Winter Skies, Kitchen Aglow

Against a backdrop of darkening, shifting clouds and a sky of various shades of grey, the kitchen and dining room are aglow with the oven's soaring temperature, candles on the dining table and warm-hued meals (caramelised root vegetables, burnished poultry and red wine-based braises). One can, however, become disenchanted with contorni of roasted potatoes, kumara and parsnip or with honey-coloured puddings of lemons, pears and apples. Just when it cannot possibly get any colder (here, anyway), I switch out golden vegetables and fruit for a shocking display of intense crimson.

Rhubarb appears to have reached a whole new level of appreciation of late. What has always been a winter and spring feature in my household is now a trendy dessert offering. Rhubarb is an unusual vegetable. Its roots and almost lime green leaves are toxic, and its stalk, practically the colour of a cardinal's robe, is so tart that it has to be counteracted with obscene amounts of sugar. (To my knowledge, it is the only vegetable treated wholly as a fruit.) Stewed (best when cooked through but not mushy), vibrant rhubarb is a delightful antidote when the temperature drops.

I used to eat lemons right off the tree as a child, so I guess it is fair to say that I have a proclivity towards sour and tart food. Accordingly, I tend not to add but the least amount of raw/brown sugar to take the sourest edge out of rhubarb. Of course you can add more sugar. That said, I suggest that you be prudent because to oversweeten rhurbarb defies its purpose, and you might as well be having something else instead - add what I suggest here, then add more towards the end of the cooking period after you have sampled the rhubarb.

This particular cobbler is lifted from Jerry Traunfeld's greatly inspiring cookery book, The Herbal Kitchen: Cooking with Fragrance and Flavor. I tried to find angelica for a variation, but I was not so lucky at the weekend. I have, however, tweaked the recipe: lemon zest to complement the rhubarb; rose water to perfume the rhubarb along with mint; and ground almonds in the biscuit mixture to round out the sweetness of the topping with full-flavoured nuttiness (pulverised walnuts and pistachios also work well). When slicing rhubarb wands, peel off any stringy bits that begin to come away because they only amplify the fibrous quality of rhubarb (its principal drawback, to my mind).

Rhubarb and Mint Cobbler
(Adapted from Jerry Traunfeld's The Herbal Kitchen: Cooking with Fragrance and Flavor)

For the Rhubarb:

750g/1.5lbs rhubarb stalks
2/3 cup raw/brown sugar
1/2 cup chopped English mint
1 tablespoon rose water
zest of one small lemon
14g/1 tablespoon unsalted butter

For the Biscuits:

2/3 cup all-purpose flour
1/3 cup ground almonds
2 teaspoons baking powder
1/4 teaspoon salt
4 tablespoons white/granulated sugar, divided use
28g/2 tablespoons unsalted butter
1/2 cup heavy cream

1) Preheat oven to 200 C/400 F.
2) Wash rhubarb stalks, then chop off the ends (removing any dry ends).
3) Slice rhubarb cross-wise into 1.25cm/ 1.2" pieces.
4) Put into a baking dish (approximately 22cm/9" x 33cm/13") and mix in the sugar, mint, rose water and lemon zest.
5) Dot surface with the butter and bake for 15 minutes (until it softens and releases bubbling, crimson juices).

Prepare the biscuits as the rhubarb is baking.

1) Put flour, ground almonds, baking powder, salt and 3 tablespoons of the sugar into a bowl. Mix together.
2) Dice the butter and rub it into the flour mixture with your finger tips, as you would when making pastry.
3) When the flour and butter mixture slips through the fingers like granules of rice, pour in the cream.
4) Mix cream with hands until clumps of dough are formed.
5) Put the dough on baking/parchment paper.
6) Divide dough into eight equal pieces and flatten each into a disk 5cm/2" in diameter.
7) Arrange on top of the rhubarb and sprinkle with the remaining tablespoon of sugar.
8) Bake until the biscuits have browned all over, 15-20 minutes.

In all, this is a boon of a dessert - filling yet light. The rhubarb zings across the palate in a complex melange with the rose water, mint and lemon zest, partnered with the pronounced almond tones in the biscuit. Of course, it does not have to end here - a cobbler can be made with practically any fruit, but the choice to use rhubarb elevates the simple cobbler, making it an interesting dessert.

You might want to gild the lily and pair it with ice cream (I poured over some cream). Strawberry ice cream would make a great option, for strawberry is a traditional bedmate (remember, though, I made this in winter, so there weren't any fresh strawberries around for me to make ice cream). Ginger is another interesting partner, so I also recommend that you have a look at this Tamasin Day-Lewis recipe for Stem Ginger and Spice Ice Cream.

While the above recipe is a great way to end the night, a fabulous way to start a dinner party is with dips and pâtés or elements from zakuski, a Georgian tradition of small plates of contrasting temperatures and textures. While I've read a lot about zakuski, I have never hosted such a dining event (probably because I do not have the stomach to wash down shots of vodka between mouthfuls of food). I do, however, take a leaf out of Georgian housewives' books and look to zakuski for inspiration when creating a cocktail-hour menu.

Georgians love to combine coriander/cilantro and walnuts (such as in satsivi, the national sauce). This is an unusual yet intriguing interplay of flavours, realised perfectly in Charkhlis Pkhali - a beetroot, walnut and coriander pureé.

Charkhlis Pkhali
(from Diana Henry's Roast Figs, Sugar Snow)

700g/1.5lbs beetroot (washed and leaves chopped off 4cm/1.5" from base)
150g/6oz walnut pieces
1 teaspoon sea salt
5 cloves garlic, crushed
5 tablespoons coriander/cilantro, finely chopped
5 tablespoons flat-leaf parsley, finely chopped
1/2 teaspoon ground coriander
4 tablespoons red wine vinegar
1 tablespoon olive oil
pepper

1) Preheat oven to 190 C/375 F.
2) Wrap beets in aluminium foil, place them on a baking tray and bake until tender, approximately 1 1/2 hours.
3) In the meantime, grind together the walnuts, salt and garlic.
4) Add the herbs and continue grinding until a paste is formed.
5) When you can handle the beets, peel quickly and grate the flesh of the crimson orbs into a bowl (and wash your hands immediately afterwards to remove the stain).
6) Mix in the walnut paste and red wine vinegar, olive oil and freshly ground pepper to taste.

What is great about this dish is that it can be made in advance and kept in the fridge. Bring it to room temperature before serving with pita chips (pita bread cut into triangles, toasted in the oven with olive oil, Hawaiian red clay salt and pepper) or toasted herb bread. You can gild this lily, too, by sprinkling pomegranate seeds once the dish has come to room temperature.

Charkhlis Pkhali and Rhubarb and Mint Cobbler are celebratory dishes. Vibrant in both colour and flavours, these crimson dishes fire up conversation around the dining table, allowing one to forget that it is dark and cold out.

Labels: Beetroot, Beets, Dessert, Diana Henry, Georgian, Jerry Traunfeld, Rhubarb, Rhubarb Cobbler, Zakuski

Berries, stone fruit, and ice cream are generally the chosen sweet treats for Summer. They are luscious and cooling, their juices or creaminess rehydrate the thirsty beings that we become. In the blogosphere, there have been so many great ice cream, sorbet and gelato posts over the Summer. The only one I have posted is by way of my book review of Nigella Lawson's How To Eat: The Pleasures and Principles of Good Food, from which I lifted Marcella Hazan's chocolate ice cream - or, quite simply, The World's Best Chocolate Ice Cream - which has caramel beaten into it, giving the ice cream heft and depth.

I'm surprised, actually, that I have not written more posts on ice cream, for my angelheart Eric and I eat it throughout the year. I don't think in all of my life there has been a time in which at least a quart of ice cream cannot be found in the freezer - except other than when I spent some months living in France back in 1997. New Zealanders are amongst the largest consumers of ice cream in the world, so it is no wonder, then, that ice cream is on the grocery list if I have not taken the little time needed to make it myself.

To understand better the method, I would prefer to devote time to the various techniques and what seems to be changing quantities of liquid. Time, however, is of the essence and is not something I presently have in surplus (and I won't have it until after mid-December, when my Master's thesis is due). In the course of some quick reading here and there, I have come across a method that I had forgotten about. This method involves stirring firm whipping/double cream into a cooled custard. You need the cream anyway (unless you're making ice cream from yoghurt), so it may as well be as luxurious as is possible. The custard is always the perplexing thing, for the number of egg yolks to whole/full fat milk and sugar always varies. Perhaps the only thing that ultimately changes is the volume that is produced at the end, and I have just to work out the formula. Again...next year. What also makes a difference to the volume, and the reason for which I make ice cream at home in the first place, is that too much air provides too light an ice cream, which is the problem I have with commercial ice creams, even the top-shelf kind, however velvety they are. An ice cream maker for home does the job beautifully, saving one on labour, but also ensuring not too much air is whipped into the product.

What should also be whipped into the product is something aromatic. Most of us lovingly use herbs and spices in the kitchen, and the more I spend time cooking, the more intimately I want to know how fragrant flora can be applied to various dishes. In fact, I almost always want to add at least one to any dish I make - even ice cream. The inspiration for today's ice cream comes from a couple of sources. The first is Diana Henry's enchanting Crazy Water, Pickled Lemons in which she offers a custard-base ice cream of Lemon and Basil. The combination of herb and citrus started me off quite squarely. I forgot I was making ice cream and just thought about the herb and citrus combinations I love best: tarragon and orange, sweet basil and lime, thyme and lemon, cilantro/corriander and grapefruit, bay leaf and kumquat. The second inspirational source is Jerry Traunfeld's
The Herbal Kitchen and his soft-set (that is to say, milk and cream-based ice cream) Strawberry Rose Geranium Ice Cream. This made me think to look outside in the garden and find what we have growing there now. How could I have forgotten rosemary? This is the herb that I loved most as a kid (well, that and marjoram, which features prominently in the potato salad that is on the family buffet table at every Christmas lunch). In retrospect, it seems so at odds with my mother's suburban garden of ferns, roses, Birds of Paradise. Perhaps that is why I liked it. Always fragrant and always available, it seemed other-worldly to me. Even now it has the power to transport. Rosemary also has the tendency to taste acrid once it hits hot liquid. The key is to allow it to steep in milk that has already been brought to the boiling point and to not use too much.

Making custard can be frightening all because once the egg yolk looks like it is curdling, one has to act promptly to save it. Either keep beside the stove a bowl of iced water large enough to hold your saucepan or have enough cold water and chunks of ice in a sink to come halfway up the side of your saucepan. Should the egg yolks look like they are curdling, lift your saucepan and place it in a vessel with iced-water and whisk like mad until it comes together again. You could also take the saucepan directly off the heat, dump in a few ice cubes, and, again, whisk furiously. Once stable, put back on the heat until the custard is finished. You may lose some volume because of this, but it is better than having no custard base at all. This stressful procedure can be circumvented altogether by making the custard in a bain marie or by setting the element to medium-low, as opposed to medium, which will mean it could take up to 30 minutes to complete. Remember, you are making a custard base, so it doesn't have to be set solid. A slightly thick set will suffice. The setting can be tested by running your finger down the back of the spoon. If the line left remains clear, like the parted Red Sea, then the custard base is done.

This ice cream recipe makes enough for 1 quart.

Orange and Rosemary Ice Cream

10 fl. oz/1 1/4 cups whole/full fat milk
3 sprigs rosemary, each approximately 15cm/7" long
rind of 1 orange, cut into strips, pith removed
5 1/2 oz/slightly more than 1/2 cup sugar
4 egg yolks
juice of 1 orange, strained
5oz/ 1/2 cup whipping/double cream

1) Bring milk to the boiling point, then take off the heat.
2) Add rosemary sprigs and orange rind to boiled milk. Cover and allow to steep for 40 minutes to one hour.
3) Beat sugar and egg yolks together until pale and fluffy.
4) Strain the rosemary and orange-infused milk into the sugar and yolk mixture. Stir to incorporate. Pour into a saucepan.
5) Make a custard by continuously whisking over medium heat until thickened, then stir with a wooden spoon until the back of it is well coated. Over a medium heat, this should not take much more than 10-15 minutes.
6) Pour into another bowl, cool, then refrigerate for 30 minutes.
7) Stir orange juice into the custard.
8) Lightly beat the whipping/double cream until gently thickened (no stiff peaks), then fold into the custard base.
9) Freeze in an ice cream maker according to manufacturer's directions or still-freeze (whizz in a blender or use a hand-held beater once every hour for three hours to prevent ice crystals from forming).

This is an incredibly mellow, though tantalising ice cream. The rosemary is not at all overly pronounced - in fact, you might have to work at it to guess that it is there at all. One knows, though, that orange is not the sole flavour at work. You could, of course, be more daring and add a few more sprigs, but I personally prefer the rosemary lazing about in the background, letting the warming and zesty attributes of the orange take centre stage. This is dreamy, subtle, and somehow perfectly summery, despite the fact that orange is a Winter fruit.


Other ice cream posts:
Dried Fig and Coffee Ice Cream
Stem Ginger and Spice Ice Cream

Labels: Dessert, Diana Henry, Herbs, Ice cream, Jerry Traunfeld, Orange, Rosemary

  How does one recapture Paris at home? Plenty of cookery books have tried to answer this question, such as the most recent notable, Ina Garten's Barefoot in Paris, and Daniel Young's great recipe compilation of The Bistros, Brasseries and Wine Bars of Paris: Everyday Recipes from the Real Paris. I suppose it is really best to wait longer and see what comes to mind. For now though, my angelheart Eric and I miss going to the Coquelicot boulangerie in Montmartre and watching an old lady walk her strangely svelte German Shepherd every morning.

The food in Paris is much like any other city in that there are plenty of hits and misses, both categories in which we did well at striking. France really is known for its hearty fare, pastries (give me a religieuse - coffee or chocolate - any day, any time), and breads. Of course there are those dining institutions that step outside the bounds a little, such as: Fogón, a modern paella and tapas themed restaurant in the bustling Quartier Latin, which served an incredible paella valencia, redolent of pork and saffron; Pitchi Poï, a Jewish restaurant tucked away in a square in what is probably the best place for regular shoppers with a good eye (i.e. those not intent on taking out a second mortgage to shop on the Champs-Elysées or the Rue Saint Honoré), the Marais, which is famous for their blinis and vodkas...and I can vouch for their caramel vodka (!); and L'Écaille de la Fontaine near the gorgeous Opéra Garnier, which serves mostly seafood, so my angelheart Eric was incredibly satisfied - especially with his fat oysters. For traditional fare, the best places we went to were La Poule Au Pot, located near the Louvre, where one is served elegant and substantial mains (my angelheart Eric had a divine braised chicken with morrels, and for dessert I had the most gorgeous profiteroles with pistachio ice cream...Heaven!); and Le Repaire de Cartouche, whose creative chef offered, among other things, lamb terrine with figs and deer on mustard leaves and chanterelles.

The ingredients that most evoke French food to me are tarragon and leeks. So it is on the return from Paris that I use Jerry Traunfeld's fabulous The Herbal Kitchen to not only recreate a little bit of France but also to use as my submission to Weekend Cookbook Challenge #13, for which one is to use their latest acquired cookery book - well, it was the last one I acquired before going to Paris. Mr. Traunfeld's recipe calls for boneless, skinless chicken breasts, but I used bone-in, skin on chicken thighs, which I browned after sprinkling with kosher salt and freshly ground black pepper before embarking on the rest of the recipe. When using leeks, make sure to wash them properly because sand settles in the leaves. I chopped the leeks thinly then put them in a bowl of water to rest while the sand sunk to the bottom of the bowl and then repeated the process twice more.

Tarragon Chicken Thighs with Buttered Leeks
(from Jerry Traunfeld's The Herbal Kitchen)

2 cups thinly sliced leeks, white and green parts only
2 cups chicken broth
4 tablespoons (56.5g) butter
1 1/2 pounds chicken thighs (or boneless, skinless chicken breasts)
Kosher salt
black pepper, freshly ground
2 teaspoons fresh lemon juice
2 tablespoons coarsley chopped tarragon

1) Put leeks in a large skillet with chicken broth and half of the butter and cook at a gently boil over medium heat until leeks are tender and the broth has boiled down such that the leeks are not completely submerged in the liquid.
2) If using boneless, skinless chicken breasts, sprinkle both sides with salt and pepper. If using chicken thighs, do as stated in paragraph preceding the recipe.
3) Place chicken on top of simmering leeks and spoon some of the leeks over the chicken.
4) Cover skillet tightly, reduce flame to low.
5) Check chicken for doneness, approximately 10 minutes if using boneless, skinless chicken breasts (15 minutes if the breasts are large), and 20 minutes if using bone-in, skin on, chicken thighs.
6) When the chicken is done, lift the pieces from the leeks and put on a warm platter.
7) Increase flame under leeks to high and stir in the lemon juice, remaining half of butter, and the tarragon. When the butter melts, taste the sauce and add salt and pepper according to your preference.
8) To serve: Pour leek sauce over chicken pieces.

I love the sharpness of the lemon and the creaminess of the leeks. I am glad that I decided to go with the chicken thighs because they gave a very light crunch, allowing for some play on the tongue; otherwise, it might have been too much like soft hospital food, however tasty.

Labels: Chicken, Jerry Traunfeld, Weekend Cookbook Challenge