My first fine dining experience happened when I was an ignorant 20-year-old. I had managed to save enough cash from my job as a server in my dorm’s dining hall to take my girlfriend (known from that year on as She Who Was Crazy) out for a fancy dinner. After some research I settled on L’Espalier, which was (and still is) recognized as one of Boston’s best restaurants.

As soon as we were seated I realized I was completely out of my comfort zone, terrified and certain that at any moment I would be advised I was using the wrong fork for my salad course. That I was soon put at ease is a testament to L’Espalier’s well-deserved reputation for outstanding customer service. I managed to relax by the time I was finishing my dessert, something chocolate with a crème anglaise and an artful arrangement of orange flowers. Our server, noticing my untouched garnish, asked “Do you not like the tiger lily buds?”

Here comes the humiliation I thought, as I asked “They’re edible?”

“Yes, they have a delicate orange flavor. They’re quite delicious.”

I was sure he was screwing with me, but under his (and SWWC’s) expectant gaze, I tried one. He was right, they tasted of orange. I found myself wishing I still had a bit of the chocolate to accompany the buds. I remember nothing else about that meal, but I have always been able to recall the taste of those flowers.

* * *

A few years ago one of my neighbors – I call him The Mayor of Columbus Avenue –  convinced me to tear out the privet hedges that surrounded Chez Belm and replace them with lower-maintenance plantings. He donated cuttings from the hostas he grew in his garden, which I have supplemented every year with a new varietal or two. His Honor, being too old to get on his knees and help, provides horticultural supervision punctuated with jabs of his walking stick. While supervising my recent weeding session, he said “I see the day lilies are really thriving.”

Ignoring the rare compliment, I asked “What do you mean, day lilies?”

“That’s the other name for hostas. It’s what we used to call them when I was younger.”

As I looked at a yard full of flowering hostas, I was once again reminded of a decades-old dessert.

I pinched off a just-opened bud and ate it. Sure enough, I could taste a faint orange note underneath the vegetal crunch. I had a yard full of garnishes, but a narrow window to use them before the blooms dropped off.

I had a pear tart friends brought to a recent dinner party, some chocolate ganache in the fridge (don’t you?), and white plum sorbet in the freezer. After a quick trip outside to harvest some flowers (from the “Captain Kirk” cultivar, for maximum geek cred), I plated this fine dessert:

The taste of the flower was almost overwhelmed by the tart sorbet, but was clearly detectable when eaten with the tart. I’ll have to come up with a few more flavor combinations that would work with this garnish.

If you have hostas, I recommend that you give the buds a try. I promise I’m not screwing with you.

The addition of this item to the menu for the seventh annual birthday dinner was the result of a phone call to She Who Must Be Obeyed. One of our guests, a regular attendee since the inaugural dinner, was unable to attend last year due to a family emergency. He called to assure us that he would definitely attend this year’s dinner and was looking forward to the menu “even if it didn’t include any chocolate.” Having missed out on last year’s chocolate dessert, he assumed I would be using a different flavor profile this time.

Since he enjoys a favored status as the primary contributor to the Belm Collection of Unusual Food, I decided to add a chocolate amuse to the menu. Again, I chose it from On the Line, having seen it last year and filed it away as something I wanted to try. Despite its lengthy full name – “Egg,” Milk Chocolate Pots de Crème with Caramel Foam, Maple Syrup, and Maldon Sea Salt – the recipe was mostly do-ahead steps. The most difficult part would be  preparing the egg shells.

Removing just the tops of the egs while leaving the remaining shell intact with a smooth cut edge would require a piece of specialty equipment: an egg topper. The collection of Amazon reviews led me to believe it would be either the simplest or the most frustrating tool I had ever used, but my bat was on simplicity. To be safe, I bought two dozen eggs in the hope of ending up with a dozen usable shells, but went through only fifteen – a very good success ratio. I separated the contents of each egg into yolks and whites, then spent the next three hours removing the membrane from inside the shells, a process that required lots of hot water, tweezers, and rubbing with my fingertips.

Some of the yolks were used to make the milk chocolate filling, which was baked in the shells resting in an egg carton partially submerged in a water bath. Once they cooled, I stood each shell in a small dish, using a blob of cheap squeeze tube chocolate icing as an adhesive to keep the shells from tipping (idea provided by She Who).

I layered each pot with a teaspoon of dark caramel.

Just before serving, I foamed some caramel custard (made with the remaining yolks) into each shell, added a few drops of maple syrup, and finished with a few flakes of Maldon salt.

How did our guests like this extra pre-dessert bite? Let the evidence speak for itself:

That should be worth a few more contributions to the collection.

I wanted to try a simpler menu for She Who Must Be Obeyed’s birthday dinner, especially after I remembered all of the work that went into last year’s affair. Still, I knew our guests would be expecting something with a modernist twist, which led to my unearthing this recipe that I had filed away last year.

I knew from prior testing that although the chemistry was straightforward, forming the spheres would try my patience. While shopping online for ingredients, I noticed a silicone mold designed to form perfect half-spheres that would be the perfect solution to my problem: How would I make the spheres a la minute without tearing my hair out?

Not leaving anything to chance, I prepared a test batch of pea puree, added the sodium alginate, then filled the mold.

Once they were frozen I prepared a calcium chloride solution and heated it to 110 °F, figuring it would take about five minutes for the spheres to thaw. Once the bath was ready, I dropped in a handful of the frozen half-spheres.

As they warmed up, I flipped the spheres over every 30 seconds or so, which produced a more rounded shape. After five minutes I strained them out and rinsed them in a warm distilled water bath.

About an hour before dinner I sliced brioche into small triangles, dipped them in egg/cream/maple syrup batter, then sautéed them until brown. While the toast cooked I caramelized shallots in sherry vinegar and brown sugar. I prepared a new batch of spheres from fresh pea/mint puree I made earlier in the day, holding them in the warm water bath. To plate, I layered each toast triangle with a slice of prosciutto and some of the caramelized shallots, topped with a pea sphere.

This dish was a hit, with one guest proclaiming it “a perfect little bite.”

I was asked so many questions about how the spheres were made that I hosted a short demo in the kitchen after dinner:

As you can see, forming the spheres by hand is not the way to go. Now that I’ve mastered the technique, I’ll be trying other flavors soon.