The culinary prestige of cream increased swiftly with advances in cooling milk. Creaming, or the formation of a well-defined cream layer, was found to take place faster and more thoroughly in a dairy with a running cold spring than in a warm room. With the developing nineteenth-century ice trade, followed late in the century by mechanical refrigeration, people discovered that very deeply chilled milk creamed still better. Not long after this, centrifugal separators took over the job, and cream so rich that it had to be thinned with milk before whipping in order not to turn to butter reached urban consumers’ iceboxes as a matter of course.
This development coincided with the advent of improved beating devices. Before the nineteenth century nothing better than bundles of straw or twigs existed for beating cream or egg whites. You had to whip cream a little at a time, skimming off the whipped froth from the top and placing it in a sieve to drain off any still-retained liquid while you went on with the rest of the batch. Whisks of thin wooden or metal rods seem to have been available by midcentury, but were not much more efficient. Over the next fifty years these were superseded by sturdy balloon whisks and rotary eggbeaters, just as ice cooling, centrifuging, and the rise of dairy-cattle breeds such as Jerseys and Guernseys (noted for the quality of their cream) put other pieces of the puzzle in place. By the turn of the twentieth century any cook could produce beautifully and completely whipped cream in a matter of minutes, whereas Isabella Beeton in her renowned 1861 manual had estimated that a pint of cream ought to take an hour.
A golden age of cream-enriched cooking was now at hand in countries with modern dairy technology. In the United States, whipped cream became the embellishment or filling of choice for any really dazzling dessert. In France and all places touched by French culinary influence, rich fresh cream (whipped or unwhipped) became the magic ingredient in mousses, quenelles, custards, Bavarian creams, and sauces that would symbolize grand cuisine for many from the belle époque to the 1970s.
Influential cooks and writers of the period leading up to the so-called gourmet revolution habitually placed cream in a starring role. As an aspiring young cook, I thought it was impossible for anything to be too creamy. And I was far from alone in that opinion, which now looks as quaint as yesteryear’s fashionable kitchen color schemes.
One reason for cream’s fall from grace was, of course, the general move away from full-fat dairy products that began several generations ago. Recently, the rationale of this trend has been called into question. But cream has been one of its economic casualties. For dairy processors, most of the cream obtained when milk is centrifuged at the plant has become a chronic embarrassment. Some profit can be salvaged from the bulky, inconveniently perishable substance by putting it to such manufacturing purposes as butter and ice cream—or giving it a longer shelf life through ultrapasteurization. For the industry as a whole, ultrapasteurized cream is the only form that makes economic sense.
It’s a sad development, because when real creaminess is what you want, there is nothing like fresh cream. Still, even cream-loving cooks nowadays understand that creaminess can all too easily become a kind of blanket spread over individual textures, softening other flavors to the point of mawkishness. (Especially ultrapasteurized cream, with its faint sludginess and lack of clean finish.) There are occasions when too much cream is just enough, but also many when less is more.
Enough of a market for decent-tasting cream remains to keep a few small dairies supplying specialty stores here and there, especially in large cities. I’d hazard a guess that demand will increase rather than decrease, given the resurgence in small-scale farm dairies and the many doubts now being cast on the superior healthfulness of low-fat dairy products.
RECIPES
CLOTTED CREAM
Many people fall in love with the Devonshire or Cornish versions of this celestial substance without realizing that a similar idea has occurred to people elsewhere, from Serbia (kajmak) and Turkey (kaymak) to India (malai). The necessary raw material is a kind of milk that on standing acquires a thick, well-defined top layer of cream. Water buffaloes’ and cows’ milk are the best for this. Goats’ milk, with its very small fat globules, will not develop the requisite degree of separation. Sheep’s milk also has fairly small fat globules, but is sufficiently more concentrated than goats’ milk to make good clotted cream anyhow. In parts of the Diverse Sources Belt, milk from two or more species is sometimes combined.
What’s crucial in all cases is an unhomogenized distribution, with cream on top and the thinner milk on the bottom. For English clotted cream the unhomogenized milk is put in a wide, shallow pan and subjected to a very slow, gentle heating that causes the cream to form a thick, semisolid blanket. Heating cream by itself without a bottom layer of milk doesn’t work the same way. Though most of the milk will eventually be removed at the skimming stage, it somehow communicates better flavor to the cream. Besides, the thinner milk on the bottom acts as a heat insulator and modulator, letting the top gradually reach temperatures that will half-coagulate it without directly exposing it to the stronger heat coming from the floor of the pan.
Heat alone won’t produce the desired result. There also has to be some evaporation of water from the surface, promoted by the width of the pan and the further step of letting the milk stand at least overnight before starting to warm it. The incomparable flavor doesn’t depend on bacterial action, though probably a small amount of ripening takes place during the initial standing phase. (Ignore recipes that tell you to put sour cream in with the milk.) The main factor is cooking without boiling, which transforms the taste of simple fresh cream into something wonderfully warm and nutty.
English-style clotted cream is quite simple to make at home if you can get hold of unhomogenized milk and cream. It is not true (though often asserted) that the real thing depends on unpasteurized milk. Unhomogenized milk is the key, since its comparatively large milkfat globules easily come together in a good substantial body. The few people who can get milk from Jersey or Guernsey cows are the luckiest, because the milkfat globules are larger than in the milk of other breeds and the cream almost begs to form a rich clot. (Devotees of the stuff can be spotted by the fact that they find the word “clot” poetic.)
In the English West Country, milk alone was traditionally used to make clotted cream, but you must remember that it was milk from very backward cows that knew no better than to give small amounts of very rich milk. The best plan today (for those lacking their own Jersey cow) is a combination of unhomogenized milk and cream, in the ratio of 1 cup cream to 1 quart milk. You can make a stab at clotted cream with homogenized whole milk and heavy cream, but the separation will be less complete and the yield more meager.
I don’t recommend making clotted cream with less than about 1 to 1½ quarts of milk (that is, milk-cream mixture), because under the best of circumstances you won’t get much more than a cup of clotted cream per quart. (I find a two-quart batch best.) You will need a wide, shallow nonreactive skillet or sauté pan that will hold the milk without spilling when moved from one spot to another. If you have two suitable pans you can distribute the milk between them. But note that you’ll have to clear space in the refrigerator for the postcooking phase, which may complicate the planning with two pans. An instant-reading thermometer is a help.
YIELD: About 1 cup clotted cream, 4 cups leftover milk for each starting quart of milk and cup of cream (Results will vary depending on the quality of the milk and how long it heats.)
1 or 2 quarts unhomogenized milk
1 or 2 cups nonultrapasteurized heavy cream, preferably unhomogenized
Combine the milk and cream in a shallow nonreactive pan (see above), preferably one with a heavy bottom. Let it stand at least 12 hours, loosely covered, in a cool room. Lacking a fairly cool room, you can use the refrigerator, but the milk won’t clot as firmly; increase the standing time to 16 to 24 hours or until the cream layer is well defined.
Set a Flame Tamer or other heat-diffusing device on a stove bur
ner, and very carefully set the pan of milk on it over the lowest possible heat. (If put directly on a burner the milk may boil, which ruins the gradual coagulation process.)
Watch the pan closely through the various heating stages. The slower the process the better. First you will see tiny beads of fat appearing around the rim of the pan. Then small blistery stipplings will form just under the surface, which will begin to look filmy. Eventually the surface will acquire a yellow cast and begin to wrinkle, then coalesce into a more deeply and completely wrinkled crust. The milk will take on a faintly cheesy smell. The temperature, meanwhile, must reach something between 140° and 180°F, and has to remain in that range long enough to encourage the maximum amount of clotting. If you snatch the pan from the stove as soon as you see wrinkles, you will end up with less cream. Try to keep it within the right zone for about 4 hours. (I’m skeptical of people who say they can make clotted cream in half an hour.)
Very, very carefully remove the pan from the heat, and let cool to room temperature before sliding it into the refrigerator and leaving it for at least 8 hours, preferably overnight; the clot will not firm up until it is deeply chilled. With a slotted spoon, spatula, or anything else that will work, gently lift the thick yellow crust into a small bowl, letting the residual milk drain back into the pan.
Part of the clotted cream will be firm, part slightly fluid. You can gently stir it together to even out the contrast, but I like it as is. It will keep in the refrigerator, tightly covered, for 5 to 7 days. Proudly serve it on biscuits, scones, toast, bread, or anything else that takes your fancy. It is a glorious partner to fresh fruit, and perhaps even better with compotes or stewed dried fruit.
Going through a two- or three-day process for far less cream than milk may sound like a spendthrift idea, but the leftover milk is actually lovely for such purposes as scalloped potatoes and chowders. It also makes absolutely wonderful rice pudding.
MASCARPONE
Mascarpone originated close to the Lombard city of Lodi. Technically it is one of the noncheese cheeses, like Indian panir, made by simple acidification instead of lactic-acid fermentation or enzymatic action. The cheap and handy original acidulant was tartaric acid from the tartar that crystallizes out of wine onto barrel walls during the aging process. Cream of tartar, a potassium salt of tartaric acid that is available today in most supermarkets, ought to be just as good, but I have never had success using it. I get good results with the other common acidulant for mascarpone—citric acid, the “sour salt” that once flavored some versions of borshch. Look for it in health-food stores or markets catering to a Jewish clientele, and also in some Indian and Turkish groceries. Its advantage over such agents as vinegar or lemon juice is that a very small amount will both curdle the cream and add a suggestion of pleasant, neutral tartness free of other distracting notes. The flavor you want is lightly cooked (not boiled) cream with a delicate hint of acid.
This beautiful quasi-cheese would be a cinch to make if one could find the right sort of cream—which isn’t a cinch. Plain heavy cream when chilled yields a result I don’t care for, clayey rather than silky. Most half-and-half won’t set up. The best choice would be cream with about 20 to 25 percent milkfat, nonultrapasteurized and if possible unhomogenized. Some old-fashioned “light cream” fits the bill. Otherwise, use a combination of heavy cream and half-and-half matching the consistency of light cream. I use 2 cups each of half-and-half and heavy cream. (But note that the name “half-and-half” covers products of varied milkfat percentages in different areas; depending on where you live, you may have to experiment with other proportions.)
The uses of mascarpone, beyond the familiar tiramisù, are legion. I love it with dried or fresh fruit, but even more in savory contexts. Try eating it on bread with salt. Or put a dab each of mascarpone and Gorgonzola on bread or crackers for an improvement on the commercial version called torta. In The World of Cheese, the late Evan Jones described mascarpone in the Trieste region being given something like the Liptauer cheese treatment. This sounds like a wonderful avenue to explore.
YIELD: About 2½ to 3 cups mascarpone, 1 to ½ cups whey (Proportions will vary with the milkfat content of the cream.)
1 quart nonultrapasteurized cream, either all light cream or equal amounts of half-and-half and heavy cream
½ teaspoon citric acid (see above)
You will need a double boiler or an equivalent arrangement such as a stainless-steel bowl fitted over a saucepan of water. Start the water warming over medium-low heat. Pour the cream into the top part or bowl and let it slowly heat to about 185°F, checking the temperature at intervals on an instant-read thermometer.
When the temperature reaches 185°F, turn off the heat. Stir in the citric acid and let stand until you see the cream turning decidedly thicker. If this doesn’t happen, very gently stir in another pinch of citric acid.
Have ready a colander lined with tight-woven cheesecloth or a large cotton handkerchief, set over a large bowl. Carefully pour the contents of the top vessel into the colander, and let drain until the whey is barely dripping. Refrigerate the colander arrangement for 8 to 12 hours—having, I hope, first removed anything smelly from the refrigerator.
Turn the mascarpone out into a mixing bowl and beat it smooth with a wooden spoon before packing it into a clean container. It will keep, tightly covered, for 4 to 5 days in the refrigerator.
NEW ENGLANDISH CLAM CHOWDER
Any claim to present an “authentic” New England clam chowder is a sure way to start a fight about a dish that has had some serious career changes over the years. Today we all associate it with a soul-satisfying hot milk–based soup enriched with salt pork and full of clams and potatoes. But American chowder in general—the word “chowder” probably comes from a Norman-Breton fish soup called chaudrée and the idea seems to go back to eighteenth-century English, French, and North American coast dwellers—seems not to have started off as either a milk-based soup or a soup at all.
Early versions suggest a one-pot meal made by arranging layers of sliced salt pork, cut-up fish, and ship’s biscuits (for thickening) in a pot with some seasoning like onion, adding enough water to cover the ingredients, and simmering the whole thing for an hour until the elements melded into a hearty dish. In the course of the nineteenth century two innovations appeared: the addition of potatoes to the layered ingredients and, starting around the middle of the century, the use of milk to replace all or part of the water—eventually, enough milk to convert the dish into a soup.
I would guess that milk came into the picture in this dish—as it did in much of our cooking—along with the nineteenth-century rise of a specialized dairy industry in the northeastern United States. In any event, the layering idea gradually disappeared along with the ship’s biscuit; New Englanders came to understand “chowder” as a soup made of milk; and the hand-cranked meat grinders that appeared in many households after about 1880 were called into play to grind up the salt pork, onions, and clams before they went into the pot. Awful things happened a few generations after that, eventually leading to the sort of restaurant incarnation that may be almost any hot soup with a clam or two, enough milk to make it white, and enough flour and potatoes to make it nearly solid enough to walk on.
My favorite clam chowder is simply the kind that was considered old-fashioned in my youth. It should have a certain rockbound plainness; I like it more milky than creamy, and innocent of any seasonings fancier than maybe a bay leaf or some thyme. I thicken it with nothing but the potatoes. If you feel strongly about having it thicker, make up 2 to 3 teaspoons of beurre manié (see this page), whisk it into the hot milk, and cook for a couple of minutes until it thickens.
YIELD: About 6 servings
30 large hardshell clams (quahogs or chowder clams)
2 ounces salt pork, cut into matchstick-sized pieces
1 large onion, cut into medium-sized dice
2 large potatoes (I prefer a mealy type), peeled and cut into medium-large dice
1 cup whole milk
1 cup cream, either all half-and-half or part half-and-half and part heavy cream
Freshly ground pepper to taste
Minced parsley for garnish
Shuck the clams or have them shucked by the fishmonger; save the liquor. Rinse away any grit, coarsely chop the clams, and strain the liquor through a cheesecloth-lined strainer.
Put the salt pork in a small soup kettle or large, deep saucepan over medium heat to render out the fat. Cook for 8 to 10 minutes, stirring occasionally, until browned and crisp but not burnt. Scoop the fried bits out of the hot fat and drain on paper towels.
Add the onion to the fat and sauté it over medium heat, stirring occasionally, until translucent. Add the diced potatoes and the strained liquor from the clams. Bring to a boil and cook over medium heat until the potatoes are almost soft enough to disintegrate, about 15 minutes. Mash the potatoes slightly with a wooden spoon (most should still be intact; some will half-dissolve into the cooking liquid).
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