Culture Club

I've cued up Glenn Gould's 1981 recording of J.S. Bach's The Goldberg Variations on the stereo, and I've got the opening lines of Shakespeare's sonnet 116--"Let me not to the marriage of true minds/ Admit impediments. Love is not love/ Which alters when it alteration finds,/ Or bends with the remover to remove..."--in my head, just to, you know, bring a little culture to the proceedings. *

Now I'm going to get out the buttermilk, yogurt, and sour cream, the Cedar Summit Farm cream and whole milk, and mix up some home-cultured delicious dairy products. (Our friends Dave and Florence Minar and family run Cedar Summit; they are local food heroes of the first order.)

What we're doing here is introducing beneficial bacteria into a conducive medium. Sounds a bit dry (or maybe a bit scary), but that's how we get some of the world's most cherished foods--parmigiano reggiano, roquefort, camembert. These kitchen-cultured efforts don't produce anything that remarkable, but they're nice things to have in the fridge, just the same: crème fraîche, and whole-milk organic yogurt.

One of my culinary heroes, Madeleine Kamman, has this to say about home-made "crème fraîche":

"I am totally aware that 'making' crème fraîche is a favorite sport of the American cook; all I can say is if cooks enjoy themselves making crème fraîche, they might as well go ahead and do it. The taste of any of those products, however, has nothing at all to do with true crème fraîche; sometimes the texture is right, but the taste is never in the least reminiscent of the French or European unpasteurized products." (In Madeleine's Kitchen)

Ever the tactful Frenchwoman, it's awfully difficult to discern Mme Kamman's true opinion; but I get the impression she's not that big a fan of American kitchen sports. Nonetheless: let us carry on.**

In my previous post, the recipe for Crepes aux Poireaux called for crème fraîche to be added to the leeks at the end of softening. You can buy crème fraîche at better grocery stores now, but it's easy to "make" at home. And you know what? I do enjoy it. Furthermore, I feel that, using excellent dairy products as raw materials, I get a pretty good result at the end. I'm sure Madeleine is correct that the crème fraîche that comes from French alpine dairies is better than mine; we just don't happen to have a lot of those in my neighorhood of Saint Paul.

Other uses for crème fraîche: it gives cream sauces a tangy, silky finish; a dollop into vinaigrette produces a tangy, silky dressing; mixed with chopped fresh herbs, spread on a slice of rye bread and topped with smoked salmon, it makes a canapé or brunch dish of uncommon tangy silkiness. It can be used as a topping for fresh fruit, with or without a little added sugar, honey, or maple syrup. It's the basis for the Alsatian tarte flambée, or flammekuche, a sort of pizza topped with onions and bacon.

Anywhere you would use heavy cream or sour cream, crème fraîche could probably stand in, lending the recipe, how should I put it?: I think "a silky tang" says it best.

I don't make crème fraîche every week, or even every month, but when I do make it, I try to make more than I'll need for one use. Having it around--it keeps for at least a couple of weeks--lets me think of more uses for it.

For this experiment, I cultured crème fraîche using both sour cream and buttermilk. Into one cup of cream I added about two tablespoons of buttermilk, into the other, two tablespoons of sour cream.

The other thing I set a-culturing this day was a jar of yogurt. I used about two cups of Cedar Summit organic whole milk, and two tablespoons of cultured plain yogurt. This way, I get organic whole-milk yogurt cheap, and I know it's made from great, local milk. Skim, one- or two-percent milk will yogurt up just the same way. I put all three containers in my oven with the light on, door closed. I had put the heat on for just a few seconds, to get it warm (it's February in Minnesota; the house is at 65 degrees, the kitchen extremities colder). Then the light alone kept it at near 90 F.

I left them in there overnight, and here are the results:

Left to right: yogurt; the sour cream crème fraîche; buttermilk crème fraîche. Both kinds of crème fraîche turned out well. The sour cream version was a bit thicker, the buttermilk job just a wee bit creamier. There were subtle differences in the taste, but not so much that I'd say I prefer one over the other.

The real surprise, to me, was how compulsively eatable the warm, fresh-from-the-incubator yogurt was. They make wonderful whole-milk yogurt in France, and I particularly remember the sumptuous yaourt served with brunch at our beloved Pen Roc Hotel near Rennes in Brittany. While not as rich or creamy as the French product, I think mine was better, for being fresh as can be, and made with that superb Cedar Summit Farm milk (take that, Mme Kamman!).

It was so good it inspired me to whip up a breakfast dish, Apple-Maple-Yogurt Toast, which will be my next entry.

___________________________________________

*Gould originally recorded The Goldberg Variations in 1955, a tour de force performance that launched his career. I generally prefer the later recording--a calmer, more tempered and meditative rendering. On a related note (but not very), I have in a drawer somewhere here a manuscript of personal essays loosely united around the topics of trout streams and fly fishing, entitled The Girdle Bug Variations, named for a fly consisting of black chenille body and white rubber legs--cunningly echoing the black and white keys of a piano. As presently comprised, these essays contain no mention of Glenn Gould. It occurs to me now that maybe they ought to. (Some purists say The Goldberg Variations should only be played on the instrument for which they were originally written, the harpsichord; I say if the piano is good enough for Gould, it's good enough for me.)

On the Shakespeare: Those lines are printed as found in the Norton Anthology of English Literature. I remembered them correctly except for two words: I had us instead of me, and that where Will has which. I've fixed it up so as not to spread misinformation on the Internet. "That" sounds better to my inner grammarian than "which" in this context, but I can never remember the rational. In this case, I guess I'll concede that a tie goes to The Bard.

**I really am a huge fan of Madeleine Kamman; she is a brilliant cook and a wonderful writer. Her memoir-with-recipes, When French Women Cook is one of my favorite books...though it always makes me think that the French make better crème fraîche than they do book titles. (I've just noticed that in this book, she tempers her opinions somewhat, noting mildly that "...trying to make crème fraîche is a ridiculous waste of time..." [p. 6]. Apparently you can read the whole dang book at that linked site.)


Text (except the Kamman and The Bard) and photos copyright 2009 by Brett Laidlaw

The Lovable Leek

Have I mentioned that I love leeks? I believe I have. This versatile allium is a mainstay in cuisines high and low all over the world. The leek is a symbol of Wales , and a constant presence in French kitchen gardens--potagers. The French sometimes refer to leeks as "poor man's asparagus" (l'asperge du pauvre); in the U.S., though, they ain't the poor man's anything. That's one likely reason we don't use them so much.

Things are getting better, though. I've noticed in recent years that lots of vegetables that once seemed exotic--leeks, celery root, bulb fennel--are becoming more and more common, and more and more affordable at the same time.

Leeks are cheap if you grow your own, which is pretty easy to do. Forget about the hilling and trenching that some books recommend, and that make growing leeks sound as arduous as building battlements. I start leek seeds in late winter, sowing them thickly in flats. If I'm ambitious I'll transplant them into potting soil before they finally go in the garden; if I'm not, then I don't, and my leeks will be a bit later, but they'll still be plentiful. Sometimes it seems to take forever for the tiny whisps of leek seedlings to get established and start to grow, but once they do, it's katie-bar-the-door. By late August I'm pulling leeks that are nearly two inches across, and are taller than I am when you stretch out the drooping greens.

In mid-summer I'll often mulch them quite heavily with shredded leaves or half-finished compost. This helps them stand up, blanches a bit more of the bottom, and basically eliminates the need for watering.

Leeks tend to be cheap at farmers' markets, too. They start appearing early in the summer, and continue right through until late fall. I leave my garden leeks in the ground until it's nearly frozen (sometimes even later, if I'm caught snoozing). Then I dig them up and bring them in, just knocking off most of the dirt, trimming the roots and the long greens (the greens can be cleaned up and saved for making stock).

If I have room in our extra "root cellar" fridge, I'll put some leeks in there. This year, though, I've kept them in a cool basement closet. They've kept pretty well there. They gradually dry out, but you just peel the dry layers off and the inner part is fine.

I put leeks into stocks, soups, braised dishes, stir-fries, you name it. One of our favorite dishes is buckwheat crepes filled with fondue de poireaux, "melted leeks," if you will. The basic idea comes from Brittany. An excellent accompaniment--though perhaps not very Breton--is a couple spoonfuls of these oven-roasted tomatoes .


Crepes aux Poireaux
serves four

for the crepes:

1/2 cup all purpose flour
1/2 cup buckwheat flour
1/4 cup whole wheat flour
pinch salt
1/2 cup milk
1/2 cup water
4 eggs

Combine all the flours and salt in a mixing bowl. Whisk in the milk and water, then whisk in the eggs one at a time. Cover and set aside for at least one hour (the batter can be made a day ahead; any leftover batter will be good for at least a couple more days). The batter should be quite thin--a good deal thinner than pancake batter, which is to say, it should pour easily off a soup. If it seems too thick when you're ready to make the crepes, add a little more water.

To make the crepes, heat an 8-inch crepe pan (or non-stick or well-seasoned iron skillet) over medium-high heat. Add a little butter, then wipe it out with a paper towel. Add 1/4 cup of batter, and turn the pan so the bottom is coated. Cook for about 30 seconds, flip the crepe, and cook for another 30 seconds. Pile up the crepes as they're done and set aside. You should get a dozen crepes.

for the filling:
6 medium leeks, about two pounds
1/2 tsp salt
3 Tbsp unsalted butter
3/4 cup water
1 1/2 cups creme fraiche or heavy cream
freshly grated nutmeg

1 1/2 cups grated gruyere cheese

Clean the leeks well, slitting them up the middle and separating the leaves under the tap to remove all dirt. Use both the white and the tender green parts. Slice the leeks crosswise into 1/4-inch pieces--you'll get five to six cups. Melt the butter in a large skillet, add the leeks, salt, and water. Cover and cook gently until the leeks are very soft, about 40 minutes (but possibly longer depending on the leeks).

When the leeks are soft and most of the water is gone, add the creme fraiche and a modest grating of nutmeg. Turn off the heat.

Now assemble and bake: Preheat your oven to 300 F. Put a nice dollop of the leek fondue in each crepe, and top that with a small handful of grated cheese. Roll them up, enchilada-style, and place them in a baking dish. Bake for 15 minutes, until the cheese is melted.

Then just serve them up. If there's leftover filling, smear it on top of the rolled-up crepes. For added richness, you could glaze the crepes with a little butter or creme fraiche. A French-style sparkling apple cider goes well with this. A salad or slaw completes this simple but satisfying dinner.

The "locavore" tally:

Whole Grain Milling and Natural Way Mills flours (Welcome, MN, and Middle River, MN)
Schultz Organic Eggs (Owatonna, MN)
Cedar Summit Dairy Milk (New Prague, MN)
Roth Kase Grand Cru Gruyere (Monroe, WI)
Hope Creamery butter (Hope, MN)
Home-cultured creme fraiche from Cedar Summit cream
"Our Garden" leeks (Princeton Avenue, Saint Paul, MN)

Non-local ingredients: nutmeg, salt

I'd give this dish an 'A' for local-seasonal integrity.



Text and photos copyright 2009 by Brett Laidlaw

The Cheese Course: Cheddar & Chutney

It's not that I don't have a sweet tooth; I most assuredly do. There were kids I knew in grade school who were able to nurse their Halloween stash through till Christmas (unnatural, I know). Mine was gone in a week (yes, I'm lying: it was gone in two days). I am not even that discriminating when it comes to sweets--I can enjoy an opera cake from a fancy Paris patisserie, or a sack of Jelly Bellies; fine Swiss chocolate, or Oreos dunked in a glass of milk . I was close to becoming addicted to the peanut brittle we got from Regina's Candies at Christmas. By no means am I anti-sugar.

But when one reaches a certain age one finds (so I'm told) that one can't consume just any old thing and not pay for it, sooner rather than later. You're called upon to make wise choices about these things, and I find that in choosing how I'd like to end a really nice dinner, I choose cheese.

One recent night, we chose cheddar cheese and chutney. The ten-year-old Wisconsin cheddar came from Bolen Vale Cheese . The chutney I put together out of root cellar holdings, more or less following a recipe from a really interesting book, Preserving Food Without Freezing or Canning , from "the gardeners and farmers of Terre Vivante," an ecological research center in southwestern France.

A recipe for "Potimarron and Apple Chutney" had caught my eye. I didn't have a potimarron on hand--it's a smallish orange squash that's supposed to taste like chestnuts--but I had something that looked quite similar. I think that's actually a red kuri. It had a dense, dry flesh that held up well in the chutney. Those shriveled apples, those are golden russets that we picked up at Maiden Rock Apples last fall. And that is why they are shriveled. But once peeled and chopped they worked very well in the chutney, their mildly spicy, Asian-pear-like flavor intensified by being...shriveled (but we don't throw grapes or plums away when they start to get dried and wrinkly, do we?; no, we give them a new name and a whole new career in a different spot in the grocery store; nothing wrong with slightly shriveled apples, especially russets).

To make the chutney I chopped one medium onion, peeled and chopped the flesh of those two apples, and used about a third of the squash, seeded, peeled and chopped (that yielded about 10 ounces of flesh).

Those went into a saucepan with one large clove of garlic, chopped, a couple good pinches of salt, half a teaspoon of mustard seeds, three whole cloves, a good coarse grind of black pepper, one small hot dried red chili, just about an inch-long piece of cinnamon stick, and a little bit of chopped fresh ginger. I poured in a half-cup of water, brought it to the boil and down to a low simmer, cooked gently till the apples and squash were quite soft and most of the water was gone, about 20 minutes.

At this point I added cider vinegar, about 1/3 cup (a combination of some of our own home-brew, and because that wasn't quite tart enough, a fortifying splash of Leatherwood Vinegary product), and 3 tablespoons of brown sugar. I found it needed a pinch more salt, as well. Now simmer another 15 to 20 minutes, until everything is getting nicely melded.

Eventually I decided I wanted a little more heat, so I added a quarter-teaspoon or so of piment d'espelette (a couple of pinches of cayenne would zip it up as well).

Chutneys improve with a few days' to a few weeks' age. We first had this one the same day I made it. There was plenty left over--it made about a pint--and I'm looking forward to chutney and cheese sandwiches. I think this particular version would be very good with roast lamb, pork, or goat.

Making chutneys or relishes from root cellar ingredients is a great way to add interest to the winter table, "locavore" style. The only non-local ingredients that went into that cheese course were the brown sugar and spices.


text and photos copyright 2009 by Brett Laidlaw

And Now for a Bit of Bread

I could hardly let a wrap-up of last year's food highlights pass without some mention of bread. Real Bread , that is, the good stuff.

I'm not sure you can say that there's really ever anything new in the world of bread. It's been around such a long time, has so many variations in so many parts of the world, I have to imagine that anything I might think of, someone else has already come up with. But here are two breads that debuted at the Real Bread stand last year, and found an appreciative following. Both of these breads are "mixed leaven" breads, which means they use both active dry yeast, like you buy at the grocery store, and sourdough starter. If you don't have a jar of starter bubbling away on your counter or slumbering in your fridge, here you will find instructions for starting your own starter.

Probably the most distinctive bread we came up with last year was our Apple-Cheddar Flats, an ode to Wisconsin in bread form. We based it on our fougasse, the Provencal-inspired, olive oil-enriched flat bread. To the basic dough we added grated sharp cheddar (I use the seven-year-old white cheddar we buy at Bolen Vale Cheese ) and grated apple from our own trees. The apples pretty much melt into the dough, leaving behind a slight appley fragrance, a touch of sweetness, and a nice springy texture. The sharp cheddar is very noticeable, especially when this bread is warmed, or sliced and toasted a bit on the grill.

Apple-Cheddar Flats

1/2 cup warm water

1/2 Tbsp active dry yeast

1/2 cup well-refreshed liquid sourdough starter

1 1/2 cups water

2 1/2 tsp salt

2 Tbsp extra virgin olive oil

1/4 cup whole wheat bread flour

1/2 cup unbleached white bread flour

3 1/2 to 4 cups unbleached all-purpose white flour

3 ounces sharp white cheddar cheese, medium grate (about one cup grated)

4 ounces grated apple (about one cup; one medium apple peeled and grated)

Dissolve the yeast in the warm water. Let it sit for about five minutes. Add the rest of the water, the starter, salt, olive oil, whole wheat bread flour and white bread flour, and two cups unbleached all-purpose flour. Stir to mix well. Stir in the grated cheese and apple. Continue adding white flour by the half-cup until the dough is thick and difficult to stir.

Turn your dough out onto a floured work surface and knead for a couple of minutes, adding white flour as necessary, until you have a cohesive, slightly elastic dough. Note: The apple and cheese tend to make this dough a bit sticky. Just persevere with the kneading, adding flour as needed, and don't worry if it's still a little wet and shaggy after this first kneading. It will firm up as it rests.

Put the dough back in the bowl, sprinkle the top with a bit of flour, and leave it alone for at least 15 minutes and up to half an hour. Then put the dough back on your work surface and knead for a couple of minutes more, until the dough is elastic--that is, it bounces back quickly when you poke it with your finger. Note: Total kneading time will only be about five minutes. Personally, I think the whole "no-knead" bread phenomenon that arose (no pun intended) a couple of years ago is sort of gimmicky; however, most bread recipes grossly exaggerate required kneading times.

Place the dough back in the bowl and cover with plastic wrap. Let rise at room temp for about four hours, till nearly doubled in size. In warmer weather I refrigerate this dough for the first couple hours of rising, and finish rising at room temp.

Divide the dough in thirds, and start working the pieces out into long, flattish planks. This is best done in several stages, as the dough will now be nicely glutenized (not a real word!) and resistant. Start elongating and flattening, leave it alone for a couple minutes when it resists, go back and do it again. Eventually you'll have long flats of dough, about 14" by 5".

Preheat your oven to 450 F.

Slash the dough with a very sharp knife or single-edge razor, however you like. Some options here below. On the left is the classic fougasse shape, the "Tree of Life," where you cut all the way through and open up the holes. The other two flats are just scored about 1/2-inch deep.

If you have a baking stone, place the dough on cornmeal-dusted peels. If not, place them on a baking sheet dusted with cornmeal or covered with parchment paper. Let rise 30 to 45 minutes, depending on ambient temperature.

When the oven is hot and the dough risen, bake for 20 minutes. We add steam by throwing three or four ice cubes into a small cast iron skillet that sits on the floor of our electric oven. You can add steam through whatever method you like, or skip it; it's not that important with this bread.

This bread is best served very fresh, or reheated or toasted. It's very happy alongside a glass of cold white or rosé wine, and you will be, too.

The ""6"

This started off as an attempt to make a slightly grainier version of our pain de campagne, a semi-sourdough country white loaf. I got a little carried away in the process, and the "6" took on a life of its own. Sorry about the slightly awkward measurements. I've cut it back from the larger batch we make for the market, and I want to present it as we actually make it.

We make this bread with all organic flours. Here in the Twin Cities, check your co-op for the flours from Whole Grain Milling.

1/2 cup warm water
1/2 tsp active dry yeast
1 3/4 cups water
1/2 cup well-refreshed liquid sourdough starter
2 1/2 tsp salt

2 Tbsp buckwheat honey (or another full-flavored honey; or a tablespoon each of honey and molasses)
scant 1/4 cup buckwheat flour
scant 1/4 cup cracked wheat
generous 1/4 cup rolled oats
1/2 cup rye flour
1 cup whole wheat bread flour (or sub regular organic whole wheat flour)
2 cups (or more) organic unbleached white flour (I use Gold n White from Natural Way Mills)

Dissolve the yeast in the warm water. Let it sit for about five minutes. Add the rest of the water, the starter, salt, honey, and all the grains down through the whole wheat bread flour. Stir to mix well. Add a cup of white flour and stir well. Continue adding white flour by the half-cup until the dough is thick and difficult to stir. It will take around two cups of white flour total.

Turn your dough out onto a floured work surface and knead for a couple of minutes, adding white flour as necessary, until you have a cohesive, slightly elastic dough. Put it back in the bowl, sprinkle the top with a bit of flour, and leave it alone for at least ten minutes and up to half an hour. Then put the dough back on your work surface and knead for a couple of minutes more, until the dough is elastic--that is, it bounces back quickly when you poke it with your finger.

Total kneading time will only be about five minutes.

Now the dough must rise, and it should rise for a good long time. I usually make the dough in the afternoon, refrigerate it for a few hours, then take it out, knead it down, and let it rise (or "proof," if you want to sound quite "baker-ly") at room temp overnight, shape it and bake it the next morning. But you can also make the dough in the morning, let it proof for seven or eight hours, then bake it off that evening.

Preheat your oven to 450 F.

When the dough is well risen, divide it in two and shape the pieces into large oval loaves. Place them on a cornmeal-dusted peel (if you're using a baking stone) or a baking sheet dusted with cornmeal or covered in parchment paper. Let rise about 40 minutes.

Slash the tops any way you please with a very sharp knife (serrated bread knife works well) or single-edge razor. Bake at 450 for ten minutes, then turn the oven down to 410 and bake for another 20 minutes, until the loaves are nicely browned and sound hollow when tapped on the bottom. (We add steam by throwing three or four ice cubes into a small cast iron skillet that sits on the floor of our electric oven.)

Note: Check the bread a couple of times in the later part of baking to make sure it isn't browning too much--the honey can cause it to get quite dark. Tent with aluminum foil or turn the heat down if the bread is browning too fast.

Let cool thoroughly before slicing.

Text and photos copyright 2009 by Brett Laidlaw

Trout Caviar Book Club: Annabel's Choice

You can't say this isn't a gastronomical family, when even the dogs have their noses stuck into cookbooks! These are completely unstaged photographs, folks, I swear. Annabel's head is actually stuck between the pages of the book. She started out as below, then rolled over:

Best we could tell, she was interested in a recipe for oeufs en meurette, poached eggs in red wine sauce (I always put some of our home-smoked bacon in; a great winter dish).

Text and photos copyright 2009 by Brett Laidlaw

While We're Talking About Books...

We're coming up to last call for the Trout Caviar Sweepstakes--let us know about your 2008 local food favorites to be entered in a drawing for a copy of The Minnesota Homegrown Cookbook .

Here are a couple that earn their place on any forager's shelf:

Abundantly Wild , (Adventure Publications , 2004) by Teresa Marrone, who lives in Minneapolis.

The Forager's Harvest (Forager's Harvest, 2006) by Samuel Thayer, a Wisconsinite.


A couple of years ago I was interviewed for an article on foraging in the Star Tribune, and I was happy to share my passion for this fascinating hobby. When I read the published article, though, I was more than a little dismayed. While it wasn't a total hatchet job, it did manage to characterize foragers as variously crazy, sketchy, "hippie-stoner," and slippery. The sort of person who, "Whenever they have given me a phone number, it has invariably been disconnected soon afteward," according to one Saint Paul chef.

Now, I don't think it's wise to protest too much on behalf of my own character; what I will say is that even a quick perusal of these two thoughtful, intelligent, well researched and extremely well written books should go a long way toward dispelling those sorts of hackneyed stereotypes.

Marrone's book is especially good on wild fruits and greens, has a section on the most common and easily identified mushrooms, and has loads of interesting recipes. It's more comprehensive than Thayer's, and takes a gourmand's approach to the topic. A quick flip shows tempting recipes for plum chutney, stuffed morels, wild greens pasta, pickled ramps, fiddlehead pie.

Thayer's take is perhaps a bit more that of the naturalist. He includes quite a few plants that I didn't know were edible, like spring beauty and marsh marigold, and others that I didn't know existed, like the "ground bean" or "hog peanut" (amphicarpaea bracteata). He's got a lot on wild roots--of evening primrose, thistle, burdock, and more. (From Thayer I learned that I need to dig much, much deeper for quality burdock than I did in this impromptu orchard forage.)

In Thayer's book I also discovered, much to my surprise, that I didn't know dookie about nettles. Now I know that what I always thought were stinging nettles (because they are indeed nettles, and they sting like the dickens), which I've encountered so often, so painfully, in shady river bottoms and along trout streams, are in fact wood nettles. Both stinging and wood nettles are abundant wild edibles; in Thayer's opinion wood nettles are superior in several ways to stinging nettles. These are some of the first forest plants to emerge in the spring, and I'm really looking forward to doing more with them this year.

Thayer evangelizes on behalf of milkweed; from Marrone I learned how to prepare acorns for the pot (though I haven't tried them yet).

Both books combine an infectious enthusiasm for wild foods with reminders to use all due caution in gathering wild plants. Both are detailed in their descriptions of edible plants and of potentially dangerous look-alikes.

In the end I can't say that you'll find one more useful or enjoyable than the other. If you want to forage for wild food in the Upper Midwest and beyond, you're going to want them both.


Text and photos copyright 2009 by Brett Laidlaw

Fergus Rules

2008 Food & Wine Finds

And no more turn aside and brood
Upon love's bitter mystery;
For Fergus rules the brazen cars,
And rules the shadows of the wood,
And the white breast of the dim sea
And all disheveled wandering stars.

Which is from the poem "Who Goes with Fergus?" by William Butler Yeats and has little if anything to do with the topic at hand, but which is a whacking good little poem. That link gives the whole poem and some illuminating commentary on such things as the odd phrase "brazen cars." And I tend to think that if more people were going through their day with a line like "And all disheveled wandering stars" in their heads, the world would be a slightly better place.

The Fergus I'm in fact talking about is the chef Fergus Henderson , and his two books, of dishes from his Saint John restaurant and Saint John Bread & Wine, in London, are my favorite cookbooks of last year. (I'm actually a little slow on the uptake here--The Whole Beast was first published in 2004, Beyond Nose to Tail in 2007.)

What I love about these books, about this style of cooking, is not necessarily the many ways of cooking lamb brains, or trotters, or pig's head, though those certainly are intriguing. What impresses me is the integrity of Henderson's approach, his embrace of humble ingredients and simplicity in preparation that amounts to a kind of genius, almost revolutionary (counter-revolutionary?) in an age of "molecular gastronomy" and the like.

Consider this salad of red winter vegetables:

It's finely julienned raw beets, red cabbage, and red onion, tossed in a very simple vinaigrette, served with a dollop of crème fraiche. You are instructed to "nustle your blob of crème fraiche as if the two ingredients were good friends, not on top of each other as if they were lovers." Then you make a mess of this platonic relationship as it suits you. That's from Beyond Nose to Tail.

I couldn't wait to make this dish from The Whole Beast: Boiled Chicken, Leeks, and Aioli.

Looks pretty plain, I know, but the simple combination of good free-range chicken, poached leeks, and very garlickly aioli, with some good bread, chilled rosé from the south of France--it took us away from Minnesota winter, while still being warming and filling. (I have to say, I would cook the chicken differently next time. Fergus has you put the chicken and aromatics into cold water and bring it up to a boil, then turn it off and let it sit, rewarming the chicken in heated-up stock later. I would cut the chicken up, use the wings and back to help make the stock, simmering that for a while before adding the legs and then the breast to poach, adjusting cooking times for each. I think that would yield more tender meat; it came out a little chewier than ideal in the book's version.)

As I flip through these books, there's hardly anything I don't want to try: Confit of rabbit leg in broth; duck legs and carrots; confit pig's cheek and dandelion; "Orbs of Joy" (red onions baked in chicken stock).

The Whole Beast is short on baked goods and desserts; Beyond Nose to Tail makes up for that failing with an extensive selection of breads and "puddings." Mary made the Apples and Calvados Trifle and couple of weeks ago, and it was a custardy, whipped-creamy, appley delight.

Both books are written with lots of personality. They're idiosyncratic without being "twee," I think the word is. Or maybe they are twee; maybe I like twee. I leave you with this "recipe" for

GRILLED MACKEREL

This recipe has quite particular requirements but, as with any of these recipes, please feel free to adapt them to suit your own situation.

A driftwood fire on a beach in the Hebrides, mackerel caught that day, filleted.... When the embers are just so, place the mackerel, skin-side down, on the griddle. By the time the skin is happy and crispy, the fillets should be cooked.

Pop into a bap with some horseradish, sit on a rock and eat with lots of white wine. 'Did anyone remember to pack the corkscrew?'

Text and photos copyright 2009 by Brett Laidlaw, except Grilled Mackerel recipe, copyright 2007 by Fergus Henderson and Justin Piers Gellatly.