Canonchef

Spaghetti? Nope.

2012-01-25T18:17:00.001-05:00

I've spent the past few weeks testing authentic Dominican Rebublic recipes for a work event that took place last weekend. Testing recipes has a special meaning in our home. As usual, the testings turned into several Dominican suppers for Michael and me. Thankfully, he was a good sport about our Caribbean culinary journey. Pollo Chicherones (lime-marinated double fried chicken), Pollo Guisada (soffrito-spiced stewed chicken), tostones, rice, and beans became our temporary new norm. While tatsy, after weeks of eating our way through their unique and delicious cuisine, we needed a change of pace. Big time.

I still had a gorgeous Stripetti spaghetti squash from Elmwood Farm plopped inside a giant wooden bowl on our kitchen countertop. Although we adore straight-up roasted and buttered spaghetti squash, I wanted to put a new spin on it, so I used a dozen small littleneck clams and threw together a riff on spaghetti alle vongole (spaghetti with clams......or, spaghetti squash with clams).

After preheating the oven to 350 degrees, I halved the squash, scooped out the seeds, brushed the flesh with olive oil, seasoned it with salt & pepper, and placed the squash halves cut side down on a baking sheet before sliding them into the oven to roast for an hour.

While the squash baked, I diced a 1/3 cup red bell pepper, 1/3 cup green bell pepper, and 1 small shallot into small diagonals before setting them aside. After a couple of glases of wine, I played around with a few meyer lemons. Shellfish. Lemons. No brainer. I wanted more. I wanted contrasting textures and layers of lemon flavor, so I thinly sliced three meyer lemons into wheels before slicing one into half moons and setting it aside for a bright acidic garnish. After cranking the deep fryer to 375 degrees, I lightly dusted the remaining lemon wheels with cornstarch and fried them until golden brown. Sea salt and fresh parsley flecks finished them off.

I wanted another depth of salty crunch for the steamed clams. Although crispy fried bacon was the obvious choice, I had a few leftover shavings of Browning's Country Ham tucked away in the meat drawer of the refigerator that I picked up at the Kentucky Proud Market during one of my many trips through the Lexington Civic Center last week. Perfect. I julienned the ham shavings and baked them alongside the squash for 10 minutes until they morphed into glistening country ham brittle. Perfect.

After an hour, I pulled the spaghetti squash from the oven and used a fork to scrape the delicate threads from the halved shells before tossing them with melted unsalted butter.

While the squash absorbed its sweet butter bath, I melted 2 tablespoons of butter into an equal amount of olive oil in a large skillet over a medium flame. When the butter started to brown a bit, I tossed the reserved peppers and shallots into the sizzling butter/oil combination. After they softened, I added 2 tablespoons of minced garlic and deglazed the pan with 1 cup of white wine. When the wine reduced by 1/2, I spiked it with 1 cup of bottled clam juice and tumbled the tiny littleneck clams into the boiling stock. I showered the clams with fresh meyer lemon juice, fresh parsley, and (on a whim) split grape tomatoes before covering them to steam open.

Within seconds, the briny clams opened their shells upward, revealing their plump sexy meat. Annointed with flavor, I pulled them from the heat.

After twirling the spaghetti squash into large pasta bowls, I placed the steamed clams around the squash and bathed them with the aromatic stock. After nestling the fried lemon wheels between the clams, I scattered minced fresh red and green bell peppers over them to mimic and contrast their sauteed counterparts. To gild the lily, I crumbled the country ham brittle onto each splayed juicy clam.

The clams were sweet and tender. They exploded with flavor, squirting briny juices that mixed with the bright lemony luscious stock. Bits of crisped ham added crunch and saltiness while the peppers provided tiny bursts of wet freshness. The spaghetti squash, bathed with stock, was perfect. The strands were delicate and light, yet bold enough to retain thier integrity after being slathered and scattered with an array of wonderful crazy ingredients.

Roasted spaghetti squash with clams.

Fabulous.

The Indoor Winter Market...

2012-01-16T18:19:00.000-05:00

Early last Saturday morning, I planned to quietly slip out of the house for a quick trip to the indoor winter farmers' market. Although it's a fairly short walk from our house, I decided to drive because it was freezing outside. I grabbed my Martha Stewart market-designated canvas tote bag and drove down our driveway. After two or three thumpity thumps, I realized I had a flat tire. Great. Michael was sound asleep. It was really early, very cold, and I was dressed like an unkempt overly bundled up character from a wintertime South Park episode. All bundled up with nowhere to go. Bliss.

I cautiously jostled Michael awake, without scaring him to death in my arctic outfit, and we eventually swapped driveway car positions. I used his car for my 'quick' market excursion. I loved the serenity of the indoor winter farmers' market. It was calm and quiet with gentle guitar music humming through hidden speakers. It felt great to be back at the market.

Quarles Farm had canned vegetables, salsas, chow-chows, relishes, breads, and coffee cakes. Even at 9:00 a.m. , I couldn't resist a taste of their stewed beef wafting heavenly aromas from cranked up slow cookers. Samples? Sure.

Perched on a higher level overlooking the other vendors, Elmwood Farm offered the motherload of the indoor market. They had the usual suspects; baskets of watermelon radishes, beets, turnips, black radishes, sweet potatoes, collard greens, winter squash, gorgeous celeriac, garlic, organic eggs, and chicken.

I was totally surprized by bags of fresh English Bordeaux spinach. Really? In January? With deep green lacy leaves highlighted by bright red viens and stems, the spinach reminded me of delicate swiss chard. Apparently, it's a hardy variety that grows profusely until temperatures dip into the teens. They actually harvested ~~their~~ my spinach during our latest snowfall!. It was still damp....from the snow. Wow.

I filled my bag with organic eggs, spinach, Stripetti squash, garlic, and sweet potatoes before driving home.

It's been a while since our kitchen countertops were covered with market booty. I was giiddy and couldn't wait to play with my stash.

I wanted to try something different with the small sweet potatoes, so I adapted a recipe from Fine Cooking and threw together individual sweet potato and goat cheese galettes. Crazy, right? Goat cheese and sweet potatoes? Weird, fascinating, fabulous, and a far cry from sweet potato casserole.

Before getting started, I slushed through our snow-covered back deck to snip handfuls of fresh thyme and chives. I pulled out my mandolin and sliced the sweet potatoes into thin rounds. After buttering small individual ramekins, I filled them with alternating layers of sweet potatoes, parmigiano reggiano, crumbled goat cheese, fresh thyme, salt, and pepper before ending with a final layer of goat cheese.

After preheating the oven to 375 degrees, I placed the galettes onto a foil-lined sheet pan and slid them into the oven to bake alongside a pan of roasting whole grape tomatoes.

Because the individual galettes were small, I checked on them frequently. I burn stuff...a lot. Really. Yep. After 45 minutes, they were beautifully browned and tender, so I pulled them from the oven to rest.

Pomegranate Molasses-Glazed Smoked Pork Chops.

I cranked a cast iron grill pan over high heat until it was smoking hot and tossed two smoked boneless pork chops onto the grill to cook through. While the chops caramelized on the grill, I brushed them generously with a thick ruby red glaze made with 1/2 cup pomegranate molasses, 2 tablespoons of dark brown sugar, the juice of a fresh lemon, and a splash of red wine. The glaze seared onto the pork flesh like molten lava, sealing the juices inside while encrusting it in a sweet tart candied pomegranate shell. Just before the pork chops combusted, I pulled them from heat and slid them into a low oven to keep warm.

After a glass of wine or three, I gave the snow-kissed spinach a quick rinse before sauteing it in olive oil with minced garlic, shallots, and julienned red bell peppers.

I plated the wilted garlicky spinach and nestled the sweet potato goat cheese galettes into the spinach nests. After scattering fresh julienned red peppers over the spinach and galettes, I slid the tart sticky pomegranate glazed pork chops onto our plates before tumbling roasted grape tomatoes to the side. Lemon zest and sliced chives finished them off.

Ok. So, here's the deal. It was a ridiculous riot of flavor. Really. The earthy spinach balanced the tart sweet moistness of the pork chops with bits of pungent garlic, sweet red pepper, and meltingly soft shallots. When sliced, the plump roasted grape tomatoes popped their sweet wet juices over the pork, creating a bonus sauce. Win. The sweet potato goat cheese galettes were ridiculous. Oh. My. The cheeses didn't ooze or drip. It wasn't about that. The galettes were delicate, soft, and sweet. The nutty parmigiano added subtle saltiness while the fresh thyme provided floral undertones. The goat cheese profoundly elevated the simple galettes to another level. Suspended between layers of thinly sliced sweet potatoes, the soft goat cheese had the mouthfeel of tangy soft marshmallows. Air pillows. Clouds. Fabulous.

Wow.

Check out the indoor winter farmers' market.

It's full of surprizes.

Glitter Dust

2012-01-07T18:14:00.002-05:00

The broken ornaments have been swept away and the glitter dust has settled on the holiday season. It was a whirlwind run with head-spinning action, eating, drinking, and merry making.

Although it's over, reminders of the Christmas carnage still dot our kitchen counters. Gifted bottles of red wine, corked and uncorked, stand at attention like a a vintner's Stonehenge.

Michael and I don't drink a lot of red wine. When we have leftover wine, I usually cook with it.

On the final day of my short holiday break, I used a bottle of Kendall Jackson Merlot for a slow and lanquid braised beef bourguignon. Typically, I'm not fussy with the details of beef bourguinon. I'll brown some beef, deglaze the pot with red wine, add beef stock, toss in a few vegetables, and throw it into the oven to bubble away. A few days ago, I felt frisky and had an entire day to putz around in the kitchen. As a final curtsy and nod to the end of a fabulous holiday season, I embraced the details of cooking a good beef bourguignon.

The method was fairly straightforward. Orderly steps and mise en place were key.

Marinate. Brown. Braise. Garnish.

I sliced 1 1/2 pounds of well marbled beef chuck into large cubes and doused it with a full bottle of Kendall Jackson Merlot. After adding fresh thyme, bay leaves, chopped carrots, onions, and garlic, I slid the red wine beef bath into the refrigerator to marinate for a few hours.

After 5 hours in the fridge, I brought the purple wine-tinted meat to room temperature and patted it dry.

I sliced a few pieces of thick cut bacon into lardons, browned them in olive oil until crisp, and removed them to drain. While the sizzling bacon fat was still spitting hot, I browned the beef in batches until the fat melted away and the flesh was beautifully caramelized. I removed the beef to drain before tossing the marinated vegetables into the smoking crimson-stained bacon fat.

Once the vegetables browned, I slid the beef (with their juices) back into the pot, added a tablespoon of tomato paste, and let it saute until the tomato paste coated the beef. When the tomato paste caramelized, I flambeed the mix with 1/3 cup brandy, deglazed the pot with the reserved marinade, let it reduce by half, and added beef stock to barely cover the beef. I brought the stew to a boil, reduced it a simmer, covered the pot, and slid it into a 325 degree oven to braise for 3 hours.

Michael and I adore eating beef stew, beef in red wine, or beef bourguignon served over pasta. Specifically, perfectly cooked egg noodles. Although I can make pasta in my sleep, I've never attempted egg noodles. That was the challenge.

While the bourguignon simmered in the oven, I made pasta.

I haven't followed a pasta recipe in years. By trusting my instincts and feeling the dough, I usually know when it's ready to roll. On any given day, depending on weather conditions, the measurements for pasta dough can vary.

I sifted 2 cups of Weisenberger Mill unbleached all purpose flour onto a large wooden cutting board. After forming a well in the center of the four, I added 1 whole egg, 2 egg yolks, a pinch of salt, a drizzle of olive oil, and a 1/3 cup water. Using three fingers, I gently mixed the eggs with a bit of the flour before gradually pulling the remaining flour into the center and mixing it until a loose, somewhat sticky, ball formed. After adding a few drops of water to bring it together, I kneaded the dough for several minutes, formed it into a ball, covered it with plastic wrap, and let it rest for 30 minutes to allow the glutens to develope.

After clamping my pasta roller to the side of the kitchen island and preparing the working area, I was ready to roll. I cut the dough into thirds and floured it. Starting with the lowest setting, I passed the dough through the rollers several times, increasing the setting after each pass until I reached the final setting and the pasta sheets were paper thin.

Freestyle. After allowing the pasta sheets to dry for a few minutes, I cut them into 4 inch squares before slicing the squares into 1/2 inch ribbons. I wasn't sure how to form egg noodles, so I simply wrapped the ribbons around a wooden spoon handle and slid them off onto floured dish towels. Unconventional. Not egg noodles. Not even close. What the hell. Who cared? I finished rolling my curly pasta noodles and set them aside to dry.

Nothing can fill a home with warmth like a long simmering braise. Within an hour, amazing aromas seeped into every crevice of our old house, covering the windows with delicate steam. Heaven.

After 3 hours, I pulled the bourguignon from the oven to rest before removing the beef to finish the sauce. Classsically, the sauce is thickened with a beuure manie (kneaded butter and flour). I wanted a bit more body and texture, so I pureed the braised vegetables in the beefy red wine stock and finished it with a few pats of butter for lusciousness. After tumbling the tender meat back into the sauce to warm through, I pulled everything else together.

I brushed off a handful of small cremini mushrooms and tossed them into a hot skillet with butter, olive oil, and minced garlic. When they turned golden brown, I added blanched pearl onions, fresh parsley, salt, pepper, and let them rip until the onions were caramelized.

I dropped the pasta into heavily salted boiling water to cook for 7 minutes while Michael and I finished our glasses of wine.

Bring the beef.

I drained the steaming noodles, tossed them with butter, plated them, and topped them with gorgeous shreds of beef bourguignon. After sprinking the reserved crisp bacon lardons over the top, I scattered the sauteed mushrooms and pearl onions around our plates.

To balance the richness of the stew, I served a peppery watercress, artichoke, and celery leaf salad, dressed simply with fresh lemon juice, olice oil, salt, and pepper. Bright. Clean. Fresh.

The meat was ridiculously moist, tender, and deeply infused with the earthy tannins of the red wine. The buttery rich sauce dripped from the uncutous meat and oozed through the noodles until it puddled on our plates. Crisp bacon added salty crunch to the soft mushrooms and candied onions. Texture. Balance.

Crazy good.

At the same moment (without even noticing it) Michael and I both had moved the beef slices to the sides of our plates. Although the sensual succulent meat was fabulous, it was all about the pasta, onions, bacon, mushrooms, and sauce. The noodles were perfectly al dente. Velvety and to the tooth. Brilliant. After absorbing the rich sauce, they were meaty and soft with a wonderful mouthfeel.

Best batch of pasta I've ever conjured up.

I had a dream day in the kitchen. The world was my oyster. No deadlines. No worries. No glitter.

Just fun.

And good food.

As Smooth As Butter

2011-12-31T17:10:00.003-05:00

After living in Europe and Africa for 10 years as the kid of an Army officer, my father moved our family back to the States to prepare for his Army retirement. Before the actual move, we took an extended European farewell tour as we made our way to Naples, Italy to board the U.S.S. Constitution for our trans-Atlantic journey home.. We lived out of suitcases for weeks while we country-hopped from Africa to Egypt, Turkey, Greece, Spain, and Italy. The last leg of our trip resulted in a two week stay in Rome before taking a final train ride to Naples for our Atlantic sailing.

We stayed in an ancient crumbling hotel overlooking a piazza dotted with fountains, people, and rambling motorbikes. By American standards, the hotel certainly would have been condemned. It wasn't America. Situated on the edge of an old Italian piazza, our hotel was considered a thing of beauty. We had modest accomodations with marbled floors that glistened under floor-to-ceiling windows purposely cracked open for fresh air which allowed sheer white curtains to flutter from warm gentle breezes. Heaven.

As a nod to public safety, (and our own) we were told to stay off of the balcony. It was probably hanging onto the side of the hotel by a mere whisper of hope. Being an inquisitive and precocious kid, I was fascinated with the off-limits balcony. How could it be forbidden territory? It was ours, wasn't it? I stared at that damn balcony every morning, yearning to test the warnings by jumping up and down on it with my heavy scruffed-up Buster Brown lace-up shoes. As much as I wanted to test the fates, I played by the rules and left the balcony alone. My father was an Army Major. There would have been hell to pay for that mischief.

We spent our days in Rome sightseeing and eating our way around the city. Although the various pastas, pizzas, and pastries were fabulous, my fondest Roman food memory was the simple butter that accompanied our morning continental breakfasts. Served at room temperature in tiny glass bowls on linen covered trays, the butter arrived every morning surrounded by crunchy rolls and pots of jam. Sweet. Clean. Fresh. I couldn't get enough of it.

Nowadays, when Michael and I want high end European style butter, we'll simply buy Plugra, President, or Kerrygold Irish butter. When I crave the taste of my childhood Roman holiday, I'll make butter.

A few nights ago, I caved into my craving and literally whipped up 1/2 pound of fresh soft butter.

No recipe. I really didn't do anything. It just happened.

Using a stand mixer with a whisk attachment, I whipped a pint of organic heavy whipping cream until it formed beautiful stiff peaks. Whipped cream. Standard.

After thoroughly wrapping the stand mixer with plastic wrap, (trust me on that) I turned the speed up to medium high and let it rip for about 25 minutes until the whipped cream broke apart and I could see splashing liquid splattering around the mixing bowl. I turned off the mixer and removed the plastic wrap. Fresh butter dangled over a pool of residual buttermilk. Fabulous.

After scooping the soft butter into a chinois to drain, I squeezed it into a ball to release any additional liquid.

I tossed the buttermilk, scraped the creamy fresh butter into an eggplant-shaped butter dish, and topped it fresh snipped chives.

Bon Appetito!

Elfin Shenanigans... Snacks, Leftovers & Stuff

2011-12-22T17:54:00.003-05:00

A few nights ago, we had a few friends over to share a little holiday cheer. After a full night of merry making, we tucked the nutcrackers into their silver tree branches and unplugged the Christmas Disco Seal before dragging our tired butts to bed.

Early the next morning, (still tightly bound in my red and green elf tights) I was back in the kitchen scrubbing cabernet sauvignon splatters from every kitchen appliance. It was hysterical.

When everything was clean and back in order, I scrounged for something simple to cook for dinner. With small snippets of leftover party snacks dotting every inch of refrigerater space, things looked bleak until I found a small tub of Dad's Favorites Beer Cheese tucked under a glistening halved pomegranate in the vegetable bin. In a split hangover-induced second, it dawned on me that beer cheese would make a great filling for grilled cheese sandwiches.

I'm a firm believer that a little hair of the dog soothes a weary hangover, so Michael and I chugged a few margaritas as an elixir to ours. Emboldened by the power of tequila on a quiet Sunday afternoon, I threw together a couple of ordinary white bread sandwich loaves for our grilled beer cheese sandwiches.

Thankfully, my 18 year old KitchenAid stand mixer did most of the work.

I proofed 1 tablespoon of yeast with 1/2 cup warm water (110 degrees) 1 tablespoon sugar, and a pinch of salt in the bowl of the mixer. When it bubbled and foamed, I added 3 1/2 cups bread flour, attached the dough hook, and blended the mixture on low speed until it was fully incorporated. After adding an additional 3 1/2 cups flour, 1 cup warm water, I cranked the speed to medium and let it rip for 10 minutes before turning the dough out on a floured cutting board.

I gave the plump dough a few pats, tucked it into a ball, and dropped it into an oiled bowl (covered) to rise and double in size before slicing it in half with a bench scraper. I folded the halves in rectangles, pinched the seams, snuggled them into 2 buttered loaf pans, and let them rest for a second rise.

After 45 minutes, I slit the tops of the loaves, brushed them with egg wash, and slid them into a 350 degree oven to bake until golden brown.

Once the loaves cooled completely on a wire rack, I sliced enough pieces for Michael to make killer grilled beer cheese sandwiches flecked with baby arugula and biting minced shallots. Jacked up comfort food. The buttered crunchy grilled white bread oozed with spicy beer cheese. While the slightly wilted baby arugula provided fresh peppery bitterness, tiny shallots added subtle bursts of wetness. Elevated grilled cheese. Fabulous.

A couple of nights later, Michael's sister stopped by with a friend. We needed snacks, so I sliced the remaining bread into very thin batons, trimmed the crusts, brushed them olive oil, and baked the crostini until they were golden brown. After they cooled, I topped them with sliced brie, caramelized pears, and toasted pecans before sliding them back into the oven to melt the brie. I finished the crostini with sliced fresh Red Barlett pears, chives, and served them with clusters of globe grapes. Smalls bites of crunchy bread, gooey mild cheese, sticky caramelized pears, toasted pecans, and moist fresh pears. Crazy good. Repurposed party leftovers. Heaven.

Happy Holidays!

Not Just For Toast

2011-12-07T17:54:00.002-05:00

I taught the Culinary Arts Bourbon-Style Cooking School at the Kentucky Bourbon Festival for two years before eventually stepping down to let someone else take over. It was fun, but a lot work. The process took months of menu planning and recipe testing before actually taking our little traveling bourbon show on the road to My Old Kentucky Home State Park in Bardstown, Kentucky. Both years, I cooked five bourbon-filled courses for sold-out crowds of 230 people before demonstrating all the courses on stage while they ate them. Crazy.

I had a blast doing it, but after planning, testing, tasting, and drinking hundreds of bourbon-infused recipes, I bottomed out on bourbon. To this day, I rarely drink or cook with bourbon......until last night.

Lately, I've tossed around ideas for something to cook for an upcoming family Chritstmas dinner we enjoy every year housed in a cabin overlooking the lake at Barren River Lake State Resort Park. It's a potluck affair for a large group of people packed into a rented cabin anchored by a tiny kitchen with very limited storage...150 miles away. Tricky business. Think about it.

While rifling through our kitchen cabinets and pantry for potluck inspiration, I stumbled across a small jar of Kentucky Proud Applecreek Orchards Bourbon Cherry Preserves that Michael picked up when we attended The Incredible Food Show in October. Bourbon cherry preserves? Uh, bourbon? My head started spinning. During the food show, vendors from Applecreek Orchards served samples of their Bourbon Cherry Preserves on pretzels and toast points..

Nope. I used it to slather a bourbon-soaked honey cured smoked ham.

I fell off of the bourbon barrel.

After scoring the outer layer of fat on a small 3 pound honey cured smoked ham, I slowly brushed the split fat and exposed ham flesh with 1/2 cup of Maker's Mark 46 bourbon. While the ham soaked up the potent 94 proof bourbon, I mixed together 1 cup of dark brown sugar, 1 tablespoon of ground mustard, 1/2 tablespoon of ground ginger, and a tablespoon of fresh minced rosemary. I rubbed the wet ham with the spiced brown sugar, wrapped it tightly in aluminum foil, placed it into a dutch oven with 1/2 cup of water, covered the pot , and slid it into a 350 degree oven to bake for an hour.

While the smoked ham simmered in its intial sugary bourbon bath, I threw together a finishing glaze using the Applecreek Orchards Bourbon Cherry Preserves. I melted 8 ounces of the preserves in a small sauce pan over a medium flame before adding 1/4 cup red wine vinegar and 2 heaping teaspoons of prepared horseradish. I brought the glaze to a quick boil, reduced it to a simmer, and let it bubble away to thicken before setting it aside.

After 45 minutes, I uncovered the ham, basted it with the gooey brown sugar rosemary-flecked Maker's Mark 46 pan drippings, brushed it with the bourbon cherry glaze, and returned it to the oven (uncovered) for an additional 15 to 30 minutes to finish cooking.

When the ham was beautifully glazed and caramelized, I pulled it from the oven, let it rest, and joined Michael in the parlor to finish off the last of our Georges Duboeuf Beaujolaise Nouveau.

Good to the last drop.

After slicing the glistening glazed ham, I served it on puddles of the sticky bourbon pan juices nestled alongside blistered Green Beans Amandine and individual pots of creamy Weisenberger Mill spoonbread. Old school.

Without being cloyingly sweet, the succulent ham hinted a slight caramel flavor from the Maker's 46-infused brown sugar sauna. Peppered with hot pungent horseradish, the dreamy bourbon cherry preserves oozed over the salty smoked ham, creating a fabulous sweet and savory balance. Pork candy.

Double shot.

Maker's 46.

Applecreek Orchards Bourbon Cherry Preserves.

Not just for cocktails or breakfast.

Try it on pig.

Roasted & Toasted

2011-12-01T17:58:00.002-05:00

A few days before our farmers' market closed down for the season, I stocked up on several varieties of winter squash; butternut, spaghetti, delicata, and acorn. After cooking most of them, a lone Elmwood Stock Farm acorn squash sat nestled in a wooden bowl on the countertop for over a week. I'd grown weary of sweet and sticky lip-smacking glazed roasted squash, so I ignored it.

A few nights ago, I needed low impact time in the kitchen. I didn't want to labor over anything fiddly or fussy, so I took a second glance at the neglected countertop squash and decided to throw together a very simple roasted acorn squash soup using my familiar method for butternut squash soup.

After halving the squash, I scooped out the seeds, brushed the cut sides with olive oil, seasoned them with salt and pepper, and slid them into a 350 degree oven (cut side down) to roast for 45 minutes. While the squash roasted, I sliced a couple of carrots, diced an onion, chopped a celery stalk, and diced a peeled bosc pear (unconventional). I tumbled the vegetables into a soup pot, added 2 cups of chicken stock, brought the stock to a boil, reduced it to a simmer, seasoned it, covered the pot, and let the vegetables bubble away until they were tender.

I wanted a crisp garnish for the soup, but knew that croutons would swell into gigantic puffy glops of bread. Although I usually suck at toasting seeds (burn baby burn), I took a chance and toasted the seeds from the acorn squash. After rinsing and drying the seeds, I tossed them with melted smoked paprika butter before sliding them into the oven to toast alongside the roasting squash.

I poured myself a glass of wine and joined Michael in the parlor. My tufted chenille chair blissfully swallowed me whole. Happy camper.

I almost forgot that I was cooking.

When the squash was beautifully caramelized and tender, I scooped the flesh from the shells, plopping it into a blender with the chicken stock and cooked vegetables. Using a kitchen towel to cover the blender (trust me on that one), I pureed the mix until smooth, poured the puree back into the soup pot, thinned it out with a bit of chicken stock, gave it a taste, and kept it warm over a low flame until we were ready to eat.

After a glass of wine or three, I ladled the velvety roasted acorn squash soup into our chipped hand-me-down Bybee Pottery bowls before finishing it with swirls of pure maple syrup-infused sour cream, toasted spiced seeds, and fresh snipped chives

The soup was lighter than air with a soft luxurious mouthfeel. While the tangy sour cream cut through the richness with smoky maple nuance, the verdant chives added tiny bites of freshness and the toasted seeds provided crunch.

Fabulous.

Bottoms Up

2011-11-27T17:43:00.004-05:00

I promised Michael I wouldn't touch my camera during Thanksgiving. My sincere promise would've held up if it hadn't been for a bloody mary influenced mismanagement of time that forced me to roast our tangerine, celery, and onion stuffed herb-buttered 13 pound turkey much later than I'd planned. While I sliced, diced, chopped, assembled, and sipped bloody marys, time simply slipped away.

Mise un place.

It wasn't the end of the world because we had nowhere to go or nothing to do except lounge in our pajamas all day. Heaven-ish. We eventually got hungry. It was Thanksgiving day, for heaven's sake. Eat. Pimento cheese stuffed celery sticks quelled our appetites for a nanosecond. By mid aftternoon, I would have sold my soul for a bowl of chili.

Eschewing peanut butter, cashew brittle, or cheese sandwiches, I decided to make a snack with a few shucked Blue Point oysters from Charlies Seafood. We had oysters on deck because...well...it was Thanksgiving. Gotta have oysters. Although I wasn't sure where they'd fit into our meal, we had them safely tucked away for something.

With plenty of time to kill, I played around in the kitchen and turned our something oysters into a mid-day riff on Oysters Rockefeller. Last Thanksgiving, I made a bloody muddy mess in our kitchen shucking a dozen Blue Point oysters from the Lexington Seafood Company for an epic pre-dinner amuse bouche. Lesson learned. Not again. This year, I bought them shucked with their liquor reserved. Safe. Clean. Happy. No shells.

No shells? For Oysters Rockefeller? Nope. I had artichoke bottoms. Think about it.

Ok, so here's the deal. I adore fresh artichokes. There are few things sexier than plucking petals from a beautifully steamed artichoke, dipping them in drawn butter or hollandaise, and scraping the soft flesh with clinched teeth through pouty puckered lips. Pluck. Dip. Suck. Repeat. All the way down to the hairy choke.

I also enjoy well turned fresh artichoke hearts and bottoms..... if somebody else does the tedious work. Who the hell enjoys cleaning, snipping, peeling, slicing, and paring a raw artichoke down to its glorious bottom? Not me. At All. I always end up with nothing, so I used frozen artichoke bottoms for our Oysters Rockefeller. Yeah, I know. Cop out. Shoot me. It was only a snack and I didn't need a gigantic bowl of acidulated water to keep the fresh botttoms from turning grey.

Traditionally, Oysters Rockefeller are baked on the half shell, topped with a mixture of minced parsley, chervil, watercress, green onion, tarragon, butter, and a splash of anise flavored Herbsaint or Pernod. Too much work. I pared the preparation down to a simpler quick snacky riff on the traditional version using artichoke bottoms as a base.

It was fun, too.

While the artichoke bottoms thawed, I sliced thick-cut applewood smoked bacon into lardons and fried them in butter until crisp. After removing the bacon to drain, I tossed minced shallots and garlic into the buttery bacon fat to sweat before tumbling a handful of baby spinach (stems included) into the mix to wilt. When the spinach collapsed from the heat, I pulled everything out of the pan to cool. In lieu of Pernod or Herbsaint, I splashed the glistening sauteed spinach with white wine and ground fennel. That was it.

After canking the oven to 425 degrees, I seasoned the artichokes with salt, pepper, and a dusting of ground parmigiano reggiano. After placing a plump Blue Point oyster into each artichoke bottom, I topped them with the sauteed garlic/fennel infused spinach, lemon butter, parmigiano reggiano, and the reserved bacon before slidimg them into the oven to bake for 8-10 minutes.

Oh my. Each bite literally exploded with layered flavors. The barely cooked oysters popped through the garlicky spinach, salty bacon, and nutty parmigiano, squirting sweet briney oyster juice swirled with hints of fennel and lemon down our throats. Oyster G-Spot. Perfect.

Although I missed slurping oysters from their craggy shells, the artichoke bottoms provided a calming balance to their riotous toppings.

Soft.

Smooth.

And a bit naughty.

Tricky Times

2011-11-20T17:01:00.002-05:00

The days leading up to Thanksgiving can be tricky times in our kitchen. Generally, Michael and I don't want to eat or taste anything remotely familiar to the food we look forward to eating on Thanksgiving day. Anticipation.

I've spent the past few days dancing around Thanksgiving flavors.

A few nights ago, we devoured a slow simmered sultry vegetable Moroccan tagine filled with silken turned carrots, wedged parsnips, sliced onions, halved black grape tomatoes, golden raisens, and dried apricots bathed in a sensual broth spiced with ground turmuric, smoky cumin, fragrant saffron, ginger, smoked paprika, citrusy sumac, salt, and cracked pepper.

Exotic warmth.

The following night, I threw together a very traditional sauteed veal scallopini piccata napped in browned butter and spiked with bright briney capers served over untraditional steamed ribbons of yellow squash and zucchini. The kicker? Oven-roasted Elmwood Stock baby purple potatoes jacked up with fresh rosemary, garlic, and lemons. Yeah, the potatoes came dangerously close to eating a standard Thanksgiving staple, but their mere pungent piney purple-ness averted the comparison. Safe.

No brainer. I sliced the potatoes into quarters, revealing their gorgeous flesh. After preheating the oven to 400 degrees, I tossed the lavender-swirled spuds with olive oil, sliced unpeeled candy onions, sliced lemon wheels, minced garlic, minced rosemary, fresh lemon juice, salt, and pepper. I gave everything a good mix and slid it into the oven to roast for 45 minutes.

When the potatoes were tender and browned, I finished them with fresh rosemary and tumbled them onto our plates alongside the sleepy veal piccata

The crisp purple potatoes were a great foil to the piccata, balancing the nutty brown butter sauce with flecks of pine-scented rosemary, mellowed acidic lemon, and roasted garlic. The onions completely melted into the potatoes, providing a slightly charred calming sweetness. Simple. Fabulous.

They were not my grandmother's Thanksgiving potatoes.

Mission accomplished.

Now, it's time to think about turkey.

Bring it.

Two Bits

2011-11-10T18:04:00.001-05:00

I ran into a friend at the farmers' market this past weekend. She was knee deep in Casey County sweet potatoes, rifling through baskets for a vegetarian stew she planned to make. Thinking she might be interested in other varieties of sweet potatoes for her stew, I brought her attention to a basket filled with small white sweet potatoes. Bad move. Information overload. In an attempt to quell her obvious perplexed response, I made a complete fool of myself praising the virtues of their uncanny delicate pale white sweetness. She didn't go for it. At. All.

Oh well.

As I walked away, a basket of baby purple eggplants caught my eye. They were gorgeous and only 25 cents each. Two bits for an eggplant? Brilliant. How could I resist? Sold. I picked out a couple of plump purple babies and handed the vendor 50 cents. "Take the entire basket.", he said quietly. "It's the last of my crop. Take 'em all if you want 'em." Really? I guess he was tired of hauling them back and forth to the market. Win. I happliy tumbled them into my bag, thanked him profusely, and stumbled away wondering what on earth I would possibly do with 1/2 bushel of baby eggplants.

We were rolling in eggplants.

Caponata? Ratatouille ? Baba Ghanoush? Baked, stuffed, or grilled eggplant? While Michael and I enjoy any and all eggplant preparations, we're both suckers for fried eggplant. Specifically, fried eggplant parmesan. So, here's the deal. I've had some hits and misses with eggplant parmesan. To avoid any chance of yet another another miss, I decided to look at eggplant parmesan differently and deconstruct it.

I had a blast breaking rules.

I started with the sauce. For unknown reasons, I had lean ground pork tucked away in the meat drawer of the refrigerator. Using a wooden spoon to break it up, I sauteed the ground pork in olive oil until it was cooked through before adding diced onions and minced garlic. When the onions were translucent, I seasoned the bubbling mix with crushed fennel seeds, salt, cracked black pepper, minced fresh rosemary, and chopped parsley.

I wanted to keep the sauce light, so I pulled several overripe heirloom black brandywine tomatoes from the windowsill, sliced them into wedges, and tossed them with the simmering pork. The tomatoes immediately collapsed into the meat and released their sweet juices, creating a light pork ragu. I reduced the heat to a low simmer, covered the pan, and let it cook away.

Funny, I could only salvage six of the baby purple eggplants from my 1/2 bushel. Tired aubergines. It didn't matter. I wasn't feeding an army.

After slicing the ends from the eggplants, I used a vegetable peeler to remove alternating sections of the bitter skins. I sliced them into 1/4 inch rounds, dipped them in egg wash, and dropped them into well seasoned parsley-flecked parmigiano-reggiano dusted breadcrumbs.

I wanted cracklingly crisp eggplant pieces, so I cranked the deep fryer to 375 degrees and waited for the green light to pop on. Working in batches, I carefully slid the breaded eggplant patties into the hot oil and fried them until they were golden brown. As I pulled each batch from the fryer, I seasoned them with kosher salt and set them aside on paper towels to drain.

Mise en place.

Break.

I poured myself a huge glass of chardonnay and joined Michael in the parlor.

When it was time to eat, I stacked the fried eggplant rounds with alternating layers of fresh mozzarella cheese and slid them into a 350 degree oven. While the eggplant crisped and the cheese melted, I whipped together a batch of quick cooking polenta.

The polenta was a no brainer. Following the instructions, I cooked the polenta until it erupted into plopping volcanic spurts. I calmed the molten mess by adding 1/2 stick of unsalted butter, a cup of creamy mascarpone cheese, a handful of grated parmigiano-reggiano, and fresh chopped parsley.

I spooned the creamy polenta onto our plates and nestled the oozing eggplant parmesan stacks into the polenta pillows. I've killed many eggplant parmesans with too much sauce. Trust me. To avoid soggy eggplant, I ladled the pork ragu to the side of polenta which allowed the sweet tomato jus to spill around our plates, leaving the crisp eggplant stacks unscathed.

To tart things up a bit, I topped the fried eggplant parmesan with a feathery baby mizuna salad tossed in a light lemon vinaigrette. Unconvential. Sassy. Fabulous.

With hints of anise from the fennel, the tomato-infused pork ragu was surprisingly light, like eating a delicious bite of porky air perfumed with braised sweet heirloom tomato essence. Ridiculous. Crazy.

Dripping and oozing with melted mozzarella cheese, the fried eggplant parmesan stacks remained perfectly crisp, breaking the soft richness of the polenta with needed crunch. Reminiscent of veal or chicken Milanese, the lemony mizuna salad provided bright acidity and subtle bitterness. Win.

Two bits for an eggplant?
Priceless.

To The Side

2011-11-07T17:52:00.001-05:00

Some of the vendors at our farmers' market have started packing up for the season. The recent frosts and freezes have zapped most of their tender produce.

On our last visit to the market, most farmers were hawking the last of their seasonal wares. While pickings were slim at most tables, we were blown away with the variety of interesting things still offered by Elmwood Stock Farm. As I filled my bag with baskets of purple potatoes and handfuls of tender kale, Michael asked about their huge watermelon radishes. He wanted to know if the green tops were edible. I loved that. Of course, we snagged a bundle of the bulbous radishes.

A few nights ago, Michael and I craved comfort food. Old school comfort food like meat and potatoes with a little something to the side.

Cooked radishes taste a lot like cooked turnips, so I decided to pull a riff on basic kale and turnips by braising the kale with sliced watermelon radishes and their greens, creating a mixed mess o' greens.

I wasn't shooting for pretty greens. I wanted down and dirty soulful long cooked greens. The kind that show up at church Decoration Day potlucks.

After slicing a few slabs of thick-cut bacon into 1 inch pieces, I dropped them into a very hot dutch oven to crisp before adding sliced onions, mashed garlic, and red pepper flakes. While the onions cooked down, I stripped the tender leaves from the kale and sliced them into bite sized pieces, repeating the process with the radish tops. After rinsing the sliced greens, I tossed them into the hot oniony bacon grease to steam and wilt.

The pale exteriors of watermelon radishes belie their inner beauty. When sliced, they reveal shockingly vibrant fuschia colored flesh. The pinkness took my breath away. Stunning.

When the simmering mixed greens wilted into the bacon fat, I deglazed the pot with chicken stock and added the sliced watermelon radish wedges. After bringing the liquid to a boil, I reduced it a simmer, covered the pot, and let it bubble away for 1 1/2 hours, adding more stock as needed to insure we'd have plenty of pot likker.

Just before serving, I showered the drab greens with cracked tellicherry peppercorns and freshly squeezed lemon juice. I spooned the greens into individual bowls, tucking the translucent radishes into the soupy nests with a scattering sliced purple onions, chives, and lemon slivers to brighten the sleepy mess o' greens.

Spiked with biting cracked pepper and acidic lemon, the long braised mixed greens were robust and deeply flavored, providing an earthy base for the mellowed turnip-like tang of the watermelon radishes. Edible jewels. Comfort.

Although the braised greens and radishes were wonderfully warming, they paled in comparison to the luscious pot likker puddled in the bottom of our bowls. Tangy. Salty. Sweet. Tart. Drinkable.

In fact, sometime during the wee hours of the night, I snuck down to the kitchen, tipped the entire pot of greens to my lips, and drank every last drop of likker. Heaven.

So much for leftovers.

Fry Me To The Moon

2011-11-01T17:50:00.001-04:00

I'll deep fry just about anything.

Confession: I used to have a mack daddy deep fryer. It was a beauty, complete with a programable thermostat and the ability to auomatically drain cooled cooking oil through a fine meshed filter into a well, assuring me of clean oil for each use. Spiffy. What it took up in counter space, it made up for with outstanding productivity and usefullness. I loved it. I adored it.

CUI (cooking under the influence..of wine) can have its drawbacks and pitfalls in the home kitchen. Given enough time, the odds of things going wrong are pretty strong. Trust me. Stuff happens. Several months ago, during a slap-happy CUI evening, I cranked the deepr fryer to a ridiculous high temperature without refilling the cooking well with oil, causing the heating element to burn out. Bad move. The fryer was dead. Kaput. Cooked. I killed Kenny.

I've been stove-top deep frying since that night. Although I've gotten used to it, watching the mercury rise and fall through the looking glass of a thick teetering candy thermometer (while trying to retain a constant temperature) hasn't been as fun as setting the temperature gauge and waiting for the green light to pop on.

It was a happy day when Michael surprised me with a smaller more compact version of our old mack daddy deep fryer. Back in business. A few nights ago, I decided to christen our new kitchen countertop toy with an all out fry fest. I fried everything we had on hand. Literally.

There's nothing genius about frying food. Culinary clouds don't part with thunder claps. It's simply fun. A lot of fun. Period.

Using Weisenberger Mill seasoned flour, I double battered chicken wings by dredging them in the seasoned flour, egg wash, and additional flour before carefully lowering them into the smoking hot fryer oil. I covered the basket with a filtered lid to calm the usual messy spattering and let the chicken rip until it was crackingly crisp. After pulling the chicken to drain, I slid the pieces into the oven to keep warm while I fried everything else.

I sliced a huge onion into thick rings, leafy celery into 4 inch batons, and market peppers into thick strips, and lemons into wheels. While the chicken warmed in the oven, I brought the oil back to temperature and whipped together a very loose tempura-like beer batter with the seasoned flour, fresh herbs, and light beer.

After blanching the celery to soften it, I battered the batons, dropped them into the hot oil to fry until golden brown, pulled them drain, and repeated the process with lightly battered onions rings, pepper strips, and lemon wheels.

When the last lemon caramelized from the heat of the oil, I pulled the chicken from the oven and tossed it in a combination of floral wild flower honey, salty dark soy sauce, and fiery Sriracha sauce.

I finished the sticky chicken wings with a sprinkling of white sesame seeds and chives, tumbling them onto our plates alongside the batter-fried vegetables. After filling small individual ramekins with stilten dressing and citrus-based ponzu sauce for dipping, I nestled little stacks of sliced fresh jicama sticks on the far edges of our plates for the slightest nod to freshness.

Happy dance.

Although crisp and light, the batter-fried peppers and onions were fairly predictable. The fried celery, on the other hand, was a revelation with tiny bursts of sweetness squirting through the crunchy coating. I mistakingly relegated the batter-fried lemon wheels to garnish status. They were bittersweet with soft tart undertones. Crazy good with the ponzu sauce.

The fried chicken was insane with juicy moist meat oozing through the crispy skin dripping in honey, soy sauce, and Sriracha? Are you kidding me? Crunchy sweet salty fire. Oh, my. Heaven.

Fry me to the moon.

And back...for more.

Unplugged

2011-10-26T18:15:00.000-04:00

It started with the ice trays. For two days, Michael and I both thought someone had mysteriously used all the ice and replaced it with fresh water-filled ice trays. Nope.

Hoping it was a minor thing, we called a reliable freezer repair person. He ran diagnostic tests before babbling a littany of freezer lingo... coils, condensers, defrosters, thermostats, blah, blah, blah. White noise. Wasn't listening. Blah, blah, blah. Of course, he had to order the parts, telling us he would get back in touch with us when they arrived. He reassured us that it wasn't a hazard and that our kitchen wouldn't flood while we were out of town.

When the parts arrived, he called to tell us to unplug the freezer and refrigerator for two days to let it thaw before he could work on it. Unplug the freezer and refrigerator? Um... Really? Now, that thunder clap got my attention. The thought of it sent daggers through my heart and chills up my spine. I'm a food collector. The freezer's literally my bountiful treasure chest full of my things. My fun stuff. My scraps of artisinal breads for Thanksgiving stuffing, bones, meats, fish parts, calamari, doughs, and sauces. Unplug it and remove it from life support? Heavy boots.

Last night was my last chance to use what I could before we removed the plug and tossed everything away. There was so much stuff. How? What? All in one meal? A last supper using all of my prized hoarded food collection?

I took a deep breath, pulled everything from the freezer, and methodically set about the sad business of closing down shop.

I started by making a small batch of chicken stock with chicken backs, necks, wings, carrots, celery, onions, bell peppers (because I had them), black peppercorns, parsley, thyme, and purple basil. I let the stock bubble away while I thought about what to do next. Because I had a tons of meat tucked away, pasta bolognese quickly came to mind. I had enough of the ingredients to knock out a decent riff on the classic sauce from Bologna, so I readied the food processor for some heavy duty work.

The meat drawer.

I sliced 1/2 pound slab of thick-cut applewood smoked bacon into lardons, fried them until crisp, scooped them out to drain, and removed half of the bacon fat. After chopping the remaining carrots, onions, celery, and peppers into large pieces, I tumbled them into the food processor and pulverized them into mushy pulp. When the bacon fat smoked, I dropped the vegetable pulp into the hot oil along with a few tablespoons of tomato paste and thawed San Marzano tomatoes, letting the concoction pop, spit, and simmer until it was deeply caramelized before turning the heat to a low simmer.

Since bolognese is a meat-based sauce, I needed to add meat. I had plenty of it, but it had to be broken down to create a velvety bolognese sauce. After dicing garlic marinated filet mignons, 2 pork tenderloin medallions, 2 Italian sausages (casings removed), and 4 pounded veal scallopinis, I dropped the meat pieces into the food processor and pulsed them until they were ground together. Sacrilege. Meat carnage. It had to be done.

Unplugged.

After straining the chicken stock through a cheesecloth-lined chinois, I ladled it into the gurgling sauce, brought it a simmer, and added the uncooked ground meat mixture. I wanted the raw mixed meats to slowly cook in the sauce, releasing their individual succulent juices and flavoring it. When the meat was fully incorporated, I turned the heat to low, covered the pot, and chugged a few glasses of wine.

The cheese drawer.

I had a lot of cheese. So much so that that my little riff on Pasta alla Bolognese had to be tweeked. Baked spaghetti? Spaghetti casserole?

It turned into my take on Timballo, an Italian molded baked pasta dish that, depending on ingredients, varies from region to region in Italy.

Disregarding rules, recipes, and Italian regions, I went with what I had on hand.

I boiled a pound of spaghetti in heavily salted water for 7 minutes, purposefully undercooking it. After draining the pasta, I folded it into the Bolognese sauce and added handfuls of grated pecorino romano, grated parmigianno, shredded sharp white cheddar, smoked gouda, grated fontina, fresh mozzarella, and baby arugula leaves.

I preheated the oven to 375 degrees, poured the sauced spaghetti into a buttered parmigianno-dusted springform pan, and slid it into the oven to bake for an hour.

After several glasses of wine, I removed the Timballo from the oven, letting it rest for 20 minutes before slicing it into wedges and plating it.

With nothing else to serve with it, I simply scattered a few quartered market tomatoes around the plate for freshness.

We ate what we could and trashed the remaining Timballo. There was nowhere to store it.

We were unplugged.

Clean slate.
Time to reload.

Autumn Market Salad

2011-10-22T10:25:00.001-04:00

Michael and I had a fun willy-nilly day at the farmers' market last weekend. Without an agenda or plan, we roamed the market at whim, chatting with vendors and buying stuff. The results of such a carefree shopping spin? A hodgepodge odd ball assortment of fruits and vegetables that didn't relate to each other. We simply bought what looked interesting, filling our bags with Blue Moon Farm baby arugula, Elmwood Stock delicata squash, and Raggard Creekside Farm concord grapes. Somewhere along the way, I managed to bag a beautiful sweet dumpling squash that resembled a cross between delicata and acorn squash.

With our market stash occupying every wooden bowl on the kitchen countertop, I stared at it for few days trying to figure out what to do with it. As whole, it didn't make sense, but with an out of town trip on the books, I needed to use it or lose it.

An effortless autumn salad fit the bill perfectly.

I split the sweet dumpling squash in half and scooped out the seeds. Following the outer ribs as a guideline, I sliced the squash into small crescents, tumbled them into a mixing bowl, and tossed them with salt, pepper, olive oil, and pure maple syrup. After cranking the oven to 400 degrees, I covered the squash with foil and roasted it for 45 minutes, removing the foil for the final 20 minutes.

After I uncovered the squash, I tossed a few slices of speck into the roasting pan to crisp for 10 minutes.

While the sweet dumpling squash slices caramelized in the oven, I whisked together an unconventional vinaigrette, using a 2 to 1 ratio of oil to acid instead of the traditional 3 to 1 ratio. After squeezing the juice from an orange, I added a tablespoon of apple cider vinegar, a tablespoon of Wallace Station Bourbon Mustard, salt, pepper, snipped chives, and a scant drizzle of maple syrup. After doubling the amount of olive oil to acid, I emulsified the vinaigrette by shaking everything together in a sealed Mason jar.

When the squash crescents were golden and deeply caramelized, I pulled them from the oven to cool. While they bubbled-down in thier sticky coating, I sliced a few end-of-season tomatoes along with a small candy onion.

That was it.

When it was time to eat, I gently tossed the tender squash, baby bitter arugula, sliced tomatoes, and slivered onions with the orange maple vinaigrette.

After plating the roasted sweet dumpling squash salad, I topped it additional dressing, orange zest, toasted pecans, shaved sharp white cheddar cheese, and concord grapes. For contrast, I nestled the crisped speck under the squash for a salty crunch.

Wow.

It was fun to eat with all the contrasting textures and flavors balancing each other nicely. The buttery tender squash melted under the exploding wet freshness of the tomatoes and concord grapes while the wilted baby arugula wrapped the vegetables with a slight bitterness. Tucked throughout the salad, slices of roasted brittle speck provided a much needed smack of saltiness and crunch. Pork candy.

For a different take on traditional roasted winter squash,

it was fantastic.

Come To My Window

2011-10-18T18:01:00.003-04:00

Puttana: Itlalian slang meaning whore. Pasta Puttanesca: Whore's Pasta. There are many stories disputing the origin of the name. Some say pasta puttanesca was prepared by Italian prostitutes because it was quick and could easily be thrown together between customers. Others believe that the common Italian pantry ingredients involved with making puttanesca alleviated the need and distraction for the ladies of the evening to shop for food. The most common story (my favorite) is that the hard working girls placed hot steaming bowls of pasta puttanesca on their window sills hoping to lure in passing potential clientele with wafting intoxicating aromas.

Whatever its origin, I adore pasta puttanesca. There are many methods for preparing it, but the ingredients remain constant; anchovies, garlic, chili flakes, olives, olive oil, tomatoes, and pasta. Like any good working girl, I had the ingredients in my pantry.

I thought about tossing cooked pasta in a raw sauce using gorgeous heirloom "seconds" from Raggard Creekside Farm. With Michael out of town on business a few nights ago, I knew I had the luxury of time to putter around the kitchen, so

I decided to slow roast the tomatoes to intensify their flavors, blend them with fish stock, and serve the pasta puttanesca with fresh mussels from Charlie's Seafood.

I quartered the tomatoes, drizzled them with olive oil, seasoned them with salt and pepper, and slid them into a 325 dregree oven to roast until they collapsed, caramelized, and charred, about 45 minutes.

Surprisingly, I didn't have fish stock, but knew I had a bag of shrimp shells tucked under a bag of chicken backs, so I pulled the shrimp shells from the freezer and made a simple stock. After filling a small stock pot 3/4 full, I dropped the shells into the cold water along with peppercorns, onions, parsley, thyme, and chervil. I brought the stock to a boil, reduced it to a simmer, skimmed the scum, and let it bubble away until it reduced by half, creating an intense shrimp flavored stock.

I strained the stock into a blender, added the roasted tomatoes, and pureed them into a lovely shellfish tomato-based sauce.

With all the separate components in place (mise en place), I cranked a skillet to high and sauteed chili-flecked anchovie filets until they melted into the oil before adding thinly sliced candy onions and minced garlic. When the onions and garlic caramelized, I deglazed the pan with white wine, letting it reduce by half before tossing in a handful of un-pitted picholine black olives and drained capers.

Just before the wine completely evaporated, I added the tomato sauce and brought it to a boil before tumbling 2 pounds of cleaned mussels into the spurting sauce. I reduced the heat, covered the pan, and let the mussels steam open, releasing their juices into the sauce. When the last mussel opened, I added 1/2 pound of under-cooked spaghetti to the bubbling sauce, gave it a stir, and allowed the spaghetti to absorb the sauce while it finished cooking.

I ~~twirled~~ piled the pasta puttanesca into a very large pasta bowl and haphazzardly scattered the mussels around the pasta. Because I simply couldn't leave well enough alone, I drizzled the plump mussels with a decadent Sriracha lemon chive butter.

Gratutious fresh parsely finished it off.

Ok. So, here's the deal. The pasta puttanesca had a lot going on. It was complex, deeply flavored, multi layered, and fun. The intensly sweet slow-roasted tomato sauce was a heavenly mellow canvas for the al dent spaghetti, pungent garlic, briny soft olives, biting chili peppers, and tangy capers. The mussels, bathed in Sriracha butter, were plump, tender, and ridiculous. Using the emptied mussel shells as tiny spoons, I slurped the squirting mussels, mixing their juices with the fiery Sriracha lemon-spiked butter. I couldn't stop eating them. And didn't.

With no bread to sop,

I licked my bowl completely clean until my shiny lips burned.

Sunday Supper And Other Things

2011-10-13T18:14:00.003-04:00

I'm not a DIY kind of a guy. Really, I'm not. At all. Lately, I've found myself knee deep in projects that stupify me. Not only are they tedious and frustrating, they keep me out of the kitchen. Pouring concrete, re-building window frames, grouting, sanding, and painting have left little time for me to fuss around in the kitchen.

This past Sunday was filled with projects. Because they were my primary focus for the entire day, I needed our Sunday supper to practically cook itself, unattended. The ticket? A long slow languid braise.

German and Slavic flavor profiles inspire me. They're part of me. I was born in Germany, lived in Austria, and was cared for by an escaped Eastern Bloc Czechloslovakian hotel chef. My younger years were influenced by the similar culinary traditions of those three countries. Frau Olga, my nanny, was a wonderful cook. She cooked effortlessly and constantly, preparing meals inspired by her native Czechloslovakian cuisine intertwined with Austrian and German undertones. Her loving devotion to braising, simmering, and baking filled our house with warm comfortable aromas that gently wafted up and through the elaborate black wrought iron spiral staircase that anchored our 5 story Vienna apartment. I was a lucky kid.

I craved that aroma and comfort last Sunday, so I drew from the spirit of my dear Frau Olga and adapted an unconventional version of her incredible braised Czech pepper steak.

I had projects to tackle, so I worked quickly. I sliced a well marbled (fatty) chuck shoulder into huge pieces, seasoned them liberally, browned them in hot oil until they were crisp, and set them aside. After tossing handfuls of thinly sliced purple bell peppers and candy onions into the hot oil to sweat, I added minced garlic, tomato paste, pureed heirloom black brandywine tomatoes, and sweet Hungarian paprika.

After the tomato paste browned (adding an earthy deep flavor) I deglaced the pot with white wine and let it reduce until the paprika-flecked evaporated wine formed small bubbles around the fond. Just before the wine cooked completely away, I added 4 cups of beef stock, brought it to a boil and reduced it to simmer before returning the browned beef to the smouldering stock. When the liquid came back to a gentle simmer, I covered the dutch oven, slid it into a 325 degree oven, and let it braise for a ridiculous 3 1/2 hours.

3 1/2 hours gave me plenty of time to pour concrete.

And drink wine.

I did both.

After mixing, stirring, destroying, and trashing three different batches of concrete, I threw in the trowel and happily ventured back into the kitchen. Familiar territory.

As a nod to my German heritage, I made a big batch of Kartoffelkloesse (German potato dumplings) to accompany our Czech pepper steak. Because I throw nothing away, I had a stash of riced potatoes tucked away in the freezer. After allowing them to thaw, I measured out 2 cups of the potatoes before kneading them with 1/2 cup flour, 1/8 cup cornstarch (potato starch would have been ideal), 1 egg, and a pinch of nutmeg, adding additional flour or water to achieve a doughlike consistency. When the potato dough felt right, I dusted my hands with flour and rolled it into 2 inch round dumplings, eschewing the tradtional inserted crouton. I set them aside, went back outside, and ripped out a decaying 130 year old Victorian exterior window sill. Fun.

With all my projects safely tucked away for the evening ( plastic-wrapped and duct-taped), I joined Michael in the parlor for a proper glass of wine. The house smelled heavenly.

When it was time for our Sunday supper, I pulled the pepper steak from the oven to rest and boiled the potato dumplings in heavily salted water until they floated to the top and were tender, about 20 minutes.

After spooning the Czech pepper steak pieces onto our plates, I topped them with thinly sliced onions and peppers to echo and reinforce the flavors of the long braised vegetables. I nestled the bulbous dumplings to the side, finishing them with fresh snipped chives.

The steak/stew, bathed in a rich smoky sauce, was meltingly tender and moist. The onion and pepper garnishes snapped when bitten, awakening the sleepy meat with needed crunch and wetness. With earthy riotous goodness swirling around our plates (and running down our chins), the pillowy dumplings provided calm. They were delicate and soft, perfect soppers for the fabulous messy sauce.

Although Frau Olga was a much better cook than I'll ever become, I could almost hear her broken English whisper, "You're a God boy, Tommy."

It was a good day.

Pop

2011-10-04T18:05:00.003-04:00

I spent most of my time tripping over ornamental gourds at the farmers' market a few days ago. They were everywhere, gingerly stacked in piles throughout the market with occasional drifters falling from the stacks and rolling onto the graval pathways. Futball, anyone? Generally, Michael and I are not ones to display atumnal cornucopias, so I wasn't really there for decorative items.

I bagged the usual suspects; a few ears of fresh corn, Stayman apples, black brandywine tomatoes (the last two) and candy onions. While passing the Elmwood Stock Farm stand, I was drawn in by the glorious colors of the final neon swiss chard of the season. I was surprised to see it and had to have it. While paying for the chard, I took a second glance at what appeared to be yet another basket of decorative dried corn cobs. Nope. The basket, half emptied, displayed organic corn on the cob popping corn. Really?

Intrigued.

After asking a ton of questions about the popping reliablity of the corn, I was finally told by the vendor that they usually quickly sell out of it because kids love it. "*Yummy flavor. *Shell off cob and cook in pan on stove." Where's the fun in that?

I had a different plan.

A couple of nights ago, after having a few glasses of wine with Michael before dinner, I put my plan into action.

After removing the dramatic flared corn husks, I rubbed the cobs with olive oil and dropped them into a trimmed brown paper grocery bag. I rolled up the bag, leaving enough room for the popcorn bounty, and nestled it into our microwave. After setting the timer for two minutes, I pushed start and waited for the fun to begin.

Nothing happened. Great. Sucker. I fell for the pitch...or, I didn't "shell of cob..."

I stuck the bag back into the microwave, set the timer for an additional two minutes, and started slicing leeks.

Pop.

Before I knew it, the brown paper bag was hopping around the microwave from eratic popping exposions. Well, hello Mr. Redenbacher. It was hysterical.

I called Michael into the kitchen, pulled the bag from the microwave, ripped the bag open, and doused the popped kernels with salt. Like giddy children, we stuffed handfuls into our mouths.

It. Was. Fabulous.

We could have snacked on all of it, but I reserved some as a garnish for our cheddar ale soup made with Boone Creek Creamery aged Darby Cheddar Cheese and Leinenkugel's Fire Side Nut Brown Ale.

The soup was great, but the popped corn stole our hearts. It didn't taste like puffed air. It had an earthy honest essence.

Michael summed it up perfectly when he simply said, " It tastes like corn."

Indeed.

Passion Fruit In The Pumpkin Patch?

2011-10-01T17:51:00.000-04:00

I'm crazy about passion fruit. It's a new thing for me. With its brittle reddish-purple wrinkled exterior skin, I've never given it a second glance when rifling through the other more interesting looking exotic fruits while shopping. Prickly pears, horned melons, and cherimoya fruits have wonderfully bumpy and pointy exteriors that always looked like more fun to play with. Although sometimes difficult to work with, they've always been my go-to exotic fruits.....until this past weekend. For the sake of variety, I picked up a huge bag of passion fruit for a tropical fruit platter I planned to serve at an event.

Not knowing what to expect, I was blown away when I finaly sliced one in half. Gorgeous tiny dark green seeds suspended in a gelatanous pale green yellow mass spilled from the sliced fruit.

After sucking the seeds and pulp from the shell, I was totally hooked. Sweet, sassy, and tart, it tasted like rich guava. Guava with attitude. Guava with tart crunchy edible jewels cacooned within the sweet flesh.

Although passion fruit is often eaten fresh, it's usually strained for the juice and used to enhance beverages, syrups, and desserts. For my maiden tasting, I simply sucked the pulp from the shell and munched on the seeds as juice dribbled down my chin. Fabulous.

I had a few leftover passion fruits rolling around my vegetable bin that I wanted to use for something other than a delicious facial, so I decided to incorporate the pulp and juice into a glaze for sauteed shrimp and vegetables.

After slicing the passion fruit into quarters, I scraped the seeds and pulp into a seive before using a spoon to extract the juice, allowing the vibrant canary yellow nectar to spill into a small bowl. I ditched the seeds and added fresh squeezed orange juice, lime juice, salt, and cracked pepper. To balance the acidity, I mixed the juices with a teaspoon each of caster sugar, soy sauce, and cornstarch.

After peeling and deveining a pound of 16-20 count jumbo shrimp, I sauteed them briefly in butter and olive oil before setting them aside. With the skillet still smoking hot, I tossed in sliced purple baby bell peppers, sliced candy onions, diced mangos, halved grape tomatoes, sliced daikon radishes, and minced garlic. Just as the vegetables started to caramelize, I poured the glaze into the skillet, allowing it to spit, bubble, and thicken before adding the shrimp back into the mix to warm through.

With the sauteed shrimp and vegetables gently napped in the passion fruit glaze, I spooned them into large bowls filled with floral jasmine rice, finishing with a dusitng of black and white sesame seeds.

Oh, my. Bowls of tropical paradise. The plump briny shrimp, bathed in a tart and slightly sweet glaze, were moist and tender while the vegetables added crisp bites of freshness. Although reminiscent of a sweet & sour stir-fry, it was cleaner and brighter. Think sweet & sour jacked up on steroids.

There was nothing seasonal about it. In fact, I couldn't have veered farther away from autumnal flavors.

Total diversion.
And totally worth it.

Going With The Flow

2011-09-27T17:50:00.001-04:00

I spent most of last week placing orders, shopping, prepping, and cooking for a Broadway Live series event associated with the Lexington Opera House. Although I had an absolute blast doing it, the process must have left me mentally distracted and fatigued because kitchen disasters at home haunted me throughout the week.

Earlier in the week, in an attempt to put something fun on the table for us to enjoy, I made a huge blunder. After preparing and plating a long braised succulent stew, I selfishly tried to capture every drop of stew from the dutch oven by pouring it directly from the pot into our large stew-filled bowls. In the blink of an eye, my 400 pound enameled cast iron dutch oven slipped from my grasp and crashed onto our serving bowls, rocketing molten glass-flecked stew into the air, onto the floor, and over the countertops. There were specks of stew juice spitting from the twirling ceiling fan. Fun. I was flabbergasted. It was ridiculous. Michael and I stood in stunned silence staring at the catastrophe before we finally bolted into action. After mopping the floor and wiping the countertops, we noticed that Michael's portion had escaped the carnage. We checked it for glass chards (none), divided it into smaller bowls, and enjoyed our tiny amuse bouches.

The following night, I somehow managed to overcook barbecued chicken by completely forgetting about it while I happily prepared roasted ears of butter-laden silver queen corn on the cob. Dry barbecued chicken? Really? Yep. Go figure. Distracted.

After that, I gave it a rest for a couple of days.

With massive mise en place, I finally got the event under control and decided to venture back into our tiny kitchen. I played it safe. Very safe.

Because the previous nights mishaps steered me away from our kitchen, I had gorgeous thick-cut well marbled ribeye steaks accidentally dry-aging in the refrigerator from purposeful neglect. I also had potatoes. Specifically, I had wooden bowls filled with long awaited late season farmers' market Casey County fingerling white and red sweet potatoes. Steak and potatoes. Safe.

Because the potatoes were young and tender, they didn't need peeling. The skins were delicate and thin, making the preperation a snap. I simply sliced them in half and tumbled them into a baking dish. After tossing them with olive oil, I seasoned the potatoes liberally with salt and pepper, loosely tented them with foil, added 1/4 cup chicken stock, and slid them into a pre-heated 350 degree oven to roast/braise for an hour.

After a few glasses of wine, I pulled the steaks from the refrigerator and seasoned them liberally with salt and pepper. With a grill pan cranked on high, I chargrilled the ribeyes until they felt medium rare to the touch, about 4 minutes per side.

When the steaks were perfectly chargrilled, I tented them and set them aside to rest. While the steaks snuggled under foil, I blistered peppery Elmwood Stock Farm celery stalks in a screaming hot cast iron skillet until they wilted, charred, and caramelized before dousing them with fresh lemon juice, salt, and pepper.

Back. In. Business.

I plated our crusty ribeye steaks and topped them with the tender caramelized pan-seared celery stalks. After nestling the braised/roasted sweet potatoes alongside the juicy steaks, I gilded the lily just a bit by drizzling them with a combination of warmed pure maple syrup, melted butter, and crunchy sea salt.

The steaks were wonderfully tender and perfectly cooked. When sliced, buttery pink flesh melted under the crusty charred exteriors, providing contrasting textural mouthfeels and flavors. We moaned while we ate. Gutteral joy. The fingerling sweet potatoes were velvety sofy with each smooth bite balanced by snapping skins. Napped in a buttery salty maple syrup, they hinted toward autumn without screaming bring on the holidays. Delicate and sweet, they were reminiscent of darling early baby spring vegetables.

I was in heaven when the savory steak juices puddled with the sweet maple syrup, creating a new sauce to swipe the meat through. Perfect.

Without distraction, it was fun to cook again.

And nothing broke.

Sunday Supper: Market Madness

2011-09-20T18:31:00.002-04:00

Last Sunday was one of those lazy kind of days that begged for a leisurely day in the kitchen. It was overcast and cool with light rain falling through the leaves misting over our arched kitchen windows.

I found my self staring down at a ridiculous melange of ingredients that I had accumulated during the previous week. Flailing green leek tips protuded from the refrigerator vegetable drawer, tickling our legs whenever the door opened. Their buried root ends mingled with parsnips, turnips, celery, cabbage, daikon radishes, lemons, purple carrots, cucumbers, snow peas, red bell peppers, and (for some reason) a large fresh pineapple. As a produce collection, it made no sense. It reminded me of childhood dentist visits and those back cover challenges of Highlights Magazine..."What's wrong with this picture?"

With plenty of time on a wistful Sunday afternoon, I came up with a plan to solve the challenge.

The Market.

Individual tomato, leek, and potato gratins.

I grabbed a few Carmello tomatoes from the windowsill, a medium sized leek from the veggie bin, and a handful of dirt-covered baby red potatoes from the pantry. After tumbling my market produce onto our small kitchen island, I sharpened my knives, pulled up a stool, and leisurely went to work. I snipped the root end from the leek and sliced the tender sections into thin rings before rinsing them thoroughly.

After slicing the new potatoes into paper thin discs, I cut the carmello tomatoes into small crescent-shaped wedges. Thankfully, Michael and I recently purchased normal-sized grown-up ramekins. I grabbed a couple of ramekins, buttered them liberally, and dusted the buttered sides with parmigiano reggiano cheese.

Starting with the potatoes, I filled the ramekins with alternating layers of potatoes, tomatoes, parmigiano, leeks, salt, and pepper. After the final layer I drizzled 1/4 cup of heavy cream into each ramekin, covered them foil, and tucked them into the refrigerator to rest until I needed them.

The Madness.

Grilled smoked boneless pork chops glazed with Jezebel Sauce, topped with fried shoestring sweet potatoes and fried thyme.

Jezebel sauce (an old school southern condiment made with pineapple perserves, apple jelly, ground mustard, black pepper, and horseradish) is usually relegated to cocktail party status as a topping for cream cheese served with crackers. Occasionally, it adorns baked ham, grilled ribs, or chicken. Back in the day, I used it a lot as a party snack. With its biting horseradish heat tempered by the sweetness of the perserves and jelly, it's a quick, easy, and tasty party favorite.

I decided to revisit the old stand-by as a glaze for grilled boneless smoked pork chops. I could have used supermarket perserves and jelly, but I had a huge fresh pineapple hogging precious space in the veggie bin. Why not make quick fresh pineapple perserves as a base for the sauce? It made perfect sense to me. I sliced half of the pineapple into rings and removed the core. Using a fork, I shredded the pineapple flesh into small pieces and tossed the shreds into a mixing bowl with twice the amount of castor sugar, letting them macerate for 30 minutes to release the fresh juices.

I got a cast iron skillet smoking hot, poured the shredded pineapple along with the accumualted juices into the skillet, reduced the heat, and let it foam and bubble for 25 minutes until it started to thicken and turn clear. For additional depth of flavor, I swirled a heaping spoonful of Quarles Farm pear perserves into the caramelized pineapple mixture before removing it from the heat to cool. When cooled completely, I folded in ground mustard, cracked black pepper, pure horseradish, and diced red bell pepper for color and crunch.

Mandolin fun. I set the Jezebel sauce aside and pulled my mandolin from the gadget garage. Using the smallest julienne attachment on the thinnest blade setting, I carefully sliced the sweet potato into gorgeous shoestrings.

Mise en place. Check.

I slid the julienned sweet potatoes into the refrigerator, poured myself a big glass of wine, curled up in front of the flat screen television, and caught up on a few NFL football games. Heaven.

Eventually, I made my way back into the kitchen. After preheating the oven to 350 degrees, I popped the tomato, leek, and potato gratins into the oven to bake for 45 minutes.

While the gratins bubbled away, I cranked the deep fryer to 325 degrees and fried the sweet potatoes in small batches until golden and crisp, carefully layering each batch into small nests on paper towels to drain. With the fryer turned off, I used the residual heat from the oil to deep fry a few fresh thyme sprigs.

I pulled the gratins from the oven to rest and got a grill pan smoking hot before branding the pork chops with gorgeous caramelized hatch-marks. I plated the chops and painted them with the pepper-studded Jezebel sauce. As the glaze melted and oozed over the hot chops, I topped them with the golden fried potato straws and the insanely fragile fried thyme sprigs.

After nestling the unmolded gratins onto our plates, I tossed around a few steamed julienned snow peas as a nod to freshness.

The gratins collapsed into wonderfully gooey cheesy puddles with roasted tomatoes melting into the leeks and bathing the tender potatoes with intense sweet acidity. The soothing soft gratins were perfect foils to the riotous flavors exploding from the pineapple and horseradish glazed pork chops smothered under crackling shoestring sweet potato fries. There was a lot going on. The soft, crunchy, sweet, and savory combinations played off of each other beautifully. We literally licked our plates devouring it, leaving us both with sticky faces and Jezebel lips.

Madness.

Mock Foccacia

2011-09-18T18:45:00.001-04:00

During the Gallery Hop this past weekend, Michael and I attended the Ace Best of Lexington Celebration at John Lackey's Homegrown Press Studio + Gallery. I wanted to take a little nibble to accompany fried banana peppers (from Columbia Steakhouse) that Flo graciously prepared for the event.

After mulling several options, I decided to make foccacia bread topped with something. The day before the event, I stopped by the farmers' market after work for inspiration. The usual suspects were all there. Peppers. Onions. Garlic. I was heading down that familiar route until I stumbled upon baskets of deep purple Casey County grapes. They were gorgeous. Although I've seen it done before, grape-topped foccacia wasn't on my radar until I saw those beautiful grapes. Inspired, I bagged some grapes along with a couple of sweet organic onions and a large bulbous head of garlic.

Untimely mise en place. Timing is usually my forte. I can rock out a meal for 350 people all the way down to the last sprinkle of parsley or flourish of snipped chives. The day of the Ace Best of Lexington Celebration event, I worked all day and simply ran out of time.

Pizza Dough. Foccacia Dough. They're basically the same, but treated differently. Ultimately, I prefer Anne Burrell's recipe for foccacia bread. She manhandles the dough, roughs it up, and tears it apart throughout the process. Unfortunately, it takes hours to make. Proof the yeast. Make the dough. Knead the dough. Let it rise for an hour. Shape the dough. Let rise for another hour. Nope.

I cheated. Shoot me.
I stopped by a local pizzeria and purchased a pound of lovely pizza dough. It was perfect.

When I got home from work, I oiled a sheet pan before rolling out the dough and pushing it into the corners of the pan. I let the dough relax before roughly dimpling it with my fingertips to create crevices and wells. I adapted and combined several methods for the grape topping. After preheating the oven to 400 degrees, I generously bathed the dough with olive oil, allowing it to fill the dimples with glistening puddles.

I showered the dough with sea salt, minced garlic, and minced red onion. As the dough began rising, I scattered caramelized onions over the top before studding it with halved purple grapes. After feathering fresh rosemary leaves over the foccacia dough, I popped it into the oven to bake for 25 minutes, rotating the pan every 5 minutes.

I pulled the grape-studded focacia bread from the oven, let it cool, and sprinkled it with additional fresh rosemary.

The grapes exploded into the dough, bleeding their purple juices. The sweetness of the grapes balanced the savory sea salt, garlic, piney rosemary, and candied caramelized onions. Although tasty, I probably needed another pound of dough to create a typical soft and luxurious foccacia bread.

I think I ultimately ended up with an intriguing savory and sweet rosemary-flecked grape pizza.

Go figure.

Embrace The Season

2011-09-13T18:10:00.006-04:00

I finally did it. I crossed over to the dark side.

I was at the market on a cool gray morning with low hanging clouds spitting a damp mist. Nobody was there. Nobody. I stopped by Bray's Farm stand to chat with a friend. With very few vendors there, they were there because they had peaches to sell. It was far from ideal market weather. I picked up a few ripe yellow peaches along with gorgeous highly acidic Carmello tomatoes.

Thankfully, it's been a long tomato season. They're still plentiful at the market.

After passing by familiar vendors on the way to my car, it happened. While marveling over wonderfully aromatic individually-bundled baby celery stalks from Elmwood Farm, I reached across the table and grabbed an acorn squash from a heaping basket of squash. At that very moment, I crossed the line. I officially surrendered my lusty desires for vibrant fresh summer produce, replacing them with more languid yearnings for mellow soft-hued autumn produce. Until then, I'd resisited the temptation by clinging to the final bright vestiges of summer. I finally acquiesced.

Inspired by that humble acorn squash, I decided to pull a full monty, throw convention to the wind, and roast a turkey for our Sunday supper.

Well........kind of.

A dear friend recently gave us a pound of gorgeous bacon from her family's farm. I used and abused it for our roasted turkey.

After unfurling the bacon from its Not For Sale packaging, I overlapped several strips of the bacon on parchment paper before plopping a three pound boneless turkey breast on top of the bacon shingles, seasoning it with fresh rosemary, salt, and pepper. I carefully pulled the bacon slices around the turkey breast, secured it with kitchen twine, and placed the larded breast into a roasting pan along with wedged candy onions and whole baby celery stalks.

I sprinkled additional fresh rosemary, salt, and pepper over the bacon harness, poured a cup of chicken stock into the roasting pan, and slid the bacon-bundled turkey into a 350 degree oven to roast for 1 1/2 to 2 hours, or until the internal temperature was 165 degrees.

Whacked.

While the turkey made merry in the oven, I sliced the acorn squash into quarters and removed the seeds.

After seasoning it with salt, pepper, and olive oil, I slid the squash into the oven to par-roast, uncovered, for 20 minutes before pulling it out and dousing it with butter, brown sugar, orange zest, freshly squeezed orange juice, and fresh thyme sprigs.

I covered the squash with aluminum foil and placed it back into the oven to roast/braise for an additional 45 minutes. When the sqaush was thoroughly cooked, I pulled it from the oven and let it warm on the stovetop while the turkey finished roasting. The aromas wafting from our kitchen were ridiculous. Turkey. Bacon. Rosemary. Brown sugar. Squash. Heaven.

I melted into my tufted chenille parlor chair and joined Michael for a few glasses of wine while we anticipated our Sunday supper. Happy campers.

Eventually, I pulled the turkey from the oven and checked the temperature. It was perfect. The bacon had crisped and carmelized into a salty sweet aromatic bacon shell. I tented the turkey and let it rest for ten minutes while I tossed a simple blanched green bean, Carmello tomato, and chevre salad with a very light lemon vinaigrette.

Before slicing the turkey, I removed it to a cutting board, placed the roasting pan over medium heat, added a pinch of flour, and whisked together a quick pan sauce from the roasted turkey and bacon drippings.

Using the bacon slices as a guide, I sliced the turkey into medallions, drizzled them with pan gravy, and feathered fresh rosemary leaves over the top. I dropped the candied squash around the turkey and spooned the salad into small bowls, nestling them onto our plates.

The turkey was incredibly moist and tender with succulent juices trapped and sealed within the crispy bacon skin.

While the bacon provided salty crunch, the oozing buttery sweet roasted acorn squash balanced it with soft earthy undertones. Thankfully, the lemon dressed chevre-flecked, green bean, and Carmello tomato salad provided welcomed acidity, slicing through the richness with wild abandon.

Fabulous.

It's a new season at the market.
One I'll embrace with open arms.

Not Quite A Peck

2011-09-08T18:26:00.004-04:00

Michael and I adore eating stuffed stuff. We're particularly fond of stuffed peppers. Apparently, my stuffed peppers are atypical because I don't include rice in the filling or pre-cook the meat. I load halved peppers with a highly seasoned combination of meats before braising them in a vinegar infused tomato sauce and topping them with cheese. Sweet. Acidic. Piquant.

I had stuffed peppers in mind while browsing the farmers' market the other day. With my Martha Stewart canvas tote in hand, I made my way through the market shopping. My little mission was interrupted by the sight of ambrosia corn spilling from wooden racks off the back of a Pulaski County truck. I wasn't there for corn, but at that instant I had to have corn. I had to have it before it was gone. Before it was too late.

The morning was quiet and still, leaving the market void of the early summer hysteria. It was peaceful, reminding me of walks on the farm with my father while shuffling through dried fallen leaves. Pleasant, yet melancholy. Happy and sad.

Feeling nostalgic about the early days of summer (with fresh ears of corn in tow), I rounded the bend to make my final pass down the other side of the Tuesday/Thursday market.

My self inflicted melancholy was jolted and snapped by a vibrant Casey County display of fresh peppers. They were gorgeous. Italian peppers, poblano peppers, hot banana peppers, sweet banana peppers, serrano peppers, habanero peppers, and red/green/black jalapeno peppers were standing tall in baskets, like soldiers at attention.

Oh, there might have been a few green bell peppers tucked around the table. I was pepper-sprayed from the beauty of the others and didn't notice.I bagged a basket of fully ripened sweet red banana peppers.

A pepper is a pepper is a pepper. Right? Stuff one...stuff them all.

When I got home from work, I sliced the lovely long red banana peppers lengthwise, removed the seeds, and set them aside. After mixing ground pork with ground beef, minced garlic, parsely, 1 beaten egg, grated onion, salt, and pepper, I filled the shallow pepper boats with the meat mixture, squishing it into every crevice of the peppers before topping them with thinly sliced garden tomatoes.

I always serve stuffed peppers over steamed rice. Always. Well, I didn't have any rice. I had polenta and Attiecke, a west African quick cooking cassava couscous.

I took the polenta route. I love the soft porridge-like consistency of buttery cheesy polenta. Michael, not so much. Fried polenta was the answer.

Before joining Michael for wine, I topped the peppers with tomato sauce along with a few splashes of red wine vinegar, covered the dish, and slid it into a pre-heated 350 degree oven to braise for an hour.

While the peppers braised, I made a huge pot of polenta using Italian polenta meal and chicken stock. After stirring the molten cornmeal mush for what seemed like an eternity, popping and spitting like an angry volacno, the polenta eventually pulled away from the sides of the pot.

I slid the pot off of the heat and tossed in 1/2 stick of unsalted butter, an ear of cut off ambrosia corn kernels, 2 cups of grated parmigiano reggiano cheese, 1/2 cup mascarpone cheese, and a handful of baby arugula. After a quick stir to wilt the arugula, I poured the gooey polenta into an oiled casserole dish to harden and set up.

Wine.

1/2 hour into the pepper braise, I pulled the hardened polenta from the refrigerator. Using a wine goblet, I cut the polenta into circles, floured the discs, and fried them until golden brown before sliding them into the oven to keep warm until we ate.

After several glasses of wine, I pulled the peppers from the oven, topped them with fresh mozzarella cheese, and slid them back into the oven to melt the cheese.

So, here's the deal. Apparently, not all peppers are created equal. Tough hard-skinned stuffed green bell peppers have no problem holding up through a long braise. They soften and collapse a bit, but retain their shape. Not so with tender-skinned peppers. The delicate flesh of the stuffed ripened red banana peppers completely disintegrated during the braise, happily creating an accidental cheesy braised pepper and meat-filled ragu.

I flew with it.

After stacking the fried polenta cakes onto our plates, I wrestled the peppers from the pot and surrounded the cakes with the stuffed pepper sauce. It was hysterical. Strings of melted mozzarella cheese clung to everything, whipping and snapping like gooey rubber bands. With little effort, I could have fashioned a splendid cheesy Jacob's ladder with my hands.

The polenta cakes were fantastically crisp with arugula-flecked soft interiors while nutty parmigiano and sweet mascarpone added depth and complexity. With chards of pepper-less meat masquerading as elongated meatballs, the accidental braised ragu had all the familiar flavors of stuffed peppers.

Did it turn out as intended? Hell, no.

But, it was delicious.

Paint The Mother Pink

2011-09-03T18:19:00.001-04:00

Bechamel, Espagnole, Hollandaise, Tomato, and Veloute are the five mother sauces of French cuisine from which many sauces are broken down into derivative smaller sauces. Hollandaise might the most popular and most difficult of the five to master because the delicate emulsion of egg yolks, lemon juice, and melted butter over simmering water can be tricky. Very tricky.

The smaller derivative sauces from Hollandaise are fascinating and fabulous. Adding cream, horseradish and fresh thyme turns Hollandaise into Sauce Bavaroise. Replacing lemon juice with fresh blood orange juice creates a lovely Sauce Maltaise (I've made tons of Maltaise...great on Grand Marnier marinated salmon). Whipped cream folded into a finished Hollandaise produces a light and airy Sauce Mousseline.

Sauce Bearnaise is probably the powerhouse of the Hollandaise derivatives. Replacing lemon juice with a very concentrated reduction of white wine vinegar, white wine, fresh tarragon, peppercorns, and shallots elevates the sauce with bright anise undertones. Beranaise pairs beautifully with steak. With additions and tweeks, Bearnaise sauce boasts a litany of variations. Adding tomato puree, tomato paste, or tomato concasse to the Bearnaise emulision produces a pink-hued Sauce Choron. Sauce Paloise is made by replacing tarragon with mint. Sauce Foyot has a meat glace folded into the Bearnaise, while Sauce Colbert is Sauce Foyot with additional reduced white wine.

Whew.

I had a hankering for eggs benedict. Although I'm a fool for Hollandaise and Bearnaise, I wanted to tinker and try something a bit different for our breakfast dinner last night. When I stumbled across sauce Choron, I was intrigued. Sandwiching poached eggs between fresh tomato slices and a tomato-infused Bearnaise sauce seemed like a natural pairing. Sold.

I'll admit, most of the time I pull out the blender for safe fuss free versions of Hollandaise or Bearnaise. Without risk of curdling or scrambling the egg yolks over low heat, blender sauces are fullproof. That being said, fueled by extra time on my hands along with a few glasses of wine, I happily plunged head first into the classic preparation of Bearnasie-based sauce Choron.

To create the flavor base, I sauteed 3 tablespoons of white wine vinegar, 3 tablespoons of white wine, 1 tablespoon of chopped fresh tarragon, and 10 Tellicherry peppercorns until the liquid reduced to 1 tablespoon before straining it into a small ramekin.

While the vinegar reduction cooled, I brought 3 egg yolks to room temperature and prepared the tomato paste. Ok, I had a tube of tomato paste in the refigerator. Nope. I wasn't feeling it. I also had an overripe windsill heirloom tomato that was a breath away from exploding, so I roasted , peeled, and deseeded it before mashing the flesh into pulp and sauteeing it over low heat until the pulp reduced into an intensely aromatic tomato paste. Call me crazy.

After tossing 1 tablespoon of the tomato paste, 3 tablespoons of water, egg yolks, and tarragon vinegar into a mixing bowl, I whisked the mixture over simmering water until the yolks were frothy.

Using a steady hand while furiously whisking the tomato-stained yolks over the steaming bath , I slowly drizzed 1 cup of melted unsalted butter into the yolks until the sauce pulled away from the bottom of pan , emulsified, and turned rosy pink.

I removed the sauce Choron from the heat, added fresh tarragon, took a deep breath, and chugged an entire glass of wine.

After parking the sauce over very low simmering water to hold, I toasted English muffins, poached a few eggs, and sliced a a couple of tomatoes.

With everything ready to go, I stacked our very traditional eggs benedicts with toasted English muffins, sliced garden tomatoes, speck (smoked prosciutto), and poached eggs. After ladling a very untraditional sauce Choron over the jiggly eggs, I dropped a few tarragon leaves over the top, seasoned everything with salt and cracked black pepper, and nestled a lightly dressed baby arugula salad to the side.

It was insanely fabulous. Really. The sauce was velvety soft with a surprisingly light mouthfeel. The deeply reduced tomato paste tamed the normally tart anise brashness of the Bearnasie while providing complex layers of acidity and sweetness. When sliced, runny yolks oozed from the tender poached eggs onto the speck and tomatoes, pooling around the muffins and mixing with the sauce. Crazy. Rich. Decadent.

Normally, I work very clean in the kitchen. Last night, I destroyed it.

At some point during the night, Michael washed every pan and cleaned the kitchen.

Bliss.

Watermelon Ride

2011-08-29T18:26:00.001-04:00

My grandparent's house was nestled on a slight hill surrounded by patches of trees and rolling fields on a lake in Western Kentucky. White-washed wooden planked fences separated the main house and work buildings from the fields, creating idyllic panoramas for the property. After we moved back to Kentucky to live with my grandparents, one of the first things my father did was haul out the Bush Hog, attach it to my grandfather's tractor, and mow a large square area around a huge oak tree on one side of the house beyond the white-washed fencing. After leveling the knee high hay, he climbed aboard a riding lawn mower and mowed the same area until it resembled a well manicured lawn. I had no idea what he was doing. I really didn't care. At the time, restless catfish jumping around our murky moss-laden pond fascinated me a lot more.

The next morning, he fastened thick grass rope to an old tire, climbed the tree (with the help of my brother), and secured the rope over the thickest arching limb from the oak tree. He made a tire swing. I'd never seen one before. Being an eleven year old boy, it certainly grabbed my attention. I assumed he created it for me, so I happily played on the swing for several days until the catfish lured me back to the pond. The swing hung lifeless in the tall grass for the duration of autumn and winter.

The following spring, he was back out there Bush Hogging, mowing, and manicuring the tire-swing lawn in preparation for an upcoming Memorial Day family cookout. During our first few years living there, he repeated the ritual twice a year for family cookouts on Memorial Day and Labor Day.

Memorial Day was the usual pot-luck affair, but the Labor Day cookout was his baby. After everyone gathered under the oak tree, lounging about in those old timey brightly colored aluminum folding lawn chairs, he'd light the fire and grill onion studded cheese-stuffed hamburgers and husked-wrapped buttered field corn. Condiments, hambuger fixings, Hamburger buns, potato salad, and his un-worldly Boston baked beans were meticulously lined up on his fold-out Coleman's camping picnic table.

Dessert was always sliced and chunked sun-kissed watermelon straight from the garden served atop leftover newspapers to catch the mess.

The tire swing was in constant use during those picnics, its rope rhythmically squeaking around the worn tree limb from the weight of the people riding it throughout the day. Summer sounds.

After a few years, the picnics slowly faded away until they stopped all together. Toward the end of what was to become our final picnic, I somehow managed to wrestle the rights to the tire swing. Seizing the moment, I grabbed an end chunk of warm watermelon, climbed onto the tire, pushed my feet to the ground for acceleration, and lazily flew through the air chomping on watermelon while spitting tiny black seeds into the newly mown grass.

"You need to use these watermelons.", Michael said the other morning, referring to small yellow striped and small red sugar baby market watermelons I had sitting on the kitchen counter. He was right. I'd intended to grill them or make a salad with them, but had done neither. I did need to use them. That night, while Michael was out with friends, I took the melons on a little ride around the kitchen.

Watermelon Granite.

I cut the rinds from both melons and tossed them into the refrigerator. After removing the seeds, I sliced the flesh, keeping the two melons separate. Using a blender, I pureed each melon with fresh lime juice and 1/4 cup of sugar. When liquidfied, I poured the watermelon water into two separate metal containers and slid them into the freezer.

At hourly intervals, I used a fork to gently scrape the watermelon ice into incredibly fluffy frozen watermelon crystals. After three hours, I spooned the granite into stemmed sherbet glasses with a sprinkling of zested lime. Both flavors were fabulous. With hints of lime acidity cutting through the natural sweetnees, the granites were light, luxurious, and refreshing. Having the mouthfeel of grown up Sno-Cones (without the straws), the tiny frozen jewels popped with familiar watermelon flavor before melting into nothing. Fun!

Watermelon Chutney.

The following morning, after cranking up on strong coffee, I pulled the reserved watermelon scraps from the refrigerator, carefully removed the green peels from the rinds, and sliced the rinds into one inch pieces.

I minced a couple of garlic cloves, two small red bell peppers from the garden, and a small knob of ginger. After heating 3/4 cups apple cider vinegar, 3/4 cups sugar, and 1 1/2 cups water in a dutch oven until boiling, I tossed the sliced watermelon rinds, peppers, garlic, ginger and a handful of dried cherries into the rolling cauldron. After thuroughly mixing the the ingredients together, I turned the heat down to a simmer and let it bubble away for 50 minutes, stirring occasionally.

After 50 minutes, the dried cherries had plumped and dyed the chutney a deep crimson red. I pushed the pot from the heat and let the watermelon chutney cool completely before spooning it into small glass jars. Just before sliding the jars of chutney into the refrigerator to marry the flavors, I gave it taste. Tart. Sweet. Luscious.

What a ride!

I almost used every part from the two innocent watermelons.

Perhaps I should have fashioned a beaded necklace from the seeds.

Or shoveled them into my mouth to spit from the back deck.

Maybe next time.

All's Quiet...

2011-08-25T18:46:00.003-04:00

Lately, Michael and I have been dining very simply on the home front. After feeding a bunch of hungry folks out on the meadows of Keeneland for two outdoor concerts featuring Tiempo Libre with the Lexington Philharmonic, we really craved quiet time at home and in our kitchen. Sliced melons with cottage cheese and marinated tomatoes with cucumbers provided cool calm answers for quiet kitchen time.

Last night, we were ready to fire up the burners. Michael prepared his fabulous salmon cakes with hollandaise. His gentle deft hand with them always produces moist cakes with crackling exteriors. I was excited to sit back and let him work his magic while I whipped up a side dish to accompany them. Yesterday morning, I stopped by the market to pick up a few tomatoes. I left with a couple of heirloom black brandywine tomatoes, baby leeks, and a bag of very ugly early season small watermelon radishes. Aside from a couple of ears of corn, a can of cashews, and a jar of preserved lemons, the leeks and radishes were all I had to work with.

Except for a trip through an occasional salad bar, I can't remember the last time I ate a raw radish. I adore cooking and pickling them, so I decided I'd prepare both (together) to accompany our salmon cakes. It was stupidly easy.

I scrubbed and peeled the gnarly-skinned radishes, leaving a bit of the root for interest. They were skanky ugly....until I sliced them. Wow. I was stunned. When sliced, the cantankerous radish bulbs remarkably revealed vivid fuscia flesh softly bleeding to snow white while finishing with a slight green rim, much like....well, small seedless watermelons. Gorgeous.

After quartering and dividing the radishes into equal portions, I set them aside and sliced the baby leeks into thin diagonals.

Adapting a quick pickling method from The Lee Brother's, Simple Fresh Southern cookbook, I simmered 1 cup of white wine vinegar with 4 cloves of garlic, 2 teaspoons of kosher salt, 1 teaspoon of sugar, and 1 teaspoon of whole peppercorns. When the sugar and salt dissolved, I poured it over the quartered radishes, covered the container, and slid it into the refrigerator to chill.

For contrasting texture and flavor, I decided to braise the remaining radishes in butter and chicken stock. After melting 3 tablespoons of butter in a very hot skillet, I added the sliced leeks along with minced garlic, salt, and pepper. When the leeks softened, I tumbled the radishes into the skillet and deglazed the pan with 1 1/2 cups chicken stock.

I brought the stock to a boil, reduced it to a low simmer, clamped on a lid, and let the radishes bubble away while we happily drank wine in the parlor. After an hour, I slipped the braised tender radishes into an oven proof dish and slid them into a warm oven to hold until we were ready to dine.

After a few more slaphappy glasses of wine, Michael worked his magic with the salmon cakes. When they were perfectly crisped until golden brown, he topped them with a quick blender hollandaise (a delicious cheat), and snipped chives from the garden.

I nestled the braised radishes alongside the salmon cakes, tumbling the pickled radishes over them for a sensory contrast.

We've eaten braised radishes countless times. Since they're related to turnips, they tasted like turnips. No brainer. Last night, the braised watermelon radishes tasted like turnips jacked up on steroids. When cooked, their raw vibrant color and crisp texture mellowed into subdued softness, innocently cloaking the unexpected intense turnip flavor. Brilliant. The long braised leeks melted into onion candy, wrapping the bold radishes with needed sweetness.

Ideally, I should have sliced the pickled radishes a bit smaller. That being said, their crunchy, tart, and peppery bites were thankful respites to the big bold turnip flavors.

The golden crisp salmon cakes were unbelievable. Although utterly bathed with an oozing lemony hollandaise, they retained their exterior crunch while their moist salmon-flecked centers hinted with undertones of Old Bay Seasoning and snapped with bites of minced fresh green peppers. Heaven. Michael's magic. His realm.They were his best. Period.

Without shame, I licked my plate

completely clean.

Groundhogs & Melons

2011-08-21T18:20:00.001-04:00

I've waited all summer for my beloved sweet juicy Casey County melons to appear at the market. Yeah, cantalope and honeydew melons have popped up at the market during the summer, but the ripest late season Casey County melons have finally arrived. They taste richer and sweeter this time of year, as if bathing in the hot summer humidity while clinging to thier vines intensifies their ripening.

We lugged a gigantic Casey County melon home from the market this past weekend. It wasn't the biggest one in the pile, but with a firm slight give to the rind, it felt the way a melon should feel. Knowing I would have melon envy, I convinced myself that the largest one was overly ripe and would've exploded with the slightest touch. We certainly didn't need that on a beautiful Saturday morning. Envy avoided.

A few minutes after unloading our market stash on the kitchen table, both Michael and I noticed that our entire house smelled like fresh melon. Crazy. Without even slicng the melon, it perfumed our entire house with the scent of summer. Michael walked into the kitchen and exclaimed, with child-like glee, "It smells like Granny's kitchen." I've nevered smelled ripe summer melons in his Granny Hallie's kitchen, but I've been in her kitchen plenty of times over the years (for every season) and could understand his joy.

The aroma swept me back to my father's summer garden. For years, he and Marge had a gloriously huge garden. Their house was nestled on a slight slope under a canopy of oak trees, overlooking fields that eventually spilled into a tree guarded lake. Their 1/2 acre garden was meticulously plotted behind the house where the gentle slope flattened out into the remaining fields. I loved that house. Our house. During the warm summer months we'd sit on the second story open-aired deck, while gazing down onto the garden, and eat our evening meals. My father always had a shotgun within arms reach. On most nights, a groundhog would eventually rear his head through the cucumber rows, tomato plants, or cabbage leaves. Without a break in the conversation, Dad would reach for his shotgun and blow its head off.

It was normal.

Aside from garden tomatoes, my father adored his fresh melons. He always ate them at room temperature with a sprinking of salt and a dash of ground pepper. As a kid, I thought that was weird. To this day, I eat garden melons the way he did. Sweet salty juices with a slight peppery bite.

I'm contantly fascinated with the power of food. Familiar flavors and aromas are electric, having the power to transport us anywhere at any time.

One huge fresh market melon swept Michael back to his grandmother's cozy kitchen.

I drifted away into memories my father's garden.

With headless groundhogs

Peel Me A Grape

2011-08-18T18:22:00.002-04:00

My morning visits to the Tuesday/Thursday farmers' market are usually quick fire grab-and-go shopping sprees on my way to work. Sometimes, I don't even remember what I picked up until I'm home from work. This past week, I had the luxury of time. It wasn't a sprint as I strolled leisurely through the dusty gravel visiting every vendor, stand by stand. I sensed the growing season was starting the slow process of winding down. The crazy weather had taken a toll on the growers. Their faces and voices exuded it.

My favorite Casey County vendor had baskets of teeny baby yellow squash. When I remarked how unusual they were this time of year, he simply responded, "That patch is nothin' but dust." He wasn't selling cute cheffy baby squash. He brought what he had to the market to sell. Purposeful neccessity. I bought them all. The whole lot. Sweet tiny bites.

We've been away for a while on a seaside vacation. Our pantry was bare, so I needed stuff. I think I bought something from every vendor. Too much, in fact. Heavy bags bounced off my knees as I meandered through the market.

On my way out, something caught my eye as I passed by Elmwood Farm's well stocked stand. Tiny clusters of seedless Reliance grapes spilled over the gigantic basket that held them. I was mezmerized. They looked like delicate champaigne grapes. Grapes of any kind usually don't pop up at the market. They completely took me by surprize. I dropped my bags around my feet, pinning me in place, and tasted one. It snapped like a grape, but tasted like a sweet small plum. That lone exploding little bite was exactly what I was hoping to find at the market that day. I happily handed over my last two dollars, dropped a small cluster of them into one of my bags, stumbled to my car, and made my way home.

While on vacation, we devoured incredibly fresh seafood at whim. It was there for the taking and we took brilliant advantage of it. After eight straight days of seafood gluttony, we were in desperate need of a meat intervention. Specifically, pork. Yeah, baby. Pork with roasted plum-like grapes. I could taste it just thinking about it.

I pulled a couple of plump boneless pork chops from the freezer to thaw while I sliced a few juicy heirloom tomatoes, dried apricots, and onions. When the chops were completely thawed, I wrapped them with thick cut applewood smoked bacon, secured the bacon with skewers, seasoned them with salt and pepper, and set them aside.

Using a small baking dish, I layered alternating slices of fresh black and yellow brandywine tomatoes, topping each layer with fresh thyme, salt, pepper, and pungent crumbled stilton cheese. The cheese filled tomato stacks would have been fabulous simply dressed with a vinaigrette, but I couldn't leave it at that. Nope. I roasted them until the cheese melted into a wonderfully smelly pungent cheese puddle while the tomatoes remained somewhat firm. I let them bathe in the fondue while I cranked a skillet on high heat to saute the pork medallions.

When the skillet was blazing hot, I added a splash of olive oil and sauteed the pork until it was deeply caramelized, about 4 minutes per side. After pulling the pork out of the skillet to a side dish, I added sliced onions to the pan juices and allowed them to sweat until translucent before deglazing the pan with 1/2 cup chicken stock combined with 1/2 cup madeira wine. After tossing a handful of loose Reliance grapes into the sauce, I slid the bacon-wrapped pork medallions back into the skillet, topped them with the remaining grape clusters along with fresh rosemary sprigs, clamped on a lid, and carefully placed the simmering mix into a 350 degree oven to braise for 25 minutes.

After two or four glasses of wine with Michael, I pulled the pork from the oven to rest and plumped pearl couscous with slivered dried apricots in simmering chicken stock for about 15 minutes.

It was time for pig.

After plating the saucy pork medallions, I spooned the apricot-flecked couscous to the side, nestling the oozing tomato stacks between the two. I dropped a few fresh grapes onto our plates and finished with snipped chives, parsley, and thyme leaves.

It was a ridiculous flavor party. There was so much going on. The sweet tiny grapes collapsed from the heat and melted into the madeira wine sauce, infusing it with additional soft sweetness. The velvety sauce napped the tender pork, enhancing its clean taste with a savory and sweet balance. Crazy. While the braised grape-clinging pork evoked an incredibly rich sleepy trance, the oozing pungent roasted stilton-tomatoes provoked mouthwatering culinary chaos. Bold. Fabulous.

Beulah, peel me a grape.

-I'm No Angel

Take The Eyes Out

2011-08-14T19:44:00.001-04:00

After driving through Tennesse and Alabama for what seemed like an eternity, we finally arrived at our small beachside town for vacation. Although our car was stocked to the gills with things we knew we'd need, we still had provisions to procure before settling into our quaint effciency overlooking the Gulf of Mexico.

Local farmstand for produce, check.

Liquor store, double check.

Seafood market, check, check, check.
We found the most reputable fresh seafood market in town. Reputable, because they offered boat to market fresh seafood/shellfish both retail and wholesale, meaning their product went very fast and stayed incredibly fresh.

It was insane. The shop operated at a frantic, cash only, pace. Money was flying over the counter like mad. Pick. Point. Bag. Pay. Leave. When they sold out of everything, they closed. It was that simple.

While Michael and I mulled over fresh whole flounder, pompano, and triggerfish filets, a small docile asian gentleman made his way to the counter and ordered 4 pounds of colossal head-on shrimp. Wow.
As the sweet-cheeked counter clerk finished bagging his enormous shrimp, he shouted, "Take the eyes out!"

The bustling fish market became very quiet and still.

The baffled clerk looked up and said, "What?"

"Take the eyes out", he implored.

Silence.

Beat. Beat. Beat.

Why on earth would you purchase gorgeous behemoth shrimp with pointed spiny heads and beady eyes if you wanted the eyes taken out? Really? Why? Eyeball by eyeball? It could take hours. We didn't have hours.

I was impressed with the clerks I've-seen-it-all-composure. "Sir, you'll have to take care of that yourself.", she matter-of-factly replied. Fair enough, I thought.

As she plopped the bulbous bag of shrimp onto the scale, he pleaded, "No, no, no. Take the eyyyeees out!" You could have heard a fish scale hit the floor. The burly market boss slowly slithered to the counter and barked, "Sir, we do not remove their eyes here."

With utter desperation, the gentle asian gentleman pleaded, "Take the eyes out before you weigh!"

Oh.
A quiet wave of understanding undulated throughout the market.

Take the ICE out. The ice. Ohhhh, the ice.
Nervous giggles.

The clerk pulled two chunks of ice from the bag, tossed them back onto the massive pile of shrimp, and weighed his ice-less bounty. He handed over what appeared to be a few thousand dollars, snatched his catch, and scurried out the door.

"Next!", the surly market boss shouted. Feeling a bit intimidated, I mumbled, "I'd like 2 pounds of triggerfish, a pound of head-off, tail-on 16-20 count shrimp, and 1/2 pound head-on jumbo shrimp."

Adding, "With eyes......and ice."

His stern face melted into a soft smile. "Yes, sir."

At that moment, our vacation began.

Corn Daze

2011-08-04T18:43:00.003-04:00

We're packed for our beachside paradise. We didn't pack slacks, proper shoes, jackets, or dress shirts. We have two suitcases full of tee shirts, shorts, flip flops, and swim trunks. We plan to do nothing. Nothing, but lie in the sun, read, swim, drink, eat, and relax.

Rejuvenation.

Oh, we also have a large wicker basket filled with disposable cooking utensils, spices, fleur de sel, kosher salt, hickory smoked salt, Himalayan salt, Australian red sea salt, black sesame seeds, Old Bay, cracked black pepper, cracked green pepper, olive oil, capers, anchovies, sherry vinegar, polenta, grits, pasta, arborio rice, and flour. Aside from a couple of beachside restaurants that we can reach strolling ankle deep in the lapping tides, two-fisted with cups of wine and flashlights, we plan to grill our meals most nights while we're there. Peaceful. No worries. No traffic. No waiting.

Just the crystal clear teal blue water.....and us.

Preparing for our trip was an adventure. I wanted to clean out the refrigerator and pantry before we left. It's the classic what-my-parents-always-did-kind-of-thing to do. Leave a clean kitchen to return to a clean kitchen. A bit neurotic, yet sensible. I made it a game, like those shows on television that force people to use mystery baskets, secret ingredients, and time challenges to prepare a decent meal. I used what I had on hand. Meal by meal, I've emptied the cupboards, pantry, refrigerator, and freezer. My dad would've been very proud.

The final challenge was the easiest. I simply used everything that was left for a hearty chowder. It was the perfect catch-all remedy. Chowder. Specifically, shrimp and corn chowder.

I had four ears of Peaches & Cream corn that were incredibly fresh. I shucked them on the back deck to avoid carpeting the kitchen floor with wispy corn silk. After shucking the corn, I stripped the kernels, used the back of the knife to milk the cob, and set it aside.

I pulled wild caught peeled and deveined Mobile Gulf shrimp from the freezer to thaw. (a happily recieved gift from my boss) While the shrimp thawed under running water, I diced red bell peppers, onions, carrots, celery, and baby new potatoes.

Mise en place. Time to play. I julienned 1/2 red bell pepper, snipped a few chives, and minced fresh thyme. To gild the lily, I roasted precious prosciutto strips until they caramelized into luscious salty sweet pork brittle.

Thankfully, it was time for several glasses of wine. Michael and I had to catch up on our individual days spent apart from each other. Doesn't everyone?

I snuck into the kitchen to start the chowder base. After that, it went pretty fast.

I sauteed the onions, red bell peppers, celery, and carrots with fresh thyme, salt, and pepper until they softened before deglazing the pan with my glass of wine, letting the wine reduce by half before adding 1/4 cup clam juice and two cups of chicken stock. I brought the chowder base to a boil, reduced it a simmer, refilled my wine glass, dropped the potatoes into the simmering stock, clamped on a lid, and rejoined Michael in the parlor.

When the potatoes were tender, I added 2 cups of heavy cream, allowing it to reduce and thicken to the perfect consistency. When the creamy chowder could coat the back of a spoon, I tumbled the fresh corn and shrimp into the velvety bath to steep for 3 minutes.

I ladled the shrimp and corn chowder into deep bowls, twirled julienned red bell peppers into the chowder, and showered it with fresh snipped chives. For crunch and saltiness, I crumbled crackling prosciutto crisps over the silken cream.

My. My. My.

The chowder was ridiculously rich from the heavy cream. A given. Yet, the sweet corn and tender shrimp cut through the richness with soft bursts of wet freshness. Cleansing. Fresh. The creaminess was shattered with each bite of crispy prosciutto. They were the ultimate salty croutons. Crunchy pig. Briny shrimp. Sweet corn. Heavy cream.

We licked our bowls clean. Nothing could stop us.

Carnal Chowder.

Fabulous.

Tomato Essence: An Experiment

2011-07-31T14:15:00.001-04:00

Michael and I recieved an invitation to join friends for a fun day filled with food and laughter at the lovely hilltop secluded home of a dear friend. Magical. Everyone was asked to bring something burstingly fresh to share and enjoy with beautifully prepared lamb. What a wonderful challenge this time of year when fresh everything is everywhere.

During the past month or so, Michael and I have eaten fresh tomatoes almost every day. We can't get enough of them. We've enjoyed them in every possible form. I didn't think there was anything else I could possibly do with a perfectly ripe humble sweet tomato. I thought I'd covered the bases....until the garden party.

As an experiment, with caution thrown to the wind coupled with a bit of culinary insanity, I set out to explore the complexity and essence of uber fresh market tomatoes.....and serve it up as a unified whole. Crazy. Really.

I couldn't visit the farmers' market at all last week. I'm still in a weird withdrawal mode about that, I might add. Michael did our shopping. I gave him a very basic wish list as a guide for procuring my needs and wants.

* 2 heirloom green tomatoes
* 2 heirloom yellow tomatoes
* 2 heirloom black tomatoes
* 2 heirloom red tomatoes

When I arrived home from work, I found a paper bag filled with baby green zebras, black brandyvines, great whites, cherokee greens, red beefsteaks, and big orange stripes. Wow. Tomato heaven. I was ready to play.

Hold onto your hats.

Tomato Water.

There are several methods for creating tomato water. Although somewhat similar, they vary in preparation. Not wanting to miss a beat, I combined them all. After slicing a few wedges from each of the tomatoes, I covered them and set them aside while I chopped the remaining tomatoes into 1 inch pieces. Working in batches, I pureed them in a blender and poured the pulp into double lined unbleached cheesecloth. At that point, I hit my first glitch because I hadn't thought past that step.

I knew the tomatoes were supposed to drip and drain, releasing their flavorful juices. It didn't occur to me exactly how I was going to manage that in my kitchen. Kitchen twine is usually a very basic thing to have hanging around, right? I didn't have any, so I used bright red Christmas ribbon to tie the buldging tomato pulp-filled cheesecloth bag together.

After stacking 4 thick law books on the counter a foot apart, I placed two copper Moroccan kettles on the books for needed height, placed a bowl between the books, slid the ribbon tied bag through a rolling pin, secured the rolling pin handles onto the copper kettles, and stared at my ridiculous contraption. When Michael wandered into the kitchen and caught a glimpse of our new kitchen art, he laughed. We both did. We had to.

But, it worked.

The pure tomato essence slowly started to drip through the cheesecloth. As tempting as it was to squeeze the bulbous bag of pulp, I allowed it to slowly drain, drip by drip, for eight long hours. Yep.

Fascinating.

Tomato Powder,

Ok. I was knee deep in my tomato experiment. There was no turning back. I climbed to the edge of sanity and jumped. I really wanted to juxtapose the tomato water with an extreme opposite. Tomato powder was the perfect weapon. I lugged Thomas Keller's The French Laundry Cookbook from its lofty perch and got familiar with his simple method for making tomato powder.

"Squeeze the tomato pulp in a towel to extract any excess moisture. Line a microwave tray with a piece of parchment paper and spread the tomatoes out in a thin, even layer. Microwave on low power for 30 to 40 minutes, or until the pulp is completely dried, but maintains its color. Let cool to room temperature, Grind the pulp in a coffee or spice grinder until as fine as possible.."

Easy. After blanching a large red beefsteak tomato in boiling water for 10 seconds to release the skin, I peeled it, removed the seeds, and diced the pulp. I tumbled the pulp into double lined cheesecloth and squeezed every ounce of liquid from the tomato. It seemed funny, after spending all of those cold winter months longing for juicy summer tomatoes, I was squeezing the life out of an innocent tomato.

I placed the tomato pulp on parchment paper, slid the plate into the microwave, set the timer for 40 minutes, and took to my couch. I should have known not to trust the simplistic seductive power of Thomas Keller. Awash in my tomato powder glee, I overlooked "...microwave on low power". Thankfully, Michael put out the fire and cleaned up the mess.

I repeated the process using low microwave power, staying close to my dehydrating pulp the entire 40 minutes. Aside from an occasional spit and flare up, it worked. I ground the dried pulp into powder, set it aside, and took a deep breath.

As a riff on mayonaise-topped tomatoes, I made a quick lemon chive aioli to accompany the fresh tomatoes.

I plated the gorgeous tomatoes with a sprinkling of red Australian sea salt and cracked Tellicherry black peppercorns. After topping the aioli with the tomato powder and snipped chives, I slid the aioli filled ramekin next to the tomatoes.

With a simple garnish of thinly sliced cucumber spears, I filled small parfait glasses with the tomato water and nestled them in soldier-like fashion alongside the pitcher. Crazy. Each sip of tomato water tasted like freshly picked profoundly ripe sun warmed tomatoes. Mysteriously delicious.

While the sliced tomatoes needed nothing to boost their glory, the intense tomato powder paired nicely with the bright lemon chive aioli, giving the fresh tomatoes an earthy depth.

My tomato experiment was a blast. Great fun. Was it a bit of trouble? Hell, yes.

Would I try it again?

In a heartbeat.

It was worth every adventurous second to capture and enjoy

the true essence of fresh tomatoes.

Peachy Keen

2011-07-26T18:20:00.003-04:00

Sunday night, Michael grilled a killer slab of barbecued baby back ribs. When they were ridiculously caramelized, we tossed a couple of ears of husk-wrapped sweet ambrosia corn cobs onto the grill to cook alongside the ribs. While devouring supper that night, we bathed ourselves in barbecue sauce and melted butter. After licking the last salty butter puddle from my plate, I happily volunteered to clear our plates and clean up. Why? A half slab of meat remained on the bones and I had a plan for it.

I cleaned the kitchen, poured myself another glass of wine, sat down at the kitchen table, and deboned the sticky barbecued pork meat while merrily sucking the bones completely clean along the way. Cook's treat.

Last night, I revisited that happy pork meat. I planned on making pulled pork barbecued sandwiches with something. As I rummaged through my farmstand vegetable drawer looking for that something, I ran across a bag of Kentucky grown peaches that I thought Michael had already eaten with his beloved cottage cheese.

Peaches. I could work with that. Peaches and barbecue just felt right. The usual suspects, grilled peaches or peach barbecue sauce, didn't fit my mood. I wanted something a bit brighter and fresher. When I stumbled upon a jicama bulb tucked behind a slew of golden beets, I was inspired. Peach and jicama slaw.

I peeled the rough skinned jicama, sliced it in half, and julienned it on my mandolin before tossing it into a large bowl with julienned red bell pepper, slivered green onions, and thinly sliced peaches.

After whisking 2 tablespoons honey, dijon, fresh orange juice, and fresh lime juice with 3 tablespoons of rice wine vinegar into a smooth dressing, I poured it over the slaw, and slid it into the refrigerator to macerate while Michael and I drank wine, sharing our tales of the day.

When it was time to eat, I pulled the luscious pork from the refrigerator, shredded it, and slowly reheated it over a gentle flame in a pool of melted butter. Yep.

I piled the pork onto buttered toasted buns, dropped a few vinegar/sugar marinated cucumbers beside them, and spooned the peach jicama slaw into small vegetable shaped serving bowls.

Honestly, the butter-poached repurposed pork barbecue was better the second time around. Although it was just as messy, it felt softer and mellower sandwiched between butter toasted bread. Sticky butter barbecued pork heaven. Crazy good.

The slaw was a revelation. Gorgeous sweet peaches, crunchy apple-like jicama, sweet red bell peppers, and biting green onions punched through the subtle honey-sweetened citrus dressing with their individual flavors and textures intact, perfectly balancing the richness of the pork.

Fabulous.

Mess O' Beans

2011-07-24T16:00:00.003-04:00

A few days ago, just before the ridiculous heat wave smothered half the nation, a dear friend gave us a mess of fresh green beans plucked from her mother's garden. That night, I made a pretty decent double-dredged buttermilk fried chicken topped with fried rosemary and thyme leaves.

Ultimately, my plan was to serve long simmered bacon-infused green beans with the fried chicken. The perfect pairing for a Sunday supper. Somehow along the way, time got away from me and I lost the luxury of time needed for a long slow simmer of the green beans. Although delicious, I didn't want to settle for beautifully sauteed crisp green beans. I craved bacon, especially green beans with bacon.

Culinary insanity.

After trimming the green beans, I blanched them in salted boiling water for 3 minutes before dumping them into an iced water bath to stop the cooking. When cooled, I dried them with paper towels and wrapped them with thick cut applewood smoked bacon strips.

I drizzled the green bean bacon bundles with oilve oil, seasoned them with salt and pepper, and slid them into a blistering hot 425 degree oven to roast for 15 minutes. During the last minute, I cranked the broiler to crisp the bacon.

Quick and easy.

The caramelized char of the green bean bundles were wonderfully crunchy, smoky, and sweet. Combined with the crisp salty bacon, they were perfect bites alongside buttermilk fried chicken. Messy fabulous finger food.

Food Journeys

2011-07-22T18:07:00.003-04:00

Michael and I both adore Greek food. We simply love it. I spent a few weeks there as a kid with my family on a long layover before we moved back to the United States. Michael spent a summer in Greece as part of a study abroad course during college. Although our individual time there was years apart, it's interesting to think that our whispered footsteps might have crossed paths somewhere in Greece.

I've conjured up many Greek meals throughout the years, hoping to tap into Michael's food memories and shower him with pleasant feelings from his time there. During my kitchen shenanigans, I've cooked them all; baklava, pasititio, spanakopita, moussaka, gyros, tzatziki, and souvlaki.

Eventually, after a botched bechamel for yet another moussaka, Michael finally confessed that he never ate those foods while staying in Greece. At fifty cents a shot, the youth hostel where he stayed offered spaghetti, meatloaf, and cheeseburgers. Really? All righty, then.

That didn't stop me. I did, and still do, cook a lot of Greek inspired food. I no longer do it in hopes of unlocking tucked away memories of steel blue skies enveloping stark white-washed terraced Santorini homes. I cook Greek food because we love to eat it. We're seduced by the intoxicating tastes and aromas of garlic, lemon, oregano, and olive oil that identify the Greek flavor profile.

Last night was no exception. Lately, it's been hotter than hades outside, but the heat hasn't kept me out of the kitchen. Although it alters what I do in the kitchen, I still get in there and play. Last night, I didn't light a single burner or touch the oven. Nope.

I threw together a very classic Greek salad. A true Greek salad is very straightforward. It doesn't arrive on a bed of lettuce or have a creamy feta flecked dressing. It's simply sliced tomatoes, red onions, kalamata olives, cucumbers, and green peppers topped with sliced Greek oregano-dusted feta cheese lightly dressed with olive oil, red wine vinegar, garlic, oregano, salt, and pepper.

On the way to work yesterday, I stopped by the farmers' market and picked up an assortment of tomatoes: baby yellow bells, small black bells, sun gold cherry tomatoes, and black branywine tomatoes. While negotiating the sight-seers, I bagged a few kirby cucumbers, green bell peppers, and baby purple candy onions. On the way home from work, I literally ran into Fresh Market (wearing blinders to avoid distraction) and grabbed a fabulous block of Greek feta cheese along with a pint oil cured kalamata olives.

When I finally got home, I poured a goblet of chardonnay, sat down at the kitchen table, and lovingly sliced the farm fresh produce into bite sized pieces. I adore prepping food, loving the way it feels and smells while working with it. When it's as fresh as it was yesterday, it's shear joy. Each turn of my knife released burstingly fresh vegetable mist into the air and onto my face. I could see it, smell it, and taste it. Non-cooking doesn't get any better than that.

The dressing was a snap to prepare. Using a traditional ratio of one to three, I mixed 3/4 cups olive oil, 1/4 cup red wine vinegar, a pinch of sugar, 1 teaspoon minced garlic, 1 1/2 teaspoons Greek oregano, fresh lemon juice, salt, pepper, and whisked it together until the dressing emulsified.

I tossed the vegetables into a large bowl, showered them with dressing and gave them a gentle quick toss. After sliding the vegetables into the refrigerator to marinate, I joined Micahel in the parlor for a few glasses of while we discussed our upcoming vacation.

When it was time to eat, I tumbled the gorgeous Greek salad onto our plates, nestled sliced feta cheese on top with a sprinkling of dried oregano, scattered feathery fresh dill, and spooned additional dressing over everything.

It was the perfect foil for a hot summer evening. When sliced, the tangy feta crumbled into the glistening vegetables. Each bite of subtle slivered onions, crunchy cucumbers, meltingly fresh tomatoes, and velvety black kalamata olives exploded with hints of garlic, soft acidity, and luscious olive oil. Simply delicious.

Sometime during the night, after falling asleep on the couch, I was awakened by a notification on my phone.

Michael had posted on Twitter:
From my travel journal, Summer 1983.
Thank you for an exact duplication. With

Kentucky tomatoes, and you.

It doesn't get any better than that.

Without even trying.

The Trips Too Bountiful?

2011-07-19T18:12:00.002-04:00

I'm really not one who believes in the notion of too much of a good thing. How can too much good be bad? Well, my farmer's market shopping habit has had me rethinking that notion. I shop three times a week, which isn't offensive. Buying too much stuff on each visit might be. We are not a family of five. We are a family of two. When I browse the market this time of year I can't help myself. Everything is so damn beautiful and delicious. That being said, we haven't been able to eat all the stuff that I've accumulated over the past week. Trust me, we've tried. I think we've eaten fresh corn (every way imaginable) every night for two weeks now.

Last night, my vegetable hoarding finally caught up with me. I had an array of things I really needed to either use or toss. I used it all.

I lugged bags out of the refridgerator vegetable drawer to assess our supper plans. We had plenty of vegetables. Plenty. Soup was the obvious choice. Vegetarian vegetable soup, no less. After chopping, dicing, and mincing green bell peppers, small Yummy orange bell peppers, purple candy onions, green beans, garlic, and speckled roma tomatoes, I sauteed them in olive oil until they were tender. Just as the onions started to caramelize, I deglazed the pot with a cup of white wine and added 2 cups of vegetable stock.

I had a few large heirloom black brandywine and yellow brandywine tomatoes sitting in a bowl on the countertop that were slightly past their salad prime. I decided to use their juices to finish the soup base. I could have used my food mill, but didn't feel like dealing with cleaning seeds from the blades. Messy. I went the primative route with an oridinary box grater. It was fun.

After slicing the tips from the tomatoes, I grated them into a fine chinois strainer fitted over a mixing bowl until I had a heaping pile of tomato pulp. Using a wooden utensil, I sieved the pulp through the strainer until only the seeds and skins remained. When finished, I had 2 cups of gorgeous tomato essence.

I poured it into the soup pot along with parsley, oregano, fresh thyme, salt, and pepper. When it came to a boil, I reduced it to a simmer, clamped on a lid, and let it gently bubble away.

While the soup simmered, I whipped up a quick basil pesto, covered it with plastic wrap, and set it aside.

Corn. A few nights ago, I made creamy fresh ambrosia corn risotto with sauteed rainbow chard as accompiments for balsamic glazed chicken. Although the fresh corn risotto was fantastic, we had leftovers. Happy dance. Lefttover risotto is the gift that keeps on giving, especially the gift of arancini di riso or fried risotto balls. Bingo.

Arancini di riso are usually served as snacks with dipping sauces, but I decided to serve them as dumplings for our soup. Sacrilege.

I pulled the leftover corn risotto from the refrigerator and rolled it into meatball sized 1 inch balls. Using my thumb, I made holes in the centers of each rice ball, stuffed the holes with fresh mozzarella, enclosed the holes by rolling them back into balls, and slid them into the refrigerator to firm up.

Much wine followed.

When it was time to eat, I heated peanut oil in a heavy pot until it reached 350 degrees. Once the oil tipped the thermometer at 350, I dredged the cheese-filled risotto balls in flour, egg wash, and panko bread crumbs before carefully dropping them into the smoking hot oil to cook. After a few turns to brown the balls evenly, I scooped them out, placed them on paper towels, and doused them with kosher salt.

After ladling the soup into large pasta bowls, swirling in the pesto, I scattered fresh snipped chives along with a few basil leaves and nestled the arancini into the soupy broth. Fresh lemon finished.

It was a fascinating combination of....well, everything. The hot tomato-infused broth slowly defused the pesto, gradually melting the parmigiano and releasing the basil-flecked olive oil into soup. The broth was light. Very light. Like sipping air. Tomato air. Heaven. The vegetables vanquished to the broth, adding flavor with subtle bites.

Oh my. When sliced, the arancini crackled and snapped. Splayed open, the crunchy rice balls oozed cheese, creamy rice, and sweet corn into the soup. Ridiculous. Really.

Perfect.

This morning, I stopped by the farmers' market on the way to work...

and reloaded.

Wrap It Up

2011-07-12T18:18:00.002-04:00

I'm not really a sandwich wrap type of guy. I'm simply not a big bread eater, unless it's a tool for sopping luscious sauces and juices from plate drippings. Lately, I've been cranking out sandwiches as if I owned my own little sandwich shop. Weird.

Although our kitchen is one of the cooler rooms in the house, the stifling heat has cut into my desire for major stove action. We've eaten more salads, vegetables, and sandwiches in the past few days than we have eaten in the last six months. Last night, I had a gorgeous head of market bibb lettuce floating around in the refrigerator leftover from a fried shrimp po' boy supper we devoured a few nights ago. What to do with it? For some strange reason, lettuce wraps came to mind. Although intrigued with the idea of lettuce wraps, I've only ordered them once in a restaurant and have never made them at home.

I know there are hundreds of recipes bouncing around the internet, but I decided to throw it together with what I had on hand. Lettuce wrap purists, please don't bawk.

Sauce. After blending water with fine caster sugar until the sugar quickly disolved, I whisked in citrusy ponzu soy sauce, hoisen sauce, oyster sauce, ketchup, rice wine vinegar, and sesame oil. To bump up the citrus element and cut through the sweetness, I added fresh squeezed lemon juice.

Filling. I sauteed a pound of ground Certified Angus Beef with minced green bell peppers, diced red candy onions, and minced garlic. While the beef and vegetables sizzled away, I whisked together equal parts of light brown sugar and dark soy sauce. After the ground beef, peppers, and onions caramelized, I poured the brown sugar-soy glaze into the pan and let it ooze through the meat mixture, coating every morsel with the sticky salty-sweet glaze.

Assembly. I tore the outer leaves from the bibb lettuce and lined our plates. After spooning a modest amount of filling into each lettuce leaf, I topped them with roasted peanuts for crunch, sesame seeds, and quartered grape tomatoes.. I ladled the additional sauce into small ramekins on the side.

Well, well, well. I finally discovered what I've been missing. They were fabulous. The buttery bibb lettuce leaves were perfect. They were delicately tender, providing a soft crisp wetness that balanced the rich filling. The roasted peanuts added crunch and the tomatoes freshness. The side sauce was a delightful overkill. Sweet, salty, sticky, messy, and fun.

I looked over at Michael and watched as the dark sugar-soy-infused meat goo dripped through his fingers, down his wrists, and onto his plate. Without a single break in eating, we licked our fingers, chins, elbows, and plates completely clean.

That's a wrap.