and Hubert Keller stands at the stove with a pan of potatoes sizzling happily in front of him. I had written the recipe for this dish, pommes paillasson--shredded potatoes cooked in oil and butter until they are crispy outside and meltingly soft within. Easy right? But as I wrote, I'd stumbled over this: just how do you flip a 10-inch pancake? Put a plate over the top, grab it and the hot pan together with both hands, and flip? Then what? A second plate? Suddenly what had been a simple recipe with about 5 ingredients threatened to become complicated. (Such are the trials and tribulations of a cookbook writer. Hubert and I are working on his cookbook memoir, Souvenirs.) So now, as I stood next to him, I thought: "Now, I get to see how to flip it." Then, I confess, I squealed. Because no sooner had that thought crossed my mind, when the pancake flew into the air, flipped, and returned exactly to the pan, cooked side up. "How is a normal person supposed to do that?" I asked. Hubert was already basting the edges of the pan with a nut of butter that ran under the cake to help brown the second side. He turned on me a puzzled expression. From the time he was an apprentice at Auberge de l'Ill in Illhaeusen, Alsace, France he had flipped pommes paillasson (where it was generously laced with black truffles) in just this way, with a graceful swirl and jerk. I've since made the dish again at home (no truffles) and let G handle the plate-and-hot-pan flip.  Then he used the crusty cake as the base for a good, old-fashioned American breakfast of fried eggs and bacon.

Meyer Lemon Rosemary No Knead Sourdough Bread

Are you ready for the bake sale of the year?

Yesterday I refreshed my sourdough starter. After some (who's counting) weeks of negligence it looked pretty sad. But this morning it was awake, puffy, full of life, ready for work. So I took the very few minutes needed to mix up batches of no-knead bread destined for the San Francisco Food Blogger's Bake Sale tomorrow, Saturday 14 May at 18 Reasons on Valencia St from 10 am to 6 pm. I'll take 2 loaves each of Meyer Lemon-Rosemary and Fennel No-Knead Sourdough Breads. Both are variations on my multigrain sourdough no-knead recipe. But I can hardly wait to see what everyone else brings. Scenes from last year's sale still dance like sugar plum fairies in my memory. For a few hours the sale tables will be, I would bet, the best bakery with the widest, most colorful, and creative offerings in San Francisco. And rivaled perhaps only by the simultaneous food bloggers' bake sales going on in other cities to benefit Share Our Strength's programs to end childhood hunger. Hope to see you there.

A recipe for Hubert Keller’s upcoming cookbook called for pale malt. Pale malt??!! I knew malt was made from barley and that brewers use malt in great quantities. Wikipedia, while helpful to an extent, left many questions unresolved. Not the least of which was a source for pale malt so I could test the recipe.

The receptionist at Anchor Brewing was kind. She listened. She put me through to the voicemail of the brewmaster, Mark Carpenter. He called me back! And listened. And offered his help.

Getting out of the car across the street from the brewery (conveniently located fairly close to my house), I was enveloped by the characteristic smell of breweries: malt. It’s a smell I associate with European cities, not those in the US. But as the craft brewery trend expands, this smell, which was once part of the American landscape, is returning. At Anchor it is a light, slightly sweet scent. Does everyone who lives within a few blocks stay hungry all the time?

brewing ingredients, from left: hops; dark roasted malt (smells like espresso and chocolate!), pale malts

“Here, taste some,” said Mark as he gestured toward a zip-up bag of pale malt sitting on his desk. We each took a few grains. Crunchy and lightly sweet with, yes!, a malted flavor. He described it as “malted milk balls without the sugar. Or less sugar.” He explained that pale malt is barley grain that has first been sprouted, and then dried. It is never husked. (Important detail.) And, because malted barley is never heated above 160°F to preserve its natural enzymes, it’s catnip for yeast. Beer yeasts. Bread yeasts. Sourdough yeasts. Can you tell where this is going?

Mark described the role of those pesky (for a cook) husks: In the brewery, the malt is soaked and warmed and stirred and stirred until all those barley enzymes and sugars are dissolved in the water. The water is decanted off the barley solids. Without the husks acting as natural filters, the barley water, or way too much of it, would stay trapped in the solids. Brewers call the barley water, wort, and it is what gets spiced and flavored with hops, for instance, and then fermented.

pale malt mixing with water in one of the huge copper kettles

My recipe called for simmering the malt until tender, 3 to 4 hours! But that temperature would kill the enzymes. What would be the difference in flavor between boiled malt and malt cooked at temperatures between 140°F and 160°F? G suggested a double boiler method: I heated water to 160°F, poured it over the malt, and suspended the bowl above a pot of hot water which I could heat as needed to keep the soaking malt warmed to the correct degree. What a revelation! The simmered malt was only slightly sweet and tasty, but the malt kept in the sweet spot temperature wise: it was distinctly sweet and fresh tasting. It took a day to get around to baking bread and by then, the little sprouts had grown longer. Still those husks. I’m delivering the loaf to Mark today. I hope he has good teeth.

The recipe I was working on describes a risotto made from pale malt. Hmmmm. All those husks. I’m not sure any amount of cooking will soften those so the research on that topic continues. But Mark helped me brainstorm an alternative: a risotto of pearl barley with barley malt syrup stirred in at the end of cooking. It was delicious! Even my did-you-put-anything-weird-in-it G loved it.

No-Knead Sourdough Pale Malt Bread

Meanwhile, though, thanks to Mark and pale malt, I’ve rediscovered one of the most ancient food-alcohol relationships: beer and bread. In ancient---and not so ancient---times, bakers used beer yeasts for their bread. I’m not sure I would recommend putting the cooked, whole malt in bread. You might have to stop and spit out the chaff too often. On the other hand, all that fiber would have a beneficial effect on cholesterol counts as it scrubs out the digestive system.

The answer, I think, is to compost the malt and bake bread with the malt soaking liquid. The barley sugars caramelize making the already crunchy, crackly crust developed by the no-knead method even more delicious. And the aroma!! That tantalizing malt scent wafts through the kitchen as the loaf bakes. The crumb seems transformed, too, a little softer, more tender. Now I understand why barley malt (the syrup and the powder) is a baker’s best friend.

The aroma insists, insinuates: chocolate. Remember Ovaltine? Perhaps my next experiment will be a chocolate cake made with cocoa and pale malt soaking water.

Alison Ashton of Nourish Network and I were talking about a favorite subject---no-knead bread---and soon enough found ourselves wondering whether the dough would work as a pizza crust. I was sure it would but had not specifically tried it. Naturally, that meant I had yet another reason to stir up a batch of bread.

Then, over this past weekend, G and I went to Pizzeria Delphina on 18th Street in San Francisco. We sat at the counter where I could watch one of the chefs shape the pizzas. No flying, circling pizza-shaping dramatics---but it also didn't look like there was room for theater where he stood perhaps 4 feet from the pizza oven. He had a big white tub of risen dough balls on his left, and a pile of flour to one side in front of him. He dipped the dough in the flour, put it on his work counter and prodded the dough into a circle, working from the middle out so he had a nice double-thick rim around the outside edge. Then he picked up the dough, holding it just high enough so one edge brushed the counter top, and fed the dough though his fingers, working it around and around. The dough stretched naturally thin in the middle and retained its rim. Only when it was as thin as he wanted it did he put it on the back of his fists and immediately transfer it to a wooden paddle, stretching it slightly into shape as he laid it down. If it was a tomato-based pizza, he poured a small laddleful onto the crust and smeared it around with the back of the ladle. Then his neighbor slid the paddle onto his own work station to finish assembling the pizza. All of this took probably less than 60 seconds. I didn't time it---reason enough to go back. As if the pizza itself and the tempura-battered, deep-fried heirloom broccoli(!) were not enough.

Now I had two reasons to try pizza: the no-knead dough question and the shaping technique. No-knead dough works great. When I do it again, I think I will use just 10% whole-wheat flour instead of 30% and that will, I believe, improve the dough's performance in terms of rising and blistering around the edge. (Even though I keep two pizza stones in my oven as well as a 14-inch cast iron frying pan to add mass and retain heat, after the first pizza, the oven cools significantly. How I wish I had a convection oven.)

I need more practice with the technique (tough duty, I know) but even doing it for the first time, it was faster and easier than my normal method of rolling and then stretching. The dough handled very like that at at Pizzeria Delphina. I was interested, too, that at the pizzeria, the dough was not brushed first with olive oil which I have always done. Not doing so made assembling the pizzas quicker and the resulting pizza a little lighter to eat but no less concentrated in flavor. What is definitely true is that if your pizza is going to be as simple as bread, tomato sauce, garlic, and a little cheese, all those ingredients need to be of superior quality and intense flavor.

Whenever a bout of “gastrointestinal distress” causes Kit (the dog) to go off his feed, I cook him a pot of chicken porridge—chicken, white rice, carrots, garlic, thyme, a little salt, and lots of water. Once I thought it would be healthier to use brown rice. Bad idea. The purpose is digestibility, not fiber.

And whenever I cook the porridge, I think how good it looks and smells: sweet from the fully broken down rice and lightly chicken-y. And I wonder how the dog would feel about sharing. Unfortunately, the past weeks have found me cooking porridge several times.

But also this week, I went out to a casual Vietnamese restaurant in the Tenderloin district with a couple of gal pals. (We are all looking for good, inexpensive choices.) We ordered a bowl of chicken porridge. It was delicious comfort with a big hit of ginger. The time had come to cook porridge for Kit and for me, too.

I pondered about adding ginger to the pot. Ginger helps settle people’s upset stomachs but would it work for a dog? Or would it be too spicy? I thought about a cinnamon stick, another anti-inflammatory. Kombu? How hard it was to stay simple and bland when I put myself on the eating side of the equation. Maybe if I were cooking for myself when sick, it would be easier. (But then I wouldn’t feel like cooking.)

A whole chicken went into the pressure cooker with chopped carrots, a chunked onion, a couple of garlic cloves, some parsley and thyme (no lavender thyme, lemon thyme, or English thyme, just large-leafed, mildly flavored garden thyme), a good pinch of salt (no pepper or chili peppers), and enough cold water to submerge the chicken. Twenty-five minutes later, the chicken was cooked and cooling.

After shredding the meat back into the cooking liquid, I added a pound of basmati rice and another pinch of salt. Another few minutes under high pressure and that was done. I’ve noticed a puzzled and even hurt expression on Kit’s face if I give him something that is too warm, a bit of leftover egg, for instance, or a pancake. So we had to wait until the porridge cooled.

While we waited, I sliced ginger, shallots, and garlic as thinly as I could and fried them, separately, in a little oil until they turned golden brown and crunchy. While they drained on paper towels, I minced a little parsley (I tore the scraggly cilantro out of the garden just last week.). Then I filled my bowl (It does not say Fido on it.) with the chicken porridge dog food and turned it into pretty good people food with the garnishes. An even simpler version would be to add a spoonful of hot black bean sauce. Or curry powder. Or, or, or

Making marshmallows amuses me. They seem magic: gelatin and sugar syrup combine to make fluffy, silly confections. They have no redeeming food value--well, maybe the gelatin offers some protein--but they make up for their lack in fun value.

I make marshmallows maybe once a year, using a version of King Arthur Flour's recipe (on their blog, they have great step by step photos of making marshmallows). Last year, I added crushed peppermint candies. They added color, texture, and flavor. For the first day. After that they began to melt and the marshmallows turned damp and gummy. If you use candies, eat your batch the same day. Or the next at the latest.

This year I decided to add red and green food coloring, adding a couple drops to the completed batch and using just two swipes with a large spatula to fold them in. I use a larger pan  (11" by 17") than the recipe calls for. The marshmallows still seem plenty  tall  to me--about 1 or 1 1/2".

One of the reasons I like to make marshmallows is that they can be a mess. So not only are they a food of childhood (Did you spend hours squeezing the marshmallows between your fingers until they reverted to a sticky, stretchy, sweet mass?), but they remind me, too, of playing in the sandbox.

To slightly reduce the mess (too clean takes the fun out of it), I use the splash guard on the stand mixer. Then, if I rev up the speed too fast, I don't have to wash the walls afterwards. This bit of advice comes to you from experience. I also cut the marshmallows with my pizza wheel. Pressed against a long ruler, I can make fairly straight cuts.

Do prepare your pan ahead of time and pour the marshmallow in while it's still a touch warm. It will spread nearly on its own with just a few nudges from your spatula. I've only found frustration with the "use wet hands to smooth and even the top" method. I figure perfection rarely equals fun. The candies set in about 2 hours.

You still have time to make these for Christmas. In fact, they'd be a great Christmas eve activity with the kids. The ingredients are probably in your pantry: sugar, gelatin, light corn syrup (or maple syrup), and flavoring. (I like to use peppermint extract.) The only special equipment you need is a thermometer because to thicken properly, the syrup needs to reach 235 or 240 degrees F. Give it a try and you may start a new holiday tradition.

PS: I made peppermint marshmallows the first time for book group, floating them on top of thick hot chocolate made with coconut milk. If you don't get around to marshmallows this holiday season, write a note to yourself to make them and the hot chocolate for your Valentine.  Oooooh boy!

First, the lid comes off

Bees are in the news:

The New York Times reported yesterday, 28 September, the awarding of the MacArthur Foundation genius grants, one of which is to an entomologist at the University of Minnesota: Marla Spivak studies honeybees. And in my favorite section of the paper, the Tuesday supplement, “Science Times”, is an article about the new book, Honeybee Democracy. It details years of close study of honeybees by Dr. Thomas D. Seeley (Princeton University Press), chairman of the department of neurobiology and behavior at Cornell University.

While in my own backyard, my beehive has nearly doubled in height. Yesterday, Robert MacKimmie, the beekeeper of City Bees, opened the hive and checked each frame of the honey box as well as the lower and upper brood boxes. He wears only a veil and works barehanded, pulling up the frames, dripping now with honey and bees. He does calm them with smoke; it worked on me, too. He uses pine needles creating an evocative, campfire scent.

What sweet bees,” Robert remarked. And truly it seemed that way. Here he was, pulling their house apart and moving them about. The sounds of buzzing did increase and several bees bounced off me as I deadheaded the bachelor buttons growing around the hive. Somehow, I even got a drop of honey in my hair and it’s still sticky. But no stinging.

The hive has been smelling more and more enticing: it gives off a sweet, slightly piney, floral aroma that’s incredibly attractive. And I mean that in a physical way. Robert says that is not the smell of the honey but of the brood, the baby bees being cared for in the brood boxes. But still, I think I can now understand why bears find honey and bees so delicious. If I had a thick coat of fur and thick pads on my paws, I would not hesitate to dip them into a hive. But then, a bear might not stop to savor the way the honey gushes out of the comb when you press it against the roof of your mouth with your tongue.

Despite it being so late in the season, Robert installed a brand-new brood box above the original base brood box. He slowly lowered it, swirling it gently above the lower box, coaxing the bees to move out of the way. Then he put down the separator: its closely spaced wires keep the queen in the brood chambers but allow the worker bees to move freely up and down. On top of that he placed the honey box he installed first about five weeks ago, what had been the upper brood box but is now nearly full of honey, and yet another honey box. He plans to feed the bees (sugar water and later perhaps protein pellets) so they build their numbers and their fat deposits to take them through the winter.

While the hive was laid open, bee work continued unabated. A scout bee flew in and did a waggle dance for her pals telling them where a fresh supply of food could be located. “Bees have about 800 hours of flying on their wings, and then they die,” said Robert. So their lives are short during the long, light-filled, summer days. (And maybe shorter, too, since bees cool the hive and circulate air by putting their rumps in the air and fanning their wings very fast.) Bees born about now could well live into March (unless the heat keeps up). Much depends, as it always does in agricultural pursuits, on Mother Nature. She has not been kind to our Northern California farmers this year. But that is another story.

Bees massed on shady, back side of hive. Doesn't it look like a map of Texas?!

It hit 90 degrees F in San Francisco today. And it wasn't just people who got hot.

The bees, the garden, the people, none of us were ready for this sudden heat. I doubt it's been above the low 60s in 8 weeks. In the afternoon heat, the bees nearly stopped flying and the squash vine and lettuce cringed. Bachelor buttons bowed their heads and nasturtium flowers dried up.

Robert MacKimmie, the bee man of City Bees, came by and opened the hive to see what was what inside. The bees swarmed up, over, and down the back of the hive into the shade. And they stayed there--sensible beasts that they are--until it got cooler. Meanwhile, Robert installed a honey box above the brood box and promised to bring by another brood box. That is, just as soon as he builds one.

Robert had promised the bees would be fascinating to watch. And they are. Most evenings they form clumps on their front stoop, crawling over each other. And then the clump moves first this way and then that. When the bees get hot, their arch their bodies and beat their wings so fast they are just a blur. They will line up on their front stoop, tails toward the door, and fan like mad, forcing fresh air into the hive. Today, I watched some do this as they clung to the sunny side of the hive. By tonight, they should be some tired bees.

Sometimes we just watch the bees as they leave their hive, vaguely noting their flight paths. Watching is trance inducing. At first they flew over our garden, but now they've discovered it as well as the patch of calendulas I have next door. Now when I harvest, I've learned to check for bees before picking.

We have also acquired a new job--rescuing bees from inside the house and the dog's water bowl. I also change out the sucked-dry bottle of sugar water in the bees' feeder for a fresh one very early in the morning before the bees wake up or after dark when they have all gone back inside. Robert hopes to build population in this new hive. The sugar water supplements the pollen the bees gather and allows them to care for more baby bees. (I'm just learning; sorry for the less than scientifically correct description.) Next time Robert visits, I'll try and remember to photograph him opening the hive. It was amazing today to see the frames holding honey and brood cells of baby bees.

While most of the bees hang out back in the shade, no one's out front.

bees enjoy the air circulation created by propping up the roof on one side with a pebble

I find them addictive. Thank goodness G eats only a few and lets me finish them. I'd not thought of making them myself though I see plenty of recipes online. I suppose I should try it. But. On my recent shopping expedition to Clement Street in San Francisco I found a bag of Sanjay's Chicknuts. They're spicy, salty, crunchy. (Ingredients: chickpeas, canola oil, cumin, black pepper, allspice, garlic, chili, and salt. Since they're chickpeas, they qualify as a healthy snack. However, it's hard to believe anything so tasty is without a downside. So I weighed out a portion, 50 grams. A small handful. And I do mean small. Maybe 20 to 25 chickpeas. And those 50 g equal 190 calories. 8 calories each?! To get full value per calorie, I should have eaten them with Zen-like attention, not just knocked them back. Knowledge is power. I guess. Good thing Clement Street is not on my usual shopping route.