Going Kosher

It was 1 in the morning and I was madly etching a letter B on every sheet pan. I'd already been through a long production shift and behind me the overnight bake was in full swing, but there I was, discovering my lack of Dremmel tool skills, and there I would be for a good hour. I had to be, there was no other time.

The rabbi was coming at 6 am, and he was bringing his blowtorch.

I think I had been at my job for a week when people had first started asking, "Are you going to be Kosher?"  Well, now, that was a good question.  There's a sizeable Jewish community in town.  There's a local organization dedicated to helping people make that happen. Oh yeah, and I'm making bagels.  The first problem, though, was where I was making them. A kitchen space that enjoys a wide range of clients including some serious pork people? Yeah, not so kosher.

But then we started planning out our own space - we were already getting too big to comfortably share the freezer, the walk-in and if we wanted to continue that growth, our best option was to get the space next to the kitchen and build a bakery. If we were going to do that, then, sure, why not go kosher?

So what did that mean, exactly? Well, first it meant that our Kosher certification representative came to visit the kitchen on the inevitable day there was a big pork photo shoot going on. Seriously. We're talking sides of pig laid out across three tables in all their glory. Because that's the way my life goes.  I respectfully did not offer to shake hands (Thank you, Dan, for teaching me this etiquette tidbit years ago!) we snagged my boss and went to sit somewhere pork-free.  Then, we learned what we needed to do.

One part was paperwork.  We'd already done quite a bit, chasing down Ks and circled Us on labels and considering substitutes where there were no symbols.  I heard about disreputable merchants who use false symbols and very reputable ones that don't see a need to go through the process. I learned why spice blends are more suspect than the spices themselves and how an initially Kosher product that gets repackaged by a food distributor means we better make sure the distributor is certified.  Better to go to the source. Also, all those crazy Asian ingredients in our Miso Soy Ginger bagel? Mostly not Kosher. We would have to make, boil and bake those in the other kitchen. We had to track down actual certificates for all of those products, and submit our formulas.  I wondered, briefly, if this meant that some rabbinical council had the formula for Kosher Coke somewhere. I bet they had to sign something.

Then there was equipment.  We have an advantage in having a separate kitchen, in that we can still make things for the shop with bacon and sausage (only the bagels are certified), but it meant we had to have absolute separation between all of our equipment - bowls, sheetpans, knives, bench scrapers - and the kitchen's tools. So I dremmeled my way through the wee hours.  In the morning the rabbi brought his blowtorch to cleanse the items that had been used before, and to get a complete list of all of our equipment to keep on record. They count the sheetpans. Seriously.

So, beginning just before the High Holidays, we became a Kosher bakery.  We get weekly inspections, usually during the wee hours.  I consider it a compliment that after the inspection they often ask for bagels.  I've had great conversations with some of my farmer's market friends who produce Kosher items. "Oh, did you work with Tuvia? Tuvia's great!" "Oh, we worked with Tuvia, too!"  We can't control for where knives in the shop have been, so our qualifying bagels are only certified kosher in their whole, uncut state which has caused some giggles from our customers.

In the end, was it worth the time, the expense? The little rules that we have to keep an eye on, the paperwork we need to process every time we buy bowls or want to add a new flavor?  For me it's not about their religion, or my lack of religion.  It's about wanting to bring this great stuff we make to as many people as possible.  We didn't have to change our recipes, just substitute one product for another and now there's a whole community of people who can try one of my pumpernickel bagels.  That makes it worth it for me.

Demon's Farts and Other Legacies

So, I have a new job. Actually I've had this job for a smidge over a month now, but I'm just starting to get a finger and toe hold of an idea of what my life will be like on this train I am currently riding. It's been a fun, crazy, breathless time, and somehow in there I managed to learn something about pumpernickel.

 Me and pumpernickel, we go way back. I know it appeared for sandwiches (pastrami was probably my gateway to pumpernickel) but mostly I remember the bread dip. It was a recipe from my aunt, and it was creamy and full of dill and always served in a bowl of pumpernickel bread. On such occasions as this dip would appear, I would happily eat what was left of the bowl, with its thin layer of remaining dip, delighting in the flavors and textures. Those loaves even had the occasional raisin in them. I have no idea what made that baker put raisins in the pumpernickel, but it's probably the reason I like raisins, especially in savory items.

When faced with the prospect of making my own pumpernickel, it was that pumpernickel of my memories I wanted to recreate. Like so many other cooks before me, I found the task daunting, frustrating and perplexing. True pumpernickel is not what most Americans eat. The name refers to a sourdough rye bread that was baked low and long to get its dark color and was considered so indigestible that the name describes what the consumer was to experience later as a result of eating it. I'm not quite sure what demon's farts are supposed to be like, but it sounds really awful. So I'm mostly glad that the recipe in America was lightened up and enhanced, even if the name stuck. My sticking point was the enhancements. Pumpernickel color makes a nice dark loaf, but it is really just food coloring. Bleh. Pumpernickel flour, when checking the label, turns out to be dark rye flour with a variation that existed only on the price tag. Phooey. And everyone who loves pumpernickel has their own absolute list of what can and cannot appear: caraway or no, onions or no, coffee, chocolate, etc, etc, etc.

So I made my own list, and did what anyone experimenting with food should do - I played until it tasted right. I know without a shadow of a doubt that there are those who will tell me how wrong I am doing it, but this is mine. Yes, dammit, there is caraway.  And despite the naysayers, there are those out there who have told me, "Hey, this is really good pumpernickel." I'm glad they like my memories.

After the zombie apocalypse, there will still be cake

Best thing I have heard recently that I now have to try: before there was baking powder, there was deer horn. That's right, antlers, ground fine, can be used as a leavener in the same ratio as you would use baking powder. Similarly to baker's ammonia, it is stinky on baking, but the smell disappears when cool. And, bonus, like baker's ammonia it actually results in a better texture.

Now who's got an antler they can send me?

Oh my crazy valentine

Popovers and other impromptu party fare

Man, the 70s must have been rough.

I make this grandiose assumption not based on my own childhood, the tales of family and friends, or any real evidence. Instead, my hunch comes from the Betty Crocker Recipe cards circa 1971 that I have tacked up on my kitchen wall.

"Hurry Up Main Dishes" (favorites like liver with piquant sauce!), "Family Breakfast Brighteners" and "Dessert Spectaculars" are just a few of the categories of recipes. I can feel the pressure to provide good, fun and exciting food for every meal just ooze off these cards. Michael Pollan may say that America's food disorder stems from our overwhelming abundance but I think back then it was about being able to produce culinary awe at any hour of any day no matter what the status of your pantry, budget, or to do list. Sheesh.

My favorite is the set on Impromptu Party Fare. The idea is that anytime guests stop by you could be ready. Yes, there is a reference to when "guileless husbands turn up smiling with a dinner guest at six". Right. The recipes themselves are basically dressed up regular meals but one card has haunted me: Creamed Chipped Beef on Popovers.

Yes, that's right, SOS with the shingle being replaced by a popover.

For the record, I love chipped beef (dude, bechamel makes everything good). So I knew I would love this. And I did. But what got to me, as it does every time I make them, is how wonderful popovers can be. Why don't we make them more? I have no idea. It's super easy, can be sweet or savory and is strangely fascinating. I mean, the recipe is almost exactly the same as my favorite crepe batter, but because of the way it is cooked, it becomes a big, crusty, poofy pocket waiting to be filled.

Popovers:

1 Tbsp butter, melted

1 c. milk

2 eggs

1 c (140 g) all purpose flour

a good pinch of kosher salt

The only real key to this recipe is make sure your oven is good and hot when you put these puppies in, no skimping on the preheating, and make sure you give them the time to brown so they don't fall on you.

1. Preheat the oven to 450.

2. Grease up a muffin tin. Yes, popover pans exist, but I use a muffin tin that makes big muffins and it works out just fine.

3. Whisk up the eggs in a bowl until light and frothy.

4. Add everything else and whisk together until smooth. It's going to look like thin pancake batter. Don't be alarmed, that's how it is supposed to be.

5. Fill up muffin tins no more than half way. They will puff up significantly, so don't overfill them.

6. Bake at 450 for 20 minutes, then drop the temperature to 350 and bake another 20 minutes or so until well browned, crusty and crisp outside. Steam is what makes them puff, so don't be tempted to open the oven early! Better to check them after they have had some time at the lower temperature.

Let them sit a few minutes in the pan before popping them out on a rack. These are awesome with all sorts of butters or with soups and stews, and are available for parties. What more could a good hostess need?

well, there's pie, and ice cream, and jams....

... in case you're wondering what I've been up to lately.

on perfect lemon tarts

I have this theory about tuna sandwiches. The tuna sandwich seems to be something that people imbue with deeply felt, intensely personal preferences. It starts with the water vs oil debate, then it goes deeper. The proper mayonnaise ratio. The question of pickle. The marriage rending issue of hot or cold. And don't even get started on additions like dill or onion or green Tabasco or Old Bay. What it comes down to for me is simply, "If you want a tuna sandwich exactly the way you want it, make it at home." This is the Grand Unifying Theory of Tuna Sandwiches.

(I like tuna sandwiches a lot. Probably why I've spent so much energy thinking about this.)

I've come to realize that this holds true about lemon tarts as well. It's such a simple thing, a lemon tart. A crust of some sort holds a lemon filling. Easy, yes. But that ease makes it fall prey to mediocrity. A thick, boring crust. A lemonish filling (or worse, lemonesque). Accessorized with all sorts of craziness. Or, the worst possible circumstance, a SWEET dessert. And yet, we'll eat these bad lemon tarts because they are ok. Safe. Fit the bill. It's like the fast food cheeseburger of pastry. Its like a bad tuna fish sandwich.

So what is a good lemon tart? Rich, yet light on the tongue. Bright, a little sweet. A crust that has flavor but is not the focus. Mostly, it is about the lemon.

Now, these are reflections of my preferences. I want my lemon tart filled with a good, tart lemon curd. That lemon curd should be fresh, and well made, and really, I don't see a reason for it to have gelatin. It could be lemon curd that has been mixed with a bit of whipped cream, but only on certain alternate Thursdays. I want a well cooked sweet crust that is barely thick enough to hold the tart together, to provide the tiniest texture contrast. I don't need meringue, or whipped cream, or powdered sugar or a garnish of mint. Seriously, it is about the lemon.

Really, it is just better if I make it at home.

Lemon Curd for My Perfect Lemon Tart:
equal parts lemon juice (meyer lemon for variety), sugar, whole fresh eggs and cold butter

Mix sugar and lemon juice in a pot.
Beat eggs in a bowl.
Cut the cold butter into cubes.
Bring the sugar and lemon juice to a simmer over medium heat.
Add the juice mix to the eggs a little at a time, whisking constantly, until all is mixed together.
Pour eggs and juice back into the pot, and return to the burner over medium low heat.
Using a wooden spoon, stir constantly until the mixture thickens. It should not boil.
Pull the pot off the stove, and begin whisking in the cold butter, a few pieces at a time, until all the butter has been added and has melted.
Strain to remove any bits. Fill already cooked tart shells, and bake at 350 for 5 minutes to set. Cool and eat or refrigerate.

A Theoretically Life-Changing Event

My niece and namesake was born at the time this bread was being baked, on April 9th.

If you don't know what TED talks are, basically there is a conference (now international) where people are invited to talk about something that matters to them. The results are fascinating, educational, and, as intended, worth sharing.

Peter Reinhart does this talk about the cycle of life as manifested in bread. Now, personally, I don't think about my doughs this deeply, philosophically. But somehow, at this time, I felt this was a good thing to share.

Normal, for a given value of normal

January. Things... slow... down. People are still fancifully admiring their new year's resolutions and delicious, rich, happy pastry is usually not a high priority. This lull is not unexpected. It is the kind of thing you can plan for, and many kitchens use the time to consider, ponder, plan, test and start prepping. It's also a time where the job gets easier. It's a time where the needs get scaled back. When you're used to running on all cylinders to just keep up with the holidays, you find inexplicable pockets of dead time. You can look around a bit more, take the time to notice the people around you.

So who is around me? Who cooks? It's a question I find interesting because, quite simply, this is a weird industry. We work, for the most part, inconvenient hours. We expect to not take holidays off. It is blue collar, hard labor, and has long term physical effects. According to one BBC article chefs take the lead as far as unhealthy lifestyles go. Can't say I've seen too many examples to the contrary. Little money, little chance of greatness, celebrity or even serious recognition. So what gives?

Only one possible conclusion. We are all batshit crazy.

Oh, there are different types of crazy: chemically induced, DSM-IV recognized, food obsessed, lost... but every one of us is tweaked out in some way. This doesn't make us necessarily bad people (although some are). It just means that if we were forced to sit at some desk, move around numbers and speak cheerfully to strangers, lots of people would get a first hand opportunity to see how crazy we are. Somehow, though, the kitchen is an outlet, a direction. The food gives us a connection to the world, grounding. People who cannot manage a coherent sentence in a party situation can be a social butterfly in this safe place of fire and water and flour and eggs.

I've never met a cook who bored me. Yes, I've met plenty who I wouldn't want to meet up with outside of a kitchen, but all of them had a story behind their eyes. What is interesting is that there is no coherent link, no absolute shared anything. Educated or not, ambitious or not, even skilled or not. Race, color, creed, sexual orientation, family history, religious affiliation, dietary considerations, gender, allergies, whathaveyou doesn't matter. There's a kitchen for you somewhere.

If you're crazy enough.

My breakfast is better because I use a scale.

There is nothing I dread more in a recipe than the words "3/4 c. brown sugar, packed".

Seriously.

I almost never baked growing up. I was notorious for being the one who screwed up the toll house cookie recipe. Oh, I could cook. There was no question how I felt about food. My nearest and dearest saw my chosen profession long before I quite my job and went into food service. But baking? Was I sure?

A scale changed my life. My world opened. I have not looked back.

You need a scale to bake. Especially if you bake regularly. Why? Well, I'm not going to rehash arguments made elsewhere. To sum up, scaling is easier. Scaling entices you to play with things. Scaling lets you see how it goes together, not just what. No, rather than go through all that, I'm going to make my own version of grapenuts-like cereal. Now, if I followed the recipe I found, I would have to dirty up a whole bunch of measuring utensils. Instead, I pulled out one bowl, preheated my oven to 350 and then dumped in my bowl:

470 g whole wheat flour
58 g barley flour
65 g buckwheat flour
220 g brown sugar
7 g salt
5 g baking soda
5 g cinnamon
10 g vanilla extract
475 g buttermilk

I love a tare button.

Ok, I would have dumped it in my one bowl if I wasn't dealing with recipe conversion and innovation. Since the recipe I had was not created for a kitchen with a scale, I was forced to convert. Forced to dirty many cups and various sized spoons, pack brown sugar. How hard are you supposed to pack it anyway? Why does my cup of flour weigh something different from that other person's cup of flour? Why has no one ever made a half tablespoon scoop a regular addition to those little spoon rings? I muttered darkly through this process, knowing I won't have to do it again.

And I had to deviate from the text. In the real trademarked cereal, the ingredients (a seriously short list) note both wheat and barley. All the internet recipes I found just had wheat. Wheat is nice, but barley adds sweetness and flavor and why not add it? I had the buckwheat, so, why not add it as well? Those weird numbers are actually a half a cup each, the way I measured them. So inconsistent! But I know that since I scaled them, next time it will work out the same as this time.

I mixed it all together and spread it on a silpat, but I'm sure parchment paper and a little pan spray would work fine. I baked it on a sheet pan for about 20 minutes. I let it cool, then raked it into pieces with a fork and my hands because who needs a food processor anyway. Then it got the granola treatment- I divided the crumbs from one pan into two pans, to give them space to brown and get crunchy. Baked for an hour at 300, with lots of stirring (which I continued to do with the fork to help further break up the clumps), they smelled like cinnamon rolls and looked like, well, breakfast cereal. They cooled into the dense crunchy clumps that I adore with my yogurt only better.

And next time? I'll only need to wash one bowl.