Slow Down With Slower Food

After a hectic holiday season, I suspect we all need to tap the brakes and slow down. When the blurred flurry of  meals, snacks, parties, and celebrations dies down, we can finally exhale. Take it easy and slow down.  Tuck away the cookie cutters, bundt pans, roasting racks, new fangled multi cookers, and angst. Embrace slower food. As languid as they might be, I'm not talking about the low and slow braises, hours long simmered stews, or crock pot cookery. Take it down one notch further and explore fermentation, the ultimate slow food. With little effort (a welcome respite) fermentation is
a lesson in slow motion magic. With fermentation, there are no deadlines to meet, temperatures to monitor, or stress to endure. It simply needs time. As an ages old means of food preservation, just about anything can be fermented. While deli style sour pickles and saurkraut might be the most familiar examples, Korean Kimchi, fermented chili-spiked funkified napa cabbage,  takes it to another level and lets the wheels fly off the cart. Better yet, it's fun to prepare, healthy (loaded with off the charts priobiotics), downright delicious, and utterly addictive.  It can be be eaten straight up out of the jar, served as a side dish,  or added to a myriad of other things. With time on your side, slow down and enjoy the ride.

Kimchi.
Packed with aged funk, tangy sour undertones, and peppery heat, kimchi is a sexy power hitter.

Funk it up.

Brine.
There are a couple of different ways to prep cabbage for  kimchi. It can be chopped into bite sized pieces or sliced into quarters before the initial salt bath. For a variation in texture, I combined both methods.

I halved one 3 1/2 pound crisp napa cabbage, chopped one half into 2" pieces, quartered the remaining half, and tumbled  the cabbage into a large bowl before tossing it with 1 large jullienned daikon radish and 4 jullienned carrots.   After dissolving 1 cup kosher salt in 2 cups water, I poured the brine over the vegetables, massaged the salt into the nooks and crannies (making sure to have everything come into contact with the solution), and set the cabbage aside to brine overnight.

When the cabbage wilted and could bend without snapping (about 9 hours), I thoroughly rinsed it under cold water to wash away any excess salt and set it aside.

Spice.
Umami bomb.
The spice paste is everything. It defines kimchi. Grab some rubber gloves.

After tossing 6 peeled and smashed garlic cloves into a food processor, I added a peeled 2" knob of chopped fresh ginger, 1 peeled and diced Red Valley Farm pear, 1/3 cup fish sauce, 2 tablespoons dried shrimp, and 2 tablespoons palm sugar. I buzzed the mix into a paste and mixed it with 1 cup Gochugara (Korean chili flakes). After tossing 2 bunches of  scallions (sliced into 3"batons) with the wilted cabbage, daikon, and carrots, I slathered everything with the fiery paste before stuffing the kimchi into a large 3 quart glass container. After loosely covering the container, I set the kimchi aside in a coolish dark place to do its thing for 3 days, monitoring the bubbling fermentation every day. On the third day, I transferred the kimchi into smaller glass jars, sealed the lids, and slid them into the refrigerator to slow down the fermentation.

While the kimchi is good to go after one day of refrigeration, it gets better and funkier with time.

Slow down.

All good things take time.

Winter Candy

It doesn't take long for the cold gray days of winter to erase the warm embrace of summer. With a damp chill in the air, those sun-kissed tomatoes, overflowing corn trucks, delicate lettuces, and vibrant vegetables seem like distant childhood memories. The lucky folks, with enough fortitude to put up their summer hauls, have pantries and freezers stocked for the long haul. Constant visceral reminders of summer.  Still, during the winter months, we all revel in the jeweled-toned winter squash, hardy greens, dried beans, pantry goods, turnips, and wild array of overwintered potatoes.

And just when the muted colors of winter seem to lull and blanket us with calm, perky winter citrus rolls into town, crashes the party, and changes everything. Sweet. Acidic. Bright. Sun bombs.

Upside Down Grapefruit Polenta Cake with Candied Almonds.

Sugar Sugar.
Candied Almonds.
Unlike traditional sugar-coated baked candied almonds, these nuts are a fun riff on spun sugar without the frenzy of a whirling dervish.

I combined 2 cups granulated sugar with 1/2 cup water in a heavy sauce pan. After bringing the combo to a boil, I let it rip without stirring (scraping down the sides with a pastry brush to prevent crystals ) until it bubbled and foamed. When it turned light amber, about 8-10 minutes, I pulled the molten sugar from the heat and carefully placed the pan over an ice bath to stop the cooking process. After letting caramelized sugar cool just enough to drizzle or spin, I skewered individual blanched whole almonds, slipped them through caramel, and hung them upside down to
completely cool. When the sugar hardened, I snipped off the ends and set the candied almonds aside.

 Almost Candied Grapefruit.
Wanting to utilize the rind, pith, and flesh of the grapefruit, I knew I needed to temper the bitterness of the peel before incorporating it into the cake. Sidestepping the traditional method of an upside cake, I brought 1 cup sugar and 1/2 cup fresh squeezed and strained ruby red grapefruit juice to a rolling boil in a large cast iron skillet before reducing it to a gentle simmer and sliding 3/4" thick grapefruit slices ( in single layer batches) into the simmering syrup. When the pithy peels turned translucent, I scooped the grapefruit slices onto parchment paper, reserving the gloriously sticky grapefruit syrup.

Eat Cake.
Grapefruit polenta cake.
Polenta cake (gluten free) is very forgiving.  Almost teetering on the edge of savory, it's a fabulous foil for the sweet/tart grapefruit.

I sifted 2 cups almond flour, 3/4 cup fine polenta, and 1 1/2 teaspoons baking powder into a bowl and set it aside. Using a stand mixer with a paddle attachment, I creamed 1 3/4 sticks room temperature unsalted butter and 1 cup castor sugar until light and airy. With the mixer running, I added 1 teaspoon vanilla extract and incorporated 3 large eggs one at a time, alternating 1/3 of the flour mixture after the addition of each egg, until the batter was well blended.

After folding 2 tablespoons of grapefruit zest into the batter, I buttered  4" ramekins,  lined them with trimmed parchment paper, buttered the parchment paper, and nestled the grapefruit slices into the bottom of each ramekin before pouring the batter into the ramekins, smoothing the tops with an offset spatula, and sliding them into a preheated 350 degree oven for 35-40 minutes.

When the toothpick test came out clean, I pulled the cakes from the oven, brushed the tops with the grapefruit syrup, and set them onto a wire rack to cool.

Upside Down.
After 10 minutes, I inverted the cakes, peeled away the parchment paper, and drizzled the remainder of the reserved grapefruit syrup over the now downside up grapefruit before finishing with flaked sea salt, candied almonds, and fresh mint.

Let the sunshine in.

Christmas Bread. My Stollen Heart.

Loathed by many and loved by few, fruit cake can be a polarizing holiday treat. Even with their centuries old heritage, they're still often maligned. Some folks joke that there  might only be one fruit cake that gets handed down from generation to generation. Re-gifted again and again  Let's face it, loved or loathed, there will always be fruit cake. I'm  on team fruit cake. Yep, I was that odd ball kid who wanted to win those cellophane-wrapped fruit cakes that showed up
at festival cake walks. During the holidays, I still live for the sound of that glorious thud a fruit cake makes when it hits the front stoop for delivery. While I didn't grow up eating those dense holiday cakes packed with sweet candied fruit, I've always adored them because they remind me of Christmases past.  My primer for fruit cake was German Christmas stollen or Christstollen, a dense yeasted spiced  bread packed with boozy plumped dried fruit and covered with confectioner's sugar.  In Germany, it was (and still is) unheard of to have Christmas without stollen. Whether scratch made or outsourced, most every household had stollen during Christmas. Ours was no exception. Frau Olga loved making stollen. Gliding through the kitchen like a graceful stout swan, she'd spend days proofing dough, rolling dough, and soaking various dried fruits in rum before shaping the dough, proofing it again, and sliding it into the oven to bake. When cooled, she showered the bread  with an avalanche of  powdered snow. Frau Olga's Christmas miracle. The stuff of boyish dreams.

When my family left Germany and moved back to the States, the familiar flavors of  holiday fruit cake took my heart back to stollen.

Stollen (jazzed up Christmas bread) is simple enough to throw together, but it takes time and planning. Like fruit cake, it's best aged for a few days or weeks. The plumped fruit gets fruitier and the booze gets boozier.  Total win.

Christmas Stollen.
2 loaves.

Fruit.
Although traditional stollen has hard-to-find dried citron in the mix, any combination of dried fruit works with this sweet/savory Christmas bread.

Using separate containers to keep the dried fruits from bleeding into each other, I soaked 1 cup dried currants, 3/4 cup candied orange peel, 1 cup chopped dried apricots, and 3/4 cups dried sour cherries in 12 tablespoons white rum (3 tablespoons per fruit). After letting the fruit  macerate for a couple of hours, I slipped them into the refrigerator to absorb the rum and plump overnight.

Proof.
I dissolved 1 1/2 tablespoons active dry yeast in 1/4 warm (not hot) water and set it aside to proof and bubble up.

Rise.
I love playing with dough.

After sifting together  5 1/2  Wiesenberger Mill all-purpose flour, 2/3 cups granulated sugar, 1 teaspoons salt, 1/2 teaspoon ground mace, I teaspoon ground cardamon,  and 1 teaspoon freshly grated nutmeg into a large mixing bowl, I added 1 cup warm whole milk, 1 1/4 sticks melted unsalted butter, 3 lightly beaten eggs, 1 teaspoon pure vanilla extract, 1 teaspoon almond extract, and the reserved  yeast. I turned the shaggy dough onto a lightly floured work surface and kneaded the dough until it was smooth.


I flattened the dough into a workable rectangle before adding the reserved soaked fruit, 1 1/2  cups chopped blanched almonds, and 2 tablespoons grated lemon zest.

After kneading the dough for roughly 10 minutes until smooth (poking wayward fruit back into the dough from time to time), I transferred the dough to an oiled bowl, covered it with plastic wrap and tucked it aside in a warm place for 2 hours until it doubled in size.

Braid.
Traditionally, stollen is folded and formed into the shape of a swaddling baby. I took the braided

route.

I punched the down and used a bench scraper to cut the dough into 6 even pieces for 2 loaves. For each loaf, I rolled the individual pieces into 14" ropes, pinched the ends of 3 ropes together,  braided the dough, and placed the loaves onto half sheet pans covered with parchment paper.

After covering the loaves with oiled plastic wrap, I tucked them away to rise again and double in size for 2 hours.

When doubled in bulk, I brushed the loaves with melted butter and slid them  into a preheated 350 degree oven to bake for 35-40 minutes, rotating the pans midway, until they were golden brown before cooling them completely on wire racks and showering  them with powdered snow.

Christmas Stollen.

Home for the holidays.

Drunken Turkey

Iced tea or a shot of bourbon?

I suppose we've all heard tales of families that have that one  relative who manages to overindulge at holiday gatherings. We didn't have that problem in my family. Aside from the underage kids or a few folks on-the-wagon, we ALL were that relative. It was pretty much a level playing field. Thanksgiving, in particular, was always very spirited.

Early mornings on our rural western Kentucky farm were usually quiet and peaceful.  When the sun cracked trhough the trees and kissed the sleepy fields, only  the muted sounds of hissing coffee or cattle chomping in a nearby field disturbed the quiet. Thanksgiving mornings were a whole other story. While the surrounding beauty of the countryside played out in form, everything else had a different tone. The mornings were crisper, the shadows longer, and the trees danced with multicolored leaves. Although the coffee still brewed and the cattle chomped, those familiar sounds were muffled by the quiet hubbub in the kitchen. Thanksgiving morning. Silent prep. Lots of busy work. By mid morning,  the subdued chaos  was shattered by cracked ice hitting empty mason jars for the forthcoming bloody marys made with cellar tomato juice we canned from summers past.Yep, that's how we rolled. To this day, I still believe we put up tomato juice just for Thanksgiving morning. After obligatory glasses of boxed red wine hit the table for Thanksgiving dinner,  bourbon eventually  made its entrance. While soft drinks and windowsill sun-brewed tea were at the ready, we were bourbon people. My father loved his bourbon. 

Although our bourbonized Thanksgivings on the farm are long gone, I  hold fast to  memories of those crisp autumn mornings, quilted trees, and the serenity of the dew-kissed countryside.

Nowadays, on Thanksgiving, I let the turkey drink the bourbon. 

Drunken Turkey
Bourbon all the way.
Inside and out.

To wet brine, dry brine, or inject? I've done them all. Without the luxury of time and space, I'm on team injection. It's quick, simple, and dependable.

A shot of bourbon.
Inside.

I rinsed and dried  a 15 pound young organic turkey and set it aside. After combining  1 cup melted unsalted butter, 1/4 cup chicken stock,  1/4 cup Makers Mark bourbon, 1/4 cup fresh squeezed blood orange juice, 1/4 cup Evans Orchard fresh apple cider, 1 teaspoon dried rubbed sage, 2 teaspoons salt, and 1 teaspoon ground black pepper, I loaded  a large turkey injector with the marinade and carefully injected the breasts, thighs, and legs in several locations. After the meat plumped from the shots, I slathered the flesh with softened butter, showered it with salt, and slipped the turkey into the refrigerator to marinate overnight.

After bringing the boozed up turkey to room temperature, I stuffed the cavity with 1 quartered Casey County onion, 2 quartered Pulaski County Macintosh apples, 1 quartered blood orange, 2 stalks celery,  fresh parsley, fresh sage, and fresh thyme. In lieu of a roasting rack, I lined the bottom of a large roasting pan with fresh unpeeled whole carrots, celery stalks, and trimmed leeks. After tying the turkey legs together for an even cook, I nestled the turkey onto the vegetable rack, and  added 1 cup chicken stock, 1/2 cup apple cider, and a 1/4 cup bourbon to the bottom pan before sliding the turkey into a 350 degree preheated oven to roast for roughly 3 1/2 hours. Being mindful to not over brown the skin too early, I covered the breasts with aluminum foil after an hour and basted the turkey with the pan juices every 30 minutes.

Outside.
I combined 1/2 cup Makers Mark bourbon, 1/2 cup fresh apple cider, 1/2 cup fresh squeezed blood orange juice, 1/2 cup brown sugar, 1/4 cup apple cider vinegar, and 1/2 cup fresh milled Oberholzer's Kentucky Sorghum (form the Morgan County Sorghum Festival). After bringing the mix to a boil, I reduced the heat and let it simmer until it softened into a loose sticky glaze.

After the turkey reached 155 degrees, I started brushing the glaze over the skin every 15 minutes.

When the internal temp hit the 165 degree mark measured in the deepest part of the breast meat, I pulled the bourbon burnished turkey from the oven, hit it with flaked sea salt for crunch, and let it rest for 20 minutes before nestling it over an aromatic bed of fresh herbs.

Thanksgiving turkey.

Bourbonized.

The Cusp

Well, it seems another slap happy summer has zipped by at a breakneck pace. Even our  local markets joined the frenzy, amping things up as the season evolved.  Week after week, we zeroed in on the ever changing produce and the simplicity of prep that matched the fast paced wonder of the season. Right now, we're straddling the seasonal cusp. Although a few late summer gems are still coming on strong, it's time to slow down and embrace the jewels of autumn. While they might not jar the senses with multicolored wonder, their calming muted tones soften the segue from summer to fall, quietly beckon, and pull us in. Let go of the frenzy. Give the grill a rest and take harbor in the solace of a
long sultry braise.

Braised Lamb Shanks With Pumpkin.
There's more to pumpkin than pie.

Simple prep for a one pot wonder.

I rinsed, split, and seeded a 2 pound Casey County pie pumpkin before slicing  it into 2" wedges and setting it aside.

After trimming the excess fat from three (1 pound each) lamb shanks, I liberally seasoned them with a mix of equal parts ( 1 Tablespoon each) salt, cracked blacked pepper, smoked paprika, dried thyme, dried basil, and dried coriander. Working over a medium flame, I heated 3 tablespoons vegetable oil to the smoking point before giving the shanks a hard sear on all sides and setting them aside. While the oil was still hot, I added 1 quartered unpeeled onion, 2 sliced carrots, 1 halved whole head of garlic, and a combo of 4 toasted/seeded/soaked dried pasilla and ancho chile peppers. When the vegetables softened, I added 2 tablespoons tomato paste, swirled it through the vegetables until it browned, and deglazed the pan with 1 cup dry red wine to release the fond.  When the red wine reduced by half, I added 2 cups beef stock, 2 fresh bay leaves, 2 whole Mexican cinnamon sticks, the reserved pumpkin, 3 fresh whole cayenne peppers, 2 halved Pulaski County beefsteak tomatoes, 5 dried figs, 5 dried plums, fresh parsley, and fresh cilantro. After tucking the lamb shanks into the pan, I brought the stock to a boil, reduced it to a simmer, covered the pan, and slid it into a preheated 350 degree oven to braise for roughly 2 1/2 hours.

When tender, I carefully scooped the shanks to a side plate along with the braised pumpkin, whole cayenne peppers, and plumped dried fruit. After removing the bay leaves, cinnamon sticks, spent herbs, and onion skins, I skimmed the fat from the braising stock. I wasn't going for a full on puree, so I  roughly mashed the long cooked vegetables and mixed them into the stock for a loosey-goosey riff on a Mexican mole rojo sauce (sans toasted nuts and seeds) before returning the shanks to the pan to warm through in the sauce.

Much like any long  braised fatty meat, the tender lamb easily slipped from the bones like silken lingerie and melted into the sauce. Naughty and nice.

While the pumpkin added earthy back notes, the soft sweetness from the dried fruit and subtle smoky heat from the dried peppers tempered the slight gaminess of the lamb.

Riding the cusp.

Pumpkin Spice

It's pumpkin time! All varieties and sizes are popping up everywhere.
Right now, seguing into autumn, pie pumpkins are the darlings of our local markets. Try as we might to fight the seasonal change, pie pumpkins beckon and call. Their demure scruffiness kindles autumnal dreams of scratch  made pies on cool lazy days.

That said, pie pumpkins aren't just for pie.


Pumpkin Beignets With Salted Dulce De Leche.

Pumpkin Puree.
So, canned pumpkin or fresh pumpkin? Let the debate begin. While most folks agree that there is very little taste difference between either fresh or canned pumpkin puree, fresh puree has a lighter texture compared to the compacted dense texture of canned. . When incorporating it into airy deep fried doughnuts, lightness is key.  While it might be a little more liquidy than the canned stuff, a few extra steps easily eliminates the wet factor. Obviously, canned pumpkin is a bit more convenient and accessible, but when everything's coming up pumpkins at our local farmers' markets, fresh pumpkin puree is the way to go.

After rinsing 3 Casey County pie pumpkins (about 1 1/2 pounds each), I split them in half, scooped out the stringy seeds, placed them cut side down on parchment paper-lined sheet pans, and slid them
into a preheated  375 degree oven to roast for 40-45 minutes. When  knife tender, I pulled them from the oven to cool before carefully scraping the softened flesh from the wilted skins.  After picking  out a few stray wandering bits from the cooked pumpkin, I pureed it in a food processor (in batches), and spooned it into a fine mesh sieve set over a bowl to drain for 30 minutes. To help evaporate additional excess moisture, I placed the puree in a saute pan over a low flame, simmered it for 30 minutes, pulled it from the heat, and set it aside to
cool. The whole shebang netted about 3 cups pureed pumpkin.


Salted Dulce De Leche.
Again, baked canned sweetened condensed milk or the  fresher stove top version? Since I ditched the can for the pumpkin puree, I went with the fresh version.

After stirring together 4 cups milk, 1 1/4 cups sugar, 1/4 teaspoon baking soda in a heavy saucepan, I brought the mix to a boil, reduced the heat, and simmered it for about 1 1/2 hours until it thickened and caramelized. I pulled the dulce de leche from the heat and added 1 teaspoon pure vanilla extract along with 2 teaspoons flaked sea salt before setting it aside.

Bienets. 
Go nuts for dough.
I sprinkled 1 1/2 teaspoons instant yeast over 1/4 cup warm water in the bowl of a stand mixer fitted with a dough hook. When the yeast proofed, I added 3/4 cup pumpkin puree, 1/4 cup sugar, 2 beaten eggs, 2 tablespoons melted butter, a pinch of salt, and a 1/4 cup heavy cream. After mixing the wet ingredients on a low speed, I added 2 teaspoons ground cinnamon, 1/2 teaspoons ground ginger, 1/2 teaspoon nutmeg, and a pinch of ground cloves before gradually adding 4 cups all-purpose flour. When the dough pulled away from the bowl and formed a smooth pliable dough, I covered it with a clean dish towel to rise.

After the dough doubled in size, I turned it onto a floured work board, patted it down, rolled the dough 1/4" thick, cut it into diamonds, and covered it to rise again for 1 1/2 hours.

Fry.
Time to make the doughnuts.
I heated vegetable oil ( 3" deep) in a heavy dutch oven until it reached 380 degrees. Working in batches, I carefully slipped the beignet diamonds into the hot oil and fried them for about 2 minutes per side to puff up and brown before scooping them out onto paper towels to catch any excess oil. While they were still warm, I showered the pillowy beignets with powdered sugar and nestled the salted dulce de leche to the side.

Crisp.
Puffy.
Utterly messy.
Like eating powdery pumpkin-spiced clouds.

Pass the dulche de leche.

Fabulous.

The Watermelon Patch

My grandmother's vegetable garden was a wonderland. Tucked inside white planked fencing covered with grapevines, rows and rows of vegetables flourished in the well plowed clay-packed soil of our western Kentucky farm. Meticulously attended to and lovingly cared for, her garden was a lush and harsh workhorse of a garden that provided fresh food for our family during the summer months and  cellar provisions for the bleaker months. As a  newly transplanted city-to-farm boy,  her garden felt like a beautiful secret garden. The stuff of dreams. Emotionally naked and eager to please, I was the fetcher of the family. Tomatoes. Green beans. Corn. Potatoes. Summer squash. Zucchini. Onions. Beets. Carrots. I didn't harvest. I fetched. Roaming her garden with my list  drew me into her secret world, filling me with a sense of belonging I didn't know I needed or wanted. Her garden enveloped me like one of her worn tattered bed quilts. Wonderland.

My grandfather's watermelon patch, on the other hand, was a whole other story. Yards from the farmhouse and vegetable garden, the watermelon patch covered a large portion of a cow field. Surrounded by a single row of barbed wire to keep the cattle at bay, the patch was left mostly unattended through the long summer growing season in wait of the August through September harvest. Out of sight and out of mind, dozens of  watermelons were left to meander and grow through the dusty patch. If one split open from neglect, the wet beady seeds fell into the soil for the hovering hungry birds. As it wasn't my charge,  I didn't tend to the watermelon field. I played in the field of melons. I was the watcher. I knew their every move.  I watched them grow, roam, ramble, roll, split, and sometimes rot. Most importantly, under my watchful eye, I knew when it was watermelon time.

Here's the thing, we didn't fuss over watermelons. On our rural Kentucky farm, watermelons weren't utilitarian. They didn't need to be prepped, processed, preserved, canned, put up, or cooked. They were simply grown for pleasure. Big fat pleasure bombs. We'd throw a few newspapers over an outdoor table, slice open a watermelon, chop it into wet wedges, slurp the sweet juices, spit the seeds, and drink in the long hot summer.

Right now, varieties of watermelon are hitting their stride. Summer might be waning, but there are still picnics, cookouts, barbecues, and tailgates to be had. Stop by a local farmers' market and bring the watermelon patch home. Slice. Slurp. Spit. Repeat.

Or, think outside the box
and take a walk on the Thai side.

Watermelon plays well with others. Salty feta. Briny black olives. Cucumbers. Tomatoes. Basil. The sky's the limit, really. As a wet blank canvas, fresh watermelon can take the tart heat, acidic punch, and earthy funk of a balanced Thai vinaigrette.

Thai Watermelon Salad.
Aside from the vinaigrette, garnishes (accessories) are key.

Crispy fried garlic.
I sliced 5 cloves garlic into paper thin discs and tumbled them into a cold skillet along with 1/2 cup olive oil before turning the heat to medium to gently poach/toast the garlic. As the oil heated, the garlic slowly started to brown and crisp. Just before it went too far, I scooped the crisped garlic chips onto a paper towel to drain and  cool. When completely cooled, I crumbled the garlic into pieces and set it aside.




Vinaigrette.
Few things match the addictive mysterious tart/sweet/funk of a Thai vinaigrette.
Embrace the fish sauce. It's transforming.

After dissolving 1 tablespoon light brown sugar into 5 tablespoons fresh squeezed lime juice, I added
1/4 cup fish sauce, 1/2 cup water, 2 minced garlic cloves, 1 teaspoon crushed fresh ginger, 3 thinly sliced Stonehedge multi-colored Thai bird chilies, Thai basil, purple basil, and fresh mint. I mixed the vinaigrette until combined and set it aside.

Chopped salted roasted peanuts. Check.

Thai. basil. Check.
Sweet basil. Check.
Purple basil. Check.
Mint. Check.

Watermelon. Double check.
After slicing and sectioning a 5 pound Pulaski County Sugar Baby watermelon, I removed the rind and sliced the firmer flesh closest to the rind into 4" by 1/2' batons, reserving the remaining looser watermelon flesh for snacks. Leaving a 1/4" space between pieces, I stacked the batons across each other Jenga-esque and drizzled the vinaigrette over the watermelon until it spilled through the crevices and puddled underneath. After splashing the melon with fresh lime juice, I finished with bits of crispy fried garlic, crunchy roasted peanuts, basil, mint, and additional chilies.

Simple.
Fresh.
Unexpected.

Find a watermelon patch.
And play.

Jammin'. Summer BLT.

It's raining tomatoes. After a sleepy start, gushingly ripe heirlooms have finally crashed our farmers markets in dizzying waves. From farm stand to farm stand, brilliant patchworks of homegrown color tease, beckon, and shamelessly flaunt their  bejeweled innocent flooziness. Lost in the spell of the sultry purples, perky greens, vibrant reds, carefree oranges, demure whites, and come hither hybrids, the challenge of choosing is real. With varying sugar to acid ratios, all the colors and varieties bring something different to the table. When it comes to summer tomatoes, we love what we love. Taste, like beauty,  lies in the eye of the beholder. I'm easy. Very easy. Whether sweet, tart, ugly, gnarled, or drop dead gorgeous, I adore them all. They flaunt, I fall. Win.

With so many tomatoes, kick back, and enjoy the ride.
Really, nothing tops the simplistic beauty of a sliced and salted ripe-to-the-core sun-kissed summer tomato. Boom, call it a day. Or, for a throwback to childhood, toss a few sliced tomatoes on cheap supermarket white bread with a mayo smear, take a bite, and feel the juicy drip. Not feeling it? More is more. Slap crunchy bacon, crisp wet lettuce, and ripe tomatoes on toasted bread for a classic summer B.L.T.. Salty. Wet. Sweet. Heaven. Better yet, take it up a notch and replace the crispy bacon with bacon jam for a slammin' heirloom tomato homespun home run.

Scoot on over B.L.T., there's a new kid in town.

Bacon Jam, Basil, and Heirloom Tomato Sandwich.
The B.B.T.

Bacon Jam.
Bacon jam just might be the beacon for all that is good and right in this world.
Small effort, big payoff.

After heating a large cast iron skillet over a medium flame, I sliced 1 lb  Stone Cross Farm smoked
bacon into 3/4" pieces and tossed them into the skillet. When the bacon started to crisp, I scooped it out with a slotted spoon, set it aside. reserved 1 Tablespoon bacon fat in the hot skillet, drained the remaining fat, and added 1 cup chopped Boyle County Red Bull candy onions. After sweating the onions until they turned translucent, I scattered 4 minced garlic cloves into the skillet. Just before the garlic browned, I deglazed the skillet with 1/4 cup apple cider vinegar and 1/3 cup brewed coffee, scraped the tasty bacon bits from the bottom of the pan, and I added 1/2 cup brown sugar, 1/4 cup Oberholtzer's sorghum, 3 tablespoons balsamic vinegar, and cracked black pepper. After tumbling the reserved bacon into the molten mix, I brought the jam to a boil, reduced it to a low simmer, covered the skillet, and let it bubble away for 1 1/2 hours, stirring and adding a splash of water from time to time.

When jammy enough, I pulled the bacon jam from the heat, scraped it into a container, licked the spatula bone clean, and set it aside.

Summer love.
Heirloom Tomatoes.
Toasted bread.
Bacon jam.
Say no more.

Build it and they will come.
After slathering bacon jam onto toasted Bluegrass Bakery Black Pepper Parmesan Bread, I feathered fresh garden basil into the sticky jam, piled wet juicy slices of Casey County, Pulaski County, Fayette County heirloom tomatoes over the basil, drizzled the jewels with extra virgin olive, and finished

with a flurry of flaked sea salt, cracked black pepper, and snipped garden chives.

Green Zebra. Lemon Boy. Mountain Trash Red. Cherokee Purple. Big White. Kentucky Beefsteak. Orange Persimmon. Purple Plum. Taste the colors.

Kentucky wonders.
With pig jam.

Fabulous.

July 4th. The Boys Of Summer.

"How do you measure a year?
 In daylights, in sunsets,
 In midnights, in cups of coffee,
 In riches, in miles, in laughter, in
 strife." - Jonathon Larsen. RENT.

During the 1980's, the AIDS epidemic struck Key West to its core. Even through the difficult times,  the small island community knew how to party and celebrate life. Michael and I  joined the party for a couple of weeks in the summer of 1987 to celebrate our 3rd anniversary. Innocent times.

July 4th. Key West, Florida.

Hot days. Hot Havana nights.

After spending the week prior to the 4th drinking like locals, inhaling deep sunsets, dancing until dawn, eating seafood, and devouring Cuban fare, Michael and I found ourselves smack dab in the middle of the annual July 4th city-wide picnic benefiting the Key West Visiting Nurses Association and Hospice. It was a grand affair that brought the community together with heartfelt purpose. As the uplifting and melancholy picnic wound down, the antsy crowd shuffled en masse to the White Street Pier for the real party. Bedecked in matchy matchy beachwear, we joined the throngs on the massive concrete pier.

The first section of the White Street Pier had been parlayed into an elaborate disco with padded dance floors, gigantic speakers, tiered lighting, and multiple bars. Jutting hundreds of yards out into the Atlantic ocean, the heavy stark pier seemed to float above the water under the weight of bodies dancing in the heat of the sun. Hot. Wild. Free.

When the sun  finally crashed into the sea, lamps submerged beneath the pier reflected silhouettes of graceful stingrays silently gliding through the dark water like lost sunken kites. Mesmerizing and beautiful.

Poof.
Without warning, in the distance, wispy fireworks shot into the sky from an invisible barge anchored out in the ocean far from the pier. Flickering. Fluttering. Twinkling. Falling. As the fireworks grew more intense, the fiery rain shattered the empty sky with light. Suddenly, a deafening silence swept over the sea before a recording of Kate Smith's "God Bless America" blasted through the darkness, washed over the quiet water, and spilled onto the boys of summer. It. Was. Glorious.

It took a few fun filled days to recover from Kate Smith, the stingrays, the sun, and the concrete pier. On our final night, we bellied up to a walk-up food shack and ordered a shared paper basket of  Cuban pork with black beans and rice. After moseying over to a nearby dock, we dangled our feet into the warm water, shared our last supper, and melted into the sunset.

Bringing the sunset home.

Cuban Pork Belly With Mojo, Black Beans, White Rice, and Kale.
Cuban pork with mojo, served with black beans and rice, is traditionally made with a fatty bone-in pork shoulder ( or whole pig roasted over an open pit)  marinated in mojo and braised low and slow
until the fat  melts into the meat before a quick turn under a broiler to crisp the skin into crackling pork candy. For a more manageable riff,  I took it for a Kentucky spin with a braised uncured pork belly with  crispy black bean cakes and local kale.

Mojo Criollo
Mojo, a piquant marinade made up of tart citrus (sour oranges), oregano, cumin, and tons of garlic, packs a highly seasoned citrus punch that cuts the fatty richness of the braised pork .That said, sour oranges can be hard to come by. While some markets sell bottled sour orange juice, a combination of
fresh orange juice and fresh lime juice is a great substitute to hit the acidic mark.

I mixed 1 cup fresh squeezed orange juice, 1 cup fresh squeezed lime juice, 1/2 cup olive oil, 2 teaspoons salt, 1 tablespoon oregano, 2 teaspoons ground cumin, 1 teaspoon freshly cracked blacked
pepper, and 5 cloves chopped garlic until thoroughly combined. After pouring half the marinade (reserving the remainder) into a large plastic bag, I slipped a 2 pound slab of pork belly into the mojo marinade and tucked it into the refrigerator to marinate overnight.

After removing the belly from the refrigerator and patting it dry, I scored the fat and tossed it onto a
hot grill (skin side down) to  kiss it with smoke and render some of the fat. After 10 minutes, I pulled
the belly from the grill, placed it onto a wire rack positioned over a foil lined half sheet pan, and slid it into a preheated 350 oven to roast for 2 1/2 - 3 hours, basting it with the reserved mojo marinade from time to time.

Black Bean Cakes
While scratch made black beans are fabulous, canned black beans are fine and dandy. Either one. Pick your poison.

I rinsed and drained 2 cans of black beans before mashing half of the beans with 1 teaspoon cumin,
salt, and pepper. After combining the mashed beans with the whole beans, I added 3/4 cup cooked white rice, 2 tablespoons minced fresh cilantro, 1 tablespoon minced fresh oregano,  1 clove minced garlic, and a splash of fresh lime juice.

After forming the black bean concoction into 3 inch patties, I slid them into the refrigerator to chill and set up.


When the cakes were firm enough to handle, I carefully sauteed them in 2 tablespoon olive oil until
crisp, carefully removed them to a side plate lined with paper towels to drain, and set them aside.

Belly Up
When the pork belly was tender and hit 165 degrees, I slipped it under the broiler to blister before pulling it from the oven to rest. After straining the mojo infused pan juices through a fine mesh strainer and removing most of the accumulated fat, I mixed 1/3 cup of the highly concentrated acidic mojo drippings with 2/3 cups olive oil, 2 tablespoons fresh snipped chives, 2 tablespoons fresh oregano, 1 1/2 tablespoons fresh mint, salt, and cracked black pepper to form a broken vinaigrette.

While the vinaigrette was still warm, I splashed it onto 2 cups washed and rinsed hand torn Casey County kale. After massaging the kale with the vinaigrette, I tumbled it over the black bean cakes, nestled the glazed pork belly into the kale, and drizzled the remaining mojo vinaigrette over the belly to kiss the pig before finishing with slivered red pepper for crunch, fresh oregano, fresh mint, and flaked sea salt.

Hot Havana days.
Hot Kentucky nights.

Sunset included.

Radishing

As a haphazard urban gardener, if you grow it I will come.


Oh sure, I have my tomato plants tucked into the soil, herbs over planted in giant clay containers, and micro greens sprouting in make-shift greenhouses. Still, this time of year, it's really all about our local farmers' markets.  As we wait for the summer big guns to arrive, the markets are springing to life right now. Nestled among the  baby vegetables, hardy greens, tender lettuces, turnips, squash blossoms, and bedding plants, gorgeous radishes burst from almost every farm stand like imperfect
living kaleidoscopes.

No doubt thinly sliced or grated radishes add peppery bite to salads and cooling crunch to soups or stews. Left whole, they're also terrific swiped through good butter before quick dabs into pillows of sea salt. That said, radishes are more than a crunchy one trick pony. They can also bring their demure side to the party. When cooked, their vibrant punch softens and  mellows  into subdued unexpected jewels. Radishing.

Butter Braised Radishes.
Typically, I'd shoot for a hard caramelization with a deep long braise. Nope, not this time around. I kept it very simple. Pure and simple.

After soaking 3 bunches Stonehedge purple, red, rose, white, bi-color, and French Breakfast radishes, in lukewarm water to rinse away the soil, I trimmed the green tops to about 1/4" before halving the medium sized radishes, quartering the larger ones, and leaving the smaller ones whole. I melted 3 tablespoons unsalted butter in a large cast iron skillet, added 1/2 cup water, brought the buttery water to a boil, tumbled the radishes into the skillet, showered them kosher salt and ground white pepper, reduced the heat, covered the skillet, and let them simmer/braise for 15 minutes. When the radishes were knife tender, I removed the lid and raised the heat to evaporate the water until they shimmered in light buttery glaze. After splashing them with fresh lemon juice and spooning the radishes over fresh Stonehedge chicory greens, I finished with flaked sea salt and  a scant scattering of windowsill  radish micro greens.

Napped in butter with a hint lemon, the mellowed (almost sweet ) peppery crunch of the radishes countered the slight bitterness of the wilted chicory greens, reminiscent of slow braised baby turnips with turnip greens.

Unexpected.
Fresh.
Fabulous.

Puffed

For years, I made the 300 mile round trip trek to my grandmother's house to plant pansies for her on Mother's Day. I'd load up the bed of my Ford Ranger with flats of multicolored pansies and ramble the back roads of Kentucky until I reach her farm, the very farm I grew up on years earlier. After scrubbing her weathered, chipped, and cracked clay pots, I packed them full for ultimate impact before maneuvering the heavy pots around her front porch for optimal country road curb appeal. When the dirt settled, I'd wash up and join her at the kitchen table for a short visit over warm chess pie and sweet iced tea before heading home. Even with cheery colors, the pansies certainly weren't showstoppers. They were barely tall enough to peek over the planters and flutter in the afternoon breezes. On top of that, we both knew  their delicate nature would succumb to the heat of summer. But, that wasn't the point. They brought us together on Mother's Day and made my grandmother happy. So, was the long one day drive worth the trouble for a few potted flowers and brief visit? Driving away and watching her wave goodbye as she slowly disappeared through my rear view mirror  made every single mile worthwhile. And, there was pie.

How much trouble is too much trouble?  On Mother's Day, it's in the eye of the beholder.

Spring Asparagus Tart With Smoked Salmon

Trouble.
To puff or not to puff.
Store bought puff pastry is dependable, fabulous, and a very good thing. Here's the deal, with very simple ingredients (flour,water, butter, salt) and a lot of rolling, scratch made puff pastry is a doable  labor of love.

Roll. Fold. Chill. Repeat.
Classically, puff pastry is made by wrapping a simple dough around a block of butter,  rolling it out, folding it into itself, chilling, and  repeating the process 6 times to achieve a laminated dough with over 1000 layers. Working with a block of butter is the tedious hurdle that makes it intimidating. Skip the hurdle.

After freezing 1 3/4 sticks unsalted butter, I used a mandolin to shave the butter into 1/4" pieces, separated the pieces, and tossed them back into freezer.

I sifted 1 1/4 cups bread flour (stronger gluten) into the bowl of a food processor and added 1 teaspoon salt.  With the motor running, I drizzled 1/2 cup cold water into bowl until the simple dough came together. After shaping it into a rough rectangle, I rolled it out into a larger rectangle about 14' x 6" and 1/4 " thick. Without overlapping, I positioned the shaved butter pieces over the dough and, starting lengthwise, folded the dough 4 times, brushing the excess flour off the dough as I folded it in. First turn.

Working quickly, I rolled the dough out to the same dimensions and folded it 4 times, brushing the excess flour off the dough as I folded it in. Second turn. To maintain the temperature of the butter and  integrity of the layers, I slid the dough into the refrigerator to chill for 20 minutes.

Once chilled, I repeated the process an additional 4 times or turns, chilling the dough for 20 minutes after each turn.  Roll. Fold. Brush. Chill.
After 6 turns, the 800-ish  layered laminated dough was ready to rest and chill out. And so was I.

Double Trouble.
The cure.
There are gorgeous varieties of gravlax, lox, and smoked salmon available at the market. But, what the heck, it's very simple to pull off. Why not go all in and cure a little salmon? Labor of love.

Although a variety ingredients can be added to the curing process (dill, juniper berries, gin, aquivat, fennel, spices), I kept it very basic. I mixed 2 cups sugars with 1 cup kosher salt. After drying off a beautiful 1 pound sockeye salmon filet, I brushed the flesh with 2 tablespoons vodka and placed the filet over fresh parsley sprigs and half of the sugar/salt combo. After covering the filet with the remaining cure and sprigs of parsley, I wrapped the salmon in parchment paper, sealed the salmon in plastic wrap, and slid it into the refrigerator to cure. After 48 hours,  I rinsed the salt and sugar away from the salmon, patted it dry, wrapped it in plastic wrap, and tucked the cured (or cold smoked) salmon into refrigerator.



Puff Tart.
Working on a floured board, I rolled the pastry into a large rectangle
and used a straight edged ruler to cut it into a 14"x 5" slender rectangle. After carefully scoring a 1/2" border on the inside of all four sides of the pastry to help the borders puff, I added a few squiggles from rolled out leftover dough scraps, brushed the pastry with an egg wash (one beaten egg with a splash of water), docked the pastry with the tines of a fork, and slid it into a  preheated 400 degree oven to par bake for 10 minutes. Before it poofed, I pulled it from the oven, poked down the slightly puffed base and  brushed the base with a thin layer of dijon mustard. After scattering freshly grated gruyere cheese over the mustard, I nestled pencil thin spring asparagus into the cheese, drizzled the asparagus with good extra virgin olive oil, and slid the tart back into the oven for 20 minutes.

When the pastry puffed and turned golden brown, I pulled it from the oven and let it cool for 10 minutes before finishing with thin slices of the smoked salmon, flaky sea salt, and Elmwood Stock pea shoots splashed with lemon juice and olive oil.

Like eating buttery crisp air, the  pastry shattered and scattered bits of flaky crumbs throughout the simple tart. Enveloped by the nutty cheese, the slight earthy undertones of the delicate asparagus countered the tangy bite from the dijon, the silky salinity of the salmon, and the bright acidity of the perky pea shoots.


Mother's Day.
Puffed.

Get into trouble.

Crowned

As a kid, when Easter rolled around, I was a lamb loving boy in a  ham loving family.

I had a steep learning curve when my father retired from the army and we settled onto the family farm in rural western Kentucky. Leaving the grandeur of Vienna and the starkness of Ethiopia for a much different life on a lakeside farm was overwhelming, to say the least.  In the blink of an eye, life changed. I swapped my lederhosen for overalls, schnitzel for fried pork chops, and the Red Sea for a quiet Kentucky lake. Acclamation.  It didn't take long for me to relish farm life. With rolling hills, windswept meadows, patches of shade trees, and a pristine lake, the farm  was a lush playground for  a weary retired kid. The roaming cattle, pecking chickens, vegetable gardens, ham shed, crooked red barn, apple trees, grape vines, tractors, barbed wire, and  murky pond were all the stuff of dreams. Wonderland. A different land. I didn't miss my lost places as much as I missed the food I'd known. My grandparents stockpiled food out of necessity. We had blocks of government cheese neatly stacked in our   refrigerator, a dank dark cellar lined from floor to ceiling with dusty jars of garden jewels, and 'Not For Sale' beef stashed in freezers from the very cows we regrettably named and loved.  Still, with all of that beef stowed away and our coffers filled to the brim, we were ham people. Big time ham people. Go figure.

On most all special occasions, holidays, and family gatherings,  ham was front and center. Staggeringly endless incarnations of ham hit the table at church pots lucks, funerals, family picnics, birthdays, reunions, Thanksgivings, Christmases (of course), and eventually... Easter. Don't get me wrong, I loved each and every sticky glazed, cola braised, and crispy fried shred of ham. It's just that by the time Easter rolled around, I didn't crave ham. I craved my lost lamb, Frau Olga's Easter lamb. Slow roasted and served in courses with Bavarian sides to suit her hotel chef mentality, I became a lamb boy at an early age. On the farm, it was another story. A ham story. For years, I hoped a fancy relative from a distant land would swoop into our Easter fest toting  frenched lamb chops teetering on the edge of medium rare or  roasted leg of lamb nestled on a bed of fresh rosemary. It never happened.

When I eventually moved away from the farm, I carried my familial love of ham and my familiar quest for Easter lamb right along with me.

Herb Crusted Crown Rack Of Lamb With  Spring Vegetable Salad.

Crowned.
Crown rack of lamb is a glorious thing. While almost any reputable butcher would be more than happy to fashion a crown rack of lamb, it's fairly simple to throw together. A little prep goes a long way for a big payoff.

I positioned  2 frenched racks of lamb (1 1/2 pounds each with 8 rib chops  per rack) flesh side down side by side on a large cutting board. After slicing small slits between the rib bones for easy bending, I stitched the two racks together where they met using kitchen twine and a butchers needle. I flipped the joined racks over, pulled the ends of the racks together ( loin side facing in) until they met, and secured the loose ends with additional twine. After forming the racks into the shape of a crown, I double looped the base of the crown with twine, pulled it taut, tied it up, trimmed the loose twine, and showered the meat with salt and pepper before setting the lamb aside.

Crusted.
I mixed 1/2 cup dijon mustard, 2 tablespoons local honey, and 1 tablespoon Makers Mark bourbon until combined before slathering the sweet boozy mustard over the outer side of the lamb.

After combining  4 minced garlic cloves, 4 tablespoons minced fresh parsley, 3 tablespoons minced fresh thyme, and 1 tablespoon minced fresh rosemary to form a lose paste, I patted the garlicky herbs over the mustard coating  before placing the crown rack on top of a bed of chopped carrots, leeks, celery, and onions scattered willy-nilly in a large cast iron skillet. After adding 1/2 cup white wine to the skillet, I drizzled the lamb with olive oil, slipped aluminum foil caps over each of the exposed rib bones to prevent over browning,  and slid the crown rack of lamb into a preheated 425 degree oven for about 40 minutes.

Shaved.
A perky salad for Easter lamb.
After whisking 1/2 cup extra virgin olive oil, 3 tablespoons fresh squeezed lemon juice, 1 teaspoon dijon mustard, salt, and cracked black pepper until the dressing emulsified, I shaved 2 pounds rainbow carrots and 1 1/2 pounds asparagus into delicate ribbons with a v-shaped vegetable peeler, tossed the ribbons with the vinaigrette, and set the salad aside.

When the lamb reached an internal temp of 130 degrees, I pulled it from the oven to rest, removed the pieces of foil, and strained the pan juices to serve alongside the lamb.

After a 10 minute rest, I filled the cavity of the lamb with minted basmati rice and nestled the crown rack onto a bed of perky pea shoots and watercress before finishing with the shaved vegetable salad,  slivered shallots, and crunchy fresh radishes.

Easter lamb.
Crowned.

Irish Hand Pies. Dingle All The Way.

Cue the bagpipes and top off the Guinness, St. Patrick's Day is coming on soon. While some of us might celebrate the patron saint of Ireland with a one way ticket to boozeland, most folks might toast the day with iconic Irish fare. I'm on team both. Not only is St. Patrick's Day a great day to kick back with dyed green beer, pints of Guinness, or shots of Jamesons, it's also a day to celebrate and explore the food that evokes thoughts of shamrocks and pots of gold. On the other side of the rainbow,  we're all a wee bit Irish on St. Patrick's Day.

Pick your craving. Although braised corned beef and cabbage is more Irish American than Irish, it remains  the benchmark grub on St. Patrick's Day. And while sleepy shepherd's pies, bangers and mash, cottage pies, lamb stews, or Dublin coddles are calming comfort staples, Irish hand pies punch the ticket for serious on-the-go revelers who crave a drink in one hand with food in the other.

Almost anything can be fashioned into hand pies. Similar to Cornish pasties (meat and vegetable filled hand pies), lesser known Dingle hand pies, from County Kerry,  bring spiced mutton or lamb to the party. Braised with humble root vegetables like a traditional lamb stew, the filling for Dingle pie gets an unexpected kick from the addition of ground cumin and cinnamon.

County Kerry Dingle Hand Pies.

A simple stew.
I trimmed and cubed 2 pounds Double F boneless lamb shoulder  into 1" pieces, seasoned the meat with salt and cracked black pepper, and dredged the meat in flour (shaking off the excess flour) before browning it in 3 tablespoons rendered bacon fat. When deeply browned, I removed the meat to a side plate and tumbled 2 chopped parsnips, 3 chopped carrots, 2 sliced celery stalks, 1 medium diced onion, and 2 diced yukon gold potatoes into the sizzling fat. After showering the vegetables with salt, I added 1 tablespoon tomato paste and swirled it through the vegetables for even cooking. When the tomato paste caramelized around the softened vegetables, I added 2 minced garlic cloves, 1 teaspoon ground cumin, 1/2 teaspoon ground cinnamon, 2 tablespoons flour, salt, and pepper. After the flour tightened the spiced vegetables, I added 4 cups warmed  beef stock, 1/4 cup minced fresh parsley, and 2 fresh bay leaves. I brought the stew to a boil, reduced it to a simmer, added the reserved lamb (along with the juices), covered the pot, and slipped  it into a preheated 350 degree oven.

After 1 1/2 hours, I pulled the stew from the oven and let it cool completely before sliding into the refrigerator to chill.

Wrap it up.
Once thoroughly chilled, I removed the thin layer of fat and scooped 1/3 cup of the meat and vegetable filling onto 1/4"x 4" rounds of basic short crust pastry. After brushing the edges with egg wash, I folded the pastry into half moons, carefully sealed the seams, brushed the pies with egg wash, used kitchen shears to snip tiny vents into the dough, and slid the pies into a preheated 450 degree oven.

When the pies turned golden brown, about 25 minutes, I pulled them from the oven and let them rest before finishing with flaked sea salt and fresh parsley.





One handed wonders.
Sealed in crispy crust and kissed with subtle warm spice, the meltingly tender lamb swirled through the savory stew. While the root vegetables added soft sweet earthiness, the flaky crust provided buttery crunch. Perfect finger food. Hand pies.

Grab and Go.
Follow the rainbow.
Dingle all the way.

Wine And Cheese

Like walking a tight rope of hope, navigating the frenzy around special occasion date nights can be tricky business. I'm looking at you, Valentine's Day. Whether it's a big night out at a fancy-shmancy restaurant, the comfort of a local dive bar, or the warmth of a cozy fireside meal, we all want something special, romantic, and memorable.  I totally get the hype and the hope. And while I'm  down with  the glitz, glam, and hoopla of a big night out, I'm also perfectly content with a simple low key riff on wine and cheese.

Drunken Red Wine Spaghetti With Gorgonzola Mousse.
Spaghetti cooked in red wine brings sexy to the table.

Whip It Up.
With a haunting pungent funk, the creamy buttery texture of blue-veined Italian gorgonzola dolce works magic when blended into a savory ethereal mousse.

After bringing 6 ounces gorgonzola  and 3 ounces cream cheese to room temperature, I used an old fashioned hand held mixer to whip them together until fully combined and set the mix aside.

Working with a chilled bowl and whisk on a stand mixer, I whipped 3/4 cups heavy whipping cream until soft peaks formed before adding 1 tablespoon sherry.  When the whipped cream formed stiff peaks, I gently folded the creamed gorgonzola into the whipped cream until it almost floated off my spatula, covered the mousse plastic wrap, and set it aside.

Lady And The Tramp.
Spaghetti. Plain old dried spaghetti. That's the happy dance here. As much as I love making fresh pasta, scratch made pasta doesn't work with this method. It cooks too quickly. Dried spaghetti needs time to absorb the wine as it cooks while remaining al dente. Total win.

With a bit of pot juggling, drunken spaghetti is simple and quick. Little effort. Big payoff.

Double duty.
Working over a medium flame,  I sauteed 2 minced shallots in 2 tablespoons olive oil in a wide high-sided saute pan. When the shallots turned translucent, I added 2 minced garlic cloves, a pinch of dried red pepper flakes, 1 teaspoon dried oregano, salt, and cracked black pepper. After letting the garlic release into the oil, I hit the pan with a full bottle (750ml) of Cabernet-Sauvignon.

While the aromatic wine did its thing, I filled a large stock pot with water and bought it to a rolling boil before adding a handful of salt  and 1 pound dried spaghetti. After 3 minutes, I drained the pasta, reserving 1 cup of pasta water, and feathered it into the simmering red wine. Once added to the wine, I cranked the heat to high and boiled the pasta for 6-8 minutes until tender (yet, still al dente) and the pasta absorbed the wine. After adding 1/4 cup of the reserved pasta water and 1/4 cup freshly grated parmigiano-reggiano cheese, I pulled the pasta from the heat and downed a glass of comforting Cabernet.

Twirl.
While the pasta was still warm, I used a large carving fork to twirl it into shape, piped the gorgonzola mousse to the side, and nestled  prosciutto-wrapped fresh Bartlett pears into the mousse before finishing with a drizzle of extra virgin olive oil, fresh parsley, and flaked sea salt.

Infused and stained with red wine, the pasta popped with robust earthy undertones. Faintingly light, the creamy mousse softened and swirled through the drunken spaghetti, tempering the tinge of heat from the red pepper flakes. While the parsley and olive oil added fruity grassiness.  the prosciutto-wrapped pears provided salty fresh crunch.

A little wine and cheese.
A little unexpected.

Fabulous.