Raspberry sorbet using invert sugar

The last time I was at Pizzeria Mozza I sat at the bar, stuffed full of tricolore salad and pizza, unable to stop eating the mango and passion fruit sorbets in front of me. I’ve had Dahlia’s gelatos and sorbets hundreds of times, I even watched them being made when the machine first arrived, but this time I was mesmerized. As I lifted the spoon to my mouth time after time I just kept wondering, how in the world did she get them so creamy?

When I had the good fortune of running into Dahlia at a party just a couple weeks later I asked. The answer, apparently, is simple: invert sugar.

Now I admit to geeking out on the science of cooking now and then—I’ve got a soft spot for Alton Brown’s brand of nerdiness—but invert sugar sounds like molecular gastronomy to me. I just like making things from scratch. Nonetheless I was intrigued. Could this one thing really truly improve the texture of my sorbet that much? I had to find out.

Apparently invert sugar really isn’t that high up on the technical scale. It’s made by taking traditional sugar and using an acid—lemon juice, cream of tartar, citric acid—and heat to break the sucrose into equal parts fructose and glucose dissolved in water. The resulting syrup crystallizes more slowly than regular sugar, giving the product it is added to a softer, creamier texture.

While you can buy invert sugar (try Surfas or Gloria’s Cake & Candy Supply in Los Angeles), I decided I wanted to make it myself. (Did I mention I like to make things from scratch?) I had trouble finding a recipe, though, so I decided to experiment. I combined one cup of water, one cup of sugar and ¼ teaspoon of citric acid and simmered it for about 30 minutes and then let it cool.

With my experimental invert sugar on hand, I rinsed off the tart, sweet raspberries I picked with my family at Underwood Family Farms in Simi Valley and ran them through the food processor and then through a fine sieve to get out all the seeds. Some water, the invert sugar and chill time later I found myself scooping out the creamiest, most luscious-textured sorbet I’d made to date, like velvet across the tongue. Even after a few days in the freezer the sorbet, which usually hardens into a block of ice, stayed soft and scoopable. Next up, sugar plum sorbet…inverted of course.

Raspberry Sorbet

4 cups fresh raspberries
1 cup water
1 batch invert sugar*

*invert sugar – 1 cup water, 1 cup sugar, ¼ teaspoon citric acid or cream of tartar, simmered for 30 minutes and then cooled.

Puree the raspberries in a blender or food processor. Push through a sieve with the back of a spoon to remove the seeds. Add one cup of water and the invert sugar to the raspberry puree. Stir and refrigerated until thoroughly chilled (about 8 hours). Freeze according to your ice cream maker’s instructions.

Excuse my dusty cliché, but man does time fly. It’s been more than a month since I’ve written anything here, a month of living by the beach, trying to remember where I put things in my urgency to just get unpacked already, and now it seems that summer is waning with the moon. I’m sorry for my absence; not writing here feels like not talking to your best friend for too long.

But it’s not like I haven’t been writing at all, which is why it’s been a little hard to get back into the groove. In fact, I’ve been keeping up my column for the LA Weekly’s blog, Squid Ink, with stories about lobster trap escape hatches, food stamps at farmers markets, egg safety regulations, sugar shortages, Eat-Ins and farmers market celebrations. And I’ve been cooking, just a little bit, trying to figure out my oven on the not-so-hot days, but mostly making ice cream.

I find the clicking and whirring sounds of the Cuisinart ice cream maker that Matt and Adam lent me quite comforting, a musical interlude before a delightful frozen treat, and I use it every chance I get. The recipe I’ve been working on lately was inspired by the musty, piquant Yerba Buena mint Lily had at her herb stand a few weeks ago. Standing there with Foodwoolf, my face buried in the mint taking long deep breaths, I imagined the aroma interacting with something spicy, something sultry. Chocolate. Chile. Mint.

It took a couple of tries, but the chocolate-chile-mint ice cream I envisioned that day finally came together. Neal and I are still pecking away at the first batch, where I used to crushed chile flakes. The heat in that ice cream was all front-of-the-palate, and it built so that it was a little hard to eat when you got to the bottom of the bowl. I liked the mint element, which was cooling, but there seemed to be a big hole in the middle, like donut, followed by the rich, coating quality of 85 percent Scharffenberger chocolate.

For the second batch, I searched for Fresno chiles, thinking their sweet heat might give the ice cream a rounder flavor. But then I remembered the Ibarra in my cabinet and the smoky, cinnamon-spiced heat that makes Mexican hot chocolate so intriguing. So I opted for the full-flavored ancho chile powder in my cabinet instead, added some fresh-grated Vietnamese cinnamon and toned down the bitterness on the chocolate using 70% Scharffenberger. To quote my friend Bryan, whose wife was a recipient of the first successful batch: “OMG that ice cream you made and brought is absolutely FABULOUS.  Jia-Rui (his wife) woke up talking about it this morning and I just tasted it… OMG. So damn good.”

I think you’ll feel the same way. I loved it, and I don’t even like chocolate that much.

Chocolate Chile Mint Ice Cream

2 cups heavy creamy
¾ cup sugar
3 springs Yerba Buena mint (can substitute spearmint or peppermint), chopped
5 tbsp unsweetened Dutch-process cocoa powder
3 oz chopped 70% cocoa Scharffenberger chocolate or other bittersweet, high-quality chocolate
pinch of salt
1 tsp fresh ground Vietnamese cinnamon
2 tsp ancho chile powder
1 ½ cups whole milk

Heat cream and sugar in a medium saucepan until the sugar dissolves. Add mint and let steep for 30 minutes. Re-warm and whisk in cocoa powder, trying to break up lumps. Bring mixture to a rolling boil and then remove from heat.

Slowly stir in chopped chocolate until fully melted. Add salt, cinnamon and chile powder. Stir until combined. Stir in whole milk. Pour into a storage container and chill overnight.

Strain out mint and freeze according to your ice cream maker’s instructions.

Red Rock Crab

Call me naïve, but I really didn’t expect the fish smell to last that long. But with this morning’s shower, I have finally managed to remove the last olfactory remnants of chum and seaweed and fish guts lingering in my hair and on my skin from Saturday’s crabbing trip in Santa Barbara. The story I was working on for EdibleLA won’t come out until the fall, but I was starting to worry that the salty, slightly fermented perfume might last that long too.

Paul Chopping Chum

Saturday’s trip was far from a pleasure cruise, not that I expected or wanted it to be. The Sea Fever, my subject John Wilson’s boat, is meant for one thing—catching crab and lobster. There is no bathroom, just a bucket in the small cabin down below, no running water to wash your face if you’re stomach is pitching with the sea, and no comfy chairs to sit and watch Roxy the Golden Retriever bark at the dolphins and seals playing around the boat as John and his deckhand Paul haul in another trap clammering with crab.

Neal came with me, grimacing across the bed through the last of the moonlight being cast through our bedroom window when the alarm went off at 4 a.m. Fueled by a pot of coffee, we flew up the coast to the Santa Barbara Harbor, stepping onto John’s 45-foot boat just after 6, the pale grey dawn pushing through the mists settled over the calm ocean. As we pulled out of the harbor, I asked if there was anything I could do to help. My offer was met by silence. As the boat rocked across the waves to the first crab trap I had to bury my urge to give into the building seasickness. I was on assignment. I couldn’t spend the day looking over the side. I braced myself, snapping pictures of our two-man crew preparing for the day’s work.

John Examining Crab

Unfortunately, Neal wasn’t so fortunate. He spent the entire morning running between the makeshift bed in the cabin where he splayed out, noise canceling headphones on his head, trying to keep the world steady, and the side of the boat, Roxy licking his hand sweetly. Around noon, up near the Gaviota pier, John offered to drop Neal off. All he had to do was jump about two and a half feet from the boat to a rope, avoid a couple of baby seals, and climb to land. He did it willingly, smiling for the first time all day as he waved goodbye from the steadiness of the old pier.

In the meantime, John and Paul hooked buoys along an invisible line, looping them around an industrial-sized reel that assisted in pulling 150 to 200 pounds of vinyl-coated steel and crab to the surface. The duo moved swiftly and efficiently, John sorting through the crab, tossing pregnant females and specimens whose shells were too soft (crab are molting this time of year) with a pitcher’s arm back into the drink. As the last crabs landed in a bucket, Paul placed a container stuffed with chopped mackerel and a halibut carcass back into the trap. When John found the spot he wanted to drop it back, they heaved it over the side, the orange buoys skimming the rolling waves as the rest drifted slowly back to the ocean floor—150, 160, 180 feet below the surface.

Paul Waiting to Cast a Trap

Between traps we talked. We talked about crabbing and lobster catching, fishing and the bureaucratic b.s. that makes a life at sea at combination of hard physical work, loneliness and politics. But to get all that you’ll have to read the EdibleLA piece this fall. Until then, here are a couple of photos of the day to whet your palate.

Roxy the Seafaring Dog Never Gets Seasick

Note: You can pick up gorgeous Red Rock crab like these, as well as Santa Barbara Yellow Rock crab, line-caught halibut and red snapper from John Wilson at the Hollywood Farmers’ Market on Sundays. John will also have Spiny Lobsters this fall.

Blueberry Lemon Verbena Ice Cream

“Nothin’ but blue skies for now on…”

Anyone who tells you Seasonal Affective Disorder is a load of crap should be subjected to a Pacific Northwest winter. Eugene, Oregon, where I went to graduate school, layered days upon days of glary, gossamer grey light. It’s not that it rained that much there. Don’t get me wrong, it rained. But the greyness was what was most oppressive, climate-coated  emotional shackles. I prefer the monotony of 300 days of sunshine. Blue skies, blue skies with puffy white clouds, blue skies and wind-whipped icicle cold air, as long as there’s sunshine, I’m happy.

Which is to say, that my least favorite month living in Southern California is June. The hazy, foggy mornings that fall under the umbrella of June Gloom are such a downer. I find it hard to wake up, hard to concentrate, hard to do anything but laze around and watch baseball. And since May Grey seems to precede June Gloom with more frequency than it used to, by half way through June I’m cranky as all get out. And by the behavior of my fellow Angelenos, I’d say it’s getting to them too.

Fortunately, I’ve learned that the shortest route to an attitude adjustment has to be ice cream. Take a crying kid and give her an ice cream cone and those tears quickly dissipate into a dirty-faced smile.  Take a curmudgeony grown-up on a hot, sticky day out for gelato and they’re bound to relax. So last week I decided to take my bad mood out for some ice cream.

Inspiration wasn’t too far off. As I was snapping pictures at the Hollywood Farmers’ market for my monthly contribution to Serious Eats’ Market Scene (which, incidentally, was about June Gloom too—there seems to be a theme here), I tried gorgeous tangy-sweet blueberries from Jimenez Family Farm, newcomers to the market. The navy blue orbs were like nature’s Pop Rocks, exploding with flavor that was surprising for this early in the season. Armed with blueberries, I wandered over to Lily’s herb stand and, sniffing around, discovered some lemon verbena. An herb native to South America, it has powerful lemony scent with just a hint of grassy undertones. It’s a nice complement to fruit salad, makes for a refreshing tisane and, I thought, would add a nice lemon quality to the ice cream without adding more acidity. When I told Lily what I was thinking she raised her dark eyebrows skeptically.

The combination of the fruit and the herb was the delightful, summery remedy I was looking for. And it’s cerulean color, tinged with purple, and its creamy richness would have to suffice for blue skies, at least until July.

Blueberry Lemon Verbena Ice Cream

2 cups whole milk
1 cup heavy cream
3/4 cup sugar
1 oz lemon verbena
12 oz blueberries, rinsed
pinch of salt
5 egg yolks

Stir together the blueberries, a pinch of salt and sugar in a medium saucepan over medium-low heat until the berries start to give up their liquid. Add sprigs of lemon verbena and let steep for about 45 minutes. Remove the lemon verbena and puree in a blender until smooth. Pour the blueberry mixture through a sieve to remove seeds and skins, then add back to the pot and stir in the milk over medium-low heat.

Pour the heavy cream into a medium bowl and set a strainer over it. Set aside.

In another medium bowl whisk your egg yolks until they’re smooth. Slowly pour the warmed blueberry mixture into the eggs, mixing constantly, to temper the yolks. (Do this too fast and you’ll end up with blueberry scrambled eggs.) Transfer the blueberry custard base back into your pot and heat again over medium-low until the mixture thickens slightly. You’ll know it’s ready when you can drag your finger through the batter on the back of a spoon or spatula and it doesn’t run together.

Pour batter through the strainer into the cream. Stir to combine, cover with plastic and chill overnight. Freeze according to your ice cream maker’s instructions.

I used to be one of those people who thought a wine had to be red to be good. But my first sticky-hot summer back in New York City—the kind that has you leaving trails of sweat behind like snail tracks—quickly changed my mind. My fifth floor walk-up on 97th Street had no air conditioning, just two little fans, each the size of a breadbox that blew the sweat around on your body like the drier in a car wash. So, on the hottest days, I stayed out until the sun went down, and my favorite thing to do was sit outside at ‘inoteca on the Lower East Side, sipping a glass of pale, crisp, Italian rosato.Italian rosato was nothing like my parents white Zinfandel. It wasn’t even a touch sweet. It was clean, slightly mineraly, kissed with summer fruit and was at least as refreshing as water until my third glass. But most importantly, it wasn’t heavy. Red wine on those nights was like over-stuffed luggage for the palate, and the weight and flavors all-to-often overwhelmed the lighter summer fare. From that rosato, which I believe was a Montepulciano d’Abruzzo, much like the one they’re pouring these days, it was an easy transition to the rosés of Southern France.

These days, I use “rosé season” as one of my seasonal markers, since the transition from spring into summer here in SoCal isn’t so distinct. At K&L, the pink wines start arriving in earnest sometime in mid-May, and they dominate the front section of the store by June. Of what we’ve recieved so far, one of my favorites is easily the 2008 Côtes de Provence Rosé, Saint André de Figuière “Vieilles Vignes.” Made from the Mourvèdre (50%) and equal parts Cinsault and Grenache, this wine tastes like what I imagine Provence to smell like, with its famed fields of lavender. In addition to musky lavender on the nose, there are hints of rose petals and ripe peaches that carry over to the palate. The fruit and acidity are seamlessly integrated on the palate, which has nice weight without being heavy. This is an elegant wine that I’m going to stock up on for grilled fish, bowls of summer berries, Hollywood Bowl outings and attempting to garden my three tiny window boxes on my three-foot-deep patio.

When I’m not drinking the Saint André, I’ll probably be drinking the best wine I’ve ever had from the Vinho Verde region of Portugal, the 2008 Ferreira “Soalheiro” Alvarinho Vinho Verde, Portugal. Unlike most wines from Vinho Verde, which taste a bit like flat Sprite, the Soalheiro captured me with its nose of muskmelon skin (that’s what we call cantaloupe here in the US), jasmine and limestone. Made entirely from Alvarinho (what the Spanish call Albariño) from a single vineyard, this is fermented dry and it shows on its lively palate, which still has a tiny bit of spritz to it, with flavors that mirror the aromas with just a little more fruit, lime blossom and lime zest. I tried this one evening with the importer, Luis Moya, who was contagiously passionate about the Spanish and Portuguese wines he was pouring, and I could easily see why. The wine’s acidity make it ideal for food, but it’s not so searing that you couldn’t enjoy a glass on its own.

Whether you drink these, or head over to your favorite wine retailer to try some others, I encourage you try some fun white and pink wines for the summer. Even if, like me, you think you only like red, you may be pleasantly surprised to find you enjoy much much more once you try something that isn’t over-oaked, syrupy Chardonnay. If you’re looking for more suggestions or have your own favorites, please comment!

Until then…Cin Cin.