All this magic happens by dosing your liquid with an emulsifier. And even though we aren’t technically making an emulsion, the science at work is nearly the same.

A Recipe for Mayonnaise. Sort of.

Get a bowl of water, and slowly pour a stream of oil into it, while whisking. The oil will break up into tiny droplets, evenly dispersed throughout the water. However, as soon as you stop whisking, those hydrophobic droplets will seek each other out, coalescing into a discrete layer of oil.

Now get an egg, break it into a bowl, and again whisk it to incorporate the white and yolk. While still whisking, slowly pour in the oil. Start with just a drop at a time; as the mixture thickens, you can increase to a trickle, and then gradually work up to a steady stream of oil. This mixture will thicken and look homogenous. More importantly, even though the egg is largely water, once you stop whisking, the oil will not separate. Congratulations, you’ve just made an emulsion! And the world’s blandest tasting mayonnaise.

An emulsion is just a fine dispersion of one liquid (or “phase”) within a second, immiscible (“un-mixable”) liquid. Normally, when you try to incorporate two immiscible liquids, they will begin to separate once you stop mixing them. To prevent this, you need to use an emulsifier — something which is able to bond to both of your liquids. In food, emulsions are nearly always either oil-in-water or water-in-oil, so a culinary emulsifier is something which is soluble in both water and oil. In fancy terms, we say that the emulsifier’s molecule has two different ends: a hydrophillic end, which forms chemical bonds with water but not with oils, and a hydrophobic end, that forms chemical bonds with oils but not with water.

Emulsifiers are everywhere. Protein is one. So is lecithin, a fatty substance naturally occurring in, well, all sorts of plants and animals, including in egg yolks.

That mayonnaise we just made? That was an oil-in-water emulsion: the egg white is our continuous aqueous phase (the base, watery liquid into which the oil phase is dispersed), which was dosed with lecithin from the egg yolk.¹ As we add and agitate the oil, it gets dispersed into tiny droplets throughout our continuous phase. Before those droplets can coalesce, they are surrounded by emulsifying molecules which line up hydrophobic ends inward, bonding with the oil, hydrophilic ends outward, bonding with the water, locking the droplets of oil into a stable network. Presto emulsion.

Wasabi Air: Like an Emulsion, Only Different

So how do we get from an emulsion to an air? Simple: airs are bubbles of gas dispersed throughout our base liquid. The lecithin in our aqueous solution still surrounds the bubbles, hydrophilic end out. The lecithin molecules also bond to each other, forming a stable network. However, there is no oil for the hydrophobic end to bond to. Because the lecithin is only bonding to one phase, but is still stabilizing two immiscible substances (one liquid, one gas), it is now acting as a stabilizer, instead of an emulsifier.

To create the air, add anywhere between 0.3–0.8% (by weight) soy lecithin to a cold liquid. Place your bowl in an ice bath (lecithin works best cold), and agitate the liquid with an immersion blender. The foam which collects on top will remain stable at room temperature for at least 20 minutes, or can be frozen for longer life.

CC:kwartzlab

I started with .75 ounces of liquid rye starter (100% hydration), and built it up to a 7 ounce stiff white starter (approximately 50% hydration) in 2 feedings over 24 hours. The levain accounts for 20% of the total flour in the final dough.

I then proofed the dough overnight. Its getting warm around here, and by 9am, the dough was overproofed. Witness the slashed tire. Time to start overnighting dough in the fridge!

Overproofing + a less-than-graceful transfer to the dutch oven resulted in slumpy, wrinkly loaf. But its mine, and I loves it. The crust is a bit thick ⁴, but the flavour is fair — mild, and slightly nutty, with just a bit of tang. If tomatoes were in season, this is exactly the sort of bread I’d want to put them on.

TFL

Second industrial piercing in my left ear. Much less painful than the first: faster and without the blood and recriminations. I had forgotten what the push through cartilage feels like, the sting, crunch, giving way and then soft nothing. So many textures in such a small space. I can barely hold them all at once.

Also, endorphins waning much too soon.

Sasha was never the cat I would have picked.

He was one of two cats owned by the previous owner of our house. I had a complicated relationship with his owner. Suffice it to say, I wasn’t pre-disposed to welcome into my life things that were his. When he left, he left behind two cats — Sasha and Souma.

Sasha and Souma were siblings, big, black bruisers, neurotic and awkward, and I did not want them. We tried for months to find new homes for them.

Kittens are easy to get rid of. Adult cats, less so. Especially when you’re hard-pressed to explain why somebody should want to take them. They weren’t beautiful. They weren’t well socialized. They tried to be affectionate, but more often than not failed in ways that were more annoying than cute. I found them both unloveable, and managed to convey that to everybody we offered them to.

Souma, in particular, had the unfortunate habit of peeing when she was nervous. Since she was nervous all the time, this led to constant “accidents”. We decided to try her as an “outdoor” cat, and within a week, a neighbour had adopted her. We found flyers all about the neighbourhood, declaring a “pleasant”, “loveable” black cat found, inexplicably with her photo. If they found her loveable, we weren’t about to disabuse them of the notion. Of any notion. They’ve had her for almost 10 years now, and I only feel the slightest twinge of guilt when I think about it. Souma & I do not make eye contact, when we pass on the street. We’re both happier with this arrangement.

Sasha, on the other hand, I found I could live with, and we eventually stopped looking for his new home.

Some cats connect with people, and some cats connect with places. The Boy had Stupid (an inseparable pair), and I had the (fickle) affections of the Demon Lord, but Sasha was the house’s cat. We the People looked after his physical needs, but Sasha seemed more attached to the physical space of the house than with anybody who was actually in it. When we first moved in, he haunted the rooms, drifting vaguely towards any activity that happened in the house, but staying apart from it. We used to joke that he was the house’s spirit. We assumed that was just Sasha’s way. It was his way, for several years.

Shortly after the Demon Lord left us (to return to his heart’s first, true love), Sasha choose me. Cat’s do that, of course. Talk to any cat fancier, and they’ll tell you about a cat who choose them. Not the other way around.

Sasha always slept with us at night. Usually draped across my torso, and tucked behind my knees. But he started sniffing my face instead. He’d stand directly in front of me, and spend several minutes sniffing my cheeks and forehead, before laying down with his front paws on my shoulder, and his face pressed closed to mine. He’d stay there until I moved.

Its always a production, for Sasha to lay down. He’s never certain it will go well, so he eases into it, ready to abort should something not go as expected. Its excruciating to watch; you have to keep very still. But when it works out, its like nothing else. If he stays down long enough to start purring, bliss!

For Sasha, I’ve learned to lay still(-er) at night.

At about the same time, he started coming to me during the day, with his concerns.

He is a very anxious cat. We always knew that. As the Americans say, he has “issues”. He worries about everything, constantly. He used to just worry in silence, though. Now, he comes to me with these worries, and we’ll try to work them out. But he’s a cat, and I’m a person, and we do not speak the same language. He’ll cry, lead me to some random location in the house, and I’ll try to divine what’s on his mind. Some are obvious: if he leads me to the kitchen, he has complaint about his food. If he leads me to the litter box, he has a complaint about cleanliness. If he leads me to the bedroom, he wants a snuggle. If he leads me to the bathroom, he wants to drink from the tub. I have no idea what it means when he leads me to the library. Or the dining room. Or when he cries, but doesn’t lead me anywhere.

When it first started, I tried ignoring his cries. I’m well aware that cats try to train us, just as much as we try to train them. I’m also aware that they are better at it than we are. Sasha had learned the secrets of inappropriate peeing from a master. Its worth taking a few minutes to try and understand this cat, if it means not having to do extra loads of laundry.

When in doubt, I assume he wants love.

Loving Sasha has become more complicated, since he decided to get “up front and personal” with us. When he was the House Cat, we could pet him from across the room. A hand, sliding through the air, mimicking a caress from 6 feet away, was all he wanted. He would begin to purr before your hand reached the end of the stroke.

But now, he wants to be touched. He likes the pressure of a hand flattening his ears, pressing firmly down his neck and back. Likes it more than anything. He just can’t stand to see that hand coming. If we didn’t know his entire life history, I would assume he’d been physically abused before we got him. But no; he’s just weird. He faces you, when he wants to be stroked, so you have to wrap your arm around his body, so that he doesn’t see it coming. But when you get it just right, when he actually relaxes into the pleasure of touch, it is so much more gratifying than getting any of the other cats to snuggle and purr.

Loving Sasha is hard work, but its worth it.

One of the first battles Sasha & I had was over the tub. He loves water, almost as much as he’s particular about it. It must be cold. It must be fresh. It should be free flowing. A perpetually leaking tub offers the best water in the house.

Sasha can be stubborn about his water. If you don’t offer acceptable water choices — for instance, if you have merely fill his water bowl — he will refuse to drink it until dehydration leads to an expansive vet visit. This happened once, and is the spector which prompts The Boy to leave the tub faucet on.

I don’t like a leaky faucet. I don’t like having the clean the tub of cat hair before every bath. I don’t like the raising water bill. I don’t like Sasha joining me every time I go to the bathroom, wide-eyed and expectant. I’ve spent the better part of 10 years attempting to train Sasha and The Boy out of this.

We’ve gone through 3 “cat fountains”, with varying success. We “accidentally” leave cups of water on the floor, where Sasha can find them (illicit water is apparently more refreshing). We fill his water bowl only when he’s watching, so he can be sure of the freshness. All of these have worked in keeping him healthy & hydrated, but he still loves tub water above all else. Although we keep the tub off now, he’ll still accompany us to the bathroom every time. He’ll hop in the tub, and cry. The Boy occasionally relents. I never do.

And yet.

The past several months, Sasha’s leap into the tub hasn’t been as effortless. It takes him a few tries before he can jump, and sometimes that jump doesn’t clear the side of the tub.

Sasha, my mighty hunter. Sasha, who could jump 5 feet, to land in the narrow space between the forest of potted plants on the shelf, a space he couldn’t even see from the floor.

It breaks my heart.

Last week, I watched as he tried to work up to a jump into the tub, and then gave up.

Sasha does not give up on tub water.

He turned, and walked away.

Every day this week, he’s followed me into the bathroom. He’s looked at the tub, and he’s walked out without even trying.

Which is how it is that this morning, I found myself lifting Sasha into the tub, and turning the faucet on for him.

This one is my favourite:

Frosted Fruit Mold

• 1 3oz package lime gelatin
• 1 cup boiling water
• 1 7oz bottle 7-Up
• 1 8–3/4oz can crushed pineapple
• 1 banana, sliced
• 1/4 cup sugar
• 1 tablespoon flour
• 1 egg beaten
• 1/2 cup whipping cream
• 1/4 cup shredded sharp processed American cheese
• 2 tablespoon grated Parmesan

Chopped nuts are conspicuously absent; its just not Jello salad with the crunch. I especially like that she bucks tradition, calling for the more generic flavoured “gelatin”, but still falls back on brand-name soda. Also, real whipped cream (no edible oil product for Mum!), but processed American cheese. Did Velveeta even come in “sharp” flavour back then?

The goal was to be able to switch computers at will, and have everything I need just there. Since I live in the command line, this is largely a matter of keeping a consistent environment. I need to be able to move between my OS X and linux-based computers seamlessly. Ultimately, I’d like to add Windows, and guest computers into the mix.

The clever squirrels at DropBox keep my data portable, but I’m not sold on feeding them my actual environment. I’m not about to store private keys in the cloud. And I don’t want to have to install the client and sync crap down, just to work on a computer.

USB Flash Drive to the rescue, natch.

To ensure I keep it with me, I bought a pendant-style drive. The cap remains attached to the chain, while the drive itself pulls freely out. Its big, and gawdy, shaped like beetle, and covered in rhinestones. <3

Formatting with FAT32 ensures that its read-writable any place I stick it.¹

Storing a backup in our safe ensures that I’m not inconvenienced should I misplace it.

Encrypting any sensitive data ensures I’m not screwed should I misplace it.

The Flash Drive thus far contains:

• an encrypted tarball with my SSH keys & config.
• a modest bash environment
• my mutt environment
• an encrypted file with my email passwords
• my vim environment
• a shell script to set things up

More on how each piece actually works, to follow.

On a side-note, I’ve been making some wicked gumbo lately. After last fall’s trip to NOLA, I had sworn off the stuff. Not off eating it. Just off making it. I had nothing on the natives. But as with all my intentions, time passes and resolve fades. That recent warm streak doesn’t help. So I’ve been making, again. Making good. Oh so good!

I was crowing about my most recent efforts to Da’s lovely bride, who suggested that some kick-ass Father’s Day Gumbo may be just the thing to perk a certain someone up.

Gumbo is regional cooking. Its family cooking. Everybody has their own “true version”, which is completely different for everybody else’s “true version” If you were to strip out all of the variable or optional bits, you would be left with:

1. First you make a roux.¹
2. …
3. Serve hot, over rice.

Which is the business plan for all good Cajun and Creole cooking.

That said, there are some general principle at work. Gumbo is a soup, thickened, seasoned, and bulked up in predictable ways.

Soup

Soup means a liquid base — vegetable, chicken, or seafood stocks are all good, depending on what’s going in to the gumbo. You could use water, but why would you want to? Beer, wine, or cider would just be weird. Wait. Beer might be good.

Make you’re own stock. Its worth it.

I like to poach a bird, and then use the poaching liquid plus the bones & skin to make the stock.

If you’re doing shrimp or crab, buy them whole, and make stock from the shells/heads/tails.

It doesn’t really matter what your stock is, just so long as its good. If it turns into meat-flavoured Jell-o in the fridge, then you’re on the right track.²

Thickening

There are three ways to thicken gumbo, individually or in combination:

1. Thickened with a roux
2. Thickened with okra
3. Thickened with filé

Roux is essential to gumbo, for both texture and flavour. A dark roux gives you a dark, smokey, bitter flavour, but little thickening power. A lighter roux has a brighter, lighter flavour, with more thickening power. The ideal balance comes down to personal preference, and takes experimentation to get right. Anywhere from peanut butter brown to dark chocolate will give you something worth trying. Any lighter, and your gumbo will taste like flour paste. Any darker, and you risk burning the roux.³

Okra thickens, courtesy of the viscous ooze which comes out of it when cooked. Its slimy, and gross. Many recipes call to “rope” the okra first — sauté it in a separate pan, until that ooze dries up⁴ — which tempers the thickening power a bit. Using frozen okra also reduces the ropiness, and thus available thickening power. I prefer the mouth feel and thickness of fresh okra that hasn’t been sautéed first. YMMV.

Filé powder is ground sassafras leaves. Sassafras has a distinctive, sweet flavour⁵, which many people associate with gumbo. Even if you thicken with okra, its not uncommon to add filé powder, strictly for flavour, at the end of cooking. Or to offer it as a condiment at the table. If you’re using filé powder to thicken, add it earlier and let the gumbo come to a boil.

Seasoning

This is creole (or cajun — pick your camp) cooking at its most basic. Why wouldn’t you want to start with the trinity? The trinity is a mirepoix made in the bayou, and is used the same as in French cooking — aromatics sauteed in fat at the beginning of the recipe. Unlike a French mirepoix, the trinity consists of onion, celery, and sweet pepper. In the case of gumbo, roux counts as your fat. I suppose technically, its no longer sautéing.

Other seasonings that are at home with cajun or creole cooking: garlic, thyme, bay leaves, cayenne, mustard seed, parsley. Or you can cheat, and grab some pre-mixed crab boil.⁶

Bulk

The rest is entirely up to you. Gumbo is often filled with meat or seafood. But it can be made lighter, with sturdy greens — a la gumbo z’herbes.

Putting it All Together

Usually, I make a chicken & keilbasa gumbo. The bits that matter are:

1. Making a good chicken stock. Start with 6 litres of poaching liquid, and over 6 hours, cook it down to 2 litres of stock. Serious yum.
2. Making a medium brown roux. I used to make a super-dark roux — like 70% chocolate. Its a rush, getting so close to the edge without actually burning it. And it pulls out some pretty awesome, complex flavours out of the flour. But it doesn’t thicken for shit. In my quest for a thicker gumbo, I started using a lighter roux, and realized that I liked the flavour better. Darker than peanut butter. Lighter than milk chocolate. That’s my sweet spot. Yours will be different.
3. Fresh okra, and lots of it. Don’t rope it first. So, so good. And, aside from pickles, the only thing that okra is good for. There. I’ve said it.
4. Crab boil. Specifically, Zatarain’s whole spice crab boil, which comes in a mesh bag. This is the spice blend I grew up with; its the spice blend all gumbo should use. Unfortunately, its being phased out for liquid and powdered versions, which taste completely different. Also, no tactile pleasure of whole spices. I cry.

Making it Even Better

As this is a special, celebratory and pick-me-up gumbo, we need to do better than chicken & sausage. What’s better? Duck and oysters, of course.

We picked up 2 ducks to smoke, because– yum! And fired up the old weber for its first run of the season. The wood was persimmon, but my philistine taste couldn’t tell.

I took guidance from The Gumbo Shop Cookbook regarding how to deal with the duck:

• remove heads & feet⁷
• smoke ducks until cooked (~5 hours)
• remove skin & subcutaneous fat⁸, and roast in the oven until fat is rendered and skin is crisp.⁹
• reserve fat for another use¹⁰
• remove meat from bones; reserve for later
• make stock with bones & crispy skin. We also added the duck feet, but not the heads, because brains taste like yuck.

And from there, we made gumbo as per usual:

• make a medium brown roux
• add the trinity and sauté
• add sliced okra
• add stock & additional seasoning
• add shredded duck meat
• simmer for at least 20 minutes. A couple hours is fine, too.
• 5 minutes before serving, add shucked oysters & their liquor

C’est tout. Bon appétit.

This is all kinds of cool, and earlier this spring, she put a call out, asking for knit contributions to use for the installation. Yay for community involvement!

Now, I’ve been crocheting, badly, for 4 years now, but I confess it — I’ve got serious knit-envy. I love the texture of the fabric.² I love the clicking sound of the needles. All the good patterns on ravelry are for knitting.

And Sue’s project was the perfect gateway drug. Any size piece would do, knit with any type of yarn, any pattern of stitching, and it would be oh-so-forgiving of mistakes. But unlike endless practice swatches, this was still a goal-oriented; there was a tangible reason to pick it up and keep working, and more importantly, a deadline to meet.

This piece started off as ribbing sampler from Fearless Knitting Workbook, by Jennifer E. Seiffert.³ Ribbing gets boring pretty quickly, though, so I started to improvise.

Before this piece, I could

• cast on, poorly
• knit stitch in a comfortable position

and that’s about it.

With this piece, I’ve learned how to

• cast on with a long tale (and measure that long tale with reasonable accuracy)
• purl, with reasonable comfort
• read a pattern
• count my stitches
• read my stitches, so that I don’t have to count them
• predict how a particular combination of knitting and purling will effect the texture, gauge, and elasticity of the fabric (i.e., vertical and horizontal ribbing, basket weave, and why stockinette makes such a lousy edge)
• tink⁴ stitches, when I’ve made a mistake
• pick up stitches, when I’ve dropped one (but not if its run more than 1 or 2 rows)
• bind off
• block

So that’s me knitting!