Pearls

I think beets get a bad rap. They're almost polarizing. People either love or hate the earthy downtrodden root. I know there are people out there who love beets. While I'm on the love-fest side of the fence, very few people I know share my enthusiasm. I typically have to grab them on the sly or catch them on an occasional salad bar. That said, my last few salad bar adventures were beet-less. Zero. Slim pickings for a beet lover.

Sometimes, you have to grab the bull by the horns and take a little ride. I wanted beets. Period. Giddy-up, Mr. Bull.

Roasted Beet Salad.
Typically, I roast beets in individually-wrapped aluminum packets. While it's a great method, it's messy business. The beets usually stick to the foil and bleed from the packets. Familiar territory. Low on my foil supply, I took a simpler approach. After snipping the greens (washed and reserved)  from 3 bunches of chioggia, red, and golden beets, I scrubbed the beet bulbs before dropping them into a shallow roasting pan. I added 1/2 cup water, covered the pan with aluminum foil, and slid them into a 375 degree oven to roast/steam/bake for 1 1/2 hours.

When the beets were tender enough to poke through with a wooden skewer, I pulled them from the oven and let them rest until they were cool enough to handle. Using rubber gloves, I easily slipped the skins from the beets and tossed them into the refrigerator to chill. Sure, I splattered everything in sight with wet crimson beet juice. When you play with beets, expect bloodshed.

With the beets safely tucked away, I gave a demure nod to molecular gastronomy with a simple method for balsamic pearls from Modernist Cooking Made Easy.
Balsamic Pearls.
After placing 1 cup of olive oil into the freezer to chill for 45 minutes, I boiled 1/2 cup balsamic vinegar with 1 tablespoon agar agar and poured the mixture into a squeeze bottle.  When the olive oil was quite chilled and cloudy, I carefully drizzled droplets of the thickened balsamic vinegar into the oil. As the droplets fell through the cold olive oil, they formed into tiny little spheres. Fabulous. I gave the pearls a quick stir to break them apart before dropping them into chilled water to set.

I pulled the beets from the refrigerator, sliced them paper thin rounds, tossed them with sliced watermelon radishes, added a few small raw beet greens, and drizzled everything with a simple lemon vinaigrette. After layering them will-nilly onto a serving plate, I nestled the balsamic pearls into the beets before finishing with flaked sea salt and slivered serrano peppers.

The glistening jewel-toned beets packed a potent earthy punch. Sliced whisper thin, they were both robust and delicate. Crazy. Mimicking the tender sweet beets, the watermelon radishes crashed the party with killer stinging crunch.  So, balsamic pearls and lemon vinaigrette? Overkill? Nope. It was a fantastic combination. The jellied balsamic pearls countered the bright clean acidity of the lemon vinaigrette with small pops of concentrated dark sweet acidity. Balance.

Beet fix.
Total self indulgence.

Tail

At first glance, it might appear that Quarles Farm offers only baked goods, salsas, jams, and jellies at the Winter Farmers' Market. Not so. Dig a little deeper and ask a few questions. Their coolers (loaded with goat, lamb, and beef) are goldmines.  On my last visit, they offered  local apples and parsnips alongside their fantastic canned goods and breads. I was on the prowl for neck bones. Nope. I had to think fast, spin on a dime, flip a coin, journey to the other end, and choose tail. Oxtail. Aside to myself. Oddly, oxtail is commonly referred to as oxtails. Plural. Lots of tails. Many tails.  I kind of get the notion. Packaged supermarket oxtail fools the eye with big meaty chunks of tail. Locally sourced oxtail is readily packaged as one tail. Oxtail. Singular. From the fat butt-end section down to the tiny fly swatter, it's one tail.

Slapped back to reality, I passed on the apples, snagged a bundle of parsnips, and picked up a gorgeous piece of tail. My initial plan was to conjure up an intoxicating curried neck bone stew. With the same gelatinous marrow content of neck bones, I could have easily substituted the tail for the neck bones. In the end, I took a straightforward approach (with a few tricks) with the oxtail.

Red Wine Braised Oxtail with Parsnips, Carrots, and Cipollini Onions.
Braised oxtail is a beautiful thing. Because of its wonderful fat content, oxtail is best prepared a day in advance. Perfect timing for a lazy weekend.

Day 1.
After tying the oxtail pieces with kitchen twine to keep them intact, I seasoned them liberally and  browned them in sizzling  hot oil. When they were deeply browned (almost charred), I pulled them from the pot before adding chopped celery, onions, carrots, parsnips, and 2 tablespoons tomato paste. When the vegetables and paste caramelized, I deglazed the pot with a full bottle of cabernet sauvingnon. I scraped the bits from the bottom of the pot, let the wine reduce by half, and added 2 cups beef stock. At that point, it was pretty basic stuff. Beef stew, in a sense. To give the braise an extra oomph, I tossed 3 salty oil-packed anchovies into the stock along with 2 tablespoons pulverized dried porcini mushrooms. Although it might sound odd, I knew the anchovies would melt into the stock and quietly disappear. Masquerading as invisible umami bombs, the glutamates in both the mushrooms and anchovies would actually make the beef taste beefier. Win. That said, I brought the stock to a boil, reduced it to a simmer, added bay leaves, covered the pot, and slid it into a 350 degree oven.

After 31/2  hours, I pulled the pot from the oven, removed the meat to a side plate, drained the stock, discarded the vegetables, and wiped out the pot before pouring the reduced cooking liquid back into the pot. I nestled the oxtail into the warm stock and added a few fresh parsley sprigs to steep in the braising liquid while it cooled. When completely cooled, I covered the pot and slid the oxtail into the refrigerator to chill  overnight.

Day 2.
Thankfully, I tied the delicate meat with twine because the bundles were completely embedded in the coagulated beefy wine jelly. After carefully plucking them from the wine-infused demi glace, I skimmed the fat from the top, spooned the remainder into a cast iron skillet, added the oxtail, and set it aside.

To balance the richness of the oxtail I simply steamed a few carrots and parsnips until they were tender before sauteing them in butter with blanched cipollini onions. I set the vegetables aside and  gently rewarmed the braised oxtail over a medium flame. As the demi glace melted into the skillet, I used it to constantly baste the meat  until it was deeply glazed and lacquered with the mahogany jus. I scooped the tail from the sultry sauce, tucked the pieces into swaths of chive-flecked white sweet potato puree, and tumbled the vegetables to the side before finishing with lightly dressed celery leaves, slivered red pepper, and baby arugula.

Here's the deal, there is nothing fancy about braised oxtail. I mean, it's a tail.  A fly swatter. A bony thing with meat.

There was a lot going on. Cooked low and slow for hours, the collagens dissolved into the meat, rendering it utterly tender. Unleashed from its twined corset, the tender shreds spilled into the unctuous sauce, peppery parsnips, and soft sweet carrots. Hearty, lusty, and far from the dainty, the innocent meat-and-three quickly morphed into a shameless bone sucking meaty romp.

The perfect piece of tail.

Gone Fishin'

The best laid plans...

I had a simple plan. Braise a spatchcocked cornish hen in white wine with yellow tomatoes and yellow bell peppers. Simple. Lazy. A little somethin' somethin' Sunday night supper kind-of-thing. I wanted to break in a new enamel cast iron dutch oven that Michael and I recently picked up on the cheap. It wasn't fancy. It was cheap and cute. 

With everything on deck, I cranked the dutch oven over a medium high flame, drizzled the pan with olive oil, and added 2 minced shallots.  When the shallots turned translucent, I scattered minced garlic into the mix. Just before the garlic went too far, I hit the pan with white wine to release the sticky bits before adding chicken stock. I immediately recognized that sound. I knew exactly what had happened. In rapid fire slow motion (think strobe light), the faux cast iron dutch oven splintered and cracked into large broken shards, spilling sticky butter, shallots, garlic, and white wine everywhere. Yep. As the braising liquid oozed down the sides of the oven and puddled onto the floor, I stood in awe of my ridiculous mess. Sometimes, I simply amaze myself. Professionally and personally, I've had my share of kitchen blunders. Trust me. Crap happens. I've learned to roll with the punches and move on.

I trashed everything, had a good laugh,  cleaned up the mess, poured myself a glass of wine, and used a kitchen cleaver to hack the dainty splayed hen into several bite sized chunks.  After battering and deep frying the pieces, I smothered them with buttery hot sauce. Deep fried Buffalo chicken, thank you very much. Celery batons for crunch  and creamy gorgonzola for dipping. Go with the flow.

Needing to wash that hen right out of my hair, I decided to go fishing. Well, not fishing fishing. I stopped by The Lexington Seafood Company and caught gorgeous fresh grouper filets. Easy. Simple. Safe.

Poached Grouper.
I'm not much of a poacher. Sure, I'll poach eggs for brunch or midnight snacks, but when it comes down to meaty or fishy stuff, I prefer a quick saute or long braise. Typically, fish is poached in either olive oil, white wine, or court boullion. It's delicate work. Delicate doesn't become me, so in lieu of the traditional mediums, I used tomatoes for a heartier and less dainty approach.

 That said, the grouper filets begged for a light hand. Using our reliable cast iron skillet, I warmed 4 tablespoons of olive oil over a low flame before adding minced onions and sliced garlic. As they started to perfume the oil, I hand-crushed a 28oz can of San Marzano whole tomatoes into the mix. After adding 1/2 cup white wine, smashed kalamata olives, fresh tarragon, and sliced Meyer lemons, I brought the poaching liquid to a boil, reduced the heat, and let it ripple for 15 minutes before sliding the grouper filets into the simmering sauce. Because I didn't want the fish to overcook, I reduced the heat a bit further and covered the skillet to gently poach the fish for about 8 minutes.


After sliding the grouper filets into shallow soup bowls, I draped them with the tomatoes and tumbled simple boiled potatoes to the side before finishing with fresh tarragon, lemon slices, steamed julienned snow peas, olive oil, and white buttered bread for sopping.

Although the tomato poaching liquid might have bumped up the heartiness factor, the grouper remained incredibly tender and moist. During the quick poach, the fresh tarragon infused the tomatoes with subtle anise undertones. While the Meyer lemons added spunky sweet acidity,  the briny olives countered with needed saltiness. Grounded by the potatoes and crisp snow peas, the poached filets were surprisingly light, soft, and airy. Bathed in the sweet crushed tomatoes, lemons, olives, and fruity extra virgin olive oil, the grouper flesh flaked apart on a whisper, melted into the sauce, and teetered on the edge of morphing into a delicate fish stew. A fabulous unexpected win.

Simple. Complex. Crazy.

Chocolate

Mole (pronounced moh-lay) comes from the Nauhauti (Aztec Language) word "mulli", which means sauce or concoction. Depending on the ingredients used to create the concoction, regional variations of mole are very diverse and can be either green, yellow, red, or black. Where did mole originate?  It's common lore that 16th century nuns from the Convent of Santa Rosa in Puebla, Mexico were expecting a visit from the Archbishop. In a panic to feed him, they gathered what they had on hand (chiles, nuts, tortillas, spices, and chocolate), roasted and toasted them, ground them into a paste, diluted the paste with water, threw the mix into a cazuella with a slaughtered wild turkey, and created Mole Poblano de Guajolote or Turkey in Mole Poblano.

Mole Poblano is probably the most familiar and popular of the mole variations. While most people refer to it as a Mexican chocolate sauce, it's actually a complex multilayered  chile sauce with a little chocolate. And it's fabulous. Around our part of the country, it usually pops up in restaurants served over enchiladas or as a side sauce. Occasionally, I'll come across Pollo Mole Poblano on a restaurant menu. When I do, I'm all over the spiced chocolate chicken.

As much as I adore mole, I've never had the time or tenacity to attempt making it because of the time commitment. I finally had the time and the inclination to play with mole.

In Mexico, mole poblano varies from household to household, village to village, and from region to region. With the common denominator being chiles and chocolate, almost anything goes. Whether using a minimum amount of ingredients or going all out with as many as 30 ingredients, technique is crucial. There are some rules. Roast. Toast. Grind. Blend.

After deciding to do a full blown make-the-nuns-proud mole poblano, I made a quick trip to Super Mercado Aguascalientes to source my ingredients. Chiles, check. Spices, check. A gazillion other things, double check.

Turkey in Mole Poblano.
Round 1
While no two moles are alike, they're all loaded with sultry madness. Some folks simply throw everything into a pot at the same time. Nope. I wanted to honor the complexity of the layers. It was all about building flavors. To do so, everything had to be prepared individually. Although it was a bit involved, it was simple and straightforward. That said, I had a hard time wrapping my head around the process. I stayed true to the technique, but created my own little crazy method. Mise en place was key. Big time.

Chiles.
I stemmed and seeded 6 dried ancho chiles, 6 dried pasilla chiles, 4 dried mulato chiles, and 3 dried tobacco-colored dried chipotle chiles. After tearing them into pieces, I dry roasted them in a very hot cast iron skillet before covering them with boiling water to soften for 30 minutes.

Spices.
Working over a medium flame, I used the same hot skillet to individually toast 1 teaspoon black peppercorns, 1/2 teaspoon whole cloves, 1 teaspoon whole aniseed, 2 crumbled bay leaves, 1 tablespoon whole allspice berries, 1 stick canela (mild Mexican cinnamon, broken), and 1 tablespoon Mexican oregano. When the spices cooled, I ground them into a powder and set them aside.

Nuts and Seeds.
To help thicken the mole and ground the flavor with a slight nuttiness, I  toasted 5 tablespoons sesame seeds, 1/2 cup hulled pumpkin seeds, 1/2 cup peanuts, and 1/2 cup whole almonds before tossing them into the spice mixture.

The Fresh Stuff.
After halving 2 plum tomatoes, 2 tomatillos, and 1 large white onion, I broiled them until they were charred. Really charred. Just before they cumbusted , I tossed 5 whole garlic cloves into the mix to cook and soften.

Sweeteners.
Sweet balances heat. I chopped a ripe plantain and sauteed it in 1 tablespoon olive oil.  When the soft flesh started to caramelize, I tumbled 1/2 cup raisins into the skillet and added a splash of liquid from the soaking chiles to plump the raisins.


Thickeners.
Down the stretch. Over an open flame, I toasted 2 corn tortillas and 2 slices of white bread before tearing them into small pieces and setting them aside.

With everything on deck, I poured myself a huge glass of wine and took a break.

Round 2.
To strain or not to strain? I wanted a smooth mole, so I strained everything.
Working in batches, I pureed the re-hydrated peppers (with soaking liquid) in a food processor, pressed them through a fine mesh strainer, and discarded the solids. After heating 3 tablespoons of bacon fat (in lieu of lard) in a dutch oven until it was smoking hot, I lowered the heat, added the chile puree, and simmered it for 15 minutes. Without cleaning the bowl, I tumbled the charred vegetables, garlic, spice mixture, nuts, raisins, tortillas, bread, and plantains into the food processor.  After adding 2 cups chicken stock, I gave it  a quick puree, strained it, discarded the solids, and added it to the simmering chile puree.

I cracked the Mexican chocolate into large pieces with a sharp knife, scraped them into the bubbling mole along with 2 tablespoons of piloncillo (raw cane sugar), simmered the sauce for 35 minutes, pulled it from the heat, and cooled it to room temperature before sliding it into the refrigerator to chill overnight.

Round 3.
Turkey. I know, right? Who the hell roasts a turkey a week before Valentine's Day? In all fairness, I didn't roast a whole 15 or 20  pound turkey. I kept it somewhat reasonable by roasting a 4 pound bone-in turkey breast. I slathered the skin and underlying flesh  with oregano, thyme, and seasoned butter. After preheating the oven to 325 degrees, I slid the turkey breast into the oven to roast for 1 1/2 hours. Traditionally, turkey is poached or simmered in the mole. Because I wanted some turkey flavor and fat to seep into the sauce, I plopped 2 large turkey drumsticks into a cast iron skillet, covered them with the mole, added a few sprigs of fresh cilantro, covered the pan, and slid the legs into the oven to braise alongside the breast. Two for the price of one. Knockout round.

So, here's the deal. I've always been served chicken mole on a bed of iceberg lettuce topped with sesame seeds and sliced white onions. I'm not sure why. It's not traditional. Traditional or not, it's pretty fantastic.

After basting the breast and babysitting the legs for 1 1/2 hours, I pulled them from the oven to rest. I carved a whole turkey breast lobe from one side of the turkey, sliced it into thin pieces, and fanned it over iceberg lettuce with cilantro-flecked white rice to the side. I drizzled the mole poblano over the turkey, tucked sliced white onions between the slices, and dusted them with sesame seeds. Grilled corn tortillas, avocado, and fresh limes finished it off.

Holy moly. As the turkey juices dripped through the flesh and puddled with the sauce, I almost felt naughty eating the mole-stained meat. There was a lot going on. While the seductive sweetness of the chocolate tempered the smoldering heat of the chiles, every individual spice, vegetable, herb, seed, nut, and fruit seemed fully present. Big. Bold. Soft. Perfect.



And the drumsticks?
Two-fisted midnight snacks.
Messy mole lipstick.

Proof

If you could splash it on the ground and ignite it with gunpowder, you had 100% proof that it was at least 50% alcohol.

Buffalo Trace Distillery, nestled on the banks of the Kentucky River in Frankfort, is the oldest continuously operating distillery in the United States. Buffalo Trace (known then as the George T. Skagg Distillery)  remained operational during the era of prohibition. Buffalo trace was one of four distilleries issued permits to bottle bourbon for medicinal purposes. During prohibition, six million prescriptions for bourbon were filled in Kentucky. Happy sick people.

I had few expectations when Michael and I joined other professionals on a bitterly cold morning for a private industry tour of Buffalo Trace Distillery. Simply along for the ride, I knew there would be bourbon, bourbon barrels, and bourbon bottles. Other than that, I was game for anything. Blinded by the snow-covered grounds and brilliant blue sky, I guess I expected pretty things. Shiny stills. Pretty buildings. Flowers. I know, unrealistic great expectations.

It felt like a routine bourbon-tour-kind-of-a-day. After a brief introduction in the George T. Skagg Gallery & Gift shop, we broke off into smaller groups for a composite tour that included snippets of the The Trace Tour, Bourbon Barrel Tour, National Historic Landmark Tour, and The Hard Hat Tour. We started the day poking around a 130 year old brick and stone warehouse. Warehouse C, one of the earliest remaining intact
examples of "continuous rack warehouses",  stores nearly 24,000 bourbon-filled charred white oak barrels in a rigid grid of wooden racks that extend uninterrupted from top to bottom in the warehouse.The aging process is determined by where the barrels are stored. They age quicker at the top of the warehouse where they're exposed to more temperature variables. The really good stuff  (23 year old Pappy Van Winkle, for example) takes longer to age on the first floor.

After a quick stop in the barrel inspection warehouse, we slid over a few icy roads to watch workers hand bottle and label premium bourbons in the Blanton's Bottling Hall. The building, built in 1890 as a boiler room, was the original power and heat source for the distillery. It's now used to bottle their premium bourbons.


*Side note. Apparently, there's no rhyme or reason for the selection of the famed racing horse corks used to seal Blanton bottles. Who knew? I always thought it meant something. A little secret something something.
Nope. They're randomly pulled from a box and carefully plugged onto the bottles. Boom. Sealed.

Everything about the adventure was fascinating. Although I was merely along for the ride, I was captivated, mesmerized and bourbonized.


Halfway through the tour, we made our way to the Elmer T. Lee Clubhouse for a catered lunch and bourbon tasting. Booya. Warmed by lunch, a roaring fire, and teeny tastes of White Dog, Eagle Rare, Buffalo Trace Straight Bourbon Whiskey, and Bourbon Cream, we bundled up for the Hard Hat Tour. We almost skipped the last leg because Michael didn't want to wear a hard hat.  Didn't blame him, really. Hat hair. As it turned out, hats were not required.

The game changed when we left the clubhouse. The skies turned grey as we made our way down slippery side roads to explore the mash, fermenting, and still houses. It was a weird and different world.  Heavy metal doors. Twisting steel stairwells. Grated steel flooring. Catwalks. Ramps.  We passed the old coal furnaces that still stands at the ready, if needed. Coal chutes. Shovels. Clamps. Steel. Oliver Twist. After sliding past grain receiving, we ended up in the mash house where three 10,000 gallon pressure cookers cook the inspected ground corn with Kentucky limestone water for an hour before other grains are added.

A few more stairs followed by a covered skyway  led us to the fermenting house where twelve 92,000 gallon fermenting tanks gurgled and bubbled with sour mash.  The numbers were staggering.

More metal stairs led to passageways under noisy rumbling pipes. "That's the mash pushing through the pipes." Gotcha. Comforting. It was crazy. Crazy fantastic. Where the hell were we? "The floor gives a little, but it's fine. Just wanted you to know."

Crooked metal stairs led to another heavy door. When it squeaked open, we were standing on the rooftop. The rooftop. Bolstered by the freezing temperatures, endless poofs of steam billowed from nowhere. From everywhere. When the cold breezes shifted, the steam enveloped me. I lost track of my people. I could hear them, but I couldn't see them. Haunting. Mysterious. For a lost moment, I felt like Meryl Streep cloaked in mist on the stone jetty from that scene in The French Lieutenant's Woman. Transported.


Back through the door, down more flights of stairs, out onto the street, and the tour was over. Just like that, it was over. In so many ways, it was exhilarating. Sure, it was a fabulous peak into the history and tradition of Buffalo Trace Distillery. In the end, it wasn't all about distilling bourbon. For me, it was about feelings and emotions. Buffalo Trace felt real. Our little adventure gave us an honest, gritty and raw glimpse into what really happens inside a distillery. I went into the day expecting pretty things. I left with an unexpected insight and fond emotional appreciation for the art of bourbon making. Pretty cool.

Most folks drink bourbon. I eat bourbon. During our tour, I had a notion that I'd pick up a bottle of bourbon to use for a pork glaze when we got home. Nope. Didn't happen. Too fussy. After reveling in the starkness of the day, I wanted something I could put my foot in.

Collard Greens.
I filled a stock pot with 5 cups of water before adding 2 sliced onions, 2 large bunches of torn collard greens (with stems), 3 smashed garlic cloves, a split country ham hock from Finchville Farms, seasoning salt, onion powder, kosher salt, cracked black pepper, a splash of Chrystal hot sauce, 2 tablespoons of apple cider vinegar, and 1/4 cup Blanton's Bourbon.  I brought the stock to a boil, reduced the heat, and let it simmer for  2 1/2 hours.

After scooping the greens into bowls with ribbons of shredded pork, I topped our bourbon collards with poached eggs, a splash of vinegar, and cracked black pepper. With little resistance, the yolks exploded and spilled through the greens, oozing into the smoky sweet tang of the potent pot likker. Drinkable. Proofed.

Ridiculous.

The Winter Market

I finally made it down to the Winter Market. In previous years, the Lexington Farmers' Market moved their digs into the atrium of Victorian Square for the winter season. This year, they stayed put. Located  under the Fifth-Third Pavilion in Cheapside Park, the market is open from 8:00AM-1PM every Saturday. The free street side parking on Short Street makes it a cinch to stop by and pick up seasonal offerings from our local farmers. On any given Saturday, chicken, beef, pork, lamb, goat, sweet potatoes, onions, breads, dried beans, canned goods,  eggs, greens, turnips, and other great things can be found. We're lucky to have a resource for locally grown farm to table opportunities available to us downtown in the dead of winter. It's
urban and real.

While I was thrilled to hear they were staying outside under the familiar confines of the pavilion, I expected to find it sectioned off and protected from the elements with barriers. Wind breaks. Tarps. Something. Nope. Armed with huge heaters, it was a full blown outdoor experience.
Business has been brisk at the Winter Market. Freed from the inner shell of Victorian Square with its piped-in music, the market is now more visible and accessible. If it's cold, bundle up when you go. Every scarf and glove will be worth the effort.

Although the Winter Market has been operating outdoors for a few weeks now, I managed to hit it on one of the bleakest days of the year. Snow. Ice. Wind. Freezing temperatures. Given all of that, I was greeted by happy farmers with smiling faces huddled under blasting heaters. Kudos. Numbed by the bitter winds, I grabbed a few sweet potatoes and baby onions before skedaddling back to my car. I can't wait to go back.


Sweet Potato Soup. 
Sweet potatoes, onions, and other stuff. I think I've roasted and pureed everything at some time or another. With pureed soups, I typically roast vegetables until they're ridiculously caramelized before blitzing them in a blender with cream and stock. That's usually how I roll. Roasting deepens their flavors and brings out their inherent sweetness, resulting in rich creamy soups. I thought about that route... for a minute.  I suppose a sultry burnt umber sweet potato soup would have been perfect on a blustery winter day. Nope. I flipped off the weather and went to a brighter side of sexy.

I needed stock. I didn't need a textbook stock, so I used  what I had on hand. After thawing a few chicken
parts and backs from the freezer, I dropped them into a stock pot with snapped celery stalks, quartered onions, parsley, bay leaves, and black peppercorns. I covered the chicken with cold water, brought the water to a boil, reduced it to a simmer, and skimmed the scum. After 3 hours (for a light stock), I ladled the stock through a cheesecloth-lined strainer, chilled it down quickly in an ice bath, and slid it into the refrigerator.

Instead of peeling, slicing, and roasting the sweet potatoes, I simple baked them in a 350 degree oven until they were fork tender. Midway through, I tumbled the onions onto the sheet pan with the potatoes, poured myself a glass of wine, and took a break. After 45 minutes I pulled the potatoes and onions from the oven to cool. When the potatoes were cool enough to handle, I scooped the fluffy flesh( about 2 1/2 cups)  into a blender with 2 cups warmed chicken stock, onions, salt, pepper, and smoked paprika. After adding 1/2 cup fresh orange juice and 1/4 cup fresh lime juice, I pureed the soup until it was smooth.

I poured the soup directly into my hand-me-down chipped Bybee Pottery soup bowls before finishing with tiny dollops of lime-infused sour cream, snipped chives, toasted almonds, and smoked paprika.

Boom.
A new take on sweet potato soup. Without cream weighing it down, the citrus was key. The slight acidity of the orange/lime combination lightened the puree and countered the sweetness of the potatoes. While whispers of paprika gave the soup smoky warmth, the sour cream added subtle tang under the crunch of splintered almonds and grassy fresh chives. Light. Simple. Sassy.

Support the Lexington Farmers' Winter Market.

It's real.

Bundle up and check it out.

Citrus Bombs

Every year, Michael and I receive a crate of oranges and grapefruits from a dear friend. Without fanfare, they arrive on our front stoop on what always seems like the coldest day of the year. Like giddy school girls not knowing what to expect, we open the crate to reveal rows of individually wrapped plump and juicy citrus bombs. Sunshine in a crate. Delivered. Pretty cool.

Like clockwork, we pile the sunny fruit into large bowls and set them around the kitchen as if they'll radiate enough heat to offset the electric bill. Never happens. Eventually, we start eating and drinking them. The first few form the bases for mimosas, screwdrivers, greyhounds, and salty dogs. When we tire of squeezing them for juice, we start eating them. After the usual parade of citrus salads wears thin, I halve the grapefruits, score the little sections, dust them with  sugar, and broil them until they deeply caramelized.  Even with all of those shenanigans, we still have more oranges and grapefruits than two people could possible want to eat or drink. The citrus bombs always win. They outlast us.

Not this year.
I had a trick up my sleeve.
Grapefruit Tart.
Although I'm not much of a baker, I can muddle through a few citrus based things like curds and tarts. I have enough common sense to stay away from flaky pastry things, so I tend to go with more forgiving crumb crusts. Push and press. Yep.

The Crust.
For a subtle punch of spice, I crushed enough gingersnaps in a food processor to measure 2 1/2 cups. After mixing the crumbs with 6 tablespoons of melted unsalted butter, I pressed them into a 9" tart pan and tossed the shell into a 350 degree oven to bake for 10 minutes before setting it aside to cool.

The Curd.
I'm a sucker for citrus curds of any kind. I whisked 3 eggs, 3 egg yolks, and 1 cup sugar in a large mixing bowl. After adding 1/2 cup fresh squeezed grapefruit juice, 2 tablespoons grapefruit zest, and a pinch of salt, I placed the bowl over a pot of simmering water, whisked constantly, and cooked the filling until it was thick enough to coat the back of a spoon, about 15 minutes. I pulled the curd from the heat , added 4 tablespoons of butter, strained it directly into the cooled tart shell, placed the pan onto a sheet pan, and slid the tart into the oven (350 degrees) to set the curd, about 12 minutes.  When it started to puff, I pulled the tart from the oven to cool.

The Extras.
So, here's the deal. I wanted to play with a mix of grapefruit textures and flavors. Maybe....just maybe, I had a little too much time on my hands. Or, maybe I simply needed to gild the lily, tart up the tart, and take it out on a date. Whatever the case, I had a blast dabbing lipstick on the tart. Candied grapefruit...without the fuss. Candied citrus anything takes time. It's a process. Blanch. Drain. Blanche. Drain. Repeat. Blah blah blah. I wasn't opening a candy store, for Pete's sake. It was a garnish. In lieu of a production line, I simply melted 1 cup sugar into 1 cup water over a low flame.  When the mixture started to ripple, I dropped a few grapefruit slices into the simple syrup, simmered them for an hour, killed the heat, and let them cool in the sticky mix before transferring them to parchment paper to air dry. To echo the mild heat of
the gingered crust, I whipped 1 cup heavy cream with 1/4 cup powdered sugar. After hitting the stiff peak stage, I folded 2 tablespoons of crushed candied ginger into the whipped cream. Booya.

I topped petite slices of the grapefruit tart with dollops of whipped cream and candied grapefruit shards before tumbling a few supremes of fresh grapefruit to the side. From top to bottom, it was all about texture and flavor.

For such an innocent looking thing, the dainty little tart packed a multi-layered punch.  Mellowed by the whipped cream, the lingering spice of the crisp gingersnap crust poked through the slight tang of the soft curd and tempered the sweet wet acidity of the fresh grapefruit. It was a killer combination. Sweet. Crisp. Tart. Fresh.  Unexpected.
Fabulous.