Blink

Green garlic ( also know as spring garlic, wet garlic, or new garlic) has a very short season. Fleeting. The feathery stemmed stalks are only available at farmers' markets and farm stands from late spring into early summer, depending on varying climates. Blink and you might miss them, so grab a bunch while you can.


Harvested from short season garlic plants, the stalks are plucked from the ground before the bulbs have matured into the papery white bulbs we're accustomed to seeing. While they look like a cross between baby leeks and fat green onions, green garlic stalks have a mildly assertive garlic flavor. Thin-skinned and delicate, green garlic might be the most versatile vegetable found at the farmers' market this early in the season. They  can be used at any stage of their growth. With subtle garlic undertones, they can be eaten raw (like scallions)  or cooked.

Right now, green garlic seems to be the Belle of the ball at our farmers' market. The tightly bound bunches are stacked alongside green onions, baby fennel and spring greens.

Truth be told, I've never really understood or appreciated the nuances of green garlic. I've always purchased it and used it instead of mature garlic as a simple flavoring ingredient. That was my green garlic sphere. This year, I woke up. Inspired by the garlicky wonders of Blue Moon Farm, I bagged a few bunches of their gorgeous baby green garlic for a simple spring soup.

Green Garlic Soup.
Although the entire plant is edible, I did a little trimming. I peeled the outer layers from 10 tender stalks of the green garlic. After snipping the tentacled roots from the bulb ends, I sliced the white and pale green parts into rings before tossing them into a soup pot with 1/2 cup chopped onions and 6 quartered white-skinned new potatoes. I drizzled them olive oil and sauteed them over a medium flame for 5 minutes.  When the onions and garlic rings turned translucent, I added fresh thyme, salt, and pepper. Before the onions caramelized, I plopped 2 1/2 cups of my homemade brown chicken stock into the pot.

The moment the rich gelatinous stock hit the heat, it melted into a luscious shimmering wet puddle.  I brought the stock to a boil, reduced it to a simmer, covered the pot, and let it go for 45 minutes. When the potatoes were fork tender, I ladled the soup into a blender with 1 tablespoon of lemon zest and pureed it for a few minutes before pouring the soup back into the pot and warming it over a low flame. I was tempted to add cream. Nope. I kept it simple and pure. When tiny bubbles started to pop and spit, I pulled the soup off of the heat and tossed in a handful of baby market arugula.

After filling small pasta bowls with the silken soup, I garnished it with tiny toasted sourdough croutons, fresh red bell pepper slivers, fresh arugula, and subtle swirls of creme fraiche.

Tarted up with bits of crisp croutons, sweet peppers, and bitter arugula, the soup was surprisingly light. The blended flavors of the young garlic steeped in the deeply bodied stock tasted like an airy puree of garlic-roasted chicken.

Drinkable.

Stock Boy

Stocks can be either white (neutral) or brown. While they're both made with a combination of bones, vegetables, and seasonings, different methods  produce different results. Whether using veal, chicken, or beef bones, the more familiar white stock (proteins, mireproix, and seasonings simmered in water) should be clear with a high gelatin content. Brown stock changes it up a bit because the bones and mirepoix are roasted  before they're simmered in water. The caramelization adds a darker color and more intense flavor. Brown stock should have a rich color, body, and high gelatin content.

The stock mantra.
Bring it to a boil.
Reduce it to a simmer.
Skim the scum.
Don't stir.

We made a lot of stock in school. On any given day, huge steam kettles bubbled away with chicken, veal, and beef stock. As Basic Lab minions, we were the keepers of the stock. We had to roast, blanch, watch, simmer, skim, chill, and store all the stocks while juggling other tasks in the kitchen. Although it all seemed fairly straightforward and basic, I managed to utterly botch my first attempt at making brown chicken stock. I knew that I supposed to roast the chicken bones separately from the mirepoix, but I got caught up in the hectic pace of the kitchen and roasted them together.  Bad move.  By the time the bones were deeply browned, the vegetables were incinerated. Do over. It wasn't a good day. Lesson learned.

Nowadays, I love making stock. Whenever I have the time and the scraps stashed away, I'll throw together a batch. Last weekend, I had an entire day to putz around the kitchen and play stock boy.

The Stock Market.

Typically, my freezer would have been filled with bags of chicken parts. I buy them whole, cut them up, and toss the parts in the freezer. Nope. I had one chicken back and a few wing tips. Market tip. Elmwood Stock Farm sells organic chicken stock packs at the farmers market. Who knew?  Brilliant.  I made a quick early morning run to the market and picked up 4 pounds of bony chicken backs. Back in business.

Brown Chicken Stock.
The chicken backs were huge. Fleshy carcasses, really. Perfect for stock. After using a cleaver to hack the chicken backs into manageable pieces, I tumbled the bones into a  roasting pan and slid them into a 400 degree oven to roast for an hour.  While the chicken sizzled away , I chopped the mirepoix ( 3
unpeeled carrots, 2 large onions, and 3 celery stalks) into large pieces and set them aside.

When the chicken bones were deeply caramelized, I pulled them out and dropped them into a large stock pot. I poured the residual fat from the pan into a small bowl and deglazed the pan with 1 cup of water before ladling the fond-flavored water into the pot with the browned bones.

I tossed the vegetables with 1/4 cup of the reserved chicken fat, scattered them into the cleaned pan, and roasted them for an hour.  During the last 10 minutes, I slathered the vegetables with 4 tablespoon of tomato paste. When the tomato paste browned and the vegetables caramelized, I scooped them into the  pot with the chicken.

After filling the stock pot with 14 cups of cold water, I added 2 bay leaves, 5 peppercorns, 10 parsley stems, and a few sprigs of fresh thyme. I brought the stock to a boil, reduced it to a simmer, and let it rip for 4 1/2 hours, occasionally skimming the accumulated scum. Low maintenance.

8 hours for stock? Yep. Because  the simmering process extended well into our designated parlor wine hour, I let it go a wee bit longer.

I strained the stock through a cheesecloth-lined colander, cooled it completely  in an ice bath, and tossed it into the refrigerator to set.


After the stock chilled, I used a spoon to crack open and remove the thin layer of fat covering the top.

Jiggly.
Sexy.
Gelatinous.
Perfect.

Chasing Asparagus

I've been chasing down  fresh spring asparagus for weeks. Granted, I probably jumped the gun hoping that I might catch an early crop at the indoor market. Nope. Vendors hoped to have fresh asparagus for opening day of the outdoor farmers' market, but our late spring frosts nipped those dreams in the bud. Apparently, it's going to be a short asparagus season.

I got lucky. Over brunch cocktails, Michael and I  watched the farmers' market vendors break down their booths for the day. Before they packed everything away, I dashed over and snagged the last bundle of purple-tipped asparagus from Elmwood Stock Farm. They weren't the dainty perfectly uniform pencil-thin variety of asparagus. Rubber-banded, with a few nubby stragglers, they were rough looking. Hardy. Strong. The dirt covered spears looked as if they had survived, clipped from the soil to save them from the next frost. That's what I found beautiful about them. Thick. Dirty. Gnarled. Gorgeous.


I didn't want to get heavy handed and muck up the freshness of the asparagus, so I took a very simple approach with the first frost survivors of the season.

Very simple.

Most of the asparagus spears were snipped into short nubs, so I took that cue and sliced the tips on a severe bias into 2 1/2 inch batons. I julienned  a red bell pepper, slivered a medium sized shallot, and tossed them into a bowl with the asparagus tips. After liberally seasoning the vegetables with kosher salt and cracked black pepper, I drizzled them with  olive oil before scattering them into a heavy cast iron skillet. I tucked a few thinly sliced lemons into the asparagus spears and slid them into a 400 degree oven to roast for 12 minutes.

I pulled the asparagus tips from the oven, splashed them with fresh lemon juice
and served them straight from the hot skillet.

The achingly fresh asparagus tips were crisp, tender, and deceivingly delicate. While the caramelized shallots and softened red peppers added subtle sweetness, the lemons  provided balance with soft bright acidity.

Simple.
Fresh.
Fabulous.

Beat It

It's Derby week here in the Bluegrass.
Let the parties begin.

During the week leading up to the big race, it's all about bourbon and classic Kentucky fare. Steeped in tradition, platters of beaten biscuits filled with shaved country ham will appear at Derby parties alongside roasted beef tenderloins with Henry Bain's Sauce, bowls of burgoo, benedictine tea sandwiches, miniature Hot Browns, and versions of chocolate walnut pies. Kentucky Proud.

I've always had a thing for beaten biscuits this time of year. With their crisp chewy texture, beaten biscuits stuffed with country ham are perfect bite-sized party snacks. While they appear dainty and delicate, they're quite the opposite.  Unlike their familiar flaky soft-dough counterparts, beaten biscuits are more like crackers or hardtack. Classically southern, they originated in Virginia and made their way across the mountains to Kentucky before traveling north to Maryland. In New England, they're called sea biscuits because they were staples on whaling ships.

Originally, beaten biscuits were made without leavening agents. The dough was beaten vigorously  (for 45 minutes to an hour, about 500 whacks) to incorporate air and develop  glutens in the dough  for a subtle rise. Beaten, not stirred. Beaten, not kneaded.  Back in the day, axes, hoes, clubs, iron bars and hammers were used to beat the crap out of the dough.   Nowadays, the use rolling pins or mallets for the task eliminates the need for farm equipment.

Beaten Biscuits with Shaved Country Ham and Course-Grain Maple Bourbon Mustard.

Mustard.
I've been on a mustard-making kick lately. When I discovered how simple it was to prepare, I went a little crazy. With homemade mustard, the textures and flavor profiles are endless. Because it was Derby week, I hit the bourbon trail.

I tumbled 3/4 cups black mustard seeds and 1/4 cup yellow mustard seeds into a medium sized bowl. After dousing them with 3/4 cups Maker's Mark Bourbon and 1/2 cup water, I let the seeds steep for 2 hours. When the seeds softened, I added 1 tablespoon turmeric, 2 teaspoons paprika, 6 tablespoons dry yellow mustard, 1/3 cup pure maple syrup, 1/4 cup brown sugar, salt,  and 1/2 cup apple cider vinegar. I poured the mix into a heavy cast iron skillet, brought it to a boil, reduced it a simmer, and let it rip for 5 minutes. When the thickened mustard cooled down, I pureed  it with an immersion blender (leaving enough whole grains for texture) and slid it into the refrigerator to chill.  Booya. Mustard.

Biscuit Dough.
While beaten biscuits are a cinch to make, they're not for the faint of heart because the process is incredibly labor intensive. It's a messy business. Very messy. Trust me.

I broke with tradition by sifting 2 1/2 cups all purpose flour 1/2 teaspoon baking powder, and 1/2 teaspoon salt into the bowl of a food processor. After pulsing 1/4 cup chilled vegetable shortening into the flour, I added 1/2 cup cream and 1/3 cup water. I pulsed the mix until it formed a wet loose dough ball and dumped onto a well floured board. Using a floured rolling pin, I beat the hell out of the biscuit dough, folding it in after every 5 to 10 whacks. Although I lost count of the total whacks at around 280 beatings, the dough was smooth and blistered after 45 minutes. Beaten biscuit dough. Yep. A cinch.  Everything within 5 feet of my work surface was covered in flour dust. Everything, even our cat. It was hysterical.


I pulled the dough into a small ball, cleaned the kitchen, mopped the floor, dusted the ceiling fan, and took a long hot shower before chugging  several glasses of  a buttery chardonnay.

Refreshed, I revisited and embraced the beaten biscuit dough.

After rolling out the dough into a 1/3 inch sheet, I cut it into rounds with a small biscuit cutter, docked the rounds with a fork, and baked them in a 400 degree oven until the bottoms were slightly browned, about 20 minutes.

While they were still somewhat warm, I sliced the biscuits in half and filled them with shaved country ham. Paired  with  maple bourbon mustard and sprigs of Hoot Owl Holler Farm watercress, the humble biscuits were dressed for a party. Michael and I ate the entire platter with simple skillet fried eggs.

So, beat them or buy them?
Packages of fully cooked beaten biscuits are available at Critchfield Meats or any Taste Of Kentucky retail location.


I'm beating up another batch for Derby Day
after I sharpen my ax.

Pesto: A Midsummer Night's Dream

Inspired.

Michael's basil seedlings have poked through their sleepy peat pot cocoons and unfurled their delicate tender leaves. As they bend toward the morning sun, they inspire dreams of  midsummer caprese salads and  genovese  pestos. While we're weeks away from the sweltering dog days of summer and the height of basil season, a variety of vibrant pestos can be prepared from the gorgeous spring greens that dot the stands of our farmer's market.



Unexpected.

Market Days

Tulips, daffodils, horse racing, and strong mint julips are sure signs that spring has sprung here in Lexington.  For food lovers, locavores, or anyone who respects the  integrity of locally grown food, spring really begins when the farmers' market moves outside for opening day. After a long winter, the Lexington Farmers' Market ditched its indoor digs and set up shop this past weekend under the Pavilion in Cheapside Park. Although I hit the market early on opening day, it was bustling. Warmed by the sun beaming down through a brilliant cloudless sky, everyone embraced the serene energy and vibe that reverberated throughout the market. While people meandered around, a lone violinist quietly serenaded the morning crowd. Market Days. Let the games begin.

Without a plan, I hit the ground running.. Typically, pickings are slim on opening day. Not this year. Although I've grown accustomed to the usual early season out-of-state offerings, I was blown away by wonderfully fun local surprises. After eating my way through a wide variety of cheeses (chevre, beer, and cheddar),  I wandered up the side street of the market. Chilled by the dimmed shade of the old courthouse, I was quite taken with baskets of delicate micro greens, watercress, and pea shoots from Hoot Owl Holler Farm in Boyle County.  In all of my market days, I can't recall ever running across micro anything. Sold.

On my way to the car, I stopped by the Blue Moon Farm stand for a bite of garlic scape pesto. Why not? Cheese and pesto.  Breakfast of champions. My non plan changed completely when I spotted fresh feathery Bracken County shitake mushrooms nestled between tied bunches of young green garlic bulbs. Game on.

Chicken Marsala might seem a bit old fashioned and old school, but the combination of sauteed crisp chicken breasts, sweet fortified marsala wine, stock, white button mushrooms, onions, and garlic is downright delicious.

Chicken Marsala.
After using a damp kitchen towel to clean the shitake mushrooms, I snipped the tough stems from the caps, sliced the large mushrooms into thin strips, left the smaller ones whole, and set them aside.

I pounded two small boneless chicken breasts into very thin cutlets (1/4 inch thick). After seasoning the cutlets with salt and pepper, I melted 2 tablespoons of butter in a cast iron skillet over a medium flame.  When the butter sizzled, I dredged the chicken pieces through sifted flour and pan fried them until they were golden brown. I removed the chicken cutlets to a side plate, tented them, and let them rest.

While the skillet was still hot, I added two tablespoons of butter and a thinly sliced shallot. I sauteed the shallot threads until they wilted into the butter, tossed in minced garlic, cranked the heat to medium high, tumbled the mushrooms into the skillet, and let them rip undisturbed for 10 minutes. Just before the mushrooms started to caramelize, I showered them with kosher salt and fresh parsley. After the salt seared into the their soft flesh, I deglazed the pan with 1 cup of Lombardo Fine I.P. ambra sweet marsala wine, reduced it to a glaze, added 1/2 cup chicken stock, and slid the crisp chicken cutlets into the sauce to warm through.

After boiling 1/2 pound of linguini in heavily salted water until al dente, I twirled the pasta into large bowls, nestled the chicken cutlets on top of the pasta, and spooned the shitake mushroom marsala sauce over the chicken. To brighten the sleepy sauce, I finished with tender pea shoots lightly tossed in olive oil and fresh lemon juice.

The mushroom marsala wine reduction spilled over the crisp buttery chicken, bathing it in the aromatic sauce. Perfect. Savory and sweet. Classic marsala.

While the tender glazed chicken alone could have sealed the deal, it was all about the fresh shitake mushrooms. Instead of collapsing or melting away, the succulent meaty sponges absorbed the sultry sauce, plumped, remained robust, and popped with earthy marsala wine-infused mushroom jus.

Complex.
Intense.
Fabulous.

Pot Of Gold

You can't rush pot likker. It takes time to coax the porky, peppery, and vinegary flavor from a mess of greens simmered long and slow in a highly seasoned ham hock stock. It's worth the time when you finish with a huge pot of southern comfort. Sure, the  greens turn out great, but the likker is liquid gold.

We still have a couple of weeks before the perky spring vegetables  hit the stands at the farmers' market. Right now, we're in the 'between' time. The market cusp. I impatiently await the arrival of the pretty stuff. In the between time, I made do with a preseason spin on sleepy southern greens.

Ham Hock Stock.
The Base.
I probably made too much stock, but I wanted enough pot likker to soothe my soul. I sauteed two cups of diced onions in bacon fat.  When the onions caramelized in the salty fat, I added 2 minced garlic cloves, cracked black pepper, garlic powder, onion powder, red pepper flakes, sugar, and seasoned salt. Just before the garlic browned, I deglazed the pot with 3 cups chicken stock and 2 cups water. I tossed a large smoked ham hock into the bath, brought the stock to a boil, reduced it to a simmer, cover the pot, and let it simmer for an hour. In a moment of high falootin' weakness, I added a tiny pinch of saffron to the stock. I couldn't help myself. Sorry, Granny.


Greens.
While the stock simmered, I thoroughly washed 2 pounds of collard, mustard, and turnip greens. After chopping them into bite sized pieces,  I nudged the greens into the simmering stock and added 4 tablespoons
of apple cider vinegar.  When the greens wilted into the ham hock stock, I covered the pot and simmered the greens for a ridiculous 2 1/2 hours. Our house smelled like a roadside diner. Honest cooking. No pretense (sans the saffron).

Confession. While the greens simmered into oblivion, I repeatedly used a turkey baster to drink taste the stock. Suck. Cool. Squirt. Repeat. Elixir. Fabulous. To preserve my precious pot likker, I replaced my baster blasts with an additional 2 cups chicken stock.  After the first hour, I pulled the ham hock from the pot and shredded the tender meat before returning it to the simmering greens.

It's virtually impossible to mess up a mess of greens. They simply happen.

After a few hours on the stove top,  I  ladled the not-so-pretty murky greens and pot likker into large pasta bowls. We typically eat our greens topped with chopped hard boiled eggs and peppered vinegar. I changed it up a bit by slipping wedges of heavily buttered cornbread into the seasoned likker before scattering quick-pickled julienned carrots over the greens and nestling soft boiled eggs to the side.

Packed with contrasting textures and flavors, there was a lot going on for ordinary southern greens.
While the oozing egg yolks enriched the spiced stock, the  pickled carrots popped through the sleepy greens with crisp biting zing.  By the time the cornbread dissolved into the twangy mess, the greens were gone. Only the pot likker remained.

I tipped the enormous bowl to my mouth and drank every last drop.

Liquid gold.
Enough said.