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.