Just the Flax, Ma'am

My feelings about "health food" are best summed up by the classic joke:

A young man visits his doctor for a routine checkup. "I've got good news and bad news," the doctor says.

"Give me the bad news first, doc."

"Well, my tests show that you have a heart condition."

"A heart condition?" the man asks, aghast. "But I feel great! What's the prognosis?"

The doctor shakes his head. "Not so good. You also have cancer."

"Cancer?!" The man cries in disbelief.

"Sadly, yes. A brain tumor, too. In short, you have three weeks to live."

Hysterical, the man exclaims, "Three weeks? Quick, give me the good news!"

"Well, I recommend that you switch to a diet of cod liver oil and dehydrated kale."

"Really, doc? And that'll cure me?"

"No, but it will seem like the longest three weeks of your life."

And that's the peril of health food. Don't get me wrong--I like plenty of delicious food that's healthy by coincidence, like fresh, tart currants, sassy kumquats (skin and all), and raw arugula by the fistful; but I like these things because they're packed with flavor, not because of their percentage of this or their milligrams-per-serving of that. To me, people who choose food solely for its nutritional properties seem suspicious; I find them vaguely untrustworthy, or, at least, not much fun to eat with. They lack zest. I firmly subscribe to the popular maxim that one's interest in eating reflects one's interest in life itself: You can't fully embrace one without embracing the other. In other words, I'm an omnivorous glutton.

Gluttony is not my only sin. In the kitchen, I'm also a thief--sneaking through old cookbooks and magazines like a cat burglar, pocketing my favorite ideas. I made my most recent score while voraciously perusing a back issue of Cook's Illustrated, which tipped me off to a cornbread recipe written by an 11-year-old named Dana Sly. According to the headnote, it won her a blue ribbon at the Iowa State Fair. In the grip of hunger, I was hooked. However, there was a catch: The recipe was vegan, and, as a substitute for eggs, it called for ground flaxseed, dissolved in water, to moisten and bind the bread. To me, this sounded suspiciously like health food gimmickry, despite the alleged first-place finish. I wondered if it would turn out as some grayish mush-cake, only considered palatable by the lowest of standards. Could young Sly be trusted?

Her method piqued my interest, however, because ingenious substitutions, when they work, are exactly the sort of thing I like to purloin for my own culinary arsenal. Still, even to such a wide-ranging omnivore as myself, ground flaxseed didn't sound particularly appetizing, and I found while preparing it that the texture of the precooked, reconstituted seeds was...unusual, to put it charitably (gluey and mucus-like, in more realistic terms). However, when I bit into the finished product, the tender cornbread, I knew the kid was on to something. Stealthy and sated, I slipped her idea into my bag of tricks.

Not much later, to my surprise, a lazy afternoon's Internet research revealed that my find wasn't quite so precious. From numerous Web sites, I learned that the flaxseed substitution is actually commonplace in the realm of vegan baking. A few experiments later, my curiosity about these seeds had blossomed into infatuation--and not for their usefulness or their nutritional value but, rather, (skeptics, are you sitting down?) for the boost of flavor they impart.

When I set aside the pre-ground flax meal and instead ground my own seeds fresh in a coffee grinder, I discovered their light, woody aroma, like the smell of fresh-cut grain. I tried them out in a couple of standby recipes, full-flavored items like spice-flecked carrot cake and dense, dark zucchini bread. In robust baked goods like these, the seeds added a nice layer of nutty complexity. Incorporated as an egg substitute, they added a touch of extra moistness, too--which turned out to be just the thing to complement a healthy layer of luscious cream-cheese frosting or a generous swipe of sweet butter.

The formula is simple: Dissolve 1 tablespoon of ground flaxseed in 3 tablespoons of boiling water for every egg you're replacing. Keep in mind a few guidelines: This substitution works best in recipes where assertive nuttiness makes sense. (Pecan pancakes, anyone?) It doesn't jibe in recipes that have a delicate or incompatible flavor--lavender madeleines, for example--and it plain won't work when something depends on eggs for structural reasons, like angel food cake. Don't even think about creme brulee or quiche. The quickest way to tell if a recipe is a candidate for the flaxseed substitution is to skim the ingredient list for chemical leaveners--i.e., baking powder or baking soda. Many cakes, quickbreads, and cookies call for these, and they're a good indication that egg isn't strictly necessary for the batter or dough to rise and set. There's certainly a limit to the number of eggs you can replace, but I haven't discovered it yet.

Like most of what goes on in the kitchen, experimenting with flaxseed is an adventure. You never know when you'll be surprised. I just pulled a batch of chocolate chip cookies made with flax out of the oven, and the meat-loving, soy-shunning, sweet-toothed Texan I live with declared them better than "the real thing"--thereby astounding both of us. Try it out and see what you think. You can even congratulate yourself on your slightly-more-healthful ways, if you absolutely must.