Stuffed Artichokes

Dear Devon,

Two weeks ago, I left the temperate Mediterranean climate of Barcelona for skyscraper city New York. The decision to leave was based in reason, but as is often the case, emotions and reason don't always align. The adjustment has been smooth but not without frequent thoughts of Barcelona or of my friends lucky enough to call Barcelona home. So, while I try to launch myself back into New York life, my archive of photographs reminds me of that fantastic year in Barcelona.

Since returning, I have spent many afternoons trying to organize the room: wedging books into shelves and jamming clothes under the bed. Sorting through my digital folders, I found this post from last autumn that I never put up. It is amazing how much changes in a year. Wild mushrooms are still a priority but perhaps not as important as securing that elusive full-time job or a perfect apartment...


(From October 2010)
While all of Catalonia is in the throes of wild mushroom season, I am enjoying the dwindling supply of this autumn’s artichoke harvest. Though noticeably smaller than when I first arrived, they continue to pop up in Barcelona markets, and I am taking full advantage. Unlike their giant globe counterparts in the US, these chokes boast delicate, tightly packed leaves, and are unmarred by long overland transports. One of the tastiest parts is the stem, which extends four or five inches from the base and still supports long curling leaves. But what I love best is the absence of sharp prickles. These artichokes are defenseless. I’m going to attack with full force!

Given their abundance in local markets, James Beard’s baked stuffed artichokes was the inspiration I needed. Artichokes can seem intimidating, unapproachable, and even diabolical, but bolstered by Beard’s energetic and witty prose, any home chef can easily prepare an elegant serving of artichoke for a first course or a light luncheon.

I can count on one hand the number of times that I have prepared artichokes that didn’t come out of a jar. I love their distinct tang and buttery richness, but my last encounter with this prickly tuber left me searching for dragon skin gloves and a samurai sharp knife. And so it was with a bit of lingering doubt that I purchased four small, tightly packed buds in my local market. Unhampered by stinging needles, preparation was significantly easier than I had imagined. A whole artichoke fit snugly in my hand, allowing for greater dexterity and speed. Soon my cooking pot was bubbling away with freshly shorn chokes.

With the upper leaves removed and the fuzzy choke hollowed out, an artichoke makes a neat container. Beard provides several possible fillings, including crabmeat salad, cubed avocado, duck with mayonnaise, sweetbreads in cream, and chicken hash– but my eye fell on a hearty French-Italian inspired filling of mushroom, sausage, and herbs.

It would have been easy to make this a purely Spanish dish, stuffed with wild Catalonian mushrooms and bits of jamón. But I opted for a closer interpretation of the recipe. I doubt Beard would have minded, either way. He was a big supporter of local ingredients, and anyone who loves food like he did could hardly have objected to the addition of some bright orange rovellons. In the end, white button mushrooms worked just as nicely, but I did manage to sneak in a bit of Spain in the form of fuet, a salty, porky, cured Catalonian sausage. A few slices go a long way, so I limited myself to 2 tbsp of diced fuet.

Often it is the artichoke hearts that get all the attention, but at least with these, the stem has great flavor too. As breadcrumbs were in short supply, I resisted trimming the stem to a short knob. I cooked the artichoke, stem and all. Then I diced the cooked stems and folded them into the prepared stuffing. I worried that without this extra bit of flavor, the distinct taste of artichoke would get lost in the rich meaty stuffing. This is about artichokes.

I served these fresh from the oven as a first course. This kind of dish is best eaten among close friends: Roll up your sleeves, put your elbows on the table, and by all means, use your teeth! The leaves were easy to separate from the core, surrendering the soft flesh buried under the savory blanket of stuffing. The juice dribbling down my arm meant I had lost that battle of decorum, but shouldn’t enjoyment take precedence in these circumstances?

PS. Beard says they’re good cold, too– and he is right again. The leftovers made a tasty lunch the next day.

Stuffed Artichokes
adapted from James Beard American Cookery
(makes 4)

4 small artichokes, trimmed and cleaned
lemon, halved
1 clove garlic, crushed
¼ cup mushrooms, chopped
¼ cup leek, chopped
¼ cup parmesan cheese, grated
¼ cup cured sausage, chopped
¼ cup breadcrumbs
2 tbsp butter
½ cup white wine
salt and pepper

To prepare artichokes, trim off the woody, dried bit at the end of the stem. Using a paring knife, strip the first layers of fibrous skin from the tip of the stem to the base of the artichoke. Remove a few layers of the outer leaves. With a heavy duty, sharp knife, remove the tips of the artichokes. Trim any remaining leaves that may have sharp prickles. Place the entire artichoke in a pot of water with a few wedges of lemon. Continue with remaining artichokes. Bring the pot of water to a boil and cover. Simmer for 30 to 40 minutes, until the leaves are tender and pull away from the center when lightly tugged. Remove from the hot water and allow to cool, about 20 minutes.

In a sauté pan, melt butter and add leeks, garlic, mushroom, and cured sausage. Cook over medium heat to lightly brown. When mixture is nicely browned, add breadcrumbs, a pinch of salt and a few grinds of pepper. Gently toast breadcrumbs and allow crumbs to soak up all the delicious fat from the sausage and melted butter. Remove mixture from the pan and allow to cool in a medium sized mixing bowl. Add parmesan cheese and mix well.

Remove the stems and scoop out the center leaves to create a small bowl. Finely dice stems and removed central leaves. Add to the parmesan-mushroom mix.

Preheat oven to 375 degrees F. Gingerly separate the leaves, be careful not to detach the leaves from the central choke. Scoop filling into the central cavity and tuck into the gently opened leaves. I find it is easiest to hold each artichoke in the palm of my left hand and use my forefinger and thumb to fill the chokes and leaves. Place each stuffed artichoke into an ovenproof casserole dish. Add liquid (white wine or broth) and place in the oven for 30 minutes, basting twice with the pan juices. The artichokes are done when the tops are nicely golden brown, moist, and tender.

Apricot Cake

Dear Devon,

Summer, is perhaps my favorite season, not because of its relaxed balmy nights or the promise of vacations, but because of the sweet, ripe fruits. Every summer, I look forward to filling my fridge with apricots, peaches, watermelons, pears, and strawberries. Unfortunately, the fruits of recent summers resemble only in name and shape the fabulous fruits of years past. I can’t tell you the number of times that I have been disappointed by hard peaches, mealy pears, and green apricots. It always broke my heart to walk past those perfect looking but tasteless summer fruits. And, I am sure it’s going to be harder once I return from Barcelona. The fruit here is how I remember fruit from my childhood to taste, feel, and smell.

Juicy, sweet, and gently blushed, apricots are again my favorite summer fruit. Apricots come in two sizes, big and small. It is not the most sophisticated of classification systems, but it’s the best that I can get out of my fruit vendor. I’m partial to the smaller ones, which have a more intense honey-like flavor and are a bit more delicate. Alas, the season is already over for these gems; I will have to make it through with their larger counterparts.

The apricots are so tasty that I debated whether to bake with them. In the end, the temptation to experiment was too strong. I pieced together two of Dorie Greenspan’s recipes and invented an olive oil based cake flavored with lemon infused sugars and a splash of hazelnut oil. The cake turned out nicely, but it also turned me out of the apartment. Barcelona has been experiencing a mild summer, but August brought an inescapable wave of humidity, blinding sun, and scorching heat. (Every tourist wears a sunburn like a badge of honor. I am hidden under dark sunglasses, hat, and an impenetrable layer of spf 75 sunscreen). My tiny apartment is a death trap, especially with the oven on. But when perfectly ripe, juicy, fat apricots are in season, I can set aside temporary discomfort for a delicious slice of cake (or so I thought).


Apricot Cake
(makes one 9 inch round cake)

1 pound apricots, halved
¼ cup white sugar
2 lengths of lemon peel
½ cup brown sugar
9 tbsp olive oil
2 eggs
1 tsp hazelnut oil
1 ½ cup flour
½ cup cornmeal
½ tsp baking soda
½ tsp salt
½ cup milk

Preheat oven to 350 degrees F. Butter a springform pan and set aside until ready to use.

Pick over and wash apricots, cleaning off any dirt and removing any bruised portions. Using a sharp knife, halve apricots and remove the stone. Continue until all the apricots are halved and pitted. Set aside until ready to use.

Put white sugar and lemon peel in a large mixing bowl. Using your fingertips, crush the lemon peel into the sugar, infusing the white sugar with the fragrant citrus oils. Discard peel and add brown sugar. Add olive oil and mix until a thick soupy consistency. Beat in one egg at a time, followed by hazelnut oil.

In a large mixing bowl, combine flour, cornmeal, baking soda, and salt. Measure out milk. Alternating between flour mixture and milk, add to the sugar-oil batter, beginning and ending with flour.

Pour batter into prepared cake form. Nestle halved apricots into the batter, creating a roughly circular pattern.

Bake in the oven 55 to 65 minutes, until golden brown and fragrant. The cake test works well. Allow to cool on a wire rack before serving.

It is best eaten the day it is made, but will keep well in an airtight container for 2 days after baking.

Valencia, Spain: Horchata

I hadn’t read much about Valencia before jumping into a friend’s car and driving three hours south. After all, we were to be the guests of a real Valenciana who was eager to show off her city. With such an enthusiastic host, I wasn’t too worried about the itinerary. I had only two requests: to taste a real paella, and to cool down with the best horchata in town.

Nowadays paella and arroz caldoso are available in most Spanish cities, but these dishes sustained Valencian families long before they appeared on tourist menus. Local restaurants specialize in the preparation of rice, proudly displaying large paellas, diameters exceeding three feet, mixed with shrimp, vegetables, and chicken in restaurant windows. Savvy clients pre-order their paellas before arriving at the restaurant to avoid the hour-long cooking time. We weren’t that well organized. But the inky black rice with cuttlefish and seafood paella with giant shrimps and mussels were definitely worth the wait.

Valencia is also famous for a little American known crop called chufa. The root of a tuber called tigernut in English, chufa is the main ingredient in the summer drink, horchata. The drink has only a few ingredients but its production is so involved that when I inquired about home brewing, even locals at the market warned me against it.

After hours of walking in the sun, our friend pulled us into a local watering hole for the typical Valenciana merienda of ice cold horchata and sweet fartons. Clearly, there were only three things on the menu: the classic horchata, horchata granizada (like a slushy), and fartons (a fluffy baton of bread covered with a thick layer of hardened sugar). The décor of white tiled walls, marble tabletops, and closet-like bathrooms suggested both age and authenticity.

Good horchata can be found in Barcelona, but Valencia has the definitive recipe. I opted for the horchata granizada, a blend of horchata and crushed ice. It arrived in a tall clear glass on a white saucer. The texture was fine and fluffy, like soft snow, and the color was a dull off-white. The taste was also distinct, a subtle combination of nutty and sweet. The added delight of a sugary farton rejuvenated me for hours of site-seeing that lasted almost until midnight.

Mercado Central de Valencia

Dear Devon,

Every town I visit, I try to pop in at the local market. I find, it is the fastest way to familiarize myself with the local foods and kitchen practices of any given town. I am always amazed with the variety of the products and the enthusiasm of the vendors. In theory, markets should all operate on the same basic principles but in practice, it seems that every market is truly original.

No visit to Valencia would have been complete without a stop at the central market. Housed in an elegant iron and glass structure, the market holds numerous vendors specializing in a range of goods from vegetables to shoes, horchata and olives.

Queviures J. Murria

Dear Devon,

Help! Send some tips for photographing buildings. I am trying to build up my own digital library of architectural photographs. I am using a shift lens to get the best images, but it has proven a bit tricky. Perseverance seems to be the only solution.

Queviures J. Murria, a turn of the century gourmet grocery store, has carried on the tradition of providing impeccable service and selling luxury import food products for generations. Walking into one of these impeccably organized shops in the Eixample is like stepping backwards in time: You can almost hear the clomping of horses’ hoofs over the roar of modern automobiles. Colmados, or Queviures (as they are called in proper Catalan), migrated from the historical city in the late 1800’s, following their high profile clientele to the Eixample’s tree-lined streets and spacious, well-lit apartment buildings. Today, workers dressed in light blue smocks chat with clients, advising on purchases and handling orders. Service is friendly, but formal, with many products kept out of the client’s reach, behind the counter. Receipts are hand tallied, and payment is made at a separate cashier’s desk. These grocers aren’t your run of the mill food-sellers, but rank as some of Barcelona’s most respected gourmets and boast some of city’s leading chefs as regular clients.

But, aside from the delicacies inside, it was the exterior facades that first caught my attention. Hand-painted advertisements from the 19th century continue to promote delights from a by-gone era. The collection is anchored by the famous Anis del Mono painting by Barcelona native and modernista phenomenon Ramon Casas, who created a prize-winning poster La Mona y el Mono (the stylish lady and the monkey) for the anis-flavored liquor in 1898. While the Casas design is the most recognizable, I never tire of the fashionably dressed lady, of Marques de Monistrol cava’s advertisement, emerging from the picturesque vineyards of Alt Penedes.

To the unpracticed amateur, photographing this storefront was a challenge. Between cars moving at highway speeds, annoying reflections, and operator errors (of which there were many), it took a solid week of return visits at varying times of day to get acceptable pictures. My unfamiliarity with the shift lens was my biggest challenge. Working with a manual lens mounted on a digital camera, and light meter blind, I was a bit overwhelmed. I completely forgot to focus the lens! Of course, I didn’t realize this until I got home and opened the files. If I was Monet, it would be acceptable, but in today’s digital age of crisp high definition, there is no excuse for blurry images.

After four consecutive days of return visits, the owner thought I was stalking them. So, he came out to talk to me. A Mark Twain-like figure (broad mustache and frizzed hair), Mr. Murria was friendly and enthusiastic to share his knowledge. He confirmed that the advertisements were indeed originals, though some were not original to his storefront.

For now, I will attempt less challenging photographic projects. As for return visits, there have been many, but this time to focus on the cheese.

Fried Zucchini Blossoms

Dear Devon,

The first time I ate fried zucchini blossoms was in your steamy Brooklyn kitchen many summers ago. The blossoms had been purchased that morning at the Union Square Farmer’s Market along with fresh goat’s milk ricotta. Watching you remove the interior stems and carefully fill each blossom with a ricotta cheese mixture, I was in awe of your confidence and skill. You dipped each prepared blossom in a bubbly tempura batter before easing them into hot oil, for a few seconds. It was fantastic to witness and needless to say, the blossoms tasted wonderful. I was thankful for having such an adventurous cook as a friend and marked this dish as something to be ordered in the restaurant but certainly not cooked by me. But, life has a funny way of catching up with you…and the markets of Barcelona have a powerful hold over me, especially when zucchini blossoms are involved.

Though the vendor gave me a full tutorial on zucchini blossom preparation and a number of good ideas, a wave of panic set in as soon as I entered my kitchen. I scanned the internet for assistance; but it only brought a more intense wave of panic. Do I have female or male zucchini blossoms? What exactly do plant reproductive organs look like and do I need to remove them before deep-frying?

The websites confirmed my suspicions that I was working with female zucchini blossoms. Now began the laborious process of removing the interior stamens. The first two tries were a bit dodgy but I soon got the hang of it. I cannot brag speed, efficiency, nor consistency, but soon they were ready for the hot olive oil.

Frying was never a cooking technique that I favored. I have a fear of spattering hot oil and grease clogged foods. But after visiting several Barcelona home kitchens, where the deep fryer is a regular appliance, I have adjusted my stance. Given the right conditions, fried foods can be relatively oil-free not to mention crisp and crackling. With the oil at temperature, my first blossom coated in a thin layer of tempura-like batter, I lowered the zucchini blossoms into a pool of hot oil. The blossoms immediately began frying, quickly turning a nice golden brown and developing a delicate crust. The process seemed so natural. The fried underside naturally rolled in the oil, like the tanning beach bums lining the sandy shore of Barcelona. After a few seconds, the golden brown blossoms were ready for a voluminous pile of paper towels and a generous sprinkling with Mallorcan sea salt.

Any notions of stuffing the blossoms were put off for a future attempt, of which I am sure there will be many. I never thought I’d rank among those who fried zucchini blossoms, but I suppose I do…and I won’t be stopping any time soon!

Fried Zucchini Blossoms
Serves 4 (at 3 a piece)

400 g flour
1 egg yolk
400 g carbonated water
½ tsp salt
12 zucchini blossoms
2 - 3 cups olive oil (perhaps more)

Sift flour and salt into a large bowl. Whisk in egg yolk and carbonated water. The batter should be thick and a bit bubbly.

Using a wet paper towel, gently clean the blossoms. Carefully remove the yellow fuzzy stem from inside the blossom. Twist the petals closed and set aside.

Fill one large pot with oil. There should be enough oil for the blossoms to easily float on the surface. Heat oil to frying temperature. I don’t have a thermometer, so I drop a small spoon of batter into the hot oil to see how quickly the batter begins to fry.

When the oil is hot, dredge the blossoms in the batter. Ease the coated blossom into the oil. Avoid overcrowding the pot. Be aware that the temperature of the oil will drop with each additional blossom. To avoid a dramatic decrease in frying temperature, I fry three at a time. Transfer the finished blossoms to a paper-towel-lined plate. Dust with a generous bit of sea salt.

These are best eaten immediately.

Hey Devon,

Last year around this time I half put together this recipe for chouxettes... then time went by and it was past blueberry season, and I decided to hold off. This recipe is meant for this time of year, when you can get fresh, inexpensive blueberries. It’s pretty festive too, if you are into 4th of July themed foods.

My great grandmother made this recipe, in fact it is written in her very old copy of the Joy Of Cooking. She lived to be 101, and made this well into her 90s. Coincidentally her sister passed away this week at 101 also. Now my mom mainly carries on the tradition of blueberry buckle, I’d say we have it at least 4 times a summer. She makes it for parties, out of town visitors... birthday breakfasts (with a more traditional birthday cake later on).

For me, blueberry buckle tastes like summer, and must be eaten on a napkin, while standing up, in the kitchen of the beach house, trying to avoid crumbs going all over (its inevitable, and probably shouldn’t be eaten that way). The thing is, you have to eat standing up so that when you are done you can cut another oddly-shaped piece to disguise how much of the cake you are taking. It is typically gone within a couple hours, though in our defense there are a lot of people there, waiting to pounce on it.

You can double the recipe and make it in a 9”x13”, as pictured here.

Blueberry Buckle

Mix thoroughly:

¾ Cup Sugar
¼ Cup Soft Butter
1 Egg

Stir in:

½ C Milk

Sift together and stir in:

2 Cup Flour
2 tsp Baking Powder
½ tsp Salt

Carefully blend in

2 Cups (well drained) Blueberries
(can sub in frozen in off season, just defrost and drain, though they will bleed more into the batter)

To make crumb topping, mash together with a fork until course crumbs are formed:

½ Cup Sugar
⅓ Cup Flour
½ tsp Cinnamon (I’d double that)
¼ Cup Soft Butter

Spread batter into a buttered and floured 9” square pan. Sprinkle with topping.

Bake at 375 Degrees for 40-45 minutes (I think around an hour if you double it). Cake is done when it feels solid and no batter sticks to a tooth pick, crumbs and blueberry mush are to be expected.

That’s Bea’s handwriting (my great-grandmother and middle-namesake).

Hope to see you soon,

Amanda

Chocolate and Sea Salt Tostadas

Dear Devon,

Short post today. I am leaving in a few hours for a weekend adventure to Valencia with a carload of friends. Packing is still on the “to do” list, as is lunch, both eating and making. But I wanted to tempt you with something to think over or possibly try this weekend.

My last half dozen posts have featured one ingredient: chocolate. I don’t confess to be a full-blown chocolate fiend (not yet that is), but I do have a completely new appreciation for it. The Spaniards love their chocolate dark, bitter, and pure. Here, chocolate is made from only three ingredients: cacao, sugar, and vanilla. No chemicals, no additives, no extra flavorings, just three ingredients, and it definitely shows in both the flavor and its shiny surface. The chocolate is richer, smoother, not overly sweetened and without that gross waxy texture that I’ve known all my life.

For the past few months, I have regularly stopped in at some of the best chocolate shops in the city. I am slowly befriending the staff and gleaning ideas for desserts and savories. Some of these shops have been in business for over 100 years, using the same techniques, recipes, and even grinder, delighting generations of Barcelonans. I can’t brag to have tried the entire stable of truffles or bonbons at any one place. Let’s just say, I have a completely new respect for chocolate and Hershey’s ranks below crayola.

My inspiration for this recipe is a bit hazy. I’ve seen variations of this flavor combination on menus, chocolate bars, and even in the NY Times. All I know is that it’s delicious, especially when you use the finest chocolate, bright sea salt and pungent olive oil. Since there are only four ingredients (bread counts too), you really need to invest in the best products. Set aside the table salt and crayons for another dish, real fleur de sel and good chocolate will make all the difference.

Chocolate and Sea Salt Tostadas
(makes 12)

1 baguette, sliced
large chunk of good dark chocolate (71% is best)
1 generous pinch of sea salt
3 tbsp olive oil

Arrange sliced baguette on a cutting board. Grate chocolate over the slices. A vegetable peeler works well, cutting the chocolate into long swirling strips. Sprinkle with a good pinch of sea salt and olive oil.

These are best eaten right away. Serve as an afternoon snack or a light dessert.

Our M. Wells Diner Dinner

Dear Michelle, 

You must come back IMMEDIATELY. I have had one of the top ten meals of my life. 

I have many things to tell you about: Thomas Keller’s split pea soup, my time at home, naan cooked on the grill, rose infused vinegar, but this trumps all of them. Jeff heard about this place a while ago, a little diner car restaurant called M. Wells in Queens run by two transplants from Montreal, and decided to take me there for our first anniversary. 

I was fairly excited, having read good things about escargot, bone marrow, calves brains, you know, the things I tend to get curious about. We took the G train up into Long Island City, and walked a short way to the diner.  

The sun was setting, the night was mild and pleasant, and my hunger suddenly piqued to the point where I start getting a little weird. We entered the unassuming little diner car to an enclave of clatter and chatter, full of happy faces and promising smells. We wanted to try several things, and our waiter recommended five to six small dishes, so we hemmed and hawed and finally chose those that most intrigued us. 

The escargot with bone marrow was one of the dishes I’d read about and had really wanted to try, and immediately when it arrived I popped a piping hot snail covered in fat, parsley and bread crumbs in my mouth. I was lucky I didn’t burn myself! After that first hot but satisfying bite, I tried the cold dish that Jeff had wanted to order, Porchetta Sierra, while the escargot cooled a bit. 

I had not been all that excited about this dish; it was described as thinly sliced pork with a mackerel mayo and fried caper berries. Roast pork isn’t my favorite, but I was interested enough by the idea of it with fish mayonnaise. This ended up being my favorite dish, so elegant in its simplicity. The very juicy, thinly sliced roast pork had plenty of melty, not chewy, fatty bits. It was laid out in a circle on a plate, and the inner part of that circle was spread with a greyish mayo, and sprinkled all over were fried capers. 

This mayonnaise was the perfect amount of salty and umami for the pork, and the fried capers added a pop of much needed color and crunch. I don’t even like capers, which usually taste like mildew to me, but fried they are delicious! Jeff didn’t like it as much because mayonnaise weirds him out, but he did like his first ever taste of escargot, which was delicious, perfectly cooked. I was disappointed, and this was my only disappointment, that the marrow was liquid. I don’t know if this was by design or not, but I’d have liked spreadable marrow for the crunchy little toasts on the side instead of molten marrow that needed to be soaked up from the plate. 

Next out was caesar salad, Grouper cordon blue, and smoked chicken legs with fries. I don’t remember in what order we ate, but I am sure the level of gluttony we reached might have been just short of a deadly sin. The salad, Jeff’s idea as a light addition to the meal, was just that. It was a beautiful pile of green with a few golden croutons, all covered with a generous feathery fluff of fine, long bits of grated cheese. The dressing was made with smoked herring instead of anchovies, a nice touch. 

The Grouper cordon blue was good, although I was starting to recognize the physical limits of my stomach at this point. The fish was fried, with a crispy thin crust (I’m guessing cornmeal), combined with mortadella, pickled ramps (YUM), and a sour cream dressing on a thin toasted sourdough roll. That sauce was so good that even after I was uncomfortably stuffed, I was eating the leftover roll with the dressing soaked in. 

The most impressive dish of the night was the smoked chicken legs with fries. You see that description, and you think of a plate of drumsticks on fries, maybe with some sort of sauce, right? I did. What we got was a giant platter with a WHOLE CHICKEN LEG, thigh to claws, on top of biscuits and thin crunchy fries, all dripping with the best barbeque sauce ever. I say bbq sauce, but it was more like a cross between that and gravy (and it would have made an excellent poutine), thick and glossy and sweet and smoky and spicy. When I try to replicate this, I will make a white roux, then add chicken stock, tomato paste, apple cider vinegar, cayenne, paprika, and brown sugar. We each ate enough of the leg to taste it, as it was the most likely to be good reheated. That will be our dinner tonight, and the bones will go in with a ham hock and bacon to some baked beans I’ll make later in the week. You can bet I’ll try to make them taste like that sauce. 

When our waiter came by to ask about dessert (sigh), I told him this was the best meal I’d had all year, that it was exemplary. He returned with a bottle of maple syrup liquor (delicious!), and did a shot with us. It was a truly memorable evening, and we MUST go back when you return!

Frozen Chocolate Truffles

Dear Devon,

In an effort to get a bit more language practice, I registered for a cooking class at my local civic center. Unfortunately, there are no molecular gastronomy courses, but at 50 Euros a semester, I was hardly going to register a complaint. I put my money down for a chocolate themed dessert class. I had hoped that I’d learn to make liquor-filled bonbons but the class was more focused on baked goods than confections. In practice and theory, I knew how to make most of the recipes. In hindsight, it was for the better. My language skills are steadily improving but my comprehension greatly depended on my prior baking experience.

The partial meltdowns of my anxious teacher could fill an entire volume. In many ways, the course was particularly cruel to her. The kitchen is hardly equipped for teaching let alone actually baking. There was the constant threat of equipment malfunction (fridge or microwave), lack of basic materials like bowls, whisks or scale, and then there was the portly student from whose mouth issued a constant and unrelenting stream of advice, stories, loosely-linked words, and general nonsense. In six weeks, I know more details about her life than yours.

Given these setbacks, the class altered my perceptions of what is actually possible in the kitchen. The obvious lack of materials and occasional mistake didn’t stop us from making some really fantastic desserts. Sure, it had the distinct look of homemade and yes, at times, there was the failed, trash bound cake or cookies. She proved to me that it was possible to make and not just purchase macaroons. Truffles are delightfully easy to make and can even serve as the base for an amazingly decadent, dark chocolate cake.


I have been mulling over the recipes and the class for a few weeks, trying to decide where or if to begin experimenting. I admit, when looking over the packet of recipes, I am largely uninspired but then again, it usually isn’t the recipe that inspires me to start cooking, it’s the market.

There’s a wonderful stand at La Boqueria that specializes in foods of the forest. In the fall, the stand overflows with morels, truffles, wild mushrooms, and strange looking roots. Summer’s bounty includes zucchini blossoms, white asparagus, and wild strawberries. These berries are wonderful. They are about the size of my fingernail but intensely sweet and amazingly fragrant. One tiny berry is tastier than an entire giant American strawberry. I eat them like candy. Encasing them in chocolate truffle seemed the next logical step.


Frozen Chocolate Truffles
(makes 36)

100 grams of butter
50 grams of sugar (confectioner’s is best, but granulated will do)
100 grams of chocolate (70 % cacao)
1 egg yolk
1 tsp hazelnut oil (optional)
1 tsp espresso
24 frozen wild strawberries
¼ cup cocoa powder
1/4 cup coconut (optional)

Wash and gently dry wild strawberries. Place berries without touching one another on a small tray and freeze. Leave overnight.

Gently melt butter over a pot of simmering water. Remove melted butter from the heat and whisk in sugar and egg yolk. In a separate bowl, melt the chocolate with hazelnut oil and water. Add the butter mixture to the melted chocolate and thoroughly mix. Cool in the fridge until firm to the touch, roughly 2 hours.

When the chocolate mixture is set and the berries have frozen, begin forming the truffles. Using two spoons, scoop a bit of the ganache into each spoon. Center one frozen berry in one of the two spoons and cover the berry with the ganache from the second spoon. Work the spoons around each other, to form a small ball. It is similar to forming quenelles.

In a small bowl, sift in cocoa powder. Roll the freshly formed truffle in cocoa powder. I had some extra truffles so I rolled them in coconut. Set the finished truffle on a platter and continue with the remaining berries. Freeze the entire tray of truffles until set, roughly 2 hours.

Store in the freezer in a plastic container.

Note: Be sure to work quickly. The truffle mix will begin to soften if left out too long and will make forming the truffles difficult. If this happens, pop the bowl back into the fridge for a bit until the mixture hardens again.