Collagen is found anywhere the body needs a combination of strength and elasticity: tendons, ligaments, and skin. Culinarily, the structure offers a lot: a resilient protein matrix that holds water for a rich mouthfeel, elasticity to maintain shape and integrity even when thoroughly (and I do mean thoroughly) cooked, and a brilliant crunch when finessed.
In professional kitchens, I am notorious for forgetting–the moment I walk away from a pan, it vanishes from my consciousness, regardless of how much focused time I spent on the contents. This is a major liability with sauces or aromatics, but skin? No problem. I didn’t consider it an asset until I was in the kitchen, cooking a load of skin for multiple recipes, and doing little else. I stared as the liquid simmered, checking the level more than was strictly necessary. I poked. I prodded. I tried to find ways to be productive while I waited for 2-3 hours to pass. Around hour 1 I pulled a piece of skin out of the water, and performed my usual test, pinching it between my fingers. They pinched right through! I tried with skewers and a fork, double checked with the internet, and finally declared the skin done. I was pleased–I could offer the world a preparation slightly less time-intensive than anticipated.
Then I attempted to candy the skin, a method that I love and have performed dozens of times and it resulted in shards not unlike soft plastic in syrup. What didn’t get candied went in the freezer for later repairs and I despaired of how my pork rinds, already dehydrated, would turn out.
The idea of tenderness has a generous span and is the key to cooking skin well: done means DONE and skin needs to be very done.
My third plan for pork skin had always been noodles. They were briefly cool around 2012 or so, and skin is a common ingredient in tonkotsu ramen, the milky, sticky pork ramen that comes from violently boiling bones and skin. Noodles made good sense. Noodles also allowed me to salvage the undercooked skin waiting for me in the freezer.
I made a chicken broth for my skin noodle ramen. The flavor of skin is gentle but distinctive, and I didn’t want a bowl of pork on pork on pork, just a nice bowl of soup with fun noodles. In my shallow dive into ramen construction, I came across a method wherein the broth (on its own a little flabby, a little flat) is seasoned with a mixture meant to give it its salt and acid, and I loved the idea–most chefs like a strong, balanced seasoning paste or mix, something we can use to finish a lot of dishes. I chose a Granny Smith apple, ginger and miso. I marinated my chicken in soy, mirin, and more ginger, poaching and resting it in the marinade, in the hope of getting a really distinctive ring of color on the outside. Finally the noodles: the broth was a dark-roasted chicken broth, long simmered for deep chicken soup flavor. I cut the skin and added it to the broth for a couple of hours.
Garnishes leave plenty of room for personalization. Ramen traditionalists can marinate soft-boiled–about 7 minutes for the ‘gram-prescribed, jammy center–in soy and mirin, and garnish with some softened wakame and togarashi. Chicken soup traditionalists could poach some carrots, celery and onions in the broth. Everyone can finish it off with oil from slow-roasted garlic, and a squeeze of lemon, and slurp away.
