cool article i wanted to share with you guys from edible east end...
find it here or read it below:
WORTH THE TRIP
The Ingredients Shepherd of Quogue
A transplanted couple has been impressing diners—nonstop—for 14 years.
Photographs and Story By Eileen M. Duffy
EAST QUOGUE-On a busy Saturday night in May, Christian Mir presides over a kitchen staff of nine at Stone Creek Inn in East Quogue. In preparation for service, the sous-chef, Daniel Kennedy, pipes scallop mousse into zucchini flowers. They will later be sautéed and set atop beech mushrooms, tomatoes and lemon beurre blanc. A line cook purees spring peas for the soup, an asparagus, English pea and basil velouté that will be served hot with black truffle gnocchetti.
Another worker attacks a mound of candy cane, red and yellow beets for the fresh goat cheese and organic beet salad that includes caramelized hazelnuts, lemon confit and aged balsamic vinaigrette.
This is when Mir, a native of Villemur, France, walks in carrying a nine-pound red beet, fresh off the truck from Satur Farms in Cutchogue. Mir is grinning, and the staff shrugs it off, only getting in on the act to convert kilos to pounds when the vegetable went on a scale; they're too busy-potatoes need to be peeled, the fresh black tagliatelle, made with squid ink, has to pass through the pasta machine, fish must be filleted, homemade pancetta diced into lardon, and bananas caramelized. The 160-seat restaurant was expected to be very busy, and no one wants to be unprepared for a Saturday night.
For Mir, who owns his residence upstairs from the restaurant with his wife, Elaine DiGiacomo, it's another Saturday in the life of the 14-year-old business, but it's still like meal number one.Each plate receives the same care as ever, and the time spent sourcing the ingredients is, to him, as important as the prep going on around him; his role is the part of the shepherd, guiding pristine local vegetables, when he can get them, fresh local fish and herbs from his garden from their raw stage into dishes that customers return for year after year.
His hometown of Villmur is just north of Toulouse and halfway between Bordeaux and the Mediterranean. The culinary school he attended until he was 18 taught classic French cuisine, which he can still make-coq au vin, sweetbreads, myriad delivery devices for butter-in his sleep, but the relative closeness of the sea influenced the way he grew up to cook.
"I traveled after school and worked in French restaurants," he says. "But I was always attracted to Mediterranean cuisine; it was close by. I enjoy olive oil and fresh herbs. All that you need are great ingredients; that's 75 percent. The cooking process is very, very important obviously, but as long as you get the best, you get a great result."
DiGiacomo works in the front of the house, but that has not always been the case. The two met while cooking at the Tavern on the Green in 1992. Mir was a sous-chef and DiGiacomo was working in the Italian station, which was drawing on her Sicilian roots and the time she spent in Italy furthering her culinary education. The two fell in love and decided they wanted their own place. Nothing in the city presented itself. DiGiacomo and her family had been vacationing in Westhampton for most of her life, so they checked out the scene, which in those days was screaming for an upscale restaurant. Or so the couple now believes, since they have been busy from the day they opened in 1996, on May 23, on DiGiacomo's birthday right before Memorial Day weekend. Although he can recall some nights midweek in the off-season when he has served at the most 10 people, Mir remembers that opening weekend and the following six months as a nonstop, seven-day-a-week blur, when the two of them would put on a jacket and aprons to get the food out. But that had to stop.
"There can only be one chef in a kitchen," says Mir.
Not that DiGiacomo's Italian influence isn't felt. There's wild mushroom agnolotti (with roasted beets and pistachios) and the grilled rib eye is served Italian style, plainly, covered only with drizzle of extra-virgin olive oil and a lemon half to be squeezed over the meat by the diner. (It comes with sautéed broccoli rabe and black truffle mashed potatoes.)
Once dinner starts, Mir is in front of the hot station, and never raises his voice. He has a microphone to put in the initial orders and then works with two runners, one ferrying hot food and one bringing out the salads and desserts into the dining room. Passing through the window are deep-fried soft-shell crabs.
"I think they come out lighter when they're fried than when they're sautéed," says Mir. "I serve them with spring vegetables, whatever I can find that week."
Lately he's been finding his vegetables at Early Girl Farm in Moriches. It's run by the former chef at the Ross School, Patty Gentry, who, says Mir, takes great pride in her produce and gets really excited about it.
Also on the menu is butter-poached local lobster, red snapper and tuna. Mir will wait to put the most popular fish, striped bass, on the menu when it comes into season. He won't buy farmed fish. A dessert in a martini glass goes by. It's ricotta mousse with sautéed strawberries, aged balsamic vinegar and black peppercorns. "It's a great combination," he says.
This season, Mir and DiGiacomo will leave their two-floor apartment above the restaurant and, with their seven-year-old son, move into a house they're building in Westhampton Beach. And come the end of the season take a long vacation when the restaurant closes for two months-France, Uruguay, Buenos Aires. And then come March open again.
"Like everyone, I had a 10-year plan," says Mir. "But not anymore.
It's the contact with the clientele that keeps you going." Praising his sous-chef and line cooks, Mir says he can now spend more time in the dining room seeing people who have been coming in since day one and watching their children get older. "They like to have the same thing," he says. "This year I changed the salmon, but people ask if I can do it the way I used to, simply with baby carrots, mashed potatoes, beurre blanc and white shrimp."
Will he do it?
"Definitely," he says. "I'll always accommodate my clients."
Showing posts with label edible east end. Show all posts
Showing posts with label edible east end. Show all posts
1.13.2011
1.12.2011
a winemaker's wonderings
article taken from here...
A WINEMAKER’S WONDERINGS
Pursuing Mastery
By James Christopher Tracy
There are masters of everything these days: master gardeners, master electricians, master plumbers, master chefs and, yes, masters of wine. Since its inception in 1955, the Institute of Masters of Wine in the United Kingdom has bestowed the title of "Master of Wine" on very few people. Currently there are only 279 members from 22 countries. I began my quest for this distinction in 2007, and, last February, I gathered along with 70 or so other candidates in Napa for a one-week session of mock exams, short seminars and workshops that was at once exhilarating and brutal.
Each morning started at 7:30 a.m., pouring and tasting 12 wines blind (the wines are decanted into unlabeled bottles) and then racing, in two hours and 15 minutes, to pen 12-18 pages of answers. There I was in a room with a dozen or so other students and two MW's sitting at the front. The air was pungent with the aroma of wine and alcohol and nerves. Depending on the exam, 12 glasses-of white or red or a mixed flight that could include any color or style including sparkling, sweets and fortifieds-stare you down.
Question sheets are handed out, and excitement and trepidation build as we turn over the paper to find something like:
1) Wines 1 to 8 are all from the same single-grape variety, from four different countries.
For all 8 wines:
a) Identify the grape variety, drawing evidence from all the wines.
For each wine:
b) Identify the origin as closely as possible.
c) Comment on quality, with specific reference to residual sugar, alcohol and maturity.
d) Consider the commercial potential.
Fidgeting bodies and trickles of sweat begin as the clock starts ticking. Sometimes I like to look at and smell all the wines and take some notes before reading the questions while other times I look first to the questions to find some clues and narrow down the choices before nosing all the wines. Then I go about tasting the wines and answering the questions that seem obvious or are bankers as the Brits like to say. The more difficult wines and questions are put aside for a moment. One must remember you do not need to "get the wine right" to pass. Just as important as identifying the variety or origin correctly is writing well-argued answers. You must use evidence that is in the glass and hit all the markers (color, fruit character, intensity, dryness, alcohol, acid, body, tannin, length, etc.). When writing about things like production methods, quality judgments, state of maturity and commercial position you have ample opportunity to display your understanding and aptitude, even when you are clueless of the "correct" answer. So all is not lost when you are faced with that wine and all you can think of is "What the...!"
Personally, on good days when I finish the exam and write good answers with well-argued notes displaying knowledge, understanding, clarity, agility and thus mastery, which are rare, I feel like a rock star. On really bad days (hopefully also rare), when I am incomplete, don't write good notes and identify a Burgundy as a Bordeaux I feel as if I have been dragged in a dark alley to be punched, kicked and generally beat up. Mostly though you just feel slapped around.
James Christopher Tracy is the winemaker and partner at Channing Daughters Winery in Bridgehampton, as well as a student candidate for the Institute of Masters of Wine.
A WINEMAKER’S WONDERINGS
Pursuing Mastery
By James Christopher Tracy
There are masters of everything these days: master gardeners, master electricians, master plumbers, master chefs and, yes, masters of wine. Since its inception in 1955, the Institute of Masters of Wine in the United Kingdom has bestowed the title of "Master of Wine" on very few people. Currently there are only 279 members from 22 countries. I began my quest for this distinction in 2007, and, last February, I gathered along with 70 or so other candidates in Napa for a one-week session of mock exams, short seminars and workshops that was at once exhilarating and brutal.
Each morning started at 7:30 a.m., pouring and tasting 12 wines blind (the wines are decanted into unlabeled bottles) and then racing, in two hours and 15 minutes, to pen 12-18 pages of answers. There I was in a room with a dozen or so other students and two MW's sitting at the front. The air was pungent with the aroma of wine and alcohol and nerves. Depending on the exam, 12 glasses-of white or red or a mixed flight that could include any color or style including sparkling, sweets and fortifieds-stare you down.
Question sheets are handed out, and excitement and trepidation build as we turn over the paper to find something like:
1) Wines 1 to 8 are all from the same single-grape variety, from four different countries.
For all 8 wines:
a) Identify the grape variety, drawing evidence from all the wines.
For each wine:
b) Identify the origin as closely as possible.
c) Comment on quality, with specific reference to residual sugar, alcohol and maturity.
d) Consider the commercial potential.
Fidgeting bodies and trickles of sweat begin as the clock starts ticking. Sometimes I like to look at and smell all the wines and take some notes before reading the questions while other times I look first to the questions to find some clues and narrow down the choices before nosing all the wines. Then I go about tasting the wines and answering the questions that seem obvious or are bankers as the Brits like to say. The more difficult wines and questions are put aside for a moment. One must remember you do not need to "get the wine right" to pass. Just as important as identifying the variety or origin correctly is writing well-argued answers. You must use evidence that is in the glass and hit all the markers (color, fruit character, intensity, dryness, alcohol, acid, body, tannin, length, etc.). When writing about things like production methods, quality judgments, state of maturity and commercial position you have ample opportunity to display your understanding and aptitude, even when you are clueless of the "correct" answer. So all is not lost when you are faced with that wine and all you can think of is "What the...!"
Personally, on good days when I finish the exam and write good answers with well-argued notes displaying knowledge, understanding, clarity, agility and thus mastery, which are rare, I feel like a rock star. On really bad days (hopefully also rare), when I am incomplete, don't write good notes and identify a Burgundy as a Bordeaux I feel as if I have been dragged in a dark alley to be punched, kicked and generally beat up. Mostly though you just feel slapped around.
James Christopher Tracy is the winemaker and partner at Channing Daughters Winery in Bridgehampton, as well as a student candidate for the Institute of Masters of Wine.
article about tea
taken from edible east end, here:
AFTERTASTE
Not Your Ordinary Cup of Tea
By Regina Geok-Ling Tan
Photograph: Lindsay Morris
Hankering for a break from the wine circuit? Check out Plain T, a wholesale-and slowly emerging retail-tea purveyor on Powell Avenue in Southampton. Housed in a renovated ice factory, Plain T offers a welcome respite from the sweltering heat: soothing burnedout senses with a calm, white-washed chilly interior, tasteful rustic wood furnishings, dangling glass mobiles filled with tea leaves, and boldly vibrant abstract art. At first glance, this is perhaps the chicest tea spot around. Near the entrance, observe the row of pointe shoes and vintage tennis racquets hanging on the exposed brick wall-
Tathiana Teixeira was a professional ballet dancer; Plain T coowner, Tathiana's husband, Alex, played pro tennis. The Teixeiras (shown above) seem to be part of a new wave of food and drink entrepreneurs settling the Hamptons, intent upon successfully launching their businesses with a young and stylishly modern flair.
This Brazilian-born power couple markets their carefully chosen whole leaf teas to a select group of hotels, restaurants and spas. On the Island, look for Plain T at the Maidstone Hotel's high-tea service in East Hampton or at restaurants Sant Ambroeus, Plaza Café, Silvers and Red Bar Brasserie in Southampton. In the city, find them at the Regency's "power breakfast" on Park, at the Nespresso on Madison, and the Aroma Espresso Bar in SoHo.
Adapting to the wine culture of the area, Plain T offers primers on tea and tea tastings by appointment, with a summer Saturday series that is open to the public. Called the "T Loft," wine aficionados and soon-to-be tea followers are seated at a tea bar of sorts where they can drink house-made iced tea ($16/1L) from wine glasses or become schooled in the finer points of tea production, selection and drinking. The Teixeiras use oenological lingo to describe the taste of the tea: "full-bodied," "robust," "round." Spike the experience by ordering the T martini or T champagne. Mellow out with the Teixeira's summer picks: the Japanese sencha ($6/oz.), a mild-tasting green tea; or the South African Rooibos Maracuja ($2.50/oz.), a passion fruit-flavored brew. Or sample their favorites: the Jasmine Phoenix Pearl ($6/oz.) or the Formosa Dung Ti ($4.50/oz.).
All of the teas can be ordered online and are handpacked and shipped in white packaging with Plain T's signature orangestripe logo. As it strategically gathers a Pied Piper-like following of gourmet tea loyalists, Plain T seems destined to make its own unique mark.
Plain T, plain-t.com, 87 Powell Avenue, Southampton, 212.758.2413, by appointment only.
AFTERTASTE
Not Your Ordinary Cup of Tea
By Regina Geok-Ling Tan
Photograph: Lindsay Morris
Hankering for a break from the wine circuit? Check out Plain T, a wholesale-and slowly emerging retail-tea purveyor on Powell Avenue in Southampton. Housed in a renovated ice factory, Plain T offers a welcome respite from the sweltering heat: soothing burnedout senses with a calm, white-washed chilly interior, tasteful rustic wood furnishings, dangling glass mobiles filled with tea leaves, and boldly vibrant abstract art. At first glance, this is perhaps the chicest tea spot around. Near the entrance, observe the row of pointe shoes and vintage tennis racquets hanging on the exposed brick wall-
Tathiana Teixeira was a professional ballet dancer; Plain T coowner, Tathiana's husband, Alex, played pro tennis. The Teixeiras (shown above) seem to be part of a new wave of food and drink entrepreneurs settling the Hamptons, intent upon successfully launching their businesses with a young and stylishly modern flair.
This Brazilian-born power couple markets their carefully chosen whole leaf teas to a select group of hotels, restaurants and spas. On the Island, look for Plain T at the Maidstone Hotel's high-tea service in East Hampton or at restaurants Sant Ambroeus, Plaza Café, Silvers and Red Bar Brasserie in Southampton. In the city, find them at the Regency's "power breakfast" on Park, at the Nespresso on Madison, and the Aroma Espresso Bar in SoHo.
Adapting to the wine culture of the area, Plain T offers primers on tea and tea tastings by appointment, with a summer Saturday series that is open to the public. Called the "T Loft," wine aficionados and soon-to-be tea followers are seated at a tea bar of sorts where they can drink house-made iced tea ($16/1L) from wine glasses or become schooled in the finer points of tea production, selection and drinking. The Teixeiras use oenological lingo to describe the taste of the tea: "full-bodied," "robust," "round." Spike the experience by ordering the T martini or T champagne. Mellow out with the Teixeira's summer picks: the Japanese sencha ($6/oz.), a mild-tasting green tea; or the South African Rooibos Maracuja ($2.50/oz.), a passion fruit-flavored brew. Or sample their favorites: the Jasmine Phoenix Pearl ($6/oz.) or the Formosa Dung Ti ($4.50/oz.).
All of the teas can be ordered online and are handpacked and shipped in white packaging with Plain T's signature orangestripe logo. As it strategically gathers a Pied Piper-like following of gourmet tea loyalists, Plain T seems destined to make its own unique mark.
Plain T, plain-t.com, 87 Powell Avenue, Southampton, 212.758.2413, by appointment only.
hello, edible east end!
article from here:
DIY
Probiotics by the Glass
My romance with kefir.
By Susan Scarf Merrell
I guess you could say we are foster parents. Late last year, my husband came down with a head cold, and, as a result, we became responsible for the care and nurture of Norman and Yelena, two somewhat curdy, somewhat gelatinous life-forms that spend most of their time in Mason jars on our kitchen counter, covered by small paper bags. Each requires little more than a good cup or two of milk and a daily rinse of water for survival-far less than our human progeny. And what do we get in return? Clear skin, good digestion, much of our calcium requirements, and even relief when dealing with head colds-the rewards of tangy, slightly effervescent kefir by the glass, whenever we want it.
Kefir is a fermented milk drink that hails originally from the Balkans, according to Beatrice Trum Hunter's aged but useful Fact/Book on Yogurt, Kefir and Other Milk Cultures. Muslims in the region thought the "grains" that produced the drink-actually clumps of bacteria and yeast-would be weakened by exposure to nonbelievers, and so for many years the tricks to preparing the "grains of the Prophet Mohammed" were kept secret. Not until the early 1900s, when kefir was found to be beneficial in the treatment of tuberculosis, did interest in this unusual drink grow more widespread. Kefir aids in digestion, not only by stimulating saliva flow, but also by enhancing friendly flora in the digestive tract. It can be enjoyed even by those who are lactose intolerant, as the kefir grains actually keep themselves alive by "eating" the milk sugars that can be so difficult to digest. And, like yogurt, kefir is thought to have antibacterial properties, partly because the little organisms in kefir have been demonstrated to help prevent the growth of E.coli and other pathogenic bacteria in the gut.
Back to my husband's unshakeable head cold. By the time he went to the doctor, he'd been sneezing and coughing for so many days that there was no question he needed antibiotics. He hates them, particularly the way they upset his stomach. In the past, he's gotten some relief by popping acidophilus pills, so, while he was waiting for his prescription to be filled, I ran over to the grocery store to buy some. There, in the organic section, I saw something called kefir, a drinkable product that claimed to have even more lactobacillus and other probiotics than yogurt. I bought a bottle, brought it home, and we both-hesitantly-sampled it. I suppose it could be an acquired taste, a little cheesy, a little bubbly, but we both liked it immediately.
Not only did my husband get through 10 days of antibiotics without any stomach distress, but a small patch of eczema on his arm completely cleared up. As for me, my skin had never been brighter; my nails became uncharacteristically strong. Was it the kefir?
I mentioned this possible connection to a friend, also named Susan, who I learned has been maintaining a single kefir culture since 1972, and she vouched for the kefir effect. Susan's culture was given to her by a friend, and traces its origins to a Nova Scotian priest; she has kept it going wherever she's lived, in every season of the year, for decades. Susan drinks at least a pint daily. She looks about 20 years younger than she is, and could probably go on a national road tour as a kefir guru.
"Why buy the bottled stuff when you can make it to suit your own tastes? There's nothing easier," she assured me. "Grow your own. I'll bring some grains over next week, and show you how to care for it."
In the meantime, I got so eager that I committed the ultimate sin. I bought some. You aren't supposed to do this. In the culture of kefir cultures, the grains should be given away. No one owns these little cauliflower-like florets with the 5,000-year history. But I had been noodling around on the Internet and saw that you could actually buy kefir grains on Amazon.com; they were about eight bucks plus shipping, and I thought, well, hell, I'll try it.
Two days later, an envelope arrived from somewhere in Massachusetts, its contents a tiny glassine square with a scant half teaspoon of clean kefir grains sealed inside. Unlike other things that come in tiny glassine envelopes, these were opaque, tapioca-like little curds with a slightly lemony coloring. Following the instructions of the seller, I rinsed the grains in a fine strainer, placed them in a pint Mason jar along with a quarter cup of milk (I used 1% organic), and left them, covered loosely, overnight. The next day I poured the mixture, which hadn't changed very much, through a fine strainer. I discarded the milk, rinsed the grains, and returned them to the jar with a new quarter cup of milk. I repeated this process for three days, along the way naming my grains Yelena. The milk wasn't getting thick and tangy, but the grains looked plumper.
I called my kefir guru. "Susan, I need help," I said. "Yelena isn't anything like the delicious kefir I've been buying in the grocery store. She's not producing. The kefir is thin, and tastes like slightly sour milk. I'm doing something wrong."
Susan promised to come over, bringing some of her own grains, and run me through the kefir procedure she'd been using for nearly 40 years. And this was when I learned that kefir raising, like all parenting, has as much to do with responding to the child you have as it does with doing what you think is the right thing. Susan's kefir, who we named Norman, was nearly beige, each grain separate and plump, his aroma a little like gym shorts that, though completely clean, have endured frequent use. "I don't rinse the grains anymore," Susan confided. "I like the taste better this way."
He was thick, whey separate from curds, and to me he smelled way too intense. But that's the way Susan likes him. She taught me several things Yelena's grain mother hadn't.
1. The jar used for culturing the kefir needs to develop a nice fermented build-up. When you strain and rinse the grains, you can rinse the jar with a little water to loosen any kefir grains stuck to the bottom or sides, but you don't want the jar to get too pristine. It should become an environment for growth. After a week, my kefir jars seemed alive even after I'd strained the day's batch. There was a sense of eagerness when I poured the fresh milk over the rinsed grains, as if the kefir could not wait to begin eating the new milk sugars.
2. The jars should be covered. Susan uses dark jars, like those that apple juice comes in. I cover mine with paper bags. Susan prefers a full jar with very little air in it, her logic being that air becomes a feeding ground for foreign microbes. I've had better luck with roomier jars; I now keep Norman and Yelena in quart jars, but I give them each about 12 ounces of milk daily. This leaves them room to expand and gives me room to shake them. And shake them I do-gently, without burping the lid to release air pressure-because I like the more effervescent kefir this creates.
3. Susan does not rinse her grains and she ferments for longer than I do. As soon as I see a little whey separation, I strain and store my kefir. I don't like the tart taste Susan prefers. I have rinsed Norman every morning since I got him, and his color is paler and his flavor more gentle now. The kefir he produces is thick and yogurtlike but the flavor is just slightly tangy. Yelena, who arrived bland, now has bubbly character, as long as I play to her strengths. She's still too thin for my taste if I strain her in 24 hours, as I do Norman. She needs a full 48 hours. Also, she is hungrier than he is. She requires more milk to eat, or she starts to separate early and without interesting flavor. They are children, each with its own personality and needs. And, each, although this is where the child metaphor becomes unpleasantly Swiftian, equally delicious.
4. When your stash of grains grows too large for you to support-the more grains you have, the more milk they need for survival and thus the more kefir you end up with-you can give them away. Put a half-cup of grains in a little milk and hand it to a lactose-intolerant friend with instructions for kefir nurturing. I just did this last week, and made my friend Katherine very happy. You can also rinse, air-dry and freeze extra grains with a little powdered dry milk for about two months, or you can eat them or feed them to your pets, for an additional probiotic boost. What happens if we want to travel, or if we want to slow the growth of our kefir for other reasons? The first thing we'd do is to store the kefir grains in fresh milk, in the refrigerator. This would buy us a week of travel time. And should we need to go longer, we can leave the rinsed grains in filtered water, in the refrigerator, for slightly longer, or so I'm told. At the moment, I don't want to know. I'm so happy with my foster family, I'm staying close to home.
Susan Scarf Merrell is a novelist and foodie who writes from her home in Sag Harbor.
DIY
Probiotics by the Glass
My romance with kefir.
By Susan Scarf Merrell
I guess you could say we are foster parents. Late last year, my husband came down with a head cold, and, as a result, we became responsible for the care and nurture of Norman and Yelena, two somewhat curdy, somewhat gelatinous life-forms that spend most of their time in Mason jars on our kitchen counter, covered by small paper bags. Each requires little more than a good cup or two of milk and a daily rinse of water for survival-far less than our human progeny. And what do we get in return? Clear skin, good digestion, much of our calcium requirements, and even relief when dealing with head colds-the rewards of tangy, slightly effervescent kefir by the glass, whenever we want it.
Kefir is a fermented milk drink that hails originally from the Balkans, according to Beatrice Trum Hunter's aged but useful Fact/Book on Yogurt, Kefir and Other Milk Cultures. Muslims in the region thought the "grains" that produced the drink-actually clumps of bacteria and yeast-would be weakened by exposure to nonbelievers, and so for many years the tricks to preparing the "grains of the Prophet Mohammed" were kept secret. Not until the early 1900s, when kefir was found to be beneficial in the treatment of tuberculosis, did interest in this unusual drink grow more widespread. Kefir aids in digestion, not only by stimulating saliva flow, but also by enhancing friendly flora in the digestive tract. It can be enjoyed even by those who are lactose intolerant, as the kefir grains actually keep themselves alive by "eating" the milk sugars that can be so difficult to digest. And, like yogurt, kefir is thought to have antibacterial properties, partly because the little organisms in kefir have been demonstrated to help prevent the growth of E.coli and other pathogenic bacteria in the gut.
Back to my husband's unshakeable head cold. By the time he went to the doctor, he'd been sneezing and coughing for so many days that there was no question he needed antibiotics. He hates them, particularly the way they upset his stomach. In the past, he's gotten some relief by popping acidophilus pills, so, while he was waiting for his prescription to be filled, I ran over to the grocery store to buy some. There, in the organic section, I saw something called kefir, a drinkable product that claimed to have even more lactobacillus and other probiotics than yogurt. I bought a bottle, brought it home, and we both-hesitantly-sampled it. I suppose it could be an acquired taste, a little cheesy, a little bubbly, but we both liked it immediately.
Not only did my husband get through 10 days of antibiotics without any stomach distress, but a small patch of eczema on his arm completely cleared up. As for me, my skin had never been brighter; my nails became uncharacteristically strong. Was it the kefir?
I mentioned this possible connection to a friend, also named Susan, who I learned has been maintaining a single kefir culture since 1972, and she vouched for the kefir effect. Susan's culture was given to her by a friend, and traces its origins to a Nova Scotian priest; she has kept it going wherever she's lived, in every season of the year, for decades. Susan drinks at least a pint daily. She looks about 20 years younger than she is, and could probably go on a national road tour as a kefir guru.
"Why buy the bottled stuff when you can make it to suit your own tastes? There's nothing easier," she assured me. "Grow your own. I'll bring some grains over next week, and show you how to care for it."
In the meantime, I got so eager that I committed the ultimate sin. I bought some. You aren't supposed to do this. In the culture of kefir cultures, the grains should be given away. No one owns these little cauliflower-like florets with the 5,000-year history. But I had been noodling around on the Internet and saw that you could actually buy kefir grains on Amazon.com; they were about eight bucks plus shipping, and I thought, well, hell, I'll try it.
Two days later, an envelope arrived from somewhere in Massachusetts, its contents a tiny glassine square with a scant half teaspoon of clean kefir grains sealed inside. Unlike other things that come in tiny glassine envelopes, these were opaque, tapioca-like little curds with a slightly lemony coloring. Following the instructions of the seller, I rinsed the grains in a fine strainer, placed them in a pint Mason jar along with a quarter cup of milk (I used 1% organic), and left them, covered loosely, overnight. The next day I poured the mixture, which hadn't changed very much, through a fine strainer. I discarded the milk, rinsed the grains, and returned them to the jar with a new quarter cup of milk. I repeated this process for three days, along the way naming my grains Yelena. The milk wasn't getting thick and tangy, but the grains looked plumper.
I called my kefir guru. "Susan, I need help," I said. "Yelena isn't anything like the delicious kefir I've been buying in the grocery store. She's not producing. The kefir is thin, and tastes like slightly sour milk. I'm doing something wrong."
Susan promised to come over, bringing some of her own grains, and run me through the kefir procedure she'd been using for nearly 40 years. And this was when I learned that kefir raising, like all parenting, has as much to do with responding to the child you have as it does with doing what you think is the right thing. Susan's kefir, who we named Norman, was nearly beige, each grain separate and plump, his aroma a little like gym shorts that, though completely clean, have endured frequent use. "I don't rinse the grains anymore," Susan confided. "I like the taste better this way."
He was thick, whey separate from curds, and to me he smelled way too intense. But that's the way Susan likes him. She taught me several things Yelena's grain mother hadn't.
1. The jar used for culturing the kefir needs to develop a nice fermented build-up. When you strain and rinse the grains, you can rinse the jar with a little water to loosen any kefir grains stuck to the bottom or sides, but you don't want the jar to get too pristine. It should become an environment for growth. After a week, my kefir jars seemed alive even after I'd strained the day's batch. There was a sense of eagerness when I poured the fresh milk over the rinsed grains, as if the kefir could not wait to begin eating the new milk sugars.
2. The jars should be covered. Susan uses dark jars, like those that apple juice comes in. I cover mine with paper bags. Susan prefers a full jar with very little air in it, her logic being that air becomes a feeding ground for foreign microbes. I've had better luck with roomier jars; I now keep Norman and Yelena in quart jars, but I give them each about 12 ounces of milk daily. This leaves them room to expand and gives me room to shake them. And shake them I do-gently, without burping the lid to release air pressure-because I like the more effervescent kefir this creates.
3. Susan does not rinse her grains and she ferments for longer than I do. As soon as I see a little whey separation, I strain and store my kefir. I don't like the tart taste Susan prefers. I have rinsed Norman every morning since I got him, and his color is paler and his flavor more gentle now. The kefir he produces is thick and yogurtlike but the flavor is just slightly tangy. Yelena, who arrived bland, now has bubbly character, as long as I play to her strengths. She's still too thin for my taste if I strain her in 24 hours, as I do Norman. She needs a full 48 hours. Also, she is hungrier than he is. She requires more milk to eat, or she starts to separate early and without interesting flavor. They are children, each with its own personality and needs. And, each, although this is where the child metaphor becomes unpleasantly Swiftian, equally delicious.
4. When your stash of grains grows too large for you to support-the more grains you have, the more milk they need for survival and thus the more kefir you end up with-you can give them away. Put a half-cup of grains in a little milk and hand it to a lactose-intolerant friend with instructions for kefir nurturing. I just did this last week, and made my friend Katherine very happy. You can also rinse, air-dry and freeze extra grains with a little powdered dry milk for about two months, or you can eat them or feed them to your pets, for an additional probiotic boost. What happens if we want to travel, or if we want to slow the growth of our kefir for other reasons? The first thing we'd do is to store the kefir grains in fresh milk, in the refrigerator. This would buy us a week of travel time. And should we need to go longer, we can leave the rinsed grains in filtered water, in the refrigerator, for slightly longer, or so I'm told. At the moment, I don't want to know. I'm so happy with my foster family, I'm staying close to home.
Susan Scarf Merrell is a novelist and foodie who writes from her home in Sag Harbor.
inspiration: edible East End Magazine
i am a total long island girl.
i would move out of queens into long island full time in a minute.
even now, i am out there as often as i can be.
a cool article i wanted to share with you is from their website (here!)
here's an article called:
Under the North Fork Sun
When a romantic notion of a place becomes your home.
By Lettie Teague.
All the people I know dream about Tuscany, read about Tuscany and think about buying a villa in Tuscany, thereby changing or at least improving their life. (And maybe have a movie made about their experience as well.) I don’t know many people who have decided that their life could be altered for the better by pulling up stakes and moving to … Long Island. But when I got downsized from my job as a magazine editor (more on that later) this was exactly what I decided to do.
By Long Island, I don’t mean one of the commuter towns where Billy Joel grew up, but one particular part of the island’s easternmost edge. As its natives have long realized, and I am just learning—as I bike to the wineries, volunteer at the Southold Historical Society and frequent the foodie nexus of Mattituck known as Love Lane—the North Fork is a world apart from the rest of Long Island, as much as the South Fork (aka the Hamptons) is a courtesy extension of New York.
The North Fork to me is more like a little piece of Ohio that broke free of the Midwest and ended up anchored to the tip of Long Island. In fact, when I first visited the North Fork a few years ago, it felt like I’d come home to Ohio—where I was (mostly) brought up. The flat fields, the grazing horses and cows, were a comforting echo of my childhood landscape—and an especially welcome reminder of another sort of life after 20 years in New York City and its suburbs. But the North Fork was more than a near-duplicate of my Midwestern childhood, it was more like my youthful geography perfected. There weren’t only fields of crops and animals, but three great bodies of water all around: the Long Island Sound, the Peconic Bay and the Atlantic Ocean. And then, of course, there were the vineyards.
My first visit to the North Fork took place on account of those vineyards. It was almost three years ago, when I was the executive wine editor of Food & Wine. I’d decided to write a column about what I’d grandly characterized as “the coming of age” of Long Island wines, based on a handful of bottles that I’d tasted in my Manhattan office. (I still write that column, “Wine Matters,” for Food & Wine.) In fact, the first vines were planted on Long Island just over three decades ago. First there was just a trickle of interest as a few acres were planted; this later swelled into a steady stream as new talent and money arrived, albeit not always hand in hand. Potato fields were plowed under and chardonnay, merlot and cabernet were planted, along with a few lesser-known varietals as well.
On that first visit, I spent nearly a week exploring the region and tasting its wines, and I came away with the beginnings of a few prized friendships, including Louisa Hargrave (one-half of the pioneering couple that envisioned Bordeaux-style wines from Long Island in 1973) and the warm and wonderful Massoud family of Paumanok Vineyards in Aquebogue. I also reconnected with a couple whose wedding I had attended in 1997, but with whom I’d fallen out of touch: Eberhard Mueller and Paulette Satur, proprietors of Satur Farms.
By week’s end, I’d acquired a hopelessly idealized, romanticized notion of the place (see: Tuscany) and I was determined to incorporate the North Fork into my life. It had everything that I wanted: beautiful landscape (vineyards! horses!), access to water and, of course, good food and wine. By the number of new arrivals alone, alongside the few like-minded fifth-generation native North Forkers, I knew that my feelings were far from unique. Other “immigrants” had clearly felt the same way that I did, and in many cases had given up substantial careers in exchange: Eberhard had given up his four-star chef status for farming; Charles Massoud had surrendered the steady paycheck of an IBM executive for a vintner’s life; and Mike Osinski left banking for a life of oystering in the Bay. They had all forged new lives and second acts that turned out, in many ways, to be bigger and more rewarding than their first. And it wasn’t just because they founded wineries or farms, but because they actually became part of a community. Their work and their lives were essential to many more people than their immediate family or themselves. Not that this couldn’t happen in New York City. Maybe in Brooklyn. But much less likely on Wall Street or Park Avenue. When the economy changed and my fortunes changed with it (after 12 great years at Food & Wine, I was among those who were downsized), I decided to start looking for a house to rent or to buy.
When I told my friends in New York about my plans, their collective reaction was skeptical, at best. Wouldn’t I miss the tastings, the dinner parties, the art galleries, the museums, my busy social life? It was true that I would, but that didn’t change things, and besides no New Yorkers ever go to as many museums as they feel like they should. One friend asked, “Are you going as far away as—Montauk?” As if that town were the furthest outpost of which she could conceive. (It’s 120 miles due east of Midtown.) But once the collective shock subsided, they began to express an entirely different set of feelings, a mix of envy and awe. More than one friend told me that she wished she’d done the same thing, but practical considerations like families and jobs held them back. Neither was a problem for me, I was a divorced freelance writer, after all.
Louisa recommended I contact Gayle Mariner Smith, a highly successful real estate saleswoman and an incurable optimist; every house that we looked at, from Aquebogue to Greenport, was just a few coats of paint shy or a few sheets of paneling short of greatness. I just saw moldy carpet, rotting handrails and dark tiny spaces: immediate teardowns. Apparently these were the hallmarks of the properties that I could afford. Just when I was beginning to despair (Isn’t that the way that all happy endings start?), Gayle said she had found the perfect house. She was right, of course. It was a cute little farmhouse, nicely renovated, with an open view across fields and near a beautiful beach. It was also close to Croteaux Vineyards and just down the road from three other wineries—a clear sign, I thought. In short, it was exactly as I imagined my life in the North Fork should be like. I signed a contract right away.
I’d found a North Fork–based mover named Jose (through Gayle, of course) whose deadpan sense of humor proved the perfect counterbalance to my nervous state. “Are you sure it’s big enough for all of my furniture?” I asked, several times. “If not, we’ll probably have to leave a bunch of your stuff behind,” Jose replied. I began to explore local restaurants and shops. I found a few farm stands that I liked in nearby Peconic and Southold (KK’s, the Organic Farm in Southold, in particular), though mostly I shopped at the ones that I could reach easily on my bike, a basic upright with only a few speeds. (My closest neighbor, Joan, prefaces all of her conversations, “When I saw you out riding your bike…” when she’s talking with me.) Sometimes I’d ride as far as Eric’s on Route 48 for a sandwich (pulled pork), though less often when it really began to get cold. I rode more often to Wayside Market to buy meat (particularly sausage) and the Blue Duck Bakery (any, and all, of their breads) as well as Southold Fish Market, whose owner, Charlie, is a friend of Eberhard’s. I’ve gotten some very nice fish from Charlie, and sometimes he’s around to do the actual filleting, though he seems to spend as much time out hunting as he does on his boat.
I began patronizing the Village Cheese Shop in Mattituck, albeit by car, not just because it has great cheese (their wonderfully nutty Parmesan is my particular favorite); of course, everyone else goes there as well. It’s quite near Amano, Tom Schaudel’s terrific Italian joint and near Mint, my favorite retail clothing store, which has Manhattan style and Brooklyn prices. It’s next door to my favorite restaurant, Love Lane Kitchen where the combination is right: the prices are reasonable, the menu appealing, the wines are local, and the manager, Carolyn Iannone, has a high-wattage smile for everyone. (I can think of a dozen Manhattan restaurants whose business would be instantly improved just by hiring Carolyn to stand by their door.)
I’ve also made several new friends just by eating at Love Lane Kitchen. In fact, I’ve made several new friends quite easily. That seems to be the way that my life on the North Fork has unfolded so far: one act of kindness and generosity has followed another. Friends have held dinner parties to introduce me to their friends, who in turn have had dinners to introduce me to theirs. Random encounters in restaurants and shops have led to lunch invitations, and my new neighbors sometimes even stop by for a visit—I don’t think that ever happened when I was living in New York—or even suburbia. Nobody just drops by.
I’m determined to respond accordingly, and not just by hosting dinner parties of my own but by doing something for the community at large which has already made me feel so much at home. I’ve started by volunteering at the Southold Historical Society, in their archives, where I’ve learned about old local farming families like the Wickhams, and in the Society’s resale shop called the Treasure Exchange, where the volunteers seem to do a lot of shopping themselves (there’s a lot of great old china for sale at good prices). I’ve also joined the Southold Sunshine Society, which helps out elderly locals by visiting and sending flowers and cards.
In the meantime, my North Fork friends predict that this rather giddy state cannot last, especially through the long winter months (when I truly understand what it means to live in a “marginal” climate for wine). I know that my impression is rather starry-eyed, that I’m sure to experience some less-than-perfect times. I already miss many things about Manhattan (the restaurants, the food stores and my friends, not to mention all the wine shops and wine bars). But I’ll take a walk on the beach or a ride on my bike and explore a bit more of this place that I still don’t really know, yet feels like home.
Lettie Teague is the contributing wine editor and columnist at Food & Wine, and the author of Educating Peter. She writes a North Fork-centric blog, forklife.wordpress.com, from her new home in Southold.
i would move out of queens into long island full time in a minute.
(my research partner)
a cool article i wanted to share with you is from their website (here!)
here's an article called:
Under the North Fork Sun
When a romantic notion of a place becomes your home.
By Lettie Teague.
All the people I know dream about Tuscany, read about Tuscany and think about buying a villa in Tuscany, thereby changing or at least improving their life. (And maybe have a movie made about their experience as well.) I don’t know many people who have decided that their life could be altered for the better by pulling up stakes and moving to … Long Island. But when I got downsized from my job as a magazine editor (more on that later) this was exactly what I decided to do.
By Long Island, I don’t mean one of the commuter towns where Billy Joel grew up, but one particular part of the island’s easternmost edge. As its natives have long realized, and I am just learning—as I bike to the wineries, volunteer at the Southold Historical Society and frequent the foodie nexus of Mattituck known as Love Lane—the North Fork is a world apart from the rest of Long Island, as much as the South Fork (aka the Hamptons) is a courtesy extension of New York.
The North Fork to me is more like a little piece of Ohio that broke free of the Midwest and ended up anchored to the tip of Long Island. In fact, when I first visited the North Fork a few years ago, it felt like I’d come home to Ohio—where I was (mostly) brought up. The flat fields, the grazing horses and cows, were a comforting echo of my childhood landscape—and an especially welcome reminder of another sort of life after 20 years in New York City and its suburbs. But the North Fork was more than a near-duplicate of my Midwestern childhood, it was more like my youthful geography perfected. There weren’t only fields of crops and animals, but three great bodies of water all around: the Long Island Sound, the Peconic Bay and the Atlantic Ocean. And then, of course, there were the vineyards.
My first visit to the North Fork took place on account of those vineyards. It was almost three years ago, when I was the executive wine editor of Food & Wine. I’d decided to write a column about what I’d grandly characterized as “the coming of age” of Long Island wines, based on a handful of bottles that I’d tasted in my Manhattan office. (I still write that column, “Wine Matters,” for Food & Wine.) In fact, the first vines were planted on Long Island just over three decades ago. First there was just a trickle of interest as a few acres were planted; this later swelled into a steady stream as new talent and money arrived, albeit not always hand in hand. Potato fields were plowed under and chardonnay, merlot and cabernet were planted, along with a few lesser-known varietals as well.
On that first visit, I spent nearly a week exploring the region and tasting its wines, and I came away with the beginnings of a few prized friendships, including Louisa Hargrave (one-half of the pioneering couple that envisioned Bordeaux-style wines from Long Island in 1973) and the warm and wonderful Massoud family of Paumanok Vineyards in Aquebogue. I also reconnected with a couple whose wedding I had attended in 1997, but with whom I’d fallen out of touch: Eberhard Mueller and Paulette Satur, proprietors of Satur Farms.
By week’s end, I’d acquired a hopelessly idealized, romanticized notion of the place (see: Tuscany) and I was determined to incorporate the North Fork into my life. It had everything that I wanted: beautiful landscape (vineyards! horses!), access to water and, of course, good food and wine. By the number of new arrivals alone, alongside the few like-minded fifth-generation native North Forkers, I knew that my feelings were far from unique. Other “immigrants” had clearly felt the same way that I did, and in many cases had given up substantial careers in exchange: Eberhard had given up his four-star chef status for farming; Charles Massoud had surrendered the steady paycheck of an IBM executive for a vintner’s life; and Mike Osinski left banking for a life of oystering in the Bay. They had all forged new lives and second acts that turned out, in many ways, to be bigger and more rewarding than their first. And it wasn’t just because they founded wineries or farms, but because they actually became part of a community. Their work and their lives were essential to many more people than their immediate family or themselves. Not that this couldn’t happen in New York City. Maybe in Brooklyn. But much less likely on Wall Street or Park Avenue. When the economy changed and my fortunes changed with it (after 12 great years at Food & Wine, I was among those who were downsized), I decided to start looking for a house to rent or to buy.
When I told my friends in New York about my plans, their collective reaction was skeptical, at best. Wouldn’t I miss the tastings, the dinner parties, the art galleries, the museums, my busy social life? It was true that I would, but that didn’t change things, and besides no New Yorkers ever go to as many museums as they feel like they should. One friend asked, “Are you going as far away as—Montauk?” As if that town were the furthest outpost of which she could conceive. (It’s 120 miles due east of Midtown.) But once the collective shock subsided, they began to express an entirely different set of feelings, a mix of envy and awe. More than one friend told me that she wished she’d done the same thing, but practical considerations like families and jobs held them back. Neither was a problem for me, I was a divorced freelance writer, after all.
Louisa recommended I contact Gayle Mariner Smith, a highly successful real estate saleswoman and an incurable optimist; every house that we looked at, from Aquebogue to Greenport, was just a few coats of paint shy or a few sheets of paneling short of greatness. I just saw moldy carpet, rotting handrails and dark tiny spaces: immediate teardowns. Apparently these were the hallmarks of the properties that I could afford. Just when I was beginning to despair (Isn’t that the way that all happy endings start?), Gayle said she had found the perfect house. She was right, of course. It was a cute little farmhouse, nicely renovated, with an open view across fields and near a beautiful beach. It was also close to Croteaux Vineyards and just down the road from three other wineries—a clear sign, I thought. In short, it was exactly as I imagined my life in the North Fork should be like. I signed a contract right away.
I’d found a North Fork–based mover named Jose (through Gayle, of course) whose deadpan sense of humor proved the perfect counterbalance to my nervous state. “Are you sure it’s big enough for all of my furniture?” I asked, several times. “If not, we’ll probably have to leave a bunch of your stuff behind,” Jose replied. I began to explore local restaurants and shops. I found a few farm stands that I liked in nearby Peconic and Southold (KK’s, the Organic Farm in Southold, in particular), though mostly I shopped at the ones that I could reach easily on my bike, a basic upright with only a few speeds. (My closest neighbor, Joan, prefaces all of her conversations, “When I saw you out riding your bike…” when she’s talking with me.) Sometimes I’d ride as far as Eric’s on Route 48 for a sandwich (pulled pork), though less often when it really began to get cold. I rode more often to Wayside Market to buy meat (particularly sausage) and the Blue Duck Bakery (any, and all, of their breads) as well as Southold Fish Market, whose owner, Charlie, is a friend of Eberhard’s. I’ve gotten some very nice fish from Charlie, and sometimes he’s around to do the actual filleting, though he seems to spend as much time out hunting as he does on his boat.
I began patronizing the Village Cheese Shop in Mattituck, albeit by car, not just because it has great cheese (their wonderfully nutty Parmesan is my particular favorite); of course, everyone else goes there as well. It’s quite near Amano, Tom Schaudel’s terrific Italian joint and near Mint, my favorite retail clothing store, which has Manhattan style and Brooklyn prices. It’s next door to my favorite restaurant, Love Lane Kitchen where the combination is right: the prices are reasonable, the menu appealing, the wines are local, and the manager, Carolyn Iannone, has a high-wattage smile for everyone. (I can think of a dozen Manhattan restaurants whose business would be instantly improved just by hiring Carolyn to stand by their door.)
I’ve also made several new friends just by eating at Love Lane Kitchen. In fact, I’ve made several new friends quite easily. That seems to be the way that my life on the North Fork has unfolded so far: one act of kindness and generosity has followed another. Friends have held dinner parties to introduce me to their friends, who in turn have had dinners to introduce me to theirs. Random encounters in restaurants and shops have led to lunch invitations, and my new neighbors sometimes even stop by for a visit—I don’t think that ever happened when I was living in New York—or even suburbia. Nobody just drops by.
I’m determined to respond accordingly, and not just by hosting dinner parties of my own but by doing something for the community at large which has already made me feel so much at home. I’ve started by volunteering at the Southold Historical Society, in their archives, where I’ve learned about old local farming families like the Wickhams, and in the Society’s resale shop called the Treasure Exchange, where the volunteers seem to do a lot of shopping themselves (there’s a lot of great old china for sale at good prices). I’ve also joined the Southold Sunshine Society, which helps out elderly locals by visiting and sending flowers and cards.
In the meantime, my North Fork friends predict that this rather giddy state cannot last, especially through the long winter months (when I truly understand what it means to live in a “marginal” climate for wine). I know that my impression is rather starry-eyed, that I’m sure to experience some less-than-perfect times. I already miss many things about Manhattan (the restaurants, the food stores and my friends, not to mention all the wine shops and wine bars). But I’ll take a walk on the beach or a ride on my bike and explore a bit more of this place that I still don’t really know, yet feels like home.
Lettie Teague is the contributing wine editor and columnist at Food & Wine, and the author of Educating Peter. She writes a North Fork-centric blog, forklife.wordpress.com, from her new home in Southold.
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