Given the size of my sweet tooth (think saber tooth tiger), I have myriad sweeteners in my cupboards. White, brown and coconut sugars, crunchy turbinado, honey, date syrup and molasses, they all line the shelves alongside a curious specimen that
Given the size of my sweet tooth (think saber tooth tiger), I have myriad sweeteners in my cupboards. White, brown and coconut sugars, crunchy turbinado, honey, date syrup and molasses, they all line the shelves alongside a curious specimen that looks something like a gnome’s hat.
That hat is called piloncillo and it’s one of my favorites, not only for its deep caramel flavor, but also because as far as sugar goes, it’s as close as you can get to biting down on a stalk of sugarcane itself (a treat I’d occasionally enjoy as a child).
Unlike brown sugar, which usually is refined white sugar stirred together with molasses, piloncillo is the result of boiled down cane sugar juice, much like its Indian cousin, jaggery. Its flavor is complex, layered with fiery ginger, molasses, even rum. Its aroma is intoxicating, begging to be paired with warm spices like cinnamon, ground ginger and cloves.
Like many brown sugars, it can resemble stone in density and hardness, so I suggest microwaving it for about 20 seconds, then chopping it up with your heaviest cleaver.
This bold sugar is a perfect match for springtime’s most astringent offering, rhubarb. Every spring, I scour the farmers markets for those crimson stalks whose daring hues beat back winter’s gray. I make a big jar of rhubarb compote, assertively laced with fresh ginger, the warm Indian spice mix called garam masala, orange zest and the tiniest dusting of red chili flake. It tops everything from pork chops to my morning yogurt. Little did I know that this brave little compote has been missing a vital component until now: a sugar as pure as spring sunshine with enough fire to subdue rhubarb’s sour side.
