Softies

I've pulled countless blue crabs from the murky marsh waters of Swan Cove on Assateague Island. I spent most of my childhood summers vacationing in Chincoteague, a small island on the Eastern Shore that's famous for its annual pony swim benefitting the local fire department. Assateague Island, a barrier island that protects Chincoteague from the Atlantic Ocean, is flanked by the ocean, fresh water marshlands, and salt water marshlands. Rippling alongside the causeway that connects Chincoteage and Assateague, Swan Cove was my summer crabbing paradise. From mid to late summer, we'd spend hours in the intense sun dangling chicken necks into the water to lure the crabs ashore. When we had our limit (a bushel), we'd mosey back to the house to cook and eat them up. Little boy heaven.

While Michael and I still make occasional trips to the Eastern Shore, it's been years since I've gone crabbing. It's not so dreamy without the trappings of childhood, I guess. The next best thing here in landlocked Kentucky is to let The Lexington Seafood Company do the crabbing. It's crab season here in Kentucky and The Lexington Seafood Company makes a concerted effort to have fresh Maryland Blue Crabs flown in once a week. They sell out fast.  Very fast. I missed the first few weeks of crab mania because I was waiting for the softies to arrive. They finally made it to the party. For a couple of months in late spring and early summer, blue crabs molt and shed their shells. During the short period it takes for the new shell to harden, soft shell crabs are entirely edible (except for a few parts). Not only is it crab season here in Kentucky, right now, it's soft shell crab season. Booya.

Soft shell crabs have to be very fresh and alive. They should be eaten soon after they've been cleaned. Because they sell out quickly I ordered and reserved 6 jumbo soft shell crabs from The Lexington Seafood Company. I forgot to request cleaned soft shell crabs. Thinking I'd be cooking a few crabs on different days, I asked to have half of them cleaned while I enthusiastically watched and learned the process. They were alive. Good to know. How hard could it be?

My brief bout of enthusiasm waned a bit as I watched the fishmonger methodically snip off their faces, remove the aprons, and clip out the gills before tidily stacking them into carryout containers while the faceless crabs still fluttered about. "Are you sure the others will stay alive in the refrigerator for a couple of days?", I asked. Hoping to hear him say "Hell no. Let me clean them all. Eat them now. Eat them raw. Eat them in the car before you get home", he simply replied, "Oh sure, they'll last. The refrigerator might slow 'em down a bit, but they'll last." Slow them down a bit? I knew it wasn't going to happen. "Go ahead, clean the rest of them.", I said.

It was my fault. I didn't have to watch. That said, I grabbed my bag of crabs and happily headed to the farmers' market for slaw stuff. Crabs and cole slaw. I was head on for a basic cabbage slaw until Elmwood Stock Farm bok choy and  gorgeous Stonehedge Farm kohlrabi entered the mix. I wasn't expecting those cabbage-like things so soon at the market. Game changer.

Game on.

Sauteed Soft Shell Crabs with Kohlrabi Bok Choy Slaw.
Slaw.
I kept it simple. Normally, I would have pulled out the mandolin and used the julienne attachment to shred the bok choy and kohlrabi. Nope. I peeled the kohlrabi and set it aside. After slicing off the root end of the bok choy, I rinsed the stalks, cut them into 6 inch batons, reserved the leaves, and set them aside. Using the shredder attachment on the food processor, I shredded the kohlrabi lengthwise into fine ribbons and tossed it into a mixing bowl. After trimming a few radishes, I shredded them and added them to the kohlrabi. Because bok choy is too fiberous to shred, I simply julienned it into equal sized lengths and added it to the mix. For color, I julienned a red bell pepper and tossed it with the radishes, kohlrabi, and bok choy.

To counter the richness of the crabs, I wanted a tangy slaw. Sweet tang. Sour tang. I poured 1/3 cup unseasoned rice wine vinegar into a small mason jar before adding 1 heaping tablespoon of sugar, 1 teaspoon of salt, and 1 1/2 tablespoons of olive oil. I sealed the jar with a lid, gave it a good shake to emulsify the dressing, poured it over the slaw, and slid the slaw into the refrigerator to marinate/macerate while I worked on the crabs.

Typically, I fry soft shell crabs for the crunch factor. Didn't happen. I took an easier and gentler approach. Seriously, it was so simple. I placed a large cast iron skillet over a medium high flame before adding equal amounts of unsalted butter and canola oil. While the skillet heated up, I mixed 1 1/2 cups flour with 2 heaping tablespoons of Old Bay Seasoning. When the butter started to sizzle in the oil, I dredged the crabs with the seasoned flour, placed them top side down in the skillet, and sauteed them for 2 1/2 minutes before turning them to cook for an additional 2 1/2 minutes. When the shells turned red beneath the browned flour dusting, I pulled them from the heat, drained them on paper towels, and stacked the crabs onto a large platter lined with Elmwood Stock Farm red leaf lettuce. I filled small coffee cups with the kohlrabi bok choy slaw, scattered sliced lemons over the crabs, and finished with Stonehedge Farm fresh spring pea shoots.

It's difficult to eat and moan at the same time.  I've had my share of crabs over the years. Steamed. Baked. Stuffed. Fried. Casseroled. Ceviched. Raw. In my crab world, I've only eaten fried soft shell crabs. Deep fried. Throw that ball and chain out the window. Don't get me wrong, I love them fried. Crunchy. Sweet. Classic. That said, a light saute took them into another realm. Without the intense heat of a deep fryer, they didn't have a chance to overcook. With a slight crisp bite from the flour-dusted soft shells, the barely cooked sweet meat remained incredibly tender and moist. Each lemon-splashed bite popped, squirted, and dripped through my fingers. It felt familiar. Smelling and tasting like the sea, the softies transported this Kentucky boy back to Swan Cove and paradise.


     

                                                                 

Frills

Michael and I took a short jaunt to New York City a couple of years ago as a precursor to a bigger jaunt. We planned to spend a few quiet days in town before boarding a ship for a week long stay in Bermuda. Well, our low key layover quickly morphed into a gluttonous romp through the streets of Chinatown, Koreatown, Little Italy, Chelsea, and the East Village. After three raucous days, our rampage wound down and we found ourselves at The Odeon in Tribeca. Glitzed out in neon with understated Art Deco trappings, The Odeon (with its classic brassier menu) was a perfect refuge from our food storm. We arrived for lunch/brunch before they actually opened. The doors were unlocked, so we bellied up to the bar and ordered cocktails. While the entire simple menu made my heart sing,  the Country Frisee Salad sold me. Fourme d'Ambert cheese, lardon, croutons, bacon vinaigrette. Then, add poached farm fresh egg. Classic Lyonnaise bistro frisee salad. Happily moaning and groaning (literally) I made a fool of myself eating that salad. Warm bacon dressing. Warm oozing egg yolk. Salty lardons. Crisp croutons. Tangy vinaigrette. The stuff of dreams. Really.

I've made frisee salads with poached eggs a few times since that particular Odeon day. It's not difficult to throw together. It's a salad, for Pete's sake. It's just that frisee can be hard to find. While most chicory greens seem to be readily available ( albeit expensive), frisee is typically a hit or miss variety. What gives? When I want it, I can't find frisee. When I  happen upon it, it's not on my radar. Because of that conondrum, my dreamy salad rests in limbo. Not on the radar. Not even a single blip. That logic changed when I stumbled across bags filled with something that looked like strange frisee from Stonehedge Farm at the farmers' market. That something turned out to be feathery Scarlet and Emerald Frilled Mustard Greens. Mind blown. They were absolutely gorgeous and peculiar. After asking a few questions, I learned that frilled mustard greens lend themselves beautifully to quick sautes or stir fries.  That said, because they're incredibly delicate and tender, young frilled mustard greens are perfect for salads. Game on.


Scarlet and Emerald Mustard Green Salad with Warm Bacon Dressing, Crouton, and Poached Egg. 
Sure, it was a salad. While simple, the symphony of flavors and textures needed to be constructed carefully. After all, I didn't want to muck up an unexpected  riff on my dream salad. I found it easier to simply mise en place each component one at a time.

Greens.
After separating the tangled greens, I washed them thoroughly, patted them dry, trimmed a few of the rough stems, wrapped them a clean dish cloth, and slid them into the refrigerator to chill. Funny, when wet, the greens looked and felt like ocean swept seaweed. Weird and beautiful.

Lardons.
Classically, lardons are small matchstick-cut pieces of bacon or larding fat cut from a slab of pork belly. Fail. I used my last bits of pork belly in a mess of long simmered country style green beans. I had bacon. Ordinary run-of-the-mill bacon. I sliced 8 pieces of  center cut bacon into 1/4 inch strips and dropped them into a cold cast iron skillet before cranking the heat to medium high. I wanted to render as much fat as possible to crisp the bacon and have enough residual fat for the vinaigrette. When the bacon was fully cooked and crisp, I scooped it onto paper towels to drain,  reserved 5 tablespoons of the fat in the skillet, pulled it from the heat, and set it aside.

Croutons.
While fabulous, croutons (plural) can be fussy. They burn. They cook unevenly. They make me crazy. That said, I kept the notion of croutons by making large croutons for the crunch factor. Egged on by my frilled mustard greens moment at the farmers' market, I bopped over to Blue Moon Farm and snagged a loaf of Sunrise Bakery Sourdough bread. I sliced thin pieces of the wonderfully dense sourdough bread on the bias, brushed both sides with olive oil, grilled them until they were a bit charred, and set them aside.

Poached Eggs.
Heaven knows, egg poaching can be daunting. I've tried every trick in the book. Michael gave me an egg poacher several years ago. At the time, I used it a lot because it was handy and useful.  In my egg world, there was something about that egg-poaching wonder that never jelled with me. The eggs came out perfectly every time, but they were tiny and a little too perfect. Perfectly perfect. Perfect little round uniformly poached eggs that had no verve. I always wanted poached eggs with attitude and spirit, so I gave up on the poacher and tried every other method. Ring molds. Cups. Large spoons. Ladles. I gave up on those, too. Back to basics.

I brought 4 cups of water to a simmer in a wide sauce pan, about 4 inches deep. When the water started to ripple, I added a splash of vinegar and 1 tablespoon of kosher salt. Fresh eggs were key. Fresh egg simply poach better than supermarket eggs. After swirling the salt and vinegar into the simmering water, I cracked 3 (allowing for a mishap) Dutch Creek Farm eggs into individual ramekins before gently sliding them into the water. I used a large slotted spoon to coax the egg whites around the yolks to hold their shape while they steeped in the bubbling water. After 1 1/2 minutes, I carefully scooped the eggs onto a clean dish towel to drain and  gently patted them dry.

Vinaigrette.
I warmed the reserved bacon fat over a medium flame and added 2 tablespoons of minced shallots. After sweating the shallots until they softened, I deglazed the skillet with 3 tablespoons of sherry vinegar and added 2 heaping tablespoons of sharp Maille dijon mustard. Within seconds, the vinaigrette emulsified. I pulled it from the heat and tossed the vinaigrette with the reserved bacon and chilled frilled mustard greens.

I tumbled the dressed greens over sourdough croutons, nestled the poached eggs into the frilly greens, and drizzled the eggs with extra virgin extra olive oil before finishing with snipped  flowering chives from my garden.

Hello revamped frisee salad. Back on the radar.

I knew it would be love at first bite the moment the warm yolk spilled from my jiggly egg, gurgled, and oozed through the greens before puddling into the vinaigrette. While the smoky tang of the warm dijon bacon dressing slightly wilted the lacy mustard greens, it also downplayed their inherent spiciness and cut through the richness of the farm fresh egg. I tried to be civil. It didn't last  long. When most of the greens were gone, I swiped the drenched crouton through the creamy yolk-infused vinaigrette and ate it with my bare hands. No apologies.

No frills.
Fabulous.

Chivo Guisado

It's almost impossible to island hop in the Caribbean and not bump into some variation of goat stew. Because it's everywhere, I've tasted quite a few. While most Caribbean goat stews are curry based, a few concoctions  take a different spin. Goat Water is a beloved stew found on the islands of St Kitts & Nevis. Fortified with a stock made of goat's heads, it's loaded with goat meat,  breadfruit, paw paws, and tomatoes. Several years ago, lazily perched under a palm tree on a pristine beach in Nevis, I shared a bowl of goat water with a hungry wild horse. As much as I loved that bowl of goat water stew, the horse got the last few precious drops. Unfazed by the experience, we both reveled in its gelatinous fabulousness. That said, I'm particularly partial to Dominican Goat stew. Chivo guisado picante is a tomato based stew that utilizes a sour orange marinade to tenderize the meat before it's caramelized in a mysterious Trinidadian-style  browning sauce. I love sour orange and adore a sticky browning. Combined, they make my heart sing.

Always the trusty sidekick, Michael tagged along while I hit my various markets in search of goat stew stuff. Sure, boneless goat stew meat might have been the logical way to go. More stewy, I guess. I'm a rule breaker. I needed/wanted bones for added flavor. After snagging 2 pounds of gorgeous goat shanks from Quarles Farm at the farmers' market, we stopped by the African Caribbean Market for ripe plantains, pigeon peas, rice, and coconut milk. Game on.

Dominican Goat Stew.
Because sour oranges are kind of difficult to come by outside of the Caribbean, a combination of fresh orange and fresh lime juice was a great
substitute. After squeezing the juice from 2 large oranges and 3 limes, I tossed the combined juices into a large bowl before adding 2 diced cubanella peppers, sliced green onions, and chopped cilantro. For the spice rub, I crumbled 2 tablespoons Mexican oregano into a mortar and added 1 tablespoon of kosher salt. After smashing 2 peeled garlic cloves, I tossed them into the mortar and used a pestle to grind the mix into a rough paste.


When braising shanks of any kind, I really like the meat to pull down and away from the bones, so I simply snipped the tendons at the top of the bones before dropping them into the marinade. After rubbing the spices and marinade into the meat, I covered the bowl with plastic wrap and slid the meat into the refrigerator to soak up the flavor overnight.


The fun part. I like to call it the brown down. I've used the caramelized sugar browning method for Trinidadian chicken several times. It's tricky business. And weird. And amazing.

After scraping most of the herbs off of the goat shanks, I patted them dry and set them aside. With the shanks at room temperature, I slid a large cast iron skillet over a medium high flame and added 3 tablespoon of brown sugar. Patience was key. I wasn't making a caramel sauce. It wasn't supposed to be pretty. I knew I had to take it to the edge. It needed to look almost burnt (or burnished) without
actually burning. Within seconds, the sugar melted and turned golden brown.
Just before it combusted, I carefully nestled the shanks into the molten sugar and browned the pieces on all sides. When the shanks were deeply caramelized, I added the reserved marinade, 10 split grape tomatoes, 2 tablespoons tomato paste, 2 cups chicken stock, cracked black pepper, and 1 whole habanero pepper. I brought the mix to a boil, reduced it to a simmer, sealed the skillet with aluminum foil, clamped a lit over the foil, and slid the stew into a 350 degree oven to braise for 2 1/2 hours.

While the shanks braised away, I sliced 2 large ripe plantains on the bias and fried them in olive oil until they were golden brown. Peas and rice. Rice and peas. Beans and rice. Rice and beans. Like goat stew, the combination is found throughout the Caribbean. Dominican rice with pigeon peas gets jazzed up a bit with the addition of coconut. I sauteed 1/3 cup minced onions in olive oil for 5 minutes.  When the onion softened, I added 1 tablespoon minced fresh cilantro, 1/4 teaspoon oregano, and 1 tablespoon tomato paste. Just before the tomato paste caramelized, I added 1 can of drained pigeon peas, 3 cups chicken stock, and 1/2 cup coconut milk. I brought the stock to a boil, added 2 1/2 cups long grain rice, reduced the heat to a simmer, covered the pot, and cooked the rice until it was tender, about 25 minutes.

I pulled the goat shanks from the oven to rest. To perk up the sleepy stew, I scattered julienned yellow peppers and scallions over the shanks before nestling them over heaping spoonfuls of the creamy coconut rice and pigeon peas.

I suppose it could have been stewier. Some folks probably would have added more stock or water to the base. I purposely chose to let it cook down or "fry down" to create a more intense flavor base. Here's the deal. It was ridiculous. Period.  The sultry shards of goat slipped off the bones like wet silk stockings. Tender. Moist. Succulent. Sure, the shanks weren't swimming in sauce. It didn't matter. There was just enough vegetable-studded jus to bathe the shanks, seep into the rich coconut rice, and puddle around the meat. Funny, the intense caramelized browning of the meat didn't bring sweetness into play. At All. It added a subtle smoky depth to the fiery sweet tomato-based stock  that countered the slight tang of the sour orange marinade and tamed mild gaminess of the goat meat. Fabulous.

What trumped everything?
In the end, we had bones to suck. Win.

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Ramped

Ramps are the fleeting darlings of the early spring farmers' market. With a very short three to four week growing season, they're usually the first thing to arrive at the market and the first to go. Blink and they're gone. Members of the allium genus, ramps are also referred to as wild onions, wild leeks, or wild garlic. With feathery leafy tops and long purplish stems, they have a pronounced garlic aroma with a strong onion flavor, making them interchangeable with both garlic and onions in most recipes. If you run across ramps at the market, catch them while you can because they're very versatile and utterly fabulous.

I got lucky. Red River Farm had buckets of gorgeous ramps at the Lexington Farmers' Market. Even with their beautiful leafy tops fluttering in the morning breeze, most of the people in line were buying eggs and bacon. I filled my bag with ramps. Booya.

I toyed with the notion of tossing the ramps over burning coals to char before serving them on newspaper like Spanish colcotes (early spring green onions) with a ruddy Romesco sauce. I even thought of roasting them and twirling them into nests to cup gently poached eggs. In the end, I went with a very simple spring soup.

Chilled Ramp Soup with Blackened Sea Scallops. 
Ramps.
Typically, ramps are a bear to clean. They're usually covered in crud and take time to prep. Because they stored them in buckets of water to keep them fresh, the ramps from Red River Farm were almost pre-prepped and ready to go. I simply snipped the roots from the bulbs and gave them a quick rinse. After slicing the greens from the stems, I set them aside before roughly chopping the stems and bulbs.

After heating a skillet over a medium high flame, I sauteed the ramp stems in a combination of olive oil and butter. When they started to caramelize, I deglazed the pan with 1/2 white wine, let it reduce by half, and added 2 cups chicken stock. I brought the stock to a boil, reduced the heat, and added 2 peeled and chopped Elmwood Stock Farm new potatoes. While the potatoes simmered away in the ramp stock, I blanched the ramp greens along with a handful of fresh spinach (in heavily salted water) for exactly 45 seconds before plunging them into a salted ice-water bath.

When the potatoes were tender, I scooped them into a blender along with the cooked ramps, stock, and drained greens.  After adding 1/4 cup parmigiano reggiano cheese, a splash of fresh lemon juice, salt, and white pepper, I blitzed the soup into a verdant puree before sliding it into the refrigerator to chill.

Scallops.
Michael and I are both fools for scallops.
That said, I wanted them to have bite. To counter and play off of the delicate spring ramps. I slid a small cast iron skillet over a blazing hot flame. When it started to smoke, I added a whisper of oil to the pan, dredged the dried scallops in cajun seasonings, blackened them on each side for 90 seconds, scooped them out of the smoky mess, and set them aside.

I ladled the chilled ramp soup into shallow bowls and nestled the blackened scallops into the center of each bowl before topping them with slivers of mango, red bell pepper, and shallots. After scattering Garey Farms micro mizzuna and arugula over the scallops, I finished with a few drops extra virgin olive oil. Simple. Bright. Light. Fabulous.

Bones

There are few short cuts when it comes to making a good demi glace. Although it's a simple sauce, it takes time. Sure, there are plenty of commercial products on the market to cut the time crunch. While some of the products are quite good, most of them are grainy salt bombs. In its most elemental form, demi glace is a concentrated brown sauce. Getting to the demi stage is a different matter all together. Classically, it's made by reducing veal stock with equal parts of Sauce Espagnole (a roux-thickened brown Mother Sauce).  Old school. The school of Escoffier. Nowadays, most modern kitchens bypass the roux-based Espagnole Sauce  by utilizing a straight up reduction for purity.  While demi glace specifically refers to veal based stocks, chicken and beef are often substituted. Pick the method. Pick the protein. It doesn't matter. Demi glace starts with stock. Bones are key.

Four Hills Farm Rack of Lamb with Mint Bordelaise.
Stock.
I had some time to kill. Lots of time.
Armed with 5 pounds of meat-covered beef knuckle bones from Elmwood Stock Farm, I started my little journey. Typically, a combination of oxtails, shanks, necks, and knuckle bones would have been ideal. Gobs of surface areas exposed to heat allows optimum browning to occur. The deep browning process produces a deeper stock. Blah. Blah. Blah. That said,  I had knuckle bones. Big ones. Think huge beefy knee caps. If (emphasis on if) I had a butcher's bone saw withing arms reach, I supposed I could have broken down the knuckles into smaller pieces. Didn't happen.

After plopping the bones onto a sheet pan, I tossed them with canola oil and slid them into a 400 degree preheated oven to roast for 45 minutes. Midway through the browning process, I added chopped (unpeeled) onions, roughly chopped carrots, smashed garlic cloves, and chopped celery. When the vegetables, meat, and bones were deeply caramelized, I pulled them from the oven, transferred them to a stock pot, and added enough cold water to cover them by 2 inches. I placed the messy sheet pan over a medium flame, deglazed the sticky bits with a splash of red wine, and scraped the fabulous goo into the stock pot. After adding fresh parsley stems, thyme, bay leaves, and black peppercorns to the mix, I brought the stock to a boil, reduced the heat, and let it simmer for a ridiculous 8 hours, skimming the scum along the way. Yep.

After several glasses of wine, supper, and a small nap, I strained the stock through a cheesecloth-lined chinois (excessive), placed the bowl of stock into an ice bath to cool, and slid it into the refrigerator to chill overnight.

Demi Glace/Borderlaise.
Bordelaise is simply a red wine-infused demi glace.
The next morning, I pulled the stock from the refrigerator and removed the layer of fat. I poured 2 cups of cabernet sauvignon into a stock pot, cranked the heat to high, brought the wine to a boil, turned the heat down to a simmer, and let the wine reduce by half before adding 3 tablespoons of tomato paste, and 8 cups of my reserved defatted beef stock. Going a bit new school without the roux-based Sauce Espagnole, I simmered the wine-infused stock for 4 1/2  hours. Crazy. When it reduced to 2 cups, I scattered a handful of fresh mint into the sauce to steep and let it simmer until it could coat the back of a spoon. After straining out the mint, I ladled the mint bordelaise into a small sauce pan and placed it over a very low flame.

The Extra Stuff.
During the down time, I baked  individual  potato gratins, pickled  a few radishes, and pureed a small bunch of boiled carrots with specks of citrusy sumac. Enough said. Garnish. Meat and three, so to speak.

Lamb.
I had a gorgeous 1 pound frenched 8 rib rack of lamb from Four Hills Farm in Slavisa, Kentucky. It was so petite and delicate, I certainly didn't want to muck it up. After bringing the lamb to room temperature, I brushed the lamb with olive oil before seasoning it with garlic powder, salt, and pepper. I cranked a cast iron skillet to medium high heat (dry) and browned the lamb rack on all sides, 4 minutes per side. I pulled the rack from the skillet and brushed it a thin coating of the simmering bordelaise before rolling it through a combination of minced fresh parsley, fresh snipped chives, and minced fresh rosemary. I packed the herbs onto the  flesh, tossed the rack of lamb back into the cast iron skillet (fat side up), and roasted it at 400 degrees until the internal temperature reached 125 degrees. After about 15 minutes, I pulled the lamb from the oven, removed it to a cutting board, tented it with foil, and let it  rest for 15 minutes.

After slicing the lamb rack between the tiny rib bones, I nestled the chops over the potato gratins, puddled the mint bordelaise around the ribs and smeared the sumac-scented carrot puree to the side before finishing with Bourbon County micro greens and quick pickled radishes.

Here's the deal. The demi glace/bordelaise might have been a little excessive and troublesome. I didn't care in the least. Happily dogged by trouble and excess, I had a blast. And the result? Ridiculous. The bordelaise was both intense and light. The subtle hints of mint poked through the heavily concentrated  sauce and offset the slight gaminess of the tender lamb. While the soft sumac-spiked carrot puree added whispers of perky creaminess, the radishes and micro greens provided biting acidic crunch. Perfect. That said,  it was all about the succulent lamb and rich bordelaise. At some point, we tossed our utensils. The ribs begged to be manhandled. Finger food.  Swipe. Eat. Repeat.

We had bones.
Full circle.

Red Wattle

The long arctic winter came to a crashing halt when I spotted  gorgeous baby rainbow chard from Elmwood Stock Farm at our Lexington Farmers' Winter Market. Skidaddle, winter. Boom, it's over. You've lost your power here. Because I'd grown accustomed to the usual winter market pickings, I was surprised to find something green (other than kale) dancing in the morning light. Finally. With the official Farmers' Market Spring Kickoff on April 5th just days away, the feathery baby chard leaves offered a sneak peak of what's to come. Shop local. Shop often. Expect the unexpected. There will always be surprises. Always. Bring it.

Puffed up from my self-declared secret find, I went on my merry way. Bounding past the unassuming Two Forks Farm table, home of Hood's Heritage Hogs,Travis Hood pulled me in with his unabashed enthusiasm and commitment to his craft. Talk about passion. I was totally blown away. Their mission statement begins very simply, Know your farmer. Know your food. As I flipped through the various Red Wattle Hog cuts he brought to the market that day (roasts,loins, chops, bacon, ham steaks,and sausage), people hovered around waiting for me to choose something. When I finally settled on a rather small tail-end pork tenderloin, the gallery jumped into the fray and gobbled up the rest. That was exciting.  In a way, it reminded me of those frenzied early summer mornings when I felt the need to rush to the farmers' market to buy the good tomatoes before they vanished. Welcome back, Spring. Open arms..

Roasted Pork Tenderloin with Wilted Baby Rainbow Chard.
Years before my cooking stints at The Kentucky Bourbon Festival, we hosted bourbon tasting/pairing dinners at work.  Back in the day, (my baby step days) I tried to keep things as simple as possible. My go to entree at the time was bourbon braised pork loin. I seasoned  a few 8 pound boneless pork loins with salt, slathered them with dijon mustard, and packed them with brown sugar before roasting the pork until the fat melted away and swirled into the pan juices, about 2 1/2 hours. While basic, it was killer.

Scaling everything back with a few downsized changes, I adapted my old stand-by method to fit the shorter cooking time for my smaller less fatty Red Wattle pork tenderloin.

I mixed 1 cup dark brown sugar with 1 tablespoon each onion powder, garlic powder, smoked paprika, kosher salt, ground mustard, and cracked black pepper.  After smearing the whole tenderloin with sharp dijon mustard, I packed the spiced brown sugar on all four sides and set it aside to come to room temperature.

After 35 minutes, I splashed 2 tablespoons of olive oil into a large cast iron skillet and cranked the heat to medium high. Just as it started to ripple, I added the pork tenderloin and browned it on all sides before deglazing the hot skillet (off the heat) with 1 cup of Town Branch bourbon. I scraped the sticky bits from the bottom of the skillet, added 1/2 cup chicken stock, and slid the pork tenderloin into a preheated 400 degree oven to roast until the internal temperature reached 145 degrees. After 30 minutes, I pulled the meat from the oven, placed it on a cutting board (covered) and let it rest for 15 minutes to let the juices redistribute throughout the meat.

I strained the pan juices through a fine mesh strainer, poured them back into the skillet and added 1/2 cup chicken stock along with a splash of bourbon. I brought the sauce to a boil, reduced it to a simmer, and let it bubble away.

Typically, when preparing swiss chard, the tender leaves are stripped from the tougher stalks. The newly harvested baby chard was so fresh, I left the tiny stalks attached to the leaves, trimmed them up a bit, and rinsed them under cold running water.

With everything on deck, I didn't want to cook the crap out of the chard. Working over a medium flame, I sauteed 2 thinly sliced shallots with 2 quartered hot pickled cherry peppers. When the shallots started to caramelize, I threw a handful of the baby chard  into the pan, kissed it with fresh lemon juice, gave it a quick toss, and pulled it from the heat.

After slicing the pork tenderloin into 2" medallions, I nestled them into pillows of creamy celery root puree, twirled the wilted baby chard to the side, spooned the pan sauce over the medallions, and finished with peppery watercress.

I loved everything about this. Anchored by the airy celery root puree and lovely wilted chard, the utterly tender heritage pork tasted like pork should taste. Real. As the tenderloin roasted, the few ribbons of fat basted the meat like butter and melted into the mustardy brown sugar rub. Like my old school method, the spiced caramelized fat mixed with the reduced bourbon to create a sauce spiked with vanilla undertones. With a bit of added stock, the sauce morphed into a subtle sum of it parts. Savory, sweet, delicate, and complex.
Perfect.

Salty Fish

There's a lot more to anchovies than salty little fish. We're all familiar with those salt bombs that stick to the top of carryout pizza boxes (well, if you order anchovies). That type might be on the lower rung of the anchovy food chain, but they're great mixed into salad dressings or sauces for that special umami thing. That said, not all anchovies are stacked and packed in razor sharp flip-top cans. Salt and pressure are the keys to curing anchovies. After stacking alternating layers of anchovies and salt into drums, the anchovies are pressed with weights, and left to cure. The salt draws out the moisture and preserves the fish. From that stage the anchovies are either canned in oil, jarred in oil,  or packed in salt. I usually opt for oil-packed jarred anchovies. Whether swimming in a plain olive oil bath or jarred with garlic and red chilis, they usually come vertically packed or rolled up like little fiddlehead ferns. They're easy to work with and the residual flavored oil is an added bonus. Win. Salt-packed anchovies are a different beast. Prized for their cleaner taste, the salt-packed varieties have to be filleted, cleaned, and rinsed before use. I really don't care how they prepared, packed, curled, or stacked, I'm an absolute fool for anchovies.

Several years ago, while lunching with Michael at an area restaurant, I discovered marinated white anchovies or boquerones en vinagre (fresh anchovy fillets marinated in vinegar and olive oil). The pristine fish fillets arrived unannounced as a garnish on an overworked and heavy handed  salad nicoise. I ravaged them with abandon, dangling the slightly pickled darlings over my tongue before slurping them down like wet ramen noodles. The slippery-skinned and mild tasting unsalted fish changed the anchovy game.

To this day, when I'm lucky enough to run across them, I order white anchovies straight up. No salad needed. On really fabulous days, Michael brings them home. Cue the music.

Simple Flatbread with Baby Arugula, White Anchovies, and Stuff.
Me and my anchovies. A lesson in self indulgence.
I wasn't gunning to make pizza, foccacia, or true flatbread. I guess I was shooting for something like a big cracker. I sifted 2 cups of all purpose flour with a pinch of salt and 1 1/2 teaspoons baking soda before adding 1/2 cup chilled water. After forming the dough into a loose ball, I kneaded it for 5 minutes, floured a large wooden board, and rolled the dough into a very thin misshapen oblong. Hell, I didn't care what it looked like. I brushed the dough with olive oil, scattered thinly sliced onions over the top,and slid it into a 400 degree oven to bake for 35 minutes. When the cracker-bread browned and the onions charred, I pulled the crust from the oven to cool.

I tossed baby arugula with fresh lemon juice, olive oil, flaked sea salt, and cracked black pepper. After covering the baked cracker with lettuce, I tumbled slivered red bell peppers and sliced kumquats into the leaves before finishing with butterflied white anchovies. Booya.

So simple. Like glammed up canned sardines on crackers (one of my father's favorite things), the unlikely combination worked. Bitter arugula. Sweet/tart kumquats. Charred onions. Cracker crust. White anchovies. Perfect.

Game changer.