Milk (18 page)

Given everything that I’ve said about the inferiority of
ultrapasteurized cream, how did it come to crowd out old-fashioned pasteurized cream so decisively in the last thirty or forty years? The short answer is lack of public demand for cream, period. Cream has had its heydays and lean times in the history of Western cooking, and we seem to be well into one of the latter.

There are plenty of reasons that fresh cream hasn’t always been a prominent feature of every dairying region. It can exist, in theory, in any location with milch animals whose milk has large-enough fat globules to form a cream layer on standing. The best are
cows and
water buffaloes. But in hot climates the creaming phenomenon is somewhat diminished and the cream sours quickly. Thus the northerly milking regions of Europe were about the only areas where unsoured cream could have figured in cooking.
Northeastern peoples, however, firmly gravitated toward
sour cream. This was never a preference of the far
northwestern reaches—but neither was fresh cream, for a long time. We have no evidence that most English or northern
French cooks held any form of cream in high regard until close to the dawn of specialized modern dairying. It was after the late seventeenth century that cream-based dishes became common in English and French cookbooks, and that particular districts became known for the excellence of their cream as well as butter.

The culinary prestige of cream increased swiftly with advances in cooling milk. Creaming, or the formation of a well-defined
cream layer, was found to take place faster and more thoroughly in a dairy with a running cold spring than in a warm room. With the developing nineteenth-century ice trade, followed late in the century by mechanical
refrigeration, people discovered that very deeply chilled milk creamed still better. Not long after this, centrifugal separators took over the job, and cream so rich that it had to be thinned with milk before whipping in order not to turn to butter reached urban consumers’ iceboxes as a matter of course.

This development coincided with the advent of improved
beating devices. Before the nineteenth century nothing better than bundles of straw or twigs existed for beating cream or egg whites. You had to whip cream a little at a time, skimming off the whipped froth from the top and placing it in a sieve to drain off any still-retained liquid while you went on with the rest of the batch. Whisks of thin wooden or metal rods seem to have been available by midcentury, but were not much more efficient. Over the next fifty years these were superseded by sturdy balloon whisks and rotary eggbeaters, just as ice cooling,
centrifuging, and the rise of dairy-cattle breeds such as
Jerseys and
Guernseys (noted for the quality of their cream) put other pieces of the puzzle in place. By the turn of the twentieth century any cook could produce beautifully and completely
whipped cream in a matter of minutes, whereas
Isabella Beeton in her renowned 1861 manual had estimated that a pint of cream ought to take an hour.

A golden age of cream-enriched cooking was now at hand in countries with modern dairy technology. In the United States, whipped cream became the embellishment or filling of choice for any really dazzling dessert. In France and all places touched by
French culinary influence, rich fresh cream (whipped or unwhipped) became the magic ingredient in mousses, quenelles, custards, Bavarian creams, and sauces that would symbolize grand cuisine for many from the belle époque to the 1970s.

Influential cooks and writers of the period leading up to the so-called gourmet revolution habitually placed cream in a starring role. As an aspiring young cook, I thought it was impossible for anything to be too creamy. And I was far from alone in that opinion, which now looks as quaint as yesteryear’s fashionable kitchen color schemes.

One reason for
cream’s fall from grace was, of course, the general move away from full-fat dairy products that began several generations ago. Recently, the rationale of this trend has been called into question. But cream has been one of its economic casualties. For dairy processors, most of the cream obtained when milk is
centrifuged at the plant has become a chronic embarrassment. Some profit can be salvaged from the bulky, inconveniently perishable substance by putting it to such manufacturing purposes as
butter and
ice cream—or giving it a longer shelf life through ultrapasteurization. For the industry as a whole,
ultrapasteurized cream is the only form that makes economic sense.

It’s a sad development, because when real creaminess is what you want, there is nothing like fresh cream. Still, even cream-loving cooks nowadays understand that creaminess can all too easily become a kind of blanket spread over individual textures, softening other flavors to the point of mawkishness. (Especially ultrapasteurized cream, with its faint sludginess and lack of clean finish.) There are occasions when too much cream is just enough, but also many when less is more.

Enough of a market for decent-tasting cream remains to keep a few
small dairies supplying specialty stores here and there, especially in large cities. I’d hazard a guess that demand will increase rather than decrease, given the resurgence in small-scale farm dairies and the many doubts now being cast on the superior healthfulness of low-fat dairy products.

M
any people fall in love with the Devonshire or Cornish versions of this celestial substance without realizing that a similar idea has occurred to people elsewhere, from Serbia (
kajmak
) and
Turkey (
kaymak
) to
India (
malai
). The necessary raw material is a kind of
milk that on standing acquires a thick, well-defined top layer of cream. Water buffaloes’ and cows’ milk are the best for this. Goats’ milk, with its very small fat globules, will not develop the requisite degree of separation. Sheep’s milk also has fairly small fat globules, but is sufficiently more concentrated than goats’ milk to make good clotted cream anyhow. In parts of the Diverse Sources Belt, milk from two or more species is sometimes combined.

What’s crucial in all cases is an unhomogenized distribution, with cream on top and the thinner milk on the bottom. For English clotted cream the unhomogenized milk is put in a wide, shallow pan and subjected to a very slow, gentle heating that causes the cream to form a thick, semisolid blanket. Heating cream by itself without a bottom layer of milk doesn’t work the same way. Though most of the milk will eventually be removed at the skimming stage, it somehow communicates better flavor to the cream. Besides, the thinner milk on the bottom acts as a heat insulator and modulator, letting the top gradually reach temperatures that will half-coagulate it without directly exposing it to the stronger heat coming from the floor of the pan.

Heat alone won’t produce the desired result. There also has to be some evaporation of water from the surface, promoted by the
width of the pan and the further step of letting the milk stand at least overnight before starting to warm it. The incomparable flavor doesn’t depend on bacterial action, though probably a small amount of ripening takes place during the initial standing phase. (Ignore recipes that tell you to put sour cream in with the milk.) The main factor is
cooking without boiling,
which transforms the taste of simple fresh cream into something wonderfully warm and nutty.

English-style clotted cream is quite simple to make at home if you can get hold of unhomogenized milk and cream. It is not true (though often asserted) that the real thing depends on unpasteurized milk.
Unhomogenized
milk is the key, since its comparatively large milkfat globules easily come together in a good substantial body. The few people who can get milk from Jersey or
Guernsey cows are the luckiest, because the milkfat globules are larger than in the milk of other breeds and the cream almost begs to form a rich clot. (Devotees of the stuff can be spotted by the fact that they find the word “clot” poetic.)

In the English West Country, milk alone was traditionally used to make clotted cream, but you must remember that it was milk from very backward cows that knew no better than to give small amounts of very rich milk. The best plan today (for those lacking their own
Jersey cow) is a combination of unhomogenized milk and cream, in the ratio of 1 cup cream to 1 quart milk. You can make a stab at clotted cream with homogenized whole milk and heavy cream, but the separation will be less complete and the yield more meager.

I don’t recommend making clotted cream with less than about 1 to 1½ quarts of milk (that is, milk-cream mixture), because under the best of circumstances you won’t get much more than a cup of clotted cream per quart. (I find a two-quart batch best.) You will need a wide, shallow nonreactive skillet or sauté pan that will hold the milk without spilling when moved from one spot to another. If you have two suitable pans you can distribute the milk between them. But note that you’ll have to clear space in the refrigerator for the postcooking phase, which may complicate the planning with two pans. An instant-reading thermometer is a help.

YIELD:
About 1 cup clotted cream, 4 cups leftover milk for each starting quart of milk and cup of cream (Results will vary depending on the quality of the milk and how long it heats.)

Combine the milk and cream in a shallow nonreactive pan (see above), preferably one with a heavy bottom. Let it stand at least 12 hours, loosely covered, in a cool room. Lacking a fairly cool room, you can use the refrigerator, but the milk won’t clot as firmly; increase the standing time to 16 to 24 hours or until the cream layer is well defined.

Set a Flame Tamer or other heat-diffusing device on a stove burner, and very carefully set the pan of milk on it over the lowest possible heat. (If put directly on a burner the milk may boil, which ruins the gradual coagulation process.)

Watch the pan closely through the various heating stages. The slower the process the better. First you will see tiny beads of fat appearing around the rim of the pan. Then small blistery stipplings will form just under the surface, which will begin to look filmy. Eventually the surface will acquire a yellow cast and begin to wrinkle, then coalesce into a more deeply and completely wrinkled crust. The milk will take on a faintly cheesy smell. The temperature, meanwhile, must reach something between 140° and 180°F, and has to remain in that range long enough to encourage the maximum amount of clotting. If you snatch the pan from the stove as soon as you see wrinkles, you will end up with less cream. Try to keep it within the right zone for about 4 hours. (I’m skeptical of people who say they can make clotted cream in half an hour.)

Very, very carefully remove the pan from the heat, and let cool to room temperature before sliding it into the refrigerator and leaving it for at least 8 hours, preferably overnight; the clot will not firm up until it is deeply chilled. With a slotted spoon, spatula, or anything else that will work, gently lift the thick yellow crust into a small bowl, letting the residual milk drain back into the pan.

Part of the clotted cream will be firm, part slightly fluid. You can gently stir it together to even out the contrast, but I like it as is. It will keep in the refrigerator, tightly covered, for 5 to 7 days. Proudly serve it on biscuits, scones, toast, bread, or anything else that takes your fancy. It is a glorious partner to fresh fruit, and perhaps even better with compotes or stewed dried fruit.

Going through a two- or three-day process for far less cream than milk may sound like a spendthrift idea, but the leftover milk is actually lovely for such purposes as scalloped potatoes and chowders. It also makes absolutely wonderful rice pudding.

M
ascarpone originated close to the Lombard city of Lodi. Technically it is one of the noncheese cheeses, like Indian panir, made by simple acidification instead of lactic-acid fermentation or enzymatic action. The cheap and handy original acidulant was tartaric acid from the tartar that crystallizes out of wine onto barrel walls during the aging process. Cream of tartar, a potassium salt of tartaric acid that is available today in most supermarkets, ought to be just as good, but I have never had success using it. I get good results with the other common acidulant for mascarpone—citric acid, the “sour salt” that once flavored some versions of borshch. Look for it in health-food stores or markets catering to a Jewish clientele, and also in some Indian and Turkish groceries. Its advantage over such agents as vinegar or lemon juice is that a very small amount will both curdle the cream and add a suggestion of pleasant, neutral tartness free of other distracting notes. The flavor you want is lightly cooked (not boiled) cream with a delicate hint of acid.