Milk (36 page)

M
ilk fermented by lactic-acid bacteria is thousands of years older than any system for classifying different kinds. Orderly-minded searchers for correct definitions are always surprised to see how haphazardly the names of different soured or sourish milk-based products are thrown around—and not just in English. (Trying to sort out anything like the meanings of “buttermilk” and “sour milk” in other languages is an exercise in frustration.) You’d think that modern science would have cleared up some of the confusion. In fact, it has muddied things more by bringing standardized strains of particular bacteria from industrial laboratories in, say, Denmark to far-flung parts of the globe, there to figure in packaged commercial versions of local fermented dairy specialties that may coexist with more “primitive,” non-uniform handmade originals. For shoppers, there is the additional hurdle that American manufacturers are free to tag all kinds of things with hit-or-miss names unless they happen to be covered by a federal “standard of identity.” Even if you read the fine print of labels, you may be completely mystified by the differences between two items bearing the same name.

ACIDOPHILUS MILK
Milk soured with a culture of
Lactobacillus acidophilus
to produce something resembling a harsher version of cultured buttermilk. Widely promoted on the unproven though not disproven “probiotic” theory that
L. acidophilus
(which survives in the colon) boosts the immune system and discourages the action of undesirable bacteria. Some manufacturers add a second organism,
Brevibacterium bifidum.
A “sweet acidophilus milk” has been developed for those who dislike the flavor of lactic acid; the bacteria remain dormant in it until the milk reaches the digestive system.

“BULGARIAN BUTTERMILK”
Really more of a yogurt; milk soured with a culture of
Lactobacillus bulgaricus
alone instead of the double action of
L. bulgaricus
and
Streptococcus thermophilus.
Unless it’s been tinkered with to soften the effect, it is sourer than ordinary yogurt and much sourer than American cultured buttermilk.

CREMA
Literally, just the Spanish word for cream. In much of Central America the word refers to local equivalents of sour cream with a different mix of cultures and a characteristic slightly salty tang. Like all kinds of sour cream, crema must have originated as what hungry neighborhood bacteria did with fresh cream, before it was turned into more standardized factory-made products based on commercial laboratory cultures. Today’s crema is a favorite condiment or table sauce for many Mexican
antojitos
and
botanas
(“little dishes” and bar snacks).

Various brands are sold here in Latin American groceries under the general name
crema centroamericana
or more particular names such as
crema mexicana, crema hondureña,
and so forth. There seem to be two main types: a very heavy one based on a cultured cream-milk mixture with cream cheese added, and another kind without the cheese. (I haven’t consistently been able to make out special national nuances.) The flavor of all kinds is delightful, though the texture usually relies heavily on carrageenan, modified food starch, and/or rennet for thickening and smoothness. If crema wins enough new fans on this side of the border, some entrepreneur surely will be inspired to make a more truly, if less apparently, rich artisanal version—the taste is too good not to become part of the mainstream American kitchen. Meanwhile, look for commercial brands with the fewest additives listed on the label. Note that it does not contain live organisms, so you can’t use it to culture your own.

CRÈME FRAÎCHE
In French, just “fresh cream,” though it usually refers to cream lightly cultured with particular mixtures of mesophilic lactic-acid bacteria (i.e., ones that thrive at
moderate rather than very warm temperatures). The quality of the cream from which it is made is all-important. Even today, Normandy is considered the premier
French source of cream and butter, and Norman crème fraîche has long been the gold standard. It is still occasionally made from unpasteurized Normandy cream (said to have the truest flavor), but pasteurized versions are more common. In the United States, a few small dairies make quite good (pasteurized) crème fraîche. The best is made only from cream and cultures, and has a more blossomy flavor and luxuriant texture than commercial American sour cream. Because of its high milkfat and low casein content, it can be heated to somewhat higher temperatures than sour cream without curdling. Unless the label states that it contains live cultures, it probably doesn’t and can’t be used for culturing your own.

CULTURED BUTTERMILK
Milk soured with a mixture of mesophilic lactic-acid bacteria; for most of us, it is the nearest thing to the naturally soured milk that used to be more familiar throughout Europe and North America than unsoured milk. (If you come across “sour milk” as an ingredient in an old recipe, this is your best bet.) Cultured buttermilk began replacing true churned buttermilk (see the butter and buttermilk recipes in “Butter and True Buttermilk”) at least eighty years ago. Most brands are now made from low-fat milk (either 1 or 1.5 percent milkfat; in my mid-Atlantic neck of the woods, Friendship manufactures the best commercial version). It can be a delicious cold drink when made without gums and stabilizers, and is also the ideal culturing agent for cooks interested in experimenting with homemade versions of fresh cheese and several kinds of cultured milk or cream. Cultured buttermilk curdles in cooking unless mixed with a little flour or starch.

Note that today cultured buttermilk often is heated after fermentation, which kills the cultures. Always look for the words “active cultures” or “live cultures” on the label.

CULTURED SOUR CREAM
Cream—today, more often a mixture of milk and cream with added dry milk solids, standardized at 18 percent milkfat—soured with a mixture of mesophilic lactic-acid bacteria.

Please do not be bamboozled by the misleadingly labeled
“nonfat sour cream,” with its dismal complement of gums and extenders. Low-fat versions differ; ones made with only
cultured cream and milk are sometimes fairly pleasant. But the only skinny version of sour cream I really like is made by draining plain, additive-free cultured buttermilk and stirring it smooth. (Follow directions for
Hangop
, but leave the buttermilk cream unsweetened.)

Unless the label states that sour cream contains live cultures, it probably doesn’t and can’t be used for culturing your own. Note: There are not very good versions made by direct acidification rather than culturing.

KEFIR
Strictly speaking, milk cultured by the combined action of several specific bacteria,
molds, and
yeasts, resulting in both lactic-acid and
alcoholic fermentation. Kefir, or something like it, may be as ancient as yogurt, but never spread as universally throughout the Diverse Sources Belt. By the twentieth century it had come to Russian cities from the Caucasus (where it probably had been made with cows’, goats’, or sheep’s milk, depending on what was most convenient), having acquired a reputation for healthfulness not unlike that of Bulgarian yogurt in 1920s Europe. It has been a popular Russian drink ever since. Part of the fascination is that, unlike yogurt bacteria, the starter itself is visible to the naked eye. It consists of small whitish blobs clustered into an irregular mass often described as cauliflowerlike. The kefir “grains” contain all the operative microorganisms, ready to flourish together symbiotically in the milk and turn it into a pleasantly sour beverage of gentle fizziness and a slight alcoholic kick. It is not difficult to make; devotees save the grains from one batch—they shrink a little but remain intact—and use them to inoculate the next.

Commercial drinks labeled “kefir” have started showing up in places like the Whole Foods supermarket chain. These products are not at all identical to the original kefir. In the first place, they have been retooled to stop any alcoholic fermentation. They are usually sold in gussied-up, highly sweetened strawberry or vanilla versions surrounded by nutritional hype and augmented with faddish “nutraceuticals” such as the complex sugar called inulin. Even the plain unsweetened version tastes more like mediocre yogurt than anything worth consuming on its own. If you want to taste real kefir, you’re best
advised to seek a source of kefir grains, though you may feel as if you’d embarked on a “Joe sent me” search for a speakeasy. The New England Cheesemaking Supply Company (
this page
) can put you in touch with a source.

Note: “Kefir” is one of several words that can land you in misunderstandings in Hispanic groceries. It is sometimes an all-purpose name for any vaguely yogurtlike fermented dairy product.

KUMYS, KUMIS, KOUMISS
By whatever Anglicized spelling, this was another Russian link with the ancient dairying past. Like kefir, it was milk fermented by a mixture of different organisms, including bacteria and
yeasts, and produced alcohol as well as lactic acid in the fermenting process. But apparently kumys had a stronger connection with nomadic civilizations of the former Silk Road that eventually fell under Russian domination. It was classically made from mares’ milk, which has plenty of lactose for producing alcohol. There was also
camels’ milk kumys (probably less
alcoholic). In modern times there has been some Russian production of kumys from cows’ milk, though it is weak if not fortified with sugar to boost alcohol content. Memories of real kumys were growing rare by the late 1960s, when
Helen and George Papashvily went to Kazakhstan while researching the Russian volume in the Time-Life Foods of the World series and were told by a nonagenarian recalling her youth, “One mouthful of
kumys
and I could name the mare from which it came.” Today mares’-milk kumys is reported to barely survive in a few parts of the Central Asian republics and Mongolia. People who have tasted it describe it as distinctly acid, pungent, and fizzy.

As with “kefir,” Latin Americans loosely apply the name “kumys” to some yogurt cousins with no connection to the Silk Road original.

SKYR
An almost-cheese or not-quite yogurt from Iceland that involves skim milk cultured by a combination of several lactic-acid bacteria including the most important yogurt-making organisms, along with several commonly used for cultured buttermilk, before being lightly renneted and drained of whey. Recently several American manufacturers have introduced agreeable plain versions, as well as others given the sweetened-yogurt treatment. Take a leaf from the Icelanders and eat plain
skyr with fresh berries, lightly sprinkled with sugar and doused with cream.

SMETANA
The Russian word for sour cream, adopted into French culinary parlance as
smitane.
Emigration from the ex–Soviet Union has brought Russian-style smetana to these shores, and it’s a huge improvement over most
commercial American sour cream. The flavor is rounder and less sour. The cream doesn’t set up as firm, but keeps a buttery softness that I find more pleasing. So far it seems to be sold only in bulk, not prepackaged.