DC Culinarian

Sur De La Frontera...

Next week Mrs. Culinarian and I are headed from her ancestral homeland of Washington, DC to her other ancestral homeland of Puebla, Mexico. Which means we'll be trading the unseasonably warm DC weather for central Mexico's volcanic hellscape.

That's a bit of an exaggeration, but it is true that all of Puebla is right now covered with a fine layer of ash courtesy of Popocatépetl, the pronunciation-defying volcano that has been angrily disgorging the molten innards of Earth's crust for about six weeks straight. 

Officially we're headed there for a wedding. Unofficially, we're there to partake of the local cuisine, learn how to make authentic mole poblano and pipián, and perhaps take a side trip to a more secluded corner of the country. Also, one of Mrs. Culinarian's Poblano friends has promised to put my liver through its paces. Which should be educational.

We'll post updates of our Mexican adventure as time and internet access permit, so be sure to check in!

Agitate Your Omelette

There is no "right" way to make eggs, but the wrong ways stack high. If your fried eggs are plasticky, you're doing it wrong. Scrambled eggs rubbery? Something's gone awry. Poached egg cooked through? You blew it.

Most people are wedded to the notion that eggs should be cooked over high heat. That when you crack an egg into a frying pan it should frenetically pop and sizzle and be cooked in mere moments.

No. No. No. No. No.

High heat gets you plasticine eggs that adhere to cooking surfaces. Of course, there's no accounting for taste. Some people like the browned ring of near-indestructible crustiness that encircles an egg fried over high heat. They're weird.

The proper way to do it is lower and slower. This allows you more control over the texture of the egg, which is key when making an omelette in this classic French style.

You cook the eggs over lower heat while constantly whisking and agitating the eggs. The effect is threefold: the low heat gives the protein more time to develop, the constant agitation prevents the formation of large curds (that unfortunate word again), and the whisking incorporates air as it cooks. (Here is Jacques Pepin demonstrating a variation of the technique.)

The end result is an omelette that is fluffy and almost impossibly light, with just the slightest hint of browning.

Recipe (the ingredients of which are malleable to your taste) and technique below the jump.

Sorbet Science

As with everything kitchen-related, there are tricks and techniques one can employ when making ice cream and sorbet to ensure the highest quality in your end product. I imparted one of those tricks in my recipe for blackberry sorbet, but didn't fully elaborate on its importance.

Ice cream and sorbet is all about texture. It has to be smooth, smooth, smooth. And the way to achieve this is to use SCIENCE to bend water molecules to your will.

Temperature is essentially the rate at which molecules vibrate. When you cool something, you're taking energy out of the system and slowing its molecules down. When water molecules have been slowed sufficiently, intermolecular forces hold them together in a rigid crystal structure -- they freeze. The way one achieves smoothness is by keeping those crystals as small as possible.

The way to do that is to ensure that the mixture you put into that ice cream machine is as cold as possible without actually being frozen. The colder the mixture, the faster it crystallizes, and the less opportunity water molecules have to form into big ice crystals.

That is why, after spending a minimum of four hours in the refrigerator, the recipe directs you to put the mixture in the freezer for ten minutes. It's an important step -- the more you slow those water molecules down, the happier you'll be with your end product.

Better sorbet through science.

Blackberry Cointreau Sorbet

Here's how I know when it's time to break out the ice cream machine.

I'm sure everyone has run a load of sheets and towels through the dryer, only to find at the end of the cycle that things weren't quite dry, and as you reach in your hand is enveloped in folds of hot, damp, heavy fabric.

The other day, atmospheric conditions here in DC roughly approximated that environment. Thus, ice cream season had begun.

And speaking of seasons, blackberries are very much in season and make for an excellent sorbet. The challenge in sorbet making is texture: too much water and you'll have hard crunchy ice. So you want to find the right sugar/water balance to achieve a freezing point that will give you small ice crystals and a smooth texture.

Blackberries have a good amount of sugar and, importantly, high levels of pectin, a natural thickener that is a texture perfectionist's best friend.

You know what else is good for sorbet texture? Booze. Alcohol lowers the freezing point and prevents things from freezing too solidly. Blackberry and orange are a winning combo, and a couple of tablespoons of Cointreau do much good for this sorbet.

It's light, refreshing, fruity, and an excellent way to counteract the onset of Washington DC's brutal summer humidity.

Recipe after the jump.

Mrs. Culinarian Bakes A Cake

Sunday was Mother's Day. Mama Culinarian lives in Connecticut but my mom and sister are both local and since we were celebrating, I decided that the occasion merited a cake. A girly, fancy confection.

In the moment, the most feminine thing I could think of was the delightful and lovely shade that pink lemonade has (Perhaps I was thirsty? Dehydrated?). And, thus, an idea formed to create a strawberry lemon layer cake, a pink and yellow one dressed up with some fondant icing and some sugar flowers.

This required a trip to a local cake supply store, The Little Bitts Shop in Wheaton, MD. It is crammed floor-to-ceiling with anything a baker could want. I filled my basket with sugar flowers, some fondant (I recommend Satin Ice), and my new best friends, flavor concentrates. Stronger by far than extract, these concentrates will flavor your whole cake with only a few drops (4-6 drops do the work of a whole teaspoon of extract). They rock.

Back home, I went to my standby yellow cake recipe by Judy Rosenberg. It can be found in her utterly shameless book, Rosie's Bakery All-Butter, Fresh Cream, Sugar-Packed, No-Holds-Barred Baking Book, which, to date, has not failed me.

I made the batter, divided it, and colored and flavored 2/3 of it strawberry (pink) and 1/3 lemon (no food coloring). I baked the cakes in 8" round pans, split the strawberry cake in half, and filled and iced the three-layer cake with buttercream. Making your own buttercream is super easy and so worth it. It just tastes better and you only have 3 ingredients -- butter, cream, and sugar -- as opposed to the canned chemical-filled icing you get at the grocery store. 

Then came the fondant.

Should you ever feel compelled to use fondant, bear in mind that your first attempts might imperil an otherwise healthy sense of self-worth. The effect is multiplied should you decide (as I did) to ice a cake with fondant while running late to Sunday brunch! You will be humbled in no time. Fondant is...trying. It rips. It fails to roll out evenly. It cracks. Worst of all, it sticks to counter tops.* 

But lookie here! Pretend you don't see the slightly wonky, lumpy fondant. Voila: The girliest of Mother's Day cakes for my mom and sister, who are ever-loving and ever-giving to their kids, through the sweet (strawberry) and sour (lemon).

*Full disclosure: This may have happened to me. Numerous times. There may have even been loud cursing in the kitchen, the sort of language you never use in front of your mother, but eagerly direct at her Mother's Day cake. To prevent sticking, use confectioners sugar (a good amount) and save yourself from fondant-tastrophies.

A Pizza For Primavera

Let's start with a universal truth: Pizza is good when you make it yourself. It can be a sloppy disaster of shameful toppings perched uneasily atop a blackened disc of hardtack. Doesn't matter. You made it, you'll eat it, and in your mind it will be better than almost every other pizza you've had.

I say this not merely to state the obvious, but to offer encouragement! Pizza is not that tough. Yes, working with the dough can be a little tricky, but you get the hang of it pretty quickly and once you do, you're golden. All that folderol with the flipping and flinging of pizza dough is nothing but showmanship. Use a rolling pin if you like. All you need to do is get it flat and in a shape that somewhat resembles a circle.

What's more, the only special equipment required is a pizza stone, and you don't even really need that (any flat, oven-safe surface will do, like a baking sheet). Just preheat your oven to 500, set the stone on the lowest rack, give it a few minutes to get good and hot,  then carefully slide the assembled pizza on it and bake for 12-15 minutes. (A pizza peel is handy for that task, but also not strictly necessary. Any well-floured flat surface will do.) If I could offer just one tip, it would be to not be shy with the flour; you don't want the dough sticking to anything.

This particular pizza is made for spring. Sliced heirloom tomato, sauteed leeks, assorted mushrooms, smoked mozzarella, and roasted poblano peppers. Fresh, light, and different. There are no strictures for what can and can not go on pizza. Use whatever the hell you want.

So please, get cracking on the pizza-making. You won't be disappointed because disappointment in pizza-making is a METAPHYSICAL IMPOSSIBILITY.

Happy Cinco De MaAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH IT BURNS!

Rick Bayless is a lunatic.

The Oklahoma native may be one of America's finest Mexican chefs, but he also hates you. And me. I can't think of another explanation for why he'd ink up a recipe for salsa de chile de árbol that contains not one, nor two, nor five, nor ten, but SIXTEEN of the angry hot little bastards.

The salsa has a remarkable flavor, with charred tomatillos and roasted garlic providing a smokey-tart savoriness. And then there's the heat. Chile de árbol is on the same spiciness plane as cayenne. It's hot. I halved the amount Bayless prescribed and the salsa could still strip paint. That's not a bad thing, you just have to be careful.

Or, alternatively, you could prepare this salsa for whatever Cinco de Mayo festivities you have going on today and watch with mirthful spite while your friends and loved ones writhe in agony as they are tortured by the heat but unable to resist its excellent flavor. I mean, that's what I'd do.

Huh... perhaps Bayless isn't so crazy after all.

Recipe after the jump.

Carnitas Con Pipián

I've had Mexico on my mind lately. Mrs. Culinarian and I are headed to Puebla in a few weeks (angry volcano-permitting), and Cinco de Mayo is beating down the door. More than anything else, though, I've been thinking about pumpkins.

The Spanish word for pumpkin is a good'un. Calabaza. Even better than the name, though, is the traditional Mexican sauce you can make with the seeds.

Pipián... oh pipián. It's made an appearance on the blog before, and will likely do so again. It's a versatile sauce, thus far pairing amicably with fish and pork. The method is simple: toast pumpkin seeds; throw them in a blender with onions, jalapeños, and cilantro; add chicken stock until you get the right consistency.

Carnitas have also had some facetime on DC Culinarian, and likewise couldn't be easier to prepare: chunk some pork shoulder; brown the meat in a dutch oven; toss in garlic and orange zest; add water and orange juice almost to cover; cook slowly for several hours.

When you combine the slow-cooked pork with the toasted pumpkin-seed sauce, what you have is authentic Mexican fare that is easy to prepare, cost-effective (pork shoulder is a cheap cut, pumpkin seeds sell for almost nothing), and insanely good. The carnitas fall apart on your fork and have a caramelized, citrusy flavor that complements the spicy, nutty, cilantro twang of the pipián.

There is, of course, no "proper" way to prepare carnitas -- you just make them al gusto. But if you're looking for good starting points, the Marilyn Tausend recipe I linked to above and this recipe from David Lebovitz will serve you well.

The Benefit Of Too Much Bread

When I make bread, I make a lot. Sunday's bread day, and I'll bake a week's worth so that the Mrs. and I have enough for toast in the mornings and sandwiches to take to work. Sometimes, though, you don't make it through every loaf. When such things happen, you're left with but one recourse.

Bread pudding.

It's true, there are other uses for stale bread. Croutons, for example. And bread crumbs. But if you're going to stand there and argue TO MY FACE that either of those are superior to pudding made from bread, you need to reassess your values system. And should you successfully recalibrate your whacked out food compass, I'll still judge you harshly for how wrong you once were.

This recipe, stolen with gusto from The Gourmet Cookbook and tweaked to fit an 8x8 baking dish, couldn't be easier. In place of the challah, I used about two loaves of thoroughly stale French bread, and scraped out half a vanilla bean in lieu of extract. 

The end product is a rich, buttery pudding that will have you making bread just so it can go stale.

A $20 Chicken

This past weekend I bought a three-and-a-half-pound chicken. For it, I paid twenty dollars, American.

That's a lot to pay for a chicken. Most whole birds of comparable size that you'll find in the supermarket go for less than half that. So why did I pay so much for a chicken? Because I have lost my damn mind.

The chemicals. Good lord the chemicals. With factory farms pumping their birds full of anti-anxiety drugs and antibiotics and arsenic, you start to question what you're actually ingesting when you pick up a roaster at Safeway. You get to thinking about how many times a day you eat chicken in some form (a lot more than you suspect), it gnaws on your conscience, and you reach a breaking point.

And I roast chickens a lot. I enjoy it. I subscribe to Julia Child's maxim: "The best way to execute French cooking is to get good and loaded and whack the hell out of a chicken." So I decided that if I'm going to blog about roasting a chicken, I'm going to roast one hell of a chicken.

All this to say that I went to Smucker Farms on 14th St., plucked a pasture-raised chicken from their freezer, saw the $20 price tag, laughed it off, bought it, brined it, and roasted it.

Was it too much to pay? Almost certainly. Could I have found a similar, more affordably priced chicken somewhere else if I'd bothered to do any research? Undoubtedly. But I don't care. It was fantastic.

I've been trying to nail down the adjective to describe the taste of a pasture-raised chicken, and I've settled on "full," at least when compared to the feed-lot alternative. The pasture-raised bird is gamy and robust, bearing only a passing similarity to the chicken flavor we've grown accustomed to, which is hollow and dependent on seasoning.

And what of brining? I'm a huge fan, in spite of the generally true fact that a brined bird's skin won't come out as crispy. Personally, I think imparting flavor and moisture to the meat outweigh that drawback. Mrs. Culinarian, on the other hand, is something of a crispy-skin fanatic and shakes her head every time I get out the salt.

Recipe and technique after the jump.