Milk (54 page)

I
first encountered this silky, pungent stuff as “tyrokafteri” in the Greek neighborhood of Astoria, Queens. Later I learned that
htipiti
is a more common name in Greece. Some people also call it
kopanisti,
though that risks confusion with the soft ripened cheese of the same name. By whatever handle, it belongs to a large family of whipped feta preparations eaten everywhere throughout the
Diverse Sources Belt. You can’t miss the similarity to its Carpathian descendant,
Liptauer cheese
. The irreducible elements of the many Greek versions are feta cheese, olive oil, and some kind of hot or sweet peppers, usually but not always charred over a
flame or fried in hot oil. You can use anything from fire-roasted sweet red peppers to small dried hot ones, or even pickled cherry peppers. Once you’ve tried it, vary the proportions to suit your mood. Some people add lemon juice, yogurt, and/or a favorite green herb. I like garlic, but it’s not essential.

The intrinsic creaminess of sheep’s-milk feta gives the most irresistible texture. Whatever kind you use, taste it before soaking so that you can gauge the desalting process. The briny sting should be softened, not completely washed out.

YIELD:
About 2 cups

Coarsely crumble the cheese or cut it into roughly 1-inch chunks; put it in a bowl and cover it well with cool water. Let stand for half an hour to 1 hour; every 15 minutes or so change the water and taste a crumb of cheese for saltiness. (Remember that the oil will temper the salt somewhat.)

While the cheese soaks, roast the chiles over a gas flame until blackened all over. (Alternatively, blacken them, turning a few times, under a broiler, or char them on a dry griddle or in a heavy skillet set over high heat.) Scrape off the charred skin. (Some people recommend first letting them sit briefly in a closed paper bag to soften the skins, but I’ve never found much difference.) Scrape out and discard the core and seeds. Chop the flesh very fine or mash with a mortar and pestle. Mash the garlic to a pulp with the flat of a knife blade.

When the cheese is desalted to your taste, drain it in a colander until it stops dripping. Turn out the cheese into a mixing bowl and begin vigorously beating it with a stout wooden spoon. (Or process it in a food processor.) Beat in the oil a little at a time, tasting at intervals, and stop when the balance of oil and cheese is to your liking. With a sheep’s-milk feta the texture will gradually turn light and creamy, becoming almost like a heavy
whipped cream when you have added the full amount of oil. The effect won’t be as airy and satiny with goats’-milk or cows’-milk cheese.

Stir in the minced green pepper and crushed garlic. Serve as a spread with good crusty bread or a dip with crudités.

A small dab is a lovely addition to a simple oil-and-vinegar salad dressing.

VARIATION(S):
People who don’t like feta will be glad to know that similar spreads are frequently made (minus the soaking step) with blander fresh goat
and sheep cheeses. Greek
manouri
cheese is one good choice. Or substitute any fresh, soft goat cheese, using just as much oil as you need to make a spreadable paste.

L
ike pancakes or French toast, this useful breakfast/brunch dish can be given any number of sweet or savory spins. Creativity (e.g., rum instead of vanilla or crystallized ginger instead of raisins) will not be misplaced here. Russians usually serve
syrniki
with jam as well as sour cream and/or melted butter; all of these strike me as too much of a good thing. To me they taste better with fresh fruit or an uncooked fruit sauce (say, pureed blueberries or raspberries). Maple-syrup lovers may like to try that pairing. The only indispensable elements are very good pot cheese or farmer cheese—Russian-style tvorog, if you can find it—for the fritters and very good butter for the frying. I prefer cultured butter with a slight lactic tang.

YIELD:
8 small patties (4 servings)

If your pot cheese has the least suspicion of excess moisture, wrap it in dampened, wrung-out cheesecloth and place it in a colander under a weight (e.g., a heavy can on a small plate) to press out any whey. If it is not very fine-textured, force it through a coarse-mesh sieve.

Beat the cheese as smooth as possible with a wooden spoon. Beat in the salt, sugar, and optional lemon zest. Whisk the egg lightly and beat it in along with the optional vanilla and raisins. A little at a time, sift the flour over
the cheese and beat it in until you have a dough that is almost too stiff to work.

Turn out the dough onto a lightly floured work surface. With floured hands, shape it into a log about 10 to 12 inches long. Wrap it in waxed paper and refrigerate for at least half an hour (it’s easier to shape when chilled).

Cut the cheese log into 8 slices. With floured hands, shape these into small hamburgerlike patties.

Melt the butter in a heavy skillet just large enough to hold the syrniki easily in one layer. When it is good and fragrant, adjust the heat to medium and add the cheese patties, which should be half-swimming in hot butter. Fry until nicely browned on both sides, turning several times. Drain briefly on paper towels and serve at once.

Nutmeg is a popular and good seasoning for syrniki; pass a whole nutmeg and a grater around at the table.

VARIATION:
For a savory rather than sweet version, cut the sugar to 1½ teaspoons and omit the lemon zest, vanilla, and raisins. Add a handful of minced scallions (or chives), dill, or parsley—or all three—to the mixture before working in the flour.

T
he word “kugel” (
German for anything spherical, from a cannonball to Planet Earth) covers a lot of ground in the baked-pudding department for Ashkenazic Jews, and for many non-Jewish food lovers who register such things the way they register bagels or “Jewish” rye bread. Probably the earliest versions of kugel were more or less round in shape and tied in a pudding cloth for steaming or simmering. Different kinds made from matzoh, potatoes, various other vegetables, or noodles have their adherents today. But
lokshen kugel,
from the Polish word for noodles, is by far the most popular. It usually contains fresh cheese, sour cream, and eggs, and amounts to a sort of noodle-and-cheese pudding.

Jewish noodle kugels almost surely originated as offshoots of very similar German noodle dishes—which, however, often include such distinctly nonkosher elements as bacon or ham. I much prefer these to the sweet, raisin-studded casseroles that have come to be the favorite American versions of lokshen kugel. The following recipe is a sort of shotgun marriage between a savory kugel and the well-known German
Schinkennudeln
(“ham noodles”). Vegetarians
and people keeping kosher kitchens please note: It may be completely nontraditional, but coarsely chopped walnut meats and/or chopped green olives make a flavorful substitute for the ham.

YIELD:
About 6 servings

Preheat the oven to 350°F.

Melt half the butter in a small skillet and sauté the onions and garlic until translucent. Scrape the mixture into a bowl; beat in the eggs and sour cream.

In the same skillet, lightly brown the bread crumbs in the remaining butter.

Meanwhile, cook the noodles by package directions in well-salted water, drain, and return them to the pot. Toss the hot noodles with the cheese, trying to distribute it evenly. Add the onion–sour cream mixture and ham; toss to combine. Season liberally with salt, pepper, and nutmeg.

Turn the mixture out into a 1½-quart baking dish, scatter the buttered crumbs over the top, and bake for 30 minutes or until nicely browned. Serve at once.

VARIATION:
“
Kugel Meets Borek,” my contribution to the fusion wars, was inspired by cheese-filled versions of the Turkish “water
borek
” (
su böreği
). Sold in borek or baklava shops, it’s a baked dish of large lasagne-like fresh pasta sheets layered with a filling. For this hybrid, which undoubtedly would be disowned by Jews and Turks alike, omit the sour cream, ham, and nutmeg, and replace the farmer cheese with ½ pound feta cheese (preferably Bulgarian sheep’s-milk feta), crumbled and mixed with 2 eggs, ⅓ cup milk, a large handful of chopped flat-leaf parsley, and 6 to 8 large scallions, trimmed and chopped. Toss the cooked noodles with the cheese-scallion mixture, top with bread crumbs, and bake as above.

T
he name of this renneted milk dessert—which is essentially an almost-cheese of half-set curd still swimming in its whey—was around hundreds of years before the American branch of a large Danish dairy-supply company trademarked it. As late as my childhood it was a fairly common nursery “pudding” of wan consistency and bland flavor, but that was a fairly recent development. Nineteenth-century English versions commonly included brandy or rum as well as a final dose of cream. Mrs.
Beeton’s “Devonshire Junket” of 1861 calls for “2 dessertspoonfuls of brandy, 1 dessertspoonful of sugar, and 1½ dessertspoonful of prepared rennet” per “pint of new milk”; when the mixture is set she finishes it with “thick or clotted cream,” nutmeg or cinnamon, and a little more sugar.

Like many very simple dishes harking back to an era of better milk, this really has to be made with very fresh unhomogenized milk (or a milk-cream mixture) in order to taste like anything.

YIELD:
4 servings

Crush the rennet tablet in a tablespoon or so of cold water until thoroughly dissolved. Gently warm the milk, sugar, and salt to 100° to 110°F in a small saucepan, stirring to dissolve the sugar. Add the liquor. Quickly and lightly stir in the dissolved rennet; pour the mixture into four 8-ounce Pyrex custard cups or other small dessert bowls. Let stand with no jiggling or jouncing until lightly set (10 to 15 minutes), then carefully transfer to the refrigerator to chill thoroughly.

To serve, very gently pour or spoon a dollop of heavy cream over each portion without disturbing the surface. Add a sprinkling of nutmeg or cinnamon and let everyone sweeten his or her own with sugar to taste.

T
his is as good a place as any to apologize to anyone who has been looking forward to an Ultimate Cheesecake Recipe. I just don’t like the ultra-creamy texture of today’s cheesecakes. My heart belongs to the lighter, drier filling of cheese
pie
as made in the Pennsylvania of my youth. Alas, I’ve never managed to duplicate it. But half a lifetime ago I transferred allegiance to the very different charms of
paskha.

“Paskha”—pronounced “PAHS-khah,” with an aspirated “kh”—is the Russian word for Easter, and in Russian Orthodox households the chief glories of the Easter table after colored Easter eggs are a “butter lamb” (butter molded in the shape of a lamb); a tall, round iced yeast loaf called
kulich,
rich with eggs and butter; and this sumptuous cheese creation named for the day.

No, it isn’t a cheesecake, though the ingredients resemble those of a cheesecake based on a dry fresh cheese like pot cheese rather than cream cheese. (The difference is that paskha isn’t baked and has no crust.) Like the lamb and the
kulich,
it announces the return of foods prohibited in Lent (butter, eggs, cheese, cream, in proportions that vary widely from cook to cook). Traditionally it is made in a pyramidal wooden mold that permits excess liquid to drain from the cheese mixture. Russian émigrés in this country long ago took to substituting a suitably sized flowerpot. In either case it is decorated after unmolding with dried or candied fruit or nuts forming the Cyrillic letters “XB” (for
Kh
ristos
V
oskrese, “Christ Is Risen”).

Paskha is not complicated to make, but it takes elbow grease and planning. First, you must round up several pounds of a fresh cheese like Russian tvorog, and reduce it to a smooth texture by putting it through a sieve. You must then beat the heavy cheese as smooth as you can with butter, eggs, sugar, cream, and (usually) vanilla before getting a bulky flowerpot-over-a-rack arrangement into the refrigerator to drain until the paskha is firm enough to unmold, which may take a day. Lastly, you should either make a kulich yourself (there are nice recipes in
Darra Goldstein’s
A Taste of Russia
and
Anya von Bremzen’s
Please to the Table
) or go out and buy a super-excellent coffeecake, because for Russians paskha and kulich go together like a horse and carriage.