Devine Intervention

August 16th, 2010

It’s been Devine intervention all around.

First, there’s my grandma. Last weekend, we spent 7 hours putting up tomatoes: sauce, whole tomatoes packed into jars, stewed pieces, salsa.  Earlier that day, before I arrived at her house, she’d spent a good chunk of time running up and down the basement stairs, chasing after the 8 or so cats that share her home (you see where I get it).  Before that, she spent an hour riding her “tractor” (as she calls the riding mower) over her acre of land, knocking the grass and weeds down to an un-gossip-worthy height. And then she hauled out the weed-whacker and tamed the property’s perimeters.

But before that – a few weeks before — my grandma clocked in at 92 years old.

You’ve met my grandma before – remember the shoe incident when I was 6?  And the biscuit cutters? Yes, that’s the one.  It probably won’t surprise you then, that we had the following exchange during our canning adventure:

Grandma (flipping through the 1867 edition of a pages-missing, tomato-streaked and jam-smeared Ball Canning book):  Let’s see, for the raw-pak tomatoes, we’ll pressure cook at 5 lbs of pressure for 10 minutes.

Me: Are you sure? That doesn’t seem very long for tomatoes.

Grandma:  I’m reading it right here. (Waves book at me. A few more pages slide out and drift under the easy chair she keeps in the kitchen for when she’s snapping beans and shelling peas)

Me: But aren’t tomatoes pretty susceptible to botulism?

Grandma: I’ve never had botulism.

Me: You can’t see it, isn’t that the problem with it?

Grandma: I’ve never had it. I’d know.

Me: Well, yeah, you’d be dead.  I just want to live through the winter.

Meanwhile, my friend Steph gets a frantic text from me.  I consider Steph the #2 expert on all things Mother-Earthy, after my grandma. And Steph’s  #1 in her concern with the formalities of procedure. In her kitchen in upper Iowa, Steph consults her shiny, intact, late-edition Ball canning book and texts back an answer.

Me: Okay, Grandma, I think we need to boil at 10 lbs of pressure for at least 10 minutes, and 20 for the sauce.

Grandma: (patiently, humoring me while she herds wayward pages back into the Ball book): That’s not what it says here.

Me: But these guidelines get updated every year, Grandma. I know we have to cook them longer. I just looked it up.

Grandma: Looked it up where?

I hold up my iPhone.

Grandma: On that? (She snorts dismissively)

Finally I decide that she’s been alive for 92 years so she can’t be doing anything egregiously wrong. And, later I’m humbled when Grandma saves me from shooting my eye out with the pressure cooker steam gauge. The Ball book – yes, hers, the old one – sagely advises to add 2 quarts of water to the pressure cooker when you’re canning pints. And here I was preparing to fill it up and submerge the jars (“Whoo-ooo, my girl, you would’ve lost an eye and maybe half of my kitchen,” my grandma hoots. But then she admits that she shot her own eye out once and that’s how she learned).

My grandma. We should all be so blessed as to have one like this one.


And then there’s Diane Devine. Diane works with Simon, and she and her husband have been beyond generous in sharing the riches of their vegetable garden this year. Week after week, Diane has brought in box after box of ripe, lush, dewy tomatoes and cucumbers. Her generosity feels nothing short of miraculous to me, because if Simon and I had to rely on our little veggie patch this year, we would have enjoyed exactly three cherry tomatoes. For the first time since I planted my first dill and lettuce seeds at Grandma’s house over 35 years ago, I’ll be having a no-harvest year.  I don’t mind admitting how much this upsets both my pride and my vision of myself – and my plans to go BPA-free this winter.  Chalk it up to unrelenting heat, irregular hot-and-cold patterns early on, or the fact that this is the 5th year in this garden and we lack the space for crop rotation  – I had many theories.  And very few tomatoes.   Until Diane.

It’s strange, but I think that because of Diane this has been my biggest tomato year ever.  Not to mention the cucumbers and other veggies. With her kindness, and with Grandma’s wisdom, I’ve put away pints of tomato sauce, whole tomatoes, cucumber salsa, peach salsa, cucumber relish and tomato bruschetta topping.

Divine or Devine, I’m feeling truly blessed.

Blueberry-Thyme Muffins with Toasted Almonds

And you expected we’d be making something with tomatoes, didn’t you? Well, last time I showed you how to make authentic crème fraiche using active cultures, and if you’ve done that (or if you’re thinking about it) then you need something moist and gently sweet to spoon it onto.  Besides that, there’s the whole liability thing involved with canning. I do not wish to feel responsible for any stomach woes.  As you may realize, there are so many imaginative ways that home-canned food can go wrong if the procedure is not done correctly – even if the recipe is followed precisely. I’m extraordinarily careful with my canning methods (ask my grandma), but I can’t see what you’re doing in your kitchen, so I’m going to have to encourage you to go ask your own grandma, or barring that, to consult a good book or the frequently updated National Center for Home Food Preservation website.

My vegetables may not have fared well but this year my herb plants are bursting well beyond the edging of the beds. The basil patch is teeming with happy, pollinating bees, and the tarragon, thyme, oregano, marjoram (started from seed!), parsley and dill make me feel like a wealthy girl. And so because of these riches, I’ve been experimenting all summer with using savory herbs in creative ways.  This combination, thyme and blueberries, just may be my favorite discovery of the year.

[But, before we move on to the recipe, I do need your help. I have big plans for next year's garden (it'll be a new yard, after all), and my visions of next year's putting up are opus.  And I'll need to graduate to a larger pressure canner. Do any of you have one? Here's what I want (though if I find it, I realize it may be prohibitively expensive): a stainless steel 23-quart pressure canner. Have you ever seen such a thing? Barring that, do any of you have recs for a non-stainless large canner? What things should I watch out for when aiming to buy (besides shooting my eye out with the steam gauge?]

Blueberry-Thyme Muffins with Toasted Almonds

6 Tbsp unsalted butter, room temperature
¾ cup sugar (I used turbinado and got very granular muffins the first time – there’s a reason that baker’s sugar is refined….)
½ teaspoon salt
1 egg
1 teaspoon lemon extract
Zest of 1 lemon
2 ½ cups all purpose flour
2 teaspoons baking powder
1/3 teaspoon baking soda
1 cup whole milk or buttermilk (buttermilk gives you lots of texture with less fat, plus the slightly sharp flavor)
8 ounces fresh or frozen blueberries
3 tablespoons fresh thyme (lemon-thyme, if you have it), minced
½ cup sliced and toasted almonds

  1. Preheat oven to 375 degrees. Spray 2 muffin tins with nonstick cooking spray or lightly wipe with a paper towel dipped in oil – or line them with muffin papers.
  2. Beat the butter, sugar and salt in a mixing bowl until light and fluffy, then scrape down the sides.  Add the egg, lemon extract and lemon zest and mix well.
  3. In another bowl, whisk the flour, baking powder and baking soda. Add the butter mixture in two separate additions, stirring by hand and alternating with the milk. Mix until just incorporated, being careful not to over-stir.
  4. Add the blueberries, thyme and toasted almonds and mix well.
  5. Scoop the mixture into the muffin tins, filling just below the top of the tin.  Sprinkle the tops of the muffins with turbinado and bake about 20 minutes, until they are lightly browned and a toothpick inserted into the center of a muffin comes out clean. If you’re using mini-muffin tins you’ll halve the time.
  6. Transfer to a rack and allow the muffins to cool slightly, then ladle a generous spoonful of the crème fraiche onto each one and serve.

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To Bean or Not to Bean?

July 27th, 2010

This looks all wrong, I know.

I mean, where are the beans, right? Oh, to bean or not to bean?  It has become a very complex question.   Do you suppose that bean is a metaphor?

I hope I haven’t lost you forever. So very much has happened while I’ve been away, of course it has, for you and for me.   The fresh bocquerones and hot tortilla de patatas under the up-lit shadow of Gaudi’s magnificent Casa Mila have changed me forever.  Likewise, those last droplets of lime gelato spooned up within spray-shot of the Trevi Fountain, and the Limoncello and still-warm goat’s- milk mozzarella nibbled under olive-laden trees in Sorrento.  Then there was the clotted cream smeared onto lemon scones under the wing of Brecon Castle in Wales (don’t tell my wife we did this, my uncle-in-law whispered to Simon and me as we swallowed the last morsels).  The pub crawl, that changed me too. Like the Eskimos and their snow, the Brits have a diverse lexicon that revolves around what happens in pubs in the hours just before the sun comes up.  At 4 a.m., in the 400-year-old Ye Olde White Lion pub in Congleton, over the final sips of a 4-Horns Exmoor Golden Ale, I saw a guy get bottled.  At the moment that skull shattered glass, the warm beer slid down my raw throat, pulsing and burning in time to the raucous cheering. Surely though, it was more surreal for me than for the man who got smashed -  he appeared to be rather accustomed to it.

And then there was Reblochon in Cannes. Oh Reblochon, thy name is as smooth and dreamy as thy mouthfeel. There is nothing – nothing  at all —  like it in the States. Reblochon has ruined my expectations for cheese forever.

And of course there were the many magnificent things we did and saw and said and suffered and savored, so many, that had nothing to do with food.  I won’t tell you all about it right now.  I’ve got a lot of making up to do.

Did I mention that I’ve gotten married?  But I’m keeping my name:  Becky and the Beanstock.

Right, then.  So what will we be doing here now?  Not terribly long ago, Mark Bittman asked his readers to think about why they cook.  Bloggers all over the world answered the question, and some of the answers were insightful and surprising (I’ve only been half away. I’m still reading what you’re up to).  Naturally, every last answer was about the food — the tastes, the sharing of meals, the scents that rose up, the celebration, even the pursuit.

Me?  I cook so that I write.   All the inspiration I need bubbles to life in the kitchen and leaks its way to some canvas or other.  For me, cooking is the surest path to writing.

Writing, on the other hand, is the surest way to get everything else done. It’s always this tug and push, creatively speaking, and I think it’s safe to say that this is the case for all creative reaching. So be patient with me. If it were just about the food it would be easy.

You’ll probably be seeing a lot of Pastor-ized cheese here – made with unpasteurized milk, of course.  (“Pastor” is my last name, in case you didn’t realize. I’m keeping that too).   Over the last year I’ve been dabbling in home-crafted cheese – mozz and ricotta, sure, but also feta, cheddar, even brie and Stilton. Yes, you’ve got me.  I’m inching my way toward Reblochon. But it’s more than making what I cannot find in the store:  these ancient preservation rituals, discovered by accident, feel somehow like rare accomplishments when carried out against the backdrop of modern life. And that’s the point I’m getting to.

Foodists are the new conservationists.  And I guess in that way, the common thread here has never changed.   I offer this site, then, as an open love letter —  told in a series of food parables — to tradition, to the natural world, and to the private rituals and the shared celebrations we use to conserve the great diversity of food that shapes our social, cultural and emotional identity. If I could write it all by hand for you onto tattered notebook linen, I would. And if I could explain it any better, I’d do that too, but it’s time to quit talking and just jump back in.

So let’s save what we love, shall we? To the kitchen then.

Cultured and Refined: Creme Fraiche the French Way

In a past post, I talked about making crème fraiche with cream and buttermilk. It’s simple enough, and the result is satisfying.  But it’s just as easy to make it using cheese culture, and what this gives you — a sweet, pleasantly sour, mildly tangy and well-structured cream that holds its shape on a spoon – is well worth tracking down the culture.

Anyway, that’s easy too, now that the internet has brought the world’s spice trading markets to our home kitchens. Online I get my cheese making supplies from Steve Shapson, the Gourmet Cheesehead himself, but there are many other places too. At home, I get supplies from our local goat keeper.    No matter where you are, I won’t be surprised if you have a local goatherd too that will sell you some citric acid and a sprinkle of lipase. Ask around.

If you’re going to make cheese at home, you’ll have to have some patience, and crème fraiche is a fine place to start. If you’re like me, you’ll want to take the lid off and  look inside the jar where the crème fraiche is gently ripening. It’s better if you don’t. I find that when I can restrain myself, the finished cream is better balanced. It’s a hard thing to describe, but I’ll guess that it’s because the temperature stays more constant and the crème remains undisturbed during its transformation.

A word on dairy cultures.   When you buy them from a reputable source, you can trust that they’ve been handled properly, which ensures both their vigor and their strain.  This is important because cultures all look pretty much the same (see the first photo in this post, for an example), but blue cheese culture doesn’t work well, say, in cheddar.  In cheese making, culture is used to gently acidify the milk by turning sugar into lactic acid (breaking the acids down into smaller and smaller particles as a cheese ages, which increases flavor).  There are many varieties of culture, and the one you use will largely determine the flavor of your cheese – or crème fraiche, or yogurt.  You can store them, frozen, for two years.

Homemade Crème Fraiche:


This, of course, is not a made-up-at-home recipe. No, I believe this one was invented in the early 1700s, and most recently transcribed by Ricki Carroll in her incredibly useful book, Home Cheese Making.

Ingredients:

1 quart *unpasteurized cream or half and half
1 packet crème fraiche starter culture

*the quality of the milk you use is very important. In unpasteurized milk, the live active cultures needed for curdling have not been sterilized out of the milk. I’ll get more into this when we try our hand at cheese, but for now, if you can’t get un then you can make do with lightly pasteurized.

In a stainless steel pot, slowly heat cream to 86 degrees. Sprinkle the starter on the top of the cream, let it sit for a minute to rehydrate, then stir it in with an up and down motion, stirring for about 1 minute.

Transfer mixture to a glass jar with a lid. Place lid on jar and allow cream to sit at a warm  room temperature, about 72 degrees, for 12 hours or until thickened.   It is now ready to use and will keep for a week in the refrigerator.

And you’re going to need some really good crème fraiche next time, when we make these:

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Food Means Never Saying Sorry

September 9th, 2009

cheese pretzels2

Not for the food, anyway.

Simon tells me that I can’t do this. He says it’s unacceptable to egg you on with two separate posts about how I’m going to embarrass myself – and ask you to make bread dough, even – and then leave you hanging. What Simon says is gospel, but even if his name were Miles it would still be true — I really do owe you an apology.

Would it help to know some back story? Things like I just started teaching an intensive, short-semester writing course, and two classes in I’m inundated with papers to grade? My fault, I realize, but there’s really no way around that.  Or how about that when my class ends Simon and I are hopping on a plane to England, and after visiting Simon’s family, the Tate Modern, the largest bookstore in the world and the best fish and chips on the planet, we’ll head to Spain and Italy.  Someplace along those travels we’re getting hitched, and then we’ll come back and throw a big, if not entirely traditional, reception.  That’s really what’s distracting me from you, dear readers. I’ve really missed you.

Let’s recap then. Last time on BABS, Beanstock showed you how to make your own curiously sweet and nicely spicy mustard, and then off-handedly instructed you to throw some no-knead dough in the refrigerator (where perhaps it still sit. Very sorry about that).  Then she offered that any day now she was going to publicly hand back her foodie badge.

Shall we do it then? Do you even care anymore? Here it is:

row of pigs

Probably never thought you’d be staring down a plate of hot dogs on a vegetarian, know-your-food, heirloom bean and culinary biodiversity website. Worst part is, you’re not exactly.  No, it gets more embarrassing.

This is faux meat. Maybe those of you who are not vegetarian can tell just by looking (I think the white balance was off on the camera….) but it’s been 20 years since I’ve eaten meat and so Morningstar’s Veggie Italian Sausage wraps up pretty well in a blanket to me. Hey, vegetarians need junk food too! When you add good (but not too good) brick or cheddar cheese, a gourmet mustard, and chunks of course salt, the total package is really tasty and just ballpark enough.  I’m slightly embarrassed to be claiming this dish publicly, but I won’t apologize for it.

Anyway, there probably is some manner of bean in the mash.

Morningstar ingredients are probably genetically modified, grown without a thought towards sustainability and shipped across the world (though I don’t know this for certain), but when I’m craving easy, mindless, low-carb food it does the trick for me. You should know though that these Italian-style sausages are very heavy on the fennel, so if you can’t stomach that then go for the black bean burgers instead.

Needless to say, Lucy was very disappointed in me, but she dutifully offered up a wine pairing anyway. And in fact, what she had to say might very well redeem me, if there is salvation by association. And don’t forget, there’s always beer!

sausage in dough

Lucy writes: The thing about wine is that it loves fat.  The acidity and tannins of wine were made to soften the edges of anything rich and meaty.  Indeed, the very thing that clogs our arteries and expands our waistlines melds magically with anything from the vine. With this in mind, for those who decide to throw caution and solid medical advice to the wind, and make this with real sausage, I would recommend Barbera, a fantastic and overlooked Italian red varietal, or a New World (preferably Washington) Merlot.

If you must eschew the pleasures of flesh, I would suggest a crisp white that will not compete with the fennel and mustard flavors.  Vernaccia di San Gimignano is a Tuscan white that works well with fennel and is easily found at most larger wine shops.  White Bordeaux would also be quite delicious.  No need to spring for a headliner bottle.  Simple bottles of White Bordeaux may be found for well under $15.The best pairing of all, however, will work for both carnivore and vegetarian alike.  Any rose, although a softer rose of Pinot Noir would be my suggestion, will provide enough heft, but not clash with the strong flavors.

Before I deliver the recipe, I want to let you know that since I’ve got this wedding thing going on, I could be spotty here for the next several weeks. But I’m still reading your blogs, and still planning food to share with you.  Even better – I already know what we’ll be eating next time, and it’s got tepary beans in it. See you soon!

The Recipe:
Vegetarian Pigs in Pretzel Dough Blankets

4 servings

A batch of no-knead bread dough
4 Morningstar Veggie Italian Sausages
4-5 ounces Brick cheese (cheddar works well too, and goat cheese complements the fennel)
Curiously Sweet and Nicely Spicy mustard (or another of your liking)
A large kettle of water, heated to a roiling boil
Coarse sea salt

If you’ve pre-made your no-knead dough and it’s been sitting the fridge, bring it out, separate it into fist-sized chunks and let warm for 20 minutes.

dough

brick cheese

Preheat the oven to 425 degrees (give or take, depending on your oven. On mine, it’s closer to 440 degrees). Bring a 5 quart kettle of water to a hard boil.

Skillet-cook the Italian sausages over medium-high heat until they’re browned on all sides. Let cool slightly.

On a floured work surface, stretch or roll the bread dough into generally rectangular shapes that are slightly longer than the Italian sausages..  Lay a stripe of mustard along the front end, then place the sausage behind it. Stuff pieces of cheese behind this, tucking in tightly. Then pull the sides up and tuck them over the top, then starting from the mustard side, roll the dough into a tight bundle. You may have to stretch it as you go but that’s okay, it’s yeast dough. Make sure the bundles are sealed on all edges. If you’re having trouble getting it to stick, , run fingers under cold water and then rub the seams.

With a slotted spoon, lower two of the dough bundles into the boiling water for about 8 seconds. All sides should be submerged – if not, flip the pretzel and let the other side boil too. Remove from water and place on a baking tray lined with parchment and sprinkle them with the salt. At this point you could also add toasted garlic or chile flakes if you wish.. Repeat with the remaining two pretzels.

Bake for 30-35 minutes, until dough is puffed and golden brown.  Serve with a bowl of the mustard, or (if you’re crazy like me) hot sauce for dipping. Then sit back, watch the game, and enjoy — and don’t ever tell anyone you heard it from a vegetarian!

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No-Knead Dough for You’ll-See-What

August 25th, 2009

I almost forgot, you’re going to need this for our journey to the dark side.

rising bread dough

I’ve become a reluctant devotee of the no-knead method.  Of course it’s a lot less work, but the thing is, I have to work even harder to resist the urge to knead the dough.  I like the way it feels, squeezing the air out, knuckling the dough till I’m grazing the wood beneath it, stretching the proteins and delivering a resounding thwack now and then. I’ll always struggle to sit still for traditional meditation, but the rhythmic kneading transports me.  In that space, I understand things. Things about how slow-rise and the universe at large conduct themselves.

But I’m going to have to get my oneness elsewhere because no-knead truly turns out a superior loaf of bread.

(In case you’re interested, it turns out that cheese is not too different. Some of you know I’ve been dabbling in homemade mozzarella and ricotta. My last batch of mozzarella came out chewy and tough. We melted it on pizza – no loss there – but I’m not going to all that trouble for pizza cheese.  Later I talked with Simon the Cheese Guy (the other cheese guy named Simon, the one I don’t live with) at the Wine Merchant. Immeasurably wise and generous with the words, Simon explained that the proteins get tough if they’re overhandled, which sounded awfully familiar. If any of you are making cheese though, know this: unlike bread dough, cheese-in-the-making that’s left alone in its whey for a few days will soften up again).

bread dough balls

But back to the task at hand.  Do this, and then after the first rise, zip it up in a plastic bag and store it in the fridge. Gently deflate it every day or two – but it’s not going to be there that long. At any rate, it will straddle the fence this-side of pleasantly sour for about a week, and then, ready or not, you’ll have to use it up.

flour in bowl

No-Knead Bread Dough for You’ll-See-What
2 cups white or bread flour
1 tablespoon semolina or whole wheat flour
1 teaspoon sugar
1 1/4 teaspoons fine sea salt
1 ¼ cups cool water (68 degrees if you’re measuring; otherwise cold tap is fine)
1 ¼  teaspoons instant yeast
1 tablespoon olive oil

In a bowl, combine the flours, the sugar and the salt and stir to distribute evenly. I find that it’s useful to employ a whisk at this point to thoroughly combine ingredients without packing them down too much.

Place one cup of the water in another bowl and sprinkle with the yeast. Allow to sit for one minute only, then stir well. Immediately stir in the olive oil and then pour this mixture into the dry ingredients. Stir with a large wooden spoon, then, using hands, gather the ingredients and mix till a dough has formed. The dough should be wet and sticky while holding its shape – if it’s too dry, add a bit of the reserved water until the right consistency is achieved. Go ahead, gently work the dough, pushing and pulling the dough to stretch and fold it. You know you want to. But after one minute, and not a second more, you’re going to have to stop.

Let the dough rest in the bowl for a minute, then lightly oil the surface and cover it with plastic wrap or a thick towel. Allow it to sit at room temperature for an hour and a half, then gently squeeze out the air, flattening the mass again. Place in an airtight container or plastic bag and store in the refrigerator.

bread dough in bowl

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