Milk

by Anne Mendelson

  LEMON CURD

  A few years ago Regina Schrambling wrote a piece for the Los Angeles Times food section announcing that she couldn’t understand why people swoon over killer chocolate desserts when such a thing as lemon curd exists on this earth. A woman after my own heart! Like Regina, I was born without the chocolate gene—but put me in front of anything made with lemon curd and I go wild. For me, it’s the most magical application of the custard principle that enables egg yolks to thicken a liquid (here, lemon juice) in the presence of heat.

  Lemon “curd,” which technically isn’t a curd, contains neither milk nor cream. The eggs are coaxed to maximum thickening power, without turning into a grainy mass, through an acid-sugar combination that allows the egg protein to coagulate smoothly without breaking, and to emulsify with melted butter at a higher temperature than is possible with most egg-based emulsions. The flavors of the result are simultaneously buttery, sweet, sharp, and silky, all fused into one angelic whole. And it is amazingly easy to make, far easier than any milk- or cream-based egg custard. The one technical necessity is a double boiler or some equivalent arrangement.

  Lemon curd is the best of all fillings for a Lemon Tart and marvelous in layer cakes. It also makes a glorious mousse when whisked together with whipped cream (in any proportion you want), an excellent topping for bar cookies, a magnificent breakfast jam for toast or scones, or—all by itself—a piece of shameless indulgence for anyone equipped with a spoon. It would also be a natural for the old Southern “pinch pie” or “angel pie,” which consists of a baked meringue shell (voilà—a fine destination for the leftover egg whites) with a rich filling such as ice cream or lemon custard. On occasion I have successfully improvised a sort of trifle using lemon curd and day-old angel food cake (another use for the egg whites).

  I always make a large (3-cup) batch using only egg yolks; other people may want to halve the recipe or use whole eggs. Note that the number of lemons needed for a given amount of juice varies phenomenally between different seasons of the year. You will need more in summer, fewer at the height of the winter citrus season. Some people prefer to use much more lemon zest, not peeled in strips but finely grated and added directly to the curd after it has been cooked and strained.

  YIELD: About 3 cups

  12 tablespoons unsalted butter (1½ sticks), cut into small bits

  12 large egg yolks or 6 large eggs

  A pinch of salt

  1⅓ cups sugar

  ⅔ to ¾ cup freshly squeezed lemon juice, from 3 to 4 (in winter) or 7 to 8 (in summer) large lemons

  Zest of 2 lemons, peeled off in strips

  Melt the butter in a double boiler over simmering water; whisk in the other ingredients and cook, stirring or whisking constantly, for 15 to 20 minutes, until the mixture thickens enough to coat a spoon. Pour the curd through a fine-mesh strainer into a heatproof bowl, and let it cool with a sheet of plastic wrap pressed over the surface (to prevent a skin from forming). It will keep in the refrigerator, tightly covered, for three to four days.

  VARIATION(S): For Lime Curd, use limes instead of lemons. Any citrus juice will work, though with orange juice you should slightly reduce the amount of sugar. In fact, you can make this from just about any tart, fresh fruit juice.

  ABOUT BUTTER IN PASTRY

  I’m reluctant to give advice about things that I never make myself, and this is why bakers will find no recipes here for butter cakes or butter cookies. On the other hand, I do occasionally make pastry—not the tour-de-force kinds like puff pastry or strudel dough, but simple versions for pies and tarts. And no lover of these could live without butter.

  From a flavor standpoint, butter is the ideal fat for pastry. But the technical standpoint is another matter. The very complexities that make butter a wonderful partner for flour in sauces have difficult effects on its interactions with flour in pastry doughs.

  When you work butter into a dough at ordinary room temperatures, it will perform its usual subtle transitions between the solid and melted states—unfortunately meaning that some of the fat will prematurely melt into the flour particles while the rest is still solid enough to simply coat them from outside. It’s the external coating action that’s important for tender, flaky pastries such as the kind used for American pies. The thin shielding of fat retards the development of gluten during the initial mixing of the dough. There is the added problem of water content in butter. It comes mostly from the dispersed buttermilk droplets, but sometimes also from rinsing water that wasn’t completely expelled in the final working of commercial butter. The leakage of fat and water into the flour is what often makes all-butter pastry brittle, tough, or both.

  Lard and partially hydrogenated shortenings don’t share these disadvantages. In the first place, they liquefy more uniformly and at higher temperatures than butter, so that melting can be delayed until the pastry actually goes into the oven. They also contain virtually a hundred percent fat, and so have no water to release into the dough and throw off a cook’s calculations about how much water to add in mixing. Shortenings like Crisco have long been the mainstay of cooks devoted to the goal of tender, flaky American-style pie crust. (I don’t know whether recent reformulations to eliminate trans fatty acids have changed these products’ baking qualities.) A few, like me, rely on a combination of butter and lard to offset the problems inherent in using butter alone.

  But there’s another family of pastry doughs in which butter is not only the best but the only fat you can use: the very fine-textured, almost shortbreadlike ones such as French pâte brisée and German Mürbeteig. Higher in fat content than American pie doughs, they start with butter being worked into dry ingredients in rather coarse bits at as cold a temperature as possible. A small amount of water with or without some other liquid (egg yolk is the most usual for pâte brisée) is then added, and the dough loosely gathered together in a mass. It is now ready for the crucial stage of fraisage—in this context, something like “rumpling.” Fraisage is accomplished by rapidly and firmly smearing the dough across the work surface with the heel of your hand in order to amalgamate the fat and flour very closely. The dough is then chilled for at least an hour (preferably longer) before the final rolling out. Pastry made by this method is simultaneously firm and crumbly, with just enough gluten development to hold together. And it practically sings of the butter that went into it.

  Some version of pâte brisée is the backbone of classic French tart shells. For savory tarts like quiche, the pastry is usually unsweetened or made with only a tiny bit of sugar. For dessert tarts it can be sweetened or not. The reason for adding sugar is not only flavor but ease of working; it tends to inhibit the development of gluten and lets the cook handle the dough more swiftly and decisively without causing the pastry to toughen. Moderately sweetened pâte brisée is usually called pâte sucrée. An especially crumbly version, pâte sablée, uses more sugar for a more cookie-like effect.

  BASIC PTE BRISÉE

  It is important to start out with very cold butter and take all precautions against letting it get warm and greasy. Have the kitchen as cool as possible while you work. To mix the dough ingredients, handle them as little as you can and use only your fingertips or a pastry blender.

  If possible, use unsalted butter (salted butter often retains more water after churning) with a butterfat score of at least 83 to 85 percent.

  YIELD: Enough for a 9- or 10-inch tart

  1¼ cups all-purpose flour

  ¼ teaspoon salt

  2 teaspoons sugar (optional)

  1 stick (¼ pound, 8 tablespoons) unsalted butter, cut into bits no larger than ½ inch

  1 large egg yolk

  1 to 2 tablespoons ice water, or as necessary

  Sift the flour, salt, and sugar (if using) onto a work surface or into a large bowl. Make a well in the center and put the butter into it. Work the butter into the flour with your fingertips or a pastry blender, gradually sweeping everything from the edges of the well toward the center as the mi
xture starts to come together. Add the egg yolk, thinned with 1 to 2 teaspoons of the ice water; quickly work it into the flour and butter until you have a loose dough. Add just as much more ice water, a teaspoon at a time, as you need to make the dough hold together. Put the dough on a lightly floured work surface. Working with a little at a time, use the heel of your hand to push the dough straight away from you with a strong, rapid pressure that nearly mashes it into the work surface. You are trying to eliminate lumps of butter and make the texture somewhat smoother than for an American flaky pastry.

  When you have finished this stage, gather the dough up into a ball. Flatten this into a 5- to 6-inch disk, quickly rounding off the edges as evenly as possible. Wrap the dough in plastic wrap and refrigerate for at least 2 hours, preferably longer.

  Put the chilled dough on a lightly floured work surface or pastry cloth. Whacking it a few times with a rolling pin may make it cooperate more in the next stage: Roll it out into an 11- or 12-inch circle. Carefully lift the sheet of dough to a 9- or 10-inch tart pan with a removable bottom. Ease it into the pan as gently as you can; press to anchor the base and sides firmly to the bottom and rim of the pan. Trim away the excess of dough from the edges, leaving at least a ½-inch overhang that you can press to the sides.

  Use a fork to prick the bottom and sides of the pastry shell all over. It is now ready to use in recipes from any cookbook that call for a shortcrust tart shell. Consult particular cookbooks to decide whether to use the crust as is or to give it a preliminary “blind” baking. It is the ideal crust for Lemon Tart.

  VARIATION: For Pâte Sucrée, use 3 to 4 tablespoons sugar and proceed as directed.

  NINETEENTH-CENTURY GERMAN BUTTER CASK

  LEMON TART

  Possibly the most elegant use to which lemon curd can be put.

  YIELD: A 9- or 10-inch tart

  1 recipe Pâte Brisée or Pâte Sucrée (this page and this page)

  1 recipe (3 cups) Lemon Curd

  Prepare the pastry and fit it into a tart pan as directed. Prick the bottom and sides all over with a fork while preheating the oven to 400°F. Line the pastry shell with a round of parchment paper or aluminum foil and add several cups of something that will weigh it down without imparting peculiar flavors—dry beans or lentils, rice, ceramic pastry weights. Bake it for 10 to 12 minutes to set the pastry. (Either a pie-crust shield or a narrow band of aluminum foil carefully crimped around the rim of the pan is a great help in preventing the edges from burning.) Remove from the oven, and reduce the oven temperature to 375°F.

  Take out whatever baking weights you used and let the partly baked tart shell cool to room temperature. Brush the bottom and sides with lightly whisked egg white thinned with a tablespoon or so of water. Pour in the lemon curd and bake for 25 to 30 minutes. Remove from the oven and let cool to room temperature.

  There are various currently popular ways of finishing and serving a lemon tart; most kitchen bibles today will have some suggestions. My own strong preference is to simply let it cool thoroughly, cover (or dot) the top with plain whipped cream, and set to chill thoroughly in the refrigerator. Let warm up not quite to room temperature before serving.

  CANADIAN BUTTER TARTS

  I didn’t know anything about Canadian butter tarts until I happened to be in the vicinity of Toronto about two years ago. One bite, and I wondered why they haven’t become a mad passion here, as they certainly are north of the border.

  The general idea is very simple: Line small tartlet pans with any preferred pie or tart crust pastry and fill them with a delectable butter-based custard somewhat resembling pecan pie or other “sugar pie” fillings; bake until the filling is well set. In Ontario, butter tarts are often made with additions like plumped raisins or chopped nut meats (generally walnuts or pecans). I like them plain. The usual filling uses sugar (white or brown) and corn syrup (light or dark) combined with eggs and butter. Cane syrup is a nice substitute for corn syrup.

  Since I don’t have a set of tartlet pans, I use standard muffin tins with cups of about ½ cup capacity. Slight differences in depth and width between different models can affect the exact yield.

  YIELD: 18 to 20 individual tarts

  Pie or tart crust from any preferred recipe, enough for 1 double-crust or 2 single-crust pies or tarts (I like Pâte Brisée)

  3 eggs, lightly beaten

  1 cup white sugar or any preferred kind of dark sugar (light brown, dark brown, or unrefined)

  1 cup golden syrup, light corn syrup, or dark corn syrup

  ⅓ cup butter, barely melted

  ¼ teaspoon salt

  1 to 2 teaspoons pure vanilla extract, rum, or rye whiskey

  Make and chill the pastry according to your chosen recipe. When you are ready to bake, preheat the oven to 400°F. Roll out the dough about ⅛ inch thick (a tiny bit thicker for Pâte Brisée). Use a round cookie or vegetable cutter to cut it into circles about 4 inches in diameter. Fit and pat these into muffin tin cups; don’t worry if they look a little misshapen.

  Beat all the filling ingredients into the eggs to combine smoothly.

  Pour about ¼ cup of the filling into each tart shell, topping it up as evenly as possible with what’s left over. Bake for 15 to 20 minutes, or until the filling is set and slightly browned on top. Cool on a wire rack. Serve plain or—for an inauthentic touch—with whipped cream.

  FRESH CHEESES (INCLUDING BRINED CHEESES)

  Introduction

  Sorting Out Names and Cheeses

  About Brined Cheeses

  Getting Organized for Cheesemaking

  Fresh White Cheese: Kindergarten Version

  Fresh White Cheese with Cultures

  Fresh White Cheese with Cultures and Rennet

  About Cream Cheese

  Cream Cheese: Creamy

  Cream Cheese: Light

  Cervelle de Canut

  Cream Cheese–Scallion Dip

  About Liptauer Cheese

  Liptauer Cheese I

  Liptauer Cheese II

  Tyrokafteri or Htipiti (Whipped Feta-Cheese Spread)

  Syrniki or Tvorozhniki (Russian Pot-Cheese Fritters)

  Savory Lokshen Kugel (Noodle Pudding)

  Non-Nursery Junket

  Paskha (Russian Easter Dessert)

  Uses of Whey

  Bulgur Pilaf with Whey

  Fresh cheese is one of those things that nobody had to “invent.” It undoubtedly invented itself many times over in the original dairying lands that I call the Diverse Sources Belt—and later just as often in other regions—when someone let soured milk sit around too long for drinking. Sooner or later it would have become two substances, one of which could be progressively drained off to leave the other more and more solid. Before draining, it was curds and whey; afterward, the first version of fresh cheese.

  The first cheeses were from sheep’s and goat’s milk. Other animals—chiefly camels, cattle, and water buffaloes—got in on the act later in different reaches of the Diverse Sources Belt. Eventually, cheesemaking would spread to northerly Old World climates—but not the biggest southerly dairying region, the Indian subcontinent. The closest Indian counterparts of cheese, chhenna and panir, lack the main elements that give true cheeses their curd structure: fermentation by lactic-acid bacteria and/or coagulation by enzymes.

  Fresh cheeses produced by one or both of these means gradually proliferated through a wide geographical range, and other refinements appeared over time. They came to exist in a range of forms that defied logical classifications. At one time there were not only regional but neighborhood-to-neighborhood or household-to-household variations. Even today, when most of this diversity has been ironed out, it is difficult to line up fresh cheeses in strict categories. One type has a way of shading subtly into others.

  The two main ways of turning milk into curd have both existed since prehistoric times. The older was bacterial fermentation—a prolonged version of the process responsible for the earliest counterparts of yogurt. What happens part
ly resembles what happens in a nursing infant’s stomach where acid is being secreted: Lactic-acid fermentation eventually creates a low enough pH (or high enough acidity) to knock out the negative electric charge that keeps casein particles separated from each other in fresh milk. As they become free to precipitate, or start coming together in a body, the milk first takes on the consistency of thin yogurt and then, with increasing acidity, forms a defined curd with somewhat more distinct separation from the whey.

  The second means of curd formation also mimics something that happens in actual digestion—at least, digestion of mothers’ milk by nursing infants. Much of the business is carried out by enzymes specifically tailored to reconfigure casein—the most important source of protein in milk—so that it will be more slowly, complexly, and completely absorbed than if the enzymes weren’t there. After weaning there is a general rearrangement of digestive enzymes, with the original milk-digesting ones ceasing to be produced. In infant ruminants like lambs, kids, and calves, there is another wrinkle: Unlike adults, they receive food straight into the fourth stomach, or abomasum (see this page), bypassing the three other ruminant stomach chambers that will take over digestion when they are old enough to eat grass.

  The milk-digesting enzyme secreted by the lining of the abomasum is chymosin (“rennin” in older sources, but latterly rechristened). It snips off certain parts of the casein micelle more neatly and predictably than acid alone, though actually it is better activated in the presence of digestive acids. The newly pruned casein particles gather together in a firm curd that can be digested in gradual stages.

  How did people first learn about this mysterious milk transformer? Our best guess is that someone either inadvertently discovered the curdled contents of a young lamb’s or kid’s stomach bag in butchering the animal or tried using the bag as a container for previously drawn milk and found that the milk had turned into something else. In any case, long before classical times the layer of tissue that produced the effect had become a prized cheesemaking resource, and remains so to this day under the name of “rennet.”