THE HUNT: THE FAT OF THE LAND
In our health-conscious times, lard gets a bad rap, but the former kitchen staple is making a comeback aided by some nutritionists and memories of grandma’s pie crust.
In our health-conscious times, lard gets a bad rap, but the former kitchen staple is making a comeback aided by some nutritionists and memories of grandma’s pie crust.
idon’t succumb readily to fear of any foodstuff. But I’ll admit that things changed recently when a friend sought to school me on my use of canola oil. It’s a long litany: GMOs, glyphosate, hexane, bleaching, yadda yadda. So though I’m still not the guy to tell anyone what’s good for them, some basic research has indeed altered my habits. My go-to oil remains extra-virgin olive, with occasional use of coconut, but I’ve come around to stocking a once-reviled pantry staple: rendered pig fat, a.k.a. lard.
Some history is in order. Along with butter, lard (and to a lesser extent, beef tallow) represented the totality of household oil in the pioneer kitchen. But all that changed when a candle-maker named Procter hooked up with a soapmaker named Gamble. Their billion-dollar idea was to use a process called hydrogenation to turn a then-useless industrial by-product, cottonseeds, into an oily substance that looked and behaved a lot like lard. Their “crystallized cottonseed oil”—branded as Crisco in 1911—took North America by storm with a modern-seeming marketing campaign that promised housewives “a healthier alternative to cooking with animal fats that’s more economical than butter.”
Its ingredients eventually changed, but by the time my generation came around, the superiority of vegetable shortening was far beyond question. Not any more. According to many contemporary nutritionists, Grandma’s baking secret should never have fallen into disfavour in the first place. I’ll let you delve for yourself into the eye-crossing nutritional details, but suffice to say I’m now sold on lard for at least two purposes: replacing shortening in baking, and for frying with a suitably high smoke point.
Recently I did some informal testing in which lard’s superiority readily became apparent. Bear in mind that I used Tenderflake lard purchased in bulk at Bon Ton Meat Market for $4.40 per kilogram, although I’m aware that food purists will decry that product as chemically adulterated in its own right and, perhaps worse, derived from factory-raised swine. They assert that the one true lard comes from pastured organic pigs, and they’re probably correct. At places like Sunnyside Market you can sample such a lard from Broek’s, a Lethbridge producer of heritage Berkshire pigs. However, expect to pay a lavish $20 for that same kilo.
I made a standard apple pie, substituting lard where I formerly used shortening. Bakers rediscovering lard often mention the superior flakiness of the result, which I can’t deny, but what really stood out for me was how light the texture was in the part beneath the filling. Thus, for any pastry product, or biscuits, or tamales, I can’t see myself going back to the vegetal version.
As for frying, my results there were even more dramatic. Guides to the smoke points of various oils put lard in the upper echelon but behind more pricey alternatives like avocado or peanut. Canola, too, is ranked slightly higher, but my experiments indicated otherwise. I deep-fried tortilla wedges in lard at 190 C, as I usually would with canola, and the hints of smoke were noticeably smaller. More importantly, the chips absorbed significantly less oil—almost none, it seemed. Likewise when I used a dollop of lard to fry hash-browned potatoes: they turned out crisp and delicious, while the lard remained in the pan and not on the food. I look forward to trying it for battered fish, where oil absorption can be a deal-breaker.
Meanwhile, I had to try my hand at rendering my own lard. Butcher shops like Jan’s Delicatessen, where I buy lean, fresh-ground pork and beef, will give you trimmings for free. Put a kilo in a slow-cooker with a cup of water, set to low, and let it melt for several hours, stirring occasionally. Strain out the dark bits—those are your cracklings—and enjoy both products.