Summer House Guesting: Mocha Ice Cream

Last week was sheer pleasure: I was a Martha's Vineyard house guest. The art of the house guesting is much like dating; once you've perfected it, you'll no longer need to practice it. Until I can proffer the thrill of my lair, I remain an apologetic mooch.

I was the guest of a couple with whom I've been eager to spend some quality time. They're accomplished professionals, Brooklyn lifers, and so impossibly hip (at twice my age), they're discussing plans for a Manhattan retirement; I mean, how Brooklyn retro-chic is that? To protect their identity, I'll just call them Mom and Dad. Though they aren't my parents, they do belong to someone and that's part of their charm.

Although Mom's cooking reputation preceeded her, in truth she was an accomplished gatherer. The scallops remain in the shop until guests are en route, and the produce is collected daily. With shopping like that, all you need is a little intelligent ingredient assembly, and you'll eat as well as a person can.

I may live a lifetime before I duplicate the intensity of the plum I slurped over Mom's sink, my hand at the ready to catch the juices winding down the salt flats of my neck. As I slurped plum juice off my palm, I realized that I was in the most blissy of blissed out places (rivaling those other experiences you can't engage in while in a shared summer bungalow). So blissy in fact, I then ran out of the kitchen and jumped on a motorcycle in little more than flip flops and a bathing suit, because this was it; the moment I could meet my maker and die happy. What a thrill it was to absorb a perfectly yielding plump ripe plum.

When I came down to earth and back into the kitchen, Mom indicated a desire to "learn" to cook, though she'd been cooking for longer than I was alive. I was eager to "teach", well aware that the lessons would boomerang.

She wanted to learn how to make panzanella and how to perfectly sear a piece of fish, and she wanted to show me these killer buckwheat cookies she clipped from the Times. I just wanted to see where she bought her fish, how she selected it, and understand why she travels into Manhattan a few times a month to market with her first butcher.

Oh and lastly, Mom wanted to figure out how to use her ice cream maker. She inherited the machine from a friend who discarded it from his restaurant like an unrequited lover. It arrived at her house without directions, without a recipe; a bare vessel with tremendous potential, if only she knew how to use it.

We called her friends' restaurant and got some cockamamie recipe calling for weird ice cream stabilizers that we were supposed to locate in an Vineyard scavenger hunt ("Sid Wainer distributes there, just go to a restaurant and ask them for it!"). Um, no. If Mom's going to learn to make ice cream, she's going to make an eggy custard, load it with milk, cream and flavor and freeze the thing. What kind of a home cook needs stabilizers? Certainly not one that buys fresh scallops the day of a dinner party.

So I picked up Mark Bittman's "How To Cook Everything", and cobbled together something original from his umpteen ice cream recipes. Mom wanted Mocha, and so I sent her to shop with a list and went out for a little mid-morning fishing on the jetties.

Now you might ask, if Mom is such an experienced and talented home cook, why didn't she just pick up the not so itty Bitty Bible and figure it out for herself? Well, I'm sure she could have. Maybe the ice cream would have been perfect, maybe it would have been a disaster.

But I promise you this: neither of us would have had nearly as much fun if she'd gone it alone. That's part of the joy of the kitchen, and of summer. While you're eating those drippy plums, finally catching that fish, eating a pot of Dad's steamers, or having the first soft spoonful of just-churned ice cream; half the fun is the event, the other half is sharing it. How many times have you doubled over in laughter in the kitchen on your own? Exactly. That's why summer houses are opened to guests in the summer; some things are just better shared.


Mom's Mocha Ice Cream

1 1/3 c half and half
2/3 c milk
5 ounces semisweet or bittersweet chocolate
1 tablespoon cocoa
2 tsp instant espresso
6 egg yolks
1/2 c superfine sugar
1 cup heavy cream
1 teaspoon vanilla

1. Prepare ice cream maker according to manufacturer's directions (this usually involves letting the insulated part chill overnight).

2. Bring half and half and milk to a scald in a medium pot; turn heat off and add chocolate, cocoa and espresso. (Don't let the liquid get to a boil or it may boil over -- keep a watchful eye on these proceedings.) Let the chocolate sit about 5 minutes, then whisk until you have an even chocolatey liquid.

3. Meanwhile, back at the counter, use a handheld or standing mixer to beat the egg yolks with the superfine sugar in a medium bowl. Take it to the ribbon stage, when you get lift the beaters and get the mixture to hold a figure 8 for a few seconds before it disappears.

3. Now you'll want to temper the egg mixture into the chocolate mixture; slowly whisk in about 3/4 cup of the chocolate liquid into the eggs, then very slowly whisk the entire egg mixture back into the chocolate. Continue whisking, over medium low heat until the mixture thickens. You'll want to heat it to just short of 180F degrees, as this is the temperature at which eggs solidify. Remember, the hottest part of your pan is the closest to the heat, so get your whisk in there and keep it moving.

4. When mixture has thickened, pour it into a glass bowl, and stir in cream and vanilla. You'll want to cool this custard before putting it in the ice cream maker, and the best way to do that is to submerge it in a larger bowl of ice water, and continue to stir it. This insulated "cold sleeve" will cool the mixture in about 10 to 15 minutes.

5. When the mixture has cooled, put it in the ice cream maker and let it do it's thing; it should take about 15 to 20 minutes to create a nice, soft ice cream. Don't fret; the ice cream will harden further in the freezer. Pack it into 2 pint or 1 quart container and freeze. Although the temptation is to freeze it in the ice cream maker, be wary that the insulated sleeve will keep this dessert quite hard; you'll want to remove it from the freezer and place it in the fridge a few hours before serving. If you put it in a different container (plastic, glass, paper), simply refrigerate for 30 minutes before serving.

Vaca Delay

Due to an unanticipated vacation opportunity, I missed last Friday's post. Please stay tuned for a mocha ice cream recipe this Friday (8/25), and pho and spring roll recipes the following Friday. Thank you for your patience.

A

When Your Travel Partner Falls in Love: Sweetly Desert

So after 12 years of planning, we were finally there. My college roommate and I were backpacking through Asia, armed only with twin Lonely Planets and a commitment to absolutely no advanced planning.

Picking a travel partner is an art, but luckily we had lived together in the past, and were clued into the things you don’t learn about a person until you’re confined to close quarters. I’m an early riser; she loves to sleep; She’s California, I’m New York; I’m a hypochondriac, she’s a doctor; She loves food like few I know, I cook; She's book smart, I'm street smart; She’s blonde, I’m brunette; we’re a perfect pair.

Everything was working according to our non-plan until a British gentleman farmer sat behind us one night during a ocean front moonlit dinner and interrupted dinner with the following: “Pardon me, but would the two of you mind terribly if I pour you a glass of wine? You see, the wines by the glass are for shit, and I couldn’t possibly finish a bottle on my own. Would you indulge me?”

Of all the traveling single women duos in this country, why did the Baron need to bust in on mine? Because another yin-yang perfection of my traveling partnership was that while I can’t be bothered with the obvious come-ons of a well endowed Continental, Juliet had yet to hear a line that didn’t make her smile. And her smile has a pull that requires recalibration of the most stubborn compasses.

And so he sat with us. And shared no less than three bottles of wine. And greeted us with brilliantly strong Vietnamese coffees the next morning at 4AM, so that we could all take mopeds to watch the sunrise in the dunes. Their first kiss happened within 20 hours of their meeting, and within the first 72 hours of our trip.

And so we all smouldered – they together, me alone. It was unclear how to proceed; nothing like the third-wheel feeling 3 days into a trip 12 years in the making, yet, I wanted my friend to be happy and fall in.

I think it was their couples massage (in place of our girl time) that really sent me over the edge. I insisted on dining alone that night, explaining using a French phrase I had just learned, “No one wants to hold the candle during another’s romantic dinner.”

He countered by gifting me with the best ocean-view bungalow in the resort the following night. (Which I would have all to myself, clearly.)

I thought to the trials of a close friend back home, who after an unfortunate drought, has recently been enjoying the attention of a new beau. Unfortunately she has a roommate, and their rooms are separated by a wall slightly thicker than a worn sheet. Oh where to enjoy his affections? The roommate has decided to move out, making an uncomfortable situation worse.

I didn’t want to be that roommate, but I couldn’t stomach another Italian meal in Vietnam (Baron has an aversion to Asian food). T’was time for me to get outside myself, my empty love life, and enjoy the love Juliet was having, the way retired athletes enjoy watching an up-and-comer use their skills. I chose to bask in their glow.

After three days, we separated from The Great Baron, but kept in feverish contact with nightly phone calls and emails. He’s coming to San Francisco next week to celebrate their birthdays, and as likely as I am to eye-roll at the notion of a back-pack romance going anywhere, this one is making tracks.

Truth told, I’m a little sad I wasn’t invited on this part of our trip: I miss our grouplet. Not only would I hold the candle, I’d even buy the champagne, pour it and raise a glass to toast the beauty of new love, constantly in bloom, enjoyed only by those savvy enough to relent, recognize and pursue it.



Vanilla Mascarpone: The Sweetest Dessert
This one is for the semanticists, as my blog title implies sometimes it’s best to leave lovers alone (in the desert, deserted), and similarly when it comes to desserts, sometimes the best are those that are undertouched: a bowl of seasonal berries and cream, or this lightly flavored Mascarpone enjoyed with a high quality cookie of the butter and egg variety (please, no corn syrup, starch, guar gum or other oddities).

Hats off to my pal, the roommate without a roommate mentioned above for coming up with this treat. She had a group over for a girls grill night recently, and whipped this together without much ado.

4 ounces imported mascarpone cheese (1/2 tub)
1/2 teaspoon vanilla
1 1/2 teaspoons honey
1 3.52-ounce package Jules Destrooper Butter Crisps

Combine the first three ingredients in a small bowl. Serve with your favorite fruit dessert, and butter crisps.

Vietnamese Women: What the Pho?

The LP had it right when they said (and I paraphrase): You’ll be warned against street food up and down, against taking those mega ice cubes with your beer, against sampling what the locals eat. Ignore it, get sick and actually be in Vietnam. Stop looking for little McDonalds and Starbucks (thanks to socialism you won’t find these anyway), pizza places (which you’ll find, but they are awful), or “European-style” restaurants. Be where you are.

I welcomed my staph whole heartedly, not knowing where or what it would come from, but knowing it would inevitably arrive. Travelers bravado had me eager for the thing, it meant I was doing my part to eat aggressively. Took me ten days to get it, resulting in one violent night of expulsion. I greeted my travel partner the next morning, beeming, proud to be ill.

Two weeks later and I’m still not back to 100%, but dammed if my body doesn’t look smoking. This was excellent, in a bulimia sort of way, since the premier Halong Bay hotelier asked me to do a photoshoot for his new catalog (some bikini shots, some sans vetements! Ah, when in a French province…). Thank god for staph, and my new flat belly. Oh what won’t an American do for a free massage (retail: $8).

I spent a tremendous amount of time at the markets, not because I was buying anything, but because at the markets you could see the Vietnamese engaged in the two most popular pastimes, giving money and taking money. Plus, I got to hang out with Vietnamese women (believe you me, they RUN this country – from the finances of every home, to the bellies of every person, to the majority of the ownership of small businesses). American feminists could learn a thing or two from these badass chicks. These women are charming and assertive, and have an uncanny way of separating me from my money.

Example one: Hoi An, daytime

I was minding my own business, sitting at an outdoor cafe enjoying a midday beer. A woman inevitably arrives to sell me something, points at my toes in mock horror, and insists: “Pedicure? One dollar!” Now a cheapee like me finds this hard to resist but I just wanted a moment with my Tiger. But that did not dissuade my persuasive friend. "Massage?" She started rubbing my leg and DAMN did it feel good. But she knew her customers; I am not a hedonist, but when it comes to vanity --- yessirree. She took out a piece of string and said, “Your leg. Very hairy.” She began THREADING my leg RIGHT THERE IN THE ROADSIDE REFRESHMENT STAND WHILE I WAS DRINKING A BEER.

So yes, she humiliated me into submission, and this masochist gave way to the thread for the next half hour. That said, my legs (which have been waxed for the last (eek!) 20 years) have never looked so good. (retail: $15).

Example two: Hoi An, evening

I saw this fab cashmere poncho (yes, so fab that despite the 100+ temperature, I had to try it on, and wouldn’t take it off), and was offered a price of $15 by a salesman. I was just beginning the shopping day, so I waited for something better and didn’t see it again until I was post-dinner passive. The shops were closing and unfortunately this time, I was greeted by the salesman’s wife, who owned the joint. She quoted me $30. I reminded her what her husband offered, and she came to $20. I refused to move from the mark, but my travel partner, newly in love, looked desperately as she was awaiting an international phone call from a man we met a town or two ago (retail: $1.50 per minute).

I got her down to $18, then this lovely, 60-something woman, just looked at me and said “Please.” We both knew it wasn’t worth my $3, what with Juliet Capulet’s increasing impatience, when out of nowhere; this woman started hugging and kissing me, saying “please, please, please!” Did I mention that she was 60, with the most beautiful face and physical presence? I know, you coldhearted negotiators are disappointed, but c’mon. Isn’t the story alone worth the $3? I handed her the cash, she jumped up and down (more kisses), Juliet got her phone call and I’ll be looking fine this fall.

But my favorite Vietnamese woman of the entire trip was a captivating 20-year-old from the Mekong Delta now living the Sex-in-the-City lifestyle in Saigon. She’s an assistant to an executive for a French aromatics company, and boy is she an up-and-comer.

We met when I walked onto a bus from Saigon to Mui Ne. She waved hello and I smiled. When I got off the bus, she came up and said hello again. I called Juliet over and told her that we should roll out, as I don’t want to be sold anything. Miss Mekong’s travel partner (t'was a business trip, in the most legitimate way), a French executive, asked us where we were off to, and I said gruffly, “To find a hotel room”. He said, in the Frenchest way, “Pffft, moi aussi, but euh, first we enjoy a beverage, and luunch of course, and then we will be on our way. Perhaps you would like to join us?”

Why must the French be so blatantly sensible? Why are they always happily enjoying the better things of life? Blech.

I said no, but Juliet needed a beer, so I kept my (very heavy) knapsack on while we sat with these people, who thought I was nuts.

Miss Mekong noticed I had bug bites on my arms, and immediately started putting Tiger Balm on parts of my body that I had gone unnoticed for the better part of a decade. She smiled, and was simply trying to help (oh, that’s another thing…in Vietnam, there’s a lot of touching. Sometimes shoving, sometimes guiding, sometimes nursing the wounds. It takes some getting used to…personally I think there’d be a lot fewer shrinks in New York if we could all just touch a bit more).

She kept staring at me and smiling, I was indeed odd. Not long before, “Where is your huss-bahnd?” I don’t have one. GASP! “But you must have boyfriend?” she pleaded. Indeed I did. “How old you are?” I’m thirty-four. Another GASP. If she was an American, she would have text messaged her friends with horror. But she wasn’t, so I got to absorb it all. And the horror subsided into pure fascination, Miss Mekong started to tell me about how Vietnamese women love.

She lowered her voice; whispered. She confided that in Vietnam, a woman loves once and only once. If the man dies, and there are no children, the woman kills herself. You love once, because you throw yourself so deeply into it, that's all there is. Only once. Sure, you can date, be wooed, etc. But love is sacred and happens one time.

Then she asked me why American women sleep with so many men. I certainly couldn't explain this one -- suddenly this love once thing seemed to make sense.

I ordered a beer, which she poured. Then she told me Vietnamese women don't drink beer, and they certianly don't smoke, as it makes a woman ugly.

She and her French friend met me the next night at my hotel for dinner, and we saw them off before they left. She said, “I want to be just like you; I want to be very rich.” The best hotel in the town retailed for $60, albeit off-season (and preferentially priced as a result of my mad negotiating skills). She told me that it was very strange that I talked to her, as I was so rich. I tried to explain that I was not actually very rich, nor did the money matter all that much – that I found her interesting, charming, and I was sure that she would be tremendously successful in whatever she chose to do.

Then a gorgeous French kitesurfer rolled in, and she cooed, “Sexy body!”. He asked for a massage.

I have no idea where any of that went, I just know I’m impressed with the potential, and the audacity, of Vietnamese woman.


BEER WITH ICE
I know you were probably hoping for a Pho recipe, and trust me, it will come, but one of my favorite things in Vietnam was the way they served beer with these enormous ice cubes. It’s sensible really, as the country is hot – damn hot – especially in the South, and who can afford refrigeration? They drag these massive ice blocks all through town, and everyone takes a big chunk for chilling whatever it is they're selling that day. A smaller cube (3 inches square) ends up in your glass when you order a beer. Before arriving in front of you, it has encountered street detritus of all sorts. Some cry “eeew!”, as they order a mushroom (fungus) omelette, others consider it local flavor.

Call it what you will, when I was welcomed home by 100 degree, 90% humidity Brooklyn weather, I immediately hightailed it over to my local Vietnamese joint for a 333, Festival or a Tiger. I asked for ice with my beer, and my Latino server looked at me like I had three heads.

If you’ve got a Sharon Stone-style ice pick hanging out in your culinary drawer; use it. Cut a bunch of cubes that will fit just inside the glass, and pour whatever you’ve got over it. And for the love of god, drink it outside, beyond the talons of air conditioning, and enjoy the summer heat.


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P.S. Big shout out to my college pal Moph for the title: It was his. (Get it? Pho is pronounced the way the French pronounce Feu, as a result of their passing on the dish Pot du Feu.) What the Feu?