Julia Child's fish soup

Julia Child's famous magnum opus, MTAOFC ("Mastering the Art of French Cooking") is reknowned for reducing many complex recipes to practice.  Her (or should I say "their") recipe for fish soup is worth knowing.

At first glance, the recipe appears daunting.  But it's not, you just need to proceed step by step.  And remarkably, measurements are not very important.  Let me restate the recipe as I see it.

First shopping: You need a leek or two (because it tastes better) and three different fish.  I buy a half pound of each variety.  I like to buy Tilapia because (a) it's cheap and (b) it's very firm.  Then I'll buy scallops (bay are cheaper of course but I'll buy sea scallops and cut them into thin rounds).  Finally, I choose a fish that is firm: Cod will do.  Flounder?  Absolutely not.  And you'll need a red potato, a red pepper, some very small pasta (orzo is nice) and a baguette.

Next, the broth: Cut the leeks lengthwise in quarters (removing the green parts of course) and then cut into small quarter rounds.  The onion should be diced.  Start by slowly sauteing onions and leeks in olive oil (the recipe calls for 1/2 cup).  You want them transparent but not brown.  Next, add two cloves of garlic (smashed and then sliced).  Then spices: I use thyme (fresh basil if you have it), maybe a few pistils of saffron, 2 bay leaves, and then two cups of diced tomatoes.  If you have it, you can add an orange peel.  If you don't, don't worry!  Add 10 cups of water (yes, 10 cups!).  Bring to a very soft boil.  Now peel and cut the potato into large pieces, say, 8 and put into the stock.  Finally, add a few sprigs of parsley.

Onward.  Cut the baguette into thin (1/4 inch?) slices and put on a sheet pan.  Put them in a 400 degree F oven for maybe 20 minutes.  You want them dry but not really toasted --- just don't burn them.  n.b. You can do this in advance.

Meanwhile, you can put a quarter to a half of the red pepper in boiling water.  Also add two dried red peppers (if you like your rouille spicy, I do).  I remove the stem end and de-seed them before adding to the water. Cook for a few minutes until soft.  Drain and put into a blender jar.  Add 2-4 cloves of garlic to the blender jar.  Have fresh basil?  Add some too.  Also add a few sprigs of parsley.

Is the potato done?  A knife should pierce it easily.  If so, then fish out all the pieces and put into the blender jar.  Next, add "sufficient" olive oil (the recipe calls for 4-6 tablespoons).  I don't measure, but I try to make sure it'll grind.  If it doesn't, I add more.  The last step is to finish with stock (just a few tablespoons says the recipe), it should really make the rouille pourable but not too liquidy.  Transfer the rouille to a serving bowl.

Almost done!  The fish should be cut up into small portions, maybe 3/8 inch?  Add about 1/2 cup of the pasta to the broth and then you add the Tilapia and scallops.  Cod is last.  Cook until the fish and pasta are done, about 10 minutes.

Now you're ready to serve.  The "toasties" are ready to be placed in the bowl.  Slather them with rouille.  And then spoon the soup from the pot into the bowl.  Serve with a crisp white, I happen to have fond memories of Picpoul de Pinet, but a California Sauvignon Blanc is just fine.

Babette's Feast: Creation, Serving and Eating

Of all the movies I have seen (and I have seen quite a number), Babette's Feast resonates most strongly with my internal experience.

While the theme of sacrifice doesn't match my own, the other themes of intense preparation and cooking, as well as sharing your efforts with diners hits a deep chord in me.

Since I first learned to eat, my mother tells me I have been an exceptional eater.  I have no doubt this is true.  For me, the satisfaction from eating can be found along a spectrum: from the truly mundane (as in, "I'm so hungry I must eat (almost anything)") to the transcendent and the intense focus a truly wonderful dish can bring.

Let me address the three themes in the title.

Creation: By this I mean the construction of a particular set of dishes. A meal should be an ensemble of tastes.  And these tastes can only be assembled by considering how the flavors will blend together.  Most meals I serve has this in mind.  What ingredients are fresh right now? Is the meal balanced?  Are all the food groups supplied?  Does the main have a complement?  If not, what can I add that will complement the main?  Additionally, what wine(s) can complement the food?  When a character of the wine matches the dish, it can augment and push the dish into a different realm.

Serving: Cooking is sharing.  I image that anyone who enjoys cooking also enjoys the act of sharing their efforts.  Serving is simply "Here is this meal, which I created for your enjoyment.  Please enjoy!"  And, of course, I  also created it for my own personal enjoyment, but that doesn't give me the same satisfaction.

Eating: As mentioned before, eating can provoke a number of different sensations.  But for me, when eating with friends, I often find my enjoyment multiplied.  In Babette's Feast, it's the combination of  extraordinary food, exceptional wines and deep conversation that creates a truly transcendental experience.  Yes, such meals are few and far between in one's life.  But when they happen, you know it.  You arise the next morning and feel elevated and residually happy.  If all meals were like that no doubt we would feel jaded.  But they are not.  And so, let us celebrate these meals when they happen.

How I learned how to cook

I've been musing lately about how I learned to cook.  I've never taken any classes or watched Julia Child say "Bon Appetit!" (much).  So, how did I accumulate my technique (such as it is) and knowledge?

Every cook has an appetite.  Seems like an obvious statement, but as I have discovered, not everyone likes to eat.  And most don't like to eat as fervently as I do.  If you ask my mother, she'll tell you that I've liked to eat since I was born.  So, to cook joyfully, you must like to eat.  Second, it helps to be obsessed with food --  I like to say that I live a "food centered life".  I used to think this was unusual, but then I lived in France.  The whole culture encourages discussion and consumption of food.  Third, you have to like to use your hands.  For me, cooking is engineering on a fast scale.  Typing into a computer doesn't satisfy my construction urges, but cooking does.

I believe I began thinking about cooking by watching my mother.  My mother still cooks occasionally (at age 87) and she's a skilled practitioner.  I believe that a critical aspect of her cooking was her experience living in Italy after the second World War.  She came back with the idea that squid was something she could do at home.  And she did.  My mother also likes asian cooking (particularly Japanese) and so if she brought home a cold octopus tentacle from the  Japanese Market on Castro Street in Mountain View, we had that for dinner.

But, like many,  I would say my real education began when I left for college.  Initially of course I was subjected to cafeteria food.  I can't remember anything about it.  But it was expensive and since I was paying for college, I thought I could do better.  In my sophomore year, the college administration didn't think this one through and permitted students to drop the meal plan.  As a result, I started cooking on the one common stove found in the lounge.  But, so did every one else.  Which meant I was competing with all the guys (I lived in a single sex dorm) baking TV dinners.   But it was the next year when I really learned how to cook.

In my junior year, I shared an on-campus apartment with four other guys (Mike Schway was my roommate).  I was the only one who had a clue about cooking.  As a result, I became the apartment cook.  I learned how to meal plan, how to do the shopping and finally, how to cook as I worked my way through the Joy of Cooking.  It was an education.  I also was investigating simple chinese cooking, after all, Chinese food was (is?) the computer science dinner of choice.

And in my senior year, I moved off campus to share a beach house with Bill Seiter and Don Eigler (in Del Mar, what a place!).  I did a lot of cooking there too, including pancakes.  One meal I remember vividly: I found a recipe for shrimp and invited a friend and her friends over for dinner.  I rode my bicycle (I didn't own a car) up to Solana Beach and bought the shrimp and brought them back home.  The recipe said "devein". I had no idea what that meant.  But Bill Seiter did (fortunately).  So, dinner was later than I had planned because we had to figure out how to "devein" (a better word would be "de-intestine") the shrimp.  But, as I recall, dinner was a success.

But it was my summer in Paris that really changed my view of food and cooking.  Living in France, I discovered that here was an entire culture that valued the quality of ingredients and sophisticated cooking.  I also discovered a world of technique that I didn't know  including sauce construction, charcuterie, and butchery.  I came back from France with a different view of cooking and what was possible.   However,  the US was incredibly backward compared to France.  One must recall that it was around this point that Alice Waters (of Chez Panisse) was pushing the importance of fresh, high quality ingredients.

The next phase of learning was grad school, particularly Rochester.  The CS Dept. was inhabited by a fair number of guys (and yes, it was almost entirely guys) who liked to cook.  At this point, I could cook reasonably well and was beginning to branch out.   We discovered Marcella Hazan and began making fresh pasta with our new Atlas pasta machines.  The first time we made Marcella's  Lasagne with artichokes revealed how fresh pasta can make such a difference in texture and flavor.

One summer when I was working on my dissertation, I decided I was bored by western cooking.  Accordingly, I chose to cook my way through Madhur Jaffrey's Indian Cooking.  I had a very good time and learned that what we eat in Indian restaurants is only a pale shadow of what is possible.  Indian cooking is incredibly aromatic and depends on fresh crushed spices.  My clothes began to smell like Indian spices.  They are powerful!  At the end of the summer, I had recovered from my boredom and went back to western cooking.

At Bell Labs, I fell in with Steve Fortune and Howard Trickey.  We discovered we all liked to cook and eat.  So, we started to do joint meals on the weekends.  This really started to push me since we all liked to do interesting substantial dishes.  In a total reversal of the usual situation, our girlfriends (eventually wives) would be on the side, drinking wine while the males would be slaving over the hot stove.  I learned a considerable amount through these meals since I would have to learn new techniques to make the dishes that appealed to me.  Also, courtesy of my back surgery gift, I was starting to use Julia Child's Mastering the Art to improve my cooking techniques and to fill in the gaps in my knowledge.  Simple things, like disjointing chickens or making a bechamel sauce became part of my standard repertoire

Unfortunately, we had to leave our cooking group behind when we left NJ (The disintegration of Bell Labs has produced a vast diaspora of former NJ residents).  So, in the last ten years I've been cooking the same dishes, more or less.  But every once in a while, I decide to extend what I do.  As an example, the cookbook from Alinea provides all the challenge I can handle (and more).  But most of the time I'm really a short order cook: how can I get dinner on the table in 45 minutes or less.  And I'm really OK with that (most of the time).

Lately I've been working on my baking but that is an entirely different skillset.  And that is the subject of another blog entry.

Pancakes

Although overused, Proust's madelines demonstrate an important neurological fact: memories associated with smells are very powerful and long lasting.  For example, the very distinct odor of petouli oil is enough for me to be transported back to the latter 1960s and early 1970s.  But, I digress.

Today's Proustian memory is the smell of pancakes.  I grew up on pancakes (on the weekends only).  My mother cooked them using the time honored recipe from the Joy of Cooking (her standby).  Once, before college, my mother sent me to Macy*s with her credit card and told me to get something "useful" for college.  I came back with the Joy of Cooking.  She wasn't pleased, she wanted me to buy clothes.

I've been cooking pancakes since college.  Surely the hardest aspect is flipping the little devils.  The edges must be firm but not too firm (otherwise they're burnt).   And the inside must have bubbles.  The recipe from JoC is nothing but simplicity itself: flour, egg(s), baking powder, salt, milk and oil.  I used to sift the flour but I really think it doesn't make a noticeable difference to ignore that instruction.  If I'm feeling awake, I might separate two eggs and whip the whites: that creates a truly fluffy pancake.  And if I really want to duplicate my childhood (not very likely!), I should serve bacon or sausages with my pancakes --- my father worshiped breakfast sausage.

And that leads me to this morning: because I made buttermilk bacon cornbread to accompany the cashew chili, I had leftover buttermilk.  This was an intended consequence, because I planned on baking with it (yes, pancakes are baked in the pan).  Buttermilk pancakes are old style: the only rising agent is baking powder and egg whites.  I also used half whole wheat and half white: I like that combination because the whole wheat gives it a little more "punch" and flavor but without that heaviness I find in 100% whole wheat breads.

The recipe I used comes from James Beard's  American Cooking.  He wrote "Practically no one makes pancakes from scratch these days.  With the mixes, refrigerated batters and frozen pancakes available on the market, there seems little need.  However, I feel that homemade cakes are better and worth the trouble".  Just better?  Maybe completely different?

When we have guests staying the night, I often make pancakes in the morning.  One guest, an Italian, had previously told me how his sister's American boyfriend had insisted that Krusteaz pancakes were delicious and he didn't think so at all.  I told him I'd make him some fresh pancakes in the morning.  He came away converted.  And then, there's my in-laws: Lenny Bruce has a wonderful monologue about Jewish vs Goyish.  Pancakes are definitely goyish.  But my in-laws really appreciate them.  Sure, they're not a bagel, but they are hot and smell of memories.

An ode to quenelles

A quenelle is a fish mousse.  Poached in a court bouillon, it is napped with a sauce of your choosing.  I was introduced to quenelles when I worked in Paris.  I can no longer remember the place, but it was an amazing dish to taste: the quenelles were light and fluffy and the sauce was Sauce Nantua, a very classic french sauce built from a bechamel with the stunning addition of crayfish butter.

Now, this blog entry was inspired by finding perch at my not-so-local supermarket.  Perch is a fresh water fish (sometimes combined with pike).  I was wondering what to do with it (I bought it "on spec").  Then, on my way to teach my class I suddenly remembered quenelles.

If you look at the recipe in Julia or even the more classic Escoffier, you'll see they both make a panada by combining flour with melted butter and then adding the ground fish.  But I have tried this and found that this is more like a dumpling than a mousse.  Other recipes (like Pepin's) go straight to the fleshy part: combine the fish with an egg white and cream.  Blend in the food processor.  This is what I elected to do.

One of the hints in making quenelles is to have cold ingredients.  The friction of the food processor blade will heat up the mixture, so keep everything cold until the last minute.  You can even refrigerate the the processor bowl and blade.  I used a pound of fish, one egg white and cream.  How much cream?  Well, in theory more than a cup.  But I quickly ran out of cream (not something I typically have at home) but fortunately I have creme fraiche.  This makes a great substitute.  I added this until I felt the texture was right.  I think it's better to have less than more.  One can also add pepper (I recommend white pepper, not black).

I should add a note on the fish: I used my salmon slicer (a very thin knife used for slicing lox) to remove the skins from the flesh.  Basically, I slice vertically and then angle the knife along the skin.  It works perfectly.

Now, while I was preparing the mixture I started the boullion.  I elected to go simple and used just celery and very large bay leaf.  When you're ready, take the bowl of fish mix and using two tablespoons, scoop and smooth the top of the mixture.  Then push this out of the spoon and into the waiting bubbling (but not boiling) broth.  When you're all done, you should have a pot full of tasty pillows!

While they are cooking a little, make the sauce.  Again, I elected for a simple sauce (I don't happen to have crayfish butter hanging around).  My first thought was a mushroom sauce.  But then I remembered I had shucked oysters.  So, that lends itself to a sauce veloute' ... You start with a roux (1:1 ratio of butter and flour) and then I added white wine (a NZ Sauvignon Blanc).  I proceeded to add more and more liquid from the poaching broth.  When it smoothed out, I finished it with the oysters (n.b. if I had added mushrooms, I would have sauteed them first and then added them to the sauce veloute' in place of the oysters).
Then to serve, I removed the quenelles from the boullion and napped them with the sauce.  I elected to serve them with simple white rice.  And yes!  They were light and fluffy!  The sauce could have used a bit more to it I thought.  But it was still a nice light addition to this very cream based classic french dish.

Perhaps one of the big surprises was how little time this took.  You can schedule it by making the broth first, then making the quenelles, then the sauce.  The rice can cook before the quenelles if you wish.  There's really no reason why you can't do this as a standard weekday dish.  And when I taste a quenelle, I think of Paris.  Maybe you will too?

Cassoulet and me

Mark Bittman's recent post on Cassoulet hits a highly resonant note with me. As many people know, I prepare Cassoulet once a year (I dub it "Cassoulet-fest"). This celebration of meat and beans can only reasonably be prepared in winter. I consider it one of the high points of rustic French cooking because not only does it have that rustic "stick to your ribs" quality, but it also demonstrates how various cooking techniques (confit, braised meats, sausage making, etc.) combine to form a harmonious whole.

I use the recipe from Julia Child's masterpiece "Mastering the Art". My copy was given to me by my friends and colleagues at Bell Labs when I was recuperating from back surgery. I used to read it in bed as I waited to heal. The recipe itself is somewhat long and involved, but not complicated. Julia, in her humorous style used the phrase with the subtitle "Order of Battle" --- but that overstates the case and I suspect frightens many off this very hearty and savory dish.

Let's start with confit. I used to buy this from D'Artagnan at about $10 a "pop" (thigh and drumstick). The conventional recipe uses a kind of Catch-22. You're supposed to confit the duck in a pot of duck fat. But you're supposed to use the leftover duck fat from your last confit! The new style recipe is to use Olive Oil to partial cover the meat and then slow roast (and I mean slow, as in 200-225 F). So, not only do you control the cooking, you save money. Big time money.

Next: the beans. Of course, one can buy the French white beans. When we lived in NJ, I bought the beans and also saucisson d'ail from the famed Balducci's at 6th Ave. and 9th. (Conveniently right around the corner from the PATH station). But today I just buy a two pound bag of Great Northern Beans (a wonderful bean) and deal with the sausage question myself.

And, speaking of sausages: You can, of course, use any one you find. I don't personally feel the need to use sausages. Julia has a delightful subrecipe for garlicky pork patties on the cassoulet page. I've made these numerous times. But if I'm feeling lazy, I just don't bother, particularly if I'm making the roast pork loin.

What makes Julia's recipe so nice (in my opinion) is the use of lamb. She slowly braises the lamb in a tomato white wine sauce. The result, when combined with the beans, is nothing short of delightful. The real fun of course is the "assemblage": the layering of beans and meats until both are gone. Then, top it off with the juices, cover with the breadcrumbs and away you go.

I've occasionally produced that wonderful crust, but I'm content just to pull my Paderno pot out of the oven to see the parsleyed browned breadcrumbs on top. Then pull the cork on a bottle of red from Southern France (Rhone, Languedoc...) and inhale the fragrant vapors. Who can resist?

Redoing Paul Prudhomme

n.b. I've been meaning to write this down for a long time. Now is as good as ever.

Paul Prudhomme can reasonably be considered the primary spark in the Cajun renaissance. By this I mean that before Prudhomme, cajun cooking wasn't really in the american cooking consciousness. Emeril can easily be considered a TV powered follow-on.

The problem with Paul Prudhomme is that he uses outrageous quantities of fat. With today's cooking, that is not a reasonable approach. However, I believe that his recipes can be easily recast in a (slightly) lighter fare.

His first cookbook is "Chef Paul Prudhomme's Lousiana Cookbook". Let's examine his veal, oyster and artichoke over pasta. His method here is almost the same as his recipe for veal and oysters in crepes (an awesome recipe BTW): first, a seasoned flour is prepared. The veal is coated and ... "Melt one stick of butter". Say What???. One whole stick of butter? Who is he kidding? He fries the veal and then he adds another half stick of butter (no, I am not making this up) while he adds the artichokes. Then another half stick of butter. Finally, it's time to add the oysters and 3/4 of a cup of heavy cream, just in case you haven't had enough. It's rediculous.

First, let's change his method of dealing with the artichokes. I consider boiling 'chokes a crime. So, I vote for the Italian method here. Remove the outer leaves and steam them separately (and eat them as a side). Take the inner choke and slice it. Then saute it in a little olive oil and butter. Add water and cook gently until tender.

Let's change the first stick of butter to just enough oil (Canola is a good cheap choice) to fry all the veal pieces. You'll know how much by the volume of the veal. When brown remove the veal from the pan and put in the oyster water. Or white wine. This will generate a nice sauce. Add a few tablespoons of creme fraiche and stir. Then put in the oysters and cook. Lastly add the artichokes and the veal.

He serves over pasta but my critics think it would have been better over rice. I use oil instead of butter, trying to avoid saturated fats. A Tb here and there of butter improves the flavor. But two sticks of butter? That's crazy talk!

Mise en Place and Garde Manger

This post is stimulated by two items: First, I am reading a commercial book entitled "Modern Garde Manger" by Garlough and Campbell. Written for the aspiring chef, it's full of little historical tidbits such as the origin of the brigade system (dating back to Escouffier). The authors try to instill pride in the student... So different from a university textbook (an interesting topic perhaps for another day). The second inspiration is from a recent Times article concerning a recent cookbook by Sara Mouton. This chef has discovered that home cooks don't do mise en place - shock and amazement. So, now onto my take on this: when is mise en place appropriate?

Let me start with a bit of personal history: I really learned to cook during my junior year in college. I was living in an on campus apartment with four other guys. And, I was the only one who had a clue about how to shop and how to cook. My mother had sent me to Macy*s with the assignment to buy something for the school year. She had hoped I would buy some shirts or something. Instead I came back with "The Joy of Cooking". Far more useful, really. So, I spent most of that junior year shopping and cooking. And one of the most important lessons I learned was how to time the various dishes so they would come out at the same time. This is a critical skill in any cook. For complex meals, I actually work out a diagram that shows dependencies complete with timings. This is so I don't have to worry about losing track of what to do next and as a warning not to get involved with something that's not on the time critical path.

So, back to mise en place. There is no reason to do this for most meals. Frankly, half the fun of cooking is working several stations at once and then having it all come together at the end. I enjoy the multi-tasking that requires. However, for a complex meal at home (say, the French Laundry), then mise en place is essential. I find this particularly appropriate when you need to finish a dish while guests are at the table. There is no time to lose --- everything must be ready. Earlier in my cooking career I was often miss half the meal since I'd be at the stove. Now, I've figured it out. Mise en place must be totally complete --- don't wait until the last minute to chop those herbs, do it before you're out of time. Make half the dessert and then finish it as you need it (this is particularly effective with the molten chocolate cakes). The only downside is that the cleanup at the end is more because all of those little dishes are hanging around at the end.

As for Garde Manger, I am pleased to note that I already knew most of it. The recipe for haggis was new, but for the most part, I was competent although my skill in turning potatoes into rondelles is unknown. I've always fought against such fussiness. But when it comes to dice, I'm there.

On chickens and stock

Some number of uncountable years ago, I was fed up with the commercial butchery of chickens. I decided to learn how to "process" them. What follows are some of my thoughts on this (messy) process. After washing the bird inside and out, I set out to (1) remove legs and wings (2) cut off the breasts and then create a stock. Oh, and fry up the liver for the liver consumer in the household.

Start breast side up. In step (1), I first remove the legs (and thighs). This is done by pulling gently on the leg with one hand whilst slicing gently through the skin. Next, viciously dislocate the joint by pulling the wrong way. You'll know it. Then slice around the joint. There, you have a thigh and drumstick. From there you separate the two by slicing through the joint. You can find it by feeling it. Even if you miss it's still easy to separate (it's not bone). Repeat for the other side.

In step (2), you dislocate the joint again and cut around with the knife. I cut off the wing tips to put in the stock pot. My mother objects because this is one of her favorite parts. So it goes. Repeat on the other side.

The last step is to cut along the breast bone, keeping the knife close to the bone but not into the bone. It's more of a clean slicing action. You'll also need to cut around the wish bone to release the breast. The supreme (where's my accent?) can be removed if you want. Repeat on the other side. The knife work is done.

At this point, you have a carcass. I throw it in a tall pot with whatever I can find, but celery is a must add. Onions also. I add cold water and turn on the heat and try not to let it boil. And I do skim the scum off the top when I can remember. I push it to the back burner and let it do its thing for hours (until I go to bed). If I was truly obsessive, then I suppose I could use egg whites to create a raft and really get a clear stock. I'm not that fussy.

I freeze the stock unless I have immediate plans for it. Like risotto. But that is the subject of another post.

White Sauce Pizza

I know, it's an abomination, but I've been working on "white sauce pizza". As I see it currently (subject to change), there are 3 (count 'em) methods of pizza construction: (1) red sauce (2) white sauce (3) no sauce. The typical american pizza is of course #1. Escarole and caper is an example of #3. So, what about #2? Well, it all starts with salsa besciamella (a.k.a. bechamel). So, it follows the following "rule": 2:2:1 --- 2 T butter, 2 T flour and 1 cup of milk. A whisk is a good accessory here. It's also important to keep the heat low so that the butter doesn't brown and the flour doesn't toast (this isn't a cajun roux after all). I add parmesan and romano cheese to the finished product. The last step is to add the vegie (last experiment involved swiss chard and carmelized onions). It was tasty but I thought it had a few faults: (a) the sauce should be thick --- if it's too loose, it will be too wet and so will the pizza. Which leads me to (b) Perhaps a light coating of olive oil would prevent the dough from getting excessively soggy. Other toppings I've done with a white sauce include baby artichokes with pancetta (a power combination if there ever was one).

Pizza

I've been thinking about pizza lately. I believe that a lot of cook shy away from it because they believe that it's complicated. Nothing could be more untrue. I will say, however, that having the right equipment makes it easier. This means (a) a pizza stone and (b) a pizza peel (that's the paddle). The reason for the stone is to get the nice crust on the bottom --- the reason for the peel is to extract the floppy pizza from the oven (and turn it if you are so adventurous).

Let's now discuss the dough itself. It's not complex, even for someone who is not a baker. I use Nick Maglieri's recipe from How to Bake. I have it memorized: 3 cups flour + 1 tsp salt. Then 5/4 moderate temperature water (this is the secret: it should be like baby milk) and 1 pack yeast. I like to goose it up by adding a tiny bit of honey to the warm water. The yeast eats it up and starts to "bloom". Oh, and some olive oil. I mix wet with dry, use the paddle until it looks right (meaning not too wet [sticky] and not too dry [can't stick together]). Then I switch to the dough hook and let it go until it's smooth. Then it's onto the marble for a quick knead and then back in the bowl to rise.

Meanwhile, I make the sauce. Sometimes tomato and sometimes not. Escarole and capers (and olives) is a favorite. The secret here is to saute (anyone have an accent to spare?) the escarole with garlic first ... and put in a colander. Then you can add the rest later if you want. In my experience, I can literally do the whole thing in an hour. The new super fast yeast will do its thing while you make the sauce.

Now, I have to admit, this does not result in a true Neopolitan crust that I remember from my time teaching at the Universita di Napoli... That crust is super thin and cooked in a special conical oven. But in spite of this, it's a worthy consumable.

Finally, a note on flour. I have tried both the Italian 000 pizza flour and the American pizza flour (again obtained from PennMac). Both are good. It is rumored that the American flour has more malt in it. I'd like to experiment with that sometime in the future.

Rewriting Paul Prudhomme

I've been meaning to post about Paul Prudhomme for forever. Tonight I made seafood gumbo again (it's one of my favorites) and I'm reminded how I "rewrite" his recipes. First, let me say it's a lot of fun to cook out of his books. The spicing is interesting and the taste is delicious. But, let's face it, this stuff can be unhealthy! For example, in said gumbo recipe, he calls for 3/4 of a cup of oil for the roux. I cut that to 1/4 (along with the accompanying flour). Sure, that means less stock but who cares?!? Then, he calls for the roux to be added to the boiling stock! Say what? This reminds me of chem lab: it's acid into water and not vice versa --- likewise, it's liquid into roux, not vice versa. Otherwise, you can't control the thickness and you might get lumps! So, what's with that anyway? Of course, I add the stock to the roux and keep going. Also, a missing note from this particular recipe: I use the shrimp shells (I only buy wild gulf shrimp these days) to make a very simple stock. One of his pasta recipes literally calls for a stick of butter. That's just horrific. Might be tasty but I just don't cook like that. A final note: I use andouille sausage from my local sausage provider: Parma Sausage. Sure wish they made tasso!

My cooking philosophy

My DSP buddy, Jean Laroche, told me I should have a cooking blog. Since I already started a blog, I thought I would just enlarge this one --- besides, who wants to hear me whine and complain about linux administration all the time?

So, since I lead a food centered life, I thought I would start by writing about my cooking ideas and philosophy. I don't believe in fast food, I believe in slow food. I don't like to buy other people's ideas of how things should taste, so I don't buy prepared food (for the most part). One of my strongest beliefs is in the transformative ability of a great meal. Babette's Feast is my example of what a meal can be. Not every day, but every once in a while.

Most of my cooking is of the Italian/French variety, in part because I am a carbohydrate eater and I like pasta. I have cooked other styles including indian and chinese, but because most of my life I am cooking like a short-order demon, I choose what I can do fast -- with minimum prep work. Most of the time I cook without measuring. And cooking requires all the senses: besides sight, I listen to the timbre of the frying food, I feel the meat to see if it's done and I smell what I am cooking. I taste when I am in doubt, but my sense of smell is often enough.

I am much more of a cook than a baker --- which is a bit strange since I excelled in the chemistry lab in both high school and college. But I am now to the point where I can use yeast very reliably. But to get the crust to have that nice crunch, that requires steam in the oven. I've tried but it just don't compare with what I can get from the nearby bakery. That's a topic for another entry.

There a very important aspect to reading a recipe: imagining what it will look like in the various steps. I can't explain how I know what to expect, but I do. I think this can only be gained by experience. So, when I read a recipe, I have to understand the transformation at every step. Only when I understand the procedure will I start. In complex meals, I will take the time to diagram the "flow" so that I know what I can do in parallel. It's task scheduling and it's NP-complete!

My last comment concerns guests: I look forward to having guests because they are my excuse to experiment and try new and complex recipes. But I don't have many guests for dinner these days, so most of my cooking is of the fast "trattoria style".