I have eggs. A dozen of them. Not just any eggs, but eggs from a chicken. This is miraculous.
Allow me to explain. I live in Sydney; right in Sydney. 500 metres from Central Station, to be precise, and I have eggs from a chicken. Not from the supermarket; eggs from the chicken of a friend in the country.
Eggs only cost a few dollars per dozen here in OZ. At the restaurant I order boxes of 180 eggs at a time, and use those over the course of two to three days. I sometimes crack 60 eggs to make, say, a single batch of chocolate fondant mix, and I don't think about a single one of them.
But now, in my fridge, I have twelve speckled-brown, precious eggs, direct from the hen - much more valuable than regular eggs. It seems silly to feel this way. I know all the eggs at work come from chickens as well. It's just that in knowing these eggs weren't mass-produced, I can't possibly treat them that way.
Real Eggs
The Mash-Up
Today I'm introducing a new site design, bear with me while I work out any bugs.
All this html reconstruction has me thinking about culinary deconstruction: that fashion in professional cooking to break a dish into it's simple components, prepare them in a novel way, and recombine the familiar flavors in their altered form. The method focuses heavily on creating texture/flavor combinations that are surprising to the palate.
As an example, a modern Greek restaurant where I once worked served a deconstructed Greek salad: feta bavois, candied olives, baby cress, cucumber jelly, and tomato sorbet. It came in a martini glass and was, indeed, quite pretty. I'm not convinced, however that the whole exercise wasn't a case of pursuing concept at the expense of flavor.
That, in fact, is the very issue I have with many culinary deconstructions: how the dish tastes becomes a secondary concern. Yes, it's terribly clever that you managed to make a roast carrot foam, but to what end? What does it add to the flavor? I'm not against a fancy, even fanciful, presentation; I simply want each component of a dish to taste as good as possible and to work together with the other components.
This isn't much to ask.
This is Missing Something
My Grandmother was a wonderful cook. I've few memories, and fewer photos, of her outside of the kitchen. We spent a good deal of time there together, me standing on a stool, offering mixing assistance, in much the same way my boy now accompanies me. I wish he had the opportunity to share a stove with her.
I recently received a box full of her recipes, a birthday present of sorts. They represent the most wonderful cross-section of foods from her generation. Tinned soup casseroles and “instant dinners” are filed along with homemade ravioli instructions. I promise to share some of the highlights (and, more deliciously, the “far from highlights”) sometime soon.
As I've been working my way through her folders of clippings, handwritten cards, typed recipes, scribbled notes, some in her handwriting, some that I don't recognize, her mother's, her grandmothers' recipes, I've been finding some fond memories as well.
Marginal annotations such as “Rich's favorite” and “too salty” call to mind our new recipe ritual. Upon finishing a meal which was new to the family, Grandma would ask: “Well, is it a keeper?” To which the rest of us were expected to reply with a thumbs up or down. Rejects were binned; “keepers” were filed.
I'm quite surprised at how many of the cards in my Grandmother's collection come from neighbors and friends. I know it is common practice for people to share recipes, but my grandmother was quite secretive about hers. They were, as far as she was concerned, a family treasure to be held close. I can't imagine there was exactly a free exchange with the neighbors.
This secrecy gave rise to one of her most endearing habits. Upon being pressed for a recipe she would relent, promising to transcribe a copy soon. During the transcription, she would inevitably leave one ingredient out. Nothing key – no missing baking powder – but a tablespoon of sugar would become a teaspoon, a dash of vinegar would disappear, thus ensuring that hers “always tasted better.”
Now that I have her originals in hand a question occurs to me: Will I, now that I can? Will I cross-check the copies of recipes she wrote out for me, looking for omissions? Probably not.
One of her most prized recipes was for pumpkin pie. It came from her grandmother and has been a family secret for five generations. I don't intend to share it either, as I made a promise many years ago.
I will however, share my recipe. You'll have to trust I list all the ingredients.
And for the love of god people, put the can opener away. We're making this from scratch.
A pumpkin pie should have a wonderful, velvety mouth feel. It is therefore terribly important to blend the pumpkin thoroughly.
Pumpkin Pie
500ml pumpkin puree (see below)
150g brown sugar
½ tsp salt
1 tsp cinnamon
½ tsp ginger powder
1 allspice berry (pimento) pounded in mortar and pestal
1 clove, pounded in mortar and pestal
¼ whole nutmeg, grated on microplane
3 whole eggs
250ml cream
Preheat oven to 200ºC. Mix the pumpkin puree, sugar, salt, and spices in a large bowl. Lightly beat the cream and eggs together. Mix the egg and cream into the pumpkin, taking care not to over mix (we're not making a souffle, this is a baked custard).
Pour this into a prepared, uncooked pie shell (see below). Transfer to oven and bake 20 minutes. Reduce the heat to 180ºC and cook a further 25-30 minutes. The pie is done when a gentle shake moves all the filling as one mass.
Cool and serve with cream or ice cream.
Pumpkin Puree
1 kilo pumpkin
Look, I must admit that I'm not exactly sure how to tell you which variety of pumpkin (squash for those of you in the States) should be used for this. That's not to say that I don't have a preference, it's just that one variety might have as many as five or six different names, depending on what country you are in. Look for large ones, with thick gray-blue skin.
Remove the seeds but do not peel the pumpkin. Cut the kilo of pumpkin into smallish chunks, place them on a tray lined with baking paper, and bake in a 180º oven until they are soft through and have just started to color on the outside. This should take about half an hour.
Cool slightly, and peel away the skin. Puree the flesh in a blender until quite smooth. This should yield 500ml.
Pastry
250g flour
180g cold butter
pinch salt
45ml cold water
This pastry is crisp, rather than crumbly (short). It also contains no sugar, as I think the pie is sweet enough.
In a food processor, combine the flour, salt, and butter. Pulse until the mixture resembles fine breadcrumbs. With the processor running, add the water a bit at a time just until the pastry pulls together and forms a ball; you may not use all of the water. Stop the processor immediately to avoid over-mixing.
Remove the pastry dough from the processor and shape it into a ball. Flatten this into a disk about 2cm thick, wrap in cling film and refrigerate for at least half an hour.
Remove the pastry from the refrigerator and roll it out on a floured board until it is about ¼cm thick. Starting at one end, roll the pastry onto the rolling pin like a scroll, move it over the pie dish, and unroll it. Gently press it into the sides. Trim the pastry, leaving about 2 cm of overhang. Tuck this overhang under the inside lip of the pie dish, forming a thick edge for your crust.
Refrigerate at least half an hour before using.
Condimentaholism
I am a condimentaholoic. An addict. Tragically hooked. No meal is safe from a sauce or spread or sprinkle or dip. I've got something for every food and it's reaching the point of obsession.
I smear dijon on my roasted chicken, dip duck into plum sauce, and toss steamed green beans in vinegar. I've got mint jelly for lamb, horseradish cream for beef, and tartare for fish. I can't imagine tonkatsu without bulldog sauce, nor fries without ketchup, nor a Thai curry without fish sauce. Condiments pepper my pantry in bottles and jars and pots and bags, outnumbering nearly everything else combined. An entire shelf in my fridge is dedicated to them – mango chutney next to hoisin just in front of sambal somewhere near the mayonnaise over by the gherkin relish. I could create an entire section for those I have made myself, herding together the blood orange marmalade, the pickled cherries, the fig chutney, and more. I own flavored vinegars, preserved lemons, smoked salts, and spice mixes, all vying for space with the poor flour and sugar. Each has a purpose, and each is loved dearly.
However, one condiment is undisputedly king; I reach for that bottle more often than any other by a factor of ten. Hot sauce. Fiery, tangy, salty, sweet, I toss it on pastas and eggs and sandwiches and stews. 
I, of course, have preferences as to what kind of hot sauce I use. Unfortunately for me, the only vinegary hot sauce generally on offer in Australia is Tabasco – passable, but nothing earth shattering. What I really want is a sauce that will add spice to my meal, but is not unbearably hot, is quite vinegary, and possess some of the sweetness of a good, fresh chili. My poor parents are going broke shipping boxes of my favorite brand to me from the states.
Keeping my parents' financial well-being in mind, and considering I burn through litres of the stuff annually, I figured I might consider learning how to make my own hot sauce.
Roasting a few of the chilies adds the slightest smoky hint to this sauce. Upon tasting the finished product I was surprised at how sweet it is when it first hits the palate, but this quickly gives way to a wonderfully balanced spiciness.
500g cayenne peppers, stems removed
500ml distilled white vinegar
1 clove garlic
1 Tbsp sea salt flakes
Roast five of the cayenne chillies over a flame, blistering and blackening their skin all over. Cool them and remove the blackened skin. Combine these with the rest of the chilies, garlic, salt, and vinegar and blend until smooth.
Store in a jar for 3 weeks. Strain the hot sauce into jars and seal. (And make some extra room in your pantry.)
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