...from the archives... Lovage (Levisticum officinale) is one of my favorite herbs you have never heard of. The herb's lack of public recognition always seems odd to me. It's a versatile herb with a palate-friendly flavor a lot like celery, yet more complex and nuanced. Fresh, young leaves are mellow enough to use whole in a salad, but it also stands up to long cooking in soups and stews. The obvious presenting flavor of lovage is celery, but the flavor is more complex than that. Along with the concentrated celery is a large dose of the bright green flavor of parsley and a hint of something sweetly earthy. I use it as a celery substitute whenever it is available and find it slightly sweeter and stronger than celery, something that I really like. The hollow stem, a section of which can be up to a foot or more in length and an inch in diameter, makes an excellent straw for drinks, such as a Bloody Mary, where a celery flavor is desired. Lovage stems can be candied, like angelica, as an unusual sweet treat. Excuse me a moment of excitement, but I just discovered a new trick for lovage stems: sliced lengthwise and put in ice water, they curl like the ridged curling ribbon they make for wrapping presents! This offers all sorts of possibilities from the sublime (make a brush for putting melted butter on corn on the cob) to the ridiculous (edible icons of the Flying Spaghetti Monster). Curlicue garnishes. Hair for Halloween monsters. This could be fun. Lovage is also a beautiful addition to your herb garden. Unfurling from asparagus tip-like bundles in early spring, lovage quickly becomes a hip-high bush of soft green foliage. Midsummer sees flower spikes shooting to eye level before opening golden umbels that slowly mature into marvelously tasty seeds, something the birds know as well as I. Come fall, the birds and I vie for the mature seeds, with my winnings finding their way into ste ws and breads over the winter. Gardeners appreciate lovage because it is easy to grow, tolerating most soil condition and even a bit less water and sun than large, leafy herbs. (It is easy to tell when lovage is thirsty; mine, which is in direct sunlight, droops noticeably on hot days. Fortunately, it revives just as quickly with a bit of water.) A perennial that, like tarragon, requires a period of cold dormancy, lovage is often grown as an annual in warm climates. If you have to do this, you can save your own seeds, stored in an airtight jar in the refrigerator, over the winter for spring planting. On a personal note, I'd like to thank you for sticking around while I have been absent of late. Let's just say that there have been years when everyone around me was healthier than at the moment and I'd really like to go back to one of them. I hope to be back to more regular writing soon...really soon. Continue reading

from the archives... [updates in italics and brackets] Sage flowers look like itsy-bitsy orchids. Once upon a time, the kitchenMage had the herb garden of her dreams. Wisteria draped the entrance arbor, opening onto a herringbone path interplanted with thyme and moss and edged with lavender and a plethora of mints. Herbs, both common and rare, filled this garden and new finds were constantly finding their way there. Rare thymes and more mints than she could name filled the beds, and the air, with intoxicating scents. A few choice trees also lived there: the prized sweet bay, a pink dogwood bent near horizontal from its attempts to survive its old home, and the maples (no two the same) that defined the border. Oh, I'm sorry! I was daydreaming there for a minute. While I would love to have that herb garden again (and it is worth a look, though I apologize for the old, not so great photos) the sad fact is that I don't. Worse, I won't have anything like it for a few more years to come. [It has been about four years and the garden is still sparse in spots. While I finally have established thyme, my tarragon has never lived beyond its second year. Establishing a garden in a place that gets 10 feet of rain a year is not easy.] A few summers [ha ha ha] from now, I expect to once again walk through a garden like that, although not too much like that. I have a new house and a new "yard" — if one can call nine acres a yard — but after two years, the new garden remains unplanted. [The herb garden is still confined to the beds around the house, while some trees have made it into the yard. So, yeah, still mostly unplanted.] When we arrived, the little beds around the house's foundation looked like builders had done the planting: some unkempt low junipers and dozens of pansies, in a stunning array of magenta and white--one shade of each. Boring! (When the foxglove and daisies that had been hidden in winter, when we bought the place, first emerged, it seemed fitting somehow that they were also white and purple.) Frankly, the only thing to recommend the gardened areas was the blueberry patch. The untended space, mostly Douglas firs (originally planted for timber harvest) with fern-laden undergrowth edged up against wild fog forest, has more to recommend it, including the wildlife. At least most of the time.[In what I consider a major victory, the blueberries have been fenced and we get the bounty now while birds screech at us from nearby trees.] Call me naïve, but I really hadn't counted on the sheer volume of critters in the yard. In addition to the deer and small creatures common to the cusp of field and wood, there's an elk herd — numbering from a dozen to many times — that wanders through on their way from on valley to the next. I don't even want to think about what the neighbor's escaped cows did to the poor magnolia! There was a bit of momentary panic at the thought of doing without any herb garden while I wait for fencing to protect my treasures from marauding beasts. Really good fencing. Elk-sized fencing. Luckily, it was winter and I really couldn't do much beyond sulk at the idea of life sans garden. That and watch the critters. [About that fence...let's just say I am considering a new site called "WillBlogForFencing"] Over the first couple of months, I noticed that nary a critter has ventured close enough to the house to see, let alone nibble, the beds of evergreen blobs and rampant pansies. Go figure. One day it dawned on me. They never came close to the house. [duh, geez, I am so smart...as long as we don't discuss how long it took me to realize this. Also, it's not a hard and fast rule, elk have come within 5 feet of my front door to nibble roses on a 15 degree night.] Those beds, filled with plants I found neither useful nor, truth be told, attractive were rapidly emptied and replaced with an herb garden that, while not quite so poetic as the old one, is wonderfully functional and quite lovely in its own way. This small scale gardening has also been a learning experience. The prominent location and shallow beds call for plants that are beautiful as well as aromatic and tasty so I have selected colorful varieties of some favored herbs: Tri-color and golden sage, variegated mint and thyme, and golden oregano, along with lots of edible flowers brighten front edges, while a swath of many mints thrives in the back, dry stripe under the roof overhang. My favorite rosemary [which died in a long, hard freeze — shiva has been sat, candles have been lit, dishtowels have been rended...] has a home and creeping thyme softens the hard line between concrete and garden Best of all, there are chive clumps everywhere! [We had our first chives of spring over the weekend. This is about a month earlier than usual.] And I must admit I love being able to step outside in bare feet to harvest herbs, something that was more difficult in the large garden. Establishing some plants has been a struggle. The first winter killed all the expensive new tarragon plants [successive winters have continued the tradition...I now think of tarragon as an annual.] and last winter's freeze/flood cycle took out half of the rosemary yearlings. Those plants sometimes died at the old place too, but with room to plant a hundred rosemary cuttings, rather than a tenth that, half of them dying isn't quite so sad. [This winter has been mild. Most of my rosemary cuttings made it. This is far closer to 100 than I care to admit.] After two years though, almost everything I need for cooking is here. [After eight years, there are still herbs missing from my usual stock.] There isn't a lot of some things, the thyme collection is short a few things (lavender and caraway evade me — well, I found them and they died the second winter.) and I can't find any lime mint. [Lime mint emerged from nowhere a couple of years ago and has established a decent patch. But I truly don't know how that happened. I am betting on pixies.] But there is enough to cook with daily and share with friends. And it is lovely, not looking at all like it was planted as a functional garden. More than one person has commented that it looks like a park. This garden has also led to my conviction that any small space — even yours — can be transformed into a gorgeous herb garden that will rock your culinary world. Thoughtful plant selection and placement can result in a garden that will improve both your cooking and your yard. While I know this isn't my old herb garden, it will do for now. In fact, even after the large garden goes in, the little one stays. I just need a cat-sized wisteria arbor. (my herb garden set on flickr) Continue reading

The Thump-thump-giggle-gigglers stopped by for the day recently and when I mentioned that dinner was "DIY Pizza" there was (literally) dancing in the seats. I guess that means your very own, very special, just for you and nobody else pizza with EXACTLY what you want and plenty of it is a hit with kids of all ages. Go figure. Pizza dough and sauce were both made the day before and kept in the refrigerator overnight. Meat that needed precooking, like sausage, was also prepared ahead of time. This time around, one of the kids was drafted to wash the vegetables and then they all sat around the table and cut them. This got competitive which made all that slicing and chopping go by pretty darned fast. For each pizza, cut a piece of parchment paper. Roll and stretch the piece of dough into the desire size/thickness. Each person prepped their own crust, allowing for variations in thickness. Then the fun begins... (bunch of photos after the jump) You could make a chicken. ...or a Cthulhu A funny face... ...or a funnier one. Visual puns can be pleasing as pie...latticed pie, of course. For those of you who have been here a while, an homage to my ring. Finally, you have to go to this lnk to see the one cheeky pizza that can't show its face here. (I promised BlogHer and Land 'o Lakes — who sponsored that ad up at the top of this post — that I would keep it clean.) While the pizza was cooking, people assembled salads from fresh romaine, a few fresh vegetables and leftover pizza toppings. So efficient. (Leftover fixin's went into omelettes the next day.) The only dish I had to put real effort into was homemade cheesecake, also made the day before. This resulted in one of the most relaxed days with company in a while for me. It was almost lazy. I really have to work up more party plans that work like this. Credits Photos — courtesy Kat, the maker of the chicken pizza. (I'll fix the actual image copyrights soon.) Ad at top of post — Land 'o Lakes via BlogHer Endless slicing and dicing so I could sit and talk — everyone at the party Cupcakes in edge of funnier face — Crave Bake Shop (GF treats Kat splurged on) What are your favorite pizza toppings when you can have exactly what your most private and innermost heart desires on a pizza of your very own that you don't have to share with anyone? Continue reading

...and if you never see me again it is because that freaky looking cloud really was the aliens... 1600x900 image for your desktop Continue reading

My family's traditional chocolate birthday cake. with apologies to Kahlil Gibran Your recipes are not your recipes. They are the signs and sigils of Food's longing for itself. They come through you but not from you, And though they are with you yet they belong not to you. You may give them your tweaks but not your goals, For they have their own goals. You may house their results but not their ingredients, For their ingredients dwell in the house of others, which you cannot visit, not even in your dreams. You may strive to perfect them, but seek not to make them your own. For life goes not backward nor tarries with crediting. You are the bows from which your recipes as living arrows are sent forth. The archer sees the mark upon the path of the infinite, and she bends you with her might that your recipes may go swift and far. Let your bending in the archer's hand be for gladness; For even as she loves the cook that creates, so she loves also the cook at every table. Continue reading

from the archives ...being the true story of a Christmas Miracle, for Megan and other foodies at the 'rents for the holidays, with apologies to everyone else... Come on over and sit with me Megan. Let me tell you a story. Now this is a true story, though some folks doubt it. But I was there that Christmas Eve and it happened just like this... Way back when your mama was just a wee thing, there was a great storm. You can find mention of it in the history books, things like this: "On Christmas Eve and Christmas Day 1945, 20 hours of continuous snowfall blocked roads and required snowplow operators to work the holiday in southern Minnesota." But they don't tell the true story. Not the whole story. They don't tell you about The Thing that happened on a dark road, way out of town... Picture it. A small town in southern Minnesota, Christmas Eve, 1945. It wasn't like now, where you can order everything under the sun with just a click of your mouse. No, in 1945 if you wanted something you had to go to a store, so near everyone in town was out that fateful day. The war was finally over and the troops were starting to come home to their families. After the last few holidays which, as you can imagine, were not festive affairs, it seemed that the entire town was having a party... "Dashing through the snow..." red-coated carolers, dusted with snow, as if they had, indeed, been dashing through the snow themselves stood next to a man selling roasted chestnuts and other holiday treats. Parents struggled to control their overly-excited children before relenting and letting them join in the snowball fight outside. "Happy Holidays" and "Good Christmas to you!" rang out in the shops and streets. This year, there was a lot to celebrate and celebrating they were. Folks were hurrying to finish shopping as night, and the temperature, fell fast. One by one families piled packages and bundles of hats, coats and boots containing children into their cars and headed down the dark road. Near 50 cars full of people left town that evening, most of them with a long drive home on some rough country roads, and by closing time snow was blowing so hard car lights were instantly swallowed by the snow, as if they never been there at all. The first people came back about half an hour after they drove away, on foot. "Snow's so deep, darned car just stopped. Right in the middle of the road." the driver said, looking towards the snow-hidden road, "None of those people are making it home tonight." "Santa could save them with his sleigh" his daughter offered. Grim smiles were exchanged by the adults who knew that, even on Christmas Eve, Santa held no hope for those families driving into one of the worst storms that ever happened hereabouts. Well, one thing small town people are is resourceful, and this town had tractors and sheet metal and a welding shop. They also had a very smart woman, who had gone away to work at the Minneapolis-Moline tractor plant and come back with an engineer's skills and knowing a thing or two about tractors. She made a sketch and had a brief talk with the welder and in just about an hour, a brand new blade was being welded onto a tractor and a couple of guys were wrapping blankets over their coats so they wouldn't freeze themselves while driving the crazy-looking thing. While all this was going on, a shop was opened so everyone who wasn't working could get warm. Kids clutched mugs of steaming hot chocolate while adults talked quietly in the corner. A woman said, "Everyone won't be close to home. Some of them are miles out. Even if they can walk out, it'll take a long time. Maybe we should send food..." She trailed off, looking at the shelves, mostly bare after the holiday rush. What there was a lot of was Cheerios. The Cheerios salesman lived up the road a bit in Lake Woebegon and he was in a great big hurry to be done with work. He had to get home, pickup his family and get to Tyler's Landing in time to catch the last tobaggon to St Olav before the storm set in. When he got to our little town, he had unloaded the contents of his pickup truck onto the store shelves and called it a day. Some had sold, of course, but more than a dozen boxes remained. "Wait!" the welder yelled at the plow driver, as a group of people ran out the store door, arms loaded with cereal boxes. Boxes were handed up to the second man on the hastily fitted plow. 1, 2, 3..5...10...15...18 boxes in all. This was followed by a thermos of hot coffee and a round of "Good luck...hurry back..." from the crowd and a quiet "Be safe" from the driver's wife. Watching them lurch along, we could tell that the weight of the plow-blade made driving that tractor really awkward and it didn't have lights--who drives a tractor at night?--so the guy who wasn't driving was balanced on the edge of his seat, one light in each hand, shining them down that now invisible road. The rest of the tale, well...I'll have to tell you what the driver told me that snowy night. Right after we couldn't see you anymore, just where the road runs alongside the creek, we slid sideways and just about lost it. Bobby here fell out of the tractor along with all that cereal. Well, all but one box. I reached out to grab his hand and caught the last one just before it slid out. Everything but Bobby and that one box went into the creek. When we got to the first car with people in it, I started pushing the snow away on the road side while Bobby went around the passenger side to make sure everyone was okay. There were two small children who were very hungry, it being long past supper time by now, and they had a long walk home so Bobby gave them that last box of cereal. I just shrugged my shoulders, we didn't have enough to feed all the kids we were going to help any more so it didn't really matter which one got the cereal. Bobby hopped back in the tractor and we continued on until we found the next car, or group of three cars I should say. The Mortons and that new family were sitting in the Swensons car, kids in every lap, carrying on like it was a regular ol' party or something. Only problem was the kids were starving. Bobby and I just looked at each other, knowing that we had lost the food we intended for them. "Let me run back to the tractor and see if there's anything there for the kids." I said as I turned away. No, I didn't turn away because of the tears in my eyes. (Saying this, he dabbed at the tears that he denied were in his eyes.) When I got back to the plow, I looked around it, under the seats and all, hoping to find something to give those children for their long, slow, cold drive home. Nothing. Leaning back to gather my thoughts, I noticed something in the shadows that covered Bobby's seat. Darned if it wasn't another box of Cheerios. Walking back to the car with it in my hand, Bobby caught my eye and raised a questioning eyebrow. "I dunno, we must have missed it." I told him. "Good thing we did, too. These little guys look hungry to me." As we headed back to the tractor, Bobby said, "I would've sworn there was none of those boxes left. Just that one." "Me too." I said, not mentioning that I'd been really sure and in any case, how did it end up where Bobby had been sitting just a few minutes ago? Riddle me that, young'un. How? When we got to the next car, we did the same thing. Bobby jumped out to talk to the people while I got the snow plowed away from the car so they could drive it out. As I went by, I heard the question I dreaded, "You don't happen to have anything to eat, do you? We were out late shopping and the children..." I heard a noise behind me. Just a little rustling, like a mouse had snuck into the warm tractor and was looking for a hiding place. Turning around to look, I'll be damned if there wasn't another box of those Cheerios. Just sitting there, plain as day. "What the hell...Bobby, come here." I shook the box at him, then tossed it. As he caught it, Bobby opened his mouth and I know he was going to ask a question I couldn't answer so... Continue reading

I have written a dozen intros to this and don't like any of my explanations. Let's just say that a Friday during the official buying holiday season is not a good time to watch what passes for conversation online. Every other photo on my twitter timeline is a free thing someone was given (without disclosing the free part) and there's a constant stream of giveaways and gift guides that consist of things the blogger got gratis to review. Then someone said they missed Oprah's favorite things and my inner cynic grabbed the keyboard from my better angels and started typing furiously...when you sing along in your head (and you will) pick a blogger or two to imagine singing it. I know I do. A Few of a Blogger's Favorite Things (with apologies to pretty much everyone) Readers who love me in comments that leghump, Tweets from a big blog that gives traffic a bump, Videos proving I really can't sing, These are a few of my favorite things. Junkets and coupons and samples from brands, Posting a photo I made with my hands, Hanging with people who think I'm a king, These are a few of my favorite things. Snitfits on twitter and long sullen flounces, Having a baby so web traffic bounces, Home from a conference all piled up with bling, These are a few of my favorite things. When the twit snarks, When the troll strikes, When my traffic's sad, I simply republish my favorite things, Then I don't whine so bad. disclaimer: This isn't about anyone in particular. Really. If you think it's about a blogger you love, discuss their bad behavior with them, not me. If you think it's about you, trust me, it's not. Continue reading

Once upon a time a small person who was having a rough time came to stay at our place — her self-designated Happy Place — to get a break from the hot mess difficult times at home. Early one morning, while the world was barely awake and nearly silent the girl gazed out over the small lake next to the house, sighed a sigh as big as her whole body, and solemnly said, "It's very beautiful out there." We looked, seeing it through her eyes. We looked at the purple and rose fuschias leaning over the edge of the lake; the fractal-flock of birds swooping and dipping until it seemed their wingtips must be wet; the splashes of cloud poufs reflected in the still water. Mostly, we looked at the wee one's quietly shining face and one of the first few smiles she had shown that visit. She was right. It is very beautiful out there. The house by the lake (sadly, a rental) is long gone and the small one is happily grown. My morning color is less dramatic here, being mostly hidden in mist that rises from the creeks that run amok on the valley floor but the sunsets...oh my, the sunsets. They are very beautiful indeed. Download a larger, slightly different, version of this picture scaled (1600x900) to use for your desktop image. Continue reading

Easy method to convert regular yeasted bread recipes to slow, cold rise. Continue reading

Just for you, my faithful readers, a special price of ~16 bucks on Picture Yourself Cooking With Your Kids — a 98% discount from...well, from whatever the heck that thousand dollar book is about. Continue reading

Allow me a momentary bit of self-indulgence but this logo has been a long time in the making. There is a pile of wands made from maple, alder, magnolia and other branches my trees have sacrificed in my studio. Photographing the fireballs while casting them, however, well that is work for a mightier mage than I. While playing with Photoshop and contemplating the summer of my discontent (illness, injuries, and other general WTFery) I rediscovered that I am, at my core, a long-form writer. Fact-checking amuses me and I am happy when I find a new side to an argument. My need for willy-nilly babble is well met on twitter and I find myself with little patience for creating more off-the-cuff content here. I sense changes in the offing. There is actual writing going on behind the scenes, late at night when the house is quiet save a distant guitar and the coo-purr of a very happy cat. Thousands of words on a single topic even. Outlines... Bullet lists... NESTED bullet lists... Those things will start showing up here soon, I promise. The logo victory has energized me. I mean "energized" in a theoretical way...it's 3am and sleep beckons for now. Continue reading

First up: Laugh as you learn how to open a milk carton. Seriously. A high-ranking official of the Austrian Milk Board is called upon to demonstrate how to open the sort of milk carton Americans give our small children. (The style is new there.) Hilarity ensues. Learning with a few laughs along the way is the intent of my newest feature, launching this week. The Food Blog User's Guide (FoodBUG) is a new series in which I will use my expertise at explaining strange and arcane technologies to Fortune 50 companies to take a good hard look under the apron of food blogs. People have many questions about how this "new media" works and FoodBUG will help to answer them. Most of the information will apply to blogs and other non-corporate (i.e., relatively independent and unregulated) web sites in general, so if you read web media, it might be worth a follow. Feed for Food Blog User's Guide posts Follow theFoodBUG on twitter. (There is a slight technical delay due to fresh cat gouge in my hand. First post should be up shortly just as soon as things around me stop coming unglued.) Continue reading

I don't want to eat genetically modified (GM) food but I do. You probably do, too. According to recent surveys, about 90% of the Americans they asked would like GMO food to bear labels declaring that fact. Presumably, if the label says the product is GM then people won't buy it. Yeah, right. Call me cynical—and believe me, you won't be the first—but I think consumers will continue to buy food products with GM ingredients. Yes, even if it's labeled. Besides, the major GM foods are already labeled, just not the way you think... Foods that forms the base of an awful lot of what we eat, has had their genes messed with. Chart data from USDA and Wikipedia. There's your five reasons: beet sugar, corn, soy, canola, or papaya from Hawaii If you are buying one of those and it's not labeled, you can assume it is GMO. That's your labeling. You may occasionally be wrong, but not often. I say that with such assurance because, in a market where almost all of a product is GM which customers claim to want to avoid, you would put NOT GMO on the front of the package in big letters. I would, wouldn't you? Sugar is a bit more complicated. Somewhere around half the sugar produced in the US is cane, half beet. We import more, unspecified as to type. The sugar industry doesn't want us to think there are any differences so they hide what happens to which type. Maybe someone will come explain what their web site does not. Cane sugar is not GM; they tried and failed. It is, however, likely to be processed with bone char, rendering it unacceptable to people avoiding animal products. Since cane sugar is seen as more "real" by some people, it is usually labeled as "cane sugar" or "evaporated cane juice" or something similar. Beet sugar is what is probably in tht bag of white sugar and it is pretty much all GM. What I have found seems to point to it being vegan, though. (The vegans reading this just recoiled in disgusted confusion. GM or bones? Bad options.) As for the other sugars, it seems reasonable to assume that all of the high fructose corn syrup (HFCS) is made from GMO corn. Highly industrial product for an industrial use. A small portion of the squash market (13%) is also GM, so get your squash at the farmer's market if you can. GM Potatoes and tomatoes have both been pulled off the market after failing to gain consumer trust. All of this aside, labeling GMO products is probably a good idea. For now, though, you should assume that these 5 crops, which make up most of the GM food market in the US have had their bits twiddled. For more information about genetically modified food, check out these groups: Just Label It—California initiative focused group Label GMOs—Also working on California initiative GMO Compass—European Union focus Community Alliance for Global Justice—Seattle group, working globally These groups are surprisingly hard to find, so please let me know of your favorites and I'll add them to the list. Continue reading

You can't whip egg whites if there is even a tiny speck of yolk in them. It is known. According to the common wisdom, that tiny drop of yolk in the photo is enough to stop a bowl of egg whites in their tracks and reduce them to a weepy, watery mess. Ask any baker and they will tell you this is true. They may go on to recite the rest of the basics, described here by King Arthur Flour: The bowl and beaters must be clean and grease-free. Use a stainless steel, ceramic, or glass bowl, not plastic. Egg whites will whip higher if they’re at room temperature before beating. Admonitions to ensure everything is dry, lest a drop of water render the whites too runny to whip, are often included. Truth be told, this isn't a particularly onerous list. If you wash your dishes, they won't be greasy; separating eggs is not rocket surgery; most of us have glass or stainless bowls; and a few minutes in warm tap water fixes cold eggs. Still, it bothered me. Such exacting instructions coupled with dire warnings if not complied with exactly. Like this, from Ruth Reichl: If even the tiniest amount of yolk or fat gets into the eggs they will refuse to whip. To ensure that there is no grease on the bowl or beater, wipe them with white vinegar and rinse in very hot water. Dry well. "Refuse to whip"...as if the egg whites go on strike at the sight of a fleck of yolk. After hearing this for decades, I found myself whipping a few whites without noticing the tiny speck of yolk...at first. As the whites got foamy, a yellow streak caught my eye, portending disaster. Funny thing was, they whipped up just fine. I had done everything else correctly: room temperature eggs and a pristine glass bowl, so I put it down to a fluke. Next time a bit of yolk got in the whites, I shrugged, whipped them and it worked. Since then, I usually let tiny bits of yolk that escape into whites stay there. It hasn't made a difference, at least, not one that I can discern. While discussing this with some other bakers recently, someone asked how much yolk and I guessed it had been a drop or two of yolk in 3-4 whites. Not very much, the amount that I would drop in accidentally. Not very specific, I know. This called for a test... First Pass: One egg white and about 1/8 tsp of yolk, the amount that is in the plate above. Just because I was feeling difficult, the egg white was ~35F and I used a plastic bowl and immersion blender whisk, both of which I rinsed under cold tap water and shook off but did not dry. I am such a rebel. Needless to say, I expected this to fail miserably. The plan was that with each successive pass I would add an egg white until the yolk was sufficiently dilute and the egg whites could be whipped to stiff peaks. My expectation was that it would not work until there were 3 or 4 egg whites with that bit of yolk. It did not fail. In fact, other than taking an additional minute or so to grow into a boufy cloud, it was like any other time I have beaten egg whites. So much for that Old Cook's Tale. The foam was stable enough to hold the peak for eight hours on the counter of a 75 degree kitchen. (I poured off the liquid whites that accumulated in the bottom of the glass.) This is certainly adequate for most uses of egg whites, particularly if it will be set by the heat of baking. As an aside, while I was picking up quotes for this, I encountered some of the most exacting instructions for whipping egg whites I have ever seen at 101 Cookbooks. It included this bit, which I have seen before but it has always puzzled me: To gauge when it [egg whites] has reached the correct consistency, take the whisk out of the bowl and turn it over. The foam should stay attached in a solid block, forming a tassel, like that on a clown's wig. Colorful description aside, let's consider this for a moment. If the egg whtes are done, they stay in the bowl and you have a cool parlor trick. If they are partially beaten, however, they will fall out of the bowl, probably onto the floor. We geeks call this destructive testing and it's usually undesirable. Baffling... added: Some folks have pointed out that the description above, which I snagged for its style, seems to be talking about holding the whisk upside down. On reread, perhaps. But I offer you the google results for "bowl of egg whites upside down over head" The Old Cook's Tales series is a lot of fun to develop and there are more in the works. What have you heard and wondered if it was really true? Let me know and I'll try to check it out for you. Continue reading