Muffin Top

About three years ago, Anne and I drove down to LA to visit my friends Justin and Brian in their new Westwood condo. Although we arrived after midnight, they were still wide awake, drinking cosmopolitans and waiting for a batch of ice cream. “Huh?” we said. Justin had just purchased a Cuisinart ice cream maker from Costco so that he could tinker with some of Daniel Boulud’s gelato recipes he read in Elle Decor. The rest of the weekend was spent eating homemade ice cream and drinking cosmopolitans, flirtinis, mimosas, sangria and I don’t remember what else. I think a Ghost of the Robot (don’t ask) show might have been involved.

As soon as we returned to the Bay Area, I hauled myself straight over to Costco and purchased the same ice cream maker. That summer, I turned out many, many different kinds of ice creams and sorbets - chocolate, vanilla, coffee, caramel, orange, chocolate chip, rocky road, strawberry, peach, nectarine, mascarpone, raspberry sorbet, lemon, corn, and even blue cheese. It even got to the point where I purchased a second bowl so I wouldn’t have to wait as long for the first bowl to freeze (it takes about 24 hours)

Nowadays, my ice creams are pretty tame - vanilla, chocolate or raspberry sorbet. I’m usually looking for instant gratification. Okay, two hour gratification. But with all the sour cherries I’d been pitting, I’d been thinking about making noyau ice cream. Noyau is the pale white kernel inside cherries and apricots. You smash the pit with a mallet or use a nutcracker to extract it. Watch out for flying bits of shell. They’re razor sharp, so be sure pick them up off the ground. The kernel imparts a bitter almond flavor, and is the primary flavoring agent for amaretto. In addition, Justin loves almonds, especially almond ice cream, but unfortunately, he’s allergic to them. Noyau ice cream just might be an acceptable substitute. An extremely important note about noyau: surrounding the kernel is an cyanide-like enzyme. Roasting the kernels for about 15 minutes in the oven neutralizes the enzyme. While you probably won’t drop dead if you consume a little bit of raw noyau, it’s generally a good idea roast the kernels first. After I extracted and roasted mine, I ground them into a powder with a mortar and pestle, then heated them with the cream and sugar, and allowed them to steep for about half an hour before adding and tempering the egg yolks. You can use the kernels to flavor any basic ice cream recipe - use about 20 apricot pits or 40 cherry pits for every three cups of cream/milk. It goes especially well with a tart or pie made with the fruit you’ve just pitted. I’m having mine with an apricot galette.

Originally uploaded by c(h)ristine.

Last year, I did a lot of sweating in Seoul’s hot sticky summer heat, where I looked for relief wherever i could find it: air conditioned department stores, eating icy pat bing soo, and finally indulging in sam gye tang, (or sam gae tang however you want to spell it) a chicken and ginseng dish traditionallly eaten on the hottest summer days.

The torturous irony of this dish is that it involves more sweating. Sam gye tang, particularly its ginseng proponent, is revered as a medicinal dish that induces sweating, which “detoxifies” you, and ultimately rejuvenates you. This is a dish that shows the recipient a lot of caring–not only can you serve it on a hot summer day, you can serve it to someone who is feeling under the weather. In fact, it originated out of royal and upper class kitchens, before precious ginseng became widely available. Who says Jewish chicken soup is the only one that revives?

Last summer, I told my relatives I wanted to go to Tosokchon for sam gye tang, per the recommendation of one of my esteemed friends/readers of this blog. They didn’t realize I wanted to visit a restaurant that specializes in this dish (many restaurants in Seoul do specialize in this one dish)…and proceeded to make me some homemade sam gye tang in an already hot and sticky apartment:

It was delicious–though I was dismayed at missing Tosokchon, I really enjoyed the chicken and ginseng soup.

This summer, I decided to make some of my own. I gathered the ingredients (the sweet rice, ginseng and red dates at the Korean store and the cornish hens from Whole Foods), and set out making what I thought would be a complicated dish. It turned out to be very straightforward and simple, and I found my mind wandering to many happy memories, the “medicine” of this dish already beginning to work before I’d even taken the first bite.

I hope you try this dish and enjoy it, too. The ginseng adds a slightly bitter taste to the dish, and dates and sweet rice counteract as sweeteners. The garlic gives it a mellow savory flavor note. Very different from an Eastern European Jewish chicken soup, it still hits the spot. My Jewish husband ate this dish right up.

RECIPE FOR SAM GYE TANG (Ginseng Chicken in Broth)
Adapted from both the Dok Suni Restaurant cookbook and Hi Soo Hepinstall’s Growing Up in a Korean Kitchen.
Serves 3-4

INGREDIENTS:
* 2 cornish game hens, or one 2-pound chicken (I like to use cornish hens for this dish)
* 1/2 cup sweet rice
* 4 pieces of dried ginseng root or 2 whole 3 year old fresh ginseng roots
* 6 garlic cloves
* 8 red dates
* approximately 9 cups water
* 2 green onions, sliced into thin rings for garnish

* Korean hot red pepper powder (optional)
* salt
* pepper

DIRECTIONS:
1. Wash rice and put aside.
2. Clean out game hens or chicken thoroughly, discarding all guts; trim off the area around the cavity and discard the tail ends. If you’re using Cornish hens, divide the rice, ginseng, garlic and dates to stuff the hens evenly (I like to distribute the garlic and dates and ginseng evenly throughout the cavity). If you’re using chicken, combine all the ingredients for the stuffing. Stuff loosely, keeping in mind that the rice will expand while it cooks.
3. Use a heavy pot (I used my Le Creuset dutch oven), good to make soup in, that will securely hold the chicken/hens. Place the stuffed hens into the pot, ticking in the flaps to prevent the stuffing from falling out. Some people prefer to sew up the flaps to prevent the stuffing from falling out. Tucking the flap only works of the chicken is a snug fit in the pot. What I did was bind with a skewer stick–it’s a lot easier to remove a skewer than it is to cut thread.
4. Pour in 9 cups of water, until the hens are covered and cook for 30 minutes over a medium flame with a lid on. Skim the fat and foam as the hens/chicken cook. After 30 minutes, the broth should have decreased by half, and the hens should be well cooked and tender. Poke to test with a fork. Cook for awhile longer if necessary (I like to simmer for another 30 minutes). Since I had awhile to go until supper, I turned the heat to low and let the hens cook for another hour. It was a great result, the chicken very tender and almost falling off the bone.
5. To serve, gently transfer the Cornish hens to a bowl (traditionally it’s a clay bowl that retains heat, but I used an oversized run of the mill Corelle bowl). You want to serve this immediately. Add broth to cover about 3/4 of the hens. Remember to tell your guests to discard the ginseng. Set out green onions, red hot pepper and salt and pepper so that guests can adjust their own seasoning.

Several months ago, I walked into the Pasta Shop just as they began to serve samples of fregola sarda, otherwise known as Sardinian couscous. Like couscous, fregola are made when semolina flour and water are rubbed together, except fregola’s nuggets are a bit larger, and they get roasted after they’re dried. This results in a toasted and nutty flavored grain with a dense, chewy texture. The samples I tried were prepared with pecorino, parsley and pancetta. After purchasing a pound, I went home and immediately duplicated the recipe - it was delicious, satisfying and easy. So easy, I began to tweak it a bit each time I made it. I tried tossing in chiffonades of spinich and sorrel, I stirred in some preserved lemon peel and chopped some pimento into it. I did a little research online, and learned that it is traditionally prepared with saffron and served with seafood. Of course, I had to try a variation with saffron, and I tried it with shrimp and seared scallops. It was all very tasty, but tonight, I think I hit on the right combination.

I had been thinking about possible preparations of the petrale sole “catch of the day” I purchased earlier. Meuniere was a possibility, but just seemed too rich at the time. Besides, I was feeling lazy. And I had to think of some way to incorporate the bulb of fennel. For some reason, I thought of bourride and laying the fish on top of the grains just before they were done and allowing it to finish together. Why not? I shrugged. The easiest recipes often allow the most play. The fennel was a little trickier. I though about making confit again, but it just seemed too buttery. In the end, I just caramelized julienned strips in a separate pan, but I was sure to use the fronds in the fregola’s cooking liquid.

You can find fregola sarda at gourmet food shops and and specialty Italian shops. A somewhat similar (and easier to find) grain is orzo.

Fregola Sarda with Caramelized Fennel and Sole (serves 4)

1/2 lb of Fregola Sarda
1/2 large chopped onion
1 minced clove of garlic
1 cup dry white wine
1 1/2 cups stock (fish, vegetable, chicken or turkey)
Minced preserved lemon peel from 1/4 of a lemon (recipe follows)
2 or 3 pinches of saffron
1 Tbsp chopped Italian parsley
2 lbs sole, sand dabs or any other white flatfish
2 fennel bulbs, trimmed (reserving the fronds), cored and sliced lengthwise into 1/8 inch julienne strips
Olive oil
salt and pepper
Fresh lemon

In a medium pot over medium heat, sweat the onions in a tablespoon olive oil, then add the garlic and saute for another ten minutes. Add the fregola sarda and stir to ensure that the oil is evenly distributed. Add the saffron, the preserved lemon peel and the wine and turn the heat to high until the pot comes to a boil Continue cooking for another 2-3 minutes, long enough to evaporate the alcohol, then add the stock and a few of the (whole) fennel leaf fronds. Season with salt. Bring the pot to a simmer, lower the heat to medium low, and cover for about ten minutes. Stir it a few times, just to make sure it doesn’t stick to the bottom.

Meanwhile, in a large, heavy saute pan (I used cast iron), heat a quarter cup of olive oil then add the fennel slices and cook for 8-10 minutes, turning the pieces over if they start becoming too brown. Once they are done, sprinkle with salt and pepper.

Season the fish filets with salt and pepper, and once the ten minutes is up for the fregola pot, uncover and remove the fennel fronds. Stir the fregola, and make sure it is not too dry. Carefully lay the filets on top of the fregola (it should be almost al dente at this point) in a single layer, cover it and keep it on low for another 5-6 minutes. The fish should be done, but if not, cover again, and check after another two minutes. Once it is done, carefully remove it from the pot with a wide spatula and set aside. Stir the parsley into the fregola, adjust the seasonings and ladle a serving onto a plate or bowl. Place some of the caramelied fennel over the fregola, then the fish on top. Garnish with some of the trimmed fennel fronds, and serve with wedges of fresh lemon.

A few notes:

I didn’t have pancetta (okay, I did have pancetta but it took a wrong turn several weeks back), which is normally diced and sauteed just before adding the onions. I nearly used some duck prosciutto instead, but that just seemed… wrong. I decided that since sole is a relatively delicate fish, and that since fennel and saffron are pretty strong flavors, I could forgo the pancetta. I did want some kind of complex, salty flavoring, which is where the preserved lemon peel came it. It also fit in the Mediterranean/Morrocon mood of this dish. But I’m sure pancetta would be good in this dish as well.

Also, pecorino cheese is often added to the fregola along with the parsley, but I decided to abide by the Italian “no fish with cheese” rule. But I won’t tell if you break it.

I make my own preserved lemons. I’ve never seem them in stores, but then again, I’ve never looked because its so easy to make! Get enough lemons to fit into whatever glass jar you’re going to use to store them and a box of pickling salt. Make sure the lemons are unwaxed. Wash and dry the lemons, then slice the tops and bottoms off. Quarter them lengthwise, but not quite all the way through to the bottom. Pour about a 1-2 inch layer of salt in a clean jar. Open the lemons slightly and pour in some salt, then “close” them. Nestle a single layer of “salted” lemons upright in the jar. Pour more salt over the lemons in the jar, making sure to get all the crevices and spaces in between, leaving an inch on top of the first layer. Repeat with another layer of lemons, until the jar is filled. Seal it and store it in a cool, dry place for about a month. Whenever you need some, remove a wedge from the jar, scrape off the flesh and pith and rinse the peel, then cut it up however you like. A little goes a long way.

I should have known something was wrong before I walked in. The energy was off, the parking lot and the store seemed somehow emptier and the cashiers, who normally joke around and shout at each other in a mixture of Cantonese and Spanish, were subdued.

He was a thin, tall, dark-skinned middle aged Japanese man with a mustache and a twinkle in his eye. I never knew his name, but he always knew mine. Every Saturday, I could count on him to greet me with “Shopping late today, eh?” even though it wasn’t even noon yet. I used to try to squeeze my grocery shopping in at Monterey Market before my 9:00 yoga class by arriving right when it opened, at 8:30. Half and hour wasn’t nearly enough time to finish everything, because I liked to pick through the trays and inspect each piece of produce, one at a time.

This past spring, he pointed out some baby new potatoes to me that had been freshly dug with skins so thin they slid off when you picked them up with your fingertips. “Try these, we only get them one or two weeks out of the year,” he urged. Some of the potatoes were so small, they were about half the size of my pinky fingernail. I decided that the smallest ones would be the tenderest. He watched me dig all the way to the bottom of the bin. “You know, there’s another bin over there,” he said, eying me with great curiosity. “Oh, I’m just trying to find the smallest ones for a saute,” I explained. “Ah, that’s a great idea,” he smiled. “You must cook a lot.” The next week, like every week, he was sure to ask how my dishes turned out and what I was going to cook the following week. Next week, I won’t be able to tell him what I did with this week’s purchases.

I was picking through the figs when I noticed a small cluster of the cashiers whispering and nodding where he normally empties his boxes of chanterelles. I peeked around the corner, and could hardly believe my eyes. A small green shrine had been erected where they normally store the morels. His picture was up, next to a single red rose and a large black truffle. “Our mushroom man,” it read. “1957-2006″.

I asked the cashier what happened. “Heart attack,” she said softly. “Yesterday, in the parking lot,” added the bag boy. They both sounded stunned.

I’m at a bit of a loss of what else to say. I hardly knew him, but it’s strange how much someone you barely know becomes part of your routine and part of your life. It’s because of people like him that I chose to shop at Monterey Market instead of the much more popular Berkeley Bowl down the street. Going there won’t be the same, at least for a while.

Tim Nakaya
1957-2006

Thanks to Connie for getting her recipe review in early! You can go read all about it on Read. Cook. Eat.!