El Aguacero (The Downpour)

Three Loaves

Despite my busy filming schedule this past week I managed to make time to make some bread. The formula is the Pain de Compagne from Peter Reinhart's The Bread Baker's Apprentice. I don't often attempt this kind of loaf. Not because I don't enjoy it, but because I don't enjoy it very much. So I go through the motions every now and then, my little repetition compulsion. And then I resume my ordinary life in brioche and pain de mie and Danish pastry and crumpets and English muffins and Sally Lunn.

The bread is quite tasty. The crust is definitely chewy. A touch of white whole wheat flour darkens the crumb, and a mild amount of fermentation gives it a faintly sour edge.

One loaf I've eaten -- a panzanella for dinner, and some butter and jam for lunch. The other two loaves are safe in the freezer, in case Gabriel Porras gets hungry.

El Chofer, The Sequel

El Chofer

Two Things I Love

Freeze-Framed

I got my electric bill yesterday and it was over one hundred dollars, the first time ever in my life. It is turning out to be the hottest summer in years, so hot some evenings I think I am losing my mind as I stare into my open freezer and dream of Mexico, of the exquisite gardens and the lovingly restored little pyramid of Santa Cecilia Acatitlan tucked away in the foothills beyond the northwest edge of Mexico City. Hidden behind a church and surrounded by a high black iron fence the park is a dreamy oasis where spider lilies and dahlias luxuriate in the shade of elders and oaks. In his True History Bernal Diaz del Castillo mentions stopping several nights in the city as the Spaniards circled counter-clockwise around the valley plotting their siege of Tenochtitlan, but his report is tantalizingly short on details, and he definitely doesn't ever mention meeting Gabriel Porras. Still I bet they would have had much to talk about!

More Anchovy Goodness

The anchovy is an ambitious little fish. It keeps putting out flavor. Never mind a succession of hottest days of the year, it is always ready to get back to work.

Tonight was a mock macaroni and cheese on the stove top. Just some breadcrumbs browned in butter, some anchovies stirred until broken up, the last of the heavy cream from the chocolate glaze a week ago, a very big handful of Parmesan cheese, and some boiled penne rigate.

Swiss Chard Tart with Anchovies

An 8 Inch Tart (Thanks to Eden for the Mold!)

Here's a culinary riddle with a ready answer:  What do you get when you combine some pastry dough left over from a strawberry tart with some cream and eggs left over from a birthday cake with some Parmesan and mozzarella cheeses left over from the last round of pizza with a quick trip to the produce market?

An excuse to open a can of anchovies, of course! Strange that such an ugly little fish can add such beautiful flavor to so many dishes. It deserves a haiku:

I caught one!

A little oily
Yellow can of anchovies
A little salty

The filling for the tart is an onion browned with the chopped stems from a bunch of chard and a diced yellow pepper. Then a few cloves of garlic through the press and four anchovies mashed. The greens from the chard coarsely chopped. Plenty of salt and pepper and a sprinkle of bouquet garni.

The tart shell is baked blind until the surface is starting to look dry.

The filling is finished with 2 eggs, about 2/3 cup heavy cream, a handful of Parmesan and a handful of mozzarella. Then baked at 350 for about 40 minutes.

The tart is superb warm and equally superb at room temperature.

A Slice of Swiss Chard Tart with Anchovies

An Imperfect Piece

The older I grow the more comfortable I grow also in my conviction that human nature is fallen and that of its own will it can't get up and that the only remedy of the imperfectability of humanity is to fight the fantasy that any remedy is possible. Which is not to say that persons singly and together shouldn't cease to strive to ameliorate the harms that persons singly and together cause each other. But that no effort to lessen human suffering, never mind how imperative and praiseworthy, can ever disentangle itself from the snares of self-interest and deceit and abuse and pride and vicious habit that cause so much suffering in the first place. In matters of ethics I have no doubt that the perfect is the enemy of the good. In matters of cake I am less certain. 

A Piece of Chocolate Cake with Walnut Rum Butter Cream

Given the impossibility of human perfection, it makes no sense to feel disappointment at its lack. Many theorists of beauty have even argued that too complete an appearance of perfection is actually an impediment to the apprehension of beauty. An awkward angle, a lack of symmetry, a detail out of proportion or out of place, is necessary they say to complete the picture. More important, a bit of imperfection renders the picture recognizably human. With regard to cake I believe something similar is true. A home-baked cake should look home-baked. A subtle lack of polish is part of its charm and also practically relevant, since it is an insult to any home baker to ask, from what bakery did you buy this cake? I made it! a cake should speak clearly in its own voice, without prompting.

The Crumb Coat

Still one must have standards. One must draw the line somewhere. At the gloss in a chocolate cream glaze, for example, so that I couldn't avoid a sense of moral failing as I was finishing last night this chocolate cake with a walnut rum butter cream. I've made a similar glaze numerous times, and always thought it was foolproof:  warm three quarters of a cup of heavy cream, pour over nine ounces of bittersweet chocolate, let stand a few minutes, stir until smooth. Only the instant I started stirring I knew that something was wrong. The chocolate was seizing. In place of a smooth creamy brown glow the chocolate was grainy and the glaze had an acneous black shine.  In my gut I wanted to start over. The waste to my mind seemed too extravagant. Reason and instinct for a moment faced each other down, and then in a reckless dash I began pouring.

Rum Syrup Keeps the Sponge Moist

I was past the point of no return and I put the cake away to set in the refrigerator and pretended I wouldn't care in thirty minutes, but when I returned the damage looked clearly irreparable. So I filled a tumbler with bourbon and backed away slowly and sipped away slowly until the spirits steadied my nerves. And they did. They also did the exact opposite to my hands and to my inhibitions with a parchment cone full of melted milk chocolate.

Happy Birthday Catherine!

It wasn't the perfectly smooth finish I was planning. But it didn't exactly put anyone's eyes out to look at. And did it taste good? Yeah, it did. Perfect, really.