Emulsification

A few days ago, I reserved the kitchen for cooking, singing, and dancing.  And, to be honest, for talking to myself.  We have been cooking a lot over the last year—mostly cooking to eat.  Thinking about routines and rituals last week pushed me to the kitchen where I could go on autopilot and make my old standby, chicken and rice soup, and also test out a new lasagna recipe.  With the counter completely cleared and not another human in sight, I put dance music on and pulled out the biggest knife and the biggest cutting board.

I can make chicken and rice soup from memory.  When I included this recipe in my book, I used a roasted chicken from the store to make the broth, but since then I bumped into a recipe where a fresh, whole chicken is simmered in a stockpot for an hour-and-a-half.  The chicken cooks and makes its own broth for the following soup all at once.  That’s where I started the morning. 

The lasagna took more discipline as I followed a recipe with a list of twenty ingredients and layered preparation.  Although I sang and danced while putting the soup together, I turned the music down and struck up a conversation with myself over making that lasagna sauce. “OK, the meat is browned… now I add sugar through parsley.  Sugar through parsley.  Sugar through… parsley.” Maybe if I make the lasagna often enough, it too will become rote like the soup—or risotto or chili.

Once the soup and sauce were set to simmer, I glanced at the narrow shelves next to the fridge and saw the vinaigrette jar was empty.  It was time for an episode of emulsification—a wholly satisfying endeavor of beating ingredients to the point where there is unequivocal bonding of molecules that are polar opposites. 

At my emulsification station in the far corner of the kitchen, I can reach all ingredients and tools with only slight turns and small steps.  From the upper corner cupboard, I pull my old plastic two quart bowl with a handle and pour spout, as well as my Pyrex 1-cup measuring cup with a pour spout.  The vinaigrette whisk jumps from the utensil jar, much like a dog that heads to the door upon hearing the word “walk.”  I open the skinny vinegar cupboard door to see the sly, potent white balsamic vinegar waiting for its name to be called. 

To the left of that cupboard lays in wait the bulb of garlic; I break off a clove and watch garlic papers waft to the floor.  They join the other cooking evidence of the day: bits of carrots, celery, and onion already scattered in my cooking galley.  Near the beginning of a cooking session, when the first ingredient falls to the floor, I mutter knowingly, “Now we’re cooking!”  If it weren’t for the floor, I wouldn’t be able to cook.

I open the hinged door to the lower corner Lazy Susan and find the half-gallon sentry of extra-virgin olive oil on the bottom shelf in the shadows, right next to my shin.  With a step out of my spin-radius, I open the fridge door and retrieve the Grey Poupon Dijon mustard that’s hiding in the door behind the ketchup.  From my corner, I step in the opposite direction to the drawer where the garlic press resides. Then finally, back squarely at the vinaigrette station, I open the cupboard door and pull out the salt cellar and the pepper mill.  All ingredients and tools are at the ready for the convening of emulsification.

We know the scientific fact-come-cliché: Oil and water don’t mix.  If shaken together in a jar, the oil breaks into tiny formations that may give the impression of combining with the water, but in fact, the oil particles stand strong via no effort, but simply because of their molecular structure.  Oil molecules are hydrophobic; they repel water.  That is where the magic of mustard enters.  The hulls of mustard seeds contain mucilage, which is a combination of proteins and polysaccharides, or a kind of gum.  The molecules of mustard mucilage have two ends: one is hydrophilic (loves water/vinegar) and the other is hydrophobic (hates water/vinegar).  Hence, mustard is a great glue—or in scientific cooking terms, an emulsifier. Its molecular structure enables it to pull oil and vinegar together.

As with the layered preparation of lasagna sauce, making this vinaigrette is not a throw-it-in-the-pot recipe.  To remain a vinaigrette—for it not to quietly separate back into oil and vinegar—key steps must be adhered to in the creation process.

These ingredients go into the bowl: ¼ cup white balsamic vinegar, 1 pressed garlic clove, 1 teaspoon Grey Poupon Dijon mustard, a pinch of salt, and 20 twists of milled black pepper.  Then these ingredients are whisked together and dissolved to form a cloudy, watery solution. Next, a large ¾ cup pour of extra-virgin olive oil goes into the same 1-cup Pyrex measuring cup used to measure the vinegar.  At this point, the call to duty comes: lean the body against the counter, place the whisk in the dominate hand, lift the cup of oil in the other hand.  Pause to say a little emulsification prayer, “Please stay together…” And then, begin.

With intensity, start whisking the vinegar concoction while ever so slowly drizzling the oil into the mix.  Just a thin thread of gold should flow into the bowl.  As the pouring continues the oil should disappear into the new liquid state.  If oil hovers near the top edges, stop the pour and continue to whisk until oil blends in, then recommence the slow drizzle.  Let the bowl bounce off the torso as necessary; the bowl is like a floating stadium where a Greek battle is ensuing.  It will move with each flick of the whisk.  Garlic skins on the floor are easier to clean up than a mustard mucilage emulsification spill.

When the last drip of oil has dropped into the plastic bowl, put the measuring cup down and with that hand grab the bowl handle to stabilize it while giving the emulsification a final molecular beating. 

This is undoubtedly one of the loudest recipes ever prepared in my kitchen.  The battle in the bowl pulls Liam from yonder corners of the house, “Oohh… Did I hear you making dressing, Mom?”  And we both admire the smooth silky thickened liquid pouring from the bowl into a jar, full well knowing the kick it will put in salad that evening. 

To serve this vinaigrette, we toss a big bowlful of lettuce with three tablespoons of dressing.  This isn’t a pooling potion like ranch or blue cheese.  With its potency via white balsamic vinegar and Dijon dressing, it is truly meant to lightly dress salad leaves.  In the days when we used to have guests for dinner, I hesitated to serve this dressing because of the high risk of an acid-up-the nose coughing fit at the table.  However, the salad eaters in our house are accustomed to the strength of this dressing.  Our bodies have adapted, and those connections between mouth and nose that elicit choking over acidic evaporation close when we eat salad.  How that works is research for another day.