We gladly fat our Tuesday for your hamburger today.

Hamburger

Unlike certain other sidekicks, Michelle is not usually a big fan of hamburgers. While the humble burger is usually held forth as an American icon, for Michelle it holds multiple potential failure points. The bun could be too toasted, too wet, too gummy or too stale. At a restaurant, it could arrive “dressed” with limp, lukewarm (possibly worm-carrying) lettuce, or perhaps a pale and/or tasteless tomato slice. The meat could be greasy, gamey, dry, or simply dull. Additionally, Michelle disdains the idea of adding cheese—something that, like quitting cigarettes, may have helped doom yet another Louisville-based business. Needless to say, hamburgers haven’t appeared on Gourmandistan’s tables too often. Then Steve started making things more unhealthy, and Michelle became more interested in burgers.

It started with the buns. This past Tuesday Steve decided to branch out from Bernard Clayton and see what could be found in The Bread Baker’s Apprentice. He felt called by “Variation I” of Peter Reinhart’s “White Breads: Three Multipurpose Variations.” Steve played along nicely for the first part, even weighing ingredients instead of measuring and trying to pass the “windowpane test.” But he rebelled at the “mist the dough lightly with spray oil” part of the process. Ill-fated atomizers way back when literally left us with a bad taste in our mouths along with hopelessly gommed-up gadgets, and we’re not about to buy some highly suspect supermarket product. Instead, Steve greased his dough balls with lard at each stage of proofing and shaping. The result, he felt, were buns with a dark, slightly tough crust that felt wonderful in the hand and tasted even better in the mouth.

Hamburger buns

The buns’ first night had them holding lamb burgers, made from some surplus grind we had sitting around after a recent experiment (hopefully soon to be reported) with yet another dim sum. The lamb burgers were fine, but Michelle loved the lard-lashed buns so much she demanded another round the following night. Little did she realize the lard was just the first fat Steve would deploy to make the perfect burger.

On Wednesday Michelle came home bearing ground sirloin and bison, the two best-looking meats she could find at the nearby Whole Foods-ish market that sadly isn’t Whole Foods. Thinking the meat looked a bit lean for his taste, Steve decided to kick a bit of duck fat into the meat mix along with some salt and pepper.

Duck fat

Michelle split the day-old buns and loaded in yet more lipids by spreading them with butter, toasting, then smearing one buttery side with mayonnaise before inserting Steve’s “juicy” (OK, fat-laden) burgers. We topped the burgers with some onions caramelized in olive oil. (Is that another fat? Why yes it is!) And we had a yummy, juicy, surprisingly un-greasy hamburger that was possibly the best we’ve ever tasted.

Remember to save your fat, folks. It will, unlike Wimpy, most likely reward you in the future.

Hamburger

LARD-LASHED HAMBURGER BUNS

(adapted from Peter Reinhart’s The Bread Baker’s Apprentice) (makes 12-14 buns)

21.5 oz. (4-3/4 c.) unbleached bread flour
.38 oz. (1-1/2 t.) salt
1.33 oz. (1/4 c.) powdered milk
1.66 oz. (3-1/4 TB) sugar
.22 oz. (2 t.) instant yeast
1.65 oz. (1 large) egg, slightly beaten
1.66 oz. (3-1/4 TB) room-temperature butter
Between 13 and 14 oz. (1-1/2 to 1-3/4 cups) tepid water
A bit of lard (or other fat)
1 egg whisked with 1 t. water
Sesame seeds
 

Mix the flour, salt, powdered milk, sugar and yeast together in the bowl of an electric mixer. Add the egg, butter and about 1-1/2 cups of water. Mix with paddle attachment, adding additional water if necessary, until the dough becomes soft and supple.

Replace paddle attachment with dough hook. Using a bit more flour if necessary, knead the dough for several minutes until it becomes smooth and slightly elastic.

Grease a large bowl with lard, then cover your hands with the stuff and smear it over the dough ball. Place the greased ball in the greased bowl, cover with plastic wrap and allow to rise for 1-1/2 to 2 hours, or until doubled in bulk.

Remove the dough from the bowl and separate into 3-ounce pieces, rolling them into round balls with lard-greased hands. Place the balls on baking sheets lined with parchment paper, and press down lightly to form squat, slightly flattened shapes. Let the dough rest for 1 to 1-1/2 hours, or until nearly doubled in size.

Preheat the oven to 400°. Brush the buns with the egg/water froth, then sprinkle with sesame seeds. Bake for about 15 minutes or until golden brown. Cool on a wire rack.

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Cherishing the chore of (sour) cherry jam

Sour cherry jam

There are some who shirk hard labor, thinking it never leads to any reward. Some embrace whatever physical challenge is placed before them, knowing their efforts will lead to what is best in life. While Crom knows Gourmandistanis are not opposed to labor-saving devices, we also recognize that sometimes you have to put in the work. That is why Saturday saw Steve sitting at the kitchen table for three straight hours, pitting cherry after cherry after cherry until his hands were stained black with juice. After all, pitted cherries are the first step toward cherry jam. The second step, at least for Steve, was a nice long nap.

Sour cherries

Taking possession of the pile of pitted sour cherries, Michelle was determined to produce a jam she would eat. Not happy with the last couple of years’ too-thick versions (though Steve certainly enjoyed them through the winters), she scoured her sources to find out if there was something she was missing. This recipe, adapted from Sara Foster’s Southern Kitchen (who couldn’t love a cookbook with a forward by the great Lee Smith?), resulted in five small jars of delightfully syrupy sour cherry jam. It’s not a lot, but it is delicious—and in Steve’s opinion, worth every single plunge of the pitter.

Yogurt and sour cherry jam

Breakfast of yogurt and jam.
You’d think Steve would tire of it, but he never does.

SOUR CHERRY JAM

(adapted from Sara Foster’s Southern Kitchen) (makes 5 half-pint jars)

7 c. pitted sour cherries
4 c. sugar
1 apple, peeled, cored and grated
Juice of 2 lemons
Pinch of kosher salt
 

Place all ingredients in a large pot. Stir. Bring to a boil. Reduce heat and cook at a low boil, stirring occasionally, until mixture sets. This should be at around 220° F, but it may require a slightly higher temperature. Remove from heat and let cool. Pour the jam into sterilized jars and (if you want) process in a hot water bath, or (as we do) simply freeze.

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Some ’80s jams (mostly the strawberry kind) still rock.

Strawberry jam

Being of a certain age means we Gourmandistanis often have to suffer what many in our cohort still call “Modern Rock,” as if the era which created Kajagoogoo ended hard-edged rockers forever. (Despite the nauseatingly endless careers of the Stones and Aerosmith, there are those who argued that it did.) We are also too often in close proximity to people who still believe crappy California surfer-style shorts look good on them. Some of these happen to be the same people. We feel especially sad for them.

We don’t have that many fond memories of the 1980s. We both voted against Reagan each time we had the opportunity, and spent the better part of the decade trying to ignore how white people were becoming increasingly obnoxious (heading toward this) by doing things like moving to Indianapolis (pretty much the worst possible solution), getting married (much better), hosting parties, going on long bike rides and watching Max Headroom.

MIchelleSteveMichelle and TerriSteve and Paul

Another method of making it through the madness was turning to Camille Glenn’s The Heritage of Southern Cooking, a volume we’ve mentioned often here. Unlike our CD collection and 8-bit Nintendo, Glenn’s cookbook is one ’80s relic we’ve kept around the realm, and we’re happy we’ve held on to it. (Though to be truthful, Michelle does at times still pine for the simple pleasures of Super Mario.)

As it is once again strawberry season we’re starting to restock our freezer with preserves, and Glenn’s small batch recipe still wins as the simplest, most flavorful way to put up fresh berries.

Strawberries

Glenn (like Michelle’s mother) prefers whole berries swimming in sweet syrup, but Michelle likes to cut her strawberries into smaller pieces for a better syrup-to-strawberry ratio. Steve, of course, does not care which way it’s prepared, as long as someone is ensuring he has enough jam to get through the winter.

Strawberry jam Strawberry jam 2

While we sometimes wander off to explore other fruit preserves, we keep returning to this sensible solution, one of the only to arise during the days when Arthur Laffer was taken seriously. (He is a joke these days, isn’t he? Please tell us he’s a joke.)

If you crazy kids really want to get all gaga over the 1980s, we suppose we can’t really put a stop to it. Just remember that along with Arnold, there were also a number of Poindexters gnawing up the Constitution to support some coked-up jungle rapists—something you might want to remind the next portly Parrothead you run into.

Strawberry jam, though, is still delicious, as is this tune—something that very much sums up how we felt about “Morning in America.”

Strawberry jam

STRAWBERRY JAM

(adapted from Camille Glenn’s The Heritage of Southern Cooking)

1 lb. (about 1 quart) strawberries, hulled and sliced
2 c. sugar
 

Put sliced berries in a heavy saucepan.  Stir 1 cup of the sugar into them. Allow to marinate for about 5 minutes.

Bring berries and sugar to a boil.  Cook, skimming foam, for about 5 minutes.

Add remaining cup of sugar, stirring.  Boil until jam reaches 220° F.

Remove pan from heat. Pour jam into a bowl and let stand overnight.  (Glenn recommends that you make batches of jam no larger than as set forth here “to maintain the short cooking period so vital to fine preserves.” If you want to make another batch or two, you can do so and add to the bowl.)

The next day, pour the jam into sterilized jars and (if you want) process in a hot water bath, or (as we do) simply freeze.

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Do do this ragout that we do so well.

Spring vegetable ragout with gnocchi

We’re not asking you join a great crusade to stamp out decency in the West. (After all, some would say there’s nothing left to do.)  We’re simply asking you to start celebrating your fresh green vegetables with this simple, light “stew.”

A while back, Michelle was hypnotized by some Whole Foods fava beans (a rarity in these parts), and found a recipe in Alice Waters’ Chez Panisse Vegetables for Fava Bean Ragout. Alice indicated it was “great with Potato Gnocchi,” which by happy coincidence Steve has finally figured out how to make. Michelle, spurred by some sprouting potatoes, urged Steve generate some gnocchi while she prepared the favas, garlic, herbs, lemon and olive oil. Steve’s soft, pillowy gnocchi (reportedly the envy of one Chef Bill) did pair quite well with the lovely light broth full of just-tender vegetables. Perhaps because we drastically cut back on the amount of olive oil called for in the original recipe, the vegetable flavors really step forward in version after version of this flexible dish, which most recently in Gourmandistan featured baby artichokes, peas, asparagus, green garlic and thyme.

Spring vegetable ragout

We think this is a wonderful, reasonably hassle-free way to feature the fresh flavors of spring vegetables. Do yourself a favor and go to your local market. You’ll find fresh peas, favas or some other delight. Take them home. Make this sauce. You’ll probably start singing this before you’re finished.

SPRING VEGETABLE RAGOUT

(Inspired by Alice Waters’ Chez Panisse Vegetables, this is less a recipe than a loose guideline. Explore and enjoy!)

Olive oil
Baby artichokes, cleaned, sliced in half and held in a bowl of lemon water
Sliced garlic or green garlic
Leaves from several sprigs of thyme
Water or stock
Salt and pepper
Spears and nice parts of asparagus stems, cut in approximately 2″ slices
Peas or shelled fava beans
Lemon juice
Parmesan cheese shavings
 

Generously cover the bottom of a skillet or sauté pan with olive oil. When oil has heated, add drained artichokes, garlic and thyme and enough water or stock to barely cover. Season with salt and pepper. Bring to a simmer, cover and cook for about 8 minutes. Add asparagus spears and peas or fava beans and simmer, covered, for about 5 minutes more. Pour lemon juice over and adjust seasoning if needed.

Serve over browned gnocchi with shavings of Parmesan cheese.

 
 

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Garbure ≠ garbage + ordure; or you are what you etymologize

Garbure

The next time you’re eating “brunch” with a “spork,” you should stop for a moment and thank Lewis Carroll. (Perhaps you should then explore the idea of no longer brunching, especially if you frequent places providing sporks as utensils.) Carroll, one of Steve’s personal literary lions, introduced the idea of such “portmanteau words” in Through the Looking Glass, his sequel to Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland.

Alice

Portmanteaus are everywhere these days, from “Brangelina” to “breathalyzer” to “bromance.” (While we’re not particularly conversant with tabloids, we’re fairly sure that particular word string has ever appeared before now. That’s a copyright notice, Daily Mail.) Steve, who enjoys catchy and novel words, is particularly fond of portmanteaus—a trait that tripped him up as he searched for more of an idea of where the word “garbure” came from.

Steve’s confusion started in our own cookbooks. According to Paula Wolfort, the stew of cabbage, beans and confit was named by Curnonsky (“the so-called Prince of Gastronomes”) as one of the four great regional dishes of France (the others being choucroute, bouillabaisse and cassoulet). However, Wolfert goes on in The Cooking of Southwest France to admit that, while she sees the dish as “the very symbol of Béarnais cookery,” it is “eaten widely in Gascony, the Landes and the Pays Basque, too.” In Bistro CookingPatricia Wells insinuates that the Basques are the the genuine garburistes, but mostly focuses on her feeling that “garbure is such a heavy word, that it conjures up the idea of loathsome, fatty fare.” On the Internet, the origin of the word is unclear, with Wikipedia (which is infallible!) asserting it derives from the use of the term garb to describe sheaves of grain while others say it stems from a word for bundle of herbs or stew. ”Stew” seems a quite likely candidate, as garbure is yet another mix of slow-cooked stuff that gets better the longer you let it sit around. The “sheaves” idea gains credibility from a French tradition calling for using a fork to “pitch” cabbage, beans and other solids into your (to the French, barnlike) mouth, saving the broth to mix with the last of your red wine for a final slurp.

Garbure

Whichever origin story you choose, we like the taste of the version we’ve blended together from several sources. Our garbure is good because it has surprising layers of flavor, from rich confit to bland beans and continuing on to salty, thick-cut prosciutto. Yours, with your own twists, could be equally as good, and your guess as to the origin of “garbure” has to be better than Steve’s. He’s still chasing the idea that the concept of stew can be found by combing the root for garbage (“giblets of a fowl, waste parts of an animal”) and a Latin suffix denoting an act or result. As Charles Dodgson might say, Steve really needs to chillax about this stuff.

Garbure (1)

GARBURE (Duck, Bean and Cabbage Stew)

(approximately 6 servings)

1-1/2 c. dried white beans
1 TB duck fat or neutral oil
1 onion, chopped
3 oz. prosciutto or other air-cured ham, diced
Whites of 3 or 4 leeks or green garlic, cut into thin rounds
8-10 garlic cloves, chopped
2 quarts duck or chicken or pork stock
Bouquet garni of parsley, bay leaves and thyme sprigs
4 carrots, peeled and cut into rounds
2 ribs celery, cut into half moon shapes
Salt
1 lb. potatoes and/or turnips, peeled and cubed
1/2 of a cabbage, coarsely chopped
2 duck confit legs, crisped in a skillet
Piment d’Espalette or smoked paprika, to taste
Pepper
 

Rinse beans and place in a saucepan. Add water to cover. Bring to a boil over high heat. Remove pan from heat, cover and let sit for about half an hour.  Drain beans and discard cooking liquid.

Sauté onions in duck fat in a soup pot. After a few minutes, add ham, leeks and garlic. Stir occasionally onion is softened but not browned.

Add stock, bouquet garni, beans, carrots and celery. Season lightly with salt. Simmer, covered, for about 45 minutes.

Add potatoes and/or turnips and cabbage. Cook until vegetables and beans are tender, about 30 minutes more.

While stew is cooking, remove meat from duck legs and shred. Add meat (along with the crisped skin) to stew in the final minutes of cooking.

Season to taste with additional salt, Piment d’Espalette or smoked paprika and pepper.

 

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(Re)iterating Bertolli’s baby artichokes, olives, meatballs and sage

Meatballs & artichokes

We found this recipe in Chez Panisse Cooking while looking for a creative way to use some semi-impulse-bought baby artichokes. (They were from Castroville and on special at Whole Foods. Even die-hard locavores couldn’t resist.) We were initially attracted by the interesting mix of ingredients, a step up from our previous effort. Then we were intrigued by Paul Bertolli’s perplexing introduction. Telling us his mother “used marinated artichokes and a type of green Spanish olive ” he “can’t find anymore,” Bertolli goes on to say his version “doesn’t taste quite the same.” Further deepening the mystery, Bertolli merely specifies “green olives,” leaving us in the dark about what taste (oregano? metallic?) may have been missing from his version.

Left to our own devices, we chose garlic-marinated green olives. Because we like garlic. And because they were the only pre-pitted variety available at the grocery near Michelle’s office. We omitted the called-for cherry tomatoes because it’s not yet their season, but found fresh sage from some hardy overwintered stuff sprouting outside our kitchen door. The meatballs were easy, because we had some stashed in the freezer. Steve made eggy, thick noodles to go with the broth-braised chokes and meat. Without too much (OK, some) trouble, our definition of this Chez Panisse dish was done.

ArtichokesMeatballs & artichokes 1

Should we stumble on some more baby artichokes we may very well make this again. If it’s during tomato season, we’ll probably throw some cherries into the mix and see what happens. Perhaps it’s not exactly what Mama Bertolli wanted, but we think iteration is the sincerest form of flattery. (That is how the saying goes, isn’t it?)

Meatballs & artichokes (1)

MEATBALLS WITH ARTICHOKES, GREEN OLIVES AND SAGE

(adapted from Paul Bertolli’s Chez Panisse Cooking) (serves 4)

1 large onion, quartered and sliced in half moon shapes
Olive oil
Salt & pepper
6 cloves garlic, sliced thin
Juice of 2 lemons
1 to 1-1/2 lbs. baby artichokes
12 meatballs*
1/3 c. coarsely chopped green olives
1 TB coarsely chopped sage
1/2 c. chicken stock
 

Preheat oven to 350°.

Sauté onions in 1 TB olive oil until softened but not browned.  Season with salt and pepper. Add 3/4 of the garlic slices and toss. Transfer to a 1-1/2 quart baking dish.

Fill a medium bowl halfway with water. Add half of the lemon juice to the water. Cut off tops of artichokes. Remove outer leaves. Cut off stems. Pare away the green parts of the bases. Cut artichokes into quarters and place in the lemon water.

Lightly brown meatballs in olive oil in a skillet. Then, set them atop the onions and garlic in the baking dish.

Drain the artichokes. Toss them with remaining garlic slices, remaining lemon juice, sage, a splash of olive oil, salt and pepper.

Distribute the artichoke mixture around the meatballs. Pour stock over. Cover tightly with foil. Bake for 1 hour.

Serve with fresh egg noodles which have been tossed with butter and Parmesan cheese.

* Use whatever sort of meatballs you want. We make ours much like Conor Bofin’s recipe, with the addition of ground veal.

 
 

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Beginning Baking (Again) With Bernard Clayton’s Rich White Bread

Toast Steve was starting to think he was so big. He started to think he was a better baker than most. It may have begun with his pâte brisée, or perhaps his pizza dough. Maybe it was when he made that batch of bialys or his “perfect” Parker House Rolls. Perhaps it was time he was taken down a peg. Perhaps it was time for Bernard Clayton’s New Complete Book of Breads.

Actually, Steve’s comedown didn’t start with Bernard Clayton—it started with starter. Steve had decided he should move on from instant dry yeast and begin his own “mother” made from yeast found floating naturally in Gourmandistan’s environment. Using a technique adapted from The Bread Baker’s Apprentice, he began fermenting organic rye flour and spring water. After a few days, he’d produced something that definitely seemed alive, and quite possibly stemmed from Gourmandistani yeast strains. Unfortunately, our native strains seem to tend towards laziness.

Steve first tried the starter in a sourdough rye from Clayton’s The Breads of France and How to Bake Them in Your Own Kitchen, producing a flat, funny-tasting loaf that quickly went to the chickens. Seeing as how his starter was still bubbling away, Steve decided it might be Clayton’s fault, but decided to give the man another chance by combining starter with instant yeast in “Turnipseed Sisters’ White Loaf.” Again, things did not go well. A promising first rise became a slow second, and the chickens ate well once more.

Chickens

Steve was about to give up on Mr. Clayton and declare him a fool, a fraud and certainly no friend of Gourmandistan. Michelle, remembering past successful recipes, suggested instead it was perhaps time for Steve to give up his starter and try something different. With the bitter taste of defeat (and the odd tang of starter) in his mouth, Steve agreed.

He went all the way back to the beginning of Clayton’s book, seeking a simple white loaf that would wipe away the taste of sourdough. Clayton’s “Rich White Bread” recipe certainly did the trick. Both lard and butter have turned out loaves of sturdy, tasty stuff we’ve enjoyed with egg salad and as toast. (Steve likes to call this bread “Mitt Romney.” Steve really needs to let that stuff go.)

Toast 2

As our weather is warming Steve is once more thinking about sourdough starter, and may give one of Clayton’s a try in short order. (He’s particularly interested in one made from grape must, but will wait until local grapes are found at our market.) While we wait for our new eukaryote friends to arrive, we will most likely try more instant yeast recipes from Mr. Clayton—and we possibly won’t feel quite so big about ourselves.

Toast

RICH WHITE BREAD (a/k/a “Mitt Romney”)

(adapted from Bernard Clayton’s New Complete Book of Breads) (makes 2 loaves)

1-1/2 c. hot water (120°-130° F)
1/2 c. nonfat dry milk
2 TB sugar
2 t. salt
2 packages dry yeast
4-1/2 to 5-1/2 cups bread or all-purpose flour
2 TB lard or butter, at room temperature
2 large eggs, at room temperature
 

Pour hot water into mixing bowl. Stir in dry milk, sugar, salt, yeast and 3 cups flour. Blend. Add the lard or butter and eggs. Beat until batter is smooth—if using a stand mixer the batter may require scraping. Stir in the balance of the flour, 1/2 cup at a time, until the dough becomes rough and shaggy and begins to clean the sides of the bowl.

Knead until the dough becomes smooth and elastic, sprinkling on more flour if it remains sticky. Place the smooth, elastic dough ball in a greased bowl, cover in plastic wrap and leave in a warm place until at least doubled in bulk, about 1-1/2 hours.

Turn back the wrap and punch down the dough with your fingers, reshaping into a ball. Cover again and let rise for another 30 minutes or so, until just about doubled in bulk.

Grease 2 large (9″ x 5″)  loaf pans.

Knead the dough for a few moments, pressing out the bubbles. Divide the dough into two pieces, shape into balls, cover and let rest for about 5 minutes. Form a loaf by pressing a ball into a flat oval just about the length of the pan, then fold it in half and pinch the seam tightly. Tuck the ends under and place the dough, seam side down, into the greased pan.

Preheat your oven to 400°.

Cover the loaves with waxed paper and leave in a warm place to rise until the dough puffs about 1″ above the pan’s edge, about 45 minutes.

Uncover and bake the loaves for about 25-30 minutes, shifting the pans about halfway through baking, until they are golden brown and pull away from the loaf pans.

Remove the loaves from the oven, turn them from the pans and thump their bottoms with a finger. A hard hollow sound means the bread is baked. Cool before slicing.

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