Have you seen the piles of rhubarb stalks at the Market? And maybe you didn’t even touch those because you already have a surplus coming from the garden? A perennial in the same family as sorrel and buckwheat, rhubarb is very easy to grow. Plant it once, and it will come back year after year, with little maintenance required.

What to do with all that rhubarb is another matter altogether. Unlike say, blueberries or raspberries, rhubarb requires a little bit of processing in order to become palatable (unless you’re one of those people who can bite into a lemon quarter without grimacing). If you love baking, like my grandfather and late grandmother, then it’s no problem. From crisps and crumbles to pies and jams, there is a wealth of deliciousness to be served alongside that creamy vanilla bean ice cream. However, if baking makes you groan (yes, I said groan), then using up those Christmas-coloured stalks becomes much more an endeavour of creativity than one of old-time tradition.

Rhubarb as dessert isn’t as old as you might imagine. The plant (Rheum rhabarbarum), which originated in the cool climates of Mongolia and Siberia, was prized by the Chinese for the medicinal properties of its roots, which were dried and traded as far away as Greece and Rome in the first century AD. The English weren’t familiar with the plant until the 16th century, and the idea of eating the stem of the plant likely didn’t occur until much later, perhaps thanks to the plant’s resemblance to its smaller cousin, sorrel.

The first recipes for rhubarb start appearing in English cookery books in the early 19th century, just as, perhaps not coincidentally, sugar was becoming more widely available. The association between rhubarb and medicine lost its foothold, and custards, crumbles and pies were elevated to a sempiternal pedestal.

Elsewhere in the world, however, rhubarb has found uses as a vegetable (which, after all, it is). From being served with potatoes in Poland or spinach in Afghanistan, as a soup in Norway or as a stew in Iran, rhubarb is much more versatile than the Anglo-American cookbooks seem to indicate.

Today’s dish is my first attempt to transform rhubarb into dinner. I started by making a sauce — a gloopy, sweet-and-sour sauce reminiscent of Anglo-American desserts were it not for its salt content, but then used the sauce to braise browned chicken thighs and aromatics until tender and juicy. I threw in a few cinnamon sticks, inspired, perhaps, by all the Indian food I’ve been cooking recently. The dish was so good that I made it again on two occasions, making my way through a decent chunk of my rhubarb patch.

In retrospect, I may have been pushed by an unshakeable nostalgia for that sweet-and-sour sauce in which I used to dip my fried chicken nuggets. Food memories have a stubborn persistence, no matter how plebeian.

Joëlle

Serves 4-6

240

Pan-Braised Rhubarb Chicken

This delicious sweet-and-sour chicken is my new favourite way to use up the rhubarb in the garden. A great recipe for spring and summer.

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Ingredients

• 6 chicken thighs
• Kosher salt
• 1 tbsp coconut oil
• 1 yellow onion, thinly sliced
• 2 cinnamon sticks
• 2 cloves garlic
• 1 tbsp ginger
• 1/2 cup bone broth
For the Rhubarb Sauce
• 2 cups rhubarb, sliced 1-cm thick
• 2 tbsp honey
• 1/4 cup orange juice
• 2 tbsp shio koji or 1 tsp salt
• 2 tbsp coconut oil

Instructions

1. Salt the chicken thighs at least 45 minutes prior to cooking.
2. To make the rhubarb sauce, bring rhubarb, honey and orange juice to a simmer. Keep cooking until the rhubarb has softened, about 8 minutes.
3. Remove from the heat and stir in coconut oil and shio koji or salt. Set aside.
4. Melt the oil into a large lidded frying pan (10 or 12-inch) on medium heat.
5. Add the cinnamon sticks and allow them to infuse into the oil.
6. Put the onion into the pan and fry, stirring occasionally, for 8 to 10 minutes, until softened and browning at the edges.
7. Add the garlic and ginger and cook, stirring, for a few more minutes.
8. Put the chicken thighs into the pan, skin side down and cook until the skin is golden brown, about 5 minutes. Flip the thighs and continue to cook until the second side becomes lightly golden, about 3 minutes.
9. Pour in the rhubarb sauce and the chicken stock and cook, covered, for 15 to 20 minutes.
10. Remove from heat and serve.

Notes

Shio koji (塩麹) is a lacto-fermented mixture of rice koji (rice inoculated with aspergillus oryzae spore -- the basis for many well-know Japanese ferments such as miso, sake and soy sauce). It provides enzymes and probiotics while imparting the dish with a unique umami flavour. You can substitute sea salt, himalayan salt or fish sauce. To learn more about shio koji, how to make it at home, and how to use it in the kitchen, click here.

Nutrition

Calories

240 cal

Fat

17 g

Carbs

15 g

Protein

8 g

Click Here For Full Nutrition, Exchanges, and My Plate Info

7.8.1.2

97

https://www.joellegaudet.com/2020/07/22/pan-braised-rhubarb-chicken/

References

Davidson, Alan, et al. The Oxford Companion to Food. Oxford University Press, 2014.

The post Pan-Braised Rhubarb Chicken appeared first on Gluten Free Private / Personal Chef in Victoria BC.

At the beginning of the attack his wild bellowing made the earth tremble; but after a few minutes he ceased bellowing, and settled down to business, devoting all his energies to lunging at me with his head, and kicking at me with his heels. My only weapon was my knife, and I could have killed him with that, but my wife the day before had broken off the point of it, trying to open a coconut, and had kept the accident a secret from me, fearing that I would scold.

–John Roy Musick, Hawaii: Our New Possessions (1898) (emphasis mine)

Phew! Stakes were high in 19th century Hawaii. The wife is in trouble with her husband. The husband is in trouble with a wild bull. All because of a coconut.

Meanwhile, in 21st century Victoria, a girl is standing at the kitchen counter on a bright June afternoon, hacking at a coconut with a dusty, paint-stained mallet. Her confidence is drooping as the blows get more reckless. The mason jars lining the countertop are vibrating in sync with the beat of the falling weapon. Thirty minutes later, there is a lull of defeat in the music, and the coconut comes to a momentary rest on the cutting board, unfazed and unblemished.

Never have I met such a stubborn piece of fruit! I don’t know whether to bellow, like the enraged Hawaiian bull or to break into a fit of giggles at the absurdity of the scene. I do the latter, and throw the coconut against the counter in a final, pathetic attempt to break it open. No dice.

I am not the first woman to get frustrated by a coconut, and I likely won’t be the last. Fortunately, there is another way.

Martha Stewart to the Rescue

This isn’t my first time opening a coconut, and I think in most cases, a mallet or hammer is a fine and sufficient tool to get the job done. Simply tap the coconut around its equator until it begins to crack. Catch the water in a bowl and gulp it down with carnal satisfaction to congratulate yourself on your success. However, there is a more foolproof method, one that works on even the most stubborn of coconuts, and eliminates the risk of wasting precious coconut water.

You will need:

• Screwdriver or corkscrew
• Oven
• Baking Sheet
• Cleaver, mallet or hammer
• Spoon
• Vegetable peeler or pairing knife

1. Preheat the oven to 400 F.
2. Find the three “eyes” of the coconut, and probe them with a screwdriver or corkscrew to find out which one is softest. Pierce through it, and turn the coconut upside down over a bowl to pour out the water, shaking the coconut if necessary.
3. Place the coconut on a baking sheet and bake in the oven for 20 minutes, or until the shell begins to crack.
4. Remove the coconut from the oven, place it on a cutting board and hit it with your blunt instrument of choice. The coconut should break easily, and the flesh should be easy to pry from the shell with a spoon.
5. The final step is to remove the brown skin from the flesh with a vegetable peeler or pairing knife.

Voila! You are now ready to have a coconut party.

About the Recipe

Coconut chutney is a common condiment prepared in the southern Indian states and served for breakfast as a condiment for dosa (thin pancakes made from a batter of fermented rice and black gram) and idli (steamed cakes made from a similar batter) or for snacks with a variety of savoury fritters. Creamy, nutty and mellowly fragrant, it also tastes great as a dip for vegetable chips, or (gasp) shoveled into your mouth with a spoon. This recipe is my own version, using cashews instead of more common peanuts or gram. Because it is made from fresh coconut flesh, it is best eaten on the day it is made. The colour and taste will muddy the longer you leave it in the fridge. Feel free to adjust the amount of chili to suit your taste for fire!

About the Ingredients

Fresh Curry Leaves

Don’t be confused by the name; these dark waxy leaves have nothing to do with curry powder. They come from the curry tree (Muraya koenigii), a plant native to India, where they are fried in oil to lend beautiful aromas to curries and chutneys. Curry leaves, also referred to as sweet neem leaves in India, have a unique fragrance: citrusy, earthy, a little smokey, with hints of anise and lemongrass. There is nothing quite like them! I fell in love with curry leaves the first time I dropped them in a pan of hot oil and was greeted by the aforementioned bouquet. It’s the kind of smell that’s hard to pin down or describe, but one thing is for sure: it transports you to another place, one that invites lingering. Unlike bay leaves or kaffir lime leaves, which are usually fished out of a dish before eating or left on the plate, curry leaves are perfectly edible.

Depending on where you live, curry leaves may be hard to find. The good news is that they freeze very well, so if you chance upon a large bunch, don’t hesitate to buy it all and freeze it for later. You may be able to find dry curry leaves, but I don’t recommend them. Just as with basil, most of the aromas don’t hold up through the drying process. The recipe will taste great without them if you can’t find them, but if you manage to source them, you’re in for a treat.

Victoria shoppers: check the herb section at the Market on Yates, or the produce section at Fairway Market. I usually buy a large quantity of leaves when I see them, and freeze what I won’t use up immediately in vacuum-sealed bags.

Curry Leaves (and a blue hydrangea)

Asafoetida / Hing

Asafoetida, known in India as hing, is the dried gum resin collected from the rhizomes or taproots of certain species of the genus Ferula (giant fennels), plants in the same family as culinary fennel. They are found across the Mediterranean and Central Asia, and have been used for their medicinal properties as far back as 750 BC by the Babylonians. In India, asafoetida is used to flavour dishes, and also for its supposed antiseptic qualities. Asafoetida develops an oniony flavour when fried in oil, and is used by certain religious groups whose diets forbid the use of alliums like onion and garlic.

With asafoetida, less is more. A little pinch will provide enough fragrance to a dish, and any more might make it taste too medicinal.

Victoria Shoppers: You can buy powdered asafoetida at the Market on Yates, but for those (like me) who are sensitive to gluten, be forewarned that it contains wheat, likely as an anti-caking agent. I opted to buy a gluten-free version online that contains rice flour instead of wheat flour.

Black Mustard Seeds

Larger than their more common cousins, yellow and brown mustard seeds, black mustard seeds become extremely fiery when crushed and mixed with water, thanks to the sulfur compound sinigrin. When the seed coat is broken and the contents come into contact with water, the enzyme myrosinase, also present in the seeds, reacts with sinigrin to produce the new, highly pungent compounds that we associate with hot mustard. However, in this recipe, as in many Indian preparations, the mustard seeds are fried in oil. The heat stops the reaction, and the result is a shiny greyish seed with a mild nutty flavour.

Unlike its yellow and brown counterparts, black mustard seeds are not suited to mechanical harvesting. This makes them somewhat pricier harder to find than the other varieties. Thankfully, you can substitute smaller brown mustard seeds for a similar taste.

Victoria Shoppers: Cobble Hill-based company Organic Fair (better known for their awesome chocolate bars) sells organic black mustard seeds. They are available at the Market on Yates, if you are willing to pay the steep price. For a fraction of the cost, you can find bags of brown mustard seeds in the Indian spice section of the Market, between the bulk foods alley and the fish counter.

Joëlle

Yields 2 cups

Serves 4-8

186

Fresh Coconut Chutney (नारियल चटनी)

Deliciously nutty, creamy and fragrant, this fresh coconut chutney is well worth the effort to crack open that tough coconut shell. Enjoy as a condiment with savoury pancakes, cakes and fritters, for breakfast or as a satisfying snack.

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Ingredients

• Flesh of 1 coconut
• 1-2 green chiles, seeded and roughly chopped
• 4 tbsp cashews, toasted
• 1 tbsp ginger
• Shio koji or salt, to taste
• Water, as needed
For the Tempering
• 2 tbsp avocado oil
• 1 tbsp black mustard seeds
• 2 dried red chiles, deseeded
• Pinch asafoetida (hing), optional
• 12-16 fresh curry leaves

Instructions

1. Peel the brown skin from the white flesh of the coconut. Cut the flesh into chunks and add them to the bowl of a blender, along with the green chiles, cashews and ginger.
2. Blend to a paste, adding water as needed to reach your desired consistency.
3. Heat the avocado oil over medium heat. Add the black mustard seeds. As soon as they start popping, add the curry leaves and red chiles. Keep continuing until the curry leaves start to crisp up, a minute or so. Remove from the heat and pour the oil and spices over the chutney.
4. Serve immediately.

Notes

Fresh coconut chutney can keep in the fridge for a few days, but it tastes much better if eaten on the day it is made.

Nutrition

Calories

186 cal

Fat

10 g

Carbs

21 g

Protein

8 g

Click Here For Full Nutrition, Exchanges, and My Plate Info

7.8.1.2

96

https://www.joellegaudet.com/2020/07/06/fresh-coconut-chutney/

References

Bharadwaj, Monisha. The Indian Cookery Course. Kyle Books, 2016.
Davidson, Alan, et al. The Oxford Companion to Food. Oxford University Press, 2014.

The post Fresh Coconut Chutney (नारियल चटनी) appeared first on Gluten Free Private / Personal Chef in Victoria BC.

“Learning to trust your instincts in cooking is the only way to get beyond the recipe, and the more you touch farm vegetables, or the more you observe the seasonal fish available, the more you will be able to do this.”

-Nancy Singleton Hachisu

Nancy Singleton Hachisu learned by necessity how to make use of the products of the land (and sea) in her vicinity. After falling in love with a Japanese farmer during a year abroad in Japan, she got married and started a new life with him in an old, traditional farmhouse in rural Japan. Her acculturation involved not only learning the language and culture of her new home but also familiarizing herself with the seasonal produce and fish, the local food products and the Japanese philosophy surrounding how they should be put together to create a satisfying and aesthetic experience. As she reminds us throughout her first cookbook, Japanese Farm Food (2012), there is nothing esoteric about the whole process. Touch, feel, smell and examine the food–get to know them. Soon, the recipes will become mere templates onto which you can incorporate the ingredients that are fresh and available where you live and onto which you can apply your own touch of creativity or idiosyncrasy.

This spinach side dish is a case in point. The ingredient list is short, the preparation, low-tech (mortar, saucepan, bowl, hands), but the result is a bright dish with complex but balanced flavours. Skip to the recipe now, or read along to find out how best to choose and prepare your ingredients.

Spinach

I don’t recommend using baby spinach for this recipe. They are too delicate for cooking, and their flavour is too subtle and would be overwhelmed by the dressing. Packaged spinach also contain less nutrients than bunches, especially when the leaves are immature, as in the case of baby spinach. If you can get your hands on farmer’s market fresh spinach (or better yet–garden fresh), then you can omit the mirin from the recipe. Spinach grown in good soil will have enough natural sugars to sweeten the dish. On the other hand, spinach grown conventionally (poor soil sprayed with chemical fertilizers and pesticides) or left too long on supermarket shelves will contain much less sugar. You may want to offset the bitterness with a tad of mirin.

Miso

When choosing miso, look for a brand that is fermented the traditional method. The only ingredients listed should be rice (brown in the case of genmai miso), soybeans, sea salt, water and koji (aspergillus oryzae). The soybeans should be non-GMO and preferably organic. If you cannot find genmai miso, you can use a mix of shiro (white) miso and aka (red) miso. Both of these are fermented with a white rice koji, but whereas white miso is a short ferment with a sweet taste, red miso is a long ferment with a much more salty and pungent flavour. I use the Amano brand, because it fits those criteria and is widely available in Victoria. As a bonus, they sell them in large 1kg buckets at Fujiya, the local Japanese grocery. Perfect for a miso aficionado like me!

Eat your Flowers!

For those of you wondering what kind of confetti I’ve sprinkled on my greens, the answer is Dianthus plumarius (commonly known as pinks), a perennial flower from the same genus as carnations, with a spicy aroma and edible petals. I wrote about them here.

This is not a Japanese thing, though the Japanese are masters at honouring the beauty of nature in their dishes. It’s purely a Joëlle thing. If you are familiar with the photography on my blog, you will have noticed that flowers often play a supporting role to my kitchen creations. I look to the garden for props and inspiration and crown my dishes with the jewels that grow around my home. And if I can eat them too, I will!

Suribachi

This recipe calls for a mortar and pestle to grind the walnuts into a paste. There is no better tool for this than a suribachi, the Japanese iteration of a mortar. Suribachi are made of ceramic, with a glazed exterior, and an unglazed interior striated with tiny curved grooves called kushime (comb pattern). This uneven interior makes it ideal for grinding nuts and seeds into fragrant pastes. The accompanying pestle, called surikogi, is usually made of hardwood, which doesn’t damage the delicate ceramic ridges the way metal or granite would. If you are lucky enough to own a suribachi, use it to make the walnut miso sauce. Suribachi are also pretty enough that you can serve the spinach straight from it, instead of dirtying another dish. I don’t have a suribachi yet, so I used my large granite mortar, and then transferred the finished dish to a pottery bowl for serving. Mortars with a smooth interior, like those made with marble or metal, would work less well.

Joëlle

Serves 2-4

277

Spinach with Walnut Miso Sauce (ほうれん草のくるみ和え)

Spinach dressed in a nutty, creamy blend of walnuts and miso. A flavourful side dish that showcases the sophistication of simplicity.

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Ingredients

• 3 bunches spinach (about 675 g), preferably organic
• 50g whole walnuts (about 5 tbsp)
• 2 tablespoons genmai (brown rice) miso
• 1½ tablespoons rice vinegar
• 1 tsp mirin (optional)
• 1 tbsp edible flower petals (optional)

Instructions

1. Blanch the spinach -- Bring a large pot of water to a boil. Meanwhile, place a bowl of very cold water in the kitchen sink. When the water is boiling, take the bunches of spinach by the leafy part and submerge the stems into the boiling water. Count to ten, then drop the spinach into the pot and cook for a minute more.
2. Scoop the spinach out of the pot with a strainer or slotted spoon and place them into the cold water. You can take the spinach with your and hold them under cold running tap water to cool them quickly.
3. Squeeze the water out of the spinach, then lay them on a cutting board and cut them into 5-cm (2-inch) lengths.
4. Grind 2 tablespoons of the walnuts into small pieces in a mortar to use as a garnish. Set aside in a small bowl.
5. Grind the remaining 3 tablespoons of nuts until they have reached the consistency of a paste. Add the miso and rice vinegar (and mirin, if using) and mix until creamy.
6. Add the spinach to the mortar and use your hands to gently fold them into the dressing.
7. Serve immediately, with the reserved crushed walnuts sprinkled on top, and a few edible flower petals (if you have some in the garden).

Nutrition

Calories

277 cal

Fat

18 g

Carbs

20 g

Protein

16 g

Click Here For Full Nutrition, Exchanges, and My Plate Info

7.8.1.2

95

https://www.joellegaudet.com/2020/06/07/spinach-with-walnut-miso-sauce/

References

Hachisu, Nancy Singleton., and Miura. Japanese Farm Food. Andrews McMeel, 2012.
Robinson, J. (2014). Eating on the wild side: The missing link to optimum health. New York: Little, Brown and Company.

The post Spinach with Walnut Miso Sauce (ほうれん草のくるみ和え) appeared first on Gluten Free Private / Personal Chef in Victoria BC.

Too little known outside of France, sorrel’s refreshing acidity can enhance endless meat, fish, poultry, egg, and vegetable preparations used in small quantities as a flavoring herb, as the principal element in a soup or sauce, or as a vegetable garnish in itself. A graceful and welcome change from the sempiternal lemon.

Richard Olney, Simple French Food (1974)

It takes a particular kind of word lover to become enamoured with a recipe that describes a green vegetable as “graceful” and an ordinary lemon as “sempiternal”, but it takes no qualifications whatsoever to fall in love with the dish it produces: a light, creamy and refreshing soup, best enjoyed cold with the windows thrown wide open, to catch the soundtrack of spring.

This sorrel soup takes its origins in the French countryside, where the author of the above quotation, an American artist and contemporary of Julia Child, settled in 1951, until his death in 1999. His writings about French food and wine and his generous hospitality were to be a huge influence to prominent figures in the American food world, such as Alice Waters, owner of Chez Panisse and pioneer of California cuisine, and Kermit Lynch, author and wine importer, who introduced Americans to many great French wines.

Richard Olney saw French cooking as a way of life more than a set of techniques and recipes. He espoused the view that “one can only eat marvellously by respecting the seasons,” a lesson that, in the age of convenience and globalization, we seem to have largely forgotten. Alice Waters used the word “artistry” to describe not only the way he cooked but the way he applied conscientiousness to every practice in daily life. “He lived his life so consciously and purposefully. When some people build a stone wall, they think about it for weeks beforehand. Richard spoke that way, wrote that way, cooked that way — strict, demanding but unpretentious. There are hundreds of great cooks, but not many with his talent and aesthetic sense” (quoted in the New York Times: 1999).

Garden Stroll

This recipe starts with a necessary detour to the garden. Climb the stairs, cat in toe, open the gate and duck under the plum tree. Stop by the bird pond to fill it with crisp, crystalline water, remove a few weeds hiding among your rows of radish and gai lan seedlings. Crouch down beside the lush eruptions of green leaves and start snapping off the young, tender leaves. As you work, the cat happily rolls around in the warm earth, threatening to smother your seedlings. From across the fence drifts riffs of acoustic melody, mingling with birdsong and the distant thunder of a lawnmower. When your bowl or basket is full, saunter back to the kitchen, pausing to collect a few sprigs of chives or chervil to garnish your forthcoming spring opus.

Indeed, you might be hard-pressed to find today’s main ingredient anywhere other than a vegetable garden, but luckily, as I discovered last year, sorrel is the novice (and sometimes reluctant) gardener’s best friend. Plant it once, and it will come back faithfully, without much maintenance, every year, and bless you with an abundance of nutritious leaves from spring to late summer.

The tender leaves have a lovely acidic tang reminiscent of green apples, and the useful property of “melting” into simmered soup, bestowing their refreshing flavour to the stock as their texture disintegrates. The larger leaves tend more toward bitterness and are best sautéed or parboiled as you would a mature bunch of spinach.

Recipes Notes

• Simple recipes allow the ingredients in it to shine. In that spirit, choose the highest quality dairy you can afford, whether that be organic or grass-finished.
• I bought my sorrel seeds from West Coast Seeds, available locally at garden stores like Garden Works and The Root Cellar.
• No sorrel? No problem! Use other tender greens, such as baby spinach, and, right before serving, revert to Olney’s “sempiternal lemon”: a little zest and juice until the soup tastes just right to you.

Joëlle

Serves 4-6

496

Sorrel Soup (Soupe à l’Oseille)

Light, refreshing and creamy, this French soup is a simple and yet decadent way to celebrate the bounty of spring.

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Ingredients

• 6 ounces sorrel (preferably tender young leaves—if older, they should be parboiled for a few of seconds before adding to the butter)
• 1 large sweet onion, finely chopped
• 3 tbsp butter
• 1 lb Chinese taro root or potatoes, peeled, quartered lengthwise and finely sliced
• Salt
• 1 quart boiling water
• 3/4 cup heavy cream
• Pepper
• Handful chopped chives or chervil leaves

Instructions

1. Pick over the sorrel leaves, removing any coarse and stringy stems by pulling them off backwards from the leaves. Cut the leaves into a fine chiffonade.
2. Melt 2 tbsp butter in a saucepan over low heat and add the onion. Stew the onion, stirring, until translucent and meltingly soft, but uncoloured, about 15 minutes.
3. Add sorrel and continue cooking until it has "melted" into the butter.
4. Add the taro (or potatoes) and cook a few minutes more, stirring.
5. Salt and pour in the boiling water.
6. Cover the saucepan and gently simmer for 30 minutes.
7. Uncover and use an immersion blender or potato masher to reduce the taro (or potatoes) to a fine purée.
8. Stir in the cream and remove from heat.
9. Serve chilled, garnished with chives or chervil and freshly ground pepper.

Notes

If you would prefer a warm soup, substitute 3 additional tablespoons of butter for a quarter cup of the heavy cream in step 8. Bring the boil back to a boil before removing from heat.

Nutrition

Calories

496 cal

Fat

27 g

Carbs

51 g

Protein

13 g

Click Here For Full Nutrition, Exchanges, and My Plate Info

7.8.1.2

94

https://www.joellegaudet.com/2020/05/18/sorrel-soup-soupe-a-loseille/

Storage

Because this soup contains cream and potatoes, it does not freeze well. It keeps well in the fridge for 3-4 days, and usually disappears way before the end of that timeline!

References

Olney, R. (2014). Simple French Food. Boston: Houghton Mifflin Harcourt.

The post Sorrel Soup (Soupe à l’Oseille) appeared first on Gluten Free Private / Personal Chef in Victoria BC.

Back to Curry

Last February, I wrote a three part series about Japanese curry. First, I experimented with making fukujinzuke, the fermented pickle usually served with curry. In the next post, I wrote how curry came to Japan and evolved to be something distinctly Japanese. Then, I explained how to make a gluten- and additive-free curry roux at home, with recipe for a delicious chicken curry that you can make in an Instant Pot. Finally, there was the funky curry-flavoured kraut, for those who wish to ferment their curry and keep it in their fridge to snack on at any time.

Now that the cycle of the seasons have brought us back to braise and stew weather, I decided it was time to make another batch of curry roux. On a stormy new moon in November, my friend and I were scheduled for a nighttime harvesting expedition. Digging medicinal roots in the cold November earth seemed like the kind of activity that demanded a hearty meal in preparation, and this Japanese beef curry recipe fit the bill to a tee.

What is Roux and Why Bother Making Your Own?

Roux (pronounced roo) is a thickener for sauces, soups and stews, made by cooking flour (usually wheat flour) in fat (usually butter, lard, or other rendered fats) at low temperatures until the flour begins to change colour. Heating the flour deactivates the enzymes that encourage clumping when they are mixed with liquid. Roux is also a more stable thickener than simple starch slurries, and has the additional advantage of imparting a nice nutty flavour to dishes thanks to the browning of flour.

Roux makes curries smoother and tastier, but it is also a time consuming process. It was in 1954, when Japan’s large food corporations started introducing solid curry roux blocks, that making curry at home suddenly became very convenient and accessible to people across Japan, propelling its rise to popularity. Unfortunately, these blocks contained not only flour and fat, but also a whole slew of flavour and colour enhancers, and preservatives.

The practice of making curry roux has not entirely disappeared though, and the process is easy to master. All it takes is butter, a starchy flour, a few common spices and a bit of patience.

Strange Seasonings?

• Baking Soda: According to chef and food writer J. Kenji López-Alt, increasing the pH of your food with a tad of baking soda is an excellent way to speed up the Maillard reaction, the set of interactions between sugars, proteins and enzymes at high temperatures that adds color and flavour to food. I read about the idea on Amy and Jacky’s blog, and decided to add a pinch to my onions before pressure cooking them to sweet, brown perfection. Baking soda also hastens the breakdown of cell wall by weakening pectin, the “chemical glue that holds vegetable cells together,” resulting in softer onions.

• Molasses, Tomato Paste, Tamarind Paste, Anchovy Paste: These are all components of Worcestershire sauce (and its Japanese iterations), a common ingredient in Japanese curry. Each of them provides concentrated elements of umami, sweetness and acidity. By using the individual ingredients, I can add umami and depth of flavour without sacrificing my commitment to whole foods.

Joëlle

Serves 4

458

Japanese Beef Curry

Layer in the flavour! With red wine, caramelized onions and homemade curry roux, this Japanese beef curry packs a spectacular punch. Gluten-free and additive-free.

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Ingredients

• 2 lbs. (937g) beef chuck
• Salt and pepper
• 1 tbsp beef tallow
• 6 garlic cloves, minced
• 1 cup red wine
For the Seasonings
• 1/2 cup bone broth
• 1 tbsp tamari
• 1 tbsp molasses
• 1 tbsp tomato paste
• 1 tsp tamarind paste
• 1 tsp anchovy paste
• 8 dried shiitakes
• 2 bay leaves
For the Caramelized Onion Purée
• 1.5 lbs. (680g) yellow onions and shallots, thinly sliced
• 3 tbsp (45g) unsalted butter
• ⅓ tsp baking soda
• Pinch of salt

Instructions

1. Set your Instant Pot to Saute mode, and wait a moment for it to fully warm up. Melt butter and add sliced onions and shallots, baking soda and salt. Sauté until the onions start to sweat, about 5 minutes. Press cancel to turn off the Instant Pot and screw on the lid.
2. Making sure the Steam Release Handle is turned to the Sealing position, set the Pressure Cook program to cook for 20 minutes on high pressure.
3. After the program is over, do a Quick Release and remove the lid.
4. Turn the Instant Pot back to Saute Mode, and cook, stirring constantly, until most of the moisture has evaporated and the onion mixture has reached a thick puree-like consistency.
5. Turn off the Instant Pot and transfer the puree to a container. Clean the liner and place it back in the pot.
6. Set your Instant Pot to Saute mode, and wait a moment for it to fully warm up. Melt cooking fat and spread it around to fully coat the bottom of the liner.
7. Brown beef chuck shoulder on all sides (about 5-6 minutes per side). Set browned meat aside on cutting board.
8. Add garlic to the pot and saute until fragrant, about 30 seconds.
9. Deglaze the pot with red wine, and press Cancel to turn off the Instant Pot.
10. Cut beef chuck into 3-5 cm cubes (1.5-2 inches) and place them back in the pot, along with
11. bone broth, tamari, molasses, tomato paste, tamarind paste, anchovy paste, shiitakes, bay leaves and caramelized onion puree.
12. Screw the lid back onto the Instant Pot. Making sure the Steam Release Handle is turned to the Sealing position, set the Pressure Cook program to cook for 33 minutes on high pressure.
13. Let the Instant Pot do a natural release, and take the lid off.
14. Turn the Instant Pot back to Saute mode and reduce the sauce until it has reached your desired consistency (I like it very thick!).
15. Stir in curry bit by bit, tasting as you go, until the flavour is just right.
16. Serve with short-grain white rice, steamed vegetables or a combination of the two, and fukujinzuke or shichimi togarashi kraut (optional).

Nutrition

Calories

458 cal

Fat

14 g

Carbs

28 g

Protein

48 g

Click Here For Full Nutrition, Exchanges, and My Plate Info

7.8.1.2

93

https://www.joellegaudet.com/2019/12/16/japanese-beef-curry/

References

López-Alt J. Kenji. (2015). The Food Lab: Better Home Cooking through Science. New York: W. W. Norton & Company, Inc.
The Culinary Institute Of America (Cia). (2002). Professional chef. Hoboken: John Wiley & Sons.

Guidance and Inspiration

Pressure Cook Recipes — Pressure Cooker Beef Curry (Japanese)

Thank you Amy and Jackie!

The post Japanese Beef Curry appeared first on Gluten Free Private / Personal Chef in Victoria BC.

It sounded worth trying, even without the fireplace, so when I saw bags of locally grown chestnuts at the Local General Store, I decided to make a detour to the liquor store to stock up on Chianti as well.

Spice it Up?

Chestnuts. Wine. A pinch of salt. Is that all it takes? It could be. Marcella Hazan also adds a couple bay leaves to her pot, and I started wondering if there was anything else in my spice cabinet that would pair well with chestnuts and red wine. A few options came to mind: cinnamon, cloves, allspice, black pepper. Maybe even a small amount of cardamom. I was drawn, however, to a new addition in my pantry: black pepper’s more fragrant and sensual cousin, long pepper.

Long pepper (Piper longum), is an elongated cluster of tiny berries, roughly the size of sesame seeds, that are harvested, dried and used a seasoning, much like the more familiar Piper nigrum, the berries that give us green, white and black peppercorns. But whereas Piper nigrum is ubiquitous in kitchen cabinets and on dining tables worldwide, and very easy to acquire, Piper longum is virtually unknown in the Western world. This was not always the case. Introduced from India during the CLassical Era, long pepper was known by the Greeks, and was the pepper of choice in Ancient Rome. Black pepper was also available in Europe, but did not become widespread until the 12th century. Medieval cookbooks such as Le Ménagier de Paris, written circa 1393, make ample use of long pepper, but by the end of that century, it had fallen out of favour, just as the chili pepper, introduced from the New World, was gaining in popularity.

Max Falkowitz, in an article for Serious Eats, describes the flavour as such:

Its flavor is much more complex than black pepper, reminiscent of spice blends like garam masala more than a single spice. It possesses black pepper’s heat and musk, but in a less harsh, more nuanced way, tempered by sweet notes of nutmeg, cinnamon, and cardamom. Its finish lingers on the tongue with a tobacco-like coolness; where black pepper stings, long pepper balms.

I find that the complex, heady aroma of this unusual pepper works really well with red wine and the simple, nutty sweetness of chestnuts. You can find long pepper in some specialty food shops as well as from some online spice merchants. I bought mine from Charelli’s, a local cheese shop and delicatessen.

Recipe Notes

• Feel free to substitute long pepper with any of the spices I mentioned above (cinnamon, cloves, allspice, black pepper) or to omit spices altogether.
• If you do not have Chianti on hand, other medium-bodied, dry wines such as Sangiovese or Merlot will work well.
• The fresher the chestnuts, the shorter the cooking time. In other words, if your chestnuts are not fresh, allow for more cooking time.

Joëlle

Serves 4

292

Red-Wine Braised Chestnuts

A delicious alternative to roasted chestnuts, to warm you up on a cold evening

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Ingredients

• 1 lb. fresh chestnuts
• 1 cup Chianti (or other dry red wine)
• 2 fresh bay leaves
• 1 long pepper (optional)
• Pinch of salt

Instructions

1. Soak chestnuts in a bowl of lukewarm water for 20 minutes to soften the shells.
2. Place one chestnut on its flat side, and, using the tip of a pairing knife, cut a couple of shallow slits through the shell over the bulging side of the chestnut. Make each slit roughly perpendicular to one another, forming an X shaped-incision. Repeat with all chestnuts.
3. Put the chestnuts in a pot and add the wine, bay leaves and long pepper and salt.
4. Turn the heat to medium and simmer, lid on, until the chestnuts are tender, 30-60 minutes depending on the freshness of the chestnuts.
5. When the chestnuts are tender, remove the lid and keep simmering until the wine is reduced to a few tablespoons worth.
6. Serve immediately, in a warm bowl, with an extra bowl to discard the shells, and a glass of the remaining wine.

Nutrition

Calories

292 cal

Fat

3 g

Carbs

53 g

Protein

3 g

Click Here For Full Nutrition, Exchanges, and My Plate Info

7.8.1.2

92

https://www.joellegaudet.com/2019/12/09/red-wine-braised-chestnuts/

References

Falkowitz, M. (2011, April 28). Spice Hunting: Long Pepper. Serious Eats. Retrieved from https://www.seriouseats.com/2011/04/spice-hunting-long-pepper-piper-longum-java-bali-indonesian-indian.html
Hazan, M., & Kretschmann, K. (2017). Essentials of Classic Italian Cooking. New York: Alfred A. Knopf.
Rahiman, B. A., & Nair, M. K. (1987). The Genus Piper Linn. in Karnataka, India. The Journal of the Bombay Natural History Society, 84(1), 66–83.
Toussaint-Samat, M. (2009). A History of Food. Chichester, West Sussex, U.K.: Wiley-Blackwell.

The post Red Wine-Braised Chestnuts appeared first on Gluten Free Private / Personal Chef in Victoria BC.

If you had told me two years ago (or five or ten) that I’d be brewing alcohol as hobby today, I wouldn’t have believed you. But given my broad and ever-deepening interest in fermentation, it was only a matter of time before I grew more intimate with humanity’s good friend Saccharomyces cerevisiae.

I came across the idea of Juniper beer while researching a mystery. It started when I bought a bag of dried juniper berries at the herbalist’s for an Italian braised pork recipe I made with my sister. The recipe turned out so well, I started looking for other ways to use juniper berries in the kitchen. A quick Google search for fermented juniper berries turned out many blog posts, mostly from bloggers in the United States, describing experiments making a Bosnian fermented juniper berry drink called smreka.

Smreka is a recipe for a fermented juniper soda found in Sandor Elliz Katz’s The Art of Fermentation. Here is what Katz has to say about the drink:

Smreka is a wonderful light juniper berry soft drink from Bosnia that I learned about from Luke Regalbuto and Maggie Levinger, who traveled around Eastern Europe seeking hands-on education with traditional fermentation methods […] Luke and Maggie encountered smreka at a particular establishment they happened into in Sarajevo. “Smreka did not seem to be widely consumed around Bosnia,” they wrote to me. They believe the place where they had it was Muslim-owned because the “smreka was served in lieu of any sort of alcohol.” The smreka they were served was cold out of the fridge, with a heaping spoonful of sugar […] “When we inquired about the beverage and its contents they just kept saying ‘smreka’ (which means juniper berry) as if that was the only ingredient, which seemed preposterous to us, as it tasted so dynamic and delicious”

I made smreka on a few occasions, and it is indeed delicious, which prompted me to sleuth around for more information. Its recipe as it appears in The Art of Fermentation, I found, has been reproduced widely across the web, in the process muddying, as the Internet tends to do, the truth about the drink’s origins. I found nothing written about the beverage in other European languages, let alone in Bosnian or Serbian, and a search through academic publications also turned out nothing as well. I was mystified.

Although most online sources tout smreka as a “fermented drink from Bosnia,” it seemed it might be more accurate to say that smreka is a “fermented drink from one eatery in Sarajevo”, a chance finding rather than a cultural heritage*.

I did, however, come across during my research an article from the Journal of Ethnobiology titled “Juniper Beer in Poland: The Story of the Revival of a Traditional Beverage”. My curiosity was instantly piqued. I found the article and read it from start to finish, then immediately got out my calculator and scaled down one of its recipes to a trial batch of two litres (half a gallon). My excitement propelled me back to the herbalist’s, where I purchased a large quantity of dried juniper berries. Let the experiments begin! I thought, as I starting crushing the fragrant berries with my granite pestle.

*I was glad to see this issue addressed by the Juniper Beer article in its overview of traditional uses of juniper in Europe: “juniper beer, called smreka (after the local name of the plant), is served in at least one traditional restaurant in Sarajevo, the capital of Bosnia-Herzegovina (Katz 2012), though we have not found any other records of its use in Bosnia”. Nail in the coffin, until further notice.

A Plant and a People

Let us zoom in our lens on the Polish region of Kurpie, a land characterized by poor, arid soils, in the northeastern portion of the province of Mazovia (Masowswe). This particular geography is critical to our story, because on the one hand, it made its people vulnerable to famine, as well as inventive with and well-versed in the wild flora of their land, and on the other, it favoured the growth of juniper shrubs and trees, which thrive on the acidic, sandy soils of dry habitats.

Lithograph of Juniperus communis from Stephenson and Churchill’s 1831 monograph Medical botany

Juniper (Juniperus communis, and other species of the same genus) is a coniferous shrub that grows in cool temperate swaths of North America, Europe and Asia. The “berries” are not in fact true berries, but instead the fleshy and highly-aromatic female cones of the shrub, which grow amidst the needle-like leaves like tiny Christmas baubles. These pseudo-berries contain a large quantity of sugars (30-40%), mostly glucose and fructose, and resin (up to 10%). In addition, they are rich in essential oils, chief of them α-pinene, a terpene which exhibits mild antibacterial activity.

The practice of making juniper beer probably developed in times of scarcity, when fermentable grains and sugars were in short supply. The people of Kurpie turned to the only sources of sugar available in the local landscape: honey and juniper berries. Both their high sugar content and their antiseptic, bacteriostatic properties, not to mention their beautiful resinous fragrance, made juniper berries ideal candidates for fermentation.

A Polish Tradition

Juniper beer therefore started out as a beverage of the poor and became part of the fabric of tradition to the people of Kurpie. Ethnographic accounts from the early twentieth century tell us that the beverage was mostly served at communal celebrations such as weddings, baptisms, and funeral parties. In the 1930s, when local bishops forbade the production and consumption of vodka, juniper beer enjoyed a rise in popularity, as an alternative source of alcohol, albeit a much lighter one, that could be made easily at home.

Fast forward to today and juniper beer is enjoying a revival in Kurpie culture. It is known as psiwo kozicowe in the local dialect and as piwo jałowcowe in standard Polish. True to its origins, the beverage has not been mass-produced and cannot be bought from shops. It is instead made at home, upon request for cultural events and special occasions, or to serve to tourists who visit the area. The main difference is that whereas before World War I, sugar was hard to come by, now, it is the juniper berries that are growing scarce. With fewer bushes to pick from locally, brewers must rely increasingly on specialized collectors and herbalist shops to procure the berries.

Making Juniper Beer

To make juniper beer at home, you will need:

• a glass container (I used a half-gallon jar)
• something to cover the container, that keeps unwanted particles out but allows the buildup of carbon dioxide to escape. A few options include: 1) a coffee filter of a piece of cheesecloth, fastened with an elastic band, 2) a loosely-fastened lid or 3) a specialized airlock system.
• A fine-mesh strainer
• A mortar and pestle, or something to crush the berries
• Airtight bottles for storage

Juniper berries and hops, the two flavouring ingredients in this recipe, can be found in certain specialized food shops, brewing supply shops or herbalist’s shops. I bought mine from Simple Remedies, in Victoria, BC.

Joëlle

Yields 2 litres

Serves 4-6

271

Juniper Beer (Psiwo Kozicowe)

A refreshing probiotic and lightly alcoholic drink from Poland, made from fermented juniper berries and honey, with a hint of hops. Na zdrowie! (Cheers!)

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Ingredients

• 2L water
• 100g juniper berries
• 200-250g honey
• 1tbsp hops
• 2g beer or wine yeast

Instructions

1. Pound juniper berries in a mortar and mix them with water in a half-gallon glass jar. Let sit overnight (or longer, if you want a stronger juniper taste).
2. Strain the mixture through a fine-mesh sieve lined with cheesecloth. Discard the solids.
3. Bring strained mixture to a boil, remove from heat and stir in the honey. Pour liquid into a clean half-gallon jar.
4. In a small saucepan, bring 1/2 cup water to a boil. Add hops and simmer for 10 minutes. Strain the mixture and add to the jar.
5. Once the liquid has cooled to room temperature, mix in yeast and cover the jar with a coffee filter, cheesecloth or an airlock.
6. Taste every day. When you are happy with the taste (it should take 2-5 days), transfer liquid to airtight bottles and store in the fridge.
7. Juniper beer is quite bubbly, so be sure to release the pressure from the bottles every day! Juniper beer keeps well in the fridge for a few weeks. Keep in mind that it will keep fermenting, so the taste will change over time. Na zdrowie! (Cheers!)

Nutrition

Calories

271 cal

Fat

2 g

Carbs

61 g

Protein

4 g

Click Here For Full Nutrition, Exchanges, and My Plate Info

7.8.1.2

91

https://www.joellegaudet.com/2019/12/02/juniper-beer/

References

Katz, S. E. (2012). The art of fermentation an in-depth exploration of essential concepts and processes from around the world. White River Junction: Chelsea Green Publ.
Madej, T., Pirożnikow, E., Dumanowski, J., & Łuczaj, Ł. (2014). Juniper Beer in Poland: The Story of the Revival of a Traditional Beverage. Journal of Ethnobiology, 34(1), 84–103. doi: 10.2993/0278-0771-34.1.84
Stephenson, J., & Churchhill, J. M. (1831). Medical botany, or, illustrations and descriptions of the medical Plants of the London, Edinburgh, and Dublin Pharmacopoeias; comprising a popular and scientific account of all those poisonous vegetables that are indigenous to Great Britain (Vol. 3). London: John Churchill.

The post Juniper Beer (Psiwo Kozicowe) appeared first on Gluten Free Private / Personal Chef in Victoria BC.

Radish preserved in salt is a winter side-dish from start to end.
The roots in the earth grow plumper everyday,
Harvesting after the frost, a slice cut by a knife tastes like a pear.

-Yi Kyubo, Confucian scholar and poet (1168–1241)

Today’s fermentation project is dongchimi (동치미), a type of kimchi made from Korean radishes, fermented whole in a light brine. Traditionally made at the end of the harvest season and eaten throughout winter, dongchimi provided pre-modern Korean families with the refreshing taste of vegetables through the months of food scarcity. According to the Encyclopedia of Korean Seasonal Customs, dongchimi “remains one of the three most popular kinds of kimchi prepared and consumed in households, along with baechu kimchi (Kor. 배추김치, cabbage kimchi) and kkakdugi (Kor. 깍두기, diced radish kimchi).” Fermented in large earthenware jars buried outside in the ground, dongchimi was eaten “ice-cold, immediately after taking the radish pieces out of the liquid that [was] covered with a thick ice sheet.”

Wait a second. Pink kimchi? After my green and black eggs, you’re probably thinking to yourself: what’s next? Blue tomatoes?

Although kimchi nowadays is strongly associated with the colour red, thanks to the finger-scorching amounts of red pepper flakes that get massaged into the filling, not all kimchis look like underwater flames, and not all kimchis burn. In fact, archaeological evidence places the invention of kimchi at roughly 4,000 years ago, while Capsicum annuum, the plant that gives us the chili pepper, likely arrived in Korea at the end of the sixteenth century, and presumably, the nationwide supply of kimchi did not blush red the moment it jumped off the boat. It is, therefore, reasonable to assume that of the over 150 different varieties of kimchi described in records from the Joseon Dynasty (1392-1897), many were not, in fact, red. Seo Geojeong’s (1420-1488) allusion to kimchi as “golden-yellow vegetable” is a case in point.

But were they pink? you probe, skepticism unabated.

Well, probably not, I admit. But, it’s not impossible!

You see, the pink colour of my kimchi derives mostly from the type of radish I used–a purple variety of the large Asian radish, known as daikon (大根) in Japan, and as mu (무) in Korea, where it is just as ubiquitous. Although Korean radishes are generally white tinged with pale green around the stem, it is not unthinkable that other varieties, such as the beautiful purple ones I used for this recipe, also grew on the peninsula. As the kimchi brine acidifies with the proliferation of lactic acid bacteria, the purple pigments become bright pink, as you can see by looking at these two photographs, one taken of the second day of fermentation, and the other, once the kimchi was ready to eat.

Fermentation Day #1

It’s ready!

Dongchimi was, and still is, traditionally eaten during the wintertime. In fact, when written in hanja (Chinese characters), it is made up of the character for winter (冬) and a character used in the past to designate kimchi (沈).

The basic requirements for making dongchimi,” write the authors of a paper on the origins of kimchi, “are as follows: it should contain a small amount of salt so that light fermentation can take place; it should be stored at a low temperature; and it should also be eaten at a low temperature” (2015). With its low salt content, dongchimi required the cold temperatures of the winter months to prevent spoilage and premature souring. It is only recently, with the advent of “kimchi fridges” (and refrigeration in general), that it has become possible to enjoy dongchimi at any time of the year. Still, Koreans still associate dongchimi with winter, as a food to be enjoyed ice-cold with a bowl of buckwheat noodles (nengmyeon) or a roasted sweet potato.

Recipe Notes

• I used purple radishes for this recipe, but you can use any type of Asian radish (white, green and white, or all green).
• The recipe calls for small radishes (roughly the size of your fist). If you only have access to larger radishes, simply cut them into fist-sized portions before salting them.
• I used horseradish as a seasoning, because I love the taste, but traditional dongchimi recipes would not have included this ingredient. It may instead have included small green or red peppers (not spicy ones).

A Note About Water

When choosing a water source for fermentation, you want to be conscious of contamination, but also of how the water may have been treated to remove those contaminants. Tap water is often treated with chlorine, chloramines (a combination of chlorine and ammonia) or fluoride, all of which can impair the quality of your ferments and should be removed before use. Check with your municipal water source to find out how your water is treated. Certain filtration systems will remove these compounds (more information here). The easiest method for removing chlorine is to boil your water for 15 minutes. As for chloramines, adding a pinch of ascorbic acid (vitamin C) powder to the water does the trick.

Equipment

• A gallon-sized jar (glass or earthenware)
• Unbleached cheesecloth

Joëlle

Pink Dongchimi ( 분홍색 동치미)

Hot pink kimchi? Absolutely! This water kimchi, made with purple radishes and Himalayan pink salt, fizzes on your tongues with the refreshing flavours of ginger, onion, pear and horseradish.

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Ingredients

• 5 purple daikon radishes (about 2 kg)
• 1/4 cup Himalayan salt
• 3 garlic cloves, minced
• 2 tbsp minced ginger
• 2 tbsp minced horseradish
• 4 scallions, cut into 3 or 4 pieces
• 1 small Asian pear (or 1/2 of a large one), cubed
• 1/2 yellow onion, sliced into bite size pieces
• Water

Instructions

1. Put the salt into a shallow dish.
2. Wash the radishes and place them one by one into the shallow dish, rolling them around and using your hands to cover them with salt.
3. Place the salted radishes into a clean gallon-sized jar. If your radishes came with tops, place those on top along with the remaining salt.
4. Leaves the jar on your counter for 3-4 days with the lid screwed on (or, in the summertime, in the fridge for 4-5 days). During this time, the salt will draw moisture out from the radishes, and start pooling and fermenting at the bottom of the jar.
5. Mince ginger, garlic and horseradish and wrap them up in a piece of cheesecloth. Tie up the bundle and place it in the jar.
6. Add scallions, pear and onion.
7. Pour in enough water to cover all the vegetables and mix it around with a wooden spoon to spread the salt around.
8. Screw the lid on loosely, and let the jar on your counter to ferment for 3-6 days. As the vegetables ferment, the water will turn bright pink, fizzy and slightly sour and milky. Taste it every day, and when you are happy with the taste, transfer the jar to the fridge.
9. To serve, slice just enough radish, arrange them in a serving bowl (or many small individual dishes) with some pear and onion pieces, and ladle some fizzy pink broth over the slices.

Nutrition

Calories

64 cal

Fat

1 g

Carbs

14 g

Protein

2 g

Click Here For Full Nutrition, Exchanges, and My Plate Info

7.8.1.2

90

https://www.joellegaudet.com/2019/11/18/pink-dongchimi/

References

Jang, D.-J., Chung, K. R., Yang, H. J., Kim, K.-S., & Kwon, D. Y. (2015). Discussion on the origin of kimchi, representative of Korean unique fermented vegetables. Journal of Ethnic Foods, 2(3), 126–136. doi: 10.1016/j.jef.2015.08.005
Na Kyŏng-su, & Chae, R. (2010). Encyclopedia of Korean seasonal customs. Seoul: National Folk Museum of Korea.
Pettid, M. J. (2008). Korean cuisine: an illustrated history. London: Reaktion Books.

Guidance and Inspiration

Maangchi — Radish Water Kimchi

Thank you Maangchi!

The post Pink Dongchimi (분홍색 동치미) appeared first on Gluten Free Private / Personal Chef in Victoria BC.

The Story of a Smell

Takamato ridge, crowded with expanding caps, filling up, thriving—the wonder of autumn aroma.
—From the Manyōshū (万葉集), an eighth-century Japanese poetry collection

The sound of a temple bell is heard in the cedar forest at dusk, The autumn aroma drifts on the roads below.
—Akemi Tachibana (1812–1868)

The moving cloud fades away, and I smell the aroma of the mushroom.
—Koi Nagata (1900–1997)

The first thing I do when I open the paper bag is inhale deeply through my nose. I am immediately transported to the moist forest floor after a rainfall. My head fills with an olfactory echo of earth and evergreens, a musky perfume rounded off with notes of sweat and sweetness. Although repulsive to some, the aroma of matsutake mushrooms is, to countless others, a joyful smell. In any case, it is a very distinctive one, that penetrates and inscribes itself into your sensory memory with a single whiff.

“Matsutake!” I exclaim happily, reaching into the bag to get a closer look at the treasures. Their caps, partially unfurled, range in size from apricot to orange, with dirt and pine needles still coating their brown-streaked ivory skin. The aroma takes me back to the last time the leaves fell, when, sighing after the last bite of grilled matsutake had disappeared from the plate, I wondered if I would ever again get the privilege of receiving, and preparing, such a decadent gift.

So much life in a smell! I marvel, bringing the mushrooms into my kitchen. The currents of my own nostalgia, tinged with memories of a lifetime in proximity to the temperate rainforests of the Northwest Coast, are only the beginning of the story, a small tributary in a large river that spans the globe and many centuries.

Matsutake mushrooms are known today as the world’s most expensive mushroom. In 2006, imported matsutake sold for an average of 4,000 yen (USD 33) per kilogram in Japan, where they are prized, while locally harvested pine mushrooms reached a whooping 51,000 yen (USD 425) per kilogram wholesale around Kyoto. Matsutake have built mansions in Yunnan, fired gunshots and spilled blood in the forests of Oregon, and inspired new inquiries into ecosystem restoration in Japan. It seems like a lot, for a single type of mushroom. All for a few whiffs of autumn aroma…

I’m a perennial advocate of knowing where our food comes from, but isn’t it worthwhile to know, not just where the mushroom on your plate comes from, but also how and why? To trace the history, not just of the individual specimen, from its birthplace, buried in the undergrowth at the foot of a pine, but of the entire species, from a symbol of seasonality and refinement in medieval Japan, to a global commodity, with global economic, social and environmental impact. Why matsutake? The story of Tricholoma matsutake, in both its proliferation and its demise, is inextricably tied to our own story, as Homo sapiens. It tells us as much about human beings as it does about a fungus.

As Anna Tsing demonstrates in her book, The Mushroom at the End of the World: on the Possibility of Life in Capitalist Ruins, to study matsutake is to study international relations, capitalist trading practices and the social dimensions of ecological change.

The Aroma of Autumn

The first known reference to matsutake appears in Manyōshū (万葉集), the “Collection of Ten Thousand Leaves”, the oldest extant anthology of Japanese poetry, composed and compiled in the eighth century, when the Japanese court was established in present-day Nara. As Tsing writes:

Already then, the mushroom is praised for its aromatic marking of the autumn season. The mushroom became common around Nara and Kyoto, where people had deforested the mountains for wood to build temples and to fuel iron forges. Indeed, human disturbance allowed Tricholoma matsutake to emerge in Japan. This is because its most common host is red pine (Pinus densiflora), which germinates in the sunlight and mineral soils left by human deforestation. When forests in Japan are allowed to grow back, without human disturbance, broadleaf trees shade out pines, preventing their further germination.

As red pine spread with deforestation across Japan, matsutake became a valued gift, presented beautifully in a box of ferns. Aristocrats were honored by it. By the Edo period (1603–1868), well-to-do commoners, such as urban merchants, also enjoyed matsutake. The mushroom joined the celebration of the four seasons as a marker of autumn. Outings to pick matsutake in the fall were an equivalent of cherry-blossom viewing parties in the spring. Matsutake became a popular subject for poetry.

A Perfect Threesome?

Tricholoma matsutake is a mycorrhizal fungi–it thrives by forming a symbiotic relationship with certain species of conifers, providing the tree with water and mineral nutrients in exchange for some of the sugars the tree produces by photosynthesis. In the forests of Japan, matsutake’s choice partner is the Japanese red pine (Pinus densiflora), but there is a third partner that turned out to be essential for the relationship to thrive: Homo sapiens.

Pinus densiflora, like other members of the pine genus, is a pioneer species that thrives in disturbed or damaged forest ecosystems. It is adept at surviving in dry and exposed conditions, and quick to colonize vacant land. The damage can be a result of natural disasters, like landslides or forest fires, but a new form of environmental disturbance came in the form of human settlers. As humans colonized the Japanese islands, it could be said, the red pines followed suit, colonizing the land cleared to build and maintain human settlements. Fragrant white caps were not far behind, erupting from the damp forest floor, permeating the roads with their aroma and heralding the arrival of autumn.

Red pines and its mycorrhizal associate flourished in the wake of human activity, as people disturbed forest ecosystems, cutting trees for fuel and carpentry and fallen leaves for fertilizer. For centuries this relationship thrived, and matsutake depended as much on humans as humans came to bank on them.

Breaking the Balance

Modernization and industrialization, brought on by the Meiji Restoration and the opening of Japan to the West, changed the relationship of people to the land. At first, these changes favored the tree-and-fungi duo, as deforestation sped up, clearing land for their taking, but, as Anna Tsing explains, in the mid-1950s, things took a turn:

Peasant woodlands were cut down for timber plantations, paved for suburban development, or abandoned by peasants moving to the city. Fossil fuel replaced firewood and charcoal; farmers no longer used the remaining woodlands, which grew up in dense thickets of broadleaf trees. Hillsides that had once been covered by matsutake were now too shady for pine ecologies. Shade-stressed pines were killed by an invasive nematode. By the mid-1970s, matsutake had become rare across Japan.

The numbers summarize the story. From a peak of 12,000 metric tons in 1941, the Japanese matsutake harvest fell to 1,000 metric tons per year in the 1970s, and down to only 39 metric tons in 2006. Tsing continues:

This was the time, however, of Japan’s rapid economic development, and matsutake were in demand as exquisitely expensive gifts, perks, and bribes. The price of matsutake skyrocketed. The knowledge that matsutake grew in other parts of the world suddenly became relevant. Japanese travelers and residents abroad began to send matsutake to Japan; as importers emerged to funnel the international matsutake trade, non-Japanese pickers rushed in.

Much More than a Smell

“Koji Ueda,” writes Tsing, “runs a beautifully trim vegetable shop in Kyoto’s traditional market. During the matsutake season, he explained, most people who come into the store don’t want to buy (his matsutake are expensive); they want to smell. Just coming into the store makes people happy, he said. That’s why he sells matsutake, he said: for the sheer pleasure it gives people.” Matsutake’s piney aroma, then, is the smell of joy: a connection to nature embodied through the senses. It is also the smell of nostalgia and tradition. “The smell of matsutake, [older Japanese] say, recalls times past that these young people never knew, much to their detriment. Matsutake, they say, smells like village life and a childhood visiting grandparents and chasing dragonflies. It recalls open pinewoods, now crowded out and dying. Many small memories come together in the smell”.

Matsutake, in Japan as well as in posh restaurants around the world, gives off a complex smell of prestige and status-affirmation. In other parts of the world, but it also sometimes reeks of greed, ambition and zero-sum games, mixed in with the bittersweet hope of economic prosperity.

All in all, the smell of matsutake is, perhaps, the smell of humanity. At its best. And its worst.

Recipe Notes

• If you don’t have access to matsutake mushrooms, try this recipe with shiitake, shimeji or cremini mushrooms.
  You can find packaged gingko nuts at many Asian groceries. Of course, if you live by a gingko tree, I’ve heard they taste even better when they are fresh.
• Yuzu is a type of citrus native to Japan and Korea. I found dried yuzu peel at my local Japanese grocery store. Fresh yuzu zest would be even better. You can substitute lemon zest.
• I garnished this dish with a cured egg yolk. I followed the same method as I did for the salted duck egg yolks that I used for my traditional mooncakes (recipe below). As they pickle, the salted yolks solidify into a gooey sticky ball. Crack open the shell, remove the yolk, and dry it in a dehydrator, or in your oven at the lowest setting, until it has the consistency of a hard cheese (a few hours). You can then grate it as you would Parmesan, and watch it melt deliciously onto your warm mushrooms. It is phenomenal.

Joëlle

Yields 12 salted duck eggs

Salted Duck Eggs (鹹蛋)

Salted duck eggs are a Chinese delicacy, often served with congee. The yolks, which become hard and waxy during brining, are delicious as a garnish on a variety of dishes. They are also found in a number of Chinese pastries, most notably, in the mooncakes enjoyed during the Mid-Autumn Festival.

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Ingredients

• 12 fresh duck eggs
• 4 cups water
• 1 cup salt

Instructions

1. Bring 4 cups of water to a boil. Remove from heat, add salt, and mix until fully dissolved. Let the water cool down to room temperature.
2. When the water is cool, wash eggs and place them one by one in a half-gallon glass jar. Pour in the brine until the eggs are submerged. Cover with a lid and leave in a cool, dry place for 30 days.
3. Store salted duck eggs in the fridge for up to a few months if you don't consume them right away.

Nutrition

Calories

1516 cal

Fat

5 g

Carbs

21 g

Protein

318 g

Click Here For Full Nutrition, Exchanges, and My Plate Info

7.8.1.2

82

https://www.joellegaudet.com/2019/11/11/soy-and-butter-fried-matsutake-with-gingko-nuts-yuzu-and-cured-egg-yolk/

Joëlle

Soy and Butter-Fried Matsutake with Gingko Nuts, Yuzu and Cured Egg Yolk

The prized Japanese mushroom gets a royal treatment fried in butter with gingko nuts and the Japanese trifecta (soy sauce, sake, mirin), with a rich garnish of grated cured duck egg yolk, yuzu peel and white pepper. Simply spectacular.

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Ingredients

• 300g Matsutake (pine mushroom)
• 12 ginnan (gingko nuts)
• 1 tbsp butter
• 2 tbsp sake
• 1 tbsp tamari soy sauce
• 2 tsp mirin
• 1/2 tsp whole white pepper
• 1 tsp dried yuzu peel
• 1 cured and dried duck egg yolk
• Red shiso leaves (optional)
• Fresh cornflower petals (optional)

Instructions

1. Wipe matsutake with a damp cloth to clean off some of the dirt and pine needles, and cut into bite-sized pieces.
2. In a mortar, grind together white pepper and dried yuzu peel to a coarse powder.
3. Melt butter in a skillet over medium high heat.
4. Add mushrooms and gingko nuts and cook, stirring until mushroom are cooked through.
5. Add sake, soy sauce and mirin and stir to spread the seasonings evenly. When the sake has evaporated, remove from heat and transfer to a serving dish.
6. Garnish with grated cured egg yolk, white pepper and yuzu, shiso (optional) and cornflower petals (optional).

Nutrition

Calories

1001 cal

Fat

82 g

Carbs

49 g

Protein

35 g

Click Here For Full Nutrition, Exchanges, and My Plate Info

7.8.1.2

89

https://www.joellegaudet.com/2019/11/11/soy-and-butter-fried-matsutake-with-gingko-nuts-yuzu-and-cured-egg-yolk/

References

Macmurray, J. (2003). Matsutake Gari. Gastronomica, 3(4), 86–89. doi: 10.1525/gfc.2003.3.4.86
Saito, H., & Mitsumata, G. (2008). Bidding Customs and Habitat Improvement for Matsutake (Tricholoma matsutake) in Japan. Economic Botany, 62(3), 257–268. doi: 10.1007/s12231-008-9034-7
Tsing, A. L. (2017). The mushroom at the end of the world: on the possibility of life in capitalist ruins. Princeton: Princeton University Press.

The post Soy and Butter-Fried Matsutake with Gingko Nuts, Yuzu and Cured Egg Yolk appeared first on Gluten Free Private / Personal Chef in Victoria BC.

It’s wild mushroom season, and I have a simple but delicious recipe to celebrate the forest’s bounty. But first, a confession.

Whenever I find myself in possession of wild mushrooms, I always feel a certain amount dread coupled with the tingling excitement at this regal woodland gift. Dread may seem like a peculiar emotion to feel in such circumstances, especially given my near-obsessive love of fungi, but perhaps it should be viewed in light of this predilection. Fresh wild mushrooms are unique ingredients in my mind not only because the high price they fetch, but because even an unlimited food budget can only bring them to your plate at certain times of the year, in certain circumstances. When I open that paper bag and breathe in the scent of the forest floor, I am perfectly cognizant of the fact that this may be my only chance to transform these capped beauties into a dish worthy of their fragrance.

My desire to create beautiful and memorable sensory experiences in the kitchen is intensified by the exclusivity of the opportunity. I probably won’t get a second chance. At least not until next year.

I was therefore openly pleased, and covertly apprehensive, when my friend handed me a container of hedgehog mushrooms, and beckoned me to nibble off a corner and experience its earthy, peppery taste. “Oh!” I exclaimed, delighted, letting the sensation take over my palate. I admitted to him that I hadn’t even known that hedgehog mushrooms were a thing. Luckily, my friend also had a plan for how I should use his gift. It involved pine nuts, rosemary and pancetta, the Italian version of bacon. He had read about this preparation in a book, “and apparently it was the best dish he’d ever had!” he said, supposedly referring to the author of the book.

It wasn’t an imperative, but I gladly took it as such. The mushrooms were on the verge of losing their freshness, and so I would have little time to do any research or to let my imagination perform its idea-generating cartwheels. Simple was good. I had pine nuts in my pantry and ample amounts of rosemary in my garden. I could easily stop at the local salumeria on my way home. I told my friend I would put his idea to the test, and let him know how it went.

Even so, back at my cutting board, my culinary skills seemed suddenly all too inadequate. Mushrooms are very forgiving ingredients. They can sustain a lot of injury in the kitchen and still taste delicious, and yet I found myself looking at my frying pan as if I’d never used it before, fiddling unnecessarily with my mise-en-place.

I fretted for nothing of course; the dish was an impressive success: the bouquet of nutty, earthy aromas, bolstered by pork fat, the crispy slices of pancetta, the perfectly browned mushrooms, brightened by a sprinkling of lemon peel, salt crystals and delicate cornflowers. The dish sizzled with the taste of the woods, and my faith in my cast iron pan (and in my cooking skills!) was restored.

About the Ingredients

I used hedgehog mushrooms and chanterelles for this recipe, related species with similar flavour profiles, but feel free to use just one or the other, or to substitute any mushroom you can get, wild or farmed. Chanterelles are more prized (and therefore pricier), but they are also more widely available at markets and grocery stores. The great thing about pancetta is that it goes well with pretty much anything.

Hedgehog Mushrooms (Hydnum repandum)

From Edmund Michael’s 1896 book, Führer für Pilzfreunde (Guide for Friends of Mushrooms)

Instead of gills (like your common button mushroom) or pores (like porcini mushrooms), hedgehog mushrooms have teeth (also called spines) jutting out from below their caps, as if sheltering a sleeping hedgehog. Of course, this means that were you to type its name into Google Images, you would happen upon a lot of cute illustrations of cartoon hedgehogs posing in idyllic woodlands with their fungi friends. In French, the vernacular names for this toothed mushroom get even more imaginative, from pied-de-mouton (sheep’s foot), langue-de-chat (cat’s tongue), barbe-de-vache (cow’s beard), and barbe-de-chèvre (goat’s beard).

Hedgehog mushrooms are available from late-summer to mid-fall. They have an earthy, sweet and peppery taste, but can grow bitter as they age. They are good sautéed, fried and dried.

Chanterelles (Cantharellus cibarius)

From Edmund Michael’s 1896 book, Führer für Pilzfreunde (Guide for Friends of Mushrooms)

Chanterelles, a favourite among chefs and foodies, are prized for their buttery, fruity and slightly peppery flavour and their beautiful golden colour. In the Pacific Northwest, they are in season from late summer to early winter. They do not have gills either, but instead, forking folds called ridges, that run down the stem of the mushroom.

They have a characteristic fruity fragrance, reminiscent, some say, of the apricots whose colour they closely match. They are great sauteed. Their texture becomes unpleasantly tough when dried and reconstituted, so dried chanterelles are best ground to a powder and used to flavour dishes.

Joëlle

Wild Mushrooms with Pancetta, Rosemary and Pine Nuts

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Ingredients

• 500g chanterelles and/or hedgehog mushrooms
• 150g pancetta, sliced into little strips
• 2 tbsp pine nuts
• 2 tsp chopped fresh rosemary
For Garnishing
• 1 tsp chopped fresh rosemary
• Maldon sea salt, to taste
• Minced lemon peel (optional)
• Cornflower petals (optional)

Instructions

1. Pan-fry pancetta over medium heat. Have a small bowl ready to pour out the excess fat as it accumulates in the pan. When the pancetta is crispy, set them aside, and return your skillet to the heat.
2. Add rosemary and stir until it starts to brown.
3. Add mushrooms and sauté over medium heat. Pour out any excess liquid into the little bowl from step 1.
4. When the mushrooms are almost done, add the pine nuts, and stir until they are golden brown.
5. Add the pancetta back into the pan and cook a minute more.
6. Remove from heat, and serve, garnished with fresh rosemary, Maldon sea salt, minced lemon peel (optional) and cornflower petals (optional).
7. You can pour the reserved liquid back onto the mushrooms, or use it to flavour a broth or a warm vegetable dish.

Nutrition

Calories

905 cal

Fat

64 g

Carbs

19 g

Protein

75 g

Click Here For Full Nutrition, Exchanges, and My Plate Info

7.8.1.2

88

https://www.joellegaudet.com/2019/11/04/wild-mushrooms-with-pancetta-rosemary-and-pine-nuts/

References

Michael, E. (1896). Führer für Pilzfreunde: die am häufigsten vorkommenden essbaren, verdächtigen und giftigen Pilze. Mit 68 Pilzgruppen. Zwickau: Förster et Borries.
Spahr, D. L. (2009). Edible and medicinal mushrooms of New England and Eastern Canada. Berkeley, CA: North Atlantic Books.

The post Wild Mushrooms with Pancetta, Rosemary and Pine Nuts appeared first on Gluten Free Private / Personal Chef in Victoria BC.