute the rice*. Add just enough stock to cover the rice, and continue to cook, stirring regularly. As stock reduces, add more (just enough to cover with each addition). Use milk (or other dairy) for the last addition.

When risotto is finished, remove from heat and slowly stir in cheese (cheese does not like to play with very high heat). Finish with butter, salt, and pepper.


Told you it was simple. A few notes, though.

On stock - I've heard that 3 cups of stock per 1 cup of rice is the proper amount. In my personal experience I've never had this come out to be exactly true (in fact, I often use much more than this). As a rule I like to keep 5 cups of stock (heated, of course) on hand and add as needed. I finish with maybe 1/2 cup of milk, although you could use more (reducing the amount of stock accordingly) if you want.

On sauteing - When it comes to risotto cookery, it's all about the starch. Stirring helps to release starches, and to make sure that you get the full thickening power that's available to you. Sauteing rice actually helps to lock in starch and to keep the grains separate (which is great for a pilaf). Sometimes I saute, sometimes I don't. I haven't noticed a huge difference. Although, I've never tasted two batches side by side to compare, which is often the only way that you'd be able to tell anyway. Proper stirring and other methodology is what's really going to give you that creamy consistency that you're after.

So, like I said before, there's more than one way to serve your risotto (rice or otherwise). It's fine on its own as a side or even an entree. You can take a note from me and use it as a stuffing (tomatoes, peppers, even meats). And, of course, there's the perfect use for leftovers. Frying. To be honest, I'd make up a batch and let it sit overnight just for this. Risotto fritters. Feel the love.

Equally simple, and equally delicious. Also great for parties and the like where you want to do as much as you can ahead of time so that you're not completely burnt out when you're supposed to be having fun. Make your risotto of choice. Move immediately to a cool baking sheet and store in the refrigerator (this has the same effect as running hot water over pasta - it will help to stop the cooking process). Let it sit and firm up. I'd suggest overnight for ease, but if you're in a rush you can check it as you go. The more spread out it is, the quicker it will cool down and firm up.

Once it's ready, form the risotto into patties. From here, it's the standard breading schtick - dredge in flour, a quick dunk in egg wash, and breaded with [enter your favorite breading here]. Breadcrumbs, panko, greated parmesan cheese... anything that'll stick and sounds like it's a good idea.

These guys can either be deep fried (I'd try at 375 - just need to reheat and brown up the crust), pan fried, or even baked for those of you who think "fry" is a four letter word (all good things in moderation, I say).

Sick of rice? Try for potatoes (sweet variety included). I'm actually of a mind to try out a dessert risotto based on bananas (nothing too ripe, or all the starch will have turned to sugars). I never claimed sanity.

Though you may not have given it much thought in the past, risottos can be easy, versatile, and delicious. I can't speak for everyone, but those are three words that I like to hear when it comes to my food.

I will do it... for science!

Molecular gastronomy is something of a buzzword these days. Tabasco sauce pearls to annoint clams, fruit and vegetable turned caviar by adding who knows what chemical (okay, so plenty of people do know, and I've heard what it is even if I can't remember).

Ferrera Adria changed the way that some people looked at food, and at cooking. It was revolutionary. It was incredible. It was the next big thing.

Or was it?

Now don't get me wrong, what he does, and much of what so many of his followers do, is very impressive. He, and some of them I'm sure, are charting new territory, breaking new ground.

But it's just not for me.

Call me simple, call me homey, call me whatever you want... but I don't think any of it is really necessary. The food I know, the food I love, is all that it needs to be. A strawberry, picked from a field, is enough to send me into a frenzy of adoration (this is, of course, in the height of strawberry season). Strawberry mousse-foam with CO2 chocolate capsules isn't bad, I'm sure, but it just doesn't hit me the same way.

This is, of course, just one man's rambling opinion. I personally don't feel the need to recreate my food in order to create it.

Along this same vein is a bit of cookery that is (at least relatively) new to the scene. One such implement that I've seen in use is the anti-griddle. Rather than heat, it freezes. It's a very (and I mean very) cold metal plate set on an almost absurdly large piece of machinery (all told, it's roughly the size of a moderate microwave... that is, the one that I came into contact with was).

The idea is that when making something like a lollipop (the only thing I saw it used for), the extreme cold leads to extremely fast freezing which leads to an extremely creamy end result. I've got nothing against a quick, easy, and good way of making a lollipop (or anything, for that matter), but would I buy a multi-thousand dollar piece of equipment for just such a purpose? The practical part of my brain has to consider its uses. As it's flat (with no edges), it is somewhat limited. Those lollipops (or maybe an ice cream pancake, if you're feeling frisky) are all I can come up with off the top of my head (although if you know anyone running an anti-griddle cooking class, I'd be open to more ideas).

The big question is "Can I do the same thing cheaper?". What if I keep a sheet tray in the freezer, drop some of the batter on that and slam it back in (gently, of course, to keep those perfect circles perfect) to freeze? Will I still be able to get the same product? Is it really that much better to be able to do it a la minute? Will holding them for a few hours really kill the flavor? Will the texture be noticeable enough to warrant that little piece of gear who's pricetag could feed me for a year?

All things to consider for those interested in starting up your own restaurant.

Of course, if you're a normal person and just want some ice cream, then sure, check it out. Go to a place with one, order something that uses it, and get a kick out of a frozen confection being made before your eyes in probably less than two minutes.

Another new method ("new" being the exact opposite of the truth, here) is sous vide. It's been around for a while, but Thomas Keller of The French Laundry (and much else) is bringing it back as the "hot new thing".

So what is sous vide? "Under pressure" is more or less a translation. Take whatever it is that you want cooked, toss it in a bag, put the whole mess in the machine, push the button, and walk away.

Ding, fries are done.

I have to be honest, when I think of this, I think of the bagged soups from my days at Ruby Tuesday.

And no, I'm not comparing the food at The French Laundry to anything from Ruby Tuesday. But when I first learned of sous vide, this is the context that I learned it in - commercial production of soups, sauces, and other such items.

Now maybe Chef Keller can take this method and use it to make some great new stuff, doing to sous vide what Adria did to food as a whole. Power to him, if he can do it.

On my end, if you ask me for a bowl of soup, expect it to come from a pot.

Passing the buck (with extra bernaise sauce, please)

I was privvy to an interesting and, dare I say it, thought provoking conversation earlier today. The topic of said conversation was a question that came up after discussing Anthony Bourdain's piece My Miami, largely from the opening paragraphs when he speaks of a restaurant specializing in "beautifying food", meant to cleanse and purify and otherwise help the body from the inside out.

Bourdain was, shall we say, unconvinced that the nigh-unrecognizeable dishes (afterall, high heat and things like creating a beautiful sear destroy vital beautifying qualities in the food) were the wave of the future.

The question is a simple, but important one: is it the responsibility of chefs to provide healthful food?

My answer?

No. Not at all.

But...

And, mind you, this is a big one...

I do support the idea. I encourage the idea. I'd like to practice the idea.

See, there's this little thing called "real life" that has the habit of getting in the way of our best laid plans and aspirations. Even some of the best intentions. The bottom line is, conveniently enough, the bottom line. I'm talking dollars and cents, here. As much love and passion goes into the food that comes out of a kitchen, that food still costs money. That kitchen costs money. Those people in the kitchen, with or without that passion, aren't doing what they do for free.

The bottom line is that the food has to sell.

If the only thing that people will buy is butter-loaded, skinless mashed potatoes, peeled asparagus (with hollandaise, of course, that artery clogging combination of butter and egg yolks), and a 12-oz Prime cut steak (fat is flavor, afterall), then that is what you have to offer. Unless, that is, you like owing thousands (and thousands) of dollars to the bank even after everything you own is reposessed and sold to pay back your loans.

People have this little thing called free will, and tend to get a tad uppity when you try to take it away (and rightfully so, I think). A person can eat whatever they so choose. I encourage people to eat a healthful diet, and do try to do so myself, but if someone really, really wants to sit down and nosh on nothing but sticks of butter and maybe some cocoa powder for extra flavor, then that's their own perogative.

"Well then," you might say, "what about those that do want to have healthy options? Shouldn't chefs be expected to put those on the menu?"

Again, as before, I say no. No obligation at all.

But I do think it's smart.

In a world where even McDonald's makes at least an attempt to sort of offer healtier options (sorry Ronald, but I think I can do better than half a chicken breast rolled in a plain flour tortilla with some lettuce) it makes sense for other restaurants (read: the ones serving actual food) to follow this same line of thinking.

To some, "healthy" is a four-letter word. I don't believe that myself (far from it, in fact), but I do expect it to still taste amazing. Yes, this means that certain items won't be making it onto my plate every day. I'll have a tomato or anti-sauce with my pasta far more than an alfredo (but you'd better believe that I'll be enjoying that alfredo when I do have it). But I love a good salad. And I do mean love (and do, also, mean good).

Long story short, I am of the opinion that the words "healthful" and "delicious" can, and often do, go hand in hand. Far worse things could happen, I think.

So while I don't hold the guy (or girl, for that matter) in the tall hat responsible for my (theoretical, thank you) budding beer belly, I would give a word to the wise to offer up some more waisteline friendly foods.

The Ethiopian experience

Often I like to sit and have a nice revere about times when life was simpler, when dinner consisted of pre-chewed mush and utensils were an afterthought.

For most of you, this likely takes you back to when you were two or so years old sitting in a high chair. As for me, I only have to go back about two hours. I have, however, graduated from having to use a bibb.

Tonight for dinner I had the distinct pleasure of visiting Meskerem, a local Ethiopian restaurant here in Charlotte. I was at a table with four other classmates, none of which (including myself) had ever quite had this sort of experience. On the plus side, it's harder to make a fool of yourself if no one there knows what they're doing.

We did have a bit of instruction (yes, we knew that there weren't going to be forks). The food is meant to be shared, and often the entire table's order will be placed on a single large plate. Injera, a form of sourdough flatbread, is used as both dish and utensil. The injera comes in a large circle, getting close to two feet across, and is folded on the plate as a base for the food (often in pureed form). At Meskerem were were each given a second piece to use as our utensil. Just rip off a piece and use it to scoop up a bit of whatever looks good. And trust me, it went beyond looks.

This whole idea really goes to show how food is viewed in Ethiopia. It's no secret that food is a bit more scarce than it is here in the US. The act of communal eating is such a great way to hold on to the intimacy of food that we seem to have thrown out the window in recent years. I happen to be a rather large fan of sharing food. It's one of the reasons why I love cooking so much - food brings people together. For me, it's a way to share something I love with people I love, a way of sharing myself. So sharing a plate may seem simple at first, but when you look at it, look at what it really is, you'll see what a beautiful thing that simple act is.

On to the actual food, though.

Wanting to get the most out of the evening all of us at the table made sure to order something different. I went for the shro wat, a dish of ground seasoned chick peas with berbere sauce. Among the other dishes were miser alecha - a puree of split lentils, doro wat - a classic chicken dish with berbere sauce, a lamb dish with some very delicious peppers, and "vegetable #2", a very tasty - if somewhat unimaginatively named - combination of cabbage, potatoes, and carrots.

The only semi-complaint of the night seemed to be the injera bread, and only that because of its texture. Different than anything I've ever had it's something like a thick, soft, spongy tortilla. But hey, that's what happens when you try new things. New flavors and textures have a habit of popping up. Overall, I give the food a solid thumbs up.

I'd say, though, that going to Meskerem is as much about the experience of eating as it is the food itself, and would encourage people to go at least once for this reason.

Tonight was pretty eventful. I tried not only a new cuisine, but a new style of eating altogether. Who knows, maybe tomorrow I'll leave the forks in the drawer.

What's in a name?

I have a confession to make. Until recently, I would have told you that roasting and baking were, for all intents and purposes, the same technique. Roasting, perhaps, would imply work with vegetables or meats. And I have to say that, despite my newfound knowledge, I still see (and in all likelihood continue to use) these terms switched and swapped and otherwise confounded into one general idea.

So I should guess that you may be asking "What is this all powerful difference that grants cooks across the globe the right to call it something completely different, and is it really that important?"

Why, it's elevation, my dear Watson!

Be it via rack or a large diced mire poix (an aromatic combination of one part carrot, one part celery, and two parts onion), elevating the item in question changes the heat transferance method from conduction (hot thing - in this case the pan - touching the food directly) to convection (hot air from hot thing - in this case still the pan - wafting around the food and cooking it).

The end result is largely the same, with a couple of differences along the way. Roasting tends to be more even, since it's circulating hot air doing the work instead of a hot pan on one side (imagine trying to cook a steak without ever flipping it - by the time the top was anywhere close to done your fire alarm has been going off for five minutes). Of course baking isn't quite as disastrous as that no-flip technique would be, but the principle remains. Also, there's the matter of the juice. I love me some drippings. They make a great sauce (which I'll get to later). What I don't like, though, is the idea of whatever's in that pan simmering in it (I'm roasting here, not braising). Elevating the roast means that the drippings can actually drip down, gathering flavor from any mire poix in the bottom of the pan, and otherwise waiting patiently for your wondrous saucemaking skills.

Now, the actual technique of roasting? It's pretty simple. For simplicity's sake, we'll talk about roasting some form of meat, rather than vegetables (which, by the way, is probably the most common culprit when it comes to calling something roasted when it's actually baked... but let's face it, "baked red potatoes" just doesn't have the same ring to it).

A) Sear the meat. This can be done either in a pan on the stove, or by using high heat (maybe 450) for maybe 10-15 minutes in the oven to give it a nice brown crust.

B) Cook to the proper temperature - 145 (for 15 minutes), or 165 if stuffed. Note that poultry still should hit 165 regardless.

C) Remove from oven and let it rest. How long depends on the size of the thing. Sure, you can tent some foil over it or put it into a warm oven (200 or so degrees) if you want to be extra-super-duper-sure that it won't go cold.

D) Devour with a vengeance.

If you think about it, this largely means turn on the oven, insert item, and let cook. It doesn't get much simpler than that. Roasting is a beautiful thing.

There are, i'm afraid to say (or would be, at least, if they weren't so handy and/or delicious), footnotes to check out along the way.

First off, trussing. This just means wrapping some butchers twine around the meat to hold it in the shape you want while it cooks. In the case of a bird, this can help to keep the legs closed to hold in any stuffing that you may have (and hopefully did) put inside. Please note that by "stuffing" I don't necessarily (or at all, really) mean the classic Turkey Day bread stuffing - I mean something as easy as throwing in some butter, herb stems, and maybe some lemons.
For a roast (meaning pig, cow, llama, you name it), not only will it hold in any stuffing but can also be used to form the whole thing into a nice uniform shape, which means even cooking, which means even deliciousness.

I'd try to describe the actual proceedure, but I just don't feel that simply writing it would get the idea across. But hey, if you've made it here that means that you've got internet access (go you) and you should be able to find a video demo out in cyberland pretty easily. Trust, it's not that hard to do.

Next, we talk sauce. I like this part.

There are those who tell you that a roasted item is not complete without an accompanying sauce. In any case, my practical tomorrow isn't. So here's the deal. There are three types of sauce that you have to choose from.

Jus - Basically just drippings from the roast, maybe fortified with some stock. Add any other flavorings you want (onions, garlic, fresh herbs, you know the drill)

Jus lie - Same thing, just slightly thickened with pure starch. Cornstarch or arrowroot are the main choices. Arrowroot has a lot of extra benefits, but is of course more expensive as a result. I suggest a simple slurry (cornstarch plus just enough water to give the consistency of heavy cream) to thicken it up a bit. It won't take much - one tablespoon of slurry is enough to bring two cups of liquid to a "medium viscocity". Yeah, saying "medium viscocity" is kind of like saying "medium yellow". Just know that it doesn't take much, and you can always add more if you want.

Pan gravy - This time the drippings are thickened with flour (there will be plenty of fat in the drippings to smooth it out). This is done by what's called "singer" (pronounced 'sahn-zjay'). Essentially you're just dusting the pan with flour, then mixing it in. Then add your stock, or whatever liquid you choose. Note that any aromatics (like that garlic and onion) should be tossed into the pan before the flour.

And always, always deglaze the pan (usually wine, but anything acidic works) first. That's how you get the fond (the little black bits of delicious) up from the bottom of the pan.

Roasting is pretty simple, all told (but hey, most good food is). Toss it in the oven, fix up the sauce while it's resting, and you've got an impressive dinner on your hands.

Call it baking, call it roasting, for all I care you can call it mommy, but I call it delicious.

A new term, a new world

Today marked the beginning of my second term at Johnson & Wales. It promises to be interesting, to say the least.

My first lab is New World Cuisine, which focuses on deep frying, broiling, roasting, and grilling. Regionally, the class looks at the Americas and the (relatively) nearby island areas. Speaking of regions, the first assignment (a small paper on the South American country of our choice - and accompanying cuisine) is due Thursday. And yes, I really should be working on that rather than writing this. But like I said, it's been a while, and I do hate to deprive the gathered masses.

I have to admit, whenever I think of - or rather try to think of - "American cuisine" I come up short. South America, sure. Mexico... while my experience is largely that of the US's commercialized version (and by "largely", I mean completely... maybe minus the salsa I've made a time or two which I like to think is a fairly accurate representation, and either way goes great with blue corn chips), I at least get the general idea.

That's the problem, I think. So much of what we eat is supposed ethnic cuisines from around the world. We take bits and pieces and americanize them to our tastes. Pizza here is nothing like what you'd find in Italy. Tacos are street food in Mexico. I really don't even want to think about what a true Chinese connoisseur would say about the buffets that, I've heard, outnumber McDonald's in quantity. I know that they at least do in my hometown.

Is it wrong to borrow things and combine and meld them into our own culture, our own cuisine? Of course not. I'm not saying that I don't like american pizza. I've never even been to Italy to try the original (a sad fact in my eyes) so I can't offer some longwinded explanation as to the varying differences. But it does give me pause whenever I think of what "our food" really is.

Then again, at the same time there are a few things that strike me as classically American. This list also seems to fall under the category of comfort foods. Not mine, so much... oddly enough I don't feel that there are any particular foods that inspire in me thoughts of home and a happy childhood... a bit odd considering that overall I spend way too much of my time thinking about food. But there are certain items that are pretty common on the Everyman's list of comfort foods. You know, the Family Feud Top 5. Meatloaf, mashed potatoes, macaroni and cheese, chicken and noodle soup. Of course, this could be because I'm from Indiana. The US is, as you may have been aware, a rather large landmass. This often leads to varying cuisines in different areas.

Just as the foods of Peru will differ from those of Brazil, Californian dishes are going to look a lot different than those from the South. That's another problem of mine. I'm looking at too large an area, expecting the tastes of 50 states to accumulate into a few simple dishes. Down here in Charlotte comfort food is just as likely to be fried chicken, biscuits, and bar-b-que. Let me tell you, I have no complaints about that idea. I do love me some good biscuits.

I suppose that I feel that, as a country, we should be more united in our culinary endeavors. I've come to expect it. Afterall, Classical French Cuisine is its own class - why not Classical American?

Is it really a bad thing to be this diverse, though?

You know what, I think I'll manage to suffer through it. There is, as it turns out, something to be said for variety.

Turkey troubles

Another November is here, and you all know what that means - Turkey Day approaches. In fact, I'm already enjoying an extended Thanksgiving break (for which, I might add, I am indeed very thankful).

I do love me a good Thanksgiving dinner. Lots of food, family, and (forgive the overuse of alliteration) fun. Unfortunately, there seems to be this nasty little habit of serving a turkey that's about as dry as last year's spackle. Sure you can toss some gravy over it, but why not go for something that's good and delicious on its own?

Here are a few tips to get you a nice juicy bird...

First of all, you want a good slow roast. Especially on a large bird (or large anything for that matter) too high heat will result in a black outside and a raw inside. Also, higher heat causes more contraction and shrinkage. A slow roast will leave you with more once you're finished.
Now actual cooking temp and time will depend on just how big of a bird you've got. The bigger you go, the longer it will take. If this takes you below 300 degrees, be warned - sugars don't caramelize unless the temperature is 300 or higher. No worries, though, if you're roasting at 275, just kick on the broiler for a few minutes at the end to crisp things up a bit.

It's worth talking about temperature, too. Internal temperature, that is. Most people have heard that poultry needs to hit 165 F to be safe. Alright, that's fine by me. But know this - food doesn't stop cooking right when you pull it out of the oven/pan/fryer/coals/other-cooking-method-of-choice. There's an old saying, "an egg done in the pan is overdone on the plate". The larger the item in question, the more heat it's holding, and the more it will continue to cook. With an individual steak, you may be looking at a degree or two. With a big turkey (or other large roast) you could be looking at a solid 10 degrees of continued cooking.
So let's say you pull the turkey out at 165 (and really, who ever catches it right on the dot like that?). After it sits on the counter waiting to be carved (and I'll explain why it's not already sliced in just a minute) it's up to, say, 175. Maybe even 180. Why is this a bad thing? Well, proteins fully coagulate at 185 F. And to fully explain why that's not the greatest thing in the world, I need to talk about that rest from before.

Why should you always (and I do mean always) let meat rest after it's cooked? It's all in the juice. You can imagine protein strands as kind of like a spring. As they cook they tighten, stretching out and squeezing out liquid. When you hit 185 and they're fully coagulated, they've pretty much squeezed out every last drop of juice that they once held, and that's a sad thing indeed. Now, let's say that we haven't cooked every last glimmer of hope out of that piece of meat. What happens when you give it a minute to relax and cool back down just a tad? The proteins recurl (at least a bit) and reabsorb some of that juice. Some will drip off (which should by all means be saved for some sort of sauce, be it jus, gravy, or just a quality hot beverage), but the proteins will soak back up plenty. This means juicy, flavorful meat. Cook that meat into oblivion, and the juices are going to go that way too. Also, if you cut into the meat before it's had a proper resting time, all of those juices are going to spill out (they're just sort of hanging out in the space between the cells and all that). Sure that gives you more to make a sauce out of, but the meat itself will be dry, and no one wants that.

One last thing, but definitely not least. There's a right way (and as such, lots of wrong ways) to take the temperature of that turkey. The idea is pretty simple, really. You need to get into the thick of the meat. There are two good spots to do this - the breast, and the joint between the thigh and the body. Of these, the joint is probably your best bet. You can't go straight down into the bird from the breast or you risk hitting the cavity (at which point you're measuring the internal temperature of the oven moreso than the temperature of the meat). You have to go sideways into the breast. The only downside to this is that juices can start to leak from the hole. It's not going to make or break your dinner, but hey, I'll do whatever I can to keep things as juicy as possible. So dig into that joint - just make sure you're getting the temperature of meat, not of bone.

And one more last thing. I have two thermometers, one digital and one dial-style, both instant-read. The only thing I want to mention is that the spot on the probe where temperature-taking starts is different. On the digital version, the temperature is taken basically from the tip. On the other, though, it doesn't start reading until nearly two inches up (it's marked by some divets on the probe). Make sure to take a note when you buy yours (and yes, it is absolutely a requirement that you have a good thermometer for this, in case you haven't picked that up by now) so that you know how to make the best use of it. However, if you've long since thrown away the package, there is still hope. The easiest way I know to calibrate your thermometer is to fill a glass with ice, then cold water. Let it sit for a minute to get good and cold. Then stick in the thermometer and make sure that it's reading 32 degrees. Now, if the thermometer starts reading from the tip, you'll get a different reading if the probe is touching the bottom of the glass as opposed to being suspended in the icewater.

It's really not too difficult to get a nice juicy turkey for dinner. Just keep an eye on the temp and plan for residual heat to carry you through. Here's hoping you a happy Thanksgiving, and a good turkey.

A belated introduction to plate design

I thought that it may be a good idea to take a minute to talk about the powers that be behind putting together a good plate. According to my FFP lecture there are five areas that you have to take into account, and I feel like these pretty much cover the bases of it myself.


First up to bat is color. This one is pretty obvious, and I would imagine would be one of the first things that someone off the street would mention if they were asked what goes into a fancified plate. Having a variety of colors on the plate does more than look good (go ahead, imagine a plate of poached fish, mashed potatoes, and cauliflower... pretty nasty, yeah?), it's a good indicator that you're getting a variety of nutrients, too. Set that albino plate next to something else, say, seared pork rib chop (with a nice pan sauce, of course) with mashed sweet potatoes and haricot verts. You've got a rather nice orange, a vibrant green, and a kind of pinky browny porkish color. Overall a nice variety.

Next up is texture. No one wants to look down and see a plate full of mush. It's boring, and in the case of "mush" particularly disturbing. Salmon tartar, creamed cauliflower, and carrot puree might offer a range of colors on a plate, but it all has the same sort of mouthfeel. It's all more or less a smooth puree. Take that same tartar and pair it with some good pommes frites (light and fluffy inside, wonderfully crispy skin) and a small bed of nice crunchy greens and you've got yourself a winner.

Shape is our next consideration. Some good meatballs beside whole roasted red potatoes and creamed pearl onions would go quite well together, I think, in terms of flavor, but you've just got one huge pile of circles. Why not stir things up a bit. All it takes is reforming the meat into another shape (ground beef is pretty easy to work with in that respect), and cutting up the potatoes pre-roast. Now you have a bit of variety on the plate.

Height is another fun thing to play with. Sure you can just throw everything onto the plate and send it out, but what's the fun in that? There are plenty of ways to give something a bit of height. Items can be stacked into one central tower, or gently laid over one another for a more supple approach, or even topped with an extra little garnish to add that extra oomph.

And speaking of garnish, we come to our final item of note. A good garnish doesn't need to be some hugely elaborate piece of whatever that takes up half of the plate. Food can look good enough on its own without adding anything else. Those clean grill marks? That bone sticking up above the rest of the plate? That is the garnish, and boy does it look good. Not that I'm going to say to never add anything. Just don't go overboard. As a rule a garnish should be edible, and furthermore something that works with the rest of the plate flavorwise (usually something already used in the dish). Of course, grill marks are also cheaper than adding another item to the plate, which is especially nice if you're serving 400 people for lunch.

It's said that people eat with their eyes first. If you really want to get down to it, I'd wager that at least sometimes it's smell that wins that race... but that's getting picky. The point is that taste actually comes fairly late to the game. The plate has to capture the attention before the fork is even in hand. If something looks bad, it's just not going to have the same effect (even if it does taste great).

Sure you may not dress up everything that you eat, but it can be fun to do it sometimes. And at least knowing more about it helps you to appreciate the time and effort that goes into designing all of those plates that you see coming out of the kitchen.

Gone but not forgotten: The missing plate

So I finally got some pictures of that third plate presentation, and it's high time I finished this little series. Just as a refresher, this was the third plate, done after the salmon filet dish. Let's get right to it then.

This time around I went with a pork tenderloin with a honey mustard jus (basically flavored drippings/thin sauce... this was essentially kicked-up chicken stock), mashed potatoes and grilled zucchini.

I had planned to use a single cut, in the neighborhood of one to one-and-a-half inches thick, but unfortunately by the time I got to the meat it had all been sliced. Thankfully even my limited time in the business has taught me to be quick with a plan B. So I took two of the smaller cuts and layered them on top, as shown.

There are a few things that I like about this dish, and a few that I'd like to change if done again. I like the general look of the plate, and would want to keep the same basic design going. I'd probably go for a thicker sauce next time around (even just a little bit of reduction would be nice), and the plate cries out for more color. Maybe instead of the zucchini, which get a bit squashed between the potatoes and pork, a layer of dark greens, or even red cabbage. Something to really stand out and add some of that proverbial eye candy. I wasn't fully satisfied with the height on this one, but I didn't want to use the same fried shallots that I had the day before (I think it'd do the job and taste good along with everything else, but I didn't want to fall into a rut). I think that, if said greens (or reds, depending on how you look at it) formed a layer about a half inch thick, that it would be good. Barring that, something on top would be nice. I'd rather start with the upgraded veg and see where that takes me, though. Granted, the more I look at it the more I want to put something on top. To me it just begs to be finished. Again, those shallots would look great, I just don't want to become a broken record.

Something to think about, though. I'll let you know if I come up with any good toppers.

Once more, with feeling: the final round

Today we had our last go at designing plates. Tomorrow marks the end of class, the end of the term, and the start of a much needed vacation.

This one, while maintaining the same basic principle, was not at all what I had planned out. As such, there are a number of changes that I would make. We'll start with a reference point.

So what was running around in my head in the first place? Well, I had intended to use three lamb chops, arranged around a central mound of the rice. Between these three chops were supposed to be fanned-out snap peas (or green beans, or whatever was green, long-ish, and in the refrigerator at the time). Sadly calling dibs on the three pieces early in the day wasn't enough, and most was taken so that people could practice for the final. Blast you education system.

So what would I change? Like I said, the idea is there. I like the bone-up presentation, and the sauce under the mini-steak (although it could be a bit cleaner). I'd swap out the green beans for haricot vert in a heartbeat (aka, baby green beans). They're more uniform, skinnier, and overall just a tad fancier. The rice bores me. It was supposed to be surrounded by beautifully seared lamb, but the way it turned out it's a bit of an eyesore. If I were to keep it, maybe some tomato concasse on top would be nice, or really about anything to give some color. Switching the rice out for a quenelle of mashed potatoes (garlic chive... mmm...) would provide a more stable platform for the lamb, offers its own garnish, and all sorts of good times.

Lastly the plate itself. Since the original concept was circular, a round plate would have been great. For this I'd much rather have a longer, rectangular plate, and stretch the whole thing out in a straight line. I don't much care for the angle on this, and it's an awkward balance trying to get the lamb in the center without pushing everything else out of sync.

I just want to say that I love bones. They look awesome. And not just that, but they add amazing flavor, especially if you take the time to roast whatever it is that you're working with.

A fun class overall (granted I say this before the written final and practical take place). I definitely like having the chance to practice playing with my food. I'm not going to say that this sort of work is something that I'll be doing every day for myself, but it can be fun to mess around a bit here and there to get a few "ooh's" and "aah's" from the crowd.

Plate three the second

I learned a valuable lesson yesterday in class. It's very hard to take pictures when you forget to bring your camera with you.

I will hopefully be getting some copies in the near future, but to ease your voracious appetites I'll show you my plate from today. I took a step back from the entree work and decided to go with a small appetizer plate. This worked out fairly well considering we moved to sauteing today (way more fun than "baking") so we were crunched for time.

It's really simple, and it could be some tasty stuff if done right (remember that bit about how they don't actually have to taste good, or even be edible? I may have taken a shortcut or two with this dish). Enough talk, time for those photos.

I give you stuffed roasted mushroom caps on a bed of dressed spinach leaves.

The chef made a note that it'd be nice to have maybe a sauce (balsamic reduction?) along with this, and that could be nice. I'd originally planned for a bit of parmesan cheese over the top, and a nice bit of fresh chive to garnish... but even things that were on the requisition list were already used up. Lovely.

One thing to perhaps try would be to pipe in the filling. I wanted to try more of a freeform thing, just to see how it would look. I don't hate it, but I'd like to compare it to the piped version at least. A star-tip may be a bit froo-froo for what I'm going for, but a nice round tip just to keep it clean might work.

Maybe some different greens, too. I don't want to turn it into a salad, but maybe some frisee or even just a spring mix to add a little fluff and variation might not be a bad idea.

A bit of a work in progress, but a decent start.

Presentation Extravaganza: Round 2

Back again with the second of my plates for FFP. This time around I went with a more standard dinner service entree. This one turned out a bit differently than I had originally intended, so I'll just start with some pictures.

So what are we looking at exactly? A pan seared filet of salmon with mashed potatoes and grilled zucchini, served with a lemon beurre blanc. The niblets on top are a bit of fried shallot, added at the end because I wanted a bit more height.

Now, how did this change from the original idea? Originally I had been wanting to go for a skin-on filet, but there were some technical difficulties (read: sticking), so I scrapped that idea, removed the (remaining) skin, and went for a fresh sear on the filet. Turned out alright, although there's a speck or two of black on there.

I also had originally planned on a triangular stack of zucchini strips (and higher), but this way is a lot more... let's say realistic. For one, it takes a lot less product, and two in a restaurant setting you don't want someone to take five minutes to build a log cabin of vegetable. Four strips makes a nice base, lifts it off the sauce, and gives a decent serving. I was trying to decide where to put the potatoes... either in the middle of said stack or around the outside. Changing the stack to something more manageable allowed for the potatoes to just go on top and act as a further socle (fancy-speak for "food that lifts other food higher").

Now I'm not about to say it's perfect, but I'm pretty pleased with it, and the chef was too. The sauce is a bit heavy (granted this is after a good 2 hours of seeping over the plate), the grill marks on the zucchini are a little weak (if I were to do it again I'd just go for a single set of lines and make sure they're solid), and again the sear on the fish didn't happen as planned. It did, however, take second place (did I mention that they get judged at the end of class? Usually by a group vote, but Friday we were short on time and the chef picked the ones he liked best out).

Back to the drawing board for me, though... with Monday comes plate #3.

Time for a little arts and crafts

I have spent the past 5 days in Fundamentals of Food Service Production (aka FFP). First off let me say that I am way too used to having three-day weekends, especially when I'm looking at a career path that features 70-80 hour weeks as a relative norm. Bad habit or no (but it definitely is, trust me) getting up at 6:00 on a Friday is not what I consider a good start.

Be that as it may, the class is pretty nice. The general idea is to focus on good techniques and basic knife skills and the like. It's very "cooking 101", but even if you've had more experience it's good to get the practice. And speaking of practice, one of the things that we do (on a now daily basis, as of yesterday) is to practice plate presentations. The rules are simple:

1) You don't tell anyone about Fight Club.

Wait, wrong set of rules. Good movie, though.

1) It's all about the looks. It need not be edible, fully cooked, or much of anything other than pretty. Case in point, using a scoop of shortening in place of ice cream.

2) You have 30 minutes out of the day to prepare your plate.

3) You can bring things from home (the selection is a tad lacking in this room), pre-cooked if you so choose.

That's really about it. It can be breakfast, lunch, dessert, appetizer, or anything else. Saute, fried, seared, take your pick.

I figured that I'd do a bit of a series on my plate designs. Give you a chance to get a feel for the ideas bouncing around in my head, and give me a good reason to not slack off... I mean, of course I'd never give anything less than 110% for a class... never...

On to day one.

I thought that I'd start simple, especially given the choice of ingredients to work with. Such was born a delightful bowl of tomato cream soup. And just for the record, no, these aren't exactly magazing-quality pictures... but I don't exactly have a food stylist on staff and a thousand dollar camera to work with.

Overall I'm pretty happy with the way it turned out. Well, with what I had to work with, that is. I'd prefer to have more than four roma tomatoes to use (I'd like a bit more tomato and a little less "cream"). I had to bulk out with chicken stock, which did taste great (oh yeah, this one was completely edible and delicious, if I may say so myself), but I'd prefer to use veggy broth just to keep it animal-friendly. Maybe a chiffonade on the parsley instead of a mince.

In case you're curious (which you should be about all things cheese related), those are gruyere shavings floating on top (a bit melted at this point... pictures happen about 2 hours after the fact). It's a very parmesan-esque cheese, with a bit of swiss influence when it comes to flavor. Still very much a hard cheese, and I'd love to have a nice fresh bit on top here, but that's what happens when food sits untouched for hours.

Also, were there a scrap of bread in that room other than Texas Toast, you can bet about anything you like that there'd be some crouton action, or maybe a piece of bruschetta floating on top.

So there you go, dish number one from my mind to your table.