Blancmange

A memory and and a personal version

Blancmange with ripe white peaches

Blancmange, a classic dessert made of milk infused with almonds and set with gelatin, has enjoyed scant popularity in the culinary scenes of both the U.S. and France. In the U.S., blancmange is considered outdated or old-fashioned. Its recognition tends to be limited to nostalgic contexts. While some dessert menus feature modern interpretations of classic dishes, blancmange generally does not have widespread appeal among today’s diners, who often gravitate toward more innovative juxtapositions and visually colorful and strikingly designed desserts. Blancmange, by comparison, is one-note almond and one-note white. In France, blancmange has a more storied history and a place among dessert dishes in traditional French cuisine. However, like the US, it might be viewed as somewhat passé compared to more contemporary French desserts that emphasize seasonal ingredients, intricate plating, and novel techniques.

I remember having eaten blancmange once and only once years ago at the elegant restaurant L’Ambroisie in Paris. Just before dessert, the lights went out, and what seemed like a hundred tall candles were lit to continue the service. The Blancmange we ordered arrived shimmering in that magical light, a single dome with softly fluted sides, pure white, wobbly, with no more than a silver spoon at its side. With it, we drank a glass of 1947 Chateau d’Yquem Sauterne, a singular vintage and one of the most exciting pairings of wine and food I’m sure I’ll never taste again. The blancmange, with its bitter almond back note and ethereal texture, and the wine, slightly sweeter, amber rich, and honeyed— in every way contrasting yet at the same time seamlessly complementing the white purity of the dish.

It was white peaches that jogged my memory of that night’s dessert and eventually led me to the kitchen: We have been enjoying a particularly abundant season of the lushest stone fruit, to my taste, the all-around best fruit of the year. The Blenheim apricots were gone in a month, but I counted 7 varieties of peaches in this morning’s market, including the rare, fuzzy Indian Blood peach. The white peaches were particularly fragrant. There were also yellow and blush white nectarines, Santa Rosa plums, French prune plums, a small pile of burgundy Satsumas, and the late Flavor King” pluot, a plum/apricot cross that reigns supreme among many other multi-colored hybrids. Due to their botanical classification, stone fruits can be easily hybridized, which accounts for the great variety on market shelves. Many pale in the crossings. In her fine treatment, Chez Panisse Fruit, Alice Waters says of apricots: “[The]demand for fresh apricots, often the first “soft” fruit of summer, created a powerful incentive for growers and shippers to favor early maturing varieties, as too often happens when plant breeders select for only one; other virtues [are] left by the wayside.” The market agenda has also driven hybridizers and growers to select for durability in transport, fetching appearance, uniformity and consistency, and long shelf life. These genetic dandies appeal by appearance principally and many are recognizable by their name conflations—“Aprium”, “Plumcot”, “Peachcot”, “Cherry Plum”, and the unfortunate “Chum” give them away. Most are to be avoided. Premium-grown stone fruits command high prices. Some are particularly prized by fruit buffs and growers on the merit of their unique terroirs. I buy more than two empty nesters can consume and stash them in the fridge to stave off mold, fermentation, or rot. In my greed, I realize that they will soon be gone.

To preserve my euphoria for these irresistible fruits, I collect the pits to dry and then crack open the “bitter almond,” the fruit’s seed inside its hard shell. The kernels within the pits of stone fruits belong to different genera/species from the true bitter almond (prunus dulcis amara). The stone fruit kernel, be it from apricot, peach, plum, or cherry, is known as Noyau in French and is the defining flavor in almond macarons, frangipane, a long list of cookies, biscotti, and ice cream, and is the basis for syrups such as Orgeat, Amaretto liqueur, Crème de Noyau and for bitter infused craft spirits.

What makes the kernel of stone fruits intriguing is its pronounced almond flavor and astringency. The kernels of all stone fruits are bitter because they contain the compound amygdalin, an evolutionary trait and natural defense mechanism that deters animals from consuming them and ensures the plant's survival. The kernels also contain tannins (think of over-steeped tea) and phenolic compounds (like piquant new olive oil that leaves a burn in the throat) that act against pests and pathogens that might otherwise feast on the seeds.

Most information on human consumption of the kernels of stone fruits and true bitter almonds warns against the compound amygdalin in the kernels. In the US, Canada, and many EU countries, the sale and distribution of unprocessed bitter almonds is prohibited or restricted. Amygdalin is not toxic until it is metabolized by the enzyme emulsin. Crushing, chewing, and moistening allow for the release of the enzyme and the formation of the potent toxin hydrogen cyanide. Yikes! Add the fact that Amygdalin is absorbed erratically by the gut and that the kernels themselves may have variable amounts. This adds to the conclusion that they should just be avoided altogether or consumed in very small doses. Nevertheless, you would have to crack a lot of stone fruit pits to extract even a small handful, and the effect of eating them would immediately be strongly aversive. It’s believed that the consumption of 50 bitter almonds in a short period of time can be a lethal dose for an adult and that a dose of 5 to 10 bitter almonds can be poisonous for a child. However, roasting stone fruit pits for 20 minutes in a 350° F oven before extracting the kernel denatures the enzyme responsible for the conversion of amygdalin into cyanide. I can attest. Bitter almond is a cherished ingredient in my kitchen and I am still alive to tell. I use them whenever stone fruits are in season to make Noyau ice cream and infusions with peach leaves in red wine.  I add a few bitter almonds to apricot preserves to lend its distinctive flavor. I figure they must have played as an ingredient in the earliest versions of blancmange.

In French, blancmange is the name of a so-called “whitedish” from blanc, meaning white, and mengier, a noun that sounds like a verb referring to a ‘dish’ or ‘food’. Blancmange has a very old history and a fascinating evolution. Its origins trace back to the late 13^th century when Arab traders introduced almonds and rice via Spain to Medieval Europe. Arab desserts prominently featuring almonds also influenced Blancmange’s development.  In the 14th and 15th centuries, recipes for “Whitedishes” were copied in one form or another in virtually all cookbooks across all of Western Europe with name variations like biancomangiare in Italy, and manjar blanco in Spain, Manjar braquo Portuguese, Blamensir in Germany and many others similar. Interestingly, all of the variants offer a surprisingly consistent list of ingredients: Shredded or strained Chicken (often capon), rice, and almonds ground into milk used as a thickener. The food scholar Terrence Scully says, “If there was a truly international dish in the late Middle Ages, it was undoubtedly this Whitedish.”

Excerpt from a 13th-century recipe for “Blant meiger” (a variant of Blancmanger) from La Viandier, Taillevant

The "whitedish" was consumed by nobles and the upper classes and often contained rare, imported exotic spices like cinnamon, cloves, and nutmeg that were considered prestigious additions to any food. On celebratory occasions, “whitedishes” were often made more festive by coloring them with saffron or herbs. In 14th-century France, parti-coloring (the use of two bright contrasting colors on the same plate) was especially appreciated. The brightly tinted “whitedishes” were one of the most common of the early entremets (intermediate dishes) served between the courses of an elaborate meal and acting as a palate cleanser or a refreshment designed to impress and entertain. In the 17th century, the “whitedish” evolved into a meatless dessert pudding with cream and eggs and, later, gelatin. In the 19th century, arrowroot and cornflour were added, and the dish evolved into the modern blancmange. As culinary tastes evolved, the dish was reinterpreted and lost some of its popularity. Today, French blancmange is often viewed as a highly refined preparation based on cream or milk, with a focus on a consistency of unparalleled delicacy. Italy has its Pannacotta, likewise, a version that exalts heavy cream suspended in a gelatin binder however, there are some key differences in ingredients, preparation, and texture:

Traditionally, blancmange is made with milk infused with almonds or almond milk, sugar, and set with gelatin.  Pannacotta,  "cooked cream" in Italian, consists of cream, sugar, and gelatin, no almonds, and is much richer due to its principal ingredient. Blancmange involves infusing milk or almond milk with sugar and crushed almond, then adding gelatin, pouring it into a mold, and cooling it to let it set. Panna cotta is made by heating cream and sugar, then dissolving gelatin in it before pouring it into cup molds. Pannacotta may be flavored with coffee, chocolate, or fruit purees. Generally, blancmange is luxuriously smooth and comparatively lean, pervasively almond in flavor, and set to a wobbly texture. Pannacotta shares a silky, smooth, and fragile texture and is significantly richer. It is essentially a cream jello. I found in my trials of making Blancmange with almond milk that the resulting form becomes stratified due to the fact that almond milk is not homogenized and results in layers of opaque gelatin and milk. I decided to use homogenized cow milk instead and to infuse it with almonds both sweet and bitter. The gelatin and milk blended perfectly.

Gelatin is made from collagen protein, which is found in the skin, bones, and connective tissues of animals. When heated in water, collagen fibers are released, soak up the water, and begin to swell. With continued heating, collagen forms a tangle of connections, trapping water and, upon cooling, becomes a semi-solid gel. Dried versions of collagen protein come as powders like the brand Knox or in “leaves” of different bloom strengths (capacities to gel liquids) to which they are added. Of course, these expediencies were not available to the medieval cook, nor were those based on plant-based gelatin from seaweed such as agar-agar or carrageenan. In a nod to the old versions, the recipe below calls for making your own gelatin.

One of my culinary missions as founder and creative director of my company, Fra’ Mani Handcrafted Foods, has been to realize the potential for the use of the entire pig, which is the fundamental ingredient in all the pork products we make. For practical purposes, making your own gelatin is most easily and readily extracted from pig skins. If you have access to a meat shop that practices whole animal butchery, ask for pig skin. Otherwise, Chinese meat markets usually have it in abundance.

Gelatin extracted from pig skins.

Making blancmange from pig skin is the most time-consuming step; however, most of the time is spent rendering the collagen and then waiting for the blancmange to chill, but you can be doing other things in the meantime. You may wish to forego this step and simply use pre-made powdered or leaf gelatin. I have found that making it directly lends a nuance of texture I cannot realize from industrial sources.

PROCESS FOR MAKING A LIMPID GEL FROM PIG SKIN

It’s best to work at least a day ahead before using the gel to allow the time necessary to render it and chill it thoroughly.

1. Purchase 2-3 pounds of pig skin from the back or belly of the pig. The amount of skin you will be left with depends on how much fat is left on the inside face of the skin. The following guideline assumes fat of about 1/4 to 3/8 inch. Roll up the skin and slice through to create 2-1/2-inch strips.

   

   

2. Rinse the skin thoroughly under warm water.

3. Any fat clinging to the skin needs to be stripped away. Starting in the middle of the strip, hold a sharp, thin-bladed knife, steady and fixed in place at 45 degrees. Pull and wiggle the tail at the same time against the knife blade to remove it. You will be tempted to move the knife. Don’t, or you’ll tear the skin. Turn the skin 180 degrees and wiggle free the fat left on the other untrimmed side.

4. Bring a pot of water to a boil. Immerse the skins and cook on high for 4 minutes. Pour the skins into a colander and rinse under cold water until cool enough to handle. Using a serrated blade, scrape away any white fat you see on the inside surfaces of the skin. This step eliminates any fat remaining on the skin and ensures that your gel will be transparently clear.

Skin par-cooked for 4 minutes and scraped of fat

5. Extracting the collagen: Weigh the skins, place them in a tall, heavy-bottomed sauce pot, and cover them with 8 times their weight in water. The pot must be tall and relatively narrow so that evaporation is minimized. The pot pictured below is 7-1/2 inches wide by 5-1/2 inches tall.

   Collagen solubilization from pig skin usually occurs at temperatures above 140°F. However, the process is more efficient at higher temperatures, generally between 190° and 200°F. Keep in mind, though, that holding the temperature for an extended period can impact the gelatin's properties, including its gelling ability. Overheating or maintaining the temperature for too long can also impact the gelatin's water-holding capacity. If gelatin is heated for extended periods, it may lead to watering out and a less effective gel formation. While it's important to dissolve gelatin properly, it's equally crucial to cool it quickly after dissolving it to lock in the right structure and gelling properties.

6. Bring the mixture to 190° to 200°. Lower to a bare flame and maintain temperature for 5 hours. If you notice very fine beads of fat on the surface, skim to eliminate them.

   

7. Strain the skins through a fine sieve and transfer the liquid to a wide-diameter skillet or saute pan. Return to the stove. Bring the liquid to a low boil and reduce by half. Pour the reduced liquid through a fine sieve into a clear canning jar or other container. Allow to cool. Cover with film and refrigerate overnight.

Test the gel the next day. Remove a little and cut it. It should be quite firm, hold its shape, and jiggle when moved from side to side.

Here is my recipe for Blancmange (1 pint):

MILK INFUSION

The first step is to infuse all the ingredients below in the milk and then filter the solids through a fine sieve. Since you will lose a little of the infusion to the sieve, more milk is called for than needed in this recipe.

260 grams whole milk

64 grams sugar

60 grams blanched slivered almonds, toasted in a 350°F oven for 4 to 5 minutes until fragrant and lightly browned. Crush them coarsely in a mortar.

Large pinch of salt

6 grams of bitter almonds from peach, apricot, and plum pits, coarsely crushed in a mortar.

Since the weight of the kernels is variable depending on the fruit from which they are extracted, start with 20 pits. You may have extra. Toast the pits in the oven for 20 minutes at 350°F. Crack the shells with a nutcracker and extract all of the kernels. If the shells are difficult to crack, wrap the pits in a dish towel and use a mallet to crack the shell. If you choose to use peach pits, cracking the shells with a mallet or hammer will be necessary. Add the bitter kernels to the mixture above.

Bring the mixture to a simmer. Turn off the flame and allow the mixture to infuse for 45 minutes. (Note: if the mixture is not sufficiently almondy to your taste, add a drop of almond extract. Strain through a very fine sieve.

BLANCMANGE RECIPE

240 grams of almond-infused milk

240 grams of gelatin

Stir the gelatin into the warm infused milk. Set it over a low flame and dissolve it, mixing thoroughly. Transfer to a mold such as a ramekin or other dome container lined closely with film. Since the blancmange is fragile, it’s best not to set it in a mold larger than a pint. Refrigerate for 8 hours.

Carefully remove the blancmange by overturning it onto the middle of a plate. Serve by itself with a glass of Sauterne or with a coulis of peaches (preferably white) or other stone fruit flesh (no skin) to your liking. Go to heaven.

Afterword:

For a lustrous sheen, add leftover gelatin to the final reduction of meat sauces.

Braised pork shoulder, gelatin-enriched sauce.