Of Neeps and Tam o’ Shanter

The two men were down in my basement switching out the underground line between oil tank and furnace for a line that would run overhead. They talked nonstop as they worked with their power tools, the conversation about kids, wives, and work schedules punctuated with the ring of metal on cement as one piece of equipment was dropped and exchanged for another. Every few minutes the dog would bark her head off, making sure I knew there were strangers making strange noises in her house.

This is an old drafty house, and a small one. Voices travel through floors. Noise made at one end can be heard at the other because the two ends just aren’t that far from each other. For three hours man and watchdog did their work; in the three hours of commotion I struggled to complete mine. Eventually I gave up the writing and headed into the kitchen instead.

Luckily I was prepared to do a few hours’ worth of cooking.

January 25 marks the 253rd anniversary of the birth of Scottish poet and lyricist (Auld Lang Syne) Robert Burns, and in the days before and after the 25th Burns revelers celebrate the occasion with speeches, Scotch whisky, bagpipers, whisky, men in tartan kilts making toasts, more whisky, hearty singing and the reciting of Burns’ long narrative poem Tam o’ Shanter, inevitably followed by a little more whisky. The highlight of the celebration is the ceremonial presentation of the haggis “pudding” (a sausage of chopped sheep’s heart, liver, and lungs stuffed into sheep’s stomach casing and simmered) along with its sides of mashed potato and neeps – the Scots name for what we know as rutabaga or yellow turnip.

One January about a baker’s dozen years ago, I had the good fortune to attend a formal Burns Night Supper. This year, I thought it would be fun to do a little homage meal at home minus the haggis (that one taste years ago will last this girl a lifetime), the kilts, the pipers, and the many shots of whisky, and instead highlighting the neeps. And perhaps a poem or two.

Rutabaga is most often served mashed with either a little butter or cream and salt and pepper. The vegetable is delicious this way, and mashed rutabaga is a great alternative to mashed potatoes alongside roast chicken. In the winter I also like to substitute cubes of rutabaga for potatoes in soups, stews, and pot roasts. A member of the brassica family, rutabaga holds the same sharp earthy aroma of fresh horseradish or broccoli, but can be both peppery and sweet when cooked. It’s just much more interesting than potatoes.

Knowing that rutabaga can replace potatoes so nicely, I decided to give it a try in a potatoes Anna-style dish. That classic involves making layers of overlapped thin slices of potatoes, drenching these in lots of butter, and baking the creation to form a crispy edged sort of cake. Saveur magazine featured a version of this using white turnip slices. Using much less butter and adding fresh thyme, I tried mine with the yellow turnip and served it with braised short ribs carbonnade à la flamande (Belgian style, braised in dark beer with onions). Try it, though, as a base for any stew, ragout of mushrooms and greens, or any main course that you like.

A mandoline works well for making thin uniform slices, as does a food processor fitted with a very thin slicing blade.

Rutabaga Galette

• 1 medium rutabaga (yellow turnip)
• 2 Tbsp. softened butter
• 4 sprigs of fresh thyme
• salt and pepper

Preheat the oven to 375 degrees.

Quarter the rutabaga and peel it.

Cut each quarter into half again. Slice the rutabaga pieces into very thin slices using mandoline or food processor. Set aside.

Prepare two 9-inch glass pie plates. Using 1 1/2 Tbsp. of soft butter, generously butter the inside bottom and sides of one of the dishes. Strip the thyme leaves from two of the sprigs and sprinkle these on top of the butter in the dish.

Layer the slices of rutabaga in the dish, slightly overlapping individual slices in each layer. Continue building up layers in this way until you reach just about to the top of the baking dish.

Sprinkle the top of the cake with the thyme leaves from the remaining two sprigs. Salt and pepper the rutabaga generously.

Using the remaining half tablespoon of butter, butter the outside bottom of the second pie plate. Fit this second dish on top of the first pie plate filled with layers of rutabaga to weight the vegetable layers down. Place the dishes into the preheated oven and bake for 1 1/2 hours. Remove the top pie plate.

Place a serving plate over the top of the baking dish and invert the cake onto the plate.

Cut into wedges when hot and serve as desired.

©2012  Jane A. Ward

What Do You Think?

The article titled “The 10 Most Polarizing Foods” caught my eye while I was skimming the week’s food news on the Huffington Post.

Lists make fun reading, especially the ones making superlative claims – best, worst, least, and, of course, most.  Humans like to rank things.  We also like to know where our tastes run in common and where they diverge (on the Best Films of Whatever Year, for example, one person’s most brilliant movie ever made might make another person’s snooze list), and we like to debate these points.

Enter today’s HuffPo list of the foods that polarize tastes, the foods that pit those passionately in favor of them against those who are disgusted by them, the foods that leave no room for discussion between individuals.  These are ten foods people take sides over; you either like them or you don’t.  Or so the creators of the list would have you believe.  I’m not so sure.

Is this the definitive list?  Let’s have a look.

Out of the 10, I thought four did not meet the standard touted in the introduction to the list, i.e. something that is either the best thing ever or the worst thing ever, depending on who you speak to.

Marmite made the list (as did its Aussie twin, Vegemite).  The only people I know who eat Marmite are British and they all have a taste for it.  In my own experience, the rest of us who say we don’t have a taste for it have never actually tried it; we just don’t like the idea of spreading a yeast extract paste on bread.  We might take a bite and love it.  Can something be polarizing if one has never tried it?  Not so sure.

I had to ask the same question of marzipan.  Widely used in European and Scandinavian desserts, it isn’t  consumed so much in the States.  Is marzipan then loved by some, detested by others?  Or simply loved by some, untested by others?

Celery being on the list was a head scratcher.  I happen to love celery, though I’m willing to accept that others may not feel the same.  But hate?  Does anyone hate celery?  If so, let me know.  I stand to be corrected.  But brussels sprouts seem to be much more controversial than celery, don’t you think?

The green pepper, however, is resoundingly disliked in my circles.  Correction: in most circles.  No one I know, hear from, talk to likes the green pepper. Of course, if you love it and feel you must declare this as passionately as the rest of us do when we disparage it, please write in.

I agree with the remaining six for the most part.  People I know, myself included, love or hate licorice, liver, mayonnaise, coconut, blue cheese (which I might even expand to include goat’s cheese), and cilantro.

Folks seem really divided on cilantro in particular.  It’s either fresh tasting or soapy, we love it or we hate it.  Kitchen science guru Harold McGee explains why in an April 2010 article for the New York Times.  The history of the herb plays a large role in its acceptance, he writes.  Some cultures use cilantro frequently, while others have little or no acquaintance with it.  For those who don’t, the foreignness makes for skeptics.  That exotic aspect, coupled with the Greek origins of the plant’s name – coriander – leads to double trouble.  Translated, coriander means “bedbug.”  For the cilantro skeptic, the word bedbug doesn’t make for good PR.

And the diners who detect a soapy quality in the leaf aren’t off base, either, McGee adds.  The perfumy scent and taste are rooted in basic chemistry.  Aldehydes (or fat molecules) exist in cilantro; aldehydes are a by-product of soap making.  Ergo, the soapy claims can be accurate.

How positively this soapy taste is perceived depends on exposure to cilantro.  Cultures that routinely use the herb in cooking find the scent familiar and pleasant.  Newly exposed, one might instead associate the scent with cleaning products.  The good news is that if you have a cilantro aversion, you can train your palate to be open to it, and even turn the aversion to enjoyment if you keep trying it over and over.  Doing so retrains your brain’s response to the taste.

Here’s a recipe to try if you already love cilantro or if you’d like to get used to cilantro.  If you have no interest in changing your opinion whatsoever, leave it out.  It’s completely up to you.

As you cook, give some thought to the list and what you might add or subtract from it and why.  I’d love to hear what you think.

Chili Crab Noodles

• 8 ounces fresh chinese egg noodles (or fresh thin cut pasta)
• 2 Tbsp. ketchup
• 2 Tbsp. sweet chili sauce
• 2 Tbsp. hoisin sauce
• 1 1/2 Tbsp. fish sauce (nam pla)
• 2 Tbsp. water
• 2-inch piece of fresh ginger, peeled and finely chopped
• 3 garlic cloves, finely chopped
• 3 slender hot red chilis, finely chopped (or substitute 1 plump jalapeno as I did)
• 1 Tbsp vegetable or canola oil
• 8 ounces fresh crabmeat, cooked and picked over
• juice of 1 lime
• 2 Tbsp. chopped fresh cilantro leaves, optional (finely chopped scallion greens are a good option for the cilantro hater)

Cook the noodles in a large pot of salted boiling water until just barely tender.  Drain, rinse and set aside.

Combine the ketchup, chili sauce, hoisin sauce, fish sauce, and water together in a small bowl and set aside.

Prepare the ginger, garlic, and hot pepper as noted and set aside.

Heat oil in a large skillet set over medium heat.  Cook for 2 or 3 minutes until softened.  Add the sauce to the pan and stir to combine and heat through.  Bring the mixture to a boil and cook over steady heat until the sauce thickens.  Once thickened slightly, add the crab and stir to heat through.

Stir in the noodles to coat with the sauce and crab and heat these through.  Squeeze lime juice over the dish.

To serve, lift a portion onto a plate, sprinkle with fresh cilantro, and enjoy.

©2012  Jane A. Ward

Breaking a Few Eggs for Cake

“Remind me to show you something on the way back home,” my son said to me as we waited at the optical shop to pick up his new glasses.  ”It’ll blow your mind.”

How could I resist that promise?  I let him drive home.

We left Newburyport using the old U.S. highway Route 1, and crossed the Merrimack River into Salisbury.  This particular stretch of  Route 1 boasts salt marshes and coastal wildlife habitats, marine shops, boat storage yards, gas stations, a defunct auto dealership, a liquor store, a butcher shop, a couple of restaurants, a couple of homes, a few derelict buildings, several strip malls and a strip club: in other words, a little bit of everything.  I drive this piece of road every day, twice a day, traveling a couple of miles of it on the way to the Newburyport train station and back; I know it well.  Or so I thought.

Ben pulled into the first strip mall.  ”It’s here I think,” he said under his breath as he drove around the side of last shop in the row.  He brought the car to a stop.

“What’s here?” I asked, looking at a brick wall.

“Never mind,” he said, turning the car around in the lot.  ”It’s not the right place.  Next one down maybe.”

On the side of the third strip mall he found what he had been looking for:  a door.  There was a sign hanging above the door, a yellow sign, shaped like an egg.  He put his foot on the brake and looked at me.  ”They sell farm fresh eggs in there.”

“There?” I asked.  ”They sell farm fresh eggs right there?  Behind that door in a Route 1 strip mall in Salisbury?”  I looked closely at the yellow egg sign –  Farm Fresh Eggs, it proclaimed – and shook my head.  ”Is anyone in there selling the eggs?”

“No,” Ben said.  ”Inside it’s the size of a closet that could hold two regular refrigerators.  Except there’s only one refrigerator, and that’s full of eggs.  You leave $3.00 and take a box.  You want me to buy you a box of eggs?”

A box of farm fresh eggs bought from a closet built into the side of a building situated about a quarter mile down the road from the turquoise exterior of Kittens strip club?  ”Sure,” I answered with a laugh.  ”It’s totally crazy.”

“Told you it would blow your mind.”

Well, yes, it did.  The eggs do too.  The smallest in the box weighs 66 grams or right about on the mark for grade “Extra Large,” while the biggest in the box tops out at 82 grams.  As a point of reference, a jumbo grade egg weighs in at 71 grams or over.  I suppose that makes my nice big fresh 82 gram egg something like super jumbo.  Maybe even super duper jumbo.

Because of the size (and variations in size) of these eggs, we have set aside the Salisbury strip mall eggs for cooking rather than baking.  No doubt they’ll make someone a yummy, albeit huge, omelet.

For the cake mentioned in the title, Ben’s birthday cake, I played it safe and used the standard large eggs I already had on hand.

For his birthday this year he requested a classic butter cake with milk chocolate frosting.  When I bake butter layers for these kinds of special occasions, I alternate between my two favorite recipes: last year’s Desert Island Butter Cake and this one below, Yellow Butter Cake, from Baking at Home with the Culinary Institute of America.  The CIA recipe makes a slightly more refined cake with a beautiful tight but tender crumb.  The CIA recommended method for combining ingredients, the high ratio method, is the reason why.

In typical butter-based cakes, the butter and sugar are creamed together, eggs are added to this mixture, then flour sifted with salt and leavening are stirred in as the final step.

High ratio baking has two features that distinguish it from more standard cake baking.  First, such a recipe has a higher ratio of sugar to flour, and this proportion provides the fine texture.  Second, the ingredients are combined in an unusual reverse order.  Dry ingredients including the sugar are added to the mixer, and then soft butter is added and cut into the dry.  Wet ingredients – eggs, milk, extracts – get whisked together, and added to the butter-flour mixture in three additions as the final step.  The high content of fat and sugar added up front helps protect the flour from developing too many gluten strands as the wet ingredients are blended in.  Ergo, a tender, not tough, cake with no large air holes or tunnels.

But don’t take my word for it.  Give this one a try.

You might substitute your favorite buttercream if you wish, but for the milk chocolate lovers among us, this frosting is the stuff of dreams.

Yellow Butter Cake with Milk Chocolate Frosting

• 3 1/2 cups cake flour
• 2 cups sugar
• 1 Tbsp. baking powder
• 1/2 tsp. salt
• 1 cup (2 sticks) unsalted butter, diced, at room temperature
• 1 cup whole milk, divided use
• 4 large eggs
• 2 large egg whites
• 2 tsp. vanilla extract

Preheat the oven to 350 degrees.  Coat two 8-inch round cake pans lightly with cooking spray.  (Note: these need to be about 2 inches deep.  If your pan is shallower, use 3 pans.  I’ll give you adjusted times below.)

Sift the flour, sugar, baking powder, and salt together in the bowl of a stand mixer fitted with the paddle attachment.  Add the butter to the bowl and 1/2 cup of the milk.

Mix on medium speed until smooth, about 4 minutes, scraping down the sides of the bowl with a rubber scraper as needed.

In a separate bowl, blend together the eggs, egg whites, the remaining 1/2 cup milk, and the vanilla.  Add to the butter-flour batter in 3 additions, mixing for 2 minutes on medium speed after each addition.  Scrape down the bowl between additions.

Divide the batter between 2 (or 3; see above) prepared pans.  Bake until the layers spring back when touched lightly in the center of the top, about 35-40 minutes.  (Begin checking 3 layers at 25 minutes; they will probably need about 30 minutes baking time.)

Remove layers from the oven and cool completely in their pans on wire racks.  Release the sides and bottom of the layers from the pan with a narrow metal spatula or a thin knife before unmolding and finishing with frosting and filling.

Milk Chocolate Frosting

• 1 1/4 cups heavy whipping cream
• 1/4 cup light corn syrup
• 1/4 cup (1/2 stick) unsalted butter
• 1 pound milk chocolate, chopped

Combine the cream, corn syrup, and butter together in a medium saucepan.  Stir over medium heat until the mixture begins to simmer.  Reduce heat to low and add chopped chocolate.  Stir until chocolate is melted and mixture is smooth, about 1 minute.  The frosting will be very liquid at this point.  Transfer the mixture to a large bowl and let cool slightly.

Place the bowl of slightly cooled frosting in the refrigerator.  As it cools it will thicken.  Stir every 15 minutes or so as the temperature goes down.  As you stir you will notice the mixture thickening.  When the frosting is quite cool and the consistency is still soft but now fudgy thick, remove the bowl from the fridge.

Using the stand mixer fitted with a whisk attachment or a hand held mixer, beat the soft frosting until it lightens in color and becomes the consistency of spreadable buttercream icing.  It will hold peaks when the beaters are lifted from the bowl.  This takes about 3 or 3 minutes.  The frosting will continue to thicken as it stands.

To assemble:

Place thin strips of parchment around the edges of a flat cake plate.  Put a drop of icing in the center of the plate and place a cake layer on this to anchor it down.

Spread some frosting on top of the layer all the way out to the edges and set the second layer on top.  Repeat if using a third layer.

Once all the layers are in place, I like to apply a thin coat of frosting along the top and sides of the cake.  This base coat is called a crumb coat, and it keeps any crumbs from the cake layers in place so they don’t show up in the outer finishing layer of frosting.

Next, ice the top and sides with more frosting, finishing both in any way you desire.

Carefully remove the strips of parchment to find a finished cake with clean bottom edges on a clean plate.

Slice and serve.

©2012  Jane A. Ward