Ham For The Holidays

There were two things you count on come Christmas in Port Oliver. Magnolia leaves would adorn our farmhouse and cured country ham would take center stage.

Tucked into a patch of woods on the family farm in western Kentucky, the house my father built from  scratch was gussied up with homespun flair at Christmastime. Teetering on the edge of overly quaint, it dripped with sentimentality. While the typical high end holiday frenzy was in full swing, the accompanying swag always suggested otherwise. Fresh magnolia leaves, snipped from a relative's ancient  towering tree, cascaded down wooden stairwell railings, windows, and mantels as if they had grown from the recycled wood my father fashioned them from. Without fail, airy delicate 12 foot cedar trees, cut from the farm and gently nudged  into a designated corner of the combined living area, were always draped in handcrafted wooden ornaments tied with ribbons, fresh cranberries, cherished delicate lace, and simple white lights. To my dismay, there wasn't was shred of glitz or glam. Even so, the simplicity captured me.

The week before Christmas was ham tending time. With our ham shed long gone, our cured Christmas hams were  handpicked and procured weeks in advance from various local folks who took the time to do such things. After the hams were soaked in several changes of water for days, simmered on a low flame for hours, wrapped in blankets to steam and cool down, the humble whole country hams were ready for their closeup. Year after year, when the Christmas ham hit the table served on my mother's fine bone china under the dim glow and flickering whisper of tree lights, I knew Christmas had arrived. In my book, there was no need for anything else. It was all about the ham.

Throughout the years, there were too many times I couldn't be home for Christmas. Even then, ham ( any kind of ham) punched my homecoming ticket.  My first Christmas living in New York as young naive adventurer, I had very humble resources. Hawking I Heart NY mugs in a suspect souvenir shop on a dank ally within spitting distance of Times Square, I didn't have the fare for the 16 hour train ride to Kentucky for Christmas. Holding fast to what I knew and loved, I clicked my heels. Sweltering in the tiny kitchen of my 3rd floor walk-up above a 24 hour laundromat in Hell's Kitchen on the West Side, I baked a canned ham studded with cloves, marachino cherries, and canned pineapple rings smothered with leftover Chinese take out sweet and sour sauce. Happy Holidays to me.

Nowadays, I go back and forth with various methods for preparing Christmas ham. While old school country ham takes my heart home for the holidays, I'm always game for a sticky glazed smoked ham.  It's about the Christmas spirit. As long as there's ham.

Pomegranate Citrus Glazed Bone-In Smoked Ham.
First of all, spiral cut hams are fabulous. While they're incredibly easy to prepare and serve, I like to have slicing options. There will always be leftovers. Always. Aside from using the bone for stock, soup beans, or greens, ham leftovers can run the gamut. It's always good to have a variety of cuts to play with. Thick cut, thin cut. diced, torn, or shredded, whole half hams deliver the option.

Ham it up.
I rarely, if ever, trim extra fat off of ham. Fat is flavor. Fat is fabulous. Working with a 10 pound shank portion of a bone-in smoked half ham, I scored the outer surface of the ham 1/4" deep in a 1" diagonal pattern.
After filling a large roasting pan with 1 cup water, 1/2 cup white wine, 3 bay leaves, 2 cloves whole peeled garlic cloves, fresh thyme sprigs, and a few cloves, I placed the ham cut side down into the roasting pan, covered the ham with aluminum foil, and slid it into a preheated 325 degree oven for 2 1/2  hours, about 16 minutes per pound.

Getting sticky.
I'm a sucker for a sweet sticky glaze. Ham begs for one. That said, pomegranate brings a perky tartness to the party that somehow tempers the typical cloyingly sweet temperament of a traditional ham glaze.

After reducing 2 cups pomegranate juice by half, I added 1 cup fresh squeezed mandarin orange juice, 1/4 cup fresh lemon juice, 1/4 cup light brown sugar, 1/4 cup granulated sugar, 1/3 cup Olberholzter's Sorghum, 1 teaspoon grated fresh ginger, salt, and black pepper. I brought the glaze to a boil, reduced it to simmer, and let it bubble away until it had the consistency of...well..glaze before pulling it from the heat and setting it aside.

Lipstick on a pig.
When the internal temp of the ham hit 145 degrees, I pulled it from the oven, removed the aluminum foil, brushed the ham with the pomegranate glaze, cranked the oven to 425, and slid the ham back into oven. Keeping a close eye, I brushed the ham with additional glaze every 15 minutes until it caramelized and laquered up.

After pulling the ham from the oven to rest for 20 minutes, I nestled it onto a bed of fresh magnolia  with sliced pomegranate, lemons, mandarin oranges, and persimmons.

Ham for the holidays.

Fry Me To The Moon

I learned a thing or two the year I misfired and overshot Thanksgiving.

My father was well into his months long battle with cancer when autumn gently rolled in and  brushed Port Oliver with blistering color. Breathtaking at every glance, autumn was always kind to the lakeside hamlet of Port Oliver. Not long after we welcomed the crisp chill and settled into the season, my father announced that we were hosting the entire family on his rural western Kentucky farm for what was to become his last Thanksgiving.  Driven by the empty isolation of caregiving, I was hell bent on shooing for the moon, cooking everything from scratch, and putting my spin on the traditional feast.  Over the course of a few gorgeous mid-November days, I brined and rubbed an enormous 18 pound fresh turkey, shucked a few dozen oysters, procured a fine brie for the creamed fresh pearl onions, compiled buckets of chopped mirepoix, dried various types of bread for stuffing, snapped fresh green beans, peeled pound of potatoes, made cranberry sauce, and poached more pears than anyone should ever poach.  Oh sure, it was a fine feast. The burnished turkey hit the table glistening from the midday sun piercing through naked windows left exposed by the absence of leaf covered trees.  The creamed onions floated in the sticky melted brie, moist dressing sported perfectly crisp edges, buttery whipped potatoes, laden with cream, were unexpectedly light, oysters Rockefeller (in lieu of scalloped oysters) teetered on rock salt, and poached pears filled with dollops of whole berry cranberry sauce sparkled like jewels. I outdid myself.

Coyly basking in the glow of  'nothing was a bit of trouble', I knew from the get go that I overshot the familiarity of Thanksgiving. I also realized that while it's ok  to buck tradition and tweak a few things, it's a whole other ball game to change everything. The biggest takeaway  from my Thanksgiving folly?  No doubt, the poached pears with cranberry sauce. Surprisingly fresh and somewhat familiar, the humble pears struck a happy balance that felt right at home. They still do.

Nowadays, I hold fast to simpler things. Thanksgiving sides (pick a side, any side) are deep rooted from family to family. We have to have what we want to have. And while most folks hold onto strong turkey traditions, I believe the turkey has wiggle room for fun variations.

Deep Fried Turkey With Whole Berry Cranberry-Pear Sauce

For years, I could never wrap my head around fried turkey. How can you make giblet gravy without the pan juices?  What about the sticky bits ( flavor bombs) stuck to the bottom of the roasting pan? Where do you stuff the stuffing? Most importantly (in my book), what becomes of the fatty gelatinous turkey butt that caramelizes in all the braising love? Why? How? What?

As it turns out, you can have it all.  The relative quick fry and hot oil seals the meat under shockingly crisp skin, locking in moisture and flavor without being a bit greasy.  Better yet, fried turkey frees up the ovens for the important stuff. You can have your moist turkey, scratch gravy (made from giblets and extra turkey parts), stuffing (dressing baked on the side), sides, crispy fried turkey butt, pumpkin pie, and eat it too. Everything is possible.

I traded my turkey baster for an injector, and threw caution to the wind.

Marinade.
Being mindful to remove the giblet package from the cavity, I rinsed and thoroughly dried a 10 1/2 pound fresh turkey. I combined 1 cup warm melted unsalted butter, 1 cup dry white wine, 1 cup honey, 2 tablespoons kosher salt, and 2 teaspoons ground white pepper. After whisking  everything together to blend the ingredients, I used a meat injector to carefully inject the marinade  (maneuvering the syringe to distribute it evenly) under the skin of each breast, thigh, and leg,  about 4 or 5 pokes per section.

Rub.
After mixing 2 tablespoons light brown sugar, 1 tablespoon Bourbon Barrel  Bourbon Smoked Paprika, 1 teaspoon ground dried sage, 1 teaspoon ground dried rosemary, 1 teaspoon ground white pepper, 1 teaspoon onion powder, 1 teaspoon ground dried thyme, and 1 teaspoon garlic powder, I rubbed the turkey under and over the skin before sliding it into the refrigerator to rest overnight.

Poach. 
I adore poached pears.Their simplicity belies their "it" factor.
I brought equal parts water and sugar (2 cups each for a basic simple syrup) to a rolling simmer before adding 1/2 white wine, 2 tablespoons lemon juice, and 1 tablespoon whole black peppercorns. After peeling 8 fresh pears, red and bosc for textural/flavor variation, I halved them without coring, and tumbled them into the simmering spiced simple syrup.When they were knife tender, I pulled them from the heat, let them cool completely in their bath, and used a small scoop to easily core out little pockets before sliding them into the refrigerator to chill.

Cranberry-Pear Sauce.
With bright sweet acidity, cranberry sauce is the reason for the season.

After bringing 4 cups fresh cranberries, 1 cup sugar, and 1 cup water to a boil, I reduced the heat and let it rip until the cranberries popped and melted into the sauce. When the sauce thickened, I pulled it from the heat before adding  1 tablespoon lemon zest, 2 tablespoons fresh lemon juice, and 1 1/2 cups of diced fresh peeled pears. Into the fridge to chill and set up.

Fry.
A deep fried turkey cooks fast. 3 1/2 minutes per pound. Set the table and set the timer.

Here's the deal. By nature, I'm a risk taker. Deep frying a turkey in molten hot oil over a flaming  gas burner remotely near our 130 year old wooden Victorian home was not an option. Nope. Not even close. While most folks seem to handle it just fine, I found a fantastic user friendly detour.

After filling an 11 quart indoor electric turkey fryer with 2 3/4 gallons (yes, gallons) peanut oil, I
cranked the heat to 375 degrees, closed the lid, and let the oil preheat. Knowing it would take about 45 minutes to an hour for the oil to come to the right temperature, I pulled the turkey from the refrigerator to take the chill off.

When the oil hit 375, I positioned the turkey, breast side up, in the frying basket, and very carefully lowered it into the shimmering hot oil. Once submerged and on full fry throttle, I released the basket, lowered the lid, set the timer for exactly 39 minutes, and poured myself a glass of wine.

At the 39 minute mark, I lifted the turkey from the oil, hooked it onto the side of the fryer, used an instant read thermometer to make sure the internal temp hit 165 degrees, and let it rest for 20 minutes before nestling the fried bird onto a bed of  greenery topped with aromatic fresh herbs and tucking the cranberry sauce poached pears to the side.

Fry me to the moon.

You Say Pumpkin, I Say Pasta.

As much as I adore summer and the abundant ripe produce, I am, at heart, a total sucker for autumn. Slowly, summer segues into fall without a big aha moment and everything changes. Crisp air, cool breezes, long cast shadows, and the sultry colors of fall  replace the wild vibrancy of summer. We all have our autumn triggers. Football. Horse racing. Pool closings. School openings. While we might resist the change, pumpkin spice seems to rush the process as we slowly adapt. The early onset of pumpkin spiced everything might be the pre-trigger to my trigger.  For me, the flood of sugar pumpkins (or pie pumpkins), winter squash, ornamental gourds, and late season produce at our local markets sets my autumn rhythm. Grow it and I will come. Pull me into the season.

While I'm a big fan of sweet pumpkin things (pie, cake, muffins, lattes, on and on and on), I  embrace the savory earthiness of pumpkin. Much like butternut squash, acorn squash, or any other variety, sugar pumpkins have no bounds when it comes to application.  Sweet or savory, the sky's the limit. Oh sure, I'm all over versions of maple brown sugar roasted winter squash, but at the end of the day, I'm on team savory. Salted. Roasted. Whipped. Stuffed. Mashed. I'm down with them all. More often than not, when winter squash hit the markets, I jump on the pasta bandwagon. The sexy silken texture and warm earthy undertones of pureed squash pairs perfectly with pasta. Typically, I fill ravioli, layer lasagna, or load jumbo par-cooked manicotti shells with winter squash purees.  Right now, on the cusp of change, it's pumpkin time. Seguing into fall after a stroll through a pumpkin patch, I turned things inside out with savory pumpkin flavored pasta.

Pumpkin Garganelli (Ribbed Penne Pasta) with Pumpkin Brown Butter and Fried Sage.

Puree.
Canned or fresh? While canned is fantastic and agreeably much more convenient, why not take a
little detour with fresh local pumpkin?

After scrubbing and rinsing 3 medium sized Casey County sugar pumpkins, I split them half, scooped out the seeds, placed them cut side down onto parchment paper-lined sheet pans, and slid them into a preheated 350 degree oven. When the skins were knife tender and the flesh softened (about 45 minutes), I pulled the pumpkin halves from the oven, scooped out the flesh, and blended it in batches for a smooth puree. To pull out any excess moisture from the puree, I spooned it into a large sauce pan set over a medium flame, let it reduce until it thickened, pulled it from the heat, and set it aside.

Pumpkin Pasta.
Garganelli.
Without a pasta extruder to form the short hollow shapes, scratch made tubular pasta can be tricky. Garganelli pasta is hand rolled on a garganelli board to form the ribbed tubes, leaving visible external seams that distinguishes it from extruded penne pasta.

Flour. Eggs. Olive oil. Salt.
Ratio ratio ratio.
Scratch made pasta needs to feel right.
After sifting 2 cups all purpose flour into a soft pillowy mound, I formed a well in the center before adding 2 large local eggs yolks, 1/4 teaspoon salt, 1/3 cup of the reserved pumpkin puree, and 1 tablespoon olive oil. Working from the outside in, I  pulled the flour into the well bit by bit, mixing it with the egg/puree combo until it formed a rough dough. I gathered the dough into a ball, kneaded it for 20 minutes until smooth, wrapped it in plastic wrap, and set it aside to rest.

After 45 minutes, I divided the dough into eights. Working with one piece at a time (keeping the remainder covered in plastic to prevent drying out), I rolled the dough through a pasta roller, narrowing the setting after each pass until I reached the second to last setting on the pasta machine. With the pasta rolled out into sheets, I trimmed them into workable lengths, floured them, stacked them onto each other, cut them into 2" squares, and set them aside to dry just a tad.

Without a garganelli board,  I simply could have rolled the pasta squares on a floured work surface for smooth garganelli. Scratch made penne for the win.

Rolling right along.
I placed each pasta square (pointed sides vertical) onto the ribbed garganelli board and, starting from the corner ends, rolled each piece around a small floured wooden dowel before sliding them off of the dowel onto a floured work board and setting them aside.
Roll. Press. Repeat.





Getting Saucy.
Not wanting the kill the delicate pasta in a heavy sauce, I took the brown butter-ish route.

I place a sauce pan over a medium high flame and carefully tumbled 8 tablespoons (1 stick) unsalted butter into the hot pan. When the butter started to sizzle, I tossed a handful of fresh sage into the butter, flashed fried it until crisp, scooped the sage onto paper towels to drain, and reduced the heat to medium.  There's a fine line between browned butter and burned butter. It goes fast. The moment  the butter turned toasty-brown, I carefully added 2 tablespoons  white balsamic vinegar, let the butter settle down, and whisked 1/4 cup pumpkin puree into the mix before pulling the sauce from the heat.

After bringing a large pot of water to a rolling boil, I hit it with salt and dropped the ribbed penne pumpkin pasta into the water. When the pasta floated to the top, I scooped them into the brown butter pumpkin sauce and  used 1/2 cup pasta water to loosen the sauce before finishing with flaked sea salt, curled cracked black pepper parmigiano-reggiano crisps and fried sage.

Insanely light, the loosey-goosey sauce swirled through the pasta, clinging to the soft ridges. While the whisper thin fried sage added delicate airy crunch, the white balsamic provided hints of acidity that poked through the sage-infused fat of the nutty brown butter and the subtle earthy undertones of the roasted pumpkin puree.


Fresh.
Fun.
Fabulous.

Get your pumpkin on.

Bourbon Balls

The weeks and days  leading up the annual Kentucky Bourbon Festival always fill me with nostalgia. Long before bourbon and food formed the perfect marriage, the Culinary Arts: Bourbon Style-Cooking School filled a fun niche for a lucky few of the thousands of people attending the annual two week festival held in September smack dab in the middle of National Bourbon Heritage Month.  Limited to 250 (give or take a few). it was one of the first events to sell out months before the festival welcomed the world to Bardstown, Ky to celebrate our beloved Bluegrass elixir. For consecutive years, I was fortunate enough to lead a team and take our little show a few miles down the road to set up, mise, cook, perform demos, and serve bourbon inspired 4 course dinners in a small event space tucked under century old magnolias and maples on the overly quaint grounds of My Old Kentucky Home State Park. Washing over our controlled chaos, haunting tower bells tolled the languid music of  "My Old Kentucky Home" throughout the serene grounds of the park. In the heat of the action,  those echoing bells calmed, energized, and grounded my sense of self as a simple hard cooking Kentucky boy. So, yes. As the Bourbon Festival nears, I grow  nostalgic for a sip of that serenity and the slow glorious burn of cooking with bourbon. Eat, drink, and be merry.

Great balls of bourbon! 

Not all bourbon balls are created equal. Oh sure, we all adore our iconic, potent, and  addictive chocolate delicacies laced with copious amounts of bourbon, but sometimes it's fun to think outside of the box and take a little ride on the wild side.

Blugrass Arancini. 
(Bourbon Meatball Fried Rice Balls)

Arancini, deep fried rice balls made with leftover risotto filled with cheese or meat, are an ingenious way to utilize leftover rice. And while a well made risotto is a creamy ethereal dream, any forthcoming arancini  captures the dream in another state with deep fried crunch. Enough said.

Risotto.
Risotto doesn't have to be a chore.  All it takes is a little organization, time, attention, and 20 minutes of patience. Have fun with it. Just about anything can be incorporated into risotto. To let the bourbon stand out, I steered clear of an all out classic saffron-infused Milaniase risotto and went straight up basic.

I warmed 5 cups chicken stock in a stock pot over a medium flame and parked it on a back burner to simmer on medium low.

After sauteing  1 minced shallot in 2 tablespoons butter and 2 tablespoons olive oil until the shallots turned translucent, I added salt, pepper, and 1 1/2 cups arborio rice, turning the rice in the oil/butter combo to coat all the grains. When the glistening rice turned opaque, I hit the pan with 1/2 cup white wine and let it reduce before adding 1 cup of the warm chicken stock. When the rice absorbed most of the first installment of stock, I added additional stock in 1/2 cup increments, allowing the rice to absorb the stock after each addition before adding another.  After about 20 minutes, the rice was perfectly al dente and creamy.

While the risotto was still steaming hot, I added 2 tablespoons butter and 1/2 cup Parmigiano-Reggiano cheese. After pulling the risotto from the heat, I whipped it like a mad man before pouring it into a buttered sheet pan and sliding it into the refrigerator to chill and set.

Bourbon Balls.
Instead of simply coating the meatballs with a fabulous bourbon glaze, I bourbonized them through and through.
Meat. Caramelized onions. Bourbon.

After heating 2 tablespoons neutral oil in a large saute pan over a medium flame until the oil started to shimmer, I tumbled  2 1/2 cups finely sliced Casey candy onions into the hot  pan, showered them with salt to release their juices, reduced the heat to medium low, and let the onions go low and slow for about 35 minutes. When the onions were on the brink of caramelizing, I pulled the saute pan off of the heat, added 1/2 cup Bulliet bourbon, returned the pan to heat, flamed the bourbon, allowed the flames to subside, and added  1/4 cup balsamic vinegar along with 1/3 cup brown sugar before reducing the heat  and letting the onions rip until they melted into sexy strands of sticky bourbon-spiked  onion candy.

After pulling the caramelized onions from the heat, I minced half of the onions (reserved the other half) and set them aside.

Where's the beef?
After feathering 1 pound Jerod's grass fed ground beef into a large mixing bowl, I added 1/2 cup of the minced bourbon onions, 1/2 cup Parmigiano-Reggiano, 1 egg yolk, a splash of fresh bourbon, 1 minced garlic clove, salt, and cracked black pepper. Being mindful not to over mix the meat, I gently combined the ingredients, rolled the mixture into 3/4" meatballs, and placed them onto a greased sheet pan before sliding them into a preheated 350 oven. When the boozy balls were cooked through (about 15 minutes), I pulled them from the oven and set them aside to cool.

Wrap it up.
When the bourbon balls were cool enough to handle, I pulled the chilled risotto from the fridge, flattened about 3 tablespoons of risotto in the palm of my hand to about 1/4" thickness, wrapped the bourbon balls in a layer of risotto, sealed the balls within the risotto, rolled them until smooth, and set
them aside.

Flour. Egg wash. Crumb.
Dry hand. Wet Hand.
Fry.

After dredging the arancini in seasoned flour, I dipped them egg wash, rolled them through herb-flecked fresh breadcrumbs, and carefully dropped them into a preheated 360 degree deep fryer.
When they turned golden brown, I pulled them from the oil to drain on paper towels.

While still warm, I tumbled the crispy bourbon balls onto fresh basil leaves nestled over the reserved caramelized onions and  pierced them with bamboo basil picks before finishing with flaked sea salt,  and quick-pickled Stonehedge hot chilies.

Raise a glass!
And have a ball.

Corn Days

Summer hits full throttle when the corn trucks back into our local markets and dot the sides of our county roads. Spilling from truck beds with reckless abandon, the fresh picked ears embody the essence of summer. Gather and shuck. For some folks, shucking corn is a mundane chore. Not this guy. Shucking corn, layer by layer until the wispy silks fly into the air like delicate gossamer threads,  gets me every time. It never gets old. Silver Queen. Ambrosia. Peaches and Cream. Bi-Colored. Any Variety. Any time. All the time. When the first waves of corn start rolling in, the first few dozen might best be eaten straight from the cob slathered in butter and dusted with salt.
After that, anything goes.

Chipotle -Tomato Jam Glazed Shrimp and Chorizo with Mexican Street Corn Salad

Full throttle.

Jamming.
Whether it's for work or for play, I make a lot of tomato jam. It takes a little time, but it's very forgiving and the payoff is huge. Here's deal with the tomato jam.  Even with hints of warm spice, fresh ginger, garlic, vinegar, and sugar lending complex tangy sweetness, the not-too-sweet long simmered jam still packs a big fresh tomato punch. Almost any tomato variety works for jam. During tomato season, I usually gather the culls and the uglies. If those aren't available, I shoot for the heirlooms. No seeding or peeling necessary. The peels add body and texture to the jam.

After coring 4 pounds of very ripe Mercer County heirloom tomatoes, I diced them into 1" pieces and tossed them into a large stock pot, adding the residual seeds and juice. After cranking the heat to medium high, I added 1 cup light brown sugar, 1 cup white sugar, 1/4 cup lemon juice, 1/4 cup balsamic vinegar, 1 heaping tablespoon freshly grated ginger, 1 teaspoons cinnamon, 1/4 teaspoon ground clove, 1/4 teaspoon allspice, salt, and cracked black pepper. When the tomatoes started to bubble and spit, I reduced the heat to a simmer and let the jam rip for 2 1/2 hours, stirring occasionally and adding a splash of water if it appeared too dry. When it reduced to the  sticky consistency of jam, I finished with 2 tablespoons reduced balsamic to boost the sweet tang and a generous dusting of salt to level the playing field.  When the jam was cool enough to handle, I spooned it into a 1 quart mason jar and slid it into the fridge to chill.

Chipotle-Tomato Jam Glaze.
Kicking it up.
After warming 1 1/2  cups of the reserved tomato jam over a low flame, I added 1 minced chipotle
pepper in adobo sauce  along with 1 tablespoon of the smoky sauce. When the chipotle pepper melted into the jam, I pulled it from heat and set it aside.

Skewering.
Surf 'n' Turf on sticks.
After peeling and deveining 1 pound 16/20 count large shrimp, I nestled 3/4" thick half moon slices of smoked Spanish chorizo into the curved nooks of the shrimp, skewered them with pre-soaked wooden bamboo skewers, wrapped the skewers with blanched Marion County green onions, brushed the shrimp with the chipotle tomato jam, and set them aside to marinate.

Shucking.
Leaving the husks intact for easy handling,  I peeled back  the husks, layer by layer, from 5 large Benton Farm Ambrosia corn cobs, pulled the feathery silks away, and tossed the ears (along with 2 halved limes) onto an oiled hot grill until they started to blister (about 4 minutes per turn). Just before the corn popped, I pulled the ears from the grill and carefully sliced the kernels from the cobs.




Esquites
Mexican Street Corn Salad.
Packed with the same ingredients as Elotes, grilled Mexican street corn on the cob, Esquites is the somewhat less messy daintier version. Forget the corn facial.

After mixing the warm cut off corn kernels with 2 tablespoons fresh squeezed grilled lime juice, I added 1 1/2 tablespoons mayo, 1 1/2 tablespoons Mexican crema, 1/3 cup Cojita cheese, 4 sliced green onions, 3 tablespoons minced fresh cilantro, 8 halved Pulaski County Sun Gold cherry tomatoes. 2 teaspoons ancho chili powder, salt, and cracked black pepper.

With the salad on deck, I slid the shrimp/chorizo skewers onto the grill and turned them from time to time, brushing them with additional chipotle tomato jam after each turn, until the shrimp cooked through, about 4 minutes per side. When the shrimp caramelized from the smoky heat,  I pulled skewers  from the grill, and nestled them over the esquites.

After splashing the shrimp and chorizo skewers with grilled fresh lime juice, I finished with a sprinkling of salt, a dusting of chili powder, fresh cilantro, scallion spears, extra grilled limes, and halved Pulaski County perky red cherry tomatoes.


Corn Daze.

Full throttle.

Get your summer on.

Eat Your Vegetables

Come summer, I long for the smell of my grandmother's  floral cotton dresses. Almost threadbare from wear, they smelled of powder, lavender, love, and hard work. Draped across her belly with miss-matched aprons adorned with large patchwork pockets,  those faded cotton dresses were the summer uniforms she donned to take care of the homestead and tend to the garden. Just steps from the back door and enclosed with barbed wire fencing covered in grape vines to keep the cattle at bay, the garden always needed tending. Apple trees edged the garden like watchtowers , providing shade from the sun and respite from the heat. It was my secret garden. Her secret garden. Lush. Private. Safe.

Although every summer day seemed like high season on the farm, midsummer upped the garden ante. Warm sun-kissed tomatoes hung heavy form their vines or fell to the ground begging to be gathered, sliced, salted, and eaten. Greens beans always needed snapping. Carrots and onions had to be pulled. All the while, endless meandering vines of summer squash and cucumbers twisted their way through everything. Gardening. Country work. Hard work. Armed with her curious aprons (the tools of her trade), my grandmother methodically worked the rows of the garden, filling her pockets with whatever was ripe for the picking. When she wasn't gathering, she was cooking. No the matter the hits and misses along the way, she plodded on and cooked with crazed abandon. Her fried green tomatoes and  marinated cucumbers  were the stuff of dreams. When the corn rolled in,  her fresh pan fried corn could make farm hands weep.  That said, there were times when she drowned boiled carrots in off brand margarine, obliterated summer squash before smothering them in black pepper, and hammered green beans until they became one with her bacon grease. Either too young to care or too naive to know better, I loved every single bite. Like a good farm boy, I ate my vegetables. I adored my vegetables. I still do. And while I don't much obliterate or boil them to death these days, I still enjoy a bit of heat and char.


Pan Roasted Chili Glazed  Carrots And Radishes.

Heat.
Not my grandmother's heavy handed back pepper.
After blooming 1 tablespoon smoked paprika in 2 tablespoons unsalted butter over a medium flame, I added 3/4 cup Cracklin' Hen hot pepper sauce, 1/4 cup local honey, and 2 tablespoons brown sugar. When the honey melted into the sweetened buttery hot sauce, I pulled it from the heat and set it aside.

The roots of the matter. 
What grows together goes together.
Even banged up with dirt and soil, French breakfast radishes are stunners. When bunched together, they explode from their feathery greens to steal the show. I'm a sucker for showstoppers. Tossed in salads or swiped through butter with a dab of salt, raw radishes bring peppery spice to the party.When cooked, they transform into sweet translucent jewels with surprisingly mild turnip-like undertones.
Game on.

I simply snipped the greens off a hearty large bunch of Stonehedge Farm French radishes, gave them a quick wash, and set them aside.

Bunched up as stubs or bundled up as slender beauties, locally gown tender sweet carrots have no comparison. Beauty plays second fiddle to taste. Without much fuss, I sliced the carrot tops from 1 pound Stonehedge pencil thin carrots. Leaving the fragile skins intact, I gently rinsed the unpeeled carrots, and set them aside.

My grandmother knew her way around a cast iron skillet. Most farm folks did and still do. Count me in. These days, they might seem old fashioned in the age of sous vide and high performance cookware, but they've endured for a reason. They're workhorses. For the lucky few, our hand-me- down cast iron  skillets are tangible tactile legacies seasoned with time and love.

After sliding a large cast iron skillet over a medium high flame, I add 2 tablespoons bacon grease (from my stash) and 1 tablespoon butter. Just before the butter took on color, I tumbled the carrots and radishes (reserving a few radishes) into the pan and let them rip, undisturbed, for about 5 minutes. When they started to caramelize just a bit, I turned the vegetables over, shook the skillet to settle them down into the oil, and let them go for another 5 minutes before adding 1/4 cup of the chili sauce.  After cranking the heat to medium high, I let the chili sauce reduce until the carrots and radishes were draped in a light spicy sweet glaze.

I pulled the skillet from the heat, splashed the vegetables with fresh lemon juice, and  hit them with kosher salt before finishing with Mercer County micro greens, Elmwood pea shoots,  and the reserved fresh radishes.

Painted with blistered spice, the earthy sweetness of the tender carrots and cooked radishes tempered the muted fire of the brick colored glaze. While the greens added pokes of freshness, the perky raw radishes provided bright peppery crunch.
Fabulous.

I  have one of my grandmother's tattered aprons.
And I store bacon fat in the fridge.

And like a good urban farm boy,
I eat my vegetables.

Hot Potato

Sliding into summer, the warmer weather teases, tugs, and pulls us outside for backyard barbecues and outdoor cookouts. We make big plans,  hit our farmers markets for local produce, and  dream of the beautifully smoked meats, caramelized char, and aromatic smoke poofs that signal summer has arrived. Lost in the wafts of scented smoke, the thrill of the grill is real. Even then, it's good to know  that grill fests don't always have to be about the big guns.  Almost anything can be slapped over burning coals or fire. Local fruits, vegetables, and the all important sides sing when kissed with hints of smoke and char.

Sides Matter.

I'm a potato salad junkie. I have a pinky-swear relationship with any and all kinds of potato salads. Mustard based. Mayo based. Egged. Baconed. Mashed. Cubed. Chunked.  Hot. Warm. Cold. Been there, love them all. While I'm a total sucker for southern creamy potato salads, my German heritage inherently sparks my  fondness for German versions,  served warmish enveloped with a bacony sweet/tart dressing. Creamy, tangy, tart, or sweet, I'm an easy to please bi-coastal, tri-coastal, intercontinental potato salad loving  Kentucky boy.

Grilled Potato Salad With A Fresh Herb Vinaigrette.
A simple salad meets the thrill of the grill.

Dressed.
Taking advantage of the abundance of fresh herbs, I went full throttle with an herb forward vinaigrette.

After whisking together 12 tablespoons extra virgin olive oil, 1/2 cup apple cider vinegar, 2 tablespoons Wallace Station Bourbon Mustard, and 1 tablespoon Oberholtser's Sorghum, I added  2 cloves minced garlic, 1 minced Casey County baby leek (white part only, about 3"), 2 tablespoons snipped fresh garden chives, 1 tablespoon diced Fresno chili pepper, 2 tablespoons minced fresh parsley, 2 tablespoons minced fresh dill, and 2 tablespoons capers. Using a wooden spoon, I gently folded the herbs into the vinaigrette and set it aside.


Fire.
With a little prep, potatoes are fabulous on the grill.
I  halved 2 pounds baby new potatoes and tumbled them into a large pot of heavily salted cold water

before  bringing the water to a gentle simmer and letting the potatoes rip until they were knife tender without falling apart, about 6 minutes. After scooping them out onto a clean dish towel to drain, I patted them dry, and let them hang out to quasi dry.

When the potatoes were cool enough to handle, I drizzled them with olive oil, dusted them with salt, and placed the potatoes cut side down on an oiled grill over hot coals (alongside a few baby leek remnants) for 6 to 7 minutes until they cooked through and developed a slight char.

After pulling the hot potatoes from the grill, I tossed them with  fresh dill fronds, Casey County baby swiss chard leaves, and the reserved vinaigrette. When the chard wilted from the residual heat of the potatoes, I finished with flaked sea salt , cracked black Tellicherry pepper, and tiny sliced shards of  chard stems.

Creamy on the inside with a smoky grilled crust, the warm potatoes absorbed the bright grassy punch of the herb vinaigrette. While the wilted greens and dill fronds added delicate contrast to the briny capers and hints of peppery heat, the chard shards provided pops of wet crunch.

Hot Potatoes.

Simple.
Fresh.
Fabulous.


.

Sip

My mother's delicate bone china  has  logged quite a few miles over the years. Purchased in Stuttgart after marrying my father and moving to Germany in the ‘50’s,  her precious china filled our ultra modern  Danish teak buffet. Neatly stacked in the sleek buffet, entree plates, dessert plates, bread plates, finger bowls, serving bowls, serving platters, crystal glassware, teacups, coffee cups, and individual salt and pepper shakers rounded out the complete service for 12. Shortly after I was born, our stint in Stuttgart ended and we were on the move, china in tow. Over a 60 year stretch, the china crossed oceans and continents several times, following my family from Germany to Washington D.C. , Austria , Africa, and back to Virginia before landing in my father's farm house in western Kentucky. Sometime between moves, my mother passed away. She simply vanished from my life.  I was told years later that I was too young to fully understand. They didn’t tell me. That's how families rolled back in the day. I wasn't sad. Didn't  miss her absence. You can't miss what you don't remember losing. I guess I just went with the flow  as we moved on. And we were always on the move. Without much thought,  I went from waiting for the ice cream truck on a curb in suburban D.C. to staring out the window of a cold apartment on a busy Vienna strasse. Normal life. Army life. Not skipping a beat, we simply kept going and going like nothing had ever happened.

To ease his load and maybe some guilt, my father secured nannies and housekeepers to fill what he thought was my missing void. Despite navigating a few cultural and language barriers, I held fast to my German, Czech, Swedish, and African caretakers. They were all that I had to love. They formed me. Loved me. Molded me. Still, as much as I counted on them, they changed as often as our addresses,  vanishing as my family moved on.  As an innocent Buster Brown-clad kid, I grew  accustomed to constant change and frequent good-byes. Even then, one thing never changed. Throughout all the moves and rotating surrogate stand-ins, my mother's china was a constant. Pieces of her were always present. Delicate. Pristine. Familiar. An unknown connection.

Years later, when my father passed away, her china made one last journey to our home here in Lexington. Although a bit too matchy-matchy and over the top for most folks, Michael and I adore it.  And while all the previous caretakers of the china only pulled it out for special occasions, we drag it out and manhandle it all the time. It's too precious to be precious. Stacked and arranged in what is now considered  a noteworthy mid-century modern Danish teak buffet, the well traveled china endures. Although dinged up somewhat from years of use and bumpy journeys, her delicate whisper-thin china mysteriously haunts me, reassures me, and comforts me. A tangible lost memory I can touch.

Mothers are the storytellers and keepers of our secrets.
My mother's china is my story.

Teacup Carrot Soup With Chilled Crab
A simple soup.

After peeling and chopping 2 pounds of carrots, I diced 1 medium sweet onion, minced 5 Bath County spring green garlic bulbs, and set them aside.

After heating 2 tablespoons olive oil in a larger dutch oven over a medium high flame, I tumbled the carrots, onions, and garlic into the sizzling hot oil before adding salt, ground white pepper, and 1 tablespoon grated fresh ginger. When the carrots and onions softened (without taking on color), I added 2 cups water, 3 cups chicken stock, and 2 fresh bay leaves. I brought the soup to a boil, reduced it to a simmer, covered the pot, and let it rip for 45 minutes.



Gilding the lily.
While I'm a sucker for crunchy deep fried or baked croutons as soup toppers, I took a softer route.

I carefully separated and flaked 4 ounces chilled crab claw meat before gently tossing it with lemon
zest, fresh lemon juice, olive oil, snipped chives, slivered red bell pepper, a pinch of salt, and a dusting of ground white pepper. After a quick taste to adjust the seasoning, I slid the crab into the refrigerator to chill.

The silk road.
When the carrots were knife tender, I removed the bay leaves, transferred the soup to a blender,  pureed the soup in batches until it was silky smooth, and let it cool just a tad  before tumbling the chilled crab salad into the vibrant puree and finishing flaked sea salt, a drizzle of olive oil, and Elmwood Stock Farm spicy micro greens.

Clean and fresh, hints of ginger and spring garlic poked through the inherent earthy sweetness of the carrots, giving the simple puree a subtle spicy warmth and depth of flavor. While the delicate flaked crab brought understated briny lux to the party, the punchy lemon, slivered peppers, and micro greens provided acidic fresh crunch.

Pureed carrot soup.
Chilled crab.
Precious worn china.

Hold fast to the storytellers.

Tomato-Land

Grow them and I will come.

As we leave winter behind and slowly segue into spring, I dream of tomato-land. With my token seedlings planted and tucked away, I dream of  the endless sea of sun-kissed heirlooms that will flood our markets during midsummer's high season. Even now, knowing they're still months and months away, I close my eyes and can taste the warm sweet acidity  that only just picked vine-ripened summer tomatoes can bring to the table.



Last season was spectacular. Almost like no other. Almost overkill. Almost. Before I sensed my crazy, I'd already morphed into an obsessed tomato addict. Peeled. Unpeeled. Sliced. Chunked. Salted. Marinated. Roasted. Broiled. Sandwiched. Any way and every way possible to get my fix. I almost maxed out when popping tiny sweet sun golds like candy replaced gummies as my go to snack. I was in it to win it from the very first moment tomatoes arrived.

Because of the rains and weather, tomatoes were prolific. They kept coming and coming and coming. By late summer into early fall, the jewels of summer started to wane. Fewer in number with lesser intensity (but no less gorgeous), the late season tomatoes played second fiddle to the stalwarts of autumn. Even then, I wasn't quite ready to let them go. I needed to preserve the bounty.

I

Never much of a canning pro, I gave up it a while back. Even though I watched and helped my grandmother put up hundreds of jars of canned tomato during my summers on the farm, I found that through years of trial and error I lacked the stamina, fortitude, and dimly lit cobweb-swathed cellar to live out her legacy. Canning simply didn't work out for for me and in lieu of the homespun sentimentality of mason jars, I turned to the freezer.




All Varieties. All sizes. All shapes.
A mishmash of late season tomatoes.
Sliced. Salted. Peppered. Herbed. Roasted. Bagged.
Frozen.







To capture a hint of summer and thwart the early spring chill, I pulled my stash from the freezer for an ode to tomato-land.

Braised Fennel With Roasted Tomatoes.
A simple braise.

After pulling my frozen roasted tomatoes from the freezer to thaw, I trimmed the stalks from 2 large fennel bulbs (fronds reserved) before quartering and coring the bulbs while being mindful to leave the root ends intact. After heating 2 tablespoon vegetable oil in a medium sized skillet until smoking hot, I sauteed the fennel quarters on all sides, seasoning them with salt and pepper after every turn. Just a hair before the fennel started to caramelize, I removed it to a side plate and tumbled 3 thinly sliced garlic cloves and 1 thinly sliced purple onion into the sizzling oil. When the garlic teetered on the brink of browning, I deglazed the skillet with 1 cup white wine, reduced it by half, and added 3 cups roasted tomatoes.



I brought the tomatoes to a gentle simmer, tossed a few fennel seeds into the mix to up the anise factor, and seasoned them with salt and cracked black pepper before nestling the reserve sauteed fennel quarters into the sauce. After raising the heat for a brisk simmer, I pulled the skillet from the heat and slid it into a preheated 350 oven.

Without fussing with the fennel, I let the quarters stew in the bubbling tomatoes for roughly 1 hour until they softened, caramelized around the edges, and melted into the sauce.

With the kitchen windows fogged over with the sweet scent of candied fennel, I pulled the braise from the oven and let it rest before finishing with a splash of fresh lemon juice, crunchy flaked sea salt, crumbled feta, and the reserved feathery fennel fronds.

Dolled up with the perky tang of  feta, the slight acidity of lemon, and the mellow sultry braised fennel, the roasted summer tomatoes poked through the glam to blow a wistful kiss to tomato-land.

Coddled

Chasing shamrocks.

From the misty green fields of Ireland to the windswept bluegrass of Kentucky, we're all a wee bit Irish on St. Patrick's Day. Carpe deum. When Lexington rolls out the green carpet to celebrate the patron saint of Ireland, there's something Irish for just about everyone in every restaurant, on every corner, and in every bar throughout town.  Green beer, Guinness Stout, and Irish whiskey flows freely from indoor, outdoor, and curbside bars. Whether strictly authentic or riffs on authenticity, Irish fare stands front and center. Variations of Shepherd's Pie, Colcannon, Lamb Stew, Corned Beef and Cabbage, Irish Stew, Boxty, and Guinness-infused anything are plentiful.  Fancy a parade?  Grab a drink and stake claim to a curb on Main Street to soak in the familiar sound of bagpipes echoing  through the downtown buildings to usher in the throngs of Irish dancers, horses, cars, and clowns happily meandering down Main Street. Go ahead, raise a glass, kiss the Blarney Stone, or forage for clovers. Eat, drink, and be merry. When the frivolity wanes, the festivities ebb, the parade passes by, and it's time to retreat, cuddle up with a comforting bowl of  Dublin Coddle.

Dublin coddle, in its purist form, is a humble Irish stew containing only chopped potatoes, sliced onions, Irish pork sausages, bacon (rashers) and parsley layered in a pot with enough stock or water to cover and left to simmer (coddle) low and slow for 2 to 4 hours. Variations (considered sacrilege  by some folks) might include carrots, parsnips, or pearl barley. Staying true to the spirit of a traditional Dublin Coddle, I brought the  Emerald Isle to the bluegrass with the local flavors of Kentucky.

Dublin Coddle.

Porked.
After drizzling 1/4 cup vegetable oil into the bottom of a cast iron dutch oven set over medium heat, I fried 1/2 pound sliced Foothills Meats fresh bacon for 5-6 minutes until crisped before scooping the pieces out onto paper towels to drain. While the oil was still sizzling hot, I placed 1 1/2 pounds Stonecross Farm pork sausages into the pot and let them rip, turning occasionally, until they were deeply caramelized on all sides.

After removing the sausages to drain, I tumbled 10 peeled whole shallots into the steaming pork fat. When the shallots softened and started to brown, I added 4 whole (peeled and smashed) garlic cloves along with  2 sliced leeks. Just before the leeks took on color, I deglazed the pot with 3/4 cup Kentucky Ale Bourbon Barrel Stout and let it reduce by half before pulling it from the heat.


Layered.
Off the heat, I scattered 5 sliced carrots over the shallots followed by a layer of chopped yukon gold potatoes, chopped Casey County white sweet potatoes, salt, pepper, and minced fresh parsley. After nestling the sausages into the potatoes, I showered them with additional parsley and topped everything off with overlapping 1/2" thick sliced potatoes.

After adding enough chicken stock to cover the sausages, (about 2 1/2 cups), I brought the stock to a boil, reduced it to a simmer, covered the pot, and slid it into a low preheated 325 degree oven to coddle in its juices for 2 1/2 hours.

I pulled the stew from the oven and brushed the top layer of potatoes with melted unsalted butter. After spooning the tender pork sausages and softened sweet vegetables over seasoned plumped pearl barley, I finished with the unctuous drinkable broth, Celtic grey
sea salt, cracked black pepper, and fresh parsley.



Rustic.
Simple.
Warming.

Coddled.

Butter Bomb

If making fresh pasta is a labor of love, consider scratch made angel hair pasta  a full on love fest. When fresh, the feathery dough strands slip through your fingers like soft satiny ribbons. When kissed with heat, the ribbons morph into gossamer wisps of  edible air.

 Like any fresh pasta, angel hair dough needs pampering. Its all in the feel. Too dry, add a splash of water. Too wet, hit it with  flour. Kneading, like a great massage, should be a rough and gentle tumble. Kneading is the backbone of any good pasta. It takes time. You know you've hit the mark when it's firm, yet pliable. While it's a wee bit of a commitment,  making fresh is pasta is so worth the effort and clouds of flour dust. Sure, there are fantastic store-bought pastas out there, but scratch made pasta ups the wow factor and begs to be in everyone's wheelhouse. Whether it's whipped up for a weeknight affair or dolled up for a special tryst, gather a few simple ingredients and feel the dough.

Angel Hair Pasta With Pan Seared Shrimp And Lemon Beurre Blanc.

Pasta.
Although a food processor or stand mixer (with dough hook)  can expedite the process,
hand mixed dough lets you get down and dirty.

Mix.
After sifting 2 cups 00 flour  onto a floured board, I made a well in the center of the flour and cracked 3 large eggs into the well before drizzling the eggs with 1 tablespoon olive oil and a dash of salt. I broke the eggs with a fork, gently mixed them together, and carefully incorporated the flour from the wall into eggs bit by bit until the flour and eggs formed a shaggy loose dough. After gathering the dough into a ragged ball, I kneading it for 15-20 minutes, constantly turning and flipping the dough until the the flour was completely absorbed and was smooth to the touch without being tacky. I formed the dough into a ball, wrapped it in plastic wrap, and set it aside to rest.



Roll.
When the dough was thoroughly relaxed, about 20 minutes, I used a bench scraper to divide the dough into thirds. Working with one third at a time, while keeping the remaining dough covered, I flattened the dough into a rough rectangle and rolled it through the lowest setting of a pasta roller. After folding two sides of the dough into the center, I rolled the dough through the lowest setting 2 additional times before passing the dough through each setting (from lowest to highest), changing the setting after every pass and flouring the pasta between passes until I reached the last (thinnest) setting of the pasta roller. I floured the delicate sheets of pasta on both sides, cut them into workable lengths, placed them onto floured parchment paper, and repeated the process with the remaining dough.




Cut.
The fun part.
Feeding the pasta sheets through the cutter side of the roller, I used one hand to crank the pasta  and my other hand to catch the strands as they fell from the cutter before flouring them and curling them into nests.





Beurre Blanc.
White Butter Sauce.
Beurre blanc is a glorious and simple emulsified sauce similar to hollandaise or bearnaise (minus the eggs and anxiety). Infused with shallots (with the occasional addition of fresh herbs)  and fortified with acid before being slowly emulsified with cold butter, beurre blanc should be thrown up there with the mother sauces. Great with fish, chicken, or vegetables, its versatility rivals its simplicity.

Embrace the butter.
I sliced 3 sticks of butter (yes 3) into 8 pieces and slid them into the refrigerator to chill.

After tumbling 2 tablespoons minced shallots into a sauce pan, I added 1/4 cup fresh lemon juice, 1/4 cup dry white wine, and lemon zest. I brought the mix to a low boil and let it reduce to a syrupy consistency, about 2 tablespoons.

The heat dance.
Again, much like a hollandaise or bearnaise, beurre blanc needs gentle regulated heat. Working over a medium flame, I added 2 pieces of butter to the concentrated lemon/wine combo. Whisking constantly, I slowly added the remaining butter 2 tablespoons at a time until the butter emulsified with the acid and thickened into a creamy butter sauce. Magic. After straining the sauce through a chinois, I added a salt and white pepper to taste, slipped the sauce onto a double boiler over a low flame to hold, poured myself a glass of wine, and moved on.

I dropped the fresh pasta into a pot of heavily salted boiling water for 2 minutes, scooped it into a bowl, tossed it with 1/4 fresh grated parmigiano reggiano, and twirled the pasta into buttered 6 ounce ramekins before sliding them into a preheated 350 degree oven for 4 minutes to  set the pasta.

Sear
After tossing 1 pound peeled and deviened  16-20 count shrimp with olive oil, salt, and pepper. I
dropped the shrimp onto a screaming hot grill pan, let them rip until they just turned pink, about 2 minutes per side.

I nestled the pan seared shrimp into the pasta nests, tucked ribbons of black pepper-flecked coppa ham alongside the shrimp, and slipped the nests onto pools of beurre blanc before napping the shrimp with additional sauce and finishing with red lumpfish roe, slivered fresno pepper, fresh lemon, and micro greens.

Cupped inside the nests, the plump firm shrimp played off the delicate threads of angel hair pasta.Light, bright, and airy, the beurre blanc belied the copious amount of butter. Draped over the shrimp and through the pasta, the lemon-spiked butter sauce brought acid to the party. While the coppa added a hint of silky pig, the  roe provided pops of salty crunch.

Shrimp and pasta.
Buttered up.

Fabulous.

Deer Crossing

I was never much of a hunter. Even growing up on a farm in rural western Kentucky surrounded by a family of hunters, I was odd man out. Oh sure, I had frog gigging and trout fishing down pat, but wielding a shotgun to shoot things simply wasn't my cup of tea. The closest I came to bagging a deer was from the passenger seat of an old Volkswagon involved in an unfortunate late night incident with a darting deer. Hardly a feat to hang a hat on. Hunting, in general,  was a big deal for my hometown folks. While there seemed to be a hunting season for just about everything and anything, deer season was the Super Bowl in my neck of the woods. When it finally rolled around, the release of anticipation catapulted  the boys in my family into hunter frenzy. They played hard ball. Kills and points were badges of honor. Trophies were strapped onto dusty old trucks for display. Photos were taken and shared. Camouflage was the norm at most family gatherings. It's what we did. They did. As a misfit country boy, I was more amused than bothered by the madness. As a venison lover, I certainly wasn't taking a moral high road. I got  what the all fuss was about.. It's just that hunting wasn't my thing and camo wasn't my color.

Years and years later,  after moving away from the family farm, Michael and I dutifully returned home for family gatherings. Most often than not, it was during deer season. Not much changed over the years. Why would it? Driving through the winding roads and hills of those rural counties during deer season was precarious at best. The typical serene drives through the countryside were shattered by invisible gunshots echoing through the damp misty valleys. Duck, cover, and drive. Home. Pass the camo.


Yeah, I was never much of a hunter, but I always loved the spoils. I still do. When real hunters hunt and want to share their bounty, count me in as one very lucky boy.

Pan Seared Venison Tenderloin With Green Peppercorn Sauce.
Venison tenderloin is leaner than lean. It simply needs a kiss of heat for medium rare, added fat, and tender care.

Sear.
I trimmed a 3/4 pound Woodford County venison tenderloin and seasoned the meat with salt, black pepper, and smoked paprika before slipping it into a screaming hot cast iron skillet drizzled with 1 tablespoon olive oil. After adding 2 tablespoons unsalted butter, 2 whole garlic cloves, and fresh thyme sprigs, I seared the tenderloin 3 to 4 minutes per side (mounting the steak with the sizzling butter after each turn) until a gorgeous crust formed and slid it into a preheated 400 degree oven.  When the internal temperature reached 120 degrees, I pulled the tenderloin from the oven, removed it to a cutting board, and tented it for 10 minutes to rest and  allow the internal temp to reach 125 degrees for medium rare.

Sauce.
After removing the spent thyme, I returned the skillet to the heat, added 2 tablespoons unsalted butter,1 chopped shallot, 1 minced garlic clove, and 2 tablespoons brined green peppercorns. When the shallots turned translucent, I splashed the skillet with 1/3 cup Makers Mark bourbon, tipped the skillet to ignite the alcohol, took a quick shot of bourbon, and let the flames taper off before adding 1 heaping tablespoon dijon mustard, 1/4 cup heavily reduced beef stock (almost a demi glace), a pinch of salt, pepper,  and 3/4 cup heavy cream. When the sauced reduced and thickened, I pulled it from the heat and set it aside.

I sliced the venison tenderloin on the bias, overlapped the medallions onto toasted Bluegrass Bakery ciabatta croutons, and plated the sauce  before finishing with flaked sea salt, cracked black pepper, fresh slivered scallions, and flash fried parsnip ribbons.

Flecked with pops of briny heat, the dijon-infused cream sauce tempered the slight gaminess of the tender deer meat. While the slivered scallions provided grassy freshness, the fried parsnips added an earthy delicate crunch. Total win.

Respect the hunt.
Respect the bounty.
Fabulous.