Pop On Over

Fasten your seat belts, it's time for holiday family food gatherings.  The good, the bad, the ugly, and everything in between. Don't get me wrong, I adore the warmth, fun, and drama that comes into play during the festivities. Leading up to them? Not so much. The devil's in the details...the planning. Food is a powerful magnet. During the holidays, the force is very strong. Inevitably, during the planning process, that familiar "What can I bring?" thing always rears its head. Whether sincere, obligatory, volunteered, or assigned. it just happens. It's simply part of the family dynamic. That's when things get iffy. Sure, drinks, ice, and pies are safe bets. Can't go wrong there. It's the other stuff that really matters. The big guns. The have to haves. The must haves. The traditional stuff. Nope. Not going there. I don't want to be that guy. You know, the one who shows up with a bungled attempt of a cherished family heirloom recipe? Might as well smear giblet gravy across the stainless steel refrigerator and write "FAIL" with a buttered dinner roll.

Be careful what you ask for. One year, my family gathered for Thanksgiving in a small town in rural Ohio. I was tasked with bringing creamed onions. Simple enough, right?  Not only did I miss the meal because of a timing mishap, I forgot to bring the beloved time honored creamed onions that were, apparently, the soothing balm for a happy day. Joy.

Several years earlier, I was asked to bring bread for a family Thanksgiving meal at my father's house. Normal. Regular. Bread. Well, I couldn't leave well enough alone and decided to get all fancy pants. Now, keep in mind,  that was years before I stepped foot into a professional kitchen or classroom. Naively thinking that all breads fell under the vast umbrella of bread, I meticulously conjured up a gorgeous and highly aromatic loaf of orange bread. Brilliant, right? With hints of ginger and cirusy orange, the bread had a soft crumb and beautifully burnished crust that was somewhat reminiscent of an overly sweetened brioche.  Was it tasty? Yep. Was it the ideal sopper for puddles of turkey gravy? Hardly.

A couple of years ago, during a lakeside family get together, I slipped a layered roasted red pepper, eggplant, pesto, and goat cheese terrine onto the festive holiday food table, nestling it between a few cheese-topped casseroles. It certainly popped. I'll leave it at that. Enough said.

The learning curve never ends. Nowadays, unless a special request pops up, I tend to err on the safer side of caution.. That said, safe doesn't have to be boring.

Popovers are wonderful things. Whether baked in a traditional sense with only flour, eggs, milk, butter, and salt, or jazzed up with  a few add-ins, the airy puffs are incredibly versatile. Because they're simple to throw together, whimsical, and a wee bit flamboyant, popovers are perfect for the holidays.

Blue Cheese and Chive Popovers.
For the ultimate pop, stick to the rules.
Have everything at room temperature.
Preheat the popover pan.
Don't peek while they bake. Just don't.

After preheating the oven to 450 degrees, I sprayed a 6-cup popover pan with nonstick cooking spray, filled each cup with 1/2 teaspoon melted unsalted butter, and set it aside.

I cracked 6 large organic Elmwood Stock Farm eggs into a large mixing bowl, added 2 cups room temperature whole milk, broke the yolks, and whisked the two together until the eggs were lightly beaten.. Using a large fine mesh strainer, I sifted 2 cups Wiesenberger Mill unbleached all purpose flour and 1 teaspoon salt into the beaten eggs. After whisking the eggs and flour together for 2 minutes until they were thoroughly blended, I folded 1/2 cup snipped chives into the batter and let it rest before sliding the buttered popover pan into the oven to heat for 2 minutes. When the butter started to crackle, I pulled the popover pan from the oven, filled each cup 3/4 full with batter, and dropped 2 ounces of Boone Creek Creamery blue cheese crumbles into each popover cup.

I carefully placed the pan onto a parchment covered sheet pan, slid the pan into the oven, set the timer for 20 minutes, and let them rip before lowering the heat to 350 degrees for the final 15 minutes.

After pulling the popovers from the oven, I used a sharp paring knife to poke each popover (releasing the steam to avoid deflate-gate), and piled them onto a wire rack to cool.


To play up the subtle undertones of the melted blue cheese, I tapped into the natural pairing of fruit and cheese by tumbling the chive-flecked popovers onto a bread board alongside Quarles Farm Spiced Apple Conserve and Big Swing Farms Honey Pear Butter. After feathering salty ribbons of prosciutto to the side, I finished with thinly sliced Reeds Valley Orchard  apples and pears.



Buttery.
Salty.
Sweet.
Fresh.

Fasten your seat belts.
And pass the bread, please.

Skillet Potatoes

My grandmother baked marshmallow topped cinnamon-spiced sweet potato pies every week for me during my entire first year of college. Every. Single. Week. Sure, I was more than happy to have those pies. As a lowly freshman locked up in a towering dormitory like a prince-less Rapunzel, my only food was sourced from the student cafeteria accessed with my prepaid meal card. Her home baked sweet potato pies felt special. Eventually, my grandmother's relentless pie punctuality forced me to share the abundance with my dorm-mates. In the beginning, we were all happy. Every day felt like Thanksgiving. Was it too much of a good thing? Yep. Somewhere between pie #23 and, lets say, pie #30, the charm started to wain. Pie overkill. Nobody wanted sweet potato pie. I didn't want pie. Yet, they kept coming and coming and coming. Weeks passed. Months passed. My dorm-mates shunned me. Any time I stepped off of the elevator with my weekly pie in tow, dorm room doors slammed shut like syncopated thunder claps. "Incoming." "Pie  Boy." "Duck and cover." Slam. Slam. Slam. Because I loved my grandmother and embraced her efforts to love me with food, I ate every last bite of those damned sweet potato pies. And loved them.

I didn't touch a sweet potato for years after college. I never told a soul or explained my aversion at family gatherings. I simply passed on any and all sweet potato offerings. All of that changed when I discovered the savory side of sweet potatoes. While still somewhat sweet, once the potatoes dropped the marshmallow toppings, brown sugar, maple syrup, and seasonings that helped them masquerade as pies, I fell back in love with them. Hook, line, and sinker. Nowadays, I'll  roast multi-colored peeled baby sweet potatoes and toss them into salads with  bright acidic vinaigrettes, deep fry paper thin shards for chips served alongside spiced dippers, or layer slices with gruyere cheese and heavy cream in a long baked gratins.

Although my grandmother wore me out with her barrage of sweet potato pies when I was a kid in college, I'm happy for it now. Sometimes, rediscovered gems are the most precious gems.

Let's face it, there's nothing really sexy about bushels and bushels of potatoes found at our farmers markets. They're big, clumsy, dirty, and boring. Yep, I went there. That said, I totally respect the labor of love that goes into growing and harvesting them. Growing up on a farm in Western Kentucky, all of the potatoes (russet, new, red, sweet, purple, baby, fingerling) were the workhorses of our country garden.


Skillet White Sweet Potatoes.
Not quite an Anna and not quite a gratin. A playful riff on both

Right off the bat, I wanted a punch of flavor to tip the potatoes over to the savory side. I dropped 3 fresh rosemary sprigs and 2 whole peeled garlic cloves into a small cast iron skillet along with 1/2 cup olive oil. After bringing the oil to a gentle ripple, I steeped the rosemary and garlic for 5 minutes before pulling it off the heat to cool.

While the infused olive oil cooled, I peeled 4 large (about 3 pounds) Casey County white sweet potatoes, sliced them 1/8" thick on a mandolin, and set them aside.

After brushing the bottom of a large cast iron skillet with the infused olive oil, I shingled the potatoes (vertically) around the edges of the skillet, worked my way toward the center of the skillet, and finished with a quasi potato rossette (for lack of a better term).  I brushed the tops of the potatoes with the flavored olive oil, sealed the skillet with foil, and slid it into a preheated 350 degree oven. After 50 minutes, I removed the foil, cranked the oven to 425 degrees, brushed the potatoes with melted unsalted butter, and returned them to the oven. When the exposed edges started to brown and char ( about 35 minutes), I pulled the sweet potatoes from the oven to cool before finishing with fresh rosemary and delicate dried chili threads.

Here's the deal. The potatoes crisped on the bottom from the heat of the skillet and on top from the high heat of the oven. The slices that fused together in between were meltingly soft and tender. Even through the bits of caramelized char and crispiness, the inherent earthy sweetness of the potatoes stayed true to form. While the rosemary and garlic grounded the soft sweetness with subtle savory undertones, the chili threads added whispers of biting heat.

Simple.
Savory.
Sensational.

Not my grandmother's sweet potatoes.

Leaves

After retiring from the army, my father moved our family to Port Oliver, a small community in Western Kentucky, to live on the farm with my grandparents. Although happy to be home,  he always had  plans to build our own home somewhere else on the property. The farm, with rolling meadows, forest patches, fields, ponds, and lakefront access, edged the steep twisting banks of Barren River Lake. With plenty of options to choose from, he chose a site not too far from my grandparent's farmhouse.

Tucked under maple, oak, pin-oak, and elm trees, my father built the house of his dreams from the ground up. Using salvaged everything, he nestled our home into the landscape as if it grew from the ground. Utterly organic, our grey/teal-stained wooden house breathed with the changing seasons. Spectacular in every season, the house was a real showstopper come autumn. I loved living there during fall. The canopy of trees crackled with color. After moving away, I made the trek home every October, as often as I could manage, to celebrate our birthdays and to inhale the sheer beauty of his land.

My last autumn in Port Oliver was bittersweet. We spent months struggling with my father's cancer diagnosis and the whole package that accompanies that sort of news. The struggle to balance fear, hope, and joy was a tightrope balancing act. Intermingled with the necessary trips for treatments, my dad and I celebrated birthdays, took long drives in the country, watched a lot of television, enjoyed a bounty of summer produce, and had spirited bourbon-induced conversations about everything under the sun. I was surprised how much the pure innocence of  joy outweighed the other emotions most of the time. We held fast and lived in those moments.


By the time autumn blitzed Port Oliver in brilliant patchworks of color, my father was well into his battle with cancer. Country drives, bourbon, and tomatoes had become distant memories replaced with tender reflection, fodder shocks, pumpkins, and cheap white wine. Even then, it was a happy time.

On one particular day, when the late afternoon shadows were deep and long, Dad wanted to take a walk. Off we went, as best we could, with walker in tow. Shuffling through the sloping yard under rustling wind-swept trees, he started picking up leaves. One by one. Maple. Oak. Pin-Oak. Elm. Red. Yellow. Orange. Green. Burgundy. Brown. One by one, he shared his respect and joy for each  fallen leaf. I simply listened. As the sun dropped into a distant field, I walked my father back into the house and pressed those leaves into the ragged pages of my journal.

The following year, Port Oliver was also a distant memory. I used those very leaves to mold delicate replicas of kiln-fired clay memories for my family. Those leaves still inspire me.

Double Chocolate Pumpkin Tart with Autumn Pastry Leaves

Pumpkin
So, canned puree or fresh puree? Some folks say it doesn't matter.  Maybe it doesn't matter. That said, for the last few seasons I've found that the local sugar pumpkins we find at our farmers' market are downright fabulous. In fact, making fresh puree might be easier than opening a can. This year, I took easy to another level by simply roasting the pumpkins whole. Boom. Yep. Whole.

For venting purposes, I used a sharp paring knife to slice the tops off  two 1 pound Scott County sugar pumpkins,  placed the lids back into place, and slid the pumpkins into a 350 degree oven to roast for 1 1/2 hours. When the pumpkins started to  collapse and were knife tender, I pulled them from the oven and cracked them open. Pumpkin carnage. After scooping out the seeds and stringy membranes, I slipped the flesh from the tender skin, pureed the pulp until velvety smooth, scraped it into a bowl, and set it aside.


Tart Shell
For the underlying chocolate crust, I pulverized enough thin dark chocolate wafers in a food processor to measure 2 cups. After tossing the crumbs into a mixing bowl, I added 4 tablespoons sugar and 6 tablespoon melted unsalted butter. I mixed the crumbs with the butter, scraped them into a 9" tart pan with a removable bottom, used a straight edged measuring cup to firmly press the crumbs into the pan, and  chilled the shell in the freezer for 15 minutes to set the crust before sliding it into a preheated 350 oven to bake for 12 minutes.



Pumpkin Filling
I spooned 2 cups of fresh pumpkin puree into a large mixing bowl, added 1/2 cup white sugar. 1/4 cup light brown sugar, 1 teaspoon cinnamon, 1/2 teaspoon ground ginger, 1/4 teaspoon salt, a pinch ground clove, a pinch ground allspice, a pinch cardamon, 2 large eggs, and 1 1/2 cups heavy whipping cream. To lighten the filling, I whipped the mixture with an old fashioned  hand held mixer until it was fully incorporated, and it poured into the cooled chocolate tart shell. I lined a sheet pan with parchment paper, slipped the tart onto the pan, and baked it in a preheated degree oven 450 for 15 minutes, reduced the heat to 350 degrees, let it rip for 55 minutes, pulled it from the oven, and placed it onto a wire rack to cool before sliding the tart into refrigerator to chill.

More Chocolate
I wanted something a bit firmer than a classic heavy cream and chocolate ganache. After shaving 3 ounces bittersweet chocolate ( 70% cacao) into tiny shards, I tumbled the chocolate into a bowl, added 2 ounces (1/4 cup) melted unsalted butter, and 1 tablespoon light corn syrup. I warmed the mix over a low flame, gently stirred the mix until it melted into a loose glossy glaze, poured it over the chilled  pumpkin filling, carefully tilted the tart to swirl the chocolate into an even layer, and tossed it into the refrigerator to set.

Leaves
I threw together a very basic pastry dough by pulsing 1 1/4 cup sifted flour, 1/4 teaspoon salt, 1/4 cup chilled cubed butter, and 1/4 cup ice water in a food processor. Just as the dough came together, I formed it into a flat disc, wrapped it in plastic wrap, and slipped into the refrigerator to chill for 30 minutes.

I didn't have any of those fancy leaf shaped cookie cutters that seem to pop up everywhere this time of year, so I free-handed a few leaves on parchment paper, cut them out, and set them aside. I rolled the dough into a 1/8" thick circle, used my parchment paper stencils to cut out the leaves,  carefully slashed veining into the leaves, transferred them to a parchment paper-lined baking sheet, and chilled them for 30 minutes. After brushing the leaves with an egg wash (1 egg yolk mixed with 1 tablespoon heavy cream), I slid them into a blistering 475 degree oven for about 12 minutes. When they were beautifully browned, I removed them to a wire rack to cool, pulled the chilled double chocolate pumpkin tart from the refrigerator, and scattered the leaves over the top.


Topped with buttery crisp pastry leaves, the airy spiced pumpkin filling had all the nuanced warmth of classic pumpkin pie. Suspending the pie between layers of chocolate took it to another level and gussied up those familiar flavors with self-indulgent sass.

Chocolate in the pumpkin patch

Fabulous.

Boozy Bluegrass Chili

Everybody loves chili. Whether filled with ground beef and beans (sacrilege in some parts), strictly vegetarian or vegan, lightened up with chicken, or loaded with long braised meats, a hearty bowl of chili hits the spot when cooler weather slowly sets in. For some folks, there are hard and fast rules for chili based on history and tradition. I get it. That said, I'm a rule breaker.

With all due respect to the iconic Bowls of Red from Texas, the pasta-based Cincinnati 2-3-4-5-Ways, or the fresh green chile stews of New Mexico, there's still room in the chili world for other regional riffs on chili. Spiked with Kentucky bourbon, filled with local vegetables, packed with local grass-fed beef, and kicked-up with dried chile peppers, boozy Bluegrass chili might give the big boys a run for their money.

I've done my share of cooking with bourbon. Heading up the Culinary Art: Bourbon-Style Cooking School (four bourbon-infused courses prepared and demoed for hundreds of people) at the Kentucky Bourbon Festival for a couple of years gave me lots of time to play with bourbon and food. The pairing is fantastic. Whether applied in sweet or savory preparations, the inherent undertones of smoke, vanilla, caramel, honey, and oaky spice  can lace food with complex layers of flavor. Yep. All of that. And...it's just downright fun.

Stand down, chili police.

Bluegrass Bourbon Chili.
Braised chili takes time. While there's nothing really complicated about the process, a little organization and mise en place goes a long way before kicking back with a shot of bourbon and letting the chili cook itself.

The building blocks.
Chilies.
After toasting 3 dried Ancho chile peppers, 2 dried Guajilla chile peppers, and 1 dried
Pasilla chile pepper in a dry cast iron skillet, I scooped them into bowl, poured 2 cups boiling water over the peppers, and set them aside for 30 minutes to soften. When the peppers were pliable, I pulled off the stems, removed the seeds, and dropped them into a blender. I strained any seed stragglers from the soaking liquid, poured the liquid into the blender, added 1 cup Makers Mark Bourbon, blitzed the peppers into a fine puree, strained the puree into a bowl, and set it aside.

Tomatoes.
While any good quality canned tomatoes would have been great, I took advantage of our late season farmers market tomatoes. I peeled 1 1/2 pounds Pulaski County Yellow Giant, red Mule Team, and purple Cherokee heirloom tomatoes. Because there were so few seeds to fret over, I simply chopped the tomatoes into large chunks, tumbled them (with juices) into the pepper stained blender, pureed them until they were velvety smooth, and set them aside.

Fresh peppers and the other stuff.
Smitten with the gorgeous array of Casey County market peppers, I went on pepper overdrive. I seeded and diced 1 yellow bell pepper, 1 red bell pepper, 1 green bell pepper, 2 red sweet banana peppers, I hot banana pepper, and 3 green chili peppers. After chopping 2 medium sized Lincoln County candy onions into a large dice, I tossed them into the pepper pile before peeling, seeding, and dicing a smallish Casey County butternut squash.


Where's the beef?
Booya. Marksbury Farm grass-fed shoulder chuck roast. After slicing the 2 pound roast into 1 1/2" cubes, I dusted the meat with ground ancho powder, ground cumin, ground coriander, salt, pepper, and flour. I gave the pieces of meat a quick toss and set them aside.

The fun part.
After cranking a flame to medium high under a 3 quart dutch oven, I drizzled the pot with vegetable oil, browned the meat in batches, and removed the pieces to a side plate before tumbling the fresh peppers and onions into the sizzling oil. As the vegetables started to sweat, I added 2 minced garlic cloves, 2 tablespoons tomato paste, 2 tablespoons cumin, 2 tablespoons ground ancho, 1 tablespoon smoked paprika, salt, and cracked black pepper. When the tomato paste caramelized around the sauteed vegetables, I carefully deglazed the pot with 1/2 cup Makers Mark bourbon, let the bourbon reduce by half, scraped up the fabulous sticky bits, and poured the spiked pepper puree into the incredibly hot pot. Boom. Splash dance. As the splattering molten puree calmed to a gentle ripple, I added 2 cups of the reserved fresh tomato puree, 2 tablespoons Oberholtzer's Organic Sorghum, 1/4 cup apple cider vinegar,1 cup beef stock, and 2 cups chicken stock. I brought the liquid to a boil, reduced it to a simmer, tumbled the meat (with their juices) back into the pot, covered the chili, and slid it into a 350 degree oven.

After 2 1/2 hours, I added the cubed butternut squash and a bit more stock to loosen the chili before returning it to the oven for another hour. During the last 15 minutes, I mixed 2 tablespoons Weisenberger white corn meal with 4 tablespoons of the hot chili broth and swirled it into the chili as a slight thickener.

After pulling the chili from the oven, I splashed it with a shot of bourbon and let it rest for a few minutes before finishing with fresh parsley, slivered scallions, and sliced Casey County jalapenos.

Broken down by the long cook, the tender meat simply melted into the chili. Tempered by the tomatoes, peppers, onions, and butternut squash, the bourbon added subtle caramel notes that played nice with the soft smoky sweetness of the sorghum and the tingly creeping heat of the dried chiles. While the scallions and parsley brought fresh onion grassiness to the party, the sliced jalapenos provided biting fiery crunch.

Bluegrass Bourbon Chili.
Game day.
Sunday.
Fun Day.
Any Day.

Kick back and give it a shot.

Drums

Classically, timbales are sweet or savory custards baked in drum-shaped molds. With savory versions, creamy minced meat, fish, or vegetables are folded into timbale molds and baked before being turned out for presentation. Nowadays, almost anything packed into a drum mold can be tagged as a loosey-goosey interpretation of a timbale. Most folks might be more familiar with the iconic molded pasta/meatball/salami/mozzarella/sauce-filled Italian timbale (timpano) triumph from the movie 'Big Night". A brazen beauty. That said, not all timbales have to be dramatic over-the-top centerpieces large enough to feed a crowd. They can also be dialed back for more intimate affairs. Drum roll.  Size doesn't matter.

Spaghetti Squash Timbales with Arugula-Lemon Basil Pesto

As our farmers markets segue from summer into fall, varieties of winter squash are quietly nudging out the darlings of summer. I'm not quite ready to completely let go of those darlings, so I took the middle road with a gorgeous Casey County spaghetti squash and a few handfuls of Pulaski County chocolate cherry tomatoes. Balance.

Pesto.
I tumbled 1 cup baby arugula, 1 cup lemon basil, 2 cloves garlic, salt, pepper, lemon zest, and 1/3 cup toasted pecans into the bowl of a food processor. After processing the mix until it was finely minced, I slowly drizzled in 3/4 cup extra virgin olive oil (with the motor running). When the mixture was smooth, I added 1/2 cup grated parmigano-reggiano, gave it a few quick pulses to blend in the cheese, scraped the pesto into a small bowl, covered the top with plastic wrap, and slid it into the refrigerator to chill.

Squash.
I adore spaghetti squash. When cooked, it shreds into delicate, almost translucent, pasta-like threads. Typically, I halve the squash, remove the seeds, and roast it cut side down in a 350 degree oven until it's incredible tender and a wee bit caramelized. For a change, I wanted to avoid any toasted sugary caramelized bits, so I bellied up to the microwave. Using a heavy sharp knife, I split the squash in half, scraped out the seeds, placed both halves on a microwavable dish, added 1/2 cup water to help it steam, covered the squash with plastic wrap, and microwaved the squash on high for 20 minutes. After carefully removing the squash from the microwave, I removed the plastic wrap and let it rest.  When it was cool enough to handle, I used the tines of a fork to gently pull the strands from the body of the shell and tossed them into a bowl to cool.

Bechamel.
I didn't want to kill the squash with a heavy sauce, so I threw together a small batch bechamel as a binder. After melting 1 tablespoon unsalted butter in a small sauce pan, I added 1 tablespoon flour, salt, pepper, and a pinch of freshly grated nutmeg. When the roux started to bubble, I drizzled a 1/2 cup warmed milk into the pan, whisked the sauce until it napped the back of a spoon, and pulled it from the heat to cool.

Timbales.
After buttering 5 4oz. ramekins, I placed buttered parchment paper on the bottom of each ramekin before dusting the ramekins with a mixture of finely grated parmigiano-reggiano and toasted bread crumbs.

I tossed the spaghetti squash with 1 cup of the arugula-lemon basil pesto and the reserved bechamel. After twirling the creamy pesto faux pasta into the individual ramekins, I added a bit more cheese for good measure, gently tamped the squash into the molds, slid the timbales into a 350 degree oven, and let them rip for 50 minutes before pulling them from the oven to rest.

While the timbales were still somewhat warm, I ran a knife around the edges of the ramekins to release the squash and turned them out onto plated puddles of pesto. After dabbing the tops with a tad more pesto, I finished with halved/quartered chocolate cherry tomatoes and fresh lemon basil leaves.

Tucked inside the crisped outer shells of each timbale, the delicate wisps of spaghetti squash snapped through the creamy bechamel, hints of garlic, and the nutty parmigiano-reggiano undertones of the peppery arugula pesto. While the perky basil added bright lemony freshness, the tomatoes provided sultry popping wet sweetness.



The middle road.

Simple.
Fresh.
Fantastic.

Planted

Fried eggplant parmesan can be a fabulous thing. Unfortunately, more often than not, most versions usually end up over-sauced and cheese laden. By the time they bake off in the oven and absorb all of the other ingredients, they resemble swollen cheese-packed tomatoey eggplant sponge cakes. Over wrought and heavy handed with the happy crunch factor lost in translation. Trust me, I've hammered my share doing that very thing. Sometimes, less is more.

It's been a great season for eggplants at the farmers market. While some things have suffered from our incredibly wet summer, eggplants are everywhere.

Fried Eggplant.
Redeeming the crunch factor.

Fry it once, use it twice.

After slicing a bulbous Casey County globe eggplant into 1/2' slices, I halved a few slender Jessamine County Asian eggplants and tossed them into a colander with the sliced globes. To leach out some of the bitterness, I salted the eggplant slices and let them drip/drain for 30 minutes before rinsing them under cold water and thoroughly patting them dry. I set up a standard breading station for my eggplant-palooza. Highly seasoned flour (salt, pepper, garlic powder) in one dish, beaten egg wash in a second dish, and parmigiano reggiano-studded panko bread crumbs flecked with minced chives, rosemary, basil, parsley, and thyme in a third dish.

Using the wet hand/dry hand method, I dusted the slices in the flour, dipped them through the egg wash, dredged them in the herbed breadcrumbs, and set them aside.

Simple Eggplant Parmesan.
After bringing 1/2 cup vegetable oil to 350 degrees in a cast iron skillet, I carefully slipped the breaded eggplant slices into the sizzling oil and shallow fried them until  they were golden brown before removing them to a dish towel to drain. I wiped out the skillet, slid the crispy eggplant cutlets back into the skillet, shingled thin slices of fresh mozzarella cheese over each piece of eggplant, nestled Boyle County tomatoes (still on the vine) into the cheese, slid the skillet into a 450 degree
oven to bake for 20 minutes, and finished the deal with a quick spin under the broiler for the last couple of minutes. When the tomatoes started to blister and collapse over the oozing cheese, I pulled the skillet from the oven and let the simple riff on eggplant parmesan settle down before finishing with fresh basil, extra virgin olive oil, and flaky sea salt.

Although blanketed in the creamy melted mozzarella cheese, the eggplant remained crisp from the high heat of the oven and cast iron skillet. Slippery gooey crunch. Where's the sauce? It took a mere whisper for the incredibly ripe blistered tomatoes to pop open and seep their sweet warm juices over the bubbling cheese, spilling into puddles around the charred edges of the mozzarella and eggplant. While the tomatoes provided just enough subtle sweet acidity to cut through the rich cheese, the basil added hits of freshness. Simple. Fresh. Perfect.

Eggplant Milanese.
As a bright side kick for the eggplant parmesan, I breaded and fried the slender Asian eggplant halves until they were beautifully browned, dabbed them with a dish towel to soak up any excess oil, and topped the tubular slices with fresh baby arugula before finishing with a spritz of fresh meyer lemon juice, lemon slices, salt, coarsely cracked black pepper, and and crisped parmigiano fricos. In true Milanese fashion, the lemons and slightly bitter baby arugula countered the fried earthy meatiness of the eggplant with biting acidic freshness. Light. Bright. Fabulous.


Fried Eggplant.
Two for one.
Embrace the crunch.

Fire & Ice

Although I spent most of my summers on the Eastern Shores of Maryland and Virginia, years slipped by before I tasted raw oysters on the half shell.

Back in the day, wild oyster beds dotted the waters of Little Tom's Cove in the small town of Chincoteague, Virginia. Accessible by boat or by foot during low tide, the few oyster beds offered some of the finest oysters on the Eastern Shore. Fed by the Atlantic tides, the Chincoteague "Salts" were (and still are) prized for their high briny salinity. During our summers on the beaches of Maryland and Virginia, we were certified ameteur clammers and crabbers. Whether we were holed up in a tent on Pine Grove Campground or comfortably bundled up in a swanky Chincoteague house, we hunted and gathered clams and crabs to prepare for ourselves. We left the oystering to the big guns. Deep fried, broiled, baked, frittered, or stuffed, fresh Chincoteague oysters were restaurant treats reserved for special occasions. Even then, we never ate them on the half shell.

That all changed on one particularly hot day during one particular summer on the Eastern Shore.

We did our crabbing from the causeway that separated the oyster beds in Little Tom's Cove from the blue crabs in Swans Cove Pool. While we never gave the oysters beds much more than a passing glance as we baited our twisted strings with chicken necks, I always had my eyes on those mysterious bumps in the water. At high tide, they seemed to float like jagged beached whales. Hunched. Lifeless. Silhouettes against the quiet sea. Although I secretly yearned for the unknown adventure, I was stunned when my father announced, out of the blue, that he and I were going to hit the oyster beds at the next low tide. Still haunted by the unfortunate hook-in-my-scalp incident from a previous deep sea fishing escapade (again, his idea), I was filled with excruciating awe and dread.

Tides are funny things. On the beach side of the deal, not much changes with low/high tides. Sure, the beaches get thinner or wider, but they still stay fairly neutral. In the inland coves and waterways, the tides change everything. Low tides reveal the underbelly of the sea. Grayish green muck. Cracked shells. Dead crabs. Slimy kelp. Bubbling holes. Gurgling muck. Icky stuff. The underworld.

Oystering with my father. Yep, all in a days fun. Of course, we assumed it was low tide. It looked low. After parking on the sandy edge of the causeway, we grabbed a couple of buckets from the back of his orange GMC and headed into the underbelly. Scattered around the cove a few hundred yards from shore, the oyster beds appeared easily accessible.  That was hardly the case.  Every footstep seemed herculean as the muck swallowed my white sneakers and tiny legs like smelly decomposing quicksand. Although horrified, I embraced the plentiful enormous cracked shells of dead horeseshoe crabs and used them as stepping stones. When we finally reached the first of several oyster beds, we got down to business and zoned out.  Moving from bed to bed, like hens pecking into dirt, we plucked oyster after oyster from the craggy beds until our buckets were filled to the rim with what appeared to be nothing but oyster shaped rocks. We were so taken with ourselves that we didn't even notice that the tide had gently crept back into the cove. High tide. There we were, perched on a damn oyster bed hundreds of yards away from our tiny orange truck, stranded at sea. The only solution seemed simple enough. We had to walk/swim/wade/float/sludge back through the murky underbelly carrying our heavy oyster-filled buckets. My father was fine. I was a kid. I knew what lurked beneath the steel-blue water. Plodding through the lapping chin-high sea,  I tilted my head into the fiery sun to keep tidewater out of my mouth, eyes, ears, and soul. With my submerged water-logged bucket dangling from my forearm like a cheap plastic purse, I slowly squished through the muck with kelp-shackled ankles and  unseeable things swimming between my legs. Feigning bravado, I never gave up or abandoned my prized oysters. The young boy and the sea. When we finally reached the embankment that kept the cove waters at bay, we climbed the slippery slope, tossed our oysters into the truck, drove away, and left the conquered beds floating in our dust. At sunset, after the emotional dust settled, I tasted my first raw oysters straight from the sea. Splashed with Tobasco, I swallowed them whole, gulping one after another until I oystered myself out. Happy boy. Well played, Dad.

Oysters With Watermelon Granita and Grilled Watermelon.


Whether dressed to the nines with the clean acidity of a classic mignonette or chased back with the biting heat of a horseradish-spiked cocktail sauce, I'll take oysters any way I can. To embrace the heat and height of the season, I changed things up a bit and brought watermelon to the summer party.




Ice.
After halving a gorgeous Lincoln County Sugar Baby watermelon, I sliced one half into small triangles (rind on) and chopped the other half into 1" cubes (rind removed). I tumbled 4 cups cubed watermelon pieces into a blender, added 3 tablespoons fresh lime juice, and blended the watermelon into a ruby red puree. I poured the puree into a 9"x 13" glass dish, showered it with lime zest, slid it into the freezer, and used the tines of a fork to scrape the frozen granita every 30 minutes until it resembled vibrant watermelon snow.

Fire.
Just like any grilled fruit, watermelon takes on deep smoky sweet flavors when grilled.  I lit the coals on one side of a charcoal grill, let the flames reduce to glowing embers, and spread the coals around the grill. For kicks, I brushed the watermelon slices with jalapeno pepper jelly before sliding them onto the hot grill along with a few halved lemons and limes. When kissed by the heat, the natural sugars in the watermelon and pepper jelly caramelized the sweet flesh of the watermelon. When they started to char, I pulled them from the heat, diced a few into tiny pieces, and set them aside.

Oysters on the half shell.
I had a dozen or so Blue Point oysters sitting on ice that I'd picked up from The Lexington Seafood Market. Working very carefully, I cupped each
oyster with a dish towel and used an oyster knife to pry open the hinged end of the oyster shell before slicing through the muscle on the top half of the shell to release the oyster.  After cleaning the shells with a dish towel, I used the oyster knife to slice the oysters from the bottom shells
before nestling them into crushed ice.

I spooned the perky granita onto the oysters, tumbled a few grilled watermelon bites into the shells, and scattered thinly sliced serrano  peppers over the granita before finishing with Harmony Hill organic pea microgreens.





Tucked beneath the granita, the plump oysters popped with a soft brininess that countered the icy sweet/tart crunch of the frozen lime-spiked watermelon, the fiery heat of the peppers, and the crisp freshness of the microgreens. Spicy. Sweet. Salty. Tart. Wet messy business.
Fabulous.

Summer on the half shell.

Ride the tide.