Indigo Days

Rice Cropping

October 2009

Cropping rice by machine is faster, but less viscerally satisfying as grasping a handful of vibrant stalks top heavy with plump rice seeds, then stroking a scythe gently, but firmly across the base of the clump in a fluid upsweeping motion.  Inegari, literally “rice cutting,” has become a sort of cult cool thing to do for city people.  A way to get in touch with the land through the heart and soul of Japan:  rice.  The reality is that with the reconfiguration of Japan’s rice fields in the ‘80’s, most fields are cropped (and sown) by machine.  By hand, means you need a lot of hands and these days the cooperative neighborhood spirit is petering out along with the small family farms.  Inspired by a second year of hand planting veterans who wanted to return to help crop what they had sown, Tadaaki threw caution to the wind and didn’t reserve the rice-cropping machine this year.

The whole affair ended up spread out over two days, involving lunch and dinner for the cropping “crews,” then breakfast for the late night revelers who crashed in futons.  Exhausted more from the cooking, than the cropping, I missed most of the fieldwork.  Tadaaki had some wildly unrealistic ideas about doing the food this time.  Curry rice, perhaps?  Tadaaki thinks there are 36 hours in a day, but I knew he wouldn’t be able to take care of his free-range egg business, help with the rice cropping and also fix lunch and dinner for 30 plus.  The compromise:  I made stew and (of course) rice.  I had hoped to cook the rice in an iron pot over an open fire, but gave up on that without Tadaaki’s help.  As it was, he and the others didn’t come back from the hot spring bath until after 7.  Baachan, (Tadaaki’s mother), thought we should buy onigiri from the local convenience store for lunch.  She didn’t see the disconnect.  Serve chemical-sprayed, preservative-laden rice balls to volunteers cropping our organic rice…anything wrong with that picture?  Instead, I put together plates of rice with local tofu, our late field cherry tomatoes and hard-boiled eggs from our farm with a dollop of homemade mayonnaise.  That worked.

The first crew arrived from Tokyo at lunchtime on Saturday and ate pasta with the kids at Sunny-Side Up!.  They got the whole field cut by dusk.  The cutting process is hard on the back, but there is immediate gratification as the work goes fast and you can quickly see the results of your labor.  The next step, tying the stalks, was slow going and didn’t get finished even with fifteen people working from morning to night.  The workers all went back to their lives, but Tadaaki and Christopher returned to the field the following week to complete the job.  Andrew and Matthew, newly in school, somehow escaped the bulk of the cropping and were noticeably absent.  Christopher, on the other hand, stood in for Tadaaki and instructed the neophytes (including me) on all aspects of rice cropping.  On Sunday, we had mainly local people who knew what they were doing as well as some mothers and kids from the school.  The mothers worked diligently, while the “wild ones” ran around the field chasing frogs.  A few of the more enterprising kids actually got into ferrying tied rice stalks to the drying poles, though most  just ended up accidentally kicking up the straw piles.  Slightly annoying, but nonetheless tolerated all around.  Kids should be there.  Kids should know the work that goes into their bowl of rice, even if they aren’t actually doing the work.

I only came for a short time.  It felt wrong not to be part of the cropping and I wanted to share in the satisfaction of the job, but the reality was, the cooking had to get done.  Christopher made it look so easy.  The first crew had cut small bunches of rice stalks and laid them down on the field in a crosshatched v-formation.  The second crew was using last year’s straw (minus the rice) to tie the top of the rice stalks so they could be draped over a couple 40-meter long iron poles set up on the field as drying racks.  The straw kept breaking, and frustrated, I figured out a way to make it stronger.  I pulled some straw to the left and some to the right, thus elongating my makeshift tie.  It did the trick and I saw how working with imperfect,  naturally fashioned tools fostered problem solving.  And I felt the quiet satisfaction of having made that discovery. 

My little contribution was small compared to the other workers, but Tadaaki’s job wasn’t close to being done.  He returned to the field at the end of the next week to thresh the rice stalks—a relatively simple operation, accomplished by machine in a couple hours.  After egg deliveries the following day, Tadaaki brought out his family’s 50-year-old machine used for separating the rice from the chaff.  I stopped by on my way to the school in the late afternoon as he was just getting started.  The machine was a temperamental beast whose rubber belts persisted in flying off.  In theory, Tadaaki poured the rice into the top hopper and the machine was to blow the husks down a 10-meter long plastic tunnel extending out from the ancient machine, into an awaiting blue nylon net bag.  The hulled rice got spit out into oversized paper feed bags that hold 20 kilos of rice each.  In theory.  In truth, Tadaaki never came home for dinner, so Christopher took him some rice balls and Tadaaki worked into the small hours finishing the job. 

So, why grow rice if it’s this much trouble?  Good question.  In recent years before he died, Tadaaki’s father had been advocating to stop.  But for Tadaaki, growing the family’s rice is elemental to his existence.  If he didn’t grow our rice, it would be like giving up on life.  Money doesn’t matter, as long as we have our own rice.  That is what gives meaning to his life as a farmer.  Traditionally, the main farmhouse (honke) provided rice and vegetables for extended family members who had moved to the city.  But now there are less and less farmers and more and more people in cities.  Most Japanese still feel in their bones that Japan should be sustainable, but they still buy foreign fruits and vegetables at the supermarket.  

Probably because they’re there.

 Pork & Pumpkin Stew:  Trim off most of thick, outside fat of 1 kilo pork shoulder or thigh meat and cut into 5 cm cubes.  Heat a few tablespoons good olive oil on high heat in a heavy pot and sauté pork pieces until no longer pink and you can see some golden brown spots.  Toss frequently.  Keep cooking until the juices have evaporated and the fat starts to sizzle.  Add sea salt and fresh ground black pepper.  Pour in white wine to cover and bring to a boil.  Cook covered over low flame for about 30 minutes.  Add 750 cc (or more) hot chicken or vegetable stock, cover and bring to a boil.  Turn down heat to low and simmer for 1 to 1.5 hours to soften the meat.  Thirty minutes before serving, add a few chopped tomatoes from the garden (or 411 gram can chopped Muir Glen whole tomatoes with their juice), 1 small heirloom squash, peeled & cut into 4 cm cubes, a couple tablespoons chopped garden thyme and 4 thinnish leeks, cut into 5 cm lengths (preferably Japanese negi).  Simmer until vegetables are soft.  Chop spinach leaves into 5 cm lengths and quick sauté in hot olive oil with a little water and salt.  Ladle stew onto a dinner plate and drape with spinach.  Serve with pristine Japanese white rice.

Cleaning a Chicken

 Plucking feathers off a bird is more tedious than disgusting, but the first time you thrust your whole hand into a chicken’s body cavity to pull out a mass of bloody organs does take a certain mindset.  Twenty years ago, when we were first married, I wanted to eat our chicken, and knew I couldn’t palm off the cleaning job on Tadaaki.  After all, he did the killing.  Probably more than the pile of slimy guts, it was the smell that bothered me, and I learned to remove myself from the process by simply focusing on the metamorphosis from bird to familiar “chicken” shape unfolding at my hand.  Though when I was pregnant, I couldn’t fight my way to that space.  The smell nauseated me, so Tadaaki took over the chicken cleaning until the babies were born.  OK, he often does the cleaning as he’s faster and doesn’t like it that I pluck the feathers in the kitchen.  He thinks you should do it outside on a pile of newspapers, squatting in the dirt.  But my back doesn’t like that position for more than a few minutes.  Give me a chair.  Clearly, I’m not Japanese, since squatting on bent knees with your butt suspended over the ground is a common way to “sit” here.  Uncomfortable, to say the least.

 As western holidays, Thanksgiving and Christmas preparations always fall to me, though Tadaaki sometimes steps in if he’s in the mood.  Last year, I decided it was time to involve the little SSU! kids again in the bird cleaning process.  Education, you know.  Over the years, we had done turkey and chicken cleaning events (despite the mothers being worried we’d freak out the kids or turn them off of chicken meat).  But with the bird flu scare, I had put a stop to chicken coop visits or any other activities involving touching chickens.  The epidemic hysteria died down and the flu had passed us by, so I announced my intentions to the staff.  Our vegetarian teacher hung out in the backyard doing day care duties, but the other teachers (reluctantly) pitched in with the chore.  Most important, they were not to show distaste or hesitation and were to treat the job as “normal.”  Nothing unusual.  And none of the kids could manhandle or disrespect the chickens.

After wrangling for hours with slippery, slick duck feathers the Christmas before, I wanted to try plucking the chickens without the obligatory boiling water dunk.  My theory proved true:  no need for the wetting to dislodge feathers.  And as a result, the feathers were less elusive to pull.  The bonus:  no smell.  The hot water bath releases residual chicken droppings and other feral bodily smells into the water, ending up more of a mess than anything else.  The hot water leaks out of various orifices and splatters you in the face while you pluck. (Not nice.)  But the one thing I hadn’t bargained for were the chicken lice.  Up until now, the hot water bath had killed them (the only drawback to no dip).  The little kids didn’t really notice, thank god, but Matthew and Mugi, our Swiss intern, took exception to the lice crawling on their clothes and both threw in the towel to go home and change.  Tadaaki assured us the lice couldn’t live on humans, so I just swatted them off my arms.  Anyway, they were small.

 Like for most kids, it was fun at first, but got to be a drudge, so interest waned.  To their credit, not many showed revulsion.  At first, a few little ones were scared of the dead birds, but a matter-of-fact attitude helped them overcome those fears.  Not surprising, the best eaters were the best workers—as if they understood the implicit contract between themselves and the getting of their food to the plate.  They were all fascinated with the assembly line Tadaaki set up to eviscerate the six birds we were cleaning for Thanksgiving dinner that year.  Tadaaki slit right above the anus, careful not to cut the fecal sack (and contaminate the meat).  He then inserted his long (and strong) fingers to rip the guts away from the tendrils tenaciously holding the insides adhering to the body cavity walls.  I picked out and separated the livers, gizzards and hearts. 

The livers were destined to become pâté, while the gizzards and hearts, I salted with chopped thyme, bay and garlic, then simmered in duck fat for confit.  I wouldn’t bother making pâté without the fresh livers, but from Tadaaki’s chicken livers it is memorable.  Though it doesn’t go far—a small toast or two each, perhaps.  The gizzards need to be sliced vertically, to free up the gravel inside.  Once rinsed, I spend several long minutes slivering off the tough rippled membrane inside.  For six chickens, it takes about an hour all told to clean the gizzards (maybe I’m slow).  The gésiers, as they're called in France, are one of my favorite parts of the dinner, but unfortunately they overcooked in the heavy Le Creuset…maybe next time.  Somethings are worth the wait.

The Thanksgiving that year (2008) was one of the best ever.  We don’t do potluck, but people bring wine.  And in 2008, our guests not only pulled out the stops for their wine contributions, but it was also an unforgettable combination of friends.  The conversations were animated—both in Japanese and English.  Our kids are all getting older, so we squeezed 32 people around two dining room tables.  Leave it to Sylvan to make it work (he fashioned benches out of the living room tansu coffee tables).  He also put Matthew and Andrew to work scrubbing the kitchen floors so they were appropriately clean enough for sock clad guests (I wore shoes).  And getting the food out, was a group effort (to a degree), though Sylvan popped a third tray of gougères in the oven when I wasn’t looking (…untimed).  Not many would survive that without a tongue-lashing, yet Sylvan did.  A testament, I suppose, to our friendship and a mutual respect for food.

  And nobody complained the chicken was tough.  They knew better.  More to the point, our friends appreciated every part of their meal instinctually, and sent their plates back clean.  (They know the rules.)  As I was serving, I kept thinking, “I’m too old for this.”  But really, I missed gathering this year and will do it again.  And again. 

The little SSU! kids weren’t invited for Thanksgiving, but got to taste their handiwork in the form of chicken noodle soup a couple days later.  And they too, were properly thankful.

 

Zuni Roast Chicken

At Zuni Café in San Francisco, they serve this with a Bread Salad that features arugula, pine nuts, currants and scallions.  It’s beyond delicious and I make it when the spirit moves me, though I usually augment the greens.  One can never get enough leafy greens, don’t you think?  The chicken method yields perfectly cooked moist and flavorful meat every time.  Though with Tadaaki’s chickens, the “flavor” part is a given.  Some of the guests don’t care for the chewy factor, though I find U.S. chicken meat too soft for my taste.  I suppose it’s all about what you’re used to eating.  The best U.S. chicken I ever had so far is Mary’s (despite finding it in the health food store freezer case).

For one small chicken (2-3/4 to 3-1/2 lbs):  Unless you have a fresh plucked bird, rinse chicken and dry well.  Loosen skin around drumsticks and breast.  Gently tuck some herb sprigs into those cavities (fresh thyme, marjoram, rosemary or sage) and salt chicken all over generously (3/4 teaspoon coarse sea salt per lb), put a little inside the body cavity as well.  Grind fresh black pepper over the bird and distribute evenly.  Put in heavy duty Ziploc bag and let sit in fridge for 1 to 3 days.  This will tenderize the meat.  Remove chicken from Ziploc and dry with a clean dishtowel.  Preheat oven to 475F.  Heat a cast iron pan over high heat and pop the bird into the pan, breast side up.  Move pan immediately to the hot oven and bake for 20-25 minutes (depending on size of bird).  Turn bird and roast for another 10-20 minutes (again depending on size of bird).  Turn bird once more, breast side up and crisp breast for 5 minutes.  Remove from oven and let sit for 5 minutes before carving. 

Thanksgiving in Japan

 Thanksgiving '08:  Sharon & Sylvan                                                                                                                     Photos by Takashi Uchio

Thanksgiving dinner conjures up images of plump turkeys, copious side dishes and of course the obligatory stuffing, gravy and cranberry sauce.  But not at our house.  I gave up on the traditional fare a long time ago. 

Recreating Thanksgiving in Japan is kind of a crazy idea anyway.  Well, first it’s an American holiday (though Canadians have their own version in October).  And second, most Japanese kitchens aren’t equipped to handle big dinners, or big anything for that matter.  Many Japanese houses or apartments don’t have ovens, though people do have combo microwave/electric ovens called denchirenji.  Stovetop burners are often a portable two-burner contraption with a gas hook up.  Modern kitchens, typically galley-style and tucked away where guests can’t see the cooking mess, are clearly designed by men who don’t cook.  Farm kitchens, though short on counters, have plenty of space, and were warm centers of the home with a charcoal fire cooking apparatus called kamado.  Some houses had irori, an open-hearth affair where people could gather round, stay warm and roast food slowly over burnt down embers.  Our friend Harigaya-san rebuilt his old mountain home around the original irori room and also put in a set of kamado in his traditional kitchen adjacent to the irori.  The best udon noodles I have ever tasted were ones Tadaaki made up at Harigaya-san’s house, then boiled in a huge iron pot set over a raging fire.  And the best potato I ever tasted was one from Harigaya-san’s garden roasted in the slow-burning irori fire.  Think about it.  Those plain wheat noodles dipped in a traditionally uncomplicated soy sauce flavored broth and that unassuming fresh-dug potato were the best I had ever tasted.  Sometimes simple is sublime.

But I’m getting off track.

I began making Thanksgiving dinner a few years after I came to Japan.  By then, Christopher was born and we were living in the first house we built that is now SSU!.  It’s hard to remember back that far, but I have a vague memory of a Butterball turkey, all the usual trimmings and a bewildered set of in-laws.  That was the last time I tried to include them and the last time we had the Butterball.  We regularly invited Tadaaki’s parents to dinner, but this kind of eating marathon was really beyond their stomachs or stamina.  I soon learned that hors d’œuvres before dinner were also too much of a temptation, as despite my warnings, they would fill up and be unable to eat the main course.  So straight to the table it became.  And forget the dessert.

The first Butterball turkey tasted a bit like flavored cardboard, so Tadaaki started raising turkeys.  Enthused by the homegrown birds, I branched out on the trimmings as well and perused my Gourmet magazines for menu ideas.  Southwest cooking was big around then, so for several years we had blue cornbread stuffing and maple syrup flavored sweet potato purée.  But, more important, that second Thanksgiving was the year I read an article in the November 1993 issue of Bon Appetit that changed the way I look at Thanksgiving. 

The fact is, the colonial Thanksgiving dinner was a far cry off of what we eat today in America.  And the more I read about what food was served at those first Thanksgivings, the more I realized that what we had on the farm and in the fields here in Japan was a lot closer to what the colonials had.  So I let go of all preconceived ideas about a “traditional” Thanksgiving dinner and started to explore menus using stuff we had.  Never really being crazy about cranberry sauce, it was easy to give up on buying plastic bags of Ocean Spray cranberries available in Tokyo or through mail order.  But we did have chestnuts, and I sometimes made purée de marrons.  One memorable Thanksgiving, I recreated the menu from an article in Saveur detailing an ex-patriot Thanksgiving dinner in Paris.  Foie gras stuffed turkey and roasted sweet potatoes mashed with cream, anyone?  It sounds decadent, but it was damn good.  In fact, we repeated that menu the following year.

 But that was the last year we had turkeys.  Renovating Tadaaki’s parents’ 70-year-old farmhouse took every ounce of energy reserves and sapped us both for a good three years.  Each spring we tried to remember to order turkey chicks, but mostly forgot or called too late.  The couple times Tadaaki managed to get them ordered, there was some disaster such as arriving dead or getting killed by stray dogs.  I haven’t given up, but these days we eat roast chickens (and skip the trimmings).  So how can we call it Thanksgiving dinner?
 

For me, Thanksgiving is a day to be thankful for the food we have and for the good friends who come share it with our family.  So Thanksgiving has become a simple affair, with no gravy, cranberry sauce, stuffing, or pumpkin pie.  And no Butterball.

There’s a sort of glorious feeling of freedom in being able to create one’s own world free of family or societal pressures.  I’ve come to realize that despite the restrictive nature of life here in Japan, in some way, Japanese are fairly tolerant of the odd ball.  (Maybe more so than we are in the U.S..)  Japanese society will fight like hell to keep a person in the correct box, but once a person pushes all the way out, the resistance melts away.  That’s a sign of cultural security.  Can we say the same about our own country’s tendency to subtly urge people to become homogenously “Americanized?”  I doubt it.

Marjoram Gougères 

Gougères: this recipe is from Patricia Wells’ Bistro Cooking, a great straightforward cookbook with a wealth of practical, down-to-earth fare.  It’s one of my mainstay cookbooks.  And these gougères are the perfect accompaniment to champagne:  light, airy and delicately cheesy.  Of course they rely on great cheese, the best flour and farm fresh eggs.  The recipe makes about 40 “cheesy puffs” as I eventually begin calling them after intoning the name gougère over and over again on seemingly deaf ears.  Put 250 cc water, ½ teaspoon sea salt and 120 grams (or 4 oz) butter in a medium-sized saucepan over high heat.   Bring to a boil.  Remove from flame and quickly stir in 130 grams (1 cup less 1.5 tablespoons) unbleached organic white flour.  Beat well with a wooden spoon to form a smooth batter with no flour lumps.   Return to a medium flame and smash dough across the bottom of the pan to cook the flour for several minutes (more if you are increasing the recipe).  Transfer dough to electric mixture.  Add 4 large farm eggs and 30 grams (1 oz) grated Gruyère cheese.  Beat on high speed until mixture is completely homogenous.  Spoon 5 cm (2”) rounds of dough onto a buttered cookie sheet leaving a good 5 cm (2”) between each.  Sprinkle with 30 grams (1 oz) grated Gruyère cheese and bake for 20 to 25 minutes in a 220C (425F) oven.  Remove to a plate lined with paper to absorb the steam and serve immediately.  Optional: add chopped chives, thyme, savory or marjoram.

 

 

 

Peeling Tangerines

 Sometimes the sameness in Japan is suffocating.  Or maybe it’s just the expectation of sameness.  I take perverse pleasure out of doing some things differently, but mostly it’s easier to just follow the flow.  Continually butting heads is tiring and in the end fairly futile.  I pick my battles.  I guess that means I’m not really a true American.  The need to disclose my "honest" (yet, hurtful) opinion or “have it out” no longer drives me.  In a way that’s a relief.  Of course that doesn’t mean I don’t go to bat for someone when I see an injustice in front of me.  I just don’t need to go to bat for myself.  As they say, I’m so over that.

But in food matters, I hold my ground.  I won’t give in to eating the ever-present MSG-laden fare available at supermarkets or convenience stores.  I won’t settle for “good enough” and I won’t sacrifice taste for so-called surface beauty.  Food should be wild, visceral and maybe even should dribble down your hand.  Food should be fun.

Japanese adults are exceptionally clean eaters.  Tadaaki can eat a drippy, 4-inch thick hamburger without getting his fingers dirty while my napkin, streaked with meat juice and pink run-off from the homemade mayonnaise and catsup, gets tossed straight in the dirty laundry pile.  But there is also a tendency towards fussiness in the eating process here that is somehow off putting.  I like messy food and also think touching food is essential to any eating experience.  Many traditional Japanese country foods were all meant to be made and shared communally, so hands were definitely involved.  But these days, Japanese don’t touch their food much.  Sandwiches wrapped in cellophane are eaten by peeling the wrapper off little by little, never actually touching fingers to bread.  People break off little pieces of a cookie rather than grabbing the whole thing and chomping off a bite.  Perhaps we’re somehow upsetting unspoken tradition, but at Sunny-Side Up! we teach kids to be a little less dainty and a bit heartier in their enjoyment of food.  And they do eat with great gusto.  They’re true Japanese country kids.  Throwbacks, really.

In Japan, most fruit is never eaten whole.  It’s unimaginable to pick up an apple or pear and just bite into it.  First, they’re often too big.  And second, they’re always peeled—not particularly to remove the chemical sprays—but because most Japanese don't like the “coarse” skins.  Apples, pears and persimmons are peeled with a small knife and cut into segments, then stuck with a toothpick.  Grapes are large and thick skinned, so you squeeze the juicy insides out with your teeth and discard the leathery skins.  (This always confounds Westerners.)  Tangerines are peeled in triangular segments starting at the top, thus ending up with one piece of peel resembling a large orange spider rather than a pile of little motley squares of skin.  (This skill escapes most Westerners.)

I don’t eat apples and pears because they’re heavily sprayed, but we do eat a lot of citrus.  One of our friends is an 85-year-old organic citrus grower on a small island near Hiroshima and she sends us boxes (and boxes) of fruit when in season (now).  Recently one of my little students was coming to our house early in the morning because his mom needed to drop him off before work.  I’m not much of a morning person, so after getting up at the crack of dawn to make my boys’ school lunches this fall, I’d take a little nap before my student was deposited on my doorstep.  I’d still be fairly groggy from my post-lunch-making session nap when he arrived, so he and I would camp out on the sofa with my laptop.  He had been coming since April, and having the run of the house, often went off exploring.  In early October, Tadaaki had offered him a tangerine, so when he discovered the box of tangerines on the floor a few days later, he immediately announced, “I want mikan.”  Firmly ensconced in my sofa nest, I directed him to bring a few over and this started our daily mikan ritual.  A hard and fast rule in our house is no eating on the sofa.  Oops, there I go breaking my rules again. 

Japanese all peel tangerines in one fell swoop:  peel, peel, flop.  When the boys and Tadaaki have a tangerine eating session after dinner, they leave piles of empty skins reminiscent of old maps of flattened globes.  I, on the other hand, stubbornly cling to my American method of chipping away at the skin to finally free up the juicy tangerine segments inside.  I get the job done, but don’t obsess.  But that morning, not wanting to have 20 stubby pieces of tangerine peel in the living room, I gave in and peeled the tangerine in one piece.  Despite having held out for 21 years, because of my little visitor and my groggy morning fog, I just capitulated to the easier (and more logical) way.  The Japanese way.  And giving in didn’t feel half bad at all.  In fact, it felt good.  In the end, I realized my mornings were a mess, I couldn’t wake and nap and wake and nap.  So as much as I loved my little mikan mornings with my student, I asked another teacher to watch him at the school and have reclaimed a bit of normalcy in my schedule.  Though this could be a false feeling, since I recently returned from a couple weeks on the West Coast and jetlag makes it easier to be an early riser.  We’ll see if this newfound energetic morning schedule lasts.  But even if it doesn’t, it’s a relief to have given in to that one small little thing.  Peeling a tangerine.

 In the last few years, I’ve started back making dessert soufflés.  They’re foolproof if you have strong eggs and most of the prep can be done ahead of time.  Tadaaki grows our wheat and raises the eggs, so I always feel like a soufflé reflects our life—especially a tangerine or lemon one with Mochizuki-san’s fruit.  I serve them with Lindsey Shere’s Crème Anglaise (positively addicting):  Cut half a plump Madagascar vanilla bean in half lengthwise and scrape the seeds into a small heavy saucepan.  Add 2 cups milk and 3 tbsp. organic sugar and heat to dissolve.  Whisk 4 egg yolks lightly, then whisk in some of the warm milk mixture before adding back to the saucepan with the remaining warm milk.  Stir constantly until the custard thickens and coats the back of a wooden spoon.  Transfer to a glass container and chill in fridge. 

 Lindsey’s Tangerine Soufflé:  Break 4 eggs into a medium sized stainless steel (or copper) mixing bowl.  Scoop yolks from whites with gentle fingers and reserve in another medium sized bowl.   Add one more egg yolk, discard the white.  Mix 1 tbsp. + 2 tsp. flour and 1½ tbsp. organic sugar in a small heavy saucepan.  Gradually stir in ½ cup milk until smooth.  Cook over medium heat, stirring constantly, until it has boiled for a couple minutes to cook flour.  Whisk egg yolks lightly and add some of warm milk mixture into yolks, then whisk yolk and milk mixture back into saucepan of warm milk.  Return to heat and whisking constantly, cook until thickened.  Remove from heat.  Add 1 tbsp unsalted butter and stir until melted.  Finely grate peel of 2 organic tangerines into this mixture, stir once or twice and let stand for an hour or two.  Butter a 1½-quart soufflé dish and sprinkle with sugar.  Thirty minutes before serving, heat oven to 400 degrees.  Warm egg whites slightly over gas flame (hold bowl above flame and wave it over flame until whites are barely warm).  Beat whites with ¼ tsp optional cream of tartar until they form soft peaks, then gradually add 4 tbsp. sugar while continuing beating until whites are stiff and smooth with very fine bubbles.  Fold ¼ of whites into yolk mixture to lighten, then very carefully fold this into whipped whites until just mixed.  Be careful not to deflate the whites.  Pour into prepared soufflé pan, sprinkle with sugar and squeeze in a little tangerine juice.  Bake for 20 minutes or until soufflé has puffed and is golden brown on top.  If soufflé is browning too fast, turn oven down to 375F.  Finished soufflé should still wobble when done, but can be cooked longer until completely set.  Serve with very cold crème anglaise.