Burnt Lumpia

A Bun in the Oven (& Some Ensaimada Too)

Some changes have been in the works here at the Burnt Lumpia Worldwide Headquarters over the past few weeks and months. Most recently, the wife and I have been shuffling things from room to room to make room for other things--if that makes sense.

We've pretty much been emptying and clearing out our home office (which was originally an extra bedroom). I've shifted my work desk out of the office and into the breakfast nook next to our kitchen (now making that space more conducive to food blogging). And since there was nowhere else to stow the rest of my office junk, our guestroom is now a guestroom/storage room (now making that space more conducive to shorter visits from my parents. I'm kidding. Kind of.).

And what about the now empty room formerly known as our "office"?

We're turning it into a nursery!

Yes, I'm happy to announce that the wife and I are expecting our first child! "Baby Lumpia" is due in early August, and yes, we do know the sex of the baby--though I think I'll keep that bit of information under wraps, for now at least. Obviously, I've been holding on to this good news for a while now and waiting for the right time to share it with everyone here. But with all the crazy goings-on needed to prepare for a baby (A BABY!), I've been a bit distracted to say the least.

To celebrate the wife's growing belly (and appetite), I decided to bake... a bun in the oven of course! The particular buns I attempted to bake are actually sweet Filipino brioche rolls called Ensaimada.

I know, baking isn't exactly my forte here. I've never baked any sort of bread before, let alone Ensaimada. But I've never had a kid before either. I figure that if I can make a decent Filipino Ensaimada, I've got a decent chance at learning how to change a diaper--both activities involve a great deal of softened butter (insert rimshot here).

With a new baby and all, at least there will be someone besides myself that finds great amusement in poop jokes. At least that's my hope...

Fruitcake Fiend

I'm not exactly sure how popular Fruitcake is in the Philippines for Noche Buena (Christmas Eve Feast), or at any other time for that matter. But considering that fruitcake is mostly seen as a joke here in the states, I'm gonna go out on a limb and assume that this wintertime loaf rarely appears on any Filipino tables as well.

For the most part, I can understand Fruitcake's bottom position on the culinary totem pole. At its worst, fruitcake can be nothing more than a heavy brick studded with overly sweet, radioactive day-glo candied fruits. But at its best, fruitcake is wonderfully sweet and aromatically spicy--filled with dried fruits and toasted nuts and preserved with a hefty dose of good liquor.

So with the best fruitcake intentions in mind, I bake a couple of loaves at the end of every October every year--aging each cake for a few weeks and enjoying the first at Thanksgiving, and enjoying the second on Christmas Eve. Sure, fruitcake can be eaten straightaway right after baking, but the cakes are exponentially better after being spritzed with brandy every now and again.

My go-to fruitcake recipe is from Alton Brown's "I'm Just Here For More Food". The original recipe calls for golden raisins, dried cranberries, dried blueberries, dried cherries, and dried apricots, but I tend to use different fruits every year depending on what I can find. For this go around, I stuck with the dried blueberries and cranberries, but I also included some tropical fruits like dried mango, dried rambutan, and dried mangosteen that I found at Trader Joe's. Dried fruits are best for fruitcake because they won't spoil, and they're better for you than candied fruits.

This was the first time that I've ever seen dried rambutan and mangosteen before, so I was excited to open up the packs and give them a try.

At first glance, the dried mangosteen and dried rambutan look a lot like styrofoam, and sadly, they tasted a lot like styrofoam too. Luckily though, they were brought back to life after an overnight soak in rum with the rest of the dried fruits and some fresh orange and lemon zest:

Boozy Fruit

After a dip in rum, the fruit is then simmered with some hard apple cider, sugar, and butter, then folded into some flour and eggs to form a batter. After baking, I spray the fruitcake with apple brandy (100 proof!) that I've poured into a spray bottle. The original recipe calls for normal brandy, but I like the aroma of apple brandy too. Really, any brandy will do. Moesha!

Snazzy spritzer, eh?

At this point, you will be very tempted to cut a slice off of your fruitcake loaf because it smells amazing out of the oven! But I do encourage you to resist this temptation and wait. After the fruitcake cools and has been spritzed on all sides with brandy, I wrap it in plastic wrap, and then in foil, and then I even stick them in a giant zip-top bag on which I write the date.

2 kilos of, uh... 2 bricks of fruitcake, that is.

Every two days for the first two weeks I carefully unwrap the fruitcake and spritz every side with more brandy. After the first two weeks, I then spritz the fruitcake only once a week until I decide to eat it. Don't overdo it with the spritzing, you don't want to soak the cake every time. A light spritzing to wet the surface of the cake will do--it's a sipper, not a chugger.

As long as you keep the fruitcake well-wrapped and give it an occasional brandy spritz, don't worry about it going bad or growing mold. And remember, the dried fruits were preserved in rum to boot, so aging a fruitcake for a month or two is no big deal.

Waiting...

Like I said earlier, I'll cut into my first loaf for Thanksgiving after one month of aging, and I'll cut into my second loaf on Christmas Eve after two months of aging. But because I make this fruitcake every year, I can assure you it's worth the wait.

Fruitcake

Adapted from "I'm Just Here for More Food", by Alton Brown.

Note: Alton Brown's original recipe says it makes one 9-inch loaf, but I always seem to get two loaves out of the same recipe. Perhaps my loaf pans aren't as deep as the recipe needs, so do be wary of this if you try this recipe out. If it seems to yield more batter that will fit in your loaf pan, have a second loaf pan ready.

Any combination of dried fruits works well in this recipe. And don't be discouraged by the long list of ingredients--it's still a simple and worthwhile recipe.

3/4 cup dried rambutan
3/4 cup dried mangosteen
3/4 cup dried blueberries
3/4 cup dried cranberries
3/4 cup dried mangoes, chopped
1/4 cup candied ginger, chopped
zest from 1 lemon
zest from 1 orange
5 whole cloves, freshly ground
3 whole allspice berries, freshly ground
1 cup dark rum
3/4 cup apple juice
1/2 cup hard apple cider
1/2 cup butter (1 stick)
1 cup sugar
2 large eggs, lightly beaten
1 cup all-purpose flour
1 cup whole-wheat flour
1 teaspoon baking powder
1 teaspoon baking soda
1 teaspoon ground cinnamon
1 1/2 teaspoon salt
1/4 teaspoon freshly ground black pepper
1/4 teaspoon freshly grated nutmeg
1 cup toasted pecans, chopped
Brandy for spritzing

In a large bowl, combine the dried fruits, ginger, lemon and orange zests, ground cloves, ground allspice, and rum. Cover and soak overnight.

The next day, pour all of the fruit, zests, spices, and rum into a large saucepan. Add the apple juice, hard cider, butter, and sugar. Bring to a boil, reduce heat and simmer for 10 minutes, stirring every couple of minutes. Remove from heat and allow mixture to cool to room temperature. Stir in the eggs.

Preheat the oven to 325 degrees Fahrenheit. Spray loaf pans with nonstick spray, then line with parchment paper "sling" so that fruitcake can be easily lifted out of pans after baking.

In a large bowl, combine the all-purpose flour, whole-wheat flour, baking powder, baking soda, cinnamon, salt, pepper, nutmeg, and pecans. Add the wet mixture to the flour mixture and stir just until combined. Pour batter into loaf pan and bake for one hour. Check for doneness with a skewer or toothpick poked into the middle of the cake--if it comes out clean its done.

Set pans on cooling rack and spray the top with brandy. Cool completely before removing cakes from pan.

Remove cooled cakes from pans, then spritz top and sides with brandy. Remove parchment paper, then wrap cakes tightly in plastic wrap, and then in foil.

Unwrap cakes and spritz with brandy every other day for two weeks, then once a week for the next two weeks.

I like to serve the fruitcake by toasting slices under the broiler for juuuust a minute, then topping with a dollop of mascarpone cheese. Tasty!

Coffee Cookery

The reputed stimulative properties of coffee have never had an effect on me. I happen to be one of those people that can drink a hot cup of coffee right before bedtime, and then lull off to sleep as soon as my noggin hits the pillow. I don't get debilitating headaches at work if I miss out on my morning cup of joe. And I can even have a scalding cup of java spilled onto my groin at the drive-through, and then drive off with a wink and a smile for the cashier.

OK, so maybe I exaggerated some of that a teensy bit. But truth be told, I drink coffee because I like the way it tastes, not because it's a magical cup of pick-me-up. And aside from being a breakfast-time beverage, coffee can make for a wonderful ingredient in a number of dishes. For instance, brewed coffee can be used as a braising liquid for tough cuts of meat, and whole coffee beans themselves can be used to infuse a custard mixture for ice cream.

And since I brought back a giant bag of Barako coffee from my trip to the Philippines, I had more than enough beans to experiment with for these other coffee applications

Quack Pot

Throughout the ages, many cultures have adapted and created their own forms of food preservation. For instance:

• Filipinos use vinegar and salt (or soy) to preserve various meats in an Adobo.
• The French use fat and salt to preserve various meats in a Confit.
• The Galactic Empire used Carbonite to freeze various smugglers in suspended animation.

Although Darth Vader did not use carbonite in a culinary fashion, per se, I can only imagine how long a side of beef would last if frozen a la Han Solo. And since freezing things in carbonite does quite a number on my energy bill, I decided that it would be a more worthwhile, and tasty, endeavor to research the wonders of confit in conjunction with what I already know about Adobo.

Ah yes, an adobo/confit experiment! A fusion of Filipino and French food to yield a quacktastic pot of Duck Adobo Confit.

Dueling Noodles

I have had my bouts with difficult and time-consuming recipes, and recipes that I just could not figure out on my own. But no matter how much I get my ass kicked in the kitchen, I always feel rejuvenated in between recipes.

It's kinda like pushing the select button in between rounds of Mike Tyson's Punch-Out: I get all my stamina back and I'm ready to punch King Hippo in the mouth.

Whoooosh.

Sorry, that might've gone over some of your heads. What I'm trying to say is that the more Filipino food I make, the more confidence I gain in my Pinoy Prowess in the kitchen. And, as I'm slowly discovering, Filipino cooking can be incredibly easy (with a little bit of practice, of course).

With that said, there are usually three dishes one first learns to make when embarking on a journey of Filipino cuisine: Lumpia, Adobo, and Pancit (The Big 3).  These three dishes are, generally speaking, easy to prepare. So that's probably why the Filipino cook learns them first.  Not coincidentally, these are also the first dishes that are usually fed to non-Filipinos with which they can dip their toes and test the waters of Filipino yumminess. Yeah, yumminess.

If you're keeping score at home, my cracks at the Big 3 are as follows:

Lumpia - Check and check
Adobo - Check, check, check, and check
Pancit - Check

Pancit (pronounced pahn-sit) is a Filipino dish of noodles that comes in as many forms as there have been varying iPod versions. And as you can see from my Big 3 list above, I've only dabbled once in the Pancit department when I made sotanghon (another type of Pancit).

Why haven't I made more Pancit recipes? Well, even though I've made Sotanghon before, I still have this stigma in my brain that Pancit is a difficult dish to prepare, and I'm lazy. Difficulty + Laziness = Beer.

But, after trying out Pat's Pancit recipe over at The Asian Grandmothers Cookbook, I was finally able to add another check next to Pancit on my Big 3 list.

Baby-Back Ribs Adobo

According to my handy-dandy copy of Memories of Philippine Kitchens, the word "Adobo" refers to a condiment of oil, garlic, and marjoram in Spain.  For Mexicans (Oaxacans to be more specific), "Adobo" is a marinade of guajillo chiles, garlic, cider vinegar, thyme, bay leaves, avocado leaves, oregano, black peppercorns, and cinnamon.  For us Filipinos, "Adobo" is not a condiment or marinade, but instead the word refers to a method of cooking anything in a mixture of vinegar, salt (and/or soy), garlic, black peppercorns, and bay leaf.

Filipino Adobo, like many many other things in our culture, has a Spanish name. When the Spanish rolled into the Philippines a few hundred years ago, they saw our adobo, thought it looked a little bit like their adobo, and ultimately imposed their name onto our dish (among other things). That's hegemony for you. In addition, the use of soy sauce is of Chinese influence--the oldest forms of adobo were made with salt and no soy. And on top of that, the use of Heinz apple cider vinegar (a relatively new staple in many adobo recipes) can be attributed to the arrival of Americans to the Philippines at the start of the 20th century--although Filipinos have always had vinegars of their own.

In spite of its Spanish name, Chinese soy sauce, and American vinegar, a dish of adobo is inherently Filipino: we've been stewing meats in salt and vinegar throughout the ages.

Although Filipinos have probably been making adobo for millennium, there isn't really a standard recipe written in stone--every household has their own version.  For me, I'm most used to chicken, pork, and squid adobos, but there can also be adobos with vegetables and other types of meat.

I've attempted an adobo recipe from Memories of Philippine Kitchens before, and I wasn't too pleased with the results. That chicken adobo wasn't terrible, I just wasn't used to coconut milk in my adobo. With that said, I decided to give the "Memories" cookbook another try with another one of its adobo recipes: Baby-Back Ribs Adobo.

This recipe had no coconut milk but had plenty of vinegar, garlic, black pepper, and the unusual addition of jalepeno peppers. This version of adobo was tangy, piquant, and just a bit spicy. It was perfect.

Kalamansi Granita

Conventional wisdom usually dictates:

“Don’t eat the yellow snow.”

It’s sage advice, really.  And it usually makes sense considering the circumstances that cause the yellowing of snow:

• Huskies
• Rabid Raccoons
• The Abominable Snowman, Yeti, and/or Sasquatch
• Tauntauns
• Drunken Eskimos Canadians Russians Cold Climate Drunks in general

However, this advice does not take into consideration my sublimely yellowy and snowy dessert: Kalamansi Granita.

Morimoto and Me

I still remember the first time I saw Masaharu Morimoto on TV.  It was a Friday evening and I was a junior in college.  Like most Friday nights at that time, I was sitting on my couch with beer in hand, killing time (and brain cells), and waiting to go out into the night to stumble about my college town.  As I was flipping through the channels that evening, I came across what seemed to be a badly dubbed kung-fu flick.  I watched as a silver-suited hero drove a spike through the head of an eel  and then deftly filleted the still spasming sea creature with a razor-sharp knife.

I was hooked.

As I would soon find out, this was not a kung-fu movie, it was something far better: Iron Chef.  And the silver-suited knife-wielding protagonist was none other than Morimoto himself.  Watching Iron Chef every Friday at 7pm became a sort of pre-partying ritual for me in college.  Good times.

Years later, after Morimoto had gained world-wide fame from his battles on Iron Chef, he opened his first restaurant in the U.S. in Philadelphia (he now has an outpost in New York as well).  I have been lucky enough to dine at Morimoto in Philadelphia, twice.  And to this day, the Omakase I experienced at Morimoto remains as THE best restaurant meals of my life.

So, when I found out that Morimoto would be at the Skirball Center in Los Angeles to promote his first cookbook, The New Art of Japanese Cooking, I put on my stalker shoes and hightailed it to Skirball.

blUBErry Ice Cream (Ube Ice Cream Swirled with Blueberry Sauce)

In spite of what my spellchecker says, you can't spell blUBErry without Ube.

It's true.

And ever since my Purple Ube Pancakes post, I've been wanting to pair Ube and blueberries in an ice cream (blueberry pancakes + Ube pancakes = blUBErry ice cream, my mind works in strange ways).  I knew the tart sweetness of blueberries would pair well with sweet purple yam, I just didn't know how I was going to pull it off.  I had never made Ube ice cream, a favorite among Filipinos, so I knew I had to start there and worry about the blueberries later.

But, as I would discover, churning out a batch of Ube ice cream would be more difficult than just dumping a cup of frozen Ube into a vanilla base (under no circumstances should you try that, you will curse the heavens and everything around you. Damn you frozen purple yam! Damn you straight to hell!!!).

Ahem.  Uh, after two hacks at creating terribly icy and gritty ice creams, I think I hit one out of the park on my third try.  A couple pounds of Ube, a few quarts of cream, and a couple hundred curse words later, I was able to figure out three tricks for churning rich and smooth Ube Ice Cream.  And lucky you, dear reader, I'm going to share them with you here.

A Long, Long, Longanisa Story

Sausage is as near a universal food as you can get.  Of course, France, Italy, and Germany all have their own unique sausage incarnates, but so does China, Mexico, Spain, the good ‘ol USA, and countless other cultures.  But, seeing as I’m Filipino, and this is a Filipino Food Blog, I must mention with pride that most distinct Filipino sausage redolent of black pepper, vinegar, and garlic: Longanisa.

Although I’ve only somewhat recently come to appreciate the vinegary virtues of Longanisa, there was a time in my life when I avoided this sausage at all costs.  One hot, San Fernando Valley summer when I was a wee little boy, my dad sweated away in our little kitchen making homemade Longanisa.  I remember him squishing fatty pork chunks through his old school hand-cranked meat grinder, and then stuffing this slippery mess into lengths and lengths of pig intestines.  While this scenario may be old-hat to grizzled sausage-making veterans, it was a bit disturbing to me as a little kid, what with all the grease and pig guts.  Quite simply, I was grossed out.

This isn’t to say I avoided all sausage consumption. Oh no. I ate my fair share of hot dogs as a kid.  But every time I saw Longanisa on our dinner table, I remembered pig guts and my dad’s greazy meat grinder—memories strong enough to prevent me from enjoying a truly delicious Filipino specialty.

Years later, after reading “The Jungle” in high school, I figured that there were worse things that could end up in sausage besides grease and pig guts.  And last I checked, my father had all 10 digits in tact.  As such, my aversion to Longanisa slowly gave way, link by garlicky link. 

I started eating the Longanisa my mother would sometimes bring home from the Asian market.  These store-bought links were fairly decent, if not overly sweet and filled with preservatives, food coloring, and who knows what else.  But nothing compared to the gold-standard of Longanisas in my family—those made by my grandmother’s sister.  Yup, my great aunt twists a mean Longanisa link—chopping her pork and stuffing her casings all by hand.  My great aunt’s homemade Longanisa, I slowly learned, was the best sausage I’ve tasted—grease, pig guts, and all.

Even more years later, after reading Michael Ruhlman and Brian Polcyn’s Charcuterie and after returning from a charcuterie and salumi-filled vacation in Europe, I learned that grease and pig parts are to be revered rather than feared. It also helped that the Filipino love of pork that was hardwired into my brain eventually made itself more dominant.

So, a few weeks ago, I decided I’d try my hand at homemade Longanisa, using Charcuterie as a guide.  Although Charcuterie was written by non-Filipinos, I wanted to use it as a guideline for making Filipino sausage because it’s a great cookbook with sound sausage-making advice regardless of who wrote it.  While there is no Longanisa recipe in Charcuterie, Ruhlman and Polcyn have a great “master ratio” for a standard sausage that consists of 5 pounds of pork and fat, 1.5 ounces of kosher salt, seasonings, and 1 cup of ice-cold liquid.  Armed with this master ratio, and my Pinoy tastebuds, I went about creating my own recipe for homemade Filipino Longanisa.

[Sausage-making is a long process that is well worth the effort.  And if you couldn’t already tell from the title of this entry, this will be a long post that is (hopefully) well worth reading.]