cow to table

The delicious mozzarella at the cheese class I took this fall, dressed with pickled peppers and herbs

Cheesemaking, my surprise fall/winter project, has reminded me a lot of canning--basically, that it's precise and recipe driven. Pretty much exactly what my true cooking soul is not. My cheesemaking journey has been bumpy, to say the least, taking me from exhilaration to panic, glee to despair, cheesy delight to masses of mushy failure destined for the cat and the chickens.

There was the honeyed fromage blanc I served to my mom, grandma, and sister on crusty homemade bread (alongside homemade Greek yogurt and homemade butter)--all as delicious as it sounds. But there was also the feta that turned to mush while brining in the fridge, the feta that tasted way off after brining in the fridge, the soft cheese that stayed milk... I could go on.

Still, there's something enchanting about cheesemaking, the act of helping to transform a liquid to a solid in a matter of minutes or hours, of trusting things I can't see (like cultures) to do their work and make me cheese.

Last week, mozzarella. Success and failure.

After we milked the cow on Wednesday, we got home around 6:30 with three gallons of warm, raw milk. I plunged two gallons into a sink full of ice water to speed the cooling process, and dumped the other gallon into a big pot. I perused four quite different mozzarella recipes, including two quick ones that differ at almost every step, and then decided to follow the quick recipe I'd observed at the cheese class I took last fall. While Tim cooked rib chops and carrots, I stirred in the citric acid, heated the milk, added the rennet, cooked the curds, and had a plateful of sliced mozzarella balls dressed with olive oil, balsamic, and oregano ready in time for an appetizer. The success was sweet. From cow to cheese in under two hours!

Half of the sweetness was the smoothness of it all, too, the lack of disasters, the fact that the mozzarella was mozzarella, just like it was supposed to be.

So then, of course, it was all the more disappointing to open up the jar of mozzarella balls at lunch the next day and discover that the poor babies had, while floating in their brine, turned into mush. I am not at all sure what this brine = mush thing is. I did eat some for lunch, but we also gave some to the cat--it was just not the same.

Back to the stove that night, I decided to follow the other quick mozza recipe--from Home Cheesemaking--because, hey, cheese might feel like magic sometimes, but it's really a science, and I was irresistibly curious. Why are they so different? This recipe called for one and a half times as much citric acid, a higher temperature for adding the rennet, and a completely different method and temperature for shaping the mozzarella. (You can see the differences below if you're curious.) And, just for kicks, I shaped it into one big ball instead of a bunch of tiny ones.

The final cheese, which probably took a bit longer than the first to finish, although still ready in time for dinner, was smooth and easily sliceable. It was a much firmer consistency than the night before, and squeaky. Even more mozzarella. When dredged in a tangy balsamic and scattered with chunky sea salt, it is, well, something that will make you want to rejoice in Italian and raise your wine glass so exuberantly that the wine all sloshes out.

Moral of the story? Both cheese were successful, and both were mozzarella. But I'm hypothesizing that a few factors contributed to a firmer cheese with a more strongly mozza mouthfeel:

1. Pressing the whey out of the curds before heating them to the magical protein alignment point
2. Getting the whey above the target curd temperature of 125 (the curd becomes more reliably taffy-like and stretchable)
3. Kneading and stretching the curds until smooth before shaping them into balls 

How's that for scientific?


Mozzarella 1:
1 tsp citric acid: 1 gallon milk
1/8 tsp rennet
Heat milk to 86 degrees before adding rennet
Let milk set for 5-10 minutes (I had a fairly clean break after 5 minutes)
Raise curd and whey to 125 degrees
Shape into balls

Mozzarella 2:
1 1/2 tsp citric acid: 1 gallon milk
1/8 tsp rennet
Heat milk to 90 degrees before adding rennet
Let milk set for 5 minutes (I had a very clean break after five minutes)
Raise curd and whey to 110 degrees
Remove from heat and stir curd for 5 minutes (for firmness)
Remove curds and gently press out all the whey you can
Heat whey to 175 degrees
Drop curd into the hot whey until stretchable, like taffy
Knead until smooth and shiny
Shape into balls

perfect pumpkin pie

January isn't a pumpkin pie month—traditionally. But I'm on my eighth pumpkin pie of the squash season, and I don't think I'll stop making them until the last potimarron is gone.

I never was a pumpkin pie gal. At Thanksgiving, I always stuck to apple pie or, better, my Grammie's chocolate pudding pie. All of that changed a few years ago when I made a pumpkin pie for the first time, using butternut squash and a recipe in Baking Illustrated. While their test kitchen recommends sticking with canned pumpkin for ease, it seriously only adds five minutes of work and a little extra oven time—and it adds unbeatable flavor and texture. 

For the first pie this season, I used a little pie pumpkin. But the pumpkins on the farm went fast, so for the next pie, I had my pick of squash of all wintry colors and knobby shapes. I tested out a few; it was easy to decide on potimarron for its size, super-smooth purée, and sweetness. One potimarron, peeled and gutted, is just about sixteen ounces, the exact weight of squash needed, and its sugariness means I can drop the added brown sugar by half. 

Mixed with the usual spices and cooked briefly over the stove with cream and milk (fresh and raw, yes), then poured in a buttery, prebaked shell, it was a very good pie. 

But then we butchered the pigs, and besides all the meat, we got a handful of pounds of leaf fat, a delicate and prized fat that lies just behind the pig's kidneys and renders into a snowy white fat that's apparently magical for pies. We spent a few afternoons rendering the fat over super-low heat—the liquid that seeps out cools into a solid that is actually, shockingly pure white. After a few trial runs, I decided that just one ounce of leaf fat mixed with three ounces of butter added a melt-in-your mouth flakiness to the crust that plain butter just doesn't, but avoids any unwanted lardy taste (which I admit I'm overly sensitive to). This week, I finally made the crust—the pinnacle of crusts, with that sought-after crisp and flake and melt, a bit of sweetness, zero sogginess under the custard. And I really think it's mostly because of that one ounce of lard. 

Probably the biggest turning point in the pumpkin pie season was this New York Times article, though. It's a dangerous article—I may never be satisfied with plain pumpkin pie again after stealing its secret. Instead of relying on the typical spice suspects, like cinnamon and cloves and nutmeg, it calls on the warm and savory blend of garam masala. Garam masala does include those basic spices, but also adds cardamom, cumin, and fennel. 

When I finished this week's pie, I felt like I'd graduated. I'd dealt with grainy custard (no more baking in toaster ovens), burnt crust (use aluminum foil!), weird crust (I botched the butter ratio), forgetting the eggs (yes, I did pull the pie out of the oven to add them in), and probably other disasters. But this one, this one, was a perfect pumpkin pie.

* * *

Pie crust 
From Ratio by Michael Ruhlman, this crust relies on an easy-to-remember ratio of flour-butter-water: 3-2-1-PIE! Use a scale to measure out the ingredients--easier than it sounds, and you won't have to wash out any measuring cups.
6 ounces flour
1/2 teaspoon salt
1 tablespoon sugar
4 ounces cold fat (I prefer 3 oz butter, 1 oz leaf fat)
2-3 ounces cold water

Pumpkin custard 
Adapted from Baking Illustrated and the New York Times recipe for Garam Masala Pumpkin Tart. 
16 ounces potimarron squash, peeled, gutted, and cut into 1/2-inch cubes
1/2-2/3 cup brown sugar
1-inch piece of ginger, grated fine
1 1/2 teaspoon garam masala
2/3 cup cream
2/3 cup whole milk
4 eggs

I love using my hands when I make pie dough—it seems to be so important to be able to feel the consistency and texture of the dough. It will tell you all! Mix the flour, salt, sugar, and fat with your fingers, rubbing it all together until the mixture is sandy and has lumps of fat no bigger than a pea. Add the water slowly; use your fingers to press the dough together. When the dough comes together, stop. Don't overmix it. Shape the dough into a disc, wrap it in plastic, and refrigerate for an hour.

When the dough is thoroughly chilled, roll it out. I use a marble pastry slab or a silicon baking mat and plenty of flour, flipping the crust over frequently to make sure it's not sticking and rolling very slowly and not too firmly. If it cracks, it is not a big deal. At all. Just patch it back together.

When the pie dough is rolled large enough to cover the pie pan and hang an inch or so over the edge all around, transfer it to the pan. You can do this by folding the crust lightly into quarters, placing the parcel in the pan, and carefully unfolding it; or—this is truly life changing—lift the silicon mat, flip it over the pie pan, and slowly peel back the silicon. Make your pretty pie crust edges, cover the pan with plastic wrap, and put it in the fridge for about an hour, then freeze for 10-15 minutes.

All the "cold" terms here are key. Keep the fat chilled and it will make a flaky crust. Let the fat melt and it just won't be the same.

While the pie crust is chilling, preheat the oven to 375. Put the squash in a rimmed baking dish, add a splash or two of water, and cover with foil. Then bake for 15-20 minutes, or until it's very soft. I've found that roasting the squash without the foil and water causes undesirably crispy edges (yummy with dinner, not in pie) and a dry texture that doesn't yield a spectacular custard consistency.

When the pie crust is thoroughly chilled, cover it with foil and a thin layer of dried lentils or beans (or pie weights), and put it straight in the 375-degree oven. Bake for 25-30 minutes, or until it's a nice light golden color. Remove the foil (although I like to leave a ring of foil around the crust edges to prevent over browning) and bake for another 5-6 minutes, until nicely golden.

Meanwhile, puree the squash in a food processor until super smooth (it's fine to use hot squash, but beware of the hot-things-expand-in-a-blender rule). Add the brown sugar, ginger, and spices and puree again until blended. Transfer to a medium pot over medium heat on the stove. Heat until it sputters a little, stirring carefully so it doesn't burn or stick. Then add the milk and cream in a slow, steady stream, stirring all along (I find a wooden spoon works well) so that everything incorporates smoothly. Continue to stir occasionally and heat until the squash-milk mixture simmers gently.

Now crack the four eggs into the food processor bowl (no need to clean it out first). Pulse a few times until blended. Then pour the hot squash-milk mixture into the food processor. Blend for about 30 seconds until smooth and silky.

Right about now, your hot pie crust should be steaming on your stovetop. Increase the oven temp to 400, pour the hot custard into the hot pie crust, and send it off to bake for 20-25 minutes.

All the "hot" terms here are key. Hot, prebaked pie crust = no soggy mixing with custard. Hot custard = a quick set, so no soggy mixing with crust.

When the custard jiggles just a bit when you gently move the pie, it's done. Let it cool to room temperature, and chill it if you want, but I bet you won't want to wait that long.