The Flying Tuber: A Party Cocktail

I was recently faced with a minor challenge. My sister proposed that we throw a surprise party to celebrate our uncle's recent 50th birthday. Ok, no problem. I'm always game for prepping food and drinks. The challenge was that she wanted to do it at Camp. "Camp?" you may be wondering. "Aren't you a little old for camp?" Well, in our family and some others, the generic "camp" means Camp Michigania, which is the University of Michigan Alumni Association's family camp on beautiful Walloon Lake in northern Michigan. For an embarrassing number of years, our family has spent a week there each summer with more-or-less the same people doing more-or-less the same things every year. It's a reliably amazing week, but I digress.

The challenge this presented was that we had to do the party with no refrigeration apart from a couple coolers and a nearby ice machine shared by 200 others, and no kitchen or cooking equipment at all. (Food at camp is served in a common dining hall and prepped by a kitchen staff.) One of my tasks was to come up with a cocktail that could be made en masse and served from a giant drink cooler. This presented further challenges. I have pretty high standards for myself, so wanted to make something that I'd be proud of and that people would enjoy. It also had to be something that our uncle, who is not a big drinker and enjoys beverages on the sweeter side, would enjoy. I also wanted it to be potent enough to feel like a cocktail, but not something that would wipe anybody out before dinner at family camp.

The easy part was coming up with the name. Our uncle loves to pull people behind his boat on giant inflatables, often creating waves with his wake and launching the tubers into the air. "Tuber" also has the delightful double entendre of referring to certain root vegetables, such as potatoes. Thus, it had to be a vodka-based drink [1].

With a name and liquor settled on, the next challenge was to come up with something that could be made in a big batch using relatively shelf-stable ingredients. The drink gradually took shape during a walk on a Lake Michigan beach with my friend Amy. (Whether you are concocting cocktails or not, I recommend such a stroll.) Vodka and cranberry juice are a natural pairing, of course. Lemon vodka and cranberry would have a nice tartness that could be balanced out by some sort of sweetener. Lemon also plays extremely nicely with ginger, and ginger can easily be steeped to make a spicy and sweet simple syrup [2] that can serve as the base for ginger ale. This set of ingredients seemed like a good starting point.

I then got the ingredients and did some testing with my neighbors. We agreed that it could use a bit of sweetness and maybe a bit more alcohol content. We decided to add some Triple Sec, which was a clear win. It played perfectly with the other ingredients and added some sweetness.

Almost everything was shelf stable, except the syrup. For that, I made it at home and froze it overnight in a plastic pitcher. It took about 2 days to melt in my cooler (with some ice), which was just in time for the party!

The recipe we settled on was:

1 part Absolut Citron
2 parts cranberry juice
1 part ginger-and-lemongrass-infused simple syrup
1/3 part triple sec

I'm happy to report the drink was a hit. I used 2 750 ml bottles of Absolut and almost all of it was gone after an hour or so. It was sweet enough to be enjoyable by everybody. Not dangerously potent at all. But the ginger syrup gives it a bit of a bite that keeps it, in my mind, respectable. This could also be made stronger with more vodka or maybe a ginger liqueur (like Domain du Canton) instead of the syrup. For our purposes, though, it was perfect.


[1] Yes, I know most vodka isn't made from potatoes these days. Just give me credit for the cleverness and move on, ok?

[2] Note that I used the linked recipe, but I added a couple stalks of fresh lemon grass with the ginger.

Pandan Macarons

I haven't had anything to say here in a while. It's not that I haven't been cooking. I have. I just haven't made anything all that interesting or novel. And I didn't want to bore you, my dear readers. Hopefully this post and those that follow will not disappoint.

That out of the way, I can tell you about my trip to one of the great Vietnamese markets on Argyle in Chicago last weekend. There are a few of these markets, and I must confess they are growing on me. At first I found them a bit depressing because they lacked the teeming sidewalk activity and amazing tropical fruit selections in places like Toronto's amazing Chinatown. As I've explored the markets here, though, I've discovered that each has its strengths.

The other day I went to Viet Hoa Plaza, which has what I think is the best selection of Asian herbs and non-fruit produce. Among a bunch of herbs (which I was looking for to make spring rolls), I also found fresh pandan leaves. I've written about these before, but this was the first time I had seen fresh (not frozen) leaves in the US. So I sort of had to get them and make something.

It also happens that I had made some macaron shells a couple weeks ago that were sitting in the freezer. (I've gotten better at these since my initial attempt, just for the record.) By a fortunate coincidence, the shells were green. (Interestingly, macaron shells typically contain no flavorings; it all comes from the filling.) So I decided to make pandan macaron filling.


To do this, I started with this recipe from a blogger. When I juiced the pandan leaves (using a blender) as described, though, the liquid that I got tasted very grassy and didn't have a strong flavor at all. I was afraid it wouldn't fully flavor the filling. I wanted more flavor. So I first used a technique often used in Asian desserts which is to steep a few pandan leaves (tied in a knot) in hot liquid. In this case, I used the coconut milk in the recipe. I also added a little bit of bottled pandan paste, which added green color.


The result was actually really good. The steeping and juiced pandan gave the filling an almost tea-like subtlety, while the paste ensured that the flavor popped. I'd do it again, and maybe experiment with just steeping or just using juice, plus a bit of paste.

Meyer Lemon and Dried Strawberry Scones

While it's been bitter and brutally cold here in Chicago for the past few weeks (and about to get even colder), it must be warm someplace because some great citrus fruits have been showing up in my local produce market. Sweet Meyer lemons, tart blood oranges, and the usual array of grapefruits and oranges.

Last week I made macarons with Meyer lemons (which were pretty tasty), but this only used 2 out of the 4 that come in a bag. So I had more to use. And I also had some very tasty (and tart) sweetened dried strawberries that I picked up when traveling recently. This combination of two sweet-tart flavors seemed intriguing, so I decided to try them together in a scone for brunch this morning.

Scones are an odd genre because recipes range all over the map. Some are dry and flaky; others soft and spongy. Some are intended primarily as a delivery device for clotted cream or lemon curd; others are loaded with currants, nuts or other fruits. Some even have chocolate chips. The defining characteristic seems to be something that could plausibly be eaten with tea or coffee, and probably has some butter in it.

One of my favorite scone recipes for modifying with additions, though, has been one from Alice Medrich's Pure Dessert. Her book is all about bringing out simple flavors from natural grains and sweeteners, so it's a bit ironic that the recipe works so well with additions. But it really does. It's also a unique scone recipe because she replaces some of the flour with stone-ground corn meal for a bit of coarseness and crunch. That coarseness seemed like an asset in this context.

Using her recipe as a starting point, I made a few simple modifications. I didn't have any buckwheat flour (which she calls for), so I used whole wheat instead. Plus I zested one of my Meyer lemons and mixed the zest into the sugar for the batter, and added about 3/4 cup of dried strawberries into the batter. I also used the juice of the Meyer lemon to make a thin powdered sugar glaze to lightly coat the tops.

The result was tasty, with some sweetness and tartness coming from both the lemon (glaze and zest) and the strawberries in their occasional bursts, and crunchiness from the corn mean. There's not a lot of sugar, so they weren't too sweet. I'd make them again, I think.

Here's the recipe (modified from Pure Dessert, by Alice Medrich):

1 egg
1/2 cup milk
1/4 cup heavy cream
1.5 cups (6 oz) all-purpose flour
1/3 cup whole wheat flour
1/3 cup stone-ground corn meal
1/3 cup sugar (mixed with the zest of 1 Meyer lemon)
2.5 teaspoons baking powder
1/2 teaspoon salt
6 tablespoons cold unsalted butter, cut in pieces
3/4 cup sweetened dried strawberries.

Whisk the egg with the milk and cream; set aside.

In a stand mixer with the paddle, mix the dry ingredients thoroughly and then add the butter a few pieces at a time. Mix at medium-low speed until the butter is broken down into small (pea-sized) pieces, but is still clearly visible. Stir in the dried strawberries.

Pour the wet ingredients over the dry and fold together with a rubber spatula until all the dry ingredients are just moist.

Gather the dough together, press any loose pieces into it, and put it on a floured surface (or Silpat). Press it into a disk about 3/4" thick. Slice into 8 wedges. Refrigerate for at least 30 minutes.

Place each wedge on a parchment-lined baking sheet and bake at 425 F for 10-13 minutes, until golden brown.

Prepare a glaze of 2-3 tablespoons Meyer lemon juice and 1 cup powdered sugar. Brush over the scones once partially cool.

Early Morning at Warorot Market

One of my favorite things to do when traveling, especially in the developing world, is to walk around markets. Often consisting only of a bunch of tables under a shelter of some sort, they become fascinating hives of activity: a butcher chopping up meat; coconut vendors pressing the bright white flesh of, well, coconuts; fishmongers whacking the heads off of fish; curry paste vendors pounding spices into curry pastes; and so on. They are also great windows into the local food culture. You can see what's in season, what snacks are being sold, to what extent every little bit of animals and plants (banana stem curry, anyone?) are being used, and so much more. I could (and do) walk walk around such markets for hours without getting bored.

 On my most recent trip to Chiang Mai, Thailand, I spent most of the days cycling with a relatively early-morning start. As the best food markets often happen in the morning, this mostly precluded wandering around food markets (though we did stop at one in a village one day on our bikes). I wanted to spend more time in a market, though, so I made plans to do so on my last day, before my noon flight.

I had been told that the biggest, and best, market in Chiang Mai is the Warorot Market, and that it opens extremely early. Perfect. I arranged for a tuktuk from my hotel at 6 am. While there is an actual building called Warorot Market, it is surrounded by vendors and across from another large market building. The tuktuk dropped me off in the midst of the area, but it was pretty quiet when I arrived before the sun came up. There were some stalls on the street with lights that seemed to have been selling fruits and flowers all night. But most of the indoor stalls were either covered up or sporadically starting to open.

Just inside the door of the main market building was a food stall clearly open, though, selling coffee, bao, and fried dough. A friendly woman behind the counter took one look at my tired, lost-looking, clearly foreign self and said "coffee?" I nodded and she poured me a cup, stirred in some sweetened condensed milk (as local coffee there is served), and set it down on her counter in front of a tool. I sat there, next to an older Thai man who was bantering with the woman behind the counter, and pointed to a tray of bao. She picked one for me, said "inside, prawn," I nodded, and she set it on a plate. After drinking the coffee and watching the steady stream of tired-looking customers, I paid the 20 bhat (about 60 cents) she asked for and walked back outside.



The sun wasn't yet visible, but the sky was starting to get lighter. Monks were walking around, and seemed to be leading small groups of people in some sort of prayer or offering ceremony. Vendors were now setting up in full force, with boxes and crates being moved around everywhere, trucks and motorbikes being unloaded, and stall doors being opened or uncovered. I walked past the fruit and flower vendors, and back into the market building. In this room there was a veritable sea of butchers. The next room was all about fish, fresh and dried. There were some people behind a fence (seriously) chopping coconuts.

Back out on the street, activity was picking up as well. Some people just spread their wares on blankets or banana leaves or folding tables. Others had more permanent stalls or carts. One woman sold bananas. Another had (grilled?) frogs on sticks. Several were making little sweet pancakes filled with fresh coconut milk (30 cents for 3; delicious). Another was selling a huge stack of crabs. As in much of the developing world, it seemed everybody had a project. And merchandise for sale. Now the sun was out and the market seemed to be genuinely open, though some of the cookware and clothing vendors were still opening. I started doing some shopping, to bring some things back to Singapore (which has fewer rules about importing food, compared to the US). I bought a bag of freshly pounded red curry paste from an older man and his wife, who wanted me to watch news of the Bangkok protests with them on their 10" CRT TV. This came in a tied plastic bag, so I also found a man who sold me a 10-cent plastic container so the curry paste would survive the flight. I bought a bag of dried chilies. Some spicy fish dip for green mango. A tiny little jar of some sort of chili paste. And "pun taeng," a limestone derivative often used in Thai cooking (also came in a bag; so I went back to 10-cent container man, who laughed and sold me another container). And picked up some dried fruit, tamarind and ginger, along with candy for my students.

I also wanted to eat some more. A fruit vendor had a bag of sliced green and sweet mango that I saved for my flight. I couldn't resist the mango and sticky rice vendor. And the slightly upscale espresso cart actually made a decent cappuccino.

In all, I wandered around the market for about 2 hours. As things opened, it was like a new market every time. When I left, it was pretty busy. Then I took a tuktuk back to my hotel (driving at one point through another market, filled mostly with pineapples, watermelons and coconuts), crammed my purchases into my bag, and headed to the airport.

A White Guy Makes Idlis

Tiered idli steamer 

I said last week that I'm trying to make more food in the coming weeks and months. I wasn't kidding. Since that post, I made butterscotch pecan ice cream to share with students and colleagues, used the rest of my brioche dough from last week's sticky buns to make "craqueline," had a cousin over for dinner, and today had more friends over for brunch. I'm not sure if this pace is sustainable, but you get the idea. And I will spare you a blog post on every single item.

One thing worth writing about, though, are idlis, which I made for brunch this morning. I discovered idlis when visiting my sister in Singapore  a few years ago. To refresh your memory, idlis are small, puffy, steamed pancakes made from a combination of rice and lentils. They are popular in South India, where they are typically served with chutneys and sambar (a soupy vegetable curry with lentils) for dipping. They are both healthful and delicious. When I was last in Singapore I bought a special idli steaming pan to replicate the experience at home, which I've played with a few times.

The first thing I learned about making idlis is that there are roughly a zillion different recipes, and the goal is for them to be very soft. If you google, you'll find a ton of different recipes, mostly involving skinned urad dhal (black lentils) and at least one product made from what seems to be a discrete type of rice known as "idli rice" (available as rice, rice flour or idli rava), plus maybe a few fenugreek seeds. Some also have puffed or flaked rice. Each recipe also promises idlis as soft as your grandmother's, and much softer than those awful idlis you get at <insert restaurant or grocery store here>.

You'll also realize that these recipes were mostly written by and for people who have grandmothers that actually made idlis. They tell you to put everything in your "wet grinder," to use salt "as necessary," to wait until the batter has risen "enough," and that the temperature should be about 30 C (86 F) for things to work out. But...what if you don't know what a wet grinder is or how much salt is necessary, have no idea how much rising is enough, or live in Chicago and it's November?

Making sambar to serve
with idlis

I did more research. One thing I learned is that you can buy already-made idli batter at Indian grocery stores. Given that my grandmothers were more likely to be making rugelach and matzo balls than idlis, that comparison case wasn't an issue. I tried this and the idlis were fine. But given all the hype (and variety in the recipes), I was hungry for more. And not just more idlis.

So I did more research. I found lots of recipes, but the most helpful description was in Sandor Ellix Katz's amazing new book The Art of Fermentation. He points out that idli batter is fermented using microbes naturally present in the ingredients and allowed to rise, and steamed once it is visibly rising (but before it is done rising so that the nutrients are not exhausted). Helpfully, he also notes that recipes vary widely in the ratio of lentils to rice, but this mostly just affects flavor and reflects the relative market prices of each item. Idlis can be made with ratios ranging from 1:4 to 4:1. And he says that, in colder temperatures, it can take up to 48 hours for the fermentation process to get going.

Idli batter

Armed with this information, I roughly knew that I just needed to find a ratio that worked, get my hands on the necessary products, and do some fermentation. Urad dhal is easy to find in Indian groceries. Idli rice is a bit trickier because there's the whole rice, rice flour and the rava (which I now know is "cream of rice"). I went with the rava, on the advice of the cashier at the Indian grocery store who said she had never actually made idlis from scratch.

After some more googling, I found a recipe that seemed to have good ratios (2 cups idli rava, 3/4 cup urad dhal, 7-8 fenugreek seeds) and to break the process into fairly understandable steps. First, I soaked the idli rava and urad dhal plus fenugreek seeds, in separate bowls overnight. Then I drained the water from both bowls and combined the wet dhal, fenugreek seeds and idli rava in the food processor. I ground them until the batter was smooth, and poured it into a large bowl. I then put the bowl in a warm spot to rise overnight.

Empty idli steamer.

They didn't rise a ton, but they did foam up a bit and it was time for brunch...so I couldn't wait much longer. Idlis are steamed in a special tiered steaming pot. There are 4 tiers of idli molds that sit atop boiling water. I sprayed each mold with a bit of non-stick spray, filled the molds up, and let them steam.

After 10 minutes or so, the idlis were ready. They look and feel fairly firm when ready, and a toothpick comes out clean when inserted into the center. They were pretty good. And I suppose softer than my grandmother's, so a win?

To serve alongside the idlis, I made sambar and cilantro/mint chutney from Maya Kaimal's Curried Favors. This makes for a tasty and hearty meal that is -- as my friends today pointed out -- a nice alternative to heavier, egg-laden fare that is so often served for brunch.

Making Sticky Buns

Fully baked buns

I've decided to do more cooking and baking. It's not that I wasn't doing enough before, but more that I get tired of staring longingly at these shelves full of cookbooks and coming up with reasons not to make new things (e.g., "Ice cream is bad for you. Don't make more." or "That recipe will mean a trip to the grocery store." or "I have enough to eat this week. What will I even do with more?"). So my local friends and acquaintances should get ready for more meal invitations and more treats in the office.

Having laid bare my inner überpragmatic psyche and my occasional desire to beat it down, I come to the topic of today's entry: sticky buns. A while back I wrote a post about the differences between challah and brioche. Another difference is that there are all sorts of things you can do with brioche dough, such as sticky buns or brioche au chocolat, that I don't often see people do with challah (though perhaps they do -- anyone?). In that post and for today's recipe, I used Joanne Chang's recipe from Flour, which remains my favorite baking book. She also claims that her sticky bun recipe won her fame on the Food Network. How can one resist such a post?

The problem with the sticky buns, though, is that the recipe makes 8 huge buns. And Chang clearly states that they are best served warm or within a couple hours of baking. Not exactly a solo baking/eating endeavor. So I waited until I was having some folks over for brunch. That was this morning.

Imperfectly rolled dough, spread
with filling.

Brioche, of course, is a yeasted dough. I've done a bit of dessert baking with yeast, mostly to make babka. The doughs I've used for that, though, are not nearly as rich as brioche (which the astute reader will recall is packed with eggs and butter). I wasn't sure what this would do to the experience, but my brioche dough was pretty easy to roll out and handle. The only slight hitch was that the assembled buns need to rise for 2 hours prior to baking, and then bake for 45 minutes. So it was an early morning. But my sleep habits lately are such that every morning is early, whether I like it or not. This wasn't a problem. (And gosh, I'm really revealing a lot in this post)

Not quite evenly
sized "log"

So to make the sticky buns, one rolls out the dough into a big rectangle. My dough handling skills have hugely improved over the past year or two. I'm proud of that. What this project taught me is that they have not improved enough. Here's why. After rolling the dough and spreading the filling (sugar, cinnamon, almonds) all over it, it gets rolled up tightly. Turns out that small variations in dough thickness get magnified in this process. Note the size variation in the photos. This was not intended to accommodate guests with varying appetites (though it did, so was fine in the end).

Sliced buns getting
ready to rise

The rolled "log" is then sliced into 8 not-quite-equal pieces, and these are placed in a baking dish containing what Chang calls "goo." The "goo" was basically a cooked concoction of butter, cream, sugar, and more almonds. These are then allowed to rise for a couple hours. And you can see that they got a whole lot bigger. Crazy, no?

Check it out-
They rose!

After rising for a couple hours they get baked, and then -- after cooling for a while -- inverted such that the "goo" becomes the glaze on top of the sticky buns.

If I may say so (and I suppose I can, because I didn't make up the recipe), these were really good. The outside was crispy. The inside soft and, well, gooey. And the whole combination was absurdly sweet and delicious. I'd like to make them again, but I might be too busy trying other new recipes.

I

Pear Cardamom Pop Tarts with Ginger Glaze

Finished product,
a bit messy looking

A couple years ago on this very blog I confessed that I liked Pop Tarts as a kid. And I described making Joanne Chang's recipe for a homemade (and much better) version of those delightful pastries. I also promised you, dear reader, that I'd experiment with novel flavor combinations. It took me a while, but I'm finally getting there.

Last week I faced the conundrum of wanting to take baked goods to some friends I was visiting. I recalled that I had brought them brownies last time, and we mostly wound up eating them for breakfast over the course of my visit. This gave me the idea that maybe I should make some scones or something. Or...better yet, finally get around to a novel Pop Tart. Ok, genre established. I just needed a flavor.

It being fall in the midwest, apples and pears are everywhere. There must have been quite a crop this year (I'm told this is true, but I don't have a source to cite), as prices have been as low as 39 cents a pound for apples! Edgewater Produce, my neighborhood market, had some really nice Bartlett pears for 69 cents. So I picked up a bunch and figured I'd do something with them.

Ok, back to Pop Tarts. Chang's book provides a recipe for an apple cinnamon filling. I figured I could adapt this by substituting pears for apples. And given cardamom's natural affinity for pears (it's magical, really), I figured cardamom would work really well as a substitute here. I also had a bag of green cardamom I picked up a while ago that I really need to start using.

I should also point out that I used a nifty little time management trick in getting these together. Pop Tarts are a bit daunting to bake, because you need to make the dough (and refrigerate it before rolling), a filling, and then assemble and bake them. With a bit of planning, though, this is easy because both components can be refrigerated. So I made the dough quickly on Monday while waiting for my dinner to be ready, cooked the filling on Wednesday in just a few spare minutes, and then I assembled/glazed them on Thursday before leaving. Easy.

Cooking pears

The dough for these is easy and described in my previous post. To make the filling, I peeled and sliced two large pears, and put them in a pot with half a cup or so of brown sugar. Meanwhile, I combined a bit of flour (1/2 cup), 1/2 teaspoon of freshly ground cardamom pods (sifted), and a bit of salt in a bowl. And cracked an egg. When the pears were soft and the sugar had melted, I poured everything together. And stored it in a plastic container.

Filling the pastries

Then the dough gets rolled out into rectangles, and the individual pastries are filled and sealed. This time I filled them directly on the cookie sheet, which works way way better than trying to lift them like I did last time. Plus an egg wash to make sure they brown nicely.

To glaze them, I originally considered a cardamom glaze. Rather than grind more cardamom, though, I decided to make a ginger glaze instead. Ginger plays nicely with both pears and cardamom; and this was super easy. 1/4 teaspoon or so (heaping, as I like ginger) of ground ginger stirred into a cup of confectioners sugar, mixed with a few teaspoons of water. This then gets brushed on the pastries once they're cool.

Before the oven.

The result was pretty tasty. My hosts seemed to like them (and let me pick at them as well), and the flavor pairings worked pretty well. The ginger in the glaze was subtle, but the flavors of pear and cardamom clearly came through. A win, I'd say.