Without getting too far into my ideology, this is the reason a lot of people don't like tap water: because of the taste. Do you know what that taste is? Metallic. Go figure, in most developed places it runs through metal pipes. But these sorts of "impurities" don't usually make the water unsafe. That's because—and looking at a box of Cheerios will help—a proper diet contains a lot of otherwise metallic-sounding nutrients. These are ecologically known as inorganic compounds and dietarily known as micronutrients; but since we were children, we've been calling them "[vitamins and] minerals."
Think about it a mite longer. The people who don't like the taste of tap water would either prefer to buy bottled water (the greatest French scheme in the history of the world), or to filter it by their own means (e.g., Brita). With the former option, you're most often paying money—and are well aware of the fact—for "mineral water." The chemical composition may in fact be very similar to tap water, but the taste, or lack thereof, comes from the amounts of micronutrients in any given water supply.
 |
| Colorado Springs, CO |
Most drinking water is sourced to springs, aquifers, wells, etc.; in a word: groundwater. For the most part, the deeper the source, the "cleaner" it is. The best way to understand this is to imagine the earth's crust as one giant filter. There are layers of soil-types (humus, loam, sand, clay) and more often blends of them. As water passes through one (and once in the ground, water is not necessarily guided by gravity; consider capillary function, for those of you in the medical profession), it is both filtered of larger impurities and—depending on the layer's capabilities—actual molecules, as well as absorbing or taking on other impurities, including microbes (bacteria).
Microbial life is the organic side of water, and you would be surprised to view the community in a single drop of untreated water. "Untreated" is the keyword, because the powers that be see fit to treat water from its various sources for the sole purpose of killing those bacteria which would otherwise thrive in it. Arguably, most bacteria are harmless. Actually, some of them are quite beneficial, to the point where some might be used to remove compounds more detrimental to our health (research "bioremediation of contaminated sites"). But when it comes to the water the American population will literally bathe in and ingest, there's no splitting hairs. All treated water is pasteurized (i.e., heat-treated) to kill off bacteria and denature viruses which may otherwise be present.
Make a mental note of that.
The other side, the people who filter their own water, hold two main advantages. First, to which Jes and I can attest, it's cheaper. We used to buy ~1 Gal. jugs at $1 each, ten at a time, once or twice a month. That works out to maybe $150 a year. And that's only possibly worth it if you're only ever purchasing water in bulk. Because a movie theatre or a college vending machine can sell a half-liter of water for anywhere from $2.50 to $4! And I won't begin my rant about the irritating sound of lifting a 24-case of Poland Spring.
Filtering your own water also gets a one-up against drinking tap water on the off-chance that you're experiencing a water-main break or some flow issue at the treatment facility, the latter of which commonly results in higher percentages of those inorganic compounds. It is extremely important to note that a break in the water main implies bacterial infection, and a home-use filter will not clean water in that regard. Only boiling will do that, and specific guidelines for taking care of the water in your area, should something like this occur, would be publicized by your local treatment facility (or found here).
Our Brita has been tested to lower the levels of copper, mercury, cadmium, chlorine and zinc. The last two strongly affect taste, and while chlorine is added to keep water microbe-free, the amount of it present in your government-regulated tap water is considered safe. (Frankly, if you've seen the water the majority of the world puts up with, chlorinated drinking water would look very attractive.)
Freshwater
There. Now that all the technical is laid out, where were we? Mineral water exists for the same purpose as iodized salt: to provide us with micronutrients in the most pleasing way we can think of. You're having salt? You may as well get your iodine intake. You're drinking water? Have some manganese. I just realized how much that sounds like "the language of manga."
OK, focus. Heat kills bacteria. It does not necessarily purify water. That process is know as "distilling." Unless you love your vodka, you'd most likely think of how a survivalist might treat seawater to turn it into drinking water. The same concept follows through in your kitchen. Boiling water does not boil away the impurities, such as salt in seawater or other minerals in tap water. Instead, it actually concentrates them. Because the water is escaping in the form of steam, and it is the steam that is becoming purified. When people boil seawater, they collect the steam, let it condense in a separate vessel, and drink that.
Distilling may be one [very intensive] way of getting down to pure H-O-H compounds, but what it boils down to (ha!) is what kind of water do you want in your food? It's really as simple as what you are willing to drink.
Growing up, I didn't drink water, but I still ingested it. Eight glasses a day seemed a bit much, but considering all of the fruits and vegetables I ate, I got my fair share. And of course, with all the tea.... Tea is actually the top reason I started drinking water. I'd get a cup of hot water, add some sugar, and suddenly I was one step closer to being a normal animal. In time, I downgraded to cold water with sugar, and even sometimes settled for sugarless because I actually didn't mind the flavor at the water cooler. Now, I even go so far to drink the free stuff that's always been put in front of me at restaurants. Saving money and increasing health: eat your heart out, organic movement.
That said, until we bought our Brita, I've been filling pots with tap water out of ease. I don't drink tap water. Except, the water in the shower at my mom's tastes sweet. That may have been the closest I came to willfully drinking water as a kid. Anyway, kitchen. I don't drink tap water, but when making rice or pasta, it's just so easy to run it from the faucet. Especially when you're rinsing the rice through a few times. Or even rinsing vegetables, or settling grit out of a head of lettuce.
But now that Brita sits in our fridge day in and day out, I use it whenever it's staple. If water's in the meal, we'll use the best that we have. It's like being fresh...with water!
To Salt, or Not To Salt?
I have heard it said, that salt added to water acts as a temperature buffer, that it decreases the freezing point and increases the boiling point. Which is to say, saltwater remains liquid longer than freshwater would. For our kitchen purposes, however, this is the same kind of science which tells us about the clockwise rotation of water currents in the northern hemisphere, while the southern hemisphere is dealing with a counterclockwise rotation. The point to be made is, on a grand scale (e.g., globally), it does apply. But on a significantly smaller scale (e.g., a pipe drain), it doesn't.
I tried to put this to the test, by boiling water with and without salt to determine which would take longer. As it turned out, we have no two pots alike in our kitchen, so what I was really testing was which pot was best for taking heat. If only I'd known that from the start. My first experiment? Two small burners on our electric stove, started at the same time and turned to the same number (9), with 4 cups of tap water in one pot, and 4 cups of tap water + perhaps a tablespoon of dissolved table salt in another. Result? 10 minutes for the first, and 9 minutes for the latter. Not exactly gone to plan.
The second experiment needed some adjustment. This time, I put the salted water in the "worse" pot and the simple tap water in the "better" pot, and swapped the burners for good measure. Result? 9 minutes for both. My hypothesis busted, even Jes held an air of disappointment when she came in to realize I was only "cooking water."
I thought a moment, at least a day, and considered the dissolved molecules already present in our tap water. So I recreated the experiment a third time, just once over, using Brita water. And I salted the worse pot this time. Result? 8 minutes for the better pot of filtered water, and perhaps the same for the salted version. And curiously, the water was colder this time around than the first two experiments, as observed by the condensation that formed. So as you can imagine, I was more thoroughly confused than ever.
The fact is, it really doesn't matter—I mean, it really doesn't matter whether you add salt before boiling your water or after. The difference in the time is so miniscule, so easily mistaken (I first noticed bubbles the other way around, but the rolling boil happened contrarily), that your consideration for it should not even be. Understandably, a larger quantity of water will take longer to boil than ~10 minutes, but it is the amount of water which apparently marks the difference, more so at least than the amount of salt present (see here, noting the conclusion).
A Good Egg
Now, salted water means well when making pasta. It keeps the noodles from sticking together—apparently. You see, I rarely have much luck with this one way or the other. I used to be under the thought that rinsing the pasta would make it stick, back when I was so ignorant to not even be putting salt in the water that dared to be rinsed away. But even now, I find that my noodles, on their own, are either noticeably salty or as equally bland, and stuck to each other regardless. I've also heard that using oil, as a salt-substitute, would get the job done, as each piece of pasta would presumably be coated in it upon entering the dancing pot. I could talk on that all day, but the facts remain: pasta in our kitchen (under my supervision, at least) is very clingy. *Edit: the solution is as simple as stirring for the first minute of cook-time.
I bring that up because that may be the only instance when salt might possibly be needed: for its chemical reaction, whatever that may actually be. Salt has no place in water boiled for an egg, or for blanching, a similar process. The water will be discarded as soon as the food is cooked, and unlike pasta, its absorption is not a factor.
If you're expecting to find the best way to cook an egg, you needn't look outside your own kitchen. That's because everyone has a different preference. Speaking on how to cook an egg is like telling people how to make coffee. And honestly, it's much the same thing for me, seeing as I dislike both. However, my story with eggs is actually a fond one, and it began—as good stories often do—at home.
When I was a lad, I sat upon my papa's knee and ate scrambled eggs with catsup. When I grew a little older, I distanced myself altogether from the taste and texture of egg. It's probably true that I never really liked it, which is why there was always ketchup on it. My grandfather's mannerisms had taught me that putting ketchup on everything was an insult to the cook. That was about the time I replaced it with mint jelly, in his kitchen at least. (He cooked lamb-burgers, just so you and I are on the same page.)
Anyway, it had gotten to the point where there was only one way I would eat my eggs: hard-boiled. And if you think about it, it's the simplest way to do so, short of going Rocky-style on them. As long as you've got a clock and a pot, and water that's hot, you cannot mess it up.
 |
| Eggsplosion |
One-in-ten eggs that I hard-boil end up something like this. That's because my own method changes with the time of day. Sometimes I put the eggs in first and then cover them with water, just so I know I have enough liquid. The problem with that is the need for time-adjustment. For, if you don't know how to hard-boil an egg, 10 minutes of high-heat is about par. If the eggs are there from the start, slightly more time should account for the water reaching its boiling point, which in turn cooks the egg part-way. I aim for 13 minutes when I use this method. And to make certain the eggs do not exceed that limit, I douse them in cold water after dumping the majority of their bath. Never have I had an undercooked egg in this fashion, though it is overcooked which I equally detest, which is why the timing is crucial.
Other times, I go the 10-minute route, dropping the eggs [as gently as I can] into the bubbling cauldron from which there is no escape. I've never burned myself in this way; yet, I've also seldom had an egg that didn't crack in the process. What's pictured above is by far the worst-case scenario. Look at it. It's borderline ABC gum. I know what you're thinking, and yes, I've tried using a spoon, but we don't have anything remotely like those fryer ladles, which I think would be perfect for the job. It also probably doesn't help that the pots I use are shallow. But then again, what's life without a few cracked shells?
 |
| Half-Frozen, Hard-Boiled |
If you thought timing the eggs' cooking was troublesome, peeling them afterward is enough to make you loathe their entire being. I've read dozens of people's trials and tried some of them myself. To settle things: it's like expecting salt to keep your pasta from sticking. I'd advise, of course, against daring to peel them immediately, only because your fingertips would hate you for it. I've tried rinsing them for a little bit, but they keep their heat so well. I've tried once they reached room temperature, and the result is about the same as when I refrigerate them overnight. It probably has something to do with the choice of egg itself, as if I could tell anything apart from its color.
The problem is, the albumen tends to stick to that thin film, which in turn sticks to the shell. So, after you've dented your hard-boiled beauty and are just about ready to reveal its perfectly cooked, oval shape, expecting all the while to get a big piece of the shell off in one go, as though you were peeling that one orange immortalized in your memory forever, lo! and behold, a white chunk lifts out, leaving an extremely noticeable gouge mark that reminds you of the time you pulled flesh from flesh when getting your finger caught in something. The feeling is the same. Really, it is.
But, it'll taste the same regardless of what it looks like. I mean, it's an egg. It's not exactly appetizing to begin with. It "coulda been a contenda" for a cute li'l baby chick. Instead, now that it's cooked and peeled, and rinsed to get every bit of film and shell away from its less-than-pristine surface, it's time to dissect it. Presuming you're not simply interested in sprinkling it with salt and biting into it—my favorite use for them, short of seeing how high they can bounce—you slice it with the high hope that the yolk had settled toward the rounder part of the egg, or that it'll at least be centered upon the plane you cut. If this is the first moment that the egg disappoints you, consider yourself lucky and remember: it'll taste the same.
Recycled Recipes
I've mentioned once before that following in others' footsteps is a good thing. Indeed, before the age of copyright, it was a sign of respect to build off of something that another had created. By that token, the following is the best egg-centered dish I've ever made or eaten, and I can only thank the minds behind it. The recipe is from smitten kitchen (as if you should doubt), the blogger of which found it in a book, the author of which presumably composed it from a twist on the Caesar salad.
Jes has become a connoisseur of Caesar salads, similar to me with Reubens, or both of us with French onion soups. They're items we order whenever we have the chance, always tallying a score that we try desperately to remember along with location. My favorite Reuben, we had on our honeymoon. Our favorite Caesar included a halved head of romaine grilled with the flavors of past burgers, also on our honeymoon. French onion? more difficult to remember (our honeymoon's version didn't cut it, and our tastes are strict). But they're also items we wouldn't dare to make at home—from scratch, at least. Though they'd probably be worth the effort, I believe they all belong in the restaurant, because that's where they all gained their fame.
Now, there are certain aspects of the Caesar salad that make it "authentic." The raw egg is one, the anchovies another and lest we forget, the chopped romaine lettuce. Interesting though it may be, none of these were included in the original. The egg was apparently partially, slowly cooked, the flavor of anchovies was hidden within Worce-ster-shire sauce, and the lettuce leaves were kept whole. Talk about mind-blowing.
This recipe brings the egg under the spotlight, with all the famous flavors of the salad, dressing it up instead of the other way around. It breathes new life into the old-fashioned deviled egg, and with platters of leaves it pays homage to Caesar Cardini himself. I followed this to the T, aside from using a Ziploc in place of an actual piping bag. And the result? As delectable as it looks:
 |
| December 25, 2013 - Caesar Deviled Eggs |
