Conquering Fears: Bread, Beer, Mayonnaise

A good portion of the country spent the last week preoccupied with tradition as matriarchs, patriarchs, and hosts of all types faced the task of assembling whatever traditions their friends and family require for Thanksgiving. In kitchens from coast to coast, families re-executed perfected recipes for pumpkin pie, followed turkey basting methods passed down for generations, mashed potatoes to the exact lumpiness preferred by the diners present. As with all annual family gatherings, Thanksgiving comes with the spirit of repeating the tried and true, perhaps rearranging the seating at the kids’ table but not changing much else.

But for those of us who don’t go home for the family event and choose to create our own Thanksgiving in our new surroundings, the week involved stressing out over how to do these traditional things by ourselves for the first time. Making sweet potato casserole that doesn’t result in crippling disappointment when compared to memories of Mom’s Perfect Potato Pie can be daunting, to say nothing of the prospect of being responsible for 15 to 20 pounds of poultry tasting good (and not poisoning your closest friends). This was not my first Thanksgiving away from home, but with a few under my belt I dared to try out some of the more intimidating recipes from my favorite childhood Thanksgivings, and conquering fears of difficult recipes turned out to be a theme of the weekend.

This year I was determined to make potato rolls. If I were to make a list of the Best Things I Have Ever Eaten, a lot of those things would have come through the Katovich kitchen on some of the most memorable Thanksgivings of my childhood, and their famous potato rolls would be somewhere close to the top. After last year’s Thanksgiving, I can attest that even though the kitchen has been transplanted in Cambridge, Massachusetts, the potato rolls are just as good. I knew I would be staying in New York this year, but I just couldn’t go more than a year without those rolls, so I begged for the recipe. I was excited when Lisa kindly supplied it, but quickly worried after reading it – it was a two-day process more complicated than my usual three-to-five-ingredient culinary undertakings. And, most terrifyingly, it involved yeast.

But like I said, I had to have those rolls. There were some tense moments surrounding the addition of the yeast (I was extremely unsure of how to tell whether an organism invisible to the naked eye is alive or dead), and there was a considerable amount of hard work. Pushing two large Idaho potatoes through a fine sieve with the back of a ladle in the absence of a potato ricer was not easy, nor was incorporating the required eight and a half cups of flour into the dough. My sister and I felt the kneading in our forearms the next day, but the relief of finding that the dough had risen successfully was comfort enough. The rest of the process was fairly enjoyable: after cutting and shaping the rolls and leaving them for a second rise, we had 48 little corkscrews of dough as silky and light as babies’ fists. The apartment filled with the smell of yeast and rosemary as they baked, and we were proud parents of two warm bags of potato pillows as we carried them in our (sore) arms to Thanksgiving dinner.

On Saturday, Chase and his roommate tackled an even more laborious yeast project: home-brewed beer. Chase made a very successful batch of Weizen a few weeks ago, but an oatmeal stout recipe seemed appropriate for the season this time. Like making bread, beer brewing is not as impossible as it seems before you try it, but that doesn’t mean it’s easy. Large amounts of water must be boiled, then an enormous bag of grain needs to leach its carbohydrative goodness into that water, different kinds of hops are added at different times, and everything has to be totally sterilized the whole time. The oatmeal stout ingredients produced a vat of opaque black liquid, which we decided “smelled like breakfast,” and is now gurgling vigorously in an upstairs closet. For the next few weeks Chase will agonize over what kinds of bacteria or mis-measurements could have sabotaged his production, but with some luck we will be able to drink the stuff by Christmas.

After witnessing such bravery in brewing, I felt confident enough this afternoon to attempt homemade mayonnaise, which I had been meaning to do for months. Making mayonnaise has scared a lot of people, myself included, I think because of the issue of turning a raw egg in to something edible, and because “emulsification” is such a long word that one assumes the chemistry behind it must be complicated. But it turns out that this daunting recipe as easy as TV chefs always told us it was. I used a food processor (I thought one strenuous culinary task was enough for one weekend) and roughly followed the recipe in How To Cook Everything. I wanted it to use it as a dipping sauce for vegetables rather than a spread, so I kept it fairly thin and added flavor with lemon juice, garlic, and a very peppery olive oil, but in the future I might try a milder and more spreadable version. I imagine this could be done by using more of a regular olive oil and blending it for longer. Of course, I have to get through this jar first, but it shouldn’t be too hard since this stuff seems to work well on everything. Paula Deen always said to put mayonnaise on grilled cheese sandwiches, and I’m glad I had this mayonnaise on hand for the grilled cheddar and fennel pita sandwiches I made for lunch. It was just as good for dipping fennel slices into as I waited impatiently for the cheese to melt. I’ll try it out with asparagus tonight, and maybe mix in a little basil to see what that does.

So the moral of these three stories is, I suppose, dare to do it yourself: search out the secrets to the basics (beer, bread, and mayonnaise being among the most elemental of life’s ingredients) and make an attempt to master them. There will be risks – you may murder an entire population of microorganisms and be punished with flat potato crackers, or inflict food poisoning on yourself and others – but these are worth the potential reward.

The potato roll recipe is classified, but here’s how to make a nice pungent mayonnaise:

One egg
½ cup olive oil plus a few tablespoons (I used the cheapest kind they sell at Trader Joe’s – I think it says “Trader Giotto’s”)
¼ cup very grassy extra virgin olive oil (I used the Extra Virgin California Estate Olive Oil from Trader Joe’s)
2 tablespoons lemon juice
Dash of cayenne
Dash of salt and pepper
One clove of garlic, minced

Put ¼ cup of the plainer olive oil in a food processor with the rest of the non-oil ingredients and blend to mix. Then, with the processor running, add the rest of the olive oil in a very slow stream. Taste, adjust seasoning, and add extra olive oil to desired thickness.

The Greatest Possible Sandwich: A Parody of Seasoning

Proving the existence of God has proven tricky. Anselm’s proof is famous for not getting anywhere, but it is nevertheless taught in every intro to philosophy course, which probably has something to do with how funny it sounds.

His reasoning, known as the Ontological Argument, was basically along these lines:

1. God is a being that than which nothing can be greater.
2. Things can exist in the mind or in reality.
3. Things that exist in reality are greater than things that exist only in the mind.
4. Therefore, God must exist in reality.

This is an abridged version, of course, and Anselm elaborates on the argument using the words “that than which” so many times that his writing leaves you feeling somewhat dizzy and not much closer to grasping the nature of God. But apparently it doesn’t really matter, because his argument has been refuted (and then subsequently ridiculed) by a parity of reasoning. If the above argument is valid, then the following must also be sound:

1. The greatest possible sandwich is a sandwich that than which nothing can be greater.
2. Things can exist in the mind or in reality.
   
3. Things that exist in reality are greater than things that exist only in the mind.
   
4. Therefore, the greatest possible sandwich must exist in reality.

But of course, we’re told, there’s no such thing as greatest possible sandwich! So Anselm can’t have proven the existence of God. Right?

That’s the traditional response, but I think another reaction is possible. What if you had a particularly spiritual experience with a tri-tip sandwich from a shack in a parking lot on University and Oxford? What if its proprietor, dressed in white linen, glowing in the sun against the green and orange backdrop of his Brazilian flag-covered establishment, handed you a carton of soft bread filled with steak that than which nothing could be more tender, grilled onions that than which nothing could be more caramelized, and green cilantro dressing that than which nothing could be creamier? You might think that this man had just supplied you with the true Thatthanwich, the greatest possible sandwich, and thus restored the viability of Anselm’s proof of God’s real existence.

There’s a problem with this argument as well, however. The same Brazilian Café’s vegetarian sandwich, a precarious tower of avocado, shredded carrots, ricotta, corn, and other vegetables between two thick slices of sunflower seed bread dripping with cilantro dressing, might cast doubt on the ultimate status of the tri-tip sandwich. One might also recall the three-pork banh-mi at Nicky’s, the Montecristo on French toast at Trident, and the brie and roasted pepper baguette at the Musical Offering, and worry that we cannot, in fact, demonstrate the existence of the greatest possible sandwich, since any attempt to choose between these candidates would be unsuccessful, though enjoyable.

Still, there’s no reason to despair yet – the multitude of great sandwiches out there is an indication that we should be optimistic about the existence of God, after all. Furthermore, it gives us reason to turn to a more Spinozist conception – God can be found everywhere, since everything in existence makes up a part of him. Every tree, human, porpoise, and avocado is an element of the greatest possible being. I would argue, however, that the avocado is particularly essential.

Dark Chocolate and Dark Humor

Håkan Mårtennson crafts chocolate that aims to captivate more senses than simply that of taste: his creations also delight the eyes and nose as much as the tongue, and more often than not, play to the all-important sense of humor. This Swedish chocolatier was recruited by the owner of Fika, a Swedish café in Manhattan, to come to New York and exercise his flair for working with chocolate in a line of confections to be sold in Fika stores. The creative freedom that Fika allows him has led to some truly incredible projects, several of which were on display when I went to see him at the New York Chocolate Show this weekend.

It was the day after Halloween, so the blood sugar levels of the visitors to the expo were primed for chocolate sampling. The crowd filtered through the Metropolitan Pavilion showroom, accepting little cups of bacon-pop rock chocolate, caramelized cacao nibs, chocotinis, and other decadences. But around Fika's display there was more commotion than peaceful nibbling. Next to a gleaming case of truffles, Håkan had set up some of the elaborate chocolate sculptures that have earned him worldwide attention. Cameras flashed from all directions, and the chocolatier had to pause every few seconds to pose for someone who wanted to capture him with his work. Håkan's charm and generosity draw customers to him, but his dry wit keeps them guessing about what he'll come up with next.

Håkan is inspired by mythology and magic, and likes crafting whimsical figures because "no one can tell you what it's supposed to look like." Still, his sculptures are impressively accurate; a small statue of a cowering angel with delicate outstretched wings proves that he doesn't shy away from intricate detail. He has expanded beyond his culinary training in Sweden and invented techniques to make his chosen medium take on a range of special effects, from maintaining the sheen on a carefully furrowed head of hair (on a life-size reproduction of the head of the clown from Evil Dead) to recreating the roughness of gnarled wood (for the chair of a sinister gnome creature). The goal behind all of his work seems to be to defy people's expectations of what can be done with chocolate, and a noticeable competitive streak keeps him working hard to surprise and impress.

It is clear that Håkan has an eye for figures and an aptitude to working with his hands, but I am personally grateful that he has chosen to use his talents in the production of edible chocolate as well. Although his bite-size truffles are less grand than his sculptural works, they are no less visually impressive or imaginative. For his Halloween special, a coffin-like box of truffles each representing one of the seven deadly sins, he ensures that each dome of chocolate exhibits such a sheen that, with their swirls of sin-evoking color (red for lust, green for envy, gold for greed, and so on), they look just like dark marbles.

In choosing the flavors to represent each sin, Håkan again took the opportunity to inject his dark sense of humor into his work. "Gluttony" is an incredibly rich butter truffle with pine nuts, and to add to the effect, you get two of them. "Envy" is flavored with cactus and lime, not just because those ingredients are green, but because Håkan is jealous of the inventors of a Swedish cider infused with cactus juice, for coming up with such a good idea. I'm addicted to "Wrath" (whatever that may say about me psychologically), a blend of tangy raspberry with spicy licorice and black pepper. The more traditional flavors are superb too, but it is Håkan's experimentation with unusual ingredients that sets his work apart.

If only kids across the country could receive Håkan Mårtennson deadly sin truffles in their pillowcases on Halloween, instead of chalky Hershey's bars. Unfortunately, because the taste and appearance of chocolate are so sensitive to temperature, Håkan's chocolates cannot be shipped and are only available at Fika stores in New York (and having made the mistake of sending a box of them to Texas in June, I now accept this reality). But any trip to this city should include a stop at Fika to try some of his confections - and if you're lucky, Håkan will be there, and you'll get to meet the bold personality behind the innovation.