3.31.2008

No Ordinary Snack Cake

I'm not sure exactly what I made, and that is where it began. One gallon of milk and several packets of store-bought Yogourmet freeze-dried cheese starter later, I ended up with something that resembled yogurt in consistency but sour cream in flavor. I thought it was supposed to be cheese. Okay, so I didn't have it at the proper temperature during its developmental stages (a bit too cold). Yes, I know, I'm sure I didn't drain it enough; but I had already taken it away from the cheesecloth, and I simply didn't feel like putting it back. Well, that was silly.

In the ensuing willfulness, I found myself scouring the web for some sort of recipe requiring substantial quantities of sour cream (I decided that's what I had, and I had nearly 1 quart of it). Initially sour cream pound cake seemed like a natural choice, but I didn't have a loaf pan and dammit, I wasn't going to buy one (though I plan to within the next few days). What about cookies? That might be interesting, I don't think I've ever made cookies with sour cream.

Along the way I found a recipe for lemon mousse containing either yogurt or sour cream as one of the main ingredients. Hmm...before I had decided I had sour cream, I thought I might have had yogurt, so there we go. Next, I stumbled upon this delightful sour cream cake jammed full (in the best way) of lime curd. The sparks flew. Sour cream cupcakes filled with a lime curd-mousse combo and topped off with...I can't decide...sour cream icing? Would the lime mousse alone do? Bare naked, perhaps? I know...twinkies!
I was gifted a twinkie pan (actually a twinkie kit) sometime ago, and this was the perfect opportunity to use it. Little did I know that I was getting myself into something much bigger than a mere salute to the impregnable little snack cakes.

While I am positive that this recipe would have worked for me had I not made extraneous substitutions (my so-called-sour-cream instead of the real thing paired with a mini-mini loaf versus the prescribed 9X9 pan), these cakes resembled little rubber door stops. Oh goodness, there I go with these substitutions. This is the cook part of me that clashes horribly with the wannabe baker in me - you can't just do what you want in baking, there are recipes and chemistry involved, it's the melding of art and science. This lesson I'm not sure I'll ever learn.

So the mousse recipe, in my limited experience in mousse, seemed wrong in so many ways, but I was willing to give it the benefit of the doubt; obviously it's worked for someone before. Now, here is where I should have just let my own judgment take over (nevermind the fact that I was once again making a substitution), but alas, I ended up with lime soup. It was tasty soup, but certainly not the beginnings of a cake filling by any stretch of the imagination. "I'll add gelatin," I thought. I was conservative with this one. (Nothing quite as unpleasant as too much gelatin in anything, really.) Oh, not enough. I'll add more. What the..?

I added twice what I had before. What happened to conservative? What am I doing? Making lime sealant, apparently - could've bounced a quarter off this mess. Hmmm...okay: warm it up (make it fluid again), whip some of the cream I have left, fold a small amount of the lime putty back in...and voila! Lime whipped cream mousse filling! This final incarnation was admittedly quite good, but the 1+ day of trail and error became comedic and downright annoying, though through it all, I refused to give up.
Meanwhile, I opted for sponge cakes courtesy of the recipe in the little booklet that came in the kit, as I was certain that my "sour cream" calamities were unstuffable. Amazing. They looked amazing. Proud mama I was, they looked just like the real thing. So why can't they be filled? Indeed, those atomic yellow submarines truly are cream filled air cakes, there would be no other explanation for how they can get that whipped sugary substance inside those things. Yes, I was forced to create the illusion of cream-filled goodness for the aesthetics of this piece.

Put your hands in the air, and back away from the twinkie.

Next time, I'll just let the cheese drain longer.

3.17.2008

Cheese Scones and Great Expectations

I just happened to come across this cheese from Neal's Yard Dairy called Coolea (coo-lay). An Irish cheese from and English dairy? Interesting; I must taste. (As it turns out, Neal's Yard Dairy became the market when the business grew out of its britches and now the Creamery is the cheesemaking entity.) Upon purchase I intended to add it to some cheesy potato creation I had been dreaming up, but upon tasting I realized it was far too unique to share the stage with any other cheese.

Firm but densely creamy texture, this cheese was similar in ways to Gouda, but still in its own class. Striking butterscotch flavor; if you've ever tasted a cheese and thought, "They say 'butterscotch,' what do they mean, 'butterscotch,' this is cheese, not dessert," then you haven't tasted this one. Sweet caramelized dairy, it was amazing! The quietest grassy herbal notes mingled in with the finish, oh! Words can not explain. I prefer grunts.

In later conversations with myself, I debated the pros and cons of cooking and/or baking with such a fine cheese. "Would they cast me away forever?" I wondered of the countless cheese lovers who would consider the thought of doing something to such an awesome cheese sacrilege. But throwing all judgments and paranoia to the wind, I decided to make scones, soft and tender and riddled with broken nuggets of my new found gem.

Using the same recipe as for the failed cream cheese that turned into a delicious cultured butter, I had only to make a few random substitutions for lack of required ingredients. No AP flour, so in goes bread flour with a touch of oat flour to tone down that gluten. And then there was the buttermilk; it continued to do things in its container, so it was, how should I say so as not to offend, gloopy. I used it anyway. (I must say I've gotten much more adventurous with my dairy products.) In the end, the substitutions created negligible differences. The dough was stiffer than before, probably due to the buttermilk, but the results were just as soft and tender as my first attempt. Then there was the cheese.

Cheese purists of the world, forgive my misdeeds. While the cheese melded into the scone just as I had hoped, it became bitter and chewy. Robust flavors of butterscotch, no more. Delicate sweetness and notes of green pasture, gone. I had killed the cheese.

A bit melodramatic, perhaps. But I can tell you that doing something with this cheese did nothing for it. I was disappointed; I expected a better than expected experience. And while I am certain that I will attempt cheesy scones again, I am also certain that I will be saving dairy of this caliber only for my lonely gullet.

3.16.2008

Part of an Addiction

I can't imagine much better than something draped in cheese sauce. Probably my greatest weakness (besides homemade mashed potatoes) is something draped in cheese sauce. That something, more specifically, is any part of a starchy family I love so dearly: pasta, rice, and potatoes. At any given moment, I usually have all the makings of a cheese sauce on hand (butter, flour, milk, and cheese), and the starch to boot (potatoes being an exception). Combine these ingredients with a moment of weakness, and you've got some cheesy goodness.

Here I am somewhat of a purist when it comes to these ingredients. I'd like to turn them into a meal, really I would, something that may have nutritional value even. But I rarely enjoy any of those dishes as much as I do their unadulterated versions. I'm talkin' macaroni and cheese, potato gratin, parmesan risotto; from elegant to humble I like mine unfettered by chunks and bits and crumbs. That single texture married with it's velvety counterpart; each ingredient coming through while coming together. Elementary enjoyment.

And then somehow Tater Tots crept into my train of thought. I can't even remember the last time I enjoyed Tater Tots. Little chunks of potato in a crispy jacket with just the right amount of salt sprinkled atop, and they're history. Their texture so perfect: beyond the crispy crunch, each bitty hunk of potato holding its integrity and all the while so, so tender. Next thing you know, I'm searching my brain for any recollection of a potato gratin made with cubed potatoes. Not to imply that I'm the first and/or the only, but really I don't know that I've seen such a thing.

Oh, what has been missed. So lovely, a perfect form of potato swathed in cheese. I chose a waxy potato so each little cube would hold its texture and decided to parcook them in salted water beforehand. Now for the cheese sauce. I am from the school of the bechamel-based sauce, though not literally, that's just what I do. Recently, I read an article in the New York Times (that was not recent, yeah try 2 years old, but new to me), concerning the great debate of cheese sauce. Well not really, but to paraphrase, the author dissed the white sauce base right off the bat. I've always been curious just how cheesy anything can be without the saucy base to get it started. And while I am fully willing to experiment, and plan to (soon, actually), I wasn't ready at this moment.
So I decided to compromise. I made a standard bechamel, instead using much less and to it adding nearly double the amount of cheese I normally would have (for that amount of base), just to see. Alone it was quite cheesy and far less creamy, that is, the mouthfeel was much closer to melted chese than it was to sauce. Baked together with tender nuggets of potato, it very much became what I had expected; the potatoes soaked up what they could and left morsels of melty cheese throughout. And while it was delicious, rich, and decadent, I did miss the creamy sauce, just a bit.



The following recipe would work well for 2½ pounds (give or take) of peeled, medium-diced potatoes, parcooked. Simply mix the potatoes together with the sauce, spoon into a shallow baking dish and bake uncovered in a 350 degree oven until desired bubbling and browning has occurred (30 minutes or so).

This is a creamier sauce. For something cheesier in texture, remove about half of the white sauce from the pan before adding the cheese. You can always add more sauce back into the mix to adjust the texture to your desire. This will, of course, yield less sauce.


Basic Cheese Sauce

2 tbsp unsalted butter
2 tbsp AP flour
1 – 1½ cups whole milk (2% or skim would work also)
1 lb grated cheese such as sharp cheddar, gruyère, gouda, or other favorites
Kosher salt and freshly ground white or black pepper to taste
2 drops each of Tabasco and Worcestershire (optional)
¼ tsp ground yellow mustard (optional)

1. Melt butter in a medium sauté pan (the curved sides of the pan will work better with a whisk); add flour and whisk together. The butter-flour mixture (roux) should be moist with a glossy sheen (add more butter if the mixture looks clumpy and crumbly, but be conservative; a little goes a long way).

2. Lower the heat to maintain light bubbling. Cook the roux to a light golden color, stirring frequently to prevent scorching.

3. Whisk 1 cup of milk (not ice cold) into the roux. The mixture will appear very thin at first, but will reach its full thickness just before coming to a boil. If the mixture is too thick for your taste, add more milk. Remember, allow the sauce to come nearly to a boil before each addition of milk to be sure you don’t end up with a sauce that’s too thin.

4. Cook the sauce over medium heat, stirring often, for at least 10-15 minutes to cook away that raw flour taste. Resist any urges to season the sauce at this point (wait until the cheese is in).

5. Stir in grated cheese. Add salt and pepper to taste and additional flavorings as desired. Applications are unlimited.

3.11.2008

Something Special

We must have charmed our cheesemonger a bit, because not long after asking for some recommendations on what we should try, he directed us to little tubs of soft and crumbly curds in olive oil. It was an Australian feta made with sheep and goat milk and aged in olive oil with garlic and herbs in the mix. And with only a handful of those little tubs left (the producer has discontinued to import this cheese into the States), I would later come to realize why he seemed to be guarding it.


Feta is one of those cheeses that I love, but I go through phases of sorts. I'll be on a kick for some time (i.e. it is consumed at every opportunity), and just like that it falls off the map for some time longer. (Though at any moment I will take it on a pizza or yet another restaurant version of the Greek salad.)

But these nearly broken curds bathed in olive oil told me that this was different, maybe not even as close as second cousins to my conventional sense of feta. I barely got into the kitchen before tearing into a baguette and popping off the lid to that tub, diving right in. I took the creamy curds from the bread with my lips as if it were ice cream, savoring the unctuous creation on its own. It was very moist, very soft, and the oil imparted a taste far beyond the oft overwhelming salty-tangy flavor most associate with feta. You could taste the sweetness of the milk after the mild but up-front tang subsided. Creamy, rich, decadent, and bursting with herbed nuances, this cheese should have its own classification. I recalled our moment at the store amongst the cheese and the impression this particular cheese left on the young man that steered us to it, "It's something special," he said.

And that, is without a doubt.



(Hmm...maybe I could...)