Saveur.com: Techniques

How To Choose Flour For Bread Baking

Sun, 22 Apr 2012 12:00:00 EDT

by Dana Bowen
The main ingredient in bread not only affects the loaf's flavor: it also helps determine its texture, appearance, moisture content, and nutritional quality. One major difference between the many kinds of wheat flours available is protein content, which affects just how easily gluten-those stretchy strands in dough that ultimately form bread's interior crumb-is made; the more protein in the flour, the more easily gluten forms. All-purpose flour works fine for baking airy breads, like baguettes. Usually a blend of hard and soft wheats, it has a lower protein content than bread flour, which is made with protein-rich hard wheat (ideal for making sturdy rustic loaves). Whole wheat flour is also high in protein; ground with the wheat germ and bran intact, it has a darker color, more pronounced flavor, and more vitamins and minerals. Bread can also be made with flours milled from other cereal grains, with their own special characteristics. Rye flour, for example, creates a sturdy loaf because it absorbs more water than wheat flour does, but it also attracts more natural yeasts, so it's great for making sourdough starters. Spelt flour, on the other hand, has a higher protein content than wheat flour but, interestingly, forms weak gluten, so spelt loaves tend to be denser, with a pronounced, nutty flavor. While it's certainly possible to bake artisan bread with commercial flours, many of the movement's bakers are interested in organic or stone-milled flours for a variety of reasons: no matter what the variety, they are fresher (which translates into more flavorful loaves); they have a higher protein content; and since they aren't bleached, they still include all the beneficial yeasts and flora, which make them well suited to natural sourdough starters. "One of the goals of commercial milling was to create a consistent product that wouldn't vary," says Don Lewis, owner of Wild Hive Farm in Clinton Corners, New York, which mills many varieties of wheat and grain, including many heirlooms that haven't been grown in the region since industrial milling took over. "But flour changes from season to season and place to place." The hard red winter wheat Wild Hive mills primarily for bread flour, for example, tends to be harder-or contain more protein-than hard red spring wheat, and bakers have to subtly change their recipes to adapt to the differences. It's a small sacrifice to make for the beautifully round, earthy flavors of freshly milled flours.

See our special feature American Bread �

Bread Science

Sun, 22 Apr 2012 12:00:00 EDT

by Ben Mims
Making bread is simple, but professional bakers use a lot of complicated jargon that can seem overwhelming to novices. These terms, however, help explain the scientific processes at work when making artisan bread; they can also help home bakers understand what to expect each step of the way. First, there's the starter, often called a levain (in French), a lievito madre (in Italian), or a mother, starter seed, or sourdough starter in English. Starters are made by mixing flour in water to form a pasty mixture; over time the mixture will sour by the process of fermentation as it picks up natural yeasts from the air. As with any fermented food (cheese, wine, pickles, etc.), time, temperature, and humidity can greatly affect how a starter looks on any given day or how a finished loaf turns out. When you're ready to bake, a portion of your starter is mixed with some fresh flour and water to form a sourdough culture that further ferments, thereby deepening the flavor, for up to 24 hours. This sourdough culture is then combined with more flour and water to make your dough. It's this two-step process of fermentation that's responsible for artisan bread's characteristic, and pleasant, tang. An ideal temperature for feeding your starters and fermenting your sourdough is about 75�, but since home kitchens vary wildly in temperature, we advise letting your starters, sourdoughs, and bread doughs ferment and rise in a cold oven, which keeps a constant temperature that's slightly above room temperature. (Like many professional bakers, we also add a touch of commercial yeast to our wild yeast sourdoughs, just to ensure a good rise.) The stage where you let a dough rise is called proofing, and it's so named because you're allowing the yeast to "prove" it's alive by raising the dough. If dough doesn't rise, or proof, long enough, your bread will be dense. The yeast will not have produced enough bubbles, or air pockets, the result of yeast emitting carbon dioxide and alcohol as it metabolizes the sugars in the flour. There is also a stage before kneading dough when you let the just-mixed ingredients rest for 20 minutes to let the flour hydrate in the wet ingredients; this is called autolysis and it's helpful in producing a smooth, evenly crumbed final product. If you don't let the flour fully hydrate before kneading, there can be small pockets of raw flour in your dough.

See our special feature American Bread �

Frenching 101

Mon, 27 Feb 2012 12:00:00 EST

by Monica Floirendo
For these chicken lollipops, frenching the chicken wings - cutting and shaping them to expose a length of bone - creates a built-in handle to grasp while you eat the succulent meat. Here is how you do it:

Illustration: Brenda Weaver

1. Begin with a whole chicken wing, consisting of a fat drumstick at one end, a drummette in the middle, and a pointed wing tip.

2. Grip the drumstick in one hand and the wing tip in the other. Bend the wing back forcefully at the joint between the drumstick and the drummette, so that the bone at the end of the drumstick pops out through the skin.

3. Place the wing on a cutting board, and use a knife to cut through the joint between the drumstick and the drummette, fully separating them. Then, gripping the exposed bone at the end of the drumstick, push all the meat to the opposite end, to form a length of bone topped by a knob of meat.

4. Grip the remaining drummette and wing tip in opposite hands, and bend them back at the joint, as you did in step 2, to reveal the ends of the two bones - on larger, one smaller and pointed.

5. Place the drummette and wing tip on the cutting board, and use a knife to cut off the wing tip. Discard the wing tip, or reserve it for making stock.

6. Take the smaller, pointed bone in one hand, and wiggle it until it is free of the flesh; discard. Then, gripping the bone at the end of the drummette, push all the meat to the opposite end, to form a length of bone topped by a knob of meat, as you did in step 3. Repeat with the rest of the chicken wings, then marinate and fry according to the directions in the recipe.

New Steak Cuts

Fri, 17 Feb 2012 12:00:00 EST

by The Editors
The most exercised parts of a steer-the shoulder (known as the chuck) and the hind leg (the round)-can be the most flavorful. But because of their heavy use, these muscles can be tough, and they're usually assigned to hamburger or pot roast when processed by packinghouses. Thankfully, the beef industry is beginning to learn what many butchers have long known: That embedded in, those muscles are cuts worthy of attention-hence these delicious new steaks that have recently started appearing in markets.

Tender and full of beefy flavor, the Denver steak, cut from the chuck, is perfect for grilling. The shoulder clod, a meaty muscle, yields several new cuts, including the ranch steak, good for marinating and grilling, and the shoulder petite tender, a succulent muscle that can be tied and roasted like a tenderloin. (The round petite tender is a similar cut from the round.) The tougher braison, from the heel of the round, is best for braising, while the flavorful merlot cut, from the side of the heel, is a lean, versatile steak, good for everything from stir-fries to grilling to pan-broiling.

See our guide to cooking perfectly seared steaks at home on the stovetop �

VIDEO: How to Make Molten Chocolate Cakes

Tue, 07 Feb 2012 12:00:00 EST

Molten chocolate cakes are a simple dessert that anyone can make for a special occasion - the perfect treat to surprise your special someone with this Valentine's Day. SAVEUR associate food editor Ben Mims has a simple technique for ensuring that the cakes have extra-delicious oozy centers: he bakes a sweet, rich chocolate truffle right into the center of each.

what you'll need

6 6-oz. ramekins
A hand mixer

What to do

Start by making truffles: bring cream to a boil and pour it over chopped chocolate and rum in a medium bowl. Let this sit for one minute. Stir until smooth, then let sit until firm.
Divide the mixture and roll it into six balls. Chill these truffles until set.
For the cakes: beat together sugar, vanilla, salt, and eggs until the form ribbons when liften from the beaters.
Add melted chocolate and flour, and mix well.
Divide half the batter between six buttered and floured ramekins and place a chilled truffle in the center of each.
Top with remaining batter, and smooth the tops with a rubber spatula.
Bake for 15 minutes, until the cake is just done.
Let cakes cool for one minute, then gently invert each onto a serving plate.
Dust with confectioner's sugar, and serve them immediatly to ensure the molten chocolate oozes out to create a sauce for the cakes.

See the complete recipe for Molten Chocolate Cakes �

Sponsored Recipe: Ghirardelli's� Individual Chocolate Lava Cakes �
VIDEO: How to Dip Chocolate Truffles �
VIDEO: How to Flow Royal Icing �
See all SAVEUR.com videos �

Beurre Manie

Thu, 02 Feb 2012 12:00:00 EST

by Kellie Evans
Beurre mani� is one of the best ways to thicken a sauce or a soup, period. This fancy-sounding mixture-it means kneaded butter in French-is incredibly simple to make and equally easy to use. Just rub enough flour into softened butter to make a thick paste; then whisk in little bits of the paste to finish a pan sauce for, say, shrimp scampi or a roast turkey, or to enrich a seafood chowder. As the butter melts, it separates and evenly disperses the flour particles, which swell and thicken the liquid. The result: a lustrous, velvety texture with nary a clump. Once a technique that was employed by professional and home cooks, unfortunately, this smart kitchen trick is rarely seen anymore. We think it's time to revive it.

How to Do It:

Simply mix equal parts of softened butter and flour together in a small bowl, and use your fingers or a fork to form a smooth paste. Then roll teaspoon-size amounts of the paste into balls. (You can also make large amounts of beurre mani� in a food processor and store the balls in the freezer, bringing them to room temperature before use.)

When simmering a sauce, whisk in one ball at a time as needed. Allow the mixture to return to a boil, and cook for at east 1 minute to thicken. If your sauce is not as thick as you'd like, add a bit more beurre mani�. The butter-coated flour particles will melt and quickly thicken the sauce as it simmers, and the additional butter will add a sleek luster, similar to the effect of mounting a sauce with cold butter.

Stovetop Steak Basics: How to Cook Steak on the Stove

Thu, 29 Dec 2011 12:00:00 EST

by Hilary Merzbacher
We love firing up the grill to cook the new beef cuts that have become available in recent years, but it's possible to achieve that perfect sear on the stovetop, too. Here's how:

1. Never begin with a stone-cold steak: The outer portions will overcook by the time the center comes up to temperature. Instead, remove the meat from the refrigerator, liberally season it with salt and pepper, and let it sit at room temperature for at least 30 minutes before cooking.

2. When it's time to cook, high heat is key: Large amounts of energy are required to alter the structure of the surface proteins, and that's what produces complex flavor and a caramelized crust. It's also best to use a cast-iron skillet or other heavy-duty pan that will retain heat evenly. Brush the skillet lightly with vegetable oil and keep it on the stove until wisps of smoke rise from the surface. Place the steak in the center and sear it well on the top, bottom, and edges.

3. To test doneness, use the point of a sharp knife to nick the steak and assess the color inside: red for rare, rosy-pink for medium rare.

4. When the steak is nearly done, you may opt to drop a knob of butter and a few dashes of Worcestershire sauce into the pan and baste the meat continuously. The hot fat will enrich the exterior crust and lend the finished steak an appealing luster.

5. Before you dig in, allow the steak to rest for 5 to 10 minutes, depending on the size of the cut; this will allow the juices to redistribute, for a more luscious steak. To serve, sprinkle the steak with coarse salt and cracked black pepper.

See the article New Steak Cuts �

Glazing Vegetables

Wed, 28 Dec 2011 12:00:00 EST

by The Editors
Glazing, a technique taught in culinary schools but underutilized in home kitchens, quickly renders root vegetables (like the yellow beets and carrots pictured) sweet, tender, and glossy. Start by cutting vegetables into uniform pieces and arrange them in a single layer in a saut� pan. Add a few tablespoons of butter, a dash each of salt and pepper, and a pinch of sugar. Add water to nearly cover the vegetables; lay a piece of parchment paper on top; and simmer. As the water cooks off, fat from the butter combines with the vegetables' starches and sugars to form a rich glaze; a shake of the pan distributes it throughout, transforming humble vegetables into elegant side dishes.

The Good Cook

Sat, 24 Dec 2011 12:00:00 EST

by The Editors
Time and again, we return to our battered copies of The Good Cook, a 28-volume series overseen by the late, great food writer Richard Olney and published by Time-Life Books in the late 1970s and early '80s. Each volume is devoted to a single topic, such as Pork, Classic Desserts, and Snacks andamp; Sandwiches. The beauty is in the attention that's given to technique (how to wrap a roast in caul fat, for example), to international recipes (making tofu, folding tamales), and to tips for entertaining: One of our go-to hors d'oeuvre recipes is The Good Cook's fantastic shrimp and herb canap�s.

See the recipe for Shrimp and Herb Canap�s �

Art of Antipasti

Thu, 22 Dec 2011 12:00:00 EST

by Dana Bowen
Is there a better way to start a meal than with an abundant antipasti platter, artfully arranged with ruffles of prosciutto 1, briny olives 2, roasted red peppers, marinated artichokes and mushrooms and pepperoncini, chunks of Parmesan 3, fresh mozzarella 4, and whatever else catches the preparer's fancy? Antipasto, which means "before the meal," stretches back to medieval times in Italy, when diners used to mingle over finger foods, both sweet and savory, before sitting down to eat; early recipes included everything from sugared nuts to clotted cream to spiced ham. Over the centuries, antipasti became the domain of restaurants, which would set out dozens of stuffed, marinated, roasted, and grilled vegetables, meat, and fish.

"The aim is to excite rather than fill diners, who will then be inspired to choose yet more delicacies from the menu," writes Gillian Riley in The Oxford Companion to Italian Food (Oxford University Press, 2007). People rarely created such elaborate spreads at home, and when Italians emigrated to America, they would often set out a simple platter of store-bought ingredients to be shared as they eased into the meal. Over the years, home cooks and chefs have gotten craftier with their antipasti, incorporating more color (fresh tomatoes 5; sauteed zucchini 6 or broccoli rabe 7) and a range of flavors and textures (nuts 8; different kinds of salami; fresh ricotta 9 for slathering over bread). But the spirit of the dish is as generous and convivial as ever.

Super Sage: Fried Sage Leaves

Tue, 13 Dec 2011 12:00:00 EST

by Helen Rosner
Every year at around this time, my cooking habits get stuck in a rut. Nearly everything that comes out of my kitchen involves some permutation of kale, winter squash, potatoes, and bacon, which isn't a bad thing - they're some of my favorite flavors. But after the fifth or sixth go 'round, even a garlicky kale saut�e or a bowl of rich butternut ravioli can get a little old hat. And that's where the sage comes in: this year, instead of using the herb in its dried or fresh forms, I've started frying it.

Even for a fry-phobe like me, the process couldn't be easier. I follow SAVEUR's 2001 recipe, which calls for just three things: olive oil, sage, and salt. The dry leaves go a few at a time into the hot oil, and in three or four seconds they're ready to be scooped out, drained on a paper towel, and tossed with salt. Whole, they make a beautiful garnish for a wedge of roasted acorn squash; crumbled, they're a flavor-bomb on top of pasta or garnishing a stew, and a mixture of half crumbled fried sage and half crumbled crispy bacon catapults smashed potatoes into the flavor stratosphere.

See the recipe for Fried Sage Leaves �

The Glories of Goose

Fri, 02 Dec 2011 12:00:00 EST

by Francine Prose
"God Bless us, every one!" is the famous benediction that Tiny Tim Cratchit pronounces over what is perhaps the most famous holiday meal of all time, in Charles Dickens' A Christmas Carol. On the Cratchit family's holiday table are potatoes, gravy, applesauce, a pudding "like a speckled cannon-ball" blazing with ignited brandy. But at the center of the meal-and the heart of Tiny Tim's prayer-is a glorious roast goose.

That goose has always stuck with me, and no wonder: It moved Dickens to a culinary rapture unparalleled in the thousands of pages he wrote. The Cratchits rush to take their places at the table with their spoons crammed in their mouths "lest they should shriek for goose before their turn came to be helped." The family says grace, and a breathless pause ensues as Mrs. Cratchit prepares to plunge the carving knife into the goose. "Bob said he didn't believe there ever was such a goose cooked. Its tenderness and flavor, size and cheapness, were the themes of universal admiration. Eked out by the applesauce and mashed potatoes, it was a sufficient dinner for the whole family; indeed, as Mrs. Cratchit said with great delight (surveying one small atom of a bone upon the dish), they hadn't ate it all at last! Yet everyone had had enough, and the youngest Cratchits, in particular, were steeped in sage and onion to the eyebrows!"

There's lots to love in this passage: the atom of leftover bone, the children sauced in sage and onion. But what's always most delighted me is the vision of the little Cratchits politely sucking their spoons so as not to clamor out of turn for their helping of goose.

Certainly that was the feeling in our family when, a few years ago, we cooked our first Christmas goose. Without the sense to put our spoons in our mouths, we relied on some notion of civilized behavior to keep from yelping and scrambling as my husband took the goose out of the oven, carved it while we hungrily watched, and brought it to the table.

In our extended family, which now includes two grown sons, spouses, grandchildren, relatives, and friends, we've cooked dozens of holiday turkeys. I say we, but my husband is the cook; my job is to page through the Joy of Cooking for its ruling, which we can never recall, on how many minutes per pound it needs to cook. But though our kitchen has produced some truly gorgeous, glistening, and flavorful birds, none of them has sparked quite the excitement that greeted that platter of goose.

Attracted by the challenge, the novelty, and-to be honest-a certain competitiveness with a friend who had boasted about his success in roasting a goose, we decided to try it. We also knew that it would mean lots of flavorful goose fat left over for roasting vegetables, baking, and making luscious confit. The prospect sent my husband, a skilled and effortlessly confident home cook, to consult several cookbooks and the Internet. His hesitation stemmed partly from the fact that we'd had to special-order the goose. And we were definitely not exulting, as Bob Cratchit had, in its cheapness. Even at our enlightened, reasonable, noncorporate local supermarket, the sticker shock had inspired one of those what-the-heck-it's-the-holidays moments of giddy abandon. On principle, you don't want to screw up an expensive 12-pound bird you've personally had to ask the butcher for-especially when it's the main course at the family holiday dinner.

Far more daunting was the rumor that cooking a goose is tricky. What you hear is that it requires hard work, mostly because it's so fatty, and the grease must be closely monitored and frequently siphoned off to avoid ruining the bird-and the oven. Several of the cookbooks from which my husband read aloud were not only unhelpful but positively alarming as they warned us about the challenge of getting the legs to come out done and the breast still moist.

photo by Todd Coleman

As it turned out, cooking the goose wasn't difficult so much as it was demanding. Unless you have a squad of professional helpers rushing to mop every spatter, it does require the sort of organization and concentration involved in, say, canning tomatoes. But that is only if you care about the yummy goose fat winding up in jars rather than on the kitchen floor.

My husband stuffed the goose with an onion, an apple, and a lemon to draw out what one cookbook referred to as the "off" flavors. He tied up the bird and pricked holes in the skin with a curved needle, careful not to cut into the flesh. Then he placed the goose on a rack in the oven and kept turning it from side to side as it roasted, frequently draining off the fat, which he ultimately strained and poured into a jar. When the skin was crisp and the meat thermometer had registered 160 degrees, he declared it ready.

In the end, our goose was spectacular-astonishingly delicious! We all agreed with Bob Cratchit: We didn't believe there ever was such a goose cooked. Juicy, moist, delicately gamey, richer by far than any turkey; every mouthful reminded us that we were eating something special. Golden, crisp-skinned, with no signs of a struggle for doneness and tastiness among its various body parts, our goose was not only a thing of beauty, but of power. It had earned not merely our love but also our respect.

Would I have felt so strongly if I hadn't known something about the simultaneously humble and exalted role that the goose has played in food history? Its history as a feast dish, for Christmas and other celebrations, dates back to ancient times. Among French and German Jewish communities, beginning in the early Middle Ages, geese were fattened through the autumn and butchered around the time of Hanukkah, before the coming of winter. The Pilgrims brought the domesticated goose to this country, where it was a popular holiday dish until the 19th century, when it was gradually supplanted by the turkey, a bird now farmed on an industrial scale as the goose never has been.

Would I have enjoyed our goose more had I not known that, throughout much of Western Europe, the traditional Christmas goose had once been the traditional Michaelmas goose, served at the end of September, on the feast day of the Archangel Michael? That its timing in the culinary calendar had been moved from the autumn equinox to the winter solstice to better assert its symbolic promise that the seasons are turning and the darkest days are over? Would I have been as delighted if I hadn't known that the goose was, historically, not only a source of nourishment and pleasure but also of consolation and hope?

I wish I could pretend that I thought about any of this as I ate the goose. In fact I was too focused on how scrumptious (and not greasy!) it was. But later, clearing the dishes and standing at the sink, I reflected on the meaning of tradition and of traditional food. I thought about how tradition can transcend one's personal life and the circle of one's immediate family, how a culinary heritage can tie us to history and to literature, and to the lives and the feasts that came before us.

As I put away the goose stock for a soup that would last until the end of the week; as I collected the scraps for the goose mole tacos we would have the next day; and for weeks afterward, as we ate potatoes, root vegetables, peppers, onions, and even eggs fried in goose fat, I heard, in my mind, the echo of Tiny Tim's brave and grateful voice, moved to prayer by a roast goose. God bless us, every one.

See the recipe for Christmas Goose with Stuffing �

See the recipe for Goose Confit Salad �

See the recipe for Goose Liver Terrines �

See the recipe for Rosemary Popovers �

See the recipe for Turnips with Candied Bacon �

Tips We're Thankful For

Tue, 22 Nov 2011 12:00:00 EST

In The Perfect Bird, author Molly Stevens lays out her foolproof method for roasting a turkey. But in the saveur kitchen, we're rarely willing to just sit back and savor success. Stevens's beautiful bird sparked lively debates, with staffers putting forward their own techniques for getting the juiciest meat or the crispiest skin. In fact, every Thanksgiving recipe we tested for this issue either called forth another tried-and-true tip or gave rise to a new one. Here are a few we all agreed are worth adding to your Thanksgiving repertoire.

See 8 tips in the photo gallery �

Bowl of Goodness

Fri, 11 Nov 2011 12:00:00 EST

by Dana Bowen
My dad was a plain-clothes cop who worked crazy shifts, but the joke was that he didn't work hard at all because he was always eating at my grandparents' house, which was not far from his precinct on Long Island. He'd put his police radio on their kitchen counter, turn the volume down low enough so that you couldn't hear the high-frequencey squeals, and fix himself a bowl of escarole soup.

There was always escarole soup at my grandparents' house: My grandfather, who worked as a manager at the Associated grocery store down the block, would often start the soup early in the morning, before he left for work, and by the time Dad would stop by for lunch, the onions and escarole and big, fat, chuck meatballs had turned the broth all sweet and meaty. If the soup wasn't on the stove, it was probably in the refrigerator; he'd sup on it cold, like we did with the leftovers at our own house; like my husband and son and I do at our own house now.

We all loved this soup, craved its peppery broth, sneaked its meatballs in the middle of the night, lugged it to the office in harvest gold Tupperware despite the looks it got from co-workers (escarole soup is many things; attractive is not one of them). If I went to Denise Rufolo or Jennifer Faiella's house after school and their mom was serving their version of escarole soup for dinner-with white beans, or with diminutive meatballs made with chicken, or with shards of pasta instead of rice-I would feel bad for my friends. They didn't know what they were missing.

See the recipe for Escarole Soup �

Thanksgiving Turkey Tips

Tue, 08 Nov 2011 12:00:00 EST

There's nothing quite as iconic as a Thanksgiving turkey when it comes to American traditions. With a bronzed, crisp-skinned exterior, and juicy, tender interior, this noble bird is the classic centerpiece of every holiday table. Prepare the perfect bird this Thanksgiving with the following techniques, tips, and recipes vetted by the SAVEUR test kitchen.

� How to pick and buy a turkey �
� How to find heritage turkeys and how to cook them �
� How to truss a turkey the French way �
� How to brine a turkey �
� How to roast the perfect turkey �
� How to grill a turkey �
� How to cook choucroute garnie turkey �
� How to brine, stuff, and roast, a turkey �
� How to braise turkey breast in Mexican Mole �
� How to roast in eight pieces �
� How to get a crispier skin �
� How to get more flavorful meat �
� How to cook turkey in individual portions �
� How to stuff a turkey breast �
� How to make an all-natural roasting rack �
� How to carve a turkey in six easy steps �
� How to use leftover turkey �

Roots of Flavor

Wed, 02 Nov 2011 12:00:00 EDT

by Dana Bowen
There's a small table in my kitchen that holds a huge basket of onions: the big, juicy red ones I slice for salads; the amber, satiny supermarket ones, still in their red fishnet bag; a handful of flat cippoline from the farmers' market, each one the size and a shape of a doorknob. There are always purple-tinged shallots in the mix, and if you dig around, you'll probably find a few pearl onions left over from the last time I made coq au vin.

Just looking at this basket makes me feel like cooking. A roast chicken, one with lots of quartered onions to catch the drippings; or burgers, pan-fried into a heap of slivered onions that have turned crisp and brown. Or those cippoline, caramelized in a curry until their insides are like butter. As long as this basket is full, there is always something delicious to eat.

I recently encountered one of the prettiest onions I've ever seen on my friend Shannon's kitchen counter in upstate New York: It was pale yellow, about the size of a grapefruit, but tapered at the top and covered with a thin sheath of papery skin. It felt great in my hand-heavy and solid-and when she sliced into it, it nearly burst with sweet, spicy juice. Shannon, a fantastic cook from South Carolina, had the good sense to drench those slices with olive oil and throw them on the grill as she was cooking steak; when they came off, they were glossy tangles, creamy and luscious, the perfect accompaniment to the grilled meat.

It occurred to me, eating that exquisite onion, just how much I take these bulbs for granted. I can name a dozen diff erent heirloom tomatoes or apples I've sought out over the years, and I can tell you which ones are best for what recipes, but not so when it comes to this ingredient that works so hard in my kitchen. Aside from the sweet Spanish onions you find at any supermarket, and the Vidalias from Georgia and mild Walla Wallas from Washington State that make a seasonal appearance each summer, I don't know much about onion varieties, their season, or how they're grown and stored. Why was this onion, which Shannon received in her CSA box from a local farm, as juicy as the young, waxy-skinned onions with green tops that I buy at the farmers' market each spring? What made it so unbelievably delicious?

A few weeks after that late summer dinner at Shannon's, I was standing in Andy Szymanowicz's greenhouse on a farm in the hills of Ancramdale, in New York's Hudson Valley. I had tracked the 32-year-old farmer down through Sol Flower Farm, where Shannon gets her produce, and through chefs in the area who swore by Szymanowicz's organically raised onions. Two long tables set up on cinder blocks were covered with thousands upon thousands of them, skins caked with dirt and stems shriveled dry. The air was heavy with wet earth and raw onion.

"Onions aren't easy," the farmer told me. "They're slow growing, so I plant different varieties to be ready at different stages of the season." Early in the spring, he sells varieties that are pulled when their stems are still green and their bulbs are glossy and white. Come summer, he harvests sweet varieties that have developed a tougher skin and can be stored for short periods, like the ones I fell in love with at Shannon's house, an heirloom called Ailsa Craig. By the time I made it to his farm, those were gone, and he was curing onions, drying them out in that greenhouse so they will last through the winter without getting moldy or soft-standard practice for storing onions. Still, these looked nothing like the small red or yellow ones you get in two-pound bags at the supermarket, the kind that dominates the onion industry in this country. "These are Red Bulls," he said, pulling off a few purple leaves from a specimen that could have easily weighed a pound on its own. "They're my best red storage onion."

Photo: Todd Coleman

If you take a look at any seed catalog, you'll notice lots of onion varieties you've probably seen but never heard of-Australian brown, Tropeana lunga, red Welsh, copra, and these Ailsa Craigs, a variety developed in the late 19th century by a Scottish farmer to compete with the sweet Bermuda onion, which was all the rage at the time. Until the seeds of Bermuda onions were shipped to the States in 1898, and until hybridizing technology in the 1920s allowed for botanists to develop sweeter varieties of onions that could grow in cool climes, the bulb onions most Americans knew were the sharper-flavored ones that grew in the Northeast, which were descendants of varieties brought over from the Old World by early colonists.

The kind of onions we're talking about here are bulb onions belonging to Allium cepa, a species that's been cultivated since ancient times and now is grown around the world. Allium cepa includes scallions, also called green onions; they're essentially onions that have not yet developed their bulbs. The same species also includes pearl, boiling, and baby onions, which, interestingly, aren't just smaller varieties (though some have been selected not to get too big) or ones harvested before they've matured. They're Allium cepa sowed in densely planted patches, so that they don't have room to grow any bigger than large gum balls. Shallots, which can resemble garlic but contain just a couple cloves, are a variety of Allium cepa called ascalonicum; there's a larger, sharp flavored variety popular in French cooking and a smaller, sweeter one that's the allium of choice in southeast Asia. Garlic, leeks, chives, and ramps all belong to different branches of the Allium family tree.

What distinguishes Allium cepa from those other types are their bulbs -essentially swollen leaf bases containing energy in the form of sugars, which help the plant shoot up a stalk for a new plant the next season. It's what's inside those leaves that make onions so important in the kitchen: They contain volatile compounds that drastically change when the bulb is sliced and exposed to air, heat, and other elements. "The key to the onion family's appeal is a strong, often pungent, sulfury flavor whose original purpose was to deter animals from eating the plants," writes Harold McGee in On Food and Cooking (Scribner, 2004). In one of the best descriptions of the science of onions written for cooks, McGee explains that the onion takes up sulfur from the soil, and the sulphuric compounds it forms float in the cell fluid until they are, via cutting and cooking, unlocked by the cook (whose first response may be shedding tears, a reaction to sulfur gasses, which can be reduced by chilling the onions for 30 minutes before slicing them).

The fact that onions take their sulfur from the soil explains why certain regions produce sweeter, or milder, onions than others. Vidalias, Texas 1015s, and Mauis do not refer to specific cultivars; they're all white or red grano or granex types, sweet onion varieties that are grown in, and often named for, regions where the sulfur content of the soil is low. Sweet onions are usually sold fresh for short-term storage; the spicier ones, which tend to contain less juice and therefore have a longer shelf life, are cured and stored.

Photo: Todd Coleman

Nowadays, there are thousands of cultivars that range in color (brown, yellow, red, white), flavor (sweet, spicy, mild), shape (globes, teardrops, torpedos), and adaptability to different growing conditions (see "Global Flavor," article, linked below). Every region has its onions; every onion, its terroir.

Once you realize that onions contain such a complex mix of sugars and aromatic compounds, it's easy to see why they provide the foundation of flavor to so many of the world's cuisines. It's the transformative nature of these elements in onions that makes them among the most versatile, and inspiring, ingredients in the kitchen.

When I was learning to cook in my Italian-American family, dinner always began with onions (and often garlic) sweating, or cooking over low heat, in olive oil. Back then, I never thought about what was happening on a chemical level-that the sugars in the onions were turning even sweeter because of the heat; that the oil would carry the flavor of the onions throughout the rest of the dish-but as I started reading cookbooks, it became clear that cooks take pains to describe exactly how onions should be cooked: translucent, or golden, or browned. When I was working on a cookbook with the Venetian chef Mara Martin years ago, she would correct me while I was translating her recipes. "Browned is too much!" she insisted-but gold was not enough. "Abbronzate," she'd say in Italian. Bronzed. It's the difference between what the Italians call a battuto-a base of onions, with celery, carrots, and other seasonings that's briefly cooked in the beginning stages of a soup, a sauce, a risotto-and a soffritto, where the onions are taken to a deeper level of gold. All across the globe, cooks start dishes this way: There's the French mirepoix of onions, celery, and carrots; the Cajun trinity of onions, peppers, and celery; the way southeast Asian cooks start curries and other dishes by slowly cooking a spice paste made with aromatics and lots of minced shallots; or how Middle Eastern cooks sweat onions in fat and then add dry spices. When I was in Morocco I learned to start a tagine by cooking onions with saffron in a pan and then transfer them to the oven, where their flavors mingled as they stewed with other ingredients, like chicken and olives and lemons.

Sweating is only one way that cooks manipulate onions. When I was working in restaurants, it was always someone's job to come in early in the morning to slice a huge bagful of onions and stir them over low heat with lots of butter until they were caramelized. Again, I didn't know then that the sugars were intensifying and the cell walls were breaking down, but I knew some sort of magic was happening, causing these sharp, raw onions to turn into a kind of luscious onion essence we stirred into risottos, dolloped into soups, slathered onto bruschetta and pizza and more. This was the '90s, when caramelized onions were in everything-for good reason, I'd argue. To this day, they are the secret weapon in my kitchen, and I often make them without any particular recipe in mind. To me, caramelizing onions is one of the most pleasurable acts of cooking, the standing and stirring and staring into the pot, inhaling the subtle changes in aroma from sweet to sweeter. When I've finished, I'm not far from onion soup, onion-topped bialys, French onion dip, or any number of delicious things.

The way different cultures work with onions is a testament to the bulb's overwhelming versatility, not to mention the creativity of cooks. Onions have a history of being pickled, or added to pickles, because the flavonoid compounds they contain are natural preservatives, which may explain why dishes like escabeche, the marinated fried fish dish that originated in the Mediterranean, is literally swimming in onions. When onions themselves are pickled, the flavor of the brine penetrates the bulb, which is why I love making my own cocktail onions with fresh thyme and vermouth.

Photo: Todd Coleman

Raw onions are an altogether different pleasure. When I get lunch at my favorite Punjabi place in Manhattan, called Minar, I love that I'm handed a tinfoil-wrapped square of onion slices; they're a refreshing foil to the spicy, stewed foods. That burst of bright flavor is the same thing that makes onions in salads and tacos and gyros so fantastic.

On the other end of the spectrum are fried onions. One of the best culinary lessons I've picked up from our editor-in-chief, James Oseland, is crisp-frying shallots until they take on an almost meaty sweetness to make a condiment called bawang goreng in Indonesia. In the office, we sprinkle them into soups, curries, stir-fries, and bowls of rice. I am a sucker for good onions rings, too, though they have a cushion of batter, so the onion itself has a lighter flavor, more akin to how it tastes when boiled or braised.

When I said good-bye to Andy Szymanowicz at Sol Flower Farm, he handed me a bunch of heavy Red Bull onions by their stalks and told me to enjoy. I felt compelled to find the right dish for these beautiful onions, and asked the farmer what he liked to do with them. "I love them caramelized and saut�ed with kale," was his answer.

In the past, I would never have thought to caramelize red onions: roasting with a topping of bread crumbs, yes; saut�ing with zucchini, sure. But if I have learned anything about onions it is this: While I might not want to put a sharp supermarket onion on my sandwich, when it comes to cooking, it doesn't much matter which you use. Onions rarely let you down, especially the good ones. And my dinner that night was fantastic.

See the article Raw Appeal �
See the article Global Flavor �
See the article The Sweet Spot �
See the article Fried Perfection �
See Saveur's Onion Guide �
See all the onion recipes in the gallery �

Making Maultaschen

Fri, 21 Oct 2011 12:00:00 EDT

by Lauren Utvich
The ravioli-like dumplings, or Maultaschen, called for in the recipe for Maultaschensuppe aren't as difficult to make as you might imagine. Chef Oliver Steffensky of the restaurant Dorfstuben at Hotel Bareiss, in Germany's Black Forest, showed us his straightforward technique for making 24 Maultaschen at a time, enough to garnish 8 bowls of soup.

Learn how in the photo gallery �

Island Flavors

Fri, 21 Oct 2011 12:00:00 EDT

by Betsy Andrews
Though many ingredients in Jamaican breakfast dishes are not indigenous to the island, they've become so essential to the cuisine and culture that they feel wholly a part of the place.

See a guide to nine traditional Jamaican ingredients in the gallery �

16 Shades of Sweet: A Guide to Sweet Potatoes

Fri, 21 Oct 2011 12:00:00 EDT

by Karen Shimizu

Shopping for sweet potatoes for various Thanksgiving recipes in Issue #142, we came across a surprising range of varieties-both heirlooms and new hybrids-now being grown in the U.S. Browse through the gallery of 16 different sweet spuds in a range of colors, textures, and flavors to consider as you plan your own Thanksgiving menu.

See 16 varieties of sweet potato in the gallery �

Onion Guide

Thu, 20 Oct 2011 12:00:00 EDT

Photo: Todd Coleman

1. Pearl onions come in many colors and varieties; great for boiling and pickling.
2. Bianco di maggio are Italian heirloom cipolline with white, sweet flesh.
3. More demure than European varieties, Thai shallots are great for spice pastes.
4. Spicy yellow storage onions, or common onions, are workhorses of the kitchen.
5. Italy's famed, zesty Tropea lunga turn fragrant and luscious when grilled.
6. Grill or pickle tender, fresh torpedo onions, which have a concentrated sweetness.
7. Teardrop-shaped owas are slightly spicy and excellent for sauce bases.
8. Baby red Creole onions are so named because of their surprising spice.
9. Mayan sweets are fresh, juicy mild onions available in the States in fall and winter.

Photo: Todd Coleman

10. Texas sweets are descendants of Bermuda onions, brought here in 1898.
11. Cipolline onions are flat Italian varieties that turn buttery when roasted.
12. The supersweet candy hybrid is the ideal dried onion for caramelizing.
13. Large Red Bull onions keep longer than most dry onions and have a muted spice.
14. Inca sweet is a mellow variety from Peru sold fresh in the States during the winter.
15. French gray shallots are coveted by chefs for their creamy texture and refined flavor. Use them in vinaigrettes.
16. Insanely sweet Walla Wallas are available in the summer from Washington State; you can eat them like apples.

Photo: Todd Coleman

17. The sweet Siskiyou onion is harvested in the Pacific Northwest, sold fresh in summer, and is best raw.
18. Small, spicy turbo onions are a new storage variety with great heat.
19. Stuttgarters are classic dried yellow cooking onions often grown as pearls.
20. Late-season copras are surprisingly juicy and large for storage onions.
21. Heirloom red Wethersfields were grown by Thomas Jefferson, who loved their sweetness.
22. White granex is a cousin of Vidalia, a popular sweet onion from the South.
23. Since the 1880s, Australian browns have been prized for their pungent flesh, which is flavorful cooked.
24. Red baron is a smallish, popular red storage onion with pronounced sharpness.

Photo: Todd Coleman

25. Maui onions grow on the dormant Haleakala volcano; they're ideal raw.
26. Red zeppelin are intensely oniony for reds; a popular hybrid for storage.
27. Red burgermeisters were bred to be sandwich onions. Sweet, with great crunch.
28. Often harvested young, Paris silver-skins are white, crisp, mild, and great for pickling.
29. French shallots have more spice and heat than Asian varieties. Excellent for sauces.
30. Crystal white wax is a mild, common pearl that retains its shape when cooked.
31. Jet set is a spicy small yellow onion that arrives early in the season.
32. Flat of Italy are heirloom Italian cipolline, ideal for roasting agrodolce, in a sweet-sour glaze.
33. Giant red hamburger is an aptly named variety that's sweet and juicy and big as a bun.

See the article Roots of Flavor �

Fried Perfection

Thu, 20 Oct 2011 12:00:00 EDT

by Dana Bowen
All around the world, cooks fry sliced onions or shallots to a crisp to use as an intensely flavorful condiment. In Egypt, the national dish, koshary-a mix of rice, lentils, pasta, and vegetables-is topped with a layer of fried onions, and in traditional Eastern Europe Jewish cookery, onions fried in chicken fat are beloved in everything from kasha varnishkes to potato latkes. Across Asia, it's shallots that tend to be fried; they have a milder flavor than onions, and less juice, so they crisp up easily. In Vietnam, for example, fried shallots are sprinkled into soups and rice dishes. What's happening with fried onions isn't simply caramelization taken to the next step; cooking at a higher heat, the sugars on the outside are browning, leaving some of the flavor and juice inside the onion. "You want to slice them thinly, but not so thin that they cook too quickly and run the risk of them being bitter," says Serge Madikians, the chef and owner of Serevan restaurant in Amenia, New York. An Armenian raised in Tehran, he grew up eating fried onions sprinkled over the classic Iranian soup ash reshteh. He makes an important point: Whether it's shallots or onions you're frying, remove them from the oil as soon as they turn golden, as they continue to cook and crisp after they're pulled from the oil.

See the article Roots of Flavor �

The Sweet Spot

Thu, 20 Oct 2011 12:00:00 EDT

by Dana Bowen
Cooking an onion transforms the vegetable's chemical composition; slowly cooking it in fat until it is a rich golden brown renders it far sweeter than when raw. "New compounds are formed," writes Shirley Corriher in CookWise (William Morrow and Company, Inc., 1997). "Some of the compounds that form in onions are even sweeter than sugars." It's all part of the process of caramelization, which is actually quite a complex one. Starches are breaking down into sugars, and the sugars themselves are breaking down, with disaccharides splitting into simpler, sweeter monosaccharides. The onions' moisture evaporates, too, concentrating its newfound sweetness. Cell walls break down and the vegetable loses its shape, collapsing into a soft, jam-like consistency. Another of the many processes at work while onions saut� is the Maillard reaction, wherein the onion's carbohydrates and proteins interact with the sugars to create a deep brown color and rich, umami-packed, almost meaty flavor. (Butter is the medium of choice for caramelizing onions, since its own proteins faciliate the process.) The goal is to caramelize gradually, at a low enough heat and stirring often, so that the sugars don't brown too much, which would result in a toasty, roasted, or grilled onion flavor rather than a concentrated sweetness.

See the article Roots of Flavor �

Global Flavor

Thu, 20 Oct 2011 12:00:00 EDT

by Dana Bowen
Onions are one of the world's most ubiquitous vegetables: The species Allium cepa, which belongs to the vast amaryllis family, is cultivated everywhere from China to Africa (at left, a farmer waters onion plants in Mauritius) to the United States. In the U.S., some 1.3 billion pounds are harvested each year; California ranks as the country's largest producer (Idaho, Oregon, Washington, New York, Michigan, and Wisconsin are runners-up). Different varieties of bulb onions date back to ancient times; in fact, Alan Davidson's Oxford Companion to Food notes that it was a particularly mild white variety called unio, meaning a single white pearl, that gave rise to the word onion. Though shoppers can find different varieties of onions year round, they are a seasonal crop. Onions planted in the fall are the first to arrive in late spring; they're sold with green stems and should be eaten within a few days of buying. During the summer, varieties with a longer shelf life and a thin skin start coming to market, though they should still be eaten as soon as possible because they have a high water content. It isn't until late summer that low-moisture varieties that are cured-placed in a dry, airy space until their skin turns hard, which traps in their juices-come to market. Storage onions last around eight months, just in time for the next batch of spring onions to arrive.

See the article Roots of Flavor �

The Raw Appeal

Thu, 20 Oct 2011 12:00:00 EDT

by Dana Bowen
"I can easily make a whole meal of onion sandwiches," James Beard wrote in his book Beard on Food (Bloomsbury USA, 1974), referring to raw sweet Spanish onions on homemade bread, with plenty of butter and salt. Indeed, many sweet varieties of onions are so mild that they are delicious in the raw, tossed into salads, layered atop burgers, and added to anything that can benefit from their bright, juicy crunch. But it's not that sweet onions actually contain more sugar; they just have fewer of the sulfuric compounds that make other varieties sharp and spicy. It's in the vegetable's raw state that the variations between types are most apparent. Onion cells contain sulfuric compounds and store an enzyme called allinases; when the whole onion's cell structure is disrupted by slicing and chopping, new, highly volatile sulfurous molecules are created, which give raw onions their bite and cause cooks to break out in tears. Some people believe that these harsh compounds can upset stomachs, and will salt and rinse, or simply wash onions before serving them raw or cooking with them. Kitchen scientist Harold McGee, in On Food and Cooking (Scribner, 2004), backs up that claim: He urges readers to wash sliced onions to rid them of sulfuric compounds that cling to their surface and become more intense with exposure to air.

See the article Roots of Flavor �

Getting Cultured: Making Yogurt at Home

Tue, 11 Oct 2011 12:00:00 EDT

by Marne Setton

As we put together Issue 141's story on fermented foods (Preserving Plenty �), it took me right back to my mom's kitchen, circa 1974. Mom and I loved our Salton yogurt maker, but I've since learned that making yogurt doesn't require any special equipment. I start by bringing six cups of milk to a boil, at which point I transfer the hot milk to a bowl to cool slightly. Once the temperature is down to 90 degrees, I briskly whisk in a table-spoon of plain, active yogurt, a k a starter culture. Then I just pour it into a jar and set it aside in a warm place for six to eight hours. Easy.

I have learned, though, that the bacteria in the starter culture can be fussy when it comes to temperature. Boiling the milk kills other microorganisms that can cause spoilage, but you'll also kill the starter culture if you add it while the milk's still too hot, and if the milk's much cooler than 90 degrees at that point it will sour before it sets. It also took a little experimentation to find the right warm place in which to let those hungry bacteria get down to the business of eating sugars in the milk and producing the lactic acid that will, ultimately, take the pH level down to the point where the milk will thicken into yogurt. Setting my jar of inoculated milk on a sunny windowsill resulted in a fail, but when I set it in the same spot wrapped in a thick towel, the towel provided just the right amount of insulation, though it took more like 12 hours to make yogurt. When I had a convection oven that held at 100 degrees, that worked great, but most ovens won't go below 180. I've gotten good results heating the oven to 180 and turning it off as soon as I put the milk inside; the oven holds enough heat to get the job done (again, it takes a few hours longer). I've also had luck setting the jar outside in direct sunlight on a hot day, or in a nest of blankets on top of a heating pad set on medium heat. Whatever I rig up, I always strain the yogurt through cheesecloth once it's set, which produces a texture so dense and luscious I can't imagine going back to the store-bought stuff.

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