The Lost Art of Real Cooking (& Lacto-Fermented Jicama Pickles)

The Lost Art of Real Cooking is a real book! You can get it here.

Yesterday, I got off the train from Oregon and just like that, all of a sudden, I was a published author. I was also tired, smelly, grumbling at the fog, and oddly nervous.

Is it odd to be nervous about book releases? Particularly, cookbook releases? It's not like I've just published The Collected Love Letters of Thirteen-Year-Old Rosanna (which, incidentally, would be a longer book than I'd like to admit). But still, reading over this cookbook, I find myself thinking, "I said that? But it's so opinionated! How bold!" and I shiver. Not that I don't hold those opinions, of course. But I've had a bit too much practice actively suppressing my opinions in the short-sighted belief that they would only stir up contention if I uttered them. I was nervous. I sidestepped controversy, nodded and said "hmm." I was afraid of being engaged. And now, there's a permanent record of my cooking opinions, in a book! So I'm nervous.

If only I had so actively suppressed my romantic opinions at the age of thirteen.

Certainly it's not very odd to be nervous about live radio interviews. Can you conceive of something more nightmare-and-fever-inducing to an introvert than a live radio interview? It's like talking on the telephone. Times a billion. Of course it's always worth it afterwards, when I'm glowing in the knowledge that the gracious interviewer was actually interested in my book and what I had to say, and that there were many stupid things I could have done and said but didn't. Then I play the interviews back, and notice how my voice sounds so girly and breathless, and wish all over again that I were one of those people who can be effortlessly warm and funny at once.

Like Ken, my co-author. You should listen to an interview he did for Good Food on KCRW today. You can find it here, sometime in the future when it airs.

Now I'm wondering if I'm supposed to confess this timidity, or not! I should be bold and forthright, shouldn't I?

Here's something decidedly bold: jicama pickles! I've only ever had vinegar-pickled jicama before, but it was good enough to convince me that lacto-fermented jicama pickles would be sublime. (It is one of my opinions that lacto-fermented pickles are superior to their vinegar equivalents.)

It took them almost a month to ferment at cold room temperature, but as soon as I got back from [sigh] Oregon, I stuck my nose in the crock and was rewarded with the beautiful aroma of mature lacto-fermentation. They had a little mold growth, which I skimmed off before ladling them into a jar for refrigerator storage. They're delicious right now -- snappy crisp, briny -- but I know they'll only improve as they age in the fridge.

There is one problem. Jicama is a starchy vegetable. The starch from the cut jicama has dissolved into the brine, turning it milky and unpleasantly viscous. Perhaps I should have rinsed the jicama very well after I cut it, to wash off its external starches. Without trying that method, I'm suspicious that more starches would have simply seeped out during fermentation. Or perhaps I should rinse the pickles now, before serving. But that makes me sad, because usually I treasure the brine nearly as much as the pickles (there's nothing like brine in a salad dressing!). Perhaps after I eat the pickles the starches will settle, and I can decant or siphon some clear brine off the top.

Jicama Pickles

Take two or three large jicamas. Clean and peel them and cut out any bad spots. Cut them into sticks about 1/4" wide. (Here you might try rinsing them.) Peel several cloves of garlic and pick the stems from a couple of dried chilies. Pack everything into a medium-sized crock. Mix a tablespoon of salt with a cup or two of water. Pour the water over the cut jicama just until it covers it. Place a clean, flat-bottomed weight inside the crock on top of the jicama. A half-gallon jar filled with water works well, depending on the size of your crock. The closer your weight comes to the edge of the crock, the better (air exposure = a place for mold to grow). Cover everything with a tea towel or layered cheesecloth to keep out bugs, and secure with a rubber band.

Put the crock in a dark, warmish place. Here in San Francisco, that means the cupboard over my refrigerator. If you're anywhere else that actually has a summer, you should probably seek out a relatively cool place. For the next few weeks, check on your pickles every so often. Skim off any visible mold and let them ferment until they start to smell like pickles. Transfer them to a quart jar, pour the brine overtop, and refrigerate. You can eat them now, or let them keep curing. They will only get better.

Sauerkraut

Oh, cabbage. Your vitamin C saved sailors from scurvy. You fueled the conversation between the Walrus and the Carpenter. You were Roman bar food. You inspired a line of cute dolls my parents never bought me. The Chinese pickled you back when they were building the Great Wall. The Tartars took the pickling idea west, where it thrived in places like the market down the street from me in Hungary (where three competing pickle-ladies offered me abundant free samples), and in Germany where my ancestors hid in caves and anabaptized each other with sauerkraut. Nowadays I can't eat pork chops without craving a little something tangy and wrinkled and gray.

So today we made sauerkraut --the oldfashioned, non-vinegar kind that bubbles away in a dark cupboard. I slivered it thin while W. Crawford smashed it with his fists. I added half a cup of whey and two tablespoons of coarse sea salt (double the salt if you don't have whey), and packed it in two peanut butter jars, which hold more than a quart each. With the juices covering the cabbage shreds, we screwed on the lids and set them to bubble away in the cupboard -- along with another quart of yogurt suspended in cheese cloth to make more whey for next time. The plan is to make sauerkraut once a week, so that we have a steady supply. It takes several days at room temperature, and then several months in cold storage to reach its full flavor potential -- though we shall undoubtedly consume at least one jar within the next 72 hours.

In Which I Make Whey for Pear Chutney

So I quit my job at the law firm. Now I have time to catch up on some mending and tackle the pears. First item: lacto-fermented pear chutney. Lacto-fermentation is the traditional way to preserve pickles and sausages using lactobacillus bacteria. Frankly, I can't pass up the chance to make the little guys do my bidding. They do it so well, producing lactic acid to aid digestion and populating intestinal tracts with little colonies of health.

I started with a quart of good yogurt, which I poured into a nest of cheesecloth rubberbanded to the rim of a large Adams peanut butter jar. I buy Adams just for the jars, which hold more than a quart and have no neck, making them perfect sprouting, pickling and cheesemaking crocks. After enough lacto-laden whey had percolated through, I mixed it with lemon juice, lemon zest, water, rapadura sugar, spices, and raisins, and poured it all over the pears. Now they get to bubble, bubble away in the cupboard.

It's wonderfully witchy to line my cupboard with jars of living, fermenting things, but it also satisfies a certain nurturing instinct of mine -- the same instinct that makes it difficult for me to resist snatching small children and rearing them tenderly as my own. Think how endangered all your children would be if I weren't fermenting my pears!