*Ok, ok, y’all hate reading white text on black background. This site redesign is for you because I love you, but I want you to know how deeply this cuts. You see, it’s the story of my life. Little known fact: I’m half-black, but I’m packaged in this damn white skin. My mom is all brown and beautiful with a great rack (I can say that, right?) and perfect tone. I always wished I looked more like her, but no. And now it’s the same with my blog. You feel better with it lighter because that’s how you know it, it’s easier to drink in. When I switched it to black, it was like when I brought a boyfriend home for the first time who had never met my mom- a bit of a shock. Fine. It’s back. But at least in atonement maybe you’ll think about casting a vote my way for Project Food Blog Challenge #2. Voting ends Sept. 30th, thanks, rant over.

Did you know (or care) that the creator of this dish, Grant Achatz’ name rhymes with Scant Hatchets? I’m always good for a piece of useful trivia, right? I’m going to try and abate my girlish crush on this man’s food, because inevitably you will tire of listening to me wax on like Ralph Macchio in The Karate Kid about his culinary prowess, but allow me this post, please. I’ll make it worth your while.

I haven’t gone all gooey over someone like this since the sixth grade. I was in Alpine Valley, Wisconsin and the sun was setting over the bursting amphitheater. He took to the stage and had me with the first “Oh” of his resoundingly poetic “Oh oh oh oh oh, oh oh oh oh.” By the time he got around to crooning “the right stuff,” my knees were jelly and my heart was throbbing through my freshly-silkscreened concert tee. Yes, folks, Joey McIntyre clutched the gilt-edged key to my young heart, and no amount of harsh reality could keep me from swooning for his ticklish tenor and amorous moves. At this point in my life I am simply mortified that I made a New Kid on the Block the object of my amour. I hope my affection for a certain ginger chef makes up for my transgression.

Incidentally, I took that Joey Joe crush so far as to fake a fainting spell in order to get back stage. My plan was foiled when they unceremoniously carted me to the infirmary like a sack of shallots with no regard to the fact that my prepubescent panties were peeking out from under my disheveled skirt for all to sneeringly see. When I “came to,” I did not find myself breathing in the sweet smell of my paramour clutching at my breastbone to see if he could rouse me. Instead, malodorous vomit tinged with peppermint schnapps assaulted my olfactory senses wafting over from the careening concertgoer next to me, and I realized the infirmary was segregated from backstage, likely, for this very reason.

Being that I was not yet adolescent I did not have much in the way of bazoombas (still don’t- damn boob fairy missed my house!) to flash at the bouncers in order to obtain a backstage pass. Therefore I reluctantly accepted a lollipop from the jaded nurse and sheepishly made my way out of the arena with nary a look back at the lover who so clearly jilted me in front of 15,000 witnesses. Fast forward 20- odd years. What if I walked into Alinea and Grant Achatz did not so much as pity me with a glance? I would still have his food to warm my heart, which, I have a sneaking suspicion will probably give me more long-term joy than the fleeting crooning of NKOTB.

There is a vocal minority of respectable foodfolk out there who loathe molecular gastronomy on principle. To any who find themselves in that faction, I present a standing invitation to dinner chez moi. I have heard a plethora of reasons why you hate it, but I’d like to give you a few reasons to love it, and I know I could with this dish. Yes, it involves froth, foam, gel, spheres and ice. I know many of those words are not traditionally associated with food, but, as with young love, close your eyes and let your tongue to the exploring. If you don’t like what you taste, I’ll buy you a hamburger.

This dish involves a process of reverse spherification to make the beets. It is called reverse spherification because the sodium alginate composes the bath that seals the beet juice into spheres rather than being added to the juice directly and then soaking in a bath of calcium lactate (or chloride) as with traditional spherification. The beet spheres are nestled on a bed of ice made from sweetened verjus, which is sold in the vinegar section of specialty stores and is an acidic juice made from unripened grapes. It’s revelatory, and totally worth hunting around to locate a bottle. In addition to the verjus ice, a foam and a froth accompany the beet spheres, both made from different distillations of lemon thyme. I made enough beet spheres to feed a small army (who would then end up with red pee- how do you like that visual?) so I served them over several days. Ultimately I decided this dish works best as an amuse bouche, perhaps even before wine, as the verjus is such a refreshing pique to the palate.

FYI- no corn here. Those are egg yolks, baby.

Hear that? It’s the collective sigh of food bloggers across the continent steeling themselves for the inevitable 4pm sunsets, hence no natural light in which to take decent pictures of their plates. Sorry these photos lack finesse- I promise to lug out ye old studio light kit asap.

How have I never done this before? I LOVE eggs. I LOVE butter. Why oh why did I not think to poach eggs in butter? Because I’m not a genius like Grant Achatz. Though I do have a few good years left in me to enjoy the wonder of egg yolks positively oozing with unctuous butter, so in that regard I’m fortunate to have discovered it now. It’s probably better- truth be told- that I didn’t cut my teeth on buttery yolk drops- my ass would be a doublewide by now if I had. I’m going to stop right now and tell you that if you value your girlish figure and you don’t run a gazillion miles a week or schlup up the stairmaster whilst watching dishy soaps, you might not want to keep reading this.

Alright, now that the crazies are gone, let’s get down to business. Let me just finish licking a stray yolk drop up off the floor. Yes, these little protuberant pearls of giddy gold fall into the rare category of floor-licking good. Have you ever done that before? C’mon, be honest, I really want to know how many of you have licked something up off the floor. I fully admit I have. Your turn. A few years ago we came up with this scale for wine:

1. Wouldn’t even serve it to your senile Grandpa who lives by the crick and thinks Bud is beer
2. Might pass it off at a giant party around 2am when no one can tell the difference anyway
3. Would drink it from a flask at the rodeo, but never from stemware at home
4. A passable daily drinker- potentially comes in a spacebag
5. 12 person dinner party wine- can’t spend too much but clearly must be palatable
6. Would be mildly upset if you spilled a glass of this one
7. If it were corked, you might drink it anyway because the last bottle was so damn good
8. You secretly horde this bottle in the back room during parties, and pour yourself pint-sized glasses when you sneakily refill
9. Cry genuine tears if you accidentally somehow shatter this bottle
10. Lick up off the floor any spilled drops, even if the floor is at a hoedown

The list works decently well for food too, though you have to change some of the analogies. These yolk drops are Bo Derek on the scale- a perfect 10- and I’m not the only one who thinks so. These babies pleased everyone from the toddler to the “selective” husband to the tile-lapping cat to the punch-drunk neighbor.

The method? Heat an inch of clarified butter in a small saucepan to 170°F. Drop whisked, uniform egg yolks into butter using a caviar pipette, syringe, or even a careful hand and a small spoon. Keep the drops separate from one another in the butter, and after ten seconds or so once they’ve sufficiently hardened on the exterior, jostle them around a bit to prevent them from sticking to the pan. Once they rise to the top, scoop them out with a straining spoon and let them drip off in a strainer until you’re ready to use them.

I served these exactly as Grant Achatz describes in the Alinea cookbook, with asparagus buds, asparagus bubbles (made from juiced asparagus  foamed with lecithin), lemon puree, and lemon vinaigrette. Then I made them the next day and served them tossed in fresh pasta with a light lemon cream sauce. Then I made them the next day but they didn’t last until dinner because Bentley Danger and I greedily spooned them all out of the strainer and they were gone before I could drop them inside my baked fingerling potatoes. Today I’m going to try really hard to make them last until the potatoes pop out because I think it will be a perfect pairing. I guess what I’m saying is that they are sofa-king good you could eat them with anything. But really, you can’t go wrong with eggs and butter.

*PS- Voting for Project Food Blog Challenge #2- The Classics, is now open. If you thought my The Jetsons: Space Food entry was worthy of advancement, I’d appreciate your vote here.

Something we gut-wrenchingly miss about Italy: the plentiful celebratory festivals that take place in small towns across the countryside. A typical Saturday in Piedmont would consist of Jonas and me revving up the Alfa to hit the hills in search of a gathering of townfolk united in their reverence for classic Fiat 500’s, white truffles, esoteric antiques, gelato, formaggio, vino, et cetera.  One of our favorites was the Festival delle Sagre, translated that’s the Festival of Festivals.  It takes place in the town of Asti, famous for great wines (Barbera d’Asti, Asti Spumante), horseracing (The Palio), and its close proximity to the heart of the best white truffles on earth, tartufo bianco d’Alba.  The festival is a great place to sample rustic Piedmontese cuisine in a large-format, entirely informal setting.  It is also a great place to drink plentiful amounts of wine poured directly from large glass damigiane (carboys, casks, huge glass vessels used to store wine) and have a sinfully good time.

One of the more memorable dishes on hand at the Festival delle Sagre is carne battuta, which means (now get your mind out of the gutter here) beaten meat.  The longer version, carne battuta al coltello just means beaten with a knife. In other words, you cut up chunks of raw, very high quality beef or horsemeat, then beat it into submission (and tiny little pieces) with a super-heavy meat cleaver.  It’s like the Italian version of the French dish Steak Tartare, only with different flavors.  Typical Piedmontese additions would be lemon juice, olive oil, salt, pepper, and perhaps some herbs. I have seen people add cream as well, though rarely.

In my case, I wanted to top my battuta with a quivering quail egg because I thought it would add a nice, carbonara-like texture to the finished plate.  I started with extremely fresh Wagyu filet mignon cut from the center of the tenderloin and trimmed of any oxygenated pieces just before preparation.  Then I roughly chopped it before going to town with my man-sized meat cleaver. I beat up half a pound of filet so much my arm is sore today, no kidding. Perhaps I am just a big wimp!

Once I had my perfectly beaten cubes, I used a fork to stir in lemon juice (one small lemon for half pound of meat), olive oil-to taste, ½ c of freshly grated Parmigiano Reggiano, ½ tbsp chopped fresh oregano, and Maldon salt.  I then plated the battuta using a cookie cutter as a form, topped it with a sous vide quail egg (you could just soft boil too), and sprinkled on some fresh pepper.  I served the battuta with celery and carrot ribbons because they are nice to break up the mouth feel of the meat.  It’s a great appetizer for a more adventurous dinner party, of course you’d want to be sure everyone was ok with raw meat before you wasted all that delectable filet.