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Then roll out dough and make ravioli with that. Cover in a sauce of butter, lemon, egg and capers. As simple as it can get. Just exquisite.
I'm told this is one of my signature dishes. I've been doing it for about 30 years. It's so labor intensive that I don't do it often and every time I try to do a quicker or easier version, it just doesn't work.
So it must all be done by hand.
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Every other day I make noodle soup for breakfast. I add slightly different ingredients, use a slightly different technique or something different each time. Every now and then they flop. Usually they're good, sometimes exquisite. And there's no inherent logic to the rate of success either. Handmade noodles, homemade stock, fresh ingredients sometimes yield a superior soup. I keep stock in the freezer for just such occasions. But just as frequently I'll use store bought ramen and soup it up, so to speak, with other ingredients. This base of Neoguri Nongshim's seafood udon is remarkably good. Coconut milk, lime and tomatoes make it sublime. A little chickua or fresh fish is fantastic. Even canned clams works great. This is sort of like oyakudon, made with strips of marinated pork shoulder, dusted with tapioca starch and when simmered in a pan with shallots and dashi stock for the same 3 minutes it takes to cook the noodles. At the end a beaten egg is poured on top and then covered to steam for a minute. Finally it's all tipped into the soup, which also contains baby bok choy. It sounds a little complicated, but actually it takes 10 minutes or so, which is why on days I teach this has to be quick. I'm out the door around 7:00 AM and walk for an hour and a half on my way to work.
This is actually an experiment. Do blogs still exist? I started a substack and not sure I really want to use it. But obviously I haven't written anything here for a year. Let's see is anyone looks at this other than bots.
Another selection from Food, Clay, Wood
A grand sycamore stood sentinel by the sidewalk at the front
lawn of the colonial revival house where I grew up in central New Jersey. The
entire Levitt planned community was planted with this and a handful of other
species, and they must have been fairly large in 1967 because I could easily
climb them a decade later. I would hang out in one particular sycamore along
the sidewalk. It had low limbs, evenly spaced, and was very easy to hoist up
and into. I went as high as I possibly could, hugged the main trunk and let it
sway in the breeze as I twisted along with it. My neighbors claimed that I
would sing opera up there, which may be true. Eventually I nailed a plank of
wood into the main V-section about 20 feet up as a seat. It’s still there, the
wood grew around it, and 45 years later is almost completely engulfed. The
lowest limb is now maybe 40 feet up; it’s a massive tree today.
What I liked most about my tree was its resonance. You could
rap any limb, with your ear up against the bark and it would offer distinct
mellifluous tones. You couldn’t get a conventional scale out of it, but
definitely worth slapping and knocking. I like to imagine that the tree knew
me, responded to my moods, maybe even hugged me, as I definitely did its limbs.
I came to know that strange mottled bark so intimately and even saved pieces as
they peeled off.
After college, when I moved home between degrees, I spent
more time in the tree. I wrote up there. I even threw parties in it. At one
point there were 6 or 7 people in the tree, drinking cocktails hoisted up in
Ziplock bags, and snacks in little bowls. I started dating the woman who is now
my wife right up in that tree. I went away of course, eventually so did my
parents, literally. Until recently, I still visited the tree, thousands of
miles from the other coast where I live now. The last time I saw it was long
before I started carving, and a limb fell off. I took a few tiny pieces. What I
would give now for that whole limb! Sycamore, as it turns out, is utterly
gorgeous wood, with a clear set of rings, but also tiny vertical lines cutting
across them that create a gorgeous pattern in carved wood. Even the smell of
that tree I think I could recognize blindfolded.
I say all this because I think people can have very intimate
relationships with other living beings that don’t react like pets, but in a
very different primordial way. When I encounter a huge old copper beach or a
valley oak where I live now, it’s more awe inspiring and intense than seeing a
large animal. Just knowing they were alive hundreds of years ago thrills me. In
the case of the towering redwoods in the California foothills, they were around
at time of Plato. They stand as living witnesses to the past - if you are
willing to listen.
I say all this because I have a deep empathy for wood. So it
felt strange the first time I carved it. Some trees have deep pink striated
flesh that resembles tuna or rare beef. Sometimes wood will be so fresh and wet
that it seems to bleed, or practically splashes with the fall of the axe. This
isn’t a bad feeling. It’s no different than butchering an animal. I’ve never
killed a large mammal but taking one apart I truly enjoy, cutting around the
bones, following the sinews connecting to muscle tissue. The same is true of
wood and its own internal structure. When a limb falls down in a storm, I’m
happy to make use of it. Or when a tree needs pruning.
That’s exactly how I got into carving in the first place.
Two olive trees – Scylla and Charybdis, so named because I planted them too
close together. Today they not only can’t be disentangled, but steering between
them is treacherous, especially when trying to pick the olives. A really low
branch needed to come off as it stuck out over the sidewalk, and I thought,
this is such nice wood, something must be done with it. I had absolutely no
idea what I was doing. I had a pocketknife. And I so wish I hadn’t ruined so much
of that beautiful wood. But a few of these early olive wood spoons I still use.
It carved so wonderfully that I believe I have never worked with a finer wood.
All this is to say that a tree you know well, have harvested
fruit from, see every day perhaps, or best of all planted with your own hands,
is one whose wood you will respect and cut with care. Even those in my
neighborhood, I treat with a certain reverence, and knowing full well that a
branch will end up chopped and used as compost, gives me great satisfaction
knowing something else might be done with it. At times I’ve been tempted to
knock on people’s doors, not to ask if I could take some wood, but to say I
already did pick up a branch on the curb, and carved it, and here’s a spoon,
thanks so much. There is actually no feeling better than giving someone a spoon
or anything handmade for that matter, and knowing they will be using it for a
long time to come.
This week I started writing a new book, and I thought I'd share a brief essay from it. Here goes:
Beauty and the Graceful Line
It sounds a little silly nowadays to be talking about Beauty
with a capital B in universal terms. We are so used to setting everything in
historical context, being careful to understand the culture that produced an object
without our own blinkered prejudices. We do this for good reason: it’s
difficult to escape the way our own culture shapes our judgement, since we are
so embedded in our own time and place and so swayed by the forces of fashion.
We are hesitant to judge at all after so many centuries of revering great
masters as canons of taste. Swinging in the complete opposite direction, the
Romantics insisted that only the direct imitation of nature, even if gruesome,
can serve as an objective standard, that which evokes emotion because it
strikes us at the core without the intervention of intellectual rationale, or
taste – which is just a byword for status. This was the complaint the energetic
Baroque had with the cool intellectualism of 16th century Mannerism,
and how 19th century Romantics rejected the Enlightenment, by
turning to nature.
Nature does indeed offer lessons for craft, if not precisely
in the way a painter approaches a landscape or a human body. We find objects
beautiful precisely because they are well fitted to carry out specific
functions. In nature, a flower is beautiful because it offers color, aroma,
inviting form to the bee, who finds it beautiful and spreads pollen for the
plant. WE find it beautiful for the same reason, though of course with added
cultural baggage.
So too is there beauty in objects. It is not so simple that
form should follow function as architect Louis Sullivan insisted, but that
certain material dictate certain shapes, or they simply collapse or refuse to
work. A teapot may be gorgeous but if it doesn’t pour, it’s not a teapot – I’ve
made a few of those. It may be art, but that’s an entirely different topic.
Here I am concerned with the relationship between objective standards of beauty
and the utility of everyday objects. If we simply say everything is beautiful,
then there are no standards and we are subjected to hideousness and filth.
What then constitutes Beauty? Let’s begin with the line.
They come curved, straight, bent, twisted and curled. Each exists in nature and
for quite specific reasons. In my own backyard there are grape vines that
stretch out and tightly grab anything with little curled tendrils that support
the plant’s desire to stretch outward. The leaves thus achieve maximum exposure
to the sun, and the result is sensuous curvaceous vines. The bamboo has an
entirely different strategy, it busts straight upward as fast as it can in a
week or two growing 50 or 60 feet, and then pops out leaves that are so high
up, nothing can shade them. The higher it goes, the thicker the stem needs to
be and some can be a foot in diameter. Each is beautiful in its own very unique
way.
Leonardo da Vinci appreciated this. He drew the swirls of
the horsehair equisetum plant and wondered why the whorls were similar to the
eddies in gushing rivers, and the flow of blood coursing through our bodies. I
think he was considering precisely what physical properties can be considered
universally Beautiful. Skeptics of course will point out that appreciating such
forms is a cultural value, even nature itself is culturally constructed. What
one people find beautiful is strange or meaningless to another. The
Enlightenment philosophe Voltaire quipped about this in his Philosophical
Dictionary when he asked what is the To Kalon, or ideal form of beauty. To a
frog it’s a green complexion and bulging eyes. He was calling for a
relativistic approach, to each his own. But Voltaire entirely misses the point,
that frogs are eminently beautiful – their slippery skin, their bulging legs
perfectly designed for jumping, their circumspective eyes.
How does this relate to human made objects? Let’s turn to
pottery. If you lift the walls of a clay vessel, either wheel thrown or hand
built, straight upward, eventually the form will twist and buckle and then probably
collapse. To prevent this you have to make the walls so thick that the vessel
is blunt and too heavy to use. But if you give the pot a shoulder or hip (ceramic
forms are often anthropomorphized) so it bulges toward the top or bottom, the pot
gains structural integrity. But it also becomes beautiful, the line becomes
sensuous, much like the bend of a spoon, and it becomes stronger, lighter and
more functional. An acute angle in a pot wall or spoon compromises its use. A
bent spoon will spill soup in your lap. A pot that flares out at the top too
sharply will flop down through the force of gravity. The “well wrought urn” is
not curved because that’s the way the Greeks did it, but the Greeks did it that
way because they had to. So did the Chinese masters of the Song Dynasty and
potters of Seagrove, South Carolina. The vase turns out to be a great example
of Beauty.
I hear your objections. Aren’t there awkward angles in pots,
and forms intended to disturb or shock the viewer/user? Obviously in museum
art, but I’m not so sure about utilitarian wares. Think of food, it must be
palatable, meaning it can’t contain sherds of glass or metal, and it can’t be
laced with arsenic, or it’s no longer food. But don’t some cultures adore foods
that others abhor? Yes, but anyone can learn to overcome those culturally
learned preferences, just like they can learn to like coffee or whiskey, or
unlearn our instinctive predilection for sweetness. I mean, a baby would
happily eat a worm if offered by a parent. Does that mean that there are some
foods that are universally Beautiful for all cultures and all times in history.
Of course there are, just as there are dreadful foods people learn to love –
I’ll take a marshmallow peep or gummy candy any day.
I argue that certain flavors, combinations of ingredients,
cooking and preserving methods are universally tasty. Maybe some don’t like too
much heat, or are genetically averse to cilantro, but think of that innate
preference for sugar. Or think of how smokey flavors are hardwired into our
limbic brain after millennia of cooking
over fire. Or even take a food spread around the world – like pasta, which is
universally Beautiful. If anyone tells you they don’t like pasta, they are
either on a low carb diet or lying. I would say the same for an elegantly
sloping bowl, just holding it in your hands gives instinctive pleasure, as does
the graceful arc of a well carved spoon. These transcend all time, space and
cultural prejudice.
I realize I haven't posted in months! This is what I've been up to. Carving spoons. It took me a long time to get decent at it. Today I counted, 80 spoons so far since the spring. I intend to get a book out of this, provisionally called FOOD CLAY WOOD. I just started writing. Stay tuned. In the meantime the Gelatin book is in the warehouse and ready to be shipped! And the cookbook now entitled OPULENT NOSH is about to be contracted. All ready to go.
The sweet almond flavor of the macaron with meat makes me think of medieval flavor combinations, and if there had been a little spice to it, definitely so. As it was, the compliment of the bitter green and pungent horseradish went perfectly.
I can't imagine I'm the first person to stumble on this wordplay, but the flavor combo is truly delightful. Takoyaki with octopus of course, in a taco with pico de gallo, cheese, mayo and sauce on top.
This is a kind of Japanese custard which people think
requires some remarkably complex technique. It’s actually easier to make than a
poached egg. Its appeal lies primarily in the soft creamy texture, especially
when contrasted with crunchy or chewy garnishes. In flavor it can be as
delicate or as intense as you like in the morning, and is entirely dependent on
the strength of the stock you use. The key to success, I discovered after much
travail, is adhering to a simple formula and precise timing and after that you
can use any ingredients you like. Here is a relatively classic version, though
garnished according to my personal whim.
A few whisps of dill, Thin wedge of tomato, 1 shiitake mushroom, 1 tsp neutral oil
Meanwhile cook your mushroom in oil, and char the tomato
too, then set aside.
Remove the teacup from the pot and let rest 3 minutes.
Remove the tin foil and arrange the garnishes on top. Serve at once with a
spoon while still warm.
Now here’s the best part, you can use absolutely any kind of
stock and any garnishes you like. An intense mushroom stock was remarkable with
sour cream and chives and a few sliced of truffle for extravagance. Chicken
stock was incredible in custard form, especially contrasted with crunchy sweet
corn fried in butter, with a few chewy chicken meatballs to garnish. A
shellfish stock with shrimp would be so delightful too. I leave this to your
imagination.
Amaranth Sushi 1/15/2021
Some grains simply don’t stick together well enough to hold
together in a rolled sushi, but amaranth is an exception. The nutty flavor also
goes so nicely with the fish that it doesn’t need any further embellishment.
¾ c water
1/8 tsp salt
½ c amaranth
1 smoked
trout filet
1 tbs
mayonnaise
2 sheets of
nori
Bring the water to the boil in a small pot with the salt.
Add the amaranth and lower the heat. Simmer very gently for 20 minutes covered.
Remove the lid and let the steam rise in the hot pot, stirring now and then,
until the amaranth is completely dry and cool. Mix the trout and mayonnaise.
Briefly pass the sheets of seaweed over an open flame for just a second so they
are toasty and crisp. Divide the amaranth between the two sheets and make a
thin layer. Place the trout in a thin line along the middle. Then place the
whole thing in a sushi rolling mat, and roll up tightly, pressing it in with
the edge of the mat rolled around it. Remove the whole roll, cut into 4 parts
with a serrated bread knife, very gently so you don’t squish out the contents.
Repeat with the other sheet. Makes 8 small pieces.
 |
Among the most ingenious ways to transform chickpea flour is to extrude it through a brass device used in India to make sev – a kind of fried noodle that goes into a variety of dishes. There are various other machines that will work just as well, a small hand-held noodle extruder, a ricer and even a cookie press with a perforated die. Here I have obviously desecrated a revered snack food, but it is so remarkably delicious, I implore you to try it.
Mix the
first 6 ingredients and add just enough water so it becomes a stiff dough. If
necessary add a little more chickpea flour and form into a cylinder with your
hands. Slide it into your press. There is no need to oil it, your hands, or
anything. Now heat your oil in the pan. To test take a tiny bit of the dough
and put it in the hot oil. See if it floats up. If it sinks and no bubbles form,
it’s not hot enough, if it browns quickly, it’s too hot. Adjust heat
accordingly. Then put the plunger in your extruder and turn the crank directly
over the oil, filling the whole pan with noodles. With a pair of metal skewers,
start turning them over. Cook on both sides about 5 minutes or until golden.
Remove with a slotted spoon or strainer and place on paper towels to cool.
Then
arrange on a baking sheet covered with tin foil, sprinkle on the cheese and the
tomato, chopped. Place in a toaster oven at 350 degrees until the cheese is
melted. While that is heating, mix the sour cream, chopped cilantro and salt,
thin with milk until it’s pourable. Take the nachos out of the oven a drizzle
with the sour cream mixture. Be forwarned: it’s awfully messy, but there’s no
other way to eat it but with your fingers.
“My grandma was the best cook ever!” says anyone who has
ever been interested in cooking and eating. I say the same thing myself. For
years I have been trying to replicate her recipes from memory. She died when I
was 13, so it’s mostly guesswork. One of these is boyos – a kind of round roll
with spinach and feta filling. There were also other fillings, like onion and
egg, ground beef too. I recall vividly one day exclaiming how much I liked
them, so whenever I saw her, she would have made dozens just for me, to put in
the freezer and have for breakfast every day. In all honesty, they were a bit
dense and since she was Mediterranean at heart, she poured olive oil on top. My
father would become incensed; he liked them fine without oil, but she insisted.
After a little sleuthing I found that boyoz, as they are
spelled in Turkey, are still made in the city of Izmir (Smyrna) where my
grandmother’s family came from, and they are still associated with the
Sephardic Jewish community. Of course the name is bollo – and they come
originally from Spain. They are often unfilled in Turkey and are made of a
pulled filo dough, light like a croissant. Nothing like my grandmother’s.
So with this recipe I thought about how much better they
would be light and flaky, so I made a simple yeasted and laminated croissant-like
dough with butter. I also used broccoli rabe instead of spinach, because the
oxalic acid in the latter strips the enamel off my teeth and makes them feel
chalky. And because rabe is the best vegetable on earth, period. Use a good
creamy feta too, ideally from Bulgaria, but French feta can be great too.
Mix the flour, salt, yeast and water and knead for about 10
minutes, keeping your hands wet with extra water (rather than dry with flour).
Place pats of the cold butter on a sheet of plastic wrap and put another sheet on
top. Roll it out into a thin square. Roll out the dough on a large wooden
board, this time floured. Remove the top sheet of plastic from the butter and
set it directly on the dough; then remove the other sheet. Fold the dough over
the butter like a book and roll out. Repeat folding over and rolling out 4 or 5
times more, wrap the dough in the plastic and let rest in the fridge for an
hour.
Chop the broccoli rabe, discarding the thick ends of the
stems. Fry in the oil and season with salt. Cook over medium heat, stirring now
and then, for about 15 minutes. Remove from the pan and place in a bowl to
cool. Then crumble in the feta and add ¾ of the egg. Mix well. And set aside
until the dough is finished resting in the fridge.
Roll out the dough on a floured board. Cut into four pieces.
Place the filling in the center of each piece and fold over the sides, encasing
the filling. Then turn them over, so the top is smooth. Brush with the
remaining egg and sprinkle with sesame seeds.
Then heat the oven to 400 degrees. Bake the boyos for 10
minutes and then lower the heat to 350 and cook another 20 minutes until
browned. Eat them hot, for breakfast of course.
First get on your sturdy hiking shoes and a good hat and a
little blue backpack from Disney Word with Oswald the Lucky Rabbit on it. Set
out early, but not too much before stores open. Head north. Don’t forget your
earbuds. Prepare to spend about 4 hours listening to Trout Fishing in America,
which will lull your brain into a state of hypnosis. This will help you focus
on the recipe at hand, still as yet unimagined. Drop into a little party supply
store that is almost always closed, and for no good reason buy a few 3-inch
tinned brioche molds for $2.40 each. Keep going north. Stop in the famous San
Francisco Boudin Bakery chain, which you haven’t been in for about a decade,
when your son was taking guitar lessons and the other son wanted clam chowder
in a sourdough bowl. Buy some sourdough and wonder, as always, how that the
particular lactobacillus strain can survive the heat of Stockton. Keep walking
north. Imagine stuffing the bread into the brioche molds. Pick up some vodka
(best to plan ahead) and put it in Oswald. Buy some olive oil, the last drop of
which you used last night. The backpack will begin to sag by now. Richard
Brautigan will make you say Trout Fishing in America when the person at
the cash register asks if this is credit or debit. When you finally get home,
cut the sourdough into thin three-inch rounds with crust all around. Butter
every surface, including the sides, your hands, and the top of your head. Suddenly
remember that although you have no trout, there are chunks of salmon, well
salted, strewn with dill and splashed with Linie Aquavit, which is better than
any other because it has crossed the equator. Unlike the salmon, who only went
upstream. But they didn’t have a ship, which is why they die after spawning.
The people who bring Linie Aquavit across the equator, they do not die after
spawning. Squish your buttered bread, but not your head, into the brioche molds
and fill with a few nubbins of cured salmon. Nibble on the salmon, then
remember that you put the vodka in the freezer and make a drink with lime,
sugar and lime-flavored seltzer so you can bear out the 15 minutes you arbitrarily
decide will be the time this recipe takes to bake. Preheat the toaster oven.
Crack and egg, add a pinch of salt and pour into the molds. Whisk the brioche molds
into the toaster oven and sip your cocktail. When the bell goes off, remove
them, take a few pictures and pry them out of the molds and take a few more.
Eat the whatchamacallits with your cocktail. Oh just call them Trout Fishing
in America. Mayonaise.
Were I to tell you that this recipe is highly reminiscent of
a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, you probably wouldn’t believe me, but it’s
true. Idli, from Southern India, are soft cakey rounds that are oddly like
white bread but pleasantly sour and made entirely from fermented rice and
beans. Almond butter is more nuanced than peanut but either would work well,
and the chutney is infinitely more vibrant than jelly. Combining these
ingredients also came to me entirely serendipitously. About a decade ago I
planted a little persimmon tree at the corner of my house, where it received
next to no light and even less water. I vaguely remembered it was there, but it
never bore fruit and never grew. This past season we trimmed back nearby trees
and fixed the sprinkler. I happened to be poking around in front of the house
mid October, and what do you know? Three gorgeous fuyu persimmons, crisp and
sweet and ready to go on the idli I had just steamed for breakfast.
In terms of cost, I bought a large bag of basmati rice for $5.99
and beans $2.99. To make the idli batter, I used about a dollar’s worth of rice
and 50 cents for the beans. The almond butter was already in the cabinet and
the persimmon, free. So breakfast for me, just a cup of the batter, of which I
had about 7 cups, so that means this cost 21 cents. I tested it a few times to
get the cooking time right, so let’s be fair and say 63 cents to test and 25
cents for the other ingredients – a shallot and a few raisins, a spoon of almond
butter. Eminently affordable, unusual, and quick. The only thing you need to
start ahead of time is the batter, but it takes very little effort.
Idli
2 c basmati rice
½ c urad dahl (tiny white black
gram beans with the outer coating removed – not lentils)
Spring water or filtered tap water
½ tbs butter
1 tbs almond butter
Then generously butter a small bowl about 4 inches in
diameter and pour in some batter, about half way up. Place the bowl into a
steamer and cook for 12 minutes. A smaller bowl will take a little less time,
larger more. Remove from the steamer and let cool for a few minutes. Run a
knife around the perimeter to loosen the idli and turn out onto a board. Slice
the idli horizontally so you have a top and bottom, like a little bun. Spread
the almond butter on one side.
Persimmon Chutney
2 tbs neutral oil
1 small shallot
1 knob of ginger
1 small fuyu persimmon
About 20 golden raisins
1 tbs vinegar
When you put your idli in to steam, peel and chop the shallot and start to cook gently in the oil. Peel the ginger with a spoon, slice and dice finely, then add to the pan. Chop the persimmon finely and add. Likewise chop the raisins and add them. Splash with vinegar. Ideally this should be cooked just enough by the time your idli are done, about 12 minutes. Or let cook a few minutes longer if necessary. Put a good dollop of the chutney on top of the almond butter, close and serve up, just as you would a PB&J sandwich.
I am fairly committed to writing a book about breakfast now. This very simple, quick and easy dish I made this morning has me excited to send out a proposal and get the ball rolling. I'm up to 16 recipes in the past few weeks, pretty much one a day. Well, here's a sample:
Warm the flatbread over an open
flame. Then spread with the chevre and squirt on the umeboshi paste. This is a
stand in for cranberry sauce, it’s more sour, salty and sits in the wrap
better. Spread it around evenly. Heat the crushed walnuts in a nonstick pan
with the sugar and salt and cinnamon, stirring constantly and being careful not
to let burn. Transfer to a plate to cool. Then sprinkle on the flatbread. Add
the slices of turkey. In a small bowl mix the vinegar, syrup, oil and salt to
form a dressing. Add in the spinach and mix with your hands. Then transfer to
the flatbread. Roll up the bread tightly, cut on the diagonal and serve at
once.
Makes one dozen fritters
1 lb box of bacalão
(salt cod)
2 tbs olive oil
¼ c heavy cream
½ c dry fino sherry
1 c okonomiyaki flour or regular
pancake mix, plus more if necessary for a very thick batter
1 tbs lard or butter
2 large red peppers
½ cup toasted almonds, crushed
2 cloves garlic
1 tsp salt
1 head of escarole
Salt to taste
Dabs of mayonnaise
1 thinly sliced small hot red
chili pepper
Place the red peppers directly on the gas burner or grill
and turn frequently until completely charred. Place in a large paper bag until
cool. Scrape off the char with a knife, do not rinse, remove the seeds and
core, and chop the pepper finely. Place in a pan with the garlic and olive oil
and cook gently until soft. Add salt. Then transfer to a mortar and pound until
it becomes a chunky sauce.
Chop the escarole and sauté in the oil until tender. Add
salt to taste while cooking.
To serve arrange the fritters on a plate with the sauce and
the escarole on the side. Garnish with the mayonnaise and slivers of chili
pepper.
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