This week’s case in point: plums.  In fact, we’ve been getting plums for several weeks now, and while they’re quite good, we end up throwing away a fair number each week.

Pardon the sub-par phone photo

Well not today, fellas!  You, unlike your brethren, will compost in my belly and not the dumpster.

As you can see, they’re a bit different from the variety most commonly sold in American grocery stores (at least in my experience).  Diminutive in size, with an oblong shape and inky dark-purple flesh, they in fact look like pre-wisened prunes.  Go figure.

So this afternoon, as I sat staring balefully at this week’s haul of plums wondering what the hell I should do with them, I remembered a plum clafoutis recipe that I had stumbled onto not too long ago.  Now, for those unfortunate enough to be uninitiated to clafoutis, it’s a cake-shaped custard that’s studded with fruit (cherries, traditionally).  Actually, the batter is quite reminiscent of a crêpe batter.  Most importantly, clafoutis are delicious and reputedly quite simple to make.

I adapted the following recipe from Béa’s at La Tartine Gourmande.  Mostly, I was too lazy to saute the plums, and was enamored of the idea of macerating them in a bit of sugar and alcohol instead.  Plus, I figured this way I’d have a basis of comparison when I eventually remake this with cooked rather than macerated plums.

Given the ease and results of this recipe, I mourn the neglected plums of preceding weeks.  All of the clafoutis ideals are represented.  The lightly caramelized, sweet spongy custard substrate is a perfect foil to the tart plums.  My only error was baking it in a 12-inch skillet, resulting in a thinner layer of custard and just a hair more caramelization than I would have preferred.

Again, apologies for the sub-par phone photo

Plum Clafoutis

Ingredients

• About a pound of plums, washed and cut in half, pit removed*
• 2 T of sugar + a splash of brandy (I used apple brandy), for macerating the plums
• 7 oz milk
• 2 oz corn starch
• 2 eggs + 1 yolk
• 3 1/2 oz of cream
• 1/2 c sugar
• 2 T butter, melted and cooled

1.  Preheat the oven to 410 F.  Toss the plums with 2T of sugar and a splash of brandy.  Set aside.  Grease ramekins, a cast-iron skillet, or whatever you’re baking this in with butter.

2.  Mix the milk with the corn starch.  In another bowl, beat the eggs, then thoroughly mix in the sugar, the butter, and the cream.

3.  Line the baking vessel(s) with the plums, cut-side up.  Combine the milk mixture with the egg mixture, then pour over the plums.

4.  Bake at 410 for about 30 minutes.

* If you’re using larger plums, further cut them into quarters or even eighths.

The solution, while obvious, did not occur to me until now: I can still write about food regardless of whether or not I happened to have cooked it.  *facepalm*

Ahem.  Thus, I will continue writing about food, one of my life’s foremost passions.  And, as we all know, food includes alcohol, so I’ll be writing about that too.  Now the entire universe of food (and alcohol) is an admittedly broad topic.  But, as my prose has no doubt already amply illustrated, I tend towards intellectual self-indulgence, which means I will at times shamelessly defy good blog practice to draw from this mammoth topic as it strikes my fancy.  I will, however, strive in Herculean and sometimes Sisyphean fashion to adhere to a somewhat narrower focus.

To wit, aside from chronicling my actual cooking experiences, I want to write about food artisans and their excellent foodstuffs.  I have found that, at its heart, my interest in food is really a reverence of technique coupled with a fascination for the ingredients themselves.  Of course, chefs and their craft fit snugly in this framework.  But I am more inspired by the craftsmanship that goes into producing a meal’s individual components than by the skill of weaving such superlative ingredients into something cohesive and delicious.  Butchers, bakers, affineurs, vintners, brewers, farmers… to me, these people play a far more important role in determining the quality of a region’s cuisine than the chefs who rely on them to deliver the best ingredients.  When I can, I intend to relate this discussion back to Pittsburgh, my hometown and current home.

And so I blog again.  This time, I think I’ll have more to say.

This is clearly an excellent way to begin a bachelor party (for carnivores, at least), and this time I intend to do it right. In the past we’ve been… undisciplined. We gorged ourselves on the tantalizing flesh, barely coming up for air, until we were utterly spent, bloated, gasping. Then we waddled home and wept in shame at our failure to maximize our consumption of sizzling beasts. This time will be different. We will pace ourselves, repeatedly flipping the magic meat marker to pause while duplicative meats pass us by. And then, hours later, after sampling every last variety of meat the establishment has on offer, we will stagger home to poop.

Any suggestions on how to ease the digestion of obscene quantities of meat?

The recipe is based on one of the white bread variations in Peter Reinhart’s Bread Baker’s Apprentice, my standard reference. If you have the slightest interest in baking bread, find yourself a copy. Mr. Reinhart manages to explain the underlying chemistry of baking bread in such a way as to inspire confidence while remaining accessible. With some practice and a few re-readings, this book will have taught me enough to start fiddling around with my own bread recipes.

It rose this time, though I wouldn’t have minded a bit more of a rise from either the primary or secondary fermentation. Then again, I’ve had bread that overproofed and then totally deflated during shaping and baking. Shaping is by far my biggest bread weakness. There’s an old saying about how good bakers need an iron hand and a velvet glove. Basically, it means you need to be assertive in shaping the dough, but gentle enough not to degas it. Less air in the dough = denser bread. With rustic breads such as the classic French baguette, this is very important, as these breads call for a big, open crumb with lots of spacious air holes. With this bread it’s a little less imperative, as a tight chewy crumb is a desirable attribute in sandwich bread.

This may be the happiest I’ve ever been with the crumb of my bread. It’s just tight enough. While it’s sturdy enough to work in a sandwich, and delightfully chewy, it’s still surprisingly soft and light. This is a sign that, for once, I did not overwork, and thus excessively degas, the dough during shaping. As for shaping, I did better than I expected. Not only did I manage not to squelch the gas out of the dough as I shaped it, I also produced two reasonable looking loaves

This bread is freakin’ delicious. I’m pretty derisive towards mass market white sandwich bread, but this stuff teaches me what Wonderbread yearns to be: perfectly chewy, with a hint of sweetness and a mildly buttery finish. And man, does it make excellent toast.

Take that, white bread. You slap me with a velvet glove, I punch you with an iron fist.

Recipe follows…

Ingredients:

• 4 1/2 C unbleached bread flour
• 1 1/2 t salt
• 3 T sugar
• 2 t instant yeast
• 1 large egg, slightly beaten
• 1/4 c butter, margarine, shortening, oil at room temp.
• 1 1/2 c buttermilk or whole milk, at room temp (I used buttermilk)

1. Mix flour, salt, sugar, yeast. Pour in egg, butter, milk and mix until all the flour is absorbed and the dough forms a ball. Don’t be afraid to trickle in more milk or flour if it seems too stiff or slimy.
2. Sprinkle some flour on the counter and transfer the dough onto it. Knead, adding more flour as necessary, for 6-8 minutes, or until the dough passes the windowpane test. It should be soft and tacky, but not outright sticky. Lightly oil a large bowl and put the dough in there, rolling it around to coat it with the oil. Cover with plastic wrap.
3. Leave the dough to ferment for 1 1/2 to 2 hours, or until it doubles in size. The amount of time this will take varies depending on room temperature.
4. Remove the fermented dough and divide it however you like. I made 2 loaves, so divided it into halves here, but it’s supposedly enough for 18 rolls or 12 buns. Shape portions into balls by pulling the edges of the dough together at the bottom and pinching (this creates surface tension which helps the loaf expand while baking, a phenomenon known as “oven spring”). Mist lightly with oil, cover, and let rest for 20 minutes.
5. To make loaves, gently flatten each dough ball into a rough rectangle about 5 inches wide and 6-8 inches long. Then, gradually roll the short side of the rectangle over on itself, pinching together the end you’ve just rolled in with the rest of the dough (to create surface tension). Keep doing this until you reach the end of the dough, at which point pinch the final crease closed. Put loaves into greased 8 1/2 x 4 1/2-inch loaf pans.
6. Mist the loaves with oil and loosely cover. Let them rest (proof) for a 60 to 90 minute secondary fermentation, or until nearly doubled in size.
7. Preheat oven to 350F (400F for rolls). At this point, I made an egg wash (an egg and some water whisked until frothy) that I brushed gently onto the loaves. Then I sprinkled on some poppy seeds as a garnish.
8. Bake for 35-45 minutes, rotating 180 degrees halfway through baking if it looks like they’re baking unevenly. You’re looking for golden brown tops and sides, with an internal loaf temperature of around 190F (if you care to measure these sorts of things).
9. Remove loaves from pans immediately and place them on a cooling rack. Let loaves cool at least an hour before slicing and eating.

Sadly, the results never quite approached the level of quality that I yearned for. And, as I realized that baking bread is labor-intensive and difficult, I became discouraged. Thus, as I grew busy with the onset of 2L at Pitt Law, I let bread baking lapse without much of a fight.

Last week, I decided it was time to resume my bread efforts, but with a more sensible approach. What better way to ease back into it than with a nice, basic white bread? I cheerfully measured, mixed and kneaded, secure in my newfound perspective. As I savored the tactile pleasure of methodically slapping around a big glutinous ball of dough, I reflected on how well my triumphant return to bread baking was shaping up. Then, dough sufficiently kneaded, I set it aside to rise, pleased with my efforts and in heady anticipation of that first bite of freshly baked bread.

Two hours later, I was profoundly disappointed. It didn’t rise. At all. Evidently either the yeast was bad, or I had killed it by proofing it in water that was too hot. Regardless, it was far from a triumphant return to the land of bread-baking.

Me: Hey, Yeast. How ’bout some white bread?

Yeast: No dice.

Me: This. Ain’t. Over.

I’ve done a bit of cooking since my last post, and even documented it with the intention of writing about it. Inspired by the exhortations of the good Mr. Bourdain, I made demi-glace. Two weeks later, I turned some of it into boeuf bourguignon. I even whipped up some of the bacon toffee that’s been rattling around the food blogosphere lately.

You will hear about these things, and soon. I have broken silence, and thus shattered a psychological barrier to continued blogging. Though Pittsburgh is still beset by chill, foul weather, some part of me knows winter is waning. And, as wanes winter, so too my ennui.

Mind you, by default I don’t really make the most authentic salsa. From what I’ve gathered, authentic salsas tend to be thinner, but often with more concentrated flavors than their tex-mexy American counterparts. They make excellent condiments, but I’ve always found them to be less satisfying as standalone snacks. When I decide to make a more authentic salsa, I invariably turn to Rick Bayless’ Mexican Everyday (the only Bayless cookbook in my collection, but an excellent one). In fact, I frequently use his more authentic salsas as inspiration when making my chunky, chip-appropriate versions.

The recipe –

Ingredients

• 3 or 4 large tomatoes
• 4 bell peppers, some red, some green
• at least 2 jalapenos (or other chili, if you prefer)
• 1 dried ancho chili (optional)
• 1/2 of a large red onion
• 3 large cloves of garlic, unpeeled
• lime juice
• cilantro
• salt

1. Soak the dried ancho in hot water for about 30 minutes. In the meantime, roast 1/2 of the tomatoes and bell peppers, and all of the garlic and fresh chili peppers. I put the bell peppers directly over my gas flame, roasted the tomatoes under the broiler, and dry roasted the garlic and chilis in a pan over medium-high heat.

2. Place the roasted bell peppers and chilis into a paper bag, and fold or crumple the top. Leave them there for at least 10 or 15 minutes as they cool down; the steam in the bag will make them easier to peel. While you’re waiting, peel, seed, and roughly chop the tomatoes, then throw them into a food processor or big mortar and pestle (or molcajete if you prefer). Peel, roughly chop, and add the garlic as well.

3. By now, the roasted peppers should be ready, along with the soaking dried ancho. Peel as much skin as you can off of all of the roasted peppers, but don’t obsess over the stubborn bits.

4. Seed the roasted bell peppers; whether you seed the chilis or ancho depends on how spicy you want your salsa. Roughly chop all of these peppers (i.e. all but the fresh, firm bell peppers you set aside earlier) and add them to the tomato mixture.

5. Process the mixture into a relatively smooth, soupy base. Add salt and lime juice to taste.

6. Dice the red onion, and remaining peppers and tomatoes however fine you like and mix them with the soupy base you just made. Add them gradually, so you can more closely control the balance and consistency of the salsa (for this reason, it’s good to have some extra peppers and tomatoes on hand).

7. If the salsa’s too chunky, process a portion of it, and then stir it back in with the rest, repeating until you’ve achieved the desired consistency. If it’s too thin, throw in some more fresh, chopped vegetables. Once you’re happy with the consistency, chop the cilantro and stir it in. Adjust the salt and lime juice as necessary. If you’re finding it a bit too acidic, mix a dash of sugar in.

This produces pretty mild salsa. If I were making it for myself, I’d add in more or spicier chilis and probably some of their seeds. Next time, I’ll toss some chipotle in adobo into the base for smokier results. I added the dried ancho mostly because I have a bunch laying around, and I need to use them up. I was, however, impressed with its contribution. It added a unique earthiness that complemented the roasted tomatoes and peppers nicely. If you’re spice averse, don’t be afraid of the ancho — it’s quite mild.

My salsa pic is pretty crappy, which is why it’s hiding at the end of the post, but here it is nonetheless. Presumably I’ll get better at this food photography thing with a little practice.

I’m a reasonably creative person, when given the opportunity, and I have most consistently expressed this through writing… and food. Or so I thought. But in a recent bout of self-reflection (an all-too-common and tiresome predilection of mine), I realized that my cooking is far from creative. I follow recipes. Sometimes, I combine multiple similar recipes into one. Yet I have never just taken a handful of ingredients and created something, as would a chef. I yearn for this capacity to nonchalantly make delicious things, ever adapting to the availability of fresh ingredients and according to the whimsy of my muse.

But I am not ready. I’m operating under the assumption that this is, to some extent, a learnable skill based on culinary experience and familiarity. Thus, if I just cook, regularly and adventurously, whether from someone else’s recipes or the twisted grottoes of my fancy, I will shuffle incrementally towards my goal.

Alas, despite my love of food and cooking, my fledgling skills languish more often than not. I will eat microwave-able convenience food, when lazy enough, and those times are frequent. Which is where you, dear as-yet-nonexistent reader, come in. I’m hoping that even a meager audience will be enough to spur me into culinary action. For those of you willing to slog through my overwrought prose, I will feel an obligation to generate content.

Hopefully, some will find this interesting. If not, I will be satisfied using this blog as a mere tool for personal development.

I must give fair warning, though, that my commentary will at times stray from the practical into the philosophical, and indeed onanistic. As you may have noticed, I like to discuss things, sometimes for the mere sake of discussing them.