Draff Bread – Spent Grain Bread

Posted on May 19, 2013 by allansuddaby

I’ve been doing some all-grain brewing this spring. After the mashing process the malt has given up all its caramel earthiness to the wort, and you are left with several pounds of spent grain, or draff.

There are lots of ways to use this stuff up. Commercial breweries commonly sell or give draff to farmers as livestock feed. It can also be composted so long as you have lots of other, greener compostable material to balance out the mixture.

Draff is also commonly baked into bread. Realistically the home brewer will not be able to bake enough bread to use all of the spent grain – the bulk of mine still ends up in the compost heap – but it’s a tasty way to lengthen your enjoyment of the barley malt.

There are tons of recipes for spent grain bread online, often under the German name Biertreberbrot. These recipes are all clearly made for brewers, not bakers: they use inconsistent volumetric measures, and forgo flavour- and texture-enhancing pre-ferments. Below is my first attempt at a serious recipe for draff bread. Basically I’ve replaced the soaker from my favourite whole-grain bread recipe (from The Bread Baker’s Apprentice) with the spent grain.

Vocabulary Break: soaker. Many bread recipes that use whole or mostly-whole grains like rolled oats or cracked rye will have you soak the grains in a bit of water overnight. This way when the grains are mixed with the flour and water that make up the bulk of the dough, they won’t suck up all the water and prevent proper hydration, gelation, and gluten development.

Draff is already well-steeped: during mashing it sits in very hot water for about ninety minutes. For this reason we are able to simply substitute the draff for the grain soaker in a conventional whole-grain bread recipe. Spent grain is more woody that most whole grains, so I slightly decreased the weight of draff from the conventional soaker.

This is a tasty bread when made right. The malt flavour of the grain is very faint (hopefully all the malt flavour is in the wort!) but the hulls give the bread an interesting, subtle prickliness. A new brewing tradition in my home.

Spent grain dough

Draff Bread

Pre-Ferment

6.75 oz high-protein whole-wheat flour
1/4 tsp instant yeast
6 oz water

“Soaker”

8 oz spent grains, well-drained

Dough

10 oz high-protein whole-wheat flour
0.33 oz kosher salt
1 tsp instant yeast
1.5 oz honey
0.5 oz vegetable oil
1 large egg, lightly beaten

Procedure

The day before making the bread, combine the ingredients for the pre-ferment. Stir until just combined. Cover with plastic wrap and leave at room temperature to ferment 2 to 4 hours. Transfer to the fridge and store overnight.
Combine the flour, salt, and yeast for the dough. Add the pre-ferment, the spent grain, as well as the honey, oil, and egg. Stir to combine. Knead by hand until a firm, tacky dough forms, roughly 15 minutes.
Lightly oil the inside of a bowl. Add the dough. Cover and ferment at room temperature until the dough has doubled in volume, about 2 hours.
Divide the dough in two and shape as desired. This makes a good Pullman-style loaf, or it can be shaped into a free-standing bâtard. Proof at room temperature until the dough has nearly doubled, roughly 90 minutes. (See this post for suggestions on proofing bread at home.)
Heat oven to 350°F.
Bake bread for 30 minutes. Rotate 180° and bake until done, roughly another 20 minutes. The loaf should sound hollow when thumped on the bottom. If you’ve used pans, remove the bread immediately and cool on a wire rack.

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Rhubarb Pie

Posted on May 19, 2013 by allansuddaby

Some quick notes on a springtime specialty.

The most difficult part about using rhubarb as a pastry filling is that once it’s cooked it has almost no structure. Actually it’s entirely liquid. For this reason rhubarb is often mixed with other fruit like strawberries or apples. Right now I have lots of rhubarb, hardly any fruit in the freezer, and berries and apples are still months off. In other words I have to set my rhubarb filling with gelatin or cornstarch.

We like rhubarb because it is tart, but oftentimes it is too tart. To make sure the acidity isn’t overpowering, I make rhubarb pie in a shallow, French tart pan instead of a classic North American pie pan; this way there is a higher pastry to filling ratio. And I make sure to temper the acidity of the rhubarb with the proper amount of sugar in the filling, and possibly even some coarse sugar baked onto the surface of the pie. Ice cream also helps.

Rhubarb Pie

Ingredients

1 kg rhubarb, fresh or frozen (this is more rhubarb than you’ll need to make one pie, but I like to make lots and eat the excess with granola and yogurt, or make crumble)
200 g granulated sugar
60 g cornstarch
700 g short pastry

Procedure

Cook the rhubarb and sugar in a pot over medium high heat, until the rhubarb has broken down. Add the cornstarch, return to a boil. Pour into a tray and let cool. Test consistency and adjust accordingly.
Roll out pastry to 1/8″. Line the tart shell. Add the rhubarb filling. Add top pastry in lattice.
Bake at 425°F on a low rack for 15 minutes, then at 350°F until the pastry is golden brown, cooked through, and the filling is just starting to bubble, roughly another 25 minutes. Tastes like springtime.

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Crumble, or Crisp (but not Cobbler…)

Posted on May 19, 2013 by allansuddaby

I just nailed down a solid ratio of ingredients for a classic crumble. If you’re not from around here, let me tell you about crumbles.

A crumble is a casserole filled with some manner of stewed or baked fruit, topped with a crispy layer made from flour, sugar, and butter, usually with the addition of other grains or nuts. It is baked in a casserole, and often served with ice cream.

Crumble and crisp are two words for the same thing, though crumble seems to be the more common term in the UK, while crisp is more common in North America. As usual, Canadians comfortably elide the British and American vernaculars.

Crumble should not to be confused with cobbler, which is a similar dish from the American south. Like a crumble, cobbler is made with stewed fruit, but the topping takes the form of a worked dough, such as biscuit.

As the name implies, crumbles should have a coarse, irregular texture, and they should taste like butter and grain. My preferred ingredients are whole wheat flour, dark brown sugar, butter, rolled oats, and possibly some cold-pressed canola to boost the grass-grain flavour. Salt is also important.

You can replace all or part of the rolled oats in the ratio below with any number of substitutes. Nuts are welcome, especially walnuts. If you have biscuits that are a couple days old and too hard to enjoy on their own, you can bust them up. Even bread crumbs work well.

There is only one essential, crazy-important detail to which you must absolutely adhere when making crumble topping: the butter must be very, very cold. Fridge temperature at the very warmest. The idea is to bust the cold butter into minuscule pieces evenly distributed through the flour and grain. If the butter is warm, it will not mingle with the flour and grain properly, and when you bake the casserole the topping becomes a greasy, flat mat on top of the fruit. Actually I have a picture of such an ill-prepared crumble:

Now compare that to the beautiful, rocky surface of a crumble made with properly chilled butter. See the difference?

As for the fruit. My crumble fillings are identical to my pie fillings: a good balance of sweet and tart, and firm enough to cut and serve without running all over the diner’s plate, but not so firm as to be gummy on the tongue. In fact I typically only make crumbles after I have made pie, and I have leftover filling but no pastry to stuff it into. Then I simply pour the fruit into ramekins or a small casserole, and top with the crumble mix elucidated below.

Crumble

Ingredients (by weight)

2 part whole wheat flour
2 part dark brown sugar
3 parts very cold, unsalted butter
salt
2 part rolled oats

Procedure

Pulse the flour, sugar, butter, and salt in a food processor until a uniform, powdery mixture forms. The crumble should cycle in the food processor as if it were made entirely of flour; if the mixture starts to mat and stick to the sides of the bowl, the butter is too warm.
Remove the mixture from the processor and stir in the rolled oats.
Crumble onto chilled stewed fruit. Bake at 375°F until the crumble is golden brown and the fruit is gently bubbling.

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How to Eat a Triffid

Posted on April 1, 2013 by allansuddaby

I love creating plates that feature different components of the same ingredient: roasted beets with wilted beet greens, for instance, or pork loin and pork belly side by side. The truth is that no creature is capable of offering more variety at the dinner table than the triffid.

About Triffids

Some of the few remaining wild triffids. Photo courtesy of myexplosivetravels.info.

Triffids are interesting creatures. They are genetic hybrids, part animal, part plant. The precise intentions behind their development is uncertain, but researchers soon discovered that their oil is extremely useful and relatively cheap. Triffid oil has many industrial applications. It is also edible, and delicious.

As they are part animal and part plant, we can harvest a shockingly diverse set of food from triffids. Let’s talk anatomy.

The “Animal” Bits. Triffids perform three animalistic functions that require muscle tissue. First, they are capable of locomotion by way of three short legs. Just above the legs are a set of muscles called “clickers” that rap against the woody stalk of the plant to create sounds. The exact purpose of the sounds is still a mystery: most botanists agree it is a form of communication, though how exactly outside signals are received without ears remains to be understood. The third muscle group allows triffids to hunt, kill, and consume prey. At the very top of the triffid, on the “head,” there is a long, whip-like muscle called a lasher. At the end of the lasher is a venomous stinger. Triffids hunt by waiting for prey to come near enough that they can lash out and sting them. Small animals are killed almost instantly by a triffid sting. The triffid then hobbles towards the prey and waits for the flesh to decompose so that it can be digested (described below).

The “Plant” Bits. In addition to the three animalistic muscle groups described above, triffids also have all of the anatomy of a normal plant. When sedentary, triffids put down roots. They have a tall central stalk, called the trunk, which is usually about seven feet high. Near the head are more tender stalks that produce foliage. The head also contains a large cup filled with a sticky fluid, similar to that of a pitcher plant. Once a triffid’s prey’s flesh has rotted sufficiently, the triffid will use its lasher to lift the meat into this cup, where it is digested.

RaisingTriffids

The duplicitous nature of the triffid can make farming difficult: some practices promote the growth of the animalistic parts, while others encourage vegetative growth.

If prey is very scarce the triffid enters a vegetative state: it puts down roots, and gets all its energy from the sun. During periods of prolonged vegetation the meaty portions of the triffid are severely compromised. However, if the triffid is simply “fed” meat, it will not move about or hunt, and the muscles will similarly deteriorate.

While some producers seek to maximize the growth of either the animal or vegetable organs of the triffid, there are many artisinal producers that are striving to find a more sustainable compromise. This style of farming is very much a balancing act: to properly develop the muscles the triffids must not only be free-range, but also must be allowed to hunt for themselves; however, there has to be sufficient scarcity of prey that the triffids will take time to develop stalks, leaves, and other vegetable organs.

There are a handful of such triffid producers in Alberta, most of them in the Calmar-Thorsby area. They currently export most of their produce to the Asian markets, were it fetches a much higher price than at home. Right now you essentially have to know the producers personally to get their product. Hopefully their fantastic triffid meat, stalks, leaves, and oil will be available at farmers’ markets in Edmonton soon.

Cooking Triffids

As the legs are used for the protracted labour of standing and hobbling, the meat is relatively dark, similar to turkey legs. On farms, triffid stingers are pruned back (“cropped”) every year, usually in the spring. They are therefore extremely tender, a very seasonal delicacy. The small clickers are an intermediate texture and colour, similar to chicken wings. (These are very broad generalizations: the exact nature of triffid meat, as with any animal, depends largely on how it was raised, as discussed above.)

The trunk tends to be extremely fibrous, even in young triffids. In some parts of the world it is stewed, but even after extensive cooking most North Americans find it too woody. I like adding a bit of triffid trunk to piccalilli for texture. The trunk also makes a fantastic broth. I am convinced that the genetic make-up of the triffid includes some type of brassica, because the trunk and stalks have a distinct, slightly astringent mustard flavour. (It would make sense that these prodigious oil-producing creatures would be part brassica, like canola…)

The best vegetative parts of the triffid are the tender stalks that support the leaves, and the leaves themselves, which are similar in texture to kale.

One great way to showcase the many edible portions of a triffid is to make stir-fry. Triffid oil has a very high smoke-point. I heat the oil in a heavy pan until shimmering, then add cubes of leg and clicker meat. The pan will need to be very hot for the meat to brown. Then I add onion, garlic, ginger, and thinly-sliced triffid stalk. For the last couple minutes of cooking I throw in some slender pieces of lasher and triffid leaves, which wilt readily.

This week I was able to secure some triffid lashers from a producer near Thorsby. They were removed from the triffids just last week. I poached the lashers in a court-bouillon, then served them with bitter greens and balsamic vinegar. (Photo below.)

More than the pig, triffids truly should be the poster-child for the “nose-to-tail” movement. I hope the gastronomic importance of this creature is soon recognized by Edmonton’s restaurants and home-cooks.

So… even if you’re unfamiliar with John Wyndham’s science fiction novel The Day of the Triffids, it should be pretty obvious that this post is a joke for April Fool’s Day. Triffids don’t exist. All the anatomical details are from the book. The first picture is a photo of a plant in Australia from the travel blog mentioned in the caption. The second picture is actually a sliced lamb tongue, not a triffid lasher stump. Happy April 1st.

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Rhubarb Brown Butter Tart

Posted on March 27, 2013 by allansuddaby

Possibly my favourite application for rhubarb. Almost any tart fruit can be used, but the sour flavour of rhubarb marries beautifully with the nutty character of the brown butter.

Every time I brown butter I ask myself why I don’t do it more often. It’s quick, more or less foolproof, and one of the great, complex flavours of the kitchen. Simply put butter in a heavy pot over medium high heat, then remove once the moisture has boiled off and the milk solids have browned. If you need more guidance, you can think of browning butter like making syrup: as more and more water evaporates, the boiling point of the liquid rises. Use a candy thermometer and pull the brown butter off the heat once it reaches 130°C.

While the filling for this tart is dead simple, blind baking tart shells is a bit finicky, so this is something I make maybe once a year. I use this standard tart dough recipe and blind baking procedure.

Fresh rhubarb is preferred to frozen, which looses a good deal of its moisture and flavour during thawing. If using frozen rhubarb, thaw and strain off excess moisture to avoid diluting the filling.

Rhubarb Brown Butter Tart

Master Ratio – 1:2:2:3 flour, butter, egg, sugar

Ingredients

6 oz eggs (3 eggs)
9 oz granulated sugar
1 tsp kosher salt
1 tsp vanilla extract
3 oz all-purpose flour, sifted
6 oz unsalted butter
6 oz chopped rhubarb
1 French tart shell, par-baked to 3/4 doneness (recipe and procedure here)

Procedure

Whisk together the eggs, sugar, salt, and vanilla until smooth and pale. Add the flour and beat until well mixed.
Heat the butter over medium-high heat in a small stainless steel pot until brown and nutty.
Slowly pour the hot brown butter into the egg mixture while whisking.
Distribute rhubarb evenly around the par-baked tart shell and pour butter mixture over top.
Bake at 350°F until a crust forms and the filling is set underneath, about 40 minutes. (Don’t overbake or the brown butter will separate from the filling, giving it a greasy, grainy texture…) Cool to room temperature before cutting. Dust with confectioner’s sugar.

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Rhubarb Shrub

Posted on March 25, 2013 by allansuddaby

Oddly enough, I eat a lot of local fruit this time of year. Especially rhubarb.^[1] Every spring and summer we freeze a large quantity of chopped rhubarb stalks. The following April it suddenly occurs to me that in a few weeks there will be fresh rhubarb popping up in the backyard, and that I should probably use up last year’s harvest before that time comes.

Think of the following posts as either a way to clear the freezer of last year’s fruit, or as a way of looking forward to the new fruit on its way.

Sticklers will insist that this drink isn’t really shrub.

Shrub is an old-timey North American drink, traditionally a reduction of fruit juice and vinegar stirred into cold water or soda. It is a fantastic thirst quencher in hot weather: think lemonade, only made with, say, berries. Shrub and similar drinks like switchel have historic connections to late summer and harvest time, when they were especially appreciated by labourers working in the fields.

If using tart fruit like rhubarb, I forgo the vinegar. I have an old recipe book that does the same with raspberries, and still calls the drink “shrub,” even though it doesn’t contain vinegar.

To get a flavourful but crystal clear drink from rhubarb I chop the stems, steep them in hot water for several hours, then strain gently, without pressing down on the fruit mash. Pressing the mash or puréeing some of the fruit will make for a muddy drink.

This steeping-straining method is identical to a classic French preparation called eau de rhubarbe, or rhubarb water, which is not an appetizing term to English ears.

This is a fantastic way to process large amounts of rhubarb. The modern gastronome probably won’t want to chug this drink as was done in the days of yore to slake a rugged farmer’s thirst. I suggest serving one well-chilled ounce at the start of a meal. It’s a fantastic way to contemplate the cheerful flavour of our most under-valued “fruit.”

Rhubarb Shrub

Master Ratio – 1:1 rhubarb, water

Ingredients

26 oz fresh rhubarb, chopped
26 oz fresh cold water
3 oz granulated sugar or quality honey (you may need to adjust this amount depending on the acidity of your rhubarb)

Procedure

Put the rhubarb in a pot and cover with cold water. Bring to a simmer, then remove from heat. Let stand at least a few hours, preferably overnight.
Pass through a fine mesh strainer (ideally a chinois). Let the liquid drip through on it’s own. Do not press on the rhubarb to extract more liquid, as this will cloud the finished product.
Add the sugar and heat gently on the stove while stirring until sugar dissolves.
Bottle and chill thoroughly before serving.

Footnote

1. I know that botanically rhubarb is not a fruit. I know it’s a vegetable, and that tomatoes and cucumbers and pumpkins are fruits and that strawberries aren’t really berries. I don’t care.

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Egg Noodles

Posted on February 25, 2013 by allansuddaby

I call these egg noodles to distinguish them from the eggless, dried, commercially-produced pastas like spaghetti and macaroni.

Let’s get to it.

You’ve no doubt seen nonnas or professional chefs mix pasta dough together right on the workbench by mounding up all the flour and making a well in the centre for all the liquid ingredients.

This is more than a parlour trick.

If you were to combine all the ingredients in a bowl at once and stir them together, you would find that they don’t come together; the dough will seem much too dry, and will stay crumbly and separate. It takes the flour a while to absorb the moisture in the eggs and milk. Slowly incorporating in this benchtop style gives the flour time to gelate.

Once the dough comes together it will have a shaggy countenance, like so:

Now we knead the bejesus out of it. At least ten minutes by hand. The dough will become smooth, with a slightly tacky surface.

Wrap the dough well in plastic wrap to protect it from drying out and let it rest in the fridge for at least an hour. It can even sit there overnight.

Divide the dough in two. It’s time to roll. I use the pasta roller attachment for my Kitchenaid Mixer. There are several stand-alone pasta rollers available, too. The basic principle is this: the dough is passed between two rollers that are initially set quite wide, but are set successively closer between each pass of the the dough.

If the rollers turn without pulling dough through, the dough is too dry and floury. If the rollers tear the dough, as shown below, the dough is too moist and is sticking to the metal surfaces. Refold the dough, lightly dust it with flour, and start again.

Every cook has his or her own rolling method. The guy who taught me how to roll pasta would roll the dough to the thinnest roller-setting, then refold the sheet back into its original size and re-roll to desired thickness. The theory was that this made for very smooth dough with a persistent bite. I’ve never done any controlled experiments to evaluate this method and see if the extra passes really make a difference, but this guy makes the best pasta I’ve ever eaten, so this is now my preferred method.

The pasta machine comes with cutter-rollers. Cutting by hand it pretty simple, too, if you fold up the sheets of dough like so:

If you’re going to use the noodles within a couple of days, they’ll store well in the fridge. Lay them out on lightly floured sheets of parchment on a sheet pan. Cover with a clean dish towel to slow the loss of moisture.

Cutting the dough will result in scrap bits. I save these for chicken noodle soup.

The recipe:

Egg Noodles

Master Ratio – 1:2:4 whole eggs, yolks, flour

Ingredients

240 g all-purpose flour
120 g egg yolks (about 6 large yolks)
60 g whole egg (1 large egg)
15 g whole milk
5 g canola oil
a pinch of salt

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Biscuits

Posted on February 17, 2013 by allansuddaby

When I was little we called these savoury pastries “scones,” our pronunciation rhyming with the word “owns”, but they are much more like American biscuits than British scones (the pronunciation of which rhymes with “lawns”).

For the sake of clarity I’ve taken to calling them biscuits. Whatever you call them, they are flaky quick breads made with butter, milk, and flour. A little salt and a little baking powder. That’s it.

My mom used to make a ham and cheese biscuit. She made her dough with milk soured with vinegar (buttermilk would have been used when she was growing up, but we never had this in our fridge). The dough was rolled into a sheet, covered with slices of ham and grated cheddar cheese, then rolled into a log. This was baked, then sliced into rounds to reveal the spiral cross-section. Make a salad, and that was dinner.

Anyways.

The Dough. My preferred method is to sift together flour, baking powder, and salt, then grate very cold butter into those dry ingredients and mix to combine. Make a well in the centre, add buttermilk, and stir together until a dough forms.

To get a very flaky biscuit you can use a rolling method similar to that used for puff pastry. Roll the dough into a rectangular sheet, then fold one third of the rectangle into the centre, then the opposite third towards the centre. By re-rolling and repeating this procedure you create several distinct layers within the biscuit. If you roll and fold more than twice, you should let the dough rest thoroughly before continuing. This makes the entire biscuit-making process a lot longer, but it gives the biscuits a very distinctive, rustic layering. Once baked they’ll pull apart effortlessly for easy butter application.

On Shaping. Biscuit dough is traditionally rolled out and punched into rounds with a ring mold. This leaves behind a lot of trim, which has to be reformed and punched again. The biscuits from the second shaping never rise as high or as evenly as the first rounders. My question is, why do we cut biscuits into rounds? Why not roll out the dough, then cut it in a grid pattern to make square biscuits, lessen trim and get a more consistent batch? Something to consider.

On Baking and the Even Rise. Chefs use several techniques to ensure that biscuits rise evenly in the oven and don’t slump to one side or the other. I don’t know how effective they are, but I do them all, just in case. I suppose I’m superstitious.

The most common tip is to roll out the dough in all directions. Don’t just roll the dough away from you; roll it away from you, towards you, to each side, and on the diagonals. This way the gluten is evenly stretched and will not favour a certain direction when the dough rises.

My pastry instructor at culinary school insisted that the biscuits be lined up close together on the baking sheet. Close, but not too close. Maybe an inch apart. I don’t have a clear idea of how this helps. Maybe the biscuits don’t want to touch each other, so they’ll rise straight up to avoid leaning over and brushing against their neighbour. Again, I don’t know why it helps, but I’ve never tried not doing it for fear of what might happen.

Usually it’s nice to have pastries with a deep golden-brown surface, but if brought to this point biscuits will be too crusty. They should be very lightly browned, and have a delicate, crisp exterior.

With the theory out of the way, here is a formal recipe.

Biscuits

Master Ratio – 3:1:2 flour, butter, buttermilk

Ingredients

12 oz all-purpose flour
1 tsp salt
2 tsp baking powder
4 oz unsalted butter, very cold
8 oz full fat buttermilk

Procedure

Sift together the flour, salt, and baking powder. Using the large holes of a box grater, grate the cold butter into the flour and mix so that it is evenly distributed.
Make a well in the centre of the flour mixture. Add the buttermilk. Stir so that flour is slowly incorporated into the buttermilk. Continue until the dough forms. Knead very briefly until the dough is somewhat smooth. Wrap the dough tightly in plastic and refrigerate for at least 15 minutes.
Roll the dough out into a rectangle about 1″ thick. Fold in thirds as described above. Repeat the roll and fold, then wrap the dough tightly in plastic and refrigerate about 1 hour.
Repeat step three.
Roll the dough to 1/2″ thickness, then cut to desired shapes. Line the biscuits on a bake sheet so that they are about 1″ apart. Bake in a 375°F oven until cooked through and lightly browned.

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Scallop Potatoes

Posted on February 16, 2013 by allansuddaby

I think I remember scallop potatoes more fondly than any other form of the tuber. Maybe French fries were more highly prized when I was a child, but truth be told I ate them much more often than scallop potatoes. Scallop potatoes, being a casserole dish, was reserved for large dinners, especially Easter.

At its core the dish is potatoes, cut into rounds (scalloped), then baked in cream and cheese. There are obviously countless variations; I know some mothers who bake their scallop potatoes in mushroom or onion soup mix. There is a classic French dish called pommes à la dauphinois that is identical to scallop potatoes. The addition of grated cheese to the top of the dish would make gratin dauphinois. Sometimes eggs are included with the cream to bind the dish, though if you use starchy potatoes and bake the dish uncovered so that the cream reduces, the egg binder is unnecessary.

Thomas Keller has popularized a version of this dish called pavé. Pavé means simply block, or square, and is related to the English word pave, as in paving stone. It is therefore applied to a number of dishes that take a blockish shape, though most famously sweet sponge cakes smooshed together with buttercream. Over the last few years most every fine dining restaurant in Edmonton has offered Keller’s potato pavé at some point or another.

Seriously the only difference between your mother’s scallop potatoes and Thomas Keller’s pavé is that she cut the potatoes to 1/4″ thickness with a knife, and Tom cuts them to 1/16″ or finer with a mandolin. I like leaving the skins on the potatoes. There’s a lot of flavour in the skins. And the slice potatoes look nice with the dark perimeter.

You can use any type of potato, but the more starchy the potato, the tighter the layers will bind. When you cut into a casserole made with thinly sliced Russets, it will hold its shape very well, and each block can be extricated cleanly. Sweet potatoes, which have very little starch, will not bind and will slide over each other. If you want an especially tightly bound dish, you can weigh the pavé down after it comes out of the oven, pressing the potatoes together and exuding some of the excess cream. What a graphic image.

I use a cheese that blends the good melting characteristics of youth with the complex flavours of aged. Sylvan Star medium Gouda or Gruyere or six month Pecorino from The Cheesiry, for instance.

Bake at medium heat for a long time, uncovered. This will let the cream reduce, and the cheese on top brown and form a crust. The dish is done when a paring knife slides easily into the cooked potatoes.

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My Ideal Hash Browns

Posted on February 14, 2013 by allansuddaby

When you order hash browns at a diner, you’re liable to get any number of things. In my experience, all hash browns can be broken into two broad classifications:

Hash Browns Made from Cubed Potato. Also called home fries. This is the less interesting of the two classes.

Hash Browns Made from Grated Potato, bound to varying degrees. Highly bound and cohesive varieties include McDonald’s Hash Browns, Tater Tots, and Jewish latkes.^[1] Loosely or not-at-all bound varieties would be found in corned beef hash. Hash browns made from grated potato are similar to several traditional European potato dishes, notably the Swiss rösti. They are superior to those made from cubed potatoes because they have a much higher ratio of crispy brown exterior to soft, potatoey interior.

Hash browns are a simple preparation, the only ingredients being potato, salt, and oil for frying. They are quick, and don’t require any par-cooking.

When cooking highly bound grated potato hash browns at home, high heat is key. When I say high heat, I’m talking about more than the control dial on the stove. That’s only part of the equation, because to have constant high heat you also need a heavy pan. The thin, damn-near-flimsy non-sticks that most folks have can get very hot, as long as there’s nothing in the pan. As soon as the potatoes are pressed within, the temperature drops dramatically and will take a few minutes to recover.

We want to aggressively brown the potatoes. Heavy stainless steel (or cast iron) is key, and if the pan is hot enough and well-oiled, I promise that the potatoes won’t stick. Use abundant oil. Maybe 1/8″ or even slightly more.

No need to add any binder, like flour or egg: grated potato will stick together just fine. Grate the potatoes using the large holes in a box grater. I leave the skins on. There’s flavour in there. Some recipes recommend squeezing excess moisture from the grated potato before frying. I don’t really understand why you would do this. The hash browns turn out just fine without wringing. Sprinkle the potatoes uniformly over the pan, then gently press with a spatula so that the patty is about 1/4″ thick.

I make a single hash brown as big as my pan will allow and pile any “garnishes” such as eggs on top. My favourite breakfast:

1. Latkes are not usually considered hash browns because they include flour and egg, making them “potato pancakes”. However, most commercial hash browns contain some kind of binder (corn starch at McDonald’s). The distinction is arbitrary.

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Button Soup

Food from Edmonton, Alberta

Draff Bread – Spent Grain Bread

Rhubarb Pie

Crumble, or Crisp (but not Cobbler…)

How to Eat a Triffid

Rhubarb Brown Butter Tart

Rhubarb Shrub

Egg Noodles

Biscuits

Scallop Potatoes

My Ideal Hash Browns