Get a Grip

The very best kitchen utensils–and, hey, they’re free

By Marina Wolf

I RECENTLY discovered the most amazing kitchen tools. They never need sharpening. They’re perfectly weighted, easy to clean, and completely rust-resistant. They’re instantly adjustable to almost any kitchen task. And, best of all, I never have to worry about leaving them behind at a potluck.

Are you poring over the cooks’ catalogs yet? Well, you won’t find them there, but don’t worry. You probably already have a set: your hands.

Hands are the original kitchen implement. Heck, opposable thumbs–the very evolutionary development that enables us to hold steering wheels and cell phones–originally came about so we could get a better grip on our food. Why not use those puppies for good, not evil? Williams-Sonoma can only dream of coming up with something so ingenious. They can squeeze lemons, fold enchiladas, fish a pickle out of the jar. Hands let you sprinkle just the right amount of sugar, test a strand of spaghetti, throw raisins in the cookie batter; heck, you could even mix the cookie batter with your hands, if you felt like it. With your hands, you can pick bits of shell off an egg, press crumbs back onto the side of the cheesecake–or just whisk them away into your mouth. The question is not what can you do with your hands, it’s what can’t you do with them.

In cookbooks or cooking classes, or in the Saturday morning cooking shows, we’re not really taught to explore these options. There’s something about handling food too much, with the hands, that just makes modern-day Americans a little uncomfortable. The discomfort goes beyond perfectly valid, if slightly paranoid, concerns about hygiene into the area of taboo.

Every year there are more and more ways to handle food without touching it: bread mixers, food processors, salad spinners, 10 kinds of tongs. They say these innovations are to speed things up, to keep things neat, but I think it’s a convenient cover for not having to soil the hands with anything so mundane, so earthy.

BUT IT’S ONLY the home cooks who are so apprehensive. Chefs, for the most part, don’t have any compunctions about putting their hands all over your dinner plate. They know the truth: in order for food to be cooked and arranged properly, touching it is essential.

But all too often, home cooks pick up their food as though they’re picking up a dead mouse: with their fingertips, pinkies extended. A few of my acquaintances have commented on my speed in prepping ingredients, but that’s just a side effect of using my whole hand to get firm with the food, to hold it down and scoop it up, glop and all.

I’m beginning to appreciate some other reasons for getting back to the hands-on approach. Ripping lettuce by hand, for example, gives the fingers a chance to find those soft broken spots that, under the uncaring knife, might end up in the salad bowl. Warming tortillas or chapatis over an open flame is too tricky for a slow pair of tongs; the fingers, on the other hand, move much more deftly, and immediately sense when the bread has reached the correct flexibility (and temperature–ouch, hot, hot!). Working bread dough by hand possesses its own subset of particular pleasures: the cool, soft flour; the soft give of the unbaked loaves as you gently place them on the baking stone; even the flour crust around the fingernails, perhaps giving you an earthy thrill.

Best of all is that sweet spot, after about eight sweaty minutes of kneading, when the dough transforms from sloppy to satiny smooth. That’s a beautiful thing.

It’s funny that I’m only now discovering the culinary potential of my hands. When I was younger, I knew these things instinctively. My favorite hands-on task, beyond pounding the occasional bowl of bread dough, was the annual turkey massage. Though my mother was no kind of culinary genius, she taught us (unwittingly à la Julia Child) to rub the Thanksgiving turkey with butter, inside and out, before putting it in the roasting bag. Now I understand the science behind the procedure, that a sheen of butter browns the skin and crisps it up nicely, while the gravy gets an added richness.

But back then I figured it was just a weird little family tradition.

It was a simple ritual, but it felt huge: the fate of the feast rested heavily on our youthful shoulders. First we lugged the thawed turkey from the cold garage and unwrapped it in half of the double sink. Pretending to be surgeons, we pulled the neck and the mysterious bags of giblets out, then ran water through the carcass and toweled it off carefully, patting the bird dry under the “armpits.” We had to stand on a step stool to get leverage, but with a mighty collective effort, we could pick it up and make it dance along the sink rim, flapping its featherless wings. After getting over the giggles that performance inevitably inspired, we laid the turkey down in the pan and began the massage, rubbing cold chunks of butter over the pale, goose-pimpled flesh, until the butter softened and spread in slick golden patches.

CONSIDERING THE STATE of our magnificently greasy hands, that we never actually dropped the turkey on the floor was some kind of minor miracle. But the list of our health-code violations was plenty long even without that. We stuck our unwashed fingers in the cooling cranberry sauce. In between, we petted the cat, pulled each other’s hair, and played Monopoly (you know what they say about money and germs).

We dribbled raw turkey juice over the countertops and onto the floor, where our youngest siblings were crawling happily.

Those were the blissful days before anybody really paid attention to salmonella (which was not rampant then) and other digestive disorders; everyone was oblivious, most of all a pack of enthusiastic kids wrestling with a 25-pound bird. But no one ever got sick.

And everyone always loved the turkey.

From the December 2-8, 1999 issue of the Sonoma County Independent.

© Metro Publishing Inc.

Eating alla Ebraica

Author Joyce Goldstein explores the culinary heritage of Italian Jews

By Marina Wolf

POLENTA, pomodori, pepperoni . . . these are some of the products that Italy is known for. Many sharp-eyed gourmets know that these ingredients–corn meal, tomatoes, peppers–were brought back from the New World. But, as Joyce Goldstein outlines in her excellent introduction to Cucina Ebraica: Flavors of the Italian Jewish Kitchen (Chronicle Books, 1998; $29.95), these ingredients were most likely introduced to the country by the Jewish population that was always small–never more than a few hundred thousand–but remarkably significant in terms of the evolution of Italian food as we know it today.

In retrospect, this influence was one of the few silver linings to the cloud of anti-Semitic oppression that cloaked medieval and Renaissance Spain and Italy, according to Goldstein and her sources. Some Jews had lived in Italy from 200 B.C., and their persecution has been documented for nearly that long.

“The Jews were allowed to do only certain professions, and import and trade was one of them,” says Goldstein.

Because of this segregation, the Sephardic Jews in Spain were uniquely positioned to be among the first to see the new vegetables brought in on Columbus’ ships. Driven away by the Spanish Inquisition, the Spanish Jews brought the new crops to Italy, where the Jews in trade there would have been the first to try them out and introduce the vegetables to the rest of the Jewish population.

In spite of these important contributions to Italian cuisine, Jewish Italian food has gotten very little attention in the United States. The reason is simple: most Jewish immigrants to the United States have been Ashkenazi, from Central and Eastern Europe. This population brought in food that can be delicious, but all too often home-cooked Ashkenazi food is interpreted as bland and overdone, says Goldstein. “Sephardim are in the minority here, but they got better food,” she says with a wry laugh.

Goldstein has sought out that “better food” for most of her professional life. Square One, her acclaimed restaurant in San Francisco, was a showcase for Mediterranean specialties. And her next book explores even more far-flung regions of Jewish culinary influence: Greece, Turkey, North Africa, the Arab countries.

Over the centuries the diaspora of Sephardim from Spain spread across the Mediterranean and Middle East, even to India and China, leaving ever-shifting communities of Jews to adapt new foodstuffs to the age-old demands of kosher law.

Kosher law regulates the serving of certain seafood (no shellfish or fish without scales) and animals (only cud-chewers with cloven hooves, slaughtered in a kosher fashion). Most important, kosher law requires that meat and dairy be kept separate at all times: no Parmesan over a meat sauce, no cream-based desserts at the end of a meal with meat. Non-Jewish cooks may be perplexed at these restrictions, and of course do not need to observe them, but they will find a wealth of possibilities within these ancient dictates.

Finding the traditions in the first place was an act of both faith and scholarship for Goldstein.

“I am a food historian, in addition to being a good cook.” What she found in her research were fragments, recipes presented in Italian cookbooks as regional specialties, without any indication of their Jewish-influenced history. Or they were oral traditions jotted down by friends of friends, with all the spotty directions that usually entails: “add a handful of flour” or “roast until done.” Even if the recipe appeared in one of the few Italian Jewish cookbooks, Goldstein still had to do some research. “Often people print the recipe, but they never bother to show you the roots of the tradition,” she says.

FOR CLUES, she most often turned to such simple things as ingredients. Take eggplant and fennel, for example. Now thoroughly integrated into Italian cookery, these vegetables once were as segregated in the greengrocer’s window as the Jews were themselves in larger society. The Jewish Italians picked up on them first, which meant that other Italians avoided the vegetables well into the 19th century. Dishes were also named alla ebraica or alla giudia (pronounced “judea”), or perhaps included a biblical figure in the name: crema di carciofi Ester (artichoke soup, symbolizing the bitterness in life) or pollo Ezechiele.

Such weighty biblical connotations could be lost on most cooks. But even a “cultural Jew” such as Goldstein says her work at the crossroads of culture and cuisine has changed her life in subtle but important ways.

“It has made me aware of my Judaism in a very different way,” Goldstein says thoughtfully.

“I am not necessarily going to become kosher or an Orthodox Jew, but I have developed a huge admiration for the ability of a culture to stay joyfully alive.”

Joyce Goldstein will be demonstrating a dairy-free holiday menu from Cucina Ebraica at Ramekins Sonoma Valley Culinary School on Wednesday, Dec. 1, from 6:30 to 9:30 p.m. Registration fee is $55. For details or to register, call 933-0450.

From the November 24-December 1, 1999 issue of the Sonoma County Independent.

© Metro Publishing Inc.

Something new: Steve Bernstein of 21st Century Pastry in Petaluma puts new twists on traditional fare.

Sweet Talk

Local bakers share holiday secrets

By Paula Harris

FORGET VETIVER, geranium, and bergamot. At this time of year, the sweet fragrance of Christmas cookies, pumpkin pies, or rugelach turning golden in the oven is the ultimate aromatherapy. The enticing scent envelops the kitchen and transports you back to a time when your grandmother was baking for the holidays. It subconsciously fills you with that warm secure feeling of being nurtured. And it causes a childlike twinge of excitement because it signifies the beginning of the festive holiday season.

In my family, the holidays really began with an annual visit from my grandmother, who would arrive from the north of England proudly bearing an airtight old biscuit tin crammed with layers of home-baked goodies: strawberry jam tarts, glistening like red jewels; sunny lemon-curd pastries; and tiny sweet-mince pies dusted with powdered sugar.

We’d dip our hands into this aluminum treasure trove and extract a flaky treat. We loved them all (even the couple that were always invariably “decorated” with a stray hair from Nanna’s white cat). I think we especially prized this holiday offering because no one else in the family knew how to make pastry.

The days when apron-clad grandmothers and aunts regularly clustered over cookie sheets and pastry boards may be gone, but there’s something about the holidays that compels even those folks who do little baking throughout the year to scrub out their cake pans and dust off their candy thermometers.

Yet the thought of baking can send cold shivers down the spine of even the most proficient of cooks. Some bakeries, such as Healdsburg’s Downtown Bakery and Creamery, understand the dilemma of yearning to bake but feeling incapable. They offer their popular old-fashioned “Sugar Baby” pumpkin pies either fully baked or as a kit consisting of a frozen ready-to-bake shell and a container of filling. “So you can bake it yourself at home,” the packaging exclaims. Foolproof!

But why is baking so scary?

“It’s because baking is not quite as freeform as regular cooking–there’s a bit more chemistry involved,” explains Michelle Marie DeFors, owner and pastry chef at Michelle Marie’s Patisserie in Santa Rosa. “Beginners should start with a tea bread,” she suggests. “Pies can be a bit daunting.”

According to DeFors, even many inexperienced bakers have a problem making pie crust. “Things like rolling it out, dealing with shrinkage, and being sure to let the dough rest before putting it into the pie plate can all cause problems,” she says.

So does this pastry chef, who often fields “emergency” calls from home bakers begging her to help save their failed works in progress, have any tips to share?

“I think it’s best to freeze the pie crust first before putting in the filling,” she says. “And if your crust has droopy edges, make a little foil collar for the sides and fix it on with paper clips, then remove it later to finish browning.”

FOR DEFORS, who grew up in Sebastopol, the flavor of apples became synonymous with the holidays. “My whole family loves food and we all baked together,” she recalls. “Those special apple cakes, pies, and streusels played a big part in our holiday traditions.”

She advises that once you get more accomplished in the baking world, you can experiment a little. “Take something from a memory and alter it into a new idea,” she says. “It’s fun.”

Beth LaFrance–whose homey business Beth the Baker in Sebastopol will feature cranberry orange-nut bread, pumpkin bread, and gingerbread for the holidays–has a few more tips. “Always measure accurately and don’t stray from the recipe, because that can really upset the balance,” she says. “Try one simple recipe, follow it faithfully and make it as close to consumption as possible, because freshness counts.”

If you’re making Christmas cookies, you don’t need to keep peeking in the oven, she adds. “When you can smell the cookies, they’re probably done.”

According to LaFrance, the art of baking is unique because you start out with a bunch of ingredients that look nothing like your finished creation. “It’s not like making soup or roast beef,” she says.

Is there one baking item that LaFrance couldn’t live without? “Definitely parchment paper,” she immediately replies. “I use it for everything. My food never touches a tray or a baking pan. The parchment paper keeps the food from sticking and the bottoms from burning.”

HOW DO bakers come up with new holiday creations? “It’s a selfish thing according to our own taste,” says Steve Bernstein, of 21st Century Pastry in Petaluma. Bernstein and his business partner, Phyllis Heagney, sit face to face in a small room and throw out ideas for new seasonal treats. “We like intense flavors and different twists on traditionalism,” he adds.

Making their debuts at 21st Century this year are chocolate cranberry marzipan tart, chocolate pumpkin shortbread tart, and Scottish cranberry shortbread tart.

“I don’t think my creativity developed until I was in the field,” says Bernstein. “However, my grandmother was a great influence–her favorite was coffee; she used it in everything–for years. I thought coffee Jell-O was normal,” he quips.

That particular culinary encounter influenced Bernstein’s coffee chiffon pie with orange juice in the crust. “Baking is a science more exact than cooking and a recipe has be to followed to a T. It shouldn’t be fiddled with unless you know what you’re doing,” he advises. “But it’s nothing to be afraid of–if you follow the directions.”

The holiday season is pastry chef Condra Easley’s favorite time of year. “It seems so magical in here,” says the co-owner of Renaissance Pastry in Santa Rosa.

She describes some of the bakery’s winter delights: linzertortes topped with cranberry-raspberry-blueberry compote cooked with honey, cinnamon, and orange; pumpkin cheesecakes with a gingersnap crust; and traditional “bûche de Noël” Yule logs.

“I like to bring together flavors that evoke childhood memories–good childhood memories and hopefully not [bad] flashbacks,” Easley says with a laugh. “When I was barely able to reach the counter, my aunt had me up on a chair to bake chocolate chip cookies.”

Easley likes to experiment with various harmonizing flavors, “natural combinations like caramels and pears or apples and walnuts,” she explains.

She offers the following timesavers for home bakers: “Make the pie dough ahead of time, roll it out, cover it really well, and freeze it. Then let it defrost a bit before putting it in the oven, or roll it out the day before and keep it covered in the refrigerator,” she says.

“And make holiday cookies ahead of time and keep them in the freezer in Ziploc bags. Then pull them out and decorate them later.”

Anything else?

“Always use the best possible ingredients or you might as well just buy the pie from a big-box discount store. Use good-quality unsalted butter, imported chocolate bars, and real vanilla extract instead of artificial,” she says. “Oh, yes, and put a lot of love into it.”

Pumpkin Pecan Pie

If you can’t decide between the two holiday favorites, this pie from Renaissance Pastry offers the best of both worlds.

Single pie crust:

1 1/4 cups all-purpose flour 1/2 tsp. salt 1/3 cup cold Crisco 3 tbsp. cold water

Pumpkin pecan filling:

2/3 cup dark Karo (corn) syrup 3/4 cup medium brown sugar Pinch of salt 2 tsp. melted butter 4 whole eggs 1 cup Libby’s solid-pack pumpkin 1/2 tsp. ground cinnamon 1/2 tsp. ground nutmeg 1/2 tsp. ground allspice 1/4 tsp. ground ginger 1/4 tsp. ground cloves 1 tsp. pure vanilla extract 2 cups toasted pecan halves

To make pie crust: In a food processor, cut together the flour, salt, and cold Crisco by pulsing until mixture has a texture like cornmeal. Add cold water and pulse. Mixture should form a ball and travel around the bowl. Add more water if you don’t see that. (If you don’t have a food processor, use a bowl and cut in fat with a pastry blending tool or two cold knives.) Do not overmix or dough will be tough. Form into a ball. It is not necessary to refrigerate unless you have overmixed. Roll out dough on a lightly floured surface until approximately 12 inches in diameter. Ease onto a 9-inch pie plate to avoid stretching. Trim edge to 1/2 inch beyond edge of crust and make a decorative border. Refrigerate until ready to use.

To make filling: In a medium bowl combine Karo syrup, brown sugar, salt, and melted butter. Stir in eggs and mix well. Add pumpkin, spices, and vanilla. Add nuts and pour into unbaked pie shell. Bake at 350 degrees for 20 to 30 minutes. Cover edges of crust if it browns too quickly. Pie is done when firm and slightly puffed.

Serves 8.

From the November 24-December 1, 1999 issue of the Sonoma County Independent.

© Metro Publishing Inc.