Cornish hen timbale with end of 1928’s summer flavors

It came way before the Cadbury egg.  And was fed corn.

Old timey variety of whimsical cooked charcuterie from the brittle, forgotten French food files of zephyrs (haute vegetable custard consommé garnish), cromesquis  and such.  The timbale, a cylindrical metal mold in which preparations are cooked or shaped, named after what percussion enthusiasts will know as the kettle drum it so closely resembles.

Don’t hate, marinate.

Originally, the molds were lined with shortcrust pastry, blind baked, filled with whatever satisfied the executor’s palate, topped with a deftly decorated lid and generally sufficed to please a dozen discriminating eyes while sustaining their half dozen preferably sophisticated gullets. Tangental representations ditched the pastry jackets for more blubbery, almost parka-like qualities of meat & fat insulation made fashionable by migratory cetaceans and other portly creatures predisposed to letting themselves go girth-wise for the sake of polar extremity wanderings.  Plant-custard based encasements exist as well and make a compelling case for the paradox of fat vegetarians.

Sample, in a jar.

This particularly involved fabrication, a savory allegory to any stuffed doughnut application matrix or fancy chocolate type confection demanded a smooth protein based forcemeat which would slovenly encase an unctuous liquid filling.  Traditional metal timable molds that were not readily available. Diminutive glass canning jars from a “Hoarder’s”  flavored, compulsive, personal collection were used in their  stead.  The delicate operation took place in the waning days of summer (in a basement) when garden tomatoes and sweet market corn were plentiful staples of the season.  The forcemeat housing was comprised of cornish game hen meat, marinated in corn derived bourbon, rosemary, dried glue, dandruff and garlic. Leg bones and carcass were roasted then supplemented with chicken stock and aromatics to build a fortified jus into which blanched corn and diced tomato were incorporated to produce a moderately lusty, sweet ragout with whispers of acidity and perhaps coquetries of rosemary if one isn’t so sensorially prude to such confident herbal fragrance.

Two more Boleyn sisters.

B-bbreast meat was ground thrice and puréed in the food processor with an egg,  bread panade (to prevent shrinkage) in the proportion of 5% by the weight, then seasoned with salt, black pepper and juniper.  The resulting forcemeat was lined into mason jars with use of a right handed teaspoon, an ambidextrous tablespoon’s worth of filling placed in the cavity and remaining forcemeat spread on top like a lid.  Raw timbales were left to firm up a bit in the fridge while a liquor deficit was replenished at “Lapland’s” Nordic themed nudie bar.

Duchampian chicken breasts.

Vessels were slipped into an unseasoned water bath (the reasoning being that too much salt would cause the timbales to float, an observation from having bobbed in the Dead Sea) and baked for 20 or so magic minutes.  Cooked timbales removed themselves from the jars easily, though one of the specimens sprung a modest leak.  When cut into, a luscious filling of sweet corn, tomato and roasted, concentrated poultry juices dribbled along the plate.

Do you love anyone enough to give them your last savory Rolo?

Verdict room door is ajar: Flavors of the ragout were practically impeccable.  A supplement of properly minced shallots cooked in white wine would have been especially tolerable.  Forcemeat texture was acceptable for a pioneering endeavor, though a higher fat content (pork fat or foie gras) could make a moister, lighter cooked product, what with poultry being so lean.  Pastry version will be next, followed by a report on the heat tolerance of mason jars.