As promised, here are further musings on caramel, milk caramel in particular.   There is something so appealing about the golden look, the warm, toasty smell; so many foods are enhanced by careful, gentle burning.  Some are even burned more violently, like the glossy bronzed sugar layer on top of crème brûlée, or the grill marks on a fine steak.  Don’t forget Paul Prudhomme’s blackened redfish, which took ‘80s America by storm (and nearly wiped out redfish, too).  But I digress.
           Some rich custardy sweets depend upon burned sugar, particularly the crème brûlée already mentioned and crème (renversée au) caramel – flan.  You might also pour a layer of caramel into the bottom of your mold for panna cotta.  As the mixture chills and sets, even without baking, the hygroscopic (hydrophilic) properties of sugar creations in general and caramel in particular will pull moisture from the milk mixture just as with flan and create a translucent golden syrup.  By the way, I make an extraordinary flan with a bit of cream cheese in it, a concept from the Yucatán called Flan Napolitano.  Please let me know if you are interested and I will be happy to post the recipe.
           Add cream to burned sugar, stir over heat until the caramel dissolves into the cream, and you have a caramel sauce.  Brown sugar gives flavor to many milky creations – even butterscotch pudding – and the molasses and caramel color that turn white sugar into brown sugar are the flavoring agents.
           Not so long before Kraft rolled out its 1933 creation and added a new word to the American vocabulary – carmel – Louis-Camille Maillard published (in 1912) a paper with some information about protein that the rest of the world might not have thought too much about.  Everyone knew that when you throw a steak on a hot grill or turn a chicken on a spit over a healthy fire, they brown.  And cooks knew that when you burn sugar over high heat it passes first through a series of ever-darker brown states that are delicious until the later stages become bitter tasting. 
           Maillard noticed that while sugar caramelizes at 338°F (170°C), and that the steak and the chicken are at high heat too, it is possible to boil milk and sugar together and get browning too, even if the temperature never passes 240°F, the soft ball!  Dried and processed milk products also tend to brown when they are stored in a warm place, a serious consideration for infant formulas because of the nutritional changes that accompany the flavor and color change.  So what is happening here?  It is a complex reaction now called the Maillard Effect or Maillard browning, whereby a combination of protein and sugar in the right proportions and with comparatively little heat will go through the chemical and nutritional changes that produce, among other reactions, that wonderful toasty aroma and flavor. 
           Is it caramel?  No, not really.  Do we care?  Dulce de leche (cajeta, manjar blanco, arquipe) is still darkly delicious however it got that way.  I will just mention here that the Maillard Effect occurs more readily in alkaline mixtures, which seems to be why dulce de leche recipes generally include sodium bicarbonate.  I had always thought that the added alkalinity would protect the milk from curdling as the pH shifts toward acidic with caramelization.  Now I know that there is no true caramelization happening here, but Maillard browning has very much the same results.          
           Working with a slightly different formula and no bicarb this time, you can create your own soft “caramel”.  Whatever it really is, it will be buttery and wonderful, and far more tempting than anything Kraft makes!  I answered the caramel call this spring for my chocolate, pecan, caramel bunnies in the Easter line at bruce’s best.  The caramel – and the bunnies – turned out even better than I had hoped, and I will be looking for other excuses to use this treat in future.  There are three basic approaches – fresh cream, evaporated milk, and condensed milk.  I find the condensed milk version very easy and irresistible.  This basic formula originally came from a professional recipe book, and I have misplaced the attribution.  I will post it later if I can dig it up.   

Soft Caramel

             1 cup water
             18 ounces – about 2 1/3 cups – sugar
             One 14-ounce can sweetened condensed milk
             1 ¼ cups – 10 fluid ounces, 15 ounces by weight – light corn syrup
             7 ounces butter
             ½ teaspoon salt
             2 teaspoons vanilla extract            Combine in a wide, heavy-bottomed saucepan the water, sugar, condensed milk, and corn syrup.  Stir over medium heat until sugar is dissolved, then bring the mixture to 230

°F, stirring often.  Stir in the butter and stir constantly until the mixture reaches 240°.  This temperature will yield a nice, gooey caramel after it cools.  You may also continue to 243°F for a slightly firmer result that might hold its shape better.  Stir in the salt and vanilla.
             Scrape the mixture onto a buttered pan to cool.  While it is still warm you may pipe it with a pastry bag or squeeze bottle.  When it has cooled to room temperature it will cut with a knife or wire.  Wrap airtight and refrigerate, but return it to room temperature to work with it, and for eating, too.
                                         
                                                            

          When most of us hear the word mole we think “chocolate chicken” and then either salivate or curl the lip.  In fact, the mole story is far more complex than the legendary creation probably first concocted in the kitchen of the (ex)-Convent of Santa Rosa in Puebla.  Mole poblano may be best known here, but in Mexico everyone knows that moles are prepared all over, and actually Oaxaca is most famous for the sheer variety of its moles, as well as the savor.  Any mention of la cocina oaxaqueña and someone will automatically say, “Oh yes, the seven moles of Oaxaca.”         
         The word mole comes from the Nahuatl, the language of the ancient Aztecs and their empire.  It names a complex sauce, or the finished dish made with this complex sauce.  To illustrate the difference between a mole and a salsa, let’s first prepare a simple (virtual) everyday salsa (not to be confused with a chunky salsa cruda [raw sauce] or table condiment).         
         To make a salsa de chile cascabel, for example, we first select a few dried cascabeles, round and hard, with a bright rattle from the seeds inside when shaken, which gives them their name.  We toast the chiles lightly on a hot comal – griddle – until they are fragrant and pliable, but not smoky.  Then we tear open the chiles, discarding cap, seeds (probably, although we could save the seeds for use as a spicing agent), and as much of the membranous ribs inside as possible.  We cover the chile pieces with boiling water and let them soak for at least twenty minutes.  An hour is better.         
         I should mention that somewhere along the way we need to place some meat into a kettle (chicken parts, chunks of pork shoulder, turkey, lamb, beef, armadillo, a cutup rabbit, whatever) with water to cover, salt, a piece of white onion, a garlic clove, and a bay leaf or two.  With chicken, of course, a rib of celery and a carrot are always welcome, along with a pinch of dried leaf thyme.  The meat is simmered gently until tender.         
         So, back to the salsa:  We take a few red ripe tomatoes (the most exotic ingredient in this dish), roast them briefly over a flame to blister the skin, then slide off most of the skin and cut out the caps.  We throw the tomatoes into a blender jar (or into a lava-stone mortar and pestle, a molcajete – mole box) along with a few pieces of white onion, a garlic clove, and some salt (the onion and garlic might be previously toasted a bit on the comal to add more flavor).  To these few ingredients we add the soaked cascabel pieces and process this mixture to a coarse purée.  Note that if we were making a simple Mexican tomato sauce instead of salsa de chile cascabel, we would use instead of the dried chile a piece of chile serrano or other similar fresh green chile.         
         Next we “fry” the sauce:  a large skillet goes over a medium/high flame with a few tablespoons of vegetable oil or lard.  When it is hot, we pour in the tomato mixture and stir vigorously.  It will sizzle and spit.  Then we might add about a half-cup of the chile soaking water, lower the heat, and let the sauce simmer gently, stirring now and then, for maybe 10 to 15 minutes.  If the sauce gets too thick we will thin it with meat broth.  We correct the seasoning, adding salt to taste and maybe a pinch or two of sugar to compensate for lackluster tomatoes.         
         So that is a salsa, and it is mixed with the (drained) pieces of meat at serving time, or used to sauce various tortilla dishes in the “corn kitchen.”  Everyone has favorite chiles and favorite pairings of chile and meat.  A green salsa is very much the same, only the green husk tomatoes (tomatillos in border lingo) are cooked in water before being puréed with white onion, garlic, serrano, and a little handful of fresh coriander (cilantro) or other fresh herb, then “fried” as usual.
          A mole is a salsa taken to a higher plane with the addition of nuts, seeds, and spices, even dried fruits and, yes, chocolate.  When we are in Mexico we have the option of shopping for a mole paste at the local market, where spice vendors display a dozen or more aromatic pastes in a variety of greens and earth tones, all the way to nearly black.  Each has its own special combination of aromatics, enrichments, and chiles, and they may vary regionally.         
         Armed with one of these products, we can simply go home and make a red or green salsa (without the chile, probably) and stir in the paste.  After a few minutes of cooking we have an almost-instant mole that should be delicious, provided the spice vendor has done a good job.  Outside Mexico we will have to choose our own mole enrichments, toasting this and that, and creating another purée to add to our salsa after it is fried.  After all, the finest cooks create their own mole anyway, so it is a pleasure to follow that tradition.
         Below is my teaching recipe, and it is a modern take on the traditional mole from Puebla, using chicken, as it is usually served in restaurants and homes too, instead of the more original turkey.

Mole Poblano
about 8 servings
 
12 chicken quarters or 16 pieces—8 thighs and 8 breast halves
1 large white onion, sliced
1 large rib celery, sliced
1 large carrot, sliced
1 bay leaf
pinch thyme
2 tablespoons coarse salt 
           
         Rinse chicken pieces and place them in a stockpot with vegetables and seasoning and water to cover.  Bring to the boil, then lower heat and simmer very gently, skimming during the first 15 minutes, until chicken is very tender but not falling from the bone, about 45 minutes.  May be prepared well in advance.  Put aside. 

6 chile ancho
5 chile mulato
2 chile pasilla  

¼ cup sesame seeds
¼ cup blanched slivered almonds
1 stale tortilla, shredded
½ cup raisins
¼ teaspoon dried oregano
¼ teaspoon dried thyme
1 teaspoon ground cinnamon
¼ teaspoon ground cloves
¼ teaspoon ground anise seed
¼ teaspoon ground black pepper 

2 large ripe tomatoes, roasted and peeled
1 cup cooked tomates verdes—tomatillos
½ large white onion, sliced
3 cloves garlic, peeled
1 teaspoon salt
3 tablespoon canola oil 
1 tablet Mexican chocolate, coarsely chopped
toasted sesame seeds
sliced white onion rings, optional                            

         Toast the chiles in a large hot skillet, turning, just until they are fragrant and pliable, but not smoking.  Remove and discard the seeds, caps, and membranes.  Cover chiles with boiling water and soak about 20 minutes.           
         Toast the sesame seeds, almonds, and tortilla in the hot skillet until they begin to color, shaking and stirring constantly.  Stir in the raisins, and then the herbs and spices.  As soon as the mixture is fragrant, scrape it into a bowl and put aside.           
         In a blender, purée tomatoes, tomatillos, onion, and garlic with the salt.  Place a large, deep skillet or rondo over high heat and add the oil.  When it is hot, carefully pour in the tomato mixture—it will splatter—and “fry” it, stirring constantly for a few minutes.  Lower heat and let mixture simmer.           
         Lift the soaked chile pieces out of their water and puree in the blender, adding a little of the water as needed.  Add to the tomato sauce.  Purée the seed and nut mixture, moistening it as necessary with some of the chicken broth.  Blend it very smooth.  Add to the sauce.           
         Cook the mixture very gently, stirring often, for about 20 minutes.  Thin with broth as necessary to keep the texture that of a thick sauce.  Be careful that it does not burn.  May be prepared well in advance to this point.           
         Stir in the chocolate, and correct seasoning.  It will probably need salt and a pinch of sugar too.  Drain the chicken pieces.  Add them to the sauce and warm it to let the flavors marry.  Alternately, you may arrange the chicken pieces on platter or plates and mask with a generous amount of sauce.  Present the dish sprinkled with toasted sesame seeds and strewn with optional onion slices. 

          As soon as I began to think about producing chocolate truffles, I knew that dulce de leche would be one of the flavors.  There is something so irresistible about caramel in general and milk caramel in particular, that I just knew it would work with chocolate.         
         I came to this fascination with dulce nearly twenty years ago when I began to learn about the traditional foods of Mexico.  Josefina Howard – creator of Rosa Mexicano restaurant – was my mentor, and her infectious devotion to all things Mexican sparked something in me that grew into a passion.  It was from Mrs. Howard I learned that Mexico has a rich colonial candy tradition.  A few of these specialties may be an acquired taste, like the very tart balls of tamarind paste generously dusted with a beautiful hot red chile powder.  But most are instantly inviting, including perhaps my most favorite, a whole lime that has been slit open, poached in a sugar syrup, then stuffed with shredded coconut.         
         In Mexico, dulce de leche is a brown sugar fudge, which is molded and extruded into a variety of appealing shapes – buttons, crowns, logs, whole walnuts – often garnished with pecans or Mexico’s glorious little pink pine nuts, and sometimes dusted with cinnamon.  In all its forms it is irresistible.  But then there is the other kind of dulce, which is another matter altogether.  The milk caramel that other Latinos call dulce de leche (or manjar blanco or even arquipe in some parts of the Americas) in Mexico is called cajeta, or more specifically, cajeta de leche de cabra, for it is indeed traditionally made from goat’s milk.  The word cajeta comes from caja – box – because this confection was sold in charming wooden boxes, like miniature hatboxes crafted from thin shavings of soft wood.  Through the 1990s it was still possible to find cajeta in boxes, at least at the famous, elegant old candy store Dulceria Celaya, in Mexico City right in the heart of the Centro Historico.         
         Now, sadly, the boxes seem to have disappeared, though cajeta is still very much available, and just as irresistible.  Mexicans have their choice of cajeta in the jar at the supermarket or local bodega – for home deserts and quick snacks – and various cajeta creations including some wonderful sandwiches.  The commercial one is cajeta spread between two wafer paper rounds – obleas, like the host in Catholic communion.  These are called Sevillanas, and are available wherever snacks are sold, in the familiar wrapper with the painting of the flirty (though chaste, of course) girls from Seville.  In public markets and street fairs, and all the other places that Mexicans hawk their wares, expect to find at least one vendor selling rather large round obleas in pastel colors that are folded in half with a cajeta center and often a crenellation of green pumpkin seeds peeking out all along the half-round edge.  There is an exquisite beauty to these creations that moves me deeply, but that is a story I will explore another time.         
         When I first set out to create a dulce de leche chocolate truffle for bruce’s best, I settled for a cow’s milk dulce made in Florida.  It is delicious, but it lacks the slight goaty tang of fine cajeta (and it contains potassium sorbate, an additive that nearly everyone considers harmless, though an artificial preservative none the less).  After searching in vain for a Mexican product even remotely affordable in the quantities I need (Coronado brand is perfect, but pricey by the gallon), I suddenly realized there was no good reason why I could not make it myself.         
         The process is simplicity itself.  You merely simmer together milk and sugar and little else, stirring often, until you have produced a thick, rich brown caramel.  Patience is a prerequisite.  The results are sublime.  There is an elemental satisfaction to be derived from crafting such a simple, legendary substance.  I will write again about caramel, probably often.  I never mentioned the Maillard Effect.  I will get to it in future, for those who are interested.  For now, I will post these thoughts and hope that I have stirred up caramel dreams along with my cajeta.