Hydrocolloid Experiment 1: Aero Chocolate

I frequently rediscover ideas that have been dormant in the Deep Storage Facility of my long-term memory, triggered by a recent event or conversation. I was thinking about José Andrés’ Harvard lecture on the same day that a birthday present – an iSi canister – arrived, and I remembered that there was something I could make that involved gelatins and foams. I consulted my notes from the Ideas in Food workshop I attended and found a recipe for “aero chocolate,” along with the marginal comment ask them for the recipe. I emailed Alex and Aki, who were kind enough to send me the detailed recipe even though it will appear in their book any day now.

There aren’t a lot of ingredients, but a few of them are a bit specialized: 400 grams of chocolate (Valrhona Manjari 64% is recommended, I used Valrhona Guanaja 70%), 150 grams of heavy cream, 300 grams of water, 50 grams of glucose syrup, 2 grams of salt, 4 drops of blood orange extract (I could only find blood orange essential oil), 2.4 grams of agar agar, and 0.3 grams of locust bean gum. The measurements in grams make it easier to work out the gelatin (9:1) and salt (0.5%) ratios, but they also require a scale accurate to the hundredth of a gram.

I combined the chocolate, cream, glucose and salt:

While I slowly melted that mixture in the microwave, I whisked the agar agar and locust bean gum into the water and simmered for five minutes.

I poured the melted chocolate mixture into a blender along with the orange oil and the agar agar solution, then blended the mixture to combine.

I poured the chocolate into an iSi canister and charged it with two N2O pods.

I dispensed the aerated mixture into four half-pint mason jars.

After securing the lids to the jars, I placed them in the freezer to chill down quickly. As the hot mixture cools, it creates vacuum pressure inside the jar, which keeps the chocolate aerated.

After a chill in the freezer and then a stay in the fridge, I removed the chocolate from one of the jars, or at least tried to. You might notice the diamond texture on the outside of the jars I used. What I didn’t realize, and failed to check, was that the texture is present on the inside of the jars as well. This made removal of the chocolate in one smooth cylinder an impossibility, but I was able to get most of it out on a solid piece.

To plate (photo at top), I sliced the chocolate into rounds and added a scoop of white plum ice cream drizzled with some mandarin orange syrup. I can’t describe the taste and texture any better than Alex did:

The texture of the aerated chocolate is light and delicate with the first texture of mousse melting into the mouth-feel of pudding.

The blood orange was barely detectable, but I attribute that to using oil instead of a pure extract. Because the “mousse” is gelatin-stabilized, is retains its shape as it warms up, a plus if you choose to pair it with something hot.

What’s that other component on the plate? It’s “instant chocolate cake,” another experiment with foams, and the subject of the next post.

Sources

Chocolate: Whole Foods
Cream: Sherman Market
Glucose syrup: L’Epicerie
Agar agar, locust bean gum: Chef Rubber
Blood orange essential oil: Faerie’s Finest

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Chef Chang’s House

No, the beloved Boston Chinese restaurant hasn’t re-opened.

I just couldn’t resist using the phrase to describe the last of the Science and Coking public lectures at Harvard. This was student final projects week, and since David Chang had been invited to be a judge, he was also asked to deliver the final lecture. His talk, titled Creative Ceilings: How We Use Errors, Failure and Physical Limitations as Catalysts for Culinary Innovation, was the only one of the lectures I attended where the chef actually cooked. In fact, the lecture hall was suffused with the smell of the dashi he had bubbling away on the counter.

Chang began by compressing the very compelling story that forms the structure of his Momofuku cookbook into a series of self-deprecating explanations of his working methods.

Comparing himself to the other chefs who had lectured: “We’re average, so we work harder.”

About his approach to creating new dishes: “We’re good at making mistakes.”

Where his ideas come from: “We’re constantly fighting the building,” referring to the cramped kitchen spaces in all of his restaurants. The space constraints forced him to re-evaluate how he prepared his famous ramen soup base. I’ve made it myself; it takes an entire day and uses quite a bit of meat as well as dried shiitake mushrooms. Chang looked at one of his storage units full of bags of dried mushrooms and asked if there was a way around that storage method. He and his chefs come up with the idea of pulverizing the mushrooms and storing the powder in vacuum bags, which take up less space.

According to the recipe, the mushrooms are added to dashi, simmered, and then strained out before the meat is added. The mushroom “sludge” that is left behind can be spread into thin sheets and baked into “mushroom chips.” Chang’s research chef Daniel Burns (former pastry chef at Noma!) prepared some samples for us to try:

“Research chef” implies “food lab,” and yes, Momofuku now has a food lab. The tasty, crunchy mushroom chip – not yet incorporated into a menu item – was “the best idea we had this year.” Chang turned his attention to the other ramen components, arriving at the idea of using powdered freeze-dried beef, pork, and chicken to infuse the dashi to make the final soup base, a process that takes only forty five minutes. For now, the process is still experimental until Change can get a full freeze-drying rig set up in one of his facilities; his test meat came from camping supply web sites.

Chang was told that he had just invented instant ramen. His reply: “Yes we did, but on our terms,” which elegantly sums up his entire approach.

Continuing on with the ramen soup (Did he build an entire lecture around a pot of soup? Yes, yes he did.), Chang began looking for an alternative to katsuobushi, the dried, fermented, smoked bonito shavings that are the other essential component of dashi. Good katsuobushi is expensive and the commercially available stuff is decidedly inferior. He realized that the primary flavoring components came from the fermentation and smoking; it might be possible to recreate the taste with a different protein.

The Momofuku kitchens pile up a surplus of pork tenderloins, an unused byproduct of all of the pork they break down. (“I like pork tenderloin, but only when it’s well marbled and only when it’s in Spain.”) Chang dried a few tenderloins, then shoved them into a bucket of uncooked rice, where they sat for weeks. They developed quite a constellation of fungi and bacteria, enough to have a sample sent to Harvard for analysis. The microbial growth was proved to be food safe, related to the koji fungus that is used to start sake fermentation.

This “pork bushi” can be smoked and shaved just like katsuobushi. The sample that was passed around looked similar and smelled exactly the same.

By the time the lecture was over, everything I knew about ramen soup was wrong, but I was happy to see that demonstrated.

Chang and Peter Meehan were available after the lecture to sign copies of the cookbook. I exercised extreme self control by not turning into a squealing fanboy when it was my turn, but I did say “This is my favorite cookbook. You convinced me to make and eat kimchi.” They both signed the inside cover:

I noticed that Meehan scribbled something else in the margin of one of the inner pages, but I didn’t think to look at it until I got home. On page 284, next to the recipe for Cereal Milk Custard, Meehan wrote “THIS RECIPE DOESN’T WORK.”

I hadn’t planned on making that dessert soon, but now I have to. It’s a challenge, don’t you think?

(ETA 12/20/10: The complete lecture os now available for viewing.)

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Bent Out of Shape

He Who Will Not Be Ignored came home yesterday with another reading comprehension homework assignment, the usual “read the story and answer questions” exercise that bores him to tears. Sometimes the story is just that – a short piece of fiction – but sometimes it’s a factual article or news report. Regardless of the content, either She Who Must Be Obeyed or I always read the text first, so we can verify He Who’s answers. This particular assignment set off all of our bullshit detectors, right from the title: “Strange Mysteries: The Boy Who Could Bend Spoons.” (I scanned the entire assignment; it’s a single page that you can see here.) It begins:

Uri Geller was different from other little boys.

At the age of three, he surprised his mother by bending her spoons and soup ladles just by looking at them.

It goes on from there, ending with the notorious SRI tests of Geller:

One test had Uri concentrating very hard on a magnetometer, which measures the strength of a magnetic field.

The scientists said “although it was scientifically impossible,” the needle moved each time Uri was asked to concentrate on it.

We were gobsmacked. Of all the topics a child could be asked to read about, how did this collection of outright falsehoods wind up in a textbook? The first thing we did was tell He Who that he was reading a story, and it wasn’t true. He immediately spotted the paradox: “Do I answer True or False to ‘Uri could bend car keys.’?” Since it was a reading exercise, we asked him to answer based on what he had read.

Once the homework was done, we decided to extend the “teachable moment” by explaining how we knew that Geller was a fraud. We told him that our friend James Randi had exposed Geller’s tricks many times in the past, well before Mythbusters was ever on television, and showed him this clip:

http://blog.belm.com/belmblog/video/Randi_Discusses_Geller.mov

Convinced that he understood Geller’s antics, I turned my attention to the assignment and the book in which it was published. You can see from the scan that the page was taken from a book called Strategies That Work!, published by Teacher Created Resources, Inc. A quick look at the web site shows that the company was founded by a teacher and is set up to provide teaching resources; in our case a book of comprehension practice exercises.

From my time as an editor in a textbook division of McGraw-Hill, I know how these “ancillary materials” are created. Someone is paid to collect material from public domain, out-of-print, or permision-free sources, excerpt a few interesting paragraphs, and write a series of questions. Fortunately, the anonymous author of this set of exercises cited the source of the Geller story: Rachael Collinson. A bit of Googling turned up one relevant page, about her book Strange Mysteries. And that’s where the trail turns cold. It seems Ms. Collinson either believes in Geller’s “talent” or is a bit less critical in her evaluation of facts. I’d be curious to see what else qualifies as a “strange mystery”: Bigfoot? Ancient astronauts? The inexplicable popularity of just about everyone on the Entertainment Channel?

We will be having a few words with He Who’s teacher, whom we’re sure just sent home the next assignment without more than a cursory glance at the subject matter. He shouldn’t be expected to screen al of the reading material, but this particular bit of blather is the fertilizer that continues to feed Geller’s weed-like tenacity.

There’s another response to this charlatan, and that’s brutal humor. Check out the reactions to one of Geller’s more recent apearances:

Maybe if we all bombard him with sarcasm he’ll finally go away.

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Fuji Apple Salad

The kimchi that I had made was coming up on three weeks old. Much to my surprise, it still smelled as fresh as when it first went into the fridge, even though it had acquired a slight fizz from CO2 buildup. I wanted to use it in one more dish before disposing of it, and I wanted that dish to be as quick and simple as the bo ssäm had been slow and complicated. Once again, Momofuku came to the rescue with this simple recipe for Fuji Apple Salad (with kimchi, smoked jowl, and maple labne).

I assembled the ingredients, making adjustments to feed only three instead of four: three Fuji apples (scaled down from four), a half cup of pureed napa cabbage kimchi, a half cup of labne (thick middle eastern yogurt), a quarter cup of maple syrup (Vermont dark grade B), a cup of loosely packed arugula, and three quarters of a pound of thick-cut bacon (scaled down from a full pound). The recipe calls for sliced smoked country jowl, but allows bacon to be substituted.

I put the sheet pan with the bacon into a 35o°F oven and let it cook until just crisped, about twenty five minutes. While it cooked, I whisked the labne and maple syrup together until the mixture was smooth.

I peeled the apples, cut them into slices about a quarter of an inch thick, then tossed them in a bowl with the kimchi puree.

By this time the bacon was ready, so I drained it on paper towels.

I tossed the arugula in about two tablespoons of olive oil and some salt and pepper. To assemble the dish, I smeared about two tablespoons of the sweetened labne on a plate and topped it with a stack of the kimchi apples. I cut the bacon slices into thirds and leaned the pieces agains the pile of apples. I placed a small handful of the arugula over the bacon, then dressed the plate with a few grinds of black pepper.

For a dish with so few components, there was a lot going on. The kimchi apples were sweet and spicy and crunchy all at once, the peppery arugula added a bitter note, and the maple labne kept the kimchi heat from becoming overwhelming, as well as providing a classic complement to the bacon (bacon & maple: a classic combination). She Who Must Be Obeyed demanded that I keep the extra labne to use as a topping for sliced apples as a snack.

I want to make this again, but I’ll have to start with a new batch of kimchi and a few more recipes in which to use it. I’m still acquiring a taste for fermented cabbage, so it may be a while before we see this dish again.

Sources:

Fuji apples, labne, arugula: Whole Foods
Bacon: Savenor’s Market
Maple syrup: Merton’s Maple Syrup
Kimchi puree: Belm Utility Research Kitchen

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Guinea Fowl, Red Cabbage, Trotter, and Prune

While some of you were checking out the tandoori turkey recipe for Thanksgiving ideas, I was out shopping for the final ingredients for the family holiday feast. I had already picked up my farm-raised fresh turkey (and participated in an impromptu re-enactent of the turkey scene from New Jack City), but as I made my final rounds I noticed that guinea fowl was available at no less than three separate stores. I took this as a sign that I should cook one, so I snatched a fresh specimen with no clear idea of how I would prepare it.

I had eaten guinea fowl once before in Puerto Rico, where it was offered as a side dish to the best pig ever. It was spit-roasted, but I didn’t want to add that effort to my already overloaded Thanksgiving prep schedule. I wound up consulting Fergus Henderson’s Beyond Nose to Tail for this simple but tasty recipe.

Guinea fowl are native to Africa, and look like this:

The fowl I found at my local butcher’s looked like this:

I chopped off the neck (with head still attached) and feet, then assembled my ingredients: half a red cabbage, thinly sliced; two cups of red wine; about a cup and a half of trotter gear; a quart of chicken stock; fourteen prunes; three peeled garlic cloves; two bay leaves; a bundle of thyme; and a red onion, thinly sliced.

I browned the fowl in duck fat in a small roasting pan, until “appropriately tanned.”

After removing the fowl from the pan I stuffed it with four of the prunes and a few large spoonfuls of trotter gear.  I cooked the onions in the fat until they were softened, then followed them with the cabbage, garlic, bay leaves, thyme, red wine, salt, pepper, and the remaining trotter gear.

I set the fowl upside down in the cabbage, then added enough chicken stock to cover.

I covered the pan tightly with foil and let it cook in a 325°F oven for two and a half hours, until I had a “giving bird.”

After a brief rest out of the pan, I carved up the fowl, which was more like letting it fall apart at the joints. I spooned a healthy portion of the cabbage, onions, and braising liquid into shallow bowls and set the meat on top.

The fowl wasn’t particularly gamey, it tasted more like a very strongly-flavored chicken. The surprise was the sauce, which was quite sweet from both the prunes and the trotter gear, which had been cooked in madeira. Game and fruit are a traditional pairing, of which this dish was a fine example. As Fergus states:

A most comforting sight in the middle of the table, happy bird surrounded by red cabage, wobbly trotter, and prunes.

And, as an added bonus, I would up with a quart of guinea fowl stock to use in another application. I’m still thinking guinea fowl pie.

Sources

Guinea fowl: Savenor’s Market
Cabbage, onions: Whole Foods
Trotter Grear, duck fat: Belm Utility Research KitchenDeep Storage Facility

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Keys to Good Cooking

Anyone who is serious about cooking has a copy of Harold McGee’s On Food and Cooking: The Science and Lore of the Kitchen. It’s the CRC of the kitchen (calling it the bible of the kitchen is insulting to information resources), and, like the CRC, it goes largely unread until a particular problem needs to be solved. I have resolved to read the entire book from cover to cover, but it’s slow going: it’s so information dense that I can only manage a dozen pages in one sitting.

McGee is famous for debunking the myth “sear meat to seal in the juices.” The idea, first popularized in 1850 by Justus von Leibig, was disproved before 1900 and then again in the 1930s. Alton Brown has demonstrated it on Good Eats, and J. Kenji Lopez-Alt of The Food Lab has provided controlled experimental evidence in support of the searing fallacy. Yet, in spite of all evidence to the contrary, the myth persists. Take, for example, this introduction to a recipe by Eric Ripert from his recent cookbook, Avec Eric: A Culinary Journey with Eric Ripert:

This recipe was inspired by my visit to Tuscany and the flavors of the autumn season that were so prevalent while I was there. Searing the pork loin to lock in the juices keeps the meat moist, and the rich pan sauce is made using the drippings from the roasted pork along with the earthy mushrooms. I like to put the garlic cloves in the pan with their skins still on so they sort of roast inside their case; the result is tender roasted garlic.

I don’t think for a minute that Ripert actually believes that nonsense – he didn’t become a Michelin four-start chef by being misinformed in the kitchen – but the person who wrote the color commentary for his recipes is certainly misinformed.

Which brings me to McGee’s new book, Keys to Good Cooking: A Guide to Making the Best of Foods and Recipes. It distills On Food and Cooking into a series of practical techniques and tips that you can use in the kitchen, organized by topic, as seen in the photo above. It’s just as informationally dense as its predecessor, but manages to convert a lot of basic science into culinary guidelines. The introduction alone provided me with key information I used before cooking my Thanksgiving turkey:

Here’s an example of how I hope you’ll use this book. Let’s say Thanksgiving is coming up, you haven’t roasted a turkey since last Thanksgiving, and you’ve seen a recipe for brining the turkey to keep it moist. You might start by looking at the introduction to cooking meat on p. 238:

No matter what you read in recipes or hear pronounced by people who should know, keep these simple truths in mind:

  • Searing meat does not seal in its juices, and moist cooking methods do not make meats moist.
  • Meat overcooks quickly. Low heat slows cooking and gives you the greatest control over doneness.
  • Most recipes can’t predict cooking times.

Then you could read the sumary of brining pros and cons on p. 246:

…Brine selectively. Brines have drawbacks: they dilute the meat’s own flavorful juices with tap water, and usually make the pan juices to salty for deglazing into a sauce.

And then you could look at the basics of roasting birds, which begin this way on p. 258:

…Don’t stuff the body cavity or rely on a pop-up thermometer.

And that was just the introduction. My entire Thanksgiving game plan was laid out for me in a few paragraphs, which I followed to the letter, resulting in a perfect turkey. Notice that McGee managed to slip in the searing reference again, something that I suspect will wind up as his epitaph.

I still plan on finishing On Food and Cooking someday, but I’m temporarily setting it aside  for Keys to Good Cooking. It might still take a few months to work through, but the payoff in terms of my cooking will be much greater.

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Bo Ssäm

I didn’t make kimchi on a whim; it was a key component for one of the featured dishes in Momofuku, and the namesake of the Momofuku Ssäm Bar. I knew that I’d never be able to book a seating at the restaurant, due in part to distance and in part to the impossibility of scoring an online reservation, so I’d have to make a bo ssÃ¥m myself. I had kimchi waiting in the fridge, and a pork shoulder in the Deep Storage Facility; the rest would be easy, but it would take some time.

The day before I planned on serving the dish, I prepared the pork shoulder by rubbing it in a mixture of equal parts of sugar and kosher salt, about half a cup of each. (I heartily recommend quarter-sheet pans as prep trays; they’re the perfect size for large cuts of meat.)

While the pork rested in the fridge for a day, I gathered the ingredients for the ssäm sauce: a tablespoon of ssämjang (fermented bean and chile paste), a half tablespoon of gochujang (chile paste), and a quarter cup each of canola oil and sherry vinegar.

I whisked everything together and let it sit in the fridge for a day.

The next day, seven hours before dinner would be served, I slow-roasted the pork shoulder at 300°F for six hours, basting every hour. When it was done I let it rest at room temperature for an hour.

While the pork rested I prepared the accompaniments: ginger scallion sauce; kimchi; kimchi puree (a cup of kimchi run through a blender); the washed leaves of two heads of Boston lettuce; and seven tablespoons of light brown sugar mixed with a tablespoon of kosher salt.

All that was left were the oysters, about which I had been stressing ever since I decided to make this recipe. Raw oysters are a newly acquired taste for me. I was happy to eat them fried in a po’ boy at the Acme in New Orleans, I happily ate them poached in the “Oysters and Pearls” at Per Se, and slurped down a few at Journeyman just a few weeks ago. I even served them as a gelée for She Who Must Be Obeyed’s most recent birthday dinner, but I had purchased them pre-shucked, because I had never shucked an oyster before.

It wasn’t about the taste, it was all about the fear of not being able to open an oyster, something that should be second nature to any New Englander. After all, I know how to cook and disassemble lobsters and crabs, I can fillet a cod, I can peel shrimp, but shucking oysters eluded me. My only attempt, years ago, resulted in shell shards everywhere and a bleeding thumb. Fortunately, the “Oysters” section in Momofuku provides an excellent description of the technique:

Think about it like popping the lock on a car with a coat hanger: you’re not roto-rooting the interior of the door, you just want to get it in and out and get the door open. … Use the tiniest bit of pressure to jimmy the knife in, and gently rock the knife back and forth  until you feel the ligament pop and the oyster give up on staying closed.

I’l admit to no familiarity with boosting cars, but the description made a certain amount of sense. I decided to try opening one oyster an hour before serving time, just to see how difficult it would be and how long it would take. As added insurance, I bought an OXO oyster knife with a big, fat, grippy handle, and wore a kevlar glove with a rubberized palm.

I got the tip in, the shell popped open,

and I was able to scrape out an oyster and keep it whole in the shell.

To finish the pork, I rubbed it with the brown sugar and salt mixture and returned it to a 500°F oven for fifteen minutes until it developed a crispy crust. While the pork crisped, I shucked the rest of the oysters.

With everything ready, I set the table for family-style dining: whole pork shoulder (with tongs for grabbing chunks off the bone), lettuce, ginger scallion sauce, ssäm sauce, kimchi, kimchi purée, coarse salt, steamed short-grain rice, and oysters.

Everything was wrapped in the lettuce: rice, pork, oyster, sauce, kimchi, salt.

Under the pretense of demonstrating to my guests how a ssäm should be assembled, I pulled off the chunk of pork closest to the bone. It was moist, sweet, and fatty; combined with a briny oyster and spicy kimchi it made a perfect bite. I have rarely cooked something that delivered so much on flavor for so little actual effort in the kitchen.

I’ve cleared a big hurdle in my unofficial cook-through of Momofuku; I’m now about two-thirds through the book. The recipes get a bit more difficult as they become more refined, but the bo ssäm is now something I can “whip up” with short notice, as long as I can find some non-malodourous kimchi.

Sources:

Pork shoulder: Houde Family Farm
Island Creek oysters: New Deal Fish Market
Ssamjang, gochujang, ginger, scallions: Reliable Market

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Napa Cabbage Kimchi

I have managed to overcome many culinary aversions, from pickles to tripe to testicles (a story for another post), but kimchi was something that I refused to eat. I was first exposed to the stuff seventeen years ago, and it was not a pleasant experience.

I was working at what would be my last biotech job (also a story for another post), a drug discovery startup that had organic chemists synthesizing drug variations on one side of the building, biochemists (like me) testing the new versions in different in vivo systems (cell culture, mice, rats), and the mouse facility in the middle. We were all used to mice dying on us over weekends while we were away – it happens, mice don’t live very long. Consequently, the biochemists all became inured to the smell of dead mouse, which we occasionally smelled when the lab doors were opened into the main hallway.

One day the smell was particularly overpowering, as if deceased mice had been neglected for more than a week. I asked “What the hell died in here, and why hasn’t it been dealt with?” I was informed that no mice had died.

“Then what is that horrible rotting smell?”

“It lunch time. Hyo’s eating kimchi in his office.”

Hyo was one of the chemists; I learned that he ate kimchi with his lunch at least once a week. I have never been able to dissociate that smell from the food, but had managed to avoid the stuff all this time. Last week, in order to make a much more elaborate recipe from Momofuku, I was forced to face my fear. And if I had to use it, I would go all out and make my own rather than buying a jar from among the myriad varieties ranked along an entire wall of my local Asian market.

The recipe is simple. I started with a medium head of Napa cabbage, two tablespoons of kosher salt, and two tablespoons of sugar.

I cut the cabbage in half lengthwise, then cut the halves crosswise into one-inch pieces.

I tossed the cabbage with the salt and sugar, then let it sit overnight in the fridge. The next day I drained the excess liquid from the cabbage and returned it to its bowl.

Kimchi is a fermented pickle, so the next step is to make a brine. I assembled a half cup of sugar, twenty minced garlic cloves, twenty minced slices of peeled fresh ginger, a half cup of kochukaru (Korean chile powder), a quarter cup of fish sauce, a quarter cup of light soy sauce, two teaspoons of salted shrimp (found in jars in Asian markets), a half cup of scallions cut into one-inch pieces, and a half cup of julienned carrots.

I mixed everything together, forming a thick sludge which I diluted with a third of a cup of water.

I added the brine to the cabbage, along with the scallions and carrots, and tossed to coat.

Before covering the container and placing it in the fridge, I gave it a taste. Fresh kimchi tastes like very spicy newly-pickled vegetables, not at all what I had expected. Of course, the fermentation would begin in a few days, reaching its peak in about two weeks when the bacteria started generating CO2. Until then I had something I could work with in six days. Until then, like Cthulhu, the kimchi waited, fermenting.

Sources:

Napa cabbage, kochukaru, fish sauce, soy sauce, salted shrimp, ginger: Relaible Market

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Odds and Sods

Not everything I do or read about merits a full post, so here are a few items that were in my “worth a mention” pile:

I have a theory about the McRib sandwich, which has recently been re-introduced for a limited time. It’s not good enough to be a permanent menu item, so they bring it back every now and then and wait for nostalgia to be overtaken by “hey this kinda sucks.” At that point the sandwich disappears, Brigadoon-like, to reappear after everyone has forgotten about it.

Ryan Adams, of the awesome Nose to Tail at Home blog, had a better idea: rather than eat faux pork (or whatever the McRib’s “meat” may be), why not try the real thing? He reverse engineered a McRib (photo above) and published the recipe. I might just give it a try soon, if only to stop He Who Will Not Be Ignored’s pleas for the McDonald’s version.

* * *

Harvard University has finally caught up and posted most of the videos from the Science and Coking Public Lectures on their YouTube page. I have added the full lecture videos to my posts about the lectures by Grant Achatz and Jose Adrés, but you can watch the rest of the series, including the introductory lecture featuring Ferran Adrià and Harold McGee.

* * *

I mentioned it last year, but it’s worth repeating: Mark Bittman has an exhaustive list of things to prepare before the turkey goes in the oven, worth checking out if you’re hosting a big dinner next week.

* * *

Having failed at various cooking projects, there are some foods whose preparation I am happy to leave to the pros: baguettes, croissants, ramen noodles, and pumpkin pie, among others. If you haven’t read it before, I urge you to read my pumpkin pie post, if for no other reason than as an object lesson in good intentions gone bad. As for me, I placed my pie order at Petsi’s weeks ago.

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Meat Me By the River

Now that the farmer’s markets are closed, the only people who gather at the Cambridge parking lot next to the Charles River are those who have a share in Stillman’s meat CSA. This month’s share was mostly pork: pork chops, country style pork ribs, sweet Italian sausage, pork cutlets, ground pork, plus ground beef and a whole chicken.

The giveaway box was full of pig’s feet, the trotter and lower shank together. I grabbed four, but no one else seemed as enthusiastic. And why not? Who passes on free trotters?

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