‘Tis The Citrus.

As the holiday food frenzys start to wind down, it might be a good  idea to look ahead and (at least) think about lightening things up a bit. Nothing fits that bill more than a perky dose of bright fresh citrus. During the grey drab winter months, varieties of citrus are like welcomed wet bursts of sunshine and light. 'Tis the season for everyday citrus to step into the light. Sweetened up a bit, or a lot, their bright acidic undertones still poke through the fray and take center stage. I held to that notion with an unusual riff on tarte tatin.  Oh sure, while an orange tarte tatin  teeters on the edge of sweet, it still brings a bright acidity to the party for an interesting take on the usual tarte tatin. Typically filled with apples, pears, or other kinds of stone fruit, tarte trains can really be filled with just about anything. That said, they can also be very tricky. Anything, and I mean anything, that has to be assembled, cooked, and inverted is risky business. There's always that moment of truth that comes with the big reveal. The big flip and turnout. Will it slip right out? Will it Stick? Will it half stick, half slip? Will it be burned? Will it be cooked? Ultimately, will it fail? More times than not, tarte tatins behave beautifully. Go for it. No risk, no reward.   Either it'll flip out beautifully or it'll flop out and make a great topping for ice cream Sundays. Either way, it's a total win. Go big and let the tarte tatin fall where it may.

Orange Tarte Tatin

Tart tatins are simple little things. That said, their simplicity belies their wow factor. 

After melting 2/3 cups light brown sugar and 6 tablespoons salted butter in a cast iron skillet, I overlapped thinly sliced oranges concentrically around the skillet until they covered the bottom of thes killet before returning the skillet  to the flame. When the sugar started bubbling under and around the oranges, I pulled the skillet from the heat and let it cool for about 5 minutes before covering the oranges with a sheet of thawed puffy pastry and tightly tucking the overhanging pastry around the edges of the oranges, allowing the pastry to come in contact with the bottom of the skillet. To give it a little extra richness and crunch, I buttered the puff pastry with salted buttered, letting the extra butter drip down the edges and pool around the pastry before sliding the tarte tatin into a preheated 400 degree oven. At the 40 minute mark, the pastry was beautifully browned and crisp, so I pulled it from the oven to bubble down and cool for just a bit, about 5 minutes. Being mindful to catch it before the sugared oranges hardened and set up completely, I carefully inverted the tarte tatin onto a plate before drizzling the aromatic sticky syrup over the top to literally seal the deal.

It slipped right out. No drama. No half in half out. 

Glistening from the caramelized syrup, the glazed oranges seemed to melt into the shatteringly crisp pastry. Sticky and soft, the sweetened pulp countered the flaky crunch of the crust  and the firm bite of the candied peels in a way that was reminiscent of freshly made fancy orange marmalade slathered over simple buttered toast.

Orange Tarte Tatin.

Marmalade on toast. 

Fabulous. 

Inside out

Like most of the special occasions we've navigated over the past year, Valentine's Day will be different. However, unlike those other special occasions, Valentine's Day isn't a crowd fest. Fortunately, loosened restrictions now allow our local restaurants (with fabulous service and fare) to offer limited dine-in service. Better yet, with social distancing and the required table spacing, romantic  privacy is built right into the mix. No crowded bars or long table wait times. Dinner for two peas in a pod. Different. Safe. Special. That said, if dining out is off the table, curbside, carryout, or delivery is the way to go for romancing the home. In any case, there must always be chocolate. Splurge on beautiful pastries from a local bakery, snag heart-shaped boxes filled with assorted chocolates, or scratch make a heartfelt Valentine's treat. Go big or go small. Chocolate is chocolate. And chocolate always wins. 

Chocolate Ravioli With Sweetened Mascarpone.

Inside out.

Not chocolate filled ravioli. Chocolate pasta ravioli. 

With hints of sweetness balancing the soft bittersweet undertones of dark chocolate, chocolate  pasta is a perfect foil for sweet fillings and sauces. 

Chocolate Pasta.

I sifted 2 cups all purpose flour, 1/3 cup unsweetened dark dark cocoa powder, and 1/4 cup powdered sugar until blended.  After adding a pinch of salt, I made a well in the center of the flour and cracked 3 large eggs into the well. After gradually pulling the flour and eggs together until it form a shaggy dough, I pulled the dough together and kneaded it on a clean work surface for 10 minutes until it was smooth and pliable I shaped the dough into a disc, wrapped it in plastic wrap, and slid it into the refrigerator to rest and chill.

Filling.

While the dough took a break, I whipped together 8 ounces room temperature mascarpone cheese, 1/4

cup super fine sugar, 1 teaspoon salt, 1/4 cup heavy whipping cream, and a splash of fresh lemon.  I set the filling aside and  pulled the dough from the refrigerator to take the chill off.

Roll.

In the realm of scratch pasta, ravioli isn't fiddly. Roll and fill.

I used a bench scraper to divide the dough into 1/4 sections. Working with one section at a time, while keeping the remaining dough covered, I used a hand cranked pasta machine to roll the dough. After flattening the dough to fit the width of the pasta roller, I I rolled it through the largest setting 3 times, folding it in half after each pass. When the dough became soft and easy to work with, I rolled the dough through each setting, lowering the setting after each pass and ending before the thinnest setting.

While ravioli is simple enough to fill, fold, seal, and cut without a ravioli mold, I used a mold because...well...I had one. They're easy to use and roll out consistent shaped raviolis. 

I draped one pasta sheet over the mold let the excess dough hang over the edge of the mold, and gently formed pockets in each ravioli well. I pulled the filling from the refrigerator, filled a pastry bag with the filling ( small spooned dollops would have worked as well) , and piped the mascarpone filling into each well. After covering the filling and pasta with another pasta sheet, I carefully pressed the between filled well to seal the dough, and used a rolling pin to press the sheets together against the serrated edges to seal and cut the ravioli. After removing the excess dough from the edges, I popped the ravioli out of the mold. 

Cooked at a gentle boil for 8-10 minutes, they're fabulous straight up or dolled up with chocolate ganache and fresh berries.

A chocolate Ravioli Valentine.

Austria

As a kid on the farm, scalloped canned oysters were a mysterious staple on my grandmother's Christmas table. Tucked alongside the normal food, they seemed oddly out of place. Unlike anything else on the table, they felt downright luxe. I adored those oysters. Left mostly untouched by the pickier eaters, they were mine for the taking. The world was my oyster. 

Years later, the beat goes on. Whether shucked raw on the half shell, deep fried, poached, grilled, broiled, or baked, oysters are my holiday jam.

Baked Oysters Florentine With Hollandaise Mousseline

Shucked. Shucking oysters can be tedious. It helps to have an oyster knife and glove. I learned a little trick to ease the angst. After bringing water to a rolling boil in a large stock pot, I blanched the oysters for 20 seconds before plunging them into an ice bath. After draining the oysters, I shucked them with ease into a strainer placed over a bowl to catch their liquor without any grit, dropped the oysters into their liquor, and set them aside.

Spinach.  I rinsed, dried and chopped 1 large bunch Madison Count fresh spinach. After frying 4 strips bacon until crisp in a cast iron skillet, I removed the bacon, drained all but 2 tablespoons bacon, returned the skillet to the heat. and added 2 minced shallots.  When the shallots turned translucent, I added 2 cloves minced garlic. Before letting the garlic brown, I tumbled the spinach into the skillet along with 1/2 cup chopped fresh parsley, 1/4 cup chopped chives, and1/4 cup torn fresh tarragon. As the spinach started to wilt, I deglazed the skillet with 1/4 cup white wine and let the wine reduce by half before hitting it with salt and cracked black pepper and setting it aside. Mousseline. Mousseline is an airy light combination of hollandaise and whipped cream. I've made plenty of old school hollandaise sauces over the years. It's a mother sauce that most everyone should have in their back pocket. That said, it can be tricky. Blender hollandaise if full proof.

  

After separating 6 large eggs, I dropped the yolks into the base of a blender along with. 4 tablespoons

freshly squeezed lemon juice, 1/2 teaspoon salt, and 1 teaspoon ground white pepper. I melted 1/2 pound unsalted butter over a medium flame and transferred it to a glass measuring cup. After blending the yolks and lemon juice until frothy, I slowly streamed the melted butter into the blender until  the sauce thickened and emulsified, poured the hollandaise into a small dish, and set it aside.

Whip it. After whipping 1 cup heavy whipped cream until it reached stiff peaks, I gently folded it into the hollandaise for the mousseline, and set it aside.

Stuffed. I spooned a small amount of the herby spinach mix  into the reserved oysters shells, nestled a plump oyster into each shell, topped the oysters with additional spinach, and spooned the mousseline over the spinach, letting it drip will-nilly over the sides. 

After scattering panko bread crumbs mixed with grated parmegiano-reggiano  over the mousseline, I slid the oysters into a 450 degree oven for 8-10 minutes.

When browned and crisped, I pulled the oysters from the oven and  let them rest for 3 minutes before finishing with pearls of salmon roe and snipped fresh garden chives.

Although a far cry from my grandmother's oysters, they took me back to her holiday table.

A Christmas Past.

A Christmas Present.

 

Thankful

Over the river and through the woods...

Maybe not this year.

I can still feel the warmth of my grandmother's kitchen on Thanksgiving morning. 

When my family moved to Kentucky and settled in with my grandparent's on their remote rural farm, the notion of Thanksgiving was completely new to me. It just wasn't a thing in Austria, Germany, or Africa. There were no turkeys, dressings, or casseroles to share. No day after shopping. No football. Our large family was thousands of miles away. Thanksgiving never happened.

Life on the farm was a different kind of life. Big Sunday dinners followed long church meetings with a  rotation of relatives stopping by to visit. While I eventually grew accustomed to the large family gatherings, Thanksgiving was a whole other story. Unlike other family get togethers, Thanksgiving  was a hectic potluck affair. Most everyone had their time worn assigned and  beloved sides to tote over the river and through the woods to our grandmother's house. And only one person, the turkey aunt, was allowed to bring the turkey. There were no surprises. Ever.  

On Thanksgiving morning, my grandmother's demeaner changed. Through the flurry and hubbub, she'd quietly and serenely crank out countless sweet potato pies, chess pies, transparent pies, and pumpkin pies. As utterly contrary as she could be could be at times, her Thanksgiving serenity felt like an odd miracle. By midmorning, the family started piling in. Choreographed like a country version of Swan Lake, the array of sides and fixings were laid out over every inch of counter space, including a makeshift cover over the kitchen sink. Synchronized with clockwork precision, it was an absolute thing of beauty and smelled like heaven. Always feeling like an awkward interloper, I swooned with awe. How? Why? Yes!

After my grandmother filled her milkwood punch bowl with Cola Lemonade iced down with lemonade ice cubes, the Thanksgiving blessing opened the buffet. 

Those early Thanksgivings made me realize I had missed something that I didn't even know was missing in my life. Family, friends, and even Thanksgiving.

During these times, it's ok to miss all the hoopla when you hold close what is missing. There's a simple joy in knowing that our friends and family share the missing. No doubt, this year will be different than than any other. Although smaller, simpler, safer, and softer, this year can also feel the same as years past. Hold fast to the missing and embrace the present.

Roasted Turkey.

Simpler.

Heaven knows, over the years I've done just about anything and everything  you can do with a turkey. Depending on how fancified or low brow I wanted to go, I've deep fried, spatchcocked, brined, smoked,

braised, buttered, herbed, stuffed, unstuffed, deboned, and ruined quite a few turkeys. They've all been fantastic. Each and every method had its pros and cons. ALL of them were fussy and labor intensive....because...well....isn't that the point?  We go overboard for the sake of those we love. 

These days are different. Overboard is overboard. Simple wins.

Surprisingly, I snagged a very small 11 pound fresh turkey. Big enough to feel festive, yet small enough to feed a few close friends. With adjusted cooking times, this simple method works with any sized turkey.

Shots. Injecting is the way to go. With no buckets to fill, ice to chill,  or coolers to store, injecting is a great shot. 

After melting 1 cup unsalted butter and letting it cool, I added 1/4 cup olive oil, 1/2 cup white wine, 2 tablespoons sorghum, 2 teaspoons salt, 1 teaspoon finely ground black pepper, 1 teaspoon ground poultry seasoning, 1/2 teaspoon rubbed sage, and 1/2 teaspoon ground thyme. I whisked to combine, and loaded an injection syringe with the mix before carefully injecting the breasts, thighs, and drumsticks under the skin in several locations, pushing the marinade and pulling the needle to evenly distribute the marinade throughout the flesh. After liberally salting the skin of the turkey, I massaged softened butter over every square inch of the skin and slid it into the refrigerator (uncovered) to dry out and marinate overnight.

To keep things less fussy, I braised vegetables along with the turkey. Like any good roast, that method benefits from a 2 step process.

In leu of a roasting rack, I scattered 4 unpeeled carrots, 3 quartered unpeeled Madison County purple onions, 5 trimmed celery stalks 4 Scott County cleaned leeks, and 3 unpeeled parsnips into the bottom of a medium sized roasting pan. After stuffing the turkey with 1 halved lemon, 1 halved blood orange, 1 sliced celery stalk, onion, fresh sage, fresh rosemary, and 2 peeled garlic cloves, I tied the turkey legs together with kitchen twine, and nestled the turkey onto the vegetables. I poured 1 1/2 cups chicken stock into the roasting pan, let the turkey rest on the counter for 20 minutes to take the chill off, covered the breast with aluminum foil, and slid it into a preheated 335 oven.

The baste debate. I like to baste. It's hands on and allows ample opportunity to check on the browning

of the skin and level of pan juices, so I basted the turkey with the pan juices every 30 minutes or so. Midway ( 1 1/2 hours in), I added an additional 1 cup stock, removed the foil from the breast meat,  and  covered the legs with the foil to prevent overbrowning. At the 2 hour mark, I removed most of the spent vegetables before adding fresh peeled carrots, sliced fresh celery, sliced onions, and 2 seeded and sliced Casey County acorn squash. After basting the skin every 20 minutes during the last hour, I finished with a whisper thin glaze of 2 tablespoons sorghum mixed with 2 tablespoons fresh squeezed lemon juice. When the internal temp hit 165 degrees, I pulled the turkey from the oven, tented it, and let it rest for 30 minutes before nestling it onto a bed of fresh sage and fresh bay leaves along with apples, blood oranges, pears, and  roasted acorn squash.

Simpler.

Smaller.

Always Thankful.

 

Donuts In The Pumpkin Patch

 

Corn mazes. Fodder shocks. Pumpkin patches. 

Yep, it's coming on autumn. The vibrancy of summer has slowly slipped into the calming pace of fall. Crisp cool breezes dance through the trees, gently releasing their worn leaves to scatter over long shadows on the tired grass. Like summer, autumn will be very different  in our new normal. Still, we'll navigate the changes as we cling to familiarity. While gushingly ripe summer tomatoes, thin skinned cucumbers, tender summer squash, mush melon, honeydew melon, green beans, and fresh picked corn might be fading away, we have a new season to  celebrate. We'll cling to  pumpkins, winter squash, potatoes, and hardy greens to get us through our autumnal  new normal. 

And, through it all, there will always be pumpkin spice. And donuts.

As much as the pumpkin spice forces tried  to rush us into fall before we were ready, it is finally pumpkin spice's time.

So, go ahead, put it in anything and everything. Make pies, muffins, pancakes, coffees, and scented whipped creams. Or simply dab it behind your ears. It's pumpkin spice season. And, now, we're ready.

Maple Glazed Pumpkin Donuts With Candied Bacon.

Lord knows. I have and will fry anything. If it'll fit in a fryer, I'll fry it. Like most folks, I'm a fool for fried donuts dripping with glaze. That said, I went down the baked donut route with these pumpkin-y donuts because they're  consistent and easier to work with. 

Time to make the donuts.

Glaze/Donut lipstick. Oh sure, for a subtle matte lipstick, cinnamon dusted donuts are great. In fact, these donuts are fabulous with a simple sugar dusting. But, no no no, I wanted shiny lipstick. Bawdy, even. I combined  1 1/3 cups powdered sugar, 2 tablespoons pure maple syrup, 1 teaspoon vanilla extract, 2 tablespoons milk, and 1 teaspoon Oberholtzer sorghum before whisking the glaze until it was just thick and thin enough to drape the donuts.

Bacon. After completely coating and covering 6 slices thick cut bacon with light brown sugar, I placed them directly onto  a foil lined sheet pan (no wire rack) and slid them into a preheated 350 degree oven. As the they started to caramelize and crisp, I turned the bacon and swept it through the sweet sticky bacon fat, returned it to oven, repeated the flip/swipe until the bacon candied in its own fat., and removed it to wire rack to cool. Think about it.

Dough. So, fresh or canned pumpkin? Although completely interchangeable, I get a kick out of roasting fresh pumpkins. More savory than sweet, fresh pumpkin seems to have a cleaner flavor. And, why not? It's pumpkin season. After halving and seeding 2 Madison County fresh sugar pumpkins, I roasted them in a 350 degree oven until they collapsed ( about 45 minutes), let them cool to the touch, scraped the warm flesh into a blender, and pureed the pumpkin until smooth.

After scooping 2 cups pumpkin puree into a large mixing bowl, I added 1 1/2 cups sugar, 1/3 cup vegetable oil, 4 tablespoons melted butter and 3 large organic eggs. Using an old school hand held mixer, I blended the wet mixture until well combined and silky smooth.

I sifted 2 cups Wiesenberger Mill all purpose flour, 2 teaspoons pumpkin spice (ground cloves, ground

cinnamon, ground allspice, ground ginger, ground nutmeg), 2 teaspoons baking powder, and 1 teaspoon salt into a smaller mixing bowl. After a quick whisk to combine, I added the spiced flour to the pumpkin puree, and gently folded the two together until well incorporated (without overworking the batter). 

To make life easier, I spooned the donut dough into a pastry bag and piped it into 2  oil-sprayed silicone donut molds, cleaned the edges, placed the molds onto a sheet pan, and slid them into a preheated 350 degree oven for 15 minutes. When cooked though (clean toothpick test), I pulled the donuts from the oven and let them rest for 5 minutes for turning them out onto 2 wire racks to cool.

When almost completely cooled, I dipped the donuts into the maple glaze and  let the excess swirl backinto the bowl before finishing with shards of candied bacon.

Suspended under the slightly hardened glaze, the baked donuts were soft, tender, and as light as air. While the warming pumpkin spice punched through the rich caramel-like maple glaze, the candied bacon added salty sweet crunch.

Sticky.

Sweet.

Salty.

Donuts in the pumpkin patch.

Get your spice on.

Inside Out

 As a kid, I believed that if I could swing high enough to fly over the swing set my world would turn upside down and inside out. My private little Wonderland.

Now, as an adult, the world is upside down and inside out. No swings attached.

These days, it seems that most everything has been shuffled around, rescheduled, rearranged, postponed, cancelled, or vitrualized. Even the 146th running of the Kentucky Derby has been moved from the first Saturday in May until the first Saturday in September, happily landing it smack dab in the middle of National Bourbon Heritage Month. Bourbon and horse racing. A winning ticket. Win. Place.Show. Oddly enough, the annual 2 weeks long  Kentucky Bourbon Festival, which draws tens of thousands of people to the Bluegrass  in September to  celebrate all things bourbon,  has been postponed and rescheduled as a virtual affair until October. Thinking back on my stints teaching the Culinary Arts: Bourbon Style Cooking School for hundreds of bourbonites at the Bourbon Festival, and remembering all the things that could and did go wrong during those live cooking demos, the thought of a virtual reality show now sounds somewhat appealing, but not as much fun. Take 1. Take 2. Cut. Edit. Silence. Repeat.

As things gets rearranged and the seasons change, bourbon remains constant.

Whether you sip it, shoot it, mix it, or cook with it, bourbon is always in season.

Bourbon-Sorghum Glazed Chicken With Late Season Succotash.

Make it shine. Oberholzter sorghum, deep and rich, is like silken golden honey. After sauteing 2 minced shallots in 1 tablespoon olive oil until translucent, I hit the pan with 1/2 cup Bookers Bourbon, ignited it, and let it reduce before adding 1 cup Oberholzter sorghum, 1/4 cup apple cider vinegar, 1/4 cup light brown sugar, 2 tablespoons white balsamic vinegar, 1 teaspoon garlic powder, 1 teaspoon smoked paprika, and 1/2 teaspoon ground mustard. I brought the glaze to a boil, reduced it to simmer, and let it bubble away until it mellowed out into a smooth glaze, (about 20 minutes) and set it aside.

Stick it. I'm on team skewer. Not only are skewers inherently more fun, they provide a safer option for small gatherings celebrating the Derby and National Bourbon Heritage month. After slicing 2 pounds Garry Farm boneless chicken into manageable 1 1/2" pieces, I threaded the chicken onto pre-soaked bamboo skewers along with with Casey County red and green bell peppers sliced into wedges, peeled and quartered Stonehedge Farm purple onions, 2 sliced Madison County yellow squash, and 2 sliced and halved Woodford County Zucchini. I drizzled the skewers with olive oil and seasoned them with smoked paprika, salt, cracked black pepper, and garlic powder before setting them aside to marinate.

Suffering succotash. Succotash gets a bad rap. Oh sure, it's filled with a hodgepodge of garden stuff, but right now is the time of year to make that garden stuff shine. I grew up with succotash. On our family farm, during mid to late season when the garden was in full swing and everything was coming on strong, my grandmother's go to catch-all side was succotash. Her low brow country version was fried in bacon grease and smothered in  pepper. Even then, it was fabulous alongside her refrigerator pickles, cornbread, and tomato pudding. Endless versions of succotash vary from region to region and even from family to family. The sky's the limit. As long as the three sisters (lima beans, corn, squash) join the party, anything goes.

Echoing some of the same ingredients as the skewers, I sauteed and salted 1 cup diced purple onion, 1 cup each diced Casey County red and green bell peppers, and 1 /2 cups shelled, peeled, and blanched Madison County lima beans, and 2 cloves minced garlic in 2 tablespoon olive oil. When the vegetables softened and the onions turned translucent, I added 3 cups (5 ears) fresh Pulaski County cutoff corn. After kissing the corn with a bit of heat, I deglazed the pan with 1/2 cup chicken stock and let it reduce before adding 2 cups Rolling Blue Farm diced big boy tomatoes and 1/2 cup heavy cream. When the cream reduced enough to lightly nap the vegetables, I pulled the succotash from the heat and added chives, fresh basil, and  1/2 cup freshly grated parmigiano reggiano cheese. 

Fire. With everything on deck, I slapped the skewers onto a grill over hot coals and grilled the chicken for 10-12 minutes, turning them from to time and liberally brushing them with the glaze after each turn.When they were cooked through and slightly charred, I pulled them from the grill to rest and grilled 3 halved Stonehedge Farm purple onions cut side down. When the onions softened and caramelized, I carefully scooped out the inner layers to serve on the side, filled the grilled onions with  heaping spoonfuls of succotash, and nestled them alongside the sorghum-bourbon glazed chicken before finishing with snipped garden chives and fresh basil.

While the bourbon added subtle smoky oak undertones to the sticky glaze, the vinegar-spiked sorghum  provided mellow sweet acidity as it napped the tender chicken. Spilling from the soft caramelized onions,  the lightly creamed succotash  countered the charred crunch of the grilled vegetables and the smoky sweetness of the bourbon glazed chicken.

Fresh.

Fun.

Fabulous.

Bourbon Season. Never postponed. 

Cracked

In the midst of this crazy lost summer, the arrival of sun-kissed tomatoes makes everything almost seem normal. Like crashing undulating waves, they flood the local markets with breathtaking color. The thrill of summer. Yet, while overwhelmed in the beginning, we eventually and quietly take them for granted. Another day, another tomato. And then before we know it, they're gone. In a flash, they vanish and summer slips away. Hang on to simple pleasures. Hold fast to this lost summer.

Like most folks, I'm a fool for the perfect jewels of summer. The pretty ones. They glisten, pulse, and beckon like sirens of the sea. Even so, I'm most smitten with the gnarled culls, cracked catheads, and scarred want-nots. The outcast jewels relegated to the back bins of the farm stands sold on the cheap. Oh sure, they're not pretty, easy to handle, or great for slicing , but they're mighty fabulous. Once manipulated and cleaned, they're great diced up for salads, roasted for sauces, or chunked up for snacks. Along with the pretties, they're also the reason for the season. Embrace the uglies.





B.L.T.
Bacon. Lettuce. Tomato.
Summer on bread....or wrapped in lettuce.

Pork Belly Tomato Jam Lettuce Wraps.
Summer pig candy.
BLT with a twist.
86 the bread and mayo.

Bacon.
Bacon is simply cured and smoked pork belly. Belly is bacon. Bacon is belly.
The key to good bacon and great pork belly is the crispy unctuous fat. Fat equals flavor.

Unlike fabulous jacked up methods for preparing pork belly, I kept it simple for a summer BLT.

After salting a 1 pound slab of Rolling Blue Farm pork belly, I slid it  into the refrigerator to dry brine overnight.

After bringing the pork belly to room temp, I liberally seasoned the skin with additional salt and cracked black pepper before sliding it into a preheated 350 oven to roast for 2 hours, crisping the top under the broiler during the last 10 minutes. When crisped and evenly browned, I pulled the pork belly from the oven and let it rest for 15 minutes before slicing it into 1/4" lardons.

Tomato.
Lipstick on a pig.
Tomato jam is my summer jam. It works  great during early season when new tomatoes are iffy, during  high season when they're unbelievable, and during late season when tomatoes are fading and we're holding onto memories.

Some tomato jams are labor intensive and persnickety No seeds. No skins. Precise cuts. Perfect perfect perfect. It's hard to jam when bound by fussy preciousness. Just go for it.
Tomato jam should be fun.

I used a 2 pound combination of farmers' market tomatoes (beauties and beasts).
After coring and chopping 4 large Pulaski County Beefsteak cathead tomatoes, 4 Shelby County      Purple Cherokee tomatoes, 4 Hienkle Heirloom Romas, and 4 split Casey County Big Boys, I tossed them together into a large bowl and seasoned them with salt.

Jamming.
Working over a medium flame in a large dutch oven, I sauteed 1 cup diced Boyd County candy onion, 2 teaspoons minced garlic, and 1 heaping tablespoon grated fresh ginger in 2 tables olive oil.  When the onions turned translucent, I tumbled the tomatoes into a dutch oven, seasoned them with salt and cracked black pepper, mixed everything together, and let the tomatoes rip until they released their juices and started to break down. As the tomatoes softened, I added 1 teaspoon cinnamon, 1/4 teaspoon ground clove, 1 teaspoon grated nutmeg, 1 teaspoon allspice, 1 teaspoon ground mustard, 3/4 cup brown sugar, 1/4 cup Olberholtzer sorghum, 1 tablespoon Modena reduced balsamic,  and 3 tablespoons cup apple cider vinegar. After giving it a good stir, I lowered the heat to a simmer, and let the jam gurgle away, stirring from time to time,  until it reduced and thickened into a rich sticky jam.

After pulling the tomato jam from the heat, I let it cool before spooning it into  pint sized mason jars.

Lettuce.
While the sticky sweet jam was still on the warm side, I tossed 1 cup of tomato jam with the reserved pork belly lardons, added 2 tablespoons snipped garden chives, and nestled the pig candy into wispy butter lettuce leaves before finishing with quick pickled sliced Stonehedge radishes and fresh basil.

Crunchy.
Wet.
Sweet.
Salty.

A lost summer BLT.
Get your jam on.