Crushing On Watercress

Lately, I've become completely infatuated with watercress.  Unreasonalby and ridiculously so.  I adore the spicy bitter wet crunch it provides when added to other foods.  Watercress is totally new to me.  I always associated it with dainty tea sandwiches and healthy salads.  Not any more. I ran across a tiny bunch the other day at the market and plopped it into my cart thinking I'd use it for something.  The first night, I tucked it under buttered rice as a garnish.  It literally exploded in my mouth in a way I hadn't expected.  Sold.

Last night, as I planned dinner, I knew I had fresh linguini from a work purveyor with a short shelf life that needed to be cooked. Thin pork cutlets were overcrowding our meat drawer and also needed to be used. Pasta and Pork. While pulling the cutlets from the refirgerator, I noticed  fragile watercress leaves peeking out from underneath a gorgeous bunch of fresh italian flat leaf parsley.  Those tiny leaves inspired  Pork Milanese. Go figure.

I got started by prepping the pasta side dish. I roasted a half red bell pepper and green pepper over a gas flame until blistered and charred before dropping them in a sealed plastic bag to steam, soften, and cool.  I made a simple basic alfredo sauce by reducing 1 cup of heavy cream, 2 tablespoons of butter, and 1/2 cup of parmigiano-reggiano.  As the alfredo simmered,  I dropped the fresh linguini into heavily salted water to cook.  While the pasta boiled, I peeled and sliced the peppers into strips before adding them to the thickened gooey alfredo sauce.

When the linguini was perfectly cooked to al dente, I strained it into a glass bowl, doused it with the roasted pepper alfredo sauce, and slid the bowl over the simmering pasta water to keep warm.

Because the pork cutlets were really thin, they didn't need pounding.  I simply dredged them in flour, egg wash, and parmigiano-reggiano panko breadcrumbs before carefully sliding them into hot sizzling butter.  I let them brown on both sides for 3 to 4 minutes per side before tenting them to rest. 

I deglazed the pan with 1/2 white wine and 1/2 chicken stock, allowing the sauce to reduce by half. When it was the perfect consistency, I tossed snipped chives into the reduction, removed the pan from the heat, swirled 2 butter pats into the sauce to melt, and gently incorporated the butter to create a glossy sheen. 

Just before plating, I tossed watercress, baby beet greens, and  parsley leaves in a lightly seasoned fresh lemon vinaigrette.

I twirled the roasted pepper linguini alfredo onto our plates and nestled the butter-fried pork cutlets next the linguini, drizzling the pan sauce over the top. With glorious homage to my newfound watercress crush, I topped the crisp buttery-sauced cutlets with the light lemon-dressed watercress, parlsey, and baby beet green salad.

It was outrageously good. Although draped in a succulent rich sauce, the cutlets crackled when sliced, revealing most juicy white meat.  The glossy buttery pan sauce dripped and oozed around the meat with bits of chive releasing mild onion flavor while the bright bitter baby beet greens, grassy parsley, and crunchy spiced watercress quelled the butter assault with light lemony freshness. Crazy. When pulled through the creamy alfredo sauce, the linguini was soothing and familiar, providing a welcomed textural contrast.  Salty. Nutty. Soft.

We devoured it. 

It was gone before I remembered we had toasted ciabatta from Sunshine Bakery warming in the oven as a sopper. We didn't need it.  Our plates were as clean as a whistle without it.

And Vegetables Too.

Most people bring bottles of red wine when we have gatherings in our home. Generally, we are chardonnay drinkers. As a happy result,  we now have several bottles of red wine scattered around our kitchen countertops.

Yesterday, I pulled half of a small organic chicken out of the freezer to thaw.  I buy whole chickens, cut them up, and freeze what I don't use. Last night, as I cut the chicken into small appropriate serving portions, the surrounding red wine bottles stared me down, screaming for a coq au vin.  Although I adore the long slow aromatic braise of coq au vin, cock stewed in red wine surrendered to the squawking of my pantry and produce bin.  I had things that needed to be used.  Daikon radish, navel oranges, red bell pepper, snow peas, oyster mushrooms, carrots, asparagus, onions, garlic, and ginger morphed the dreamy coq au vin into an asian inspired honey, orange, and soy glazed chicken with strir fried vegetables.

Coq au vin could wait.  Let the sticky begin.

Because  I love slicing, dicing, and chopping things, it was very straightforward and simple. Although I was in mise en place heaven, it was a bit time consuming.  Thankfully, Michael kept my wine glass full throughout the process.

After seasoning the chicken with salt, pepper, and chinese five spice powder ( a sensual ground blend of cinnamon, star anise, fennel, cloves, and ginger), I dredged the pieces through egg wash and cornstarch before carefully placing them in sizzling peanut oil to brown.  Midway through, before the chicken was deeply browned, I tossed carrots, onions, fresh ginger, and garlic into the pot to caramelize with the chicken.

I deglazed the pot with 1 cup of fresh squeezed orange juice to pick up the crunchy flavor fond stuck to the bottom and let it reduce by half.  After the orange juice reduced, coating the chicken, I added 1/2 cup orange blossom honey, 1/2 cup dark soy sauce, and 2 cups of chicken stock. No salt needed.  I clamped the lid on the heavy dutch oven and slid the bubbling concoction into a 350 degree oven to braise for an hour.

While the chicken simmered away, I thinly sliced red bell peppers, carrots, snow peas, daikon radish, asparagus, onion, garlic, and ginger, setting them aside. Before adding it to the vegetables, I gently pulled the soft lacy oyster mushroom  apart into feathery pieces.

The slow braising aroma of honey, orange, soy sauce, and chicken was intoxicating.

After an hour slipped by, along with a gorgeous bottle of organically grown Releaf shiraz, I pulled the hot pot from the oven, carefully removed the chicken,, slid the pieces back into the oven to crisp from the braise, and reduced the braising liquid into a heavenly sticky glaze. 

While the chicken crisped and the glaze glazed, I cranked a skillet until smoking hot with 1 tablespoon of peanut oil and tossed in the vegetables to flash stir fry. It went fast.

I bunched fresh watercress onto our plates and topped it with buttered rice.

I dropped the chicken back into the reduced sticky glaze, turning them over several times to thoroughly drape before tumbling the pieces over the rice and watercress.  I scattered the vegetables around the chicken with  drizzles of toasted sesame oil and a showering of untoasted sesame seeds.

There seemed to be an enormous amount of vegetables.  Apparently, I got carried away with the dicing and slicing, resulting in a beautiful plate of sauteed vegetables complelety enveloping small sticky chicken bites.

There were so many balanced layers of flavor. The bright  vegetables were snappingly crisp against the moist tender chicken, melding  nutty sesame inflused flavor with sweet honey, salty soy, and bitter orange. Watercress exploded with spicy  mouth-cleansing bitter wetness. With such big flavors bouncing around, the buttered rice calmed the circus with soothing softness.

The chicken was fantastic.  Small bites of gutteral gluttony.  That being said, it was dwarfed by the onslaught

 of perfectly cooked sauteed vegetables.

Go figure.

The Root Of It

I have been on a mission to clean out my stock-piled freezer. One of these nights I'm going to make a mystery stew with some of the leftover containers that contain heaven knows what.  Contrary to what I know I am supposed  to do, I don't label things.  I can recognize shrimp tails and chicken backs through their plastic bags, but the leftover stews, bourgiugnons, and pot roasts, not so much. Without apologies, I throw nothing away and I don't label what I don't throw away.

That being said, last night, hidden under brightly colored Italian Ice Pops, I found two long italian sausage links. Sausage and Kraut?  Nope, I'd have to schlepp through the snow to the garage for the kraut.  Sauteed savoy cabbage with sausages?  Nah, wasn't feeling it. I rumaged through the freezer one last time before finding frozen shrimp wedged behind the ice tray.  Bingo.  I'd make my take on shrimp and grits: Sauteed sausage, onions, green peppers, and shrimp over cheese grits.

I had one tablespoon of grits....still in the box in the pantry.  The woes of a food hoarder.  I had a gigantic bag of  polenta. I've cooked shrimp over polenta before, but didn't really feel like mucking through the process of stirring constantly while dodging plops and blops of erupting molten polenta.  Mashed potatoes?  Not again.   Rice? Wake me when it's over.

As I rifled through the vegetable  bin for the peppers, onions, carrots, and garlic, I spotted an ugly celery root tucked behind  mexican crema, Thai fish sauce, and a wine bottle.  I bought the celery root (celeriac) last week with the intention of making pureed celery root soup. Never happened.  I'd forgotton about it. 

I thought, if I treated the celery root like mashed potatoes or polenta,  it could the perfect base for my sausage, shrimp, and grits.

Game on.

No recipe needed.  I simply cooked.

Using a sharp knife, I sliced the waxy outer skin from the celery root before peeling the inner skin off with a vegetable peeler.  I chopped the root  into manageable pieces and tossed them  into salted boiling water with two small white baby potatoes to  cook for 45 minutes.

While the celery root bubbled away, I minced a garlic clove, sliced half an onion, green pepper, and carrots into thin strips and set them aside.  I sliced the sausages on the diagonal, seasoned the shrimp with Old Bay and smoked paprika, and slid them into the refrigerator alongside the prepared vegetables.

When the celery root was fork tender, I drained it, and returned it to the pot.  While it was still piping hot, I added 1 cup of parmigiano reggiano. 1/4 cup heavy cream, 1/4 cup chicken stock, salt, and pepper.  Using my immersion blender, I whipped the cheesy celery root until it was as light as air before setting it aside over a very low flame to stay warm while I joined Michael in the parlor for our daily musings over several glasses of wine.

When it was time to eat, I cranked a skillet on high heat and sauteed the sliced sausages until crispy and caramelized.  I removed the sausages to drain and sauteed the shrimp in the gloriously rendered seasoned sausage fat.  I scooped out the shrimp, adding them to reserved sausages, and dropped the sliced green peppers, onions, garlic, and carrots into the sizzling oil.  When the vegetables were tender, I tossed in the reserved sausages, shrimp, and fresh parsley to heat through before deglazing the pan with white wine and chicken stock.

After the wine and stock reduced into a succulent clinging sauce, I spooned the celery root puree into large pasta bowls and topped it with the wine-stock-fat napped sausages, shrimp, and al dente vegetables.  For freshness, I scattered plucked fresh  parsley and celery leaves over the top.

The pureed celery root was the star.  It had an incrediblly clean, mellow, and earthy flavor that hinted with celery undertones. It was meltingly light, vanishing on the tongue with every bite.  The briny sweet tender shrimp and  spiced sausages grounded the airy puree while the wilted green peppers, soft onions, and crisp sweet carrots  wrapped their textural flavors throughout the saucy  mix, adding depth and complexity.

The bright fresh celery leaves echoed the muted quiet flavor of the celery root.

It was ridiculously good.

I thought I had made too much, silently thinking ahead and looking forward to a late night sleep-walking snack. Nope. We ate it all.  Clean plates. Gone. Do over, please.

Although I will always adore polenta, mashed potatoes, cheese grits, or even rice, last nights parmiginano reggianno celery root puree vaulted to the head of the pack.

Pretty In Pink

 Every year during the holidays, our realtor sends us a crate filled with pink grapefruits and navel oranges. As lovely and generous as it sounds, a crate is a hell of a lot of grapefruit and oranges for two people to consume.  We've made salty dogs, greyhounds, and screwdrivers with a large portion of the bounty. I've even taken a few to work to halve, section, and broil until the tops bruleed into caramelized grapefruit crackling candy.  Last night, we had two left in the gigantic decorative bowl on the kitchen counter.  Recalling a recipe from Patrick O'Connell's Refined American Cuisine from The Inn at Little Washington, I decided to adapt his recipe for Scaloppine of Chicken with Grapefruit and Pink Peppercorns.  Instead of chicken, I used pork cutlets pounded into thin scaloppine.

 With the exception of  the grapefruit prep ( which I found fun) , it was very easy to prepare. 

I used everything the grapefruit had to offer. I zested the outermost layer into jullienned strips  before slicing the remaining pith away from the grapefruit to expose the glistening flesh. I candied the jullienned grapefruit strips in simmering simple syrup. While they simmered in their sugar bath, I carefully supremed the fresh grapefruit sections, allowing  them to drop into a bowl along with their juices. Once the grapefruit was completely sectioned, I squeezed it to release 1/2 cup of fresh juice and set it aside. 

I had gorgeous baby purple potatoes and cipollini onions in the pantry and thought they'd provide an earthy balance to the grapefruit pork scaloppine.  After scoring and blanching the onions to release their skins, I briefly boiled the baby potatoes to soften them. To gild the lily just a bit, I roasted paper thin slices of prosciutto until they morphed into salty ham crackers.

I set everything aside and met up with Michael in the parlor to chat and drink a few glasses of wine before dinner. The importance of mise en place.  Everything was in place.

After drinking the last of the Francis Coppola 2008 Black Label Claret Cabernet Sauvignon, it was time to cook.

It went fast. Really fast.

I got a cast iron skillet screaming hot before adding equal parts olive oil and butter.  When it started to smoke, I tossed the onions and potatoes into the cauldren to crisp and caramelize.  When they were perfectly browned, I pulled them from the heat and dropped in 2 tablespoons of butter, 1 tablespoon of fresh minced rosemary, salt, and pepper.  Buttery rosemary glazed baby purple potatoes and cipollini onions with prosciutto cracklings.  Call it a day.

Not quite.  There was more pork to be had.

I got another skillet smoking hot, swirled olive oil into the pan, dredged the pork scaloppine in flour, and carefully placed them in the sizzling oil.  After they were golden brown, I removed them from the skillet and  tented them to rest.

I deglazed the pan with the reserved fresh pink grapefruit juice, allowing it to reduce  by half before adding 1/2 cup heavy cream, white pepper, and pink peppercorns.

I plated the pork scaloppine with generous drizzles of  the creamy grapefruit pink peppercorn  sauce before topping them with fresh  grapefruit sections, candied grapefruit strips, fresh tarragon, and pink peppercorns.

I nestled the pan roasted potatoes, onions, and prosciutto onto the plates with a gratuitous spoonful of buttered peas.

Unbelievable.

A perfectly sliced bite revealed such complex layered flavors.  Bitter candied grapefruit rind gave way to tart fresh grapefruit pulp that bled into the soft rich concentrated grapefruit cream sauce. The complexity of those flavors bathed the crispy golden brown  pork scaloppine hidden underneath.  An occasional fiery snap from pink peppercorns provided heat and crunch while the randomly scattered fresh tarragon leaves hinted freshness with subtle anise undertones.

The caramelized cipollini onions and purple potatoes added grounding depth to the grapefruit assault while the prosciutto cracklings provided needed salt, texture, and pure pork essence. Crazy good.  Really.

Pink and pretty grapefruit.

Not just for breakfast or cocktails.

Who knew?

Smack Talk: Sumac

 One of my great pleasures in life is opening a hunter green gift box from Williams-Sonoma.  It makes me absolutely giddy.  Knowing that Michael is greeted with thunderous applause by employees when he enters Williams-Sonoma to shop (for me) makes me even giddier. They know he is there for  serious shopping. 

Recently, one particular box from Williams-Sonoma sent me on a culinary adventure.  It was filled with sensual exotic spices.  Spices I've always coveted and needed, but never had.  Six spice jars were individually wrapped in green tissue paper, extending the gleeful discovery. Saigon Cinnamon, African Curry, Harissa, Zahtar, Ras el Hanout, and Sumac unveiled their aromatic splendor in one glorious gift box.  Happy me.

That being said, my hopes of actually using them in our house were slim to none.  Most of the flavor profiles associated with those spices generally don't fall into Michael's culinary palate zone..  Sumac, however,  was one I believed he could joyously embrace. 

              Sumac: Refreshing bright, fruity flavor with natural

                              hints of tangy citrus and savory salt.

I stumbled across a recipe for a sumac-based Turkish Red Lentil Tomato Soup.  Sold.  It could be the first ticket to Michael's tasting tour of my new spice collection. Innocently, my head started to spin.  I had everything I needed to prepare a riff on the Turkish soup.  Everything, that is,  except red lentils. Knowing my grocery certainly wouldn't have them, I thought about going to Parisa International Supermarket, but didn't want to deal with the traffic.  The same issue arose with Fresh Market, Good Foods, and Whole Foods. Traffic.

I decided to split the travel distance and check out a relative newcomer to the foreign market landscape, Selby's International Market.

Off I went and my adventure began.

Selby's International Market is small, bright, clean, and extremely well stocked. Four aisles were packed to the gills.  I was mesmerized. Angela, the delightful proprietor, greeted me warmly and asked if I needed any help.

"I'm looking for red lentils.", I mumbled.  "I have Plenty, follow me.", she said.

She wasn't kidding. 

I was in the store for an hour wandering the aisles transfixed and awed by the assortment of brightly colored items stocked and stacked on the shelves.  It was beautiful.

I stepped into Selby's for red lentils and left with two bags filled with plaintains, yucca, tamarind paste, cardmom pods, black mustard seeds, fresh curry leaves ( a first), and lentils.

Mission accomplished.

Content with myself, I drove home with my treasures.

I wanted a roasted tomato base for the soup.  After preheating the oven to 350, I halved several roma tomatoes, drizzled them with olive oil, and seasoned them liberally with salt and pepper before sliding them into the oven to roast.

While the tomatoes caramelized, I washed and picked through the jeweled lentils before setting them aside.

To complete the flavor base, I sauteed sliced celery, carrots, onions, and minced garlic in olive oil until softened, but not caramelized.  When the tomatoes were well concentrated and broken down, I added them to the sauteed vegetables with 4 cups of chicken stock to simmer and combine.

While the soup gently bubbled, I prepped the garnishes.  I certainly wasn't making a traditional Turkish lentil  tomato soup.  Hardly.  Nope.  Not me.

I sauteed julienned  collard green ribbons with peeled small sweet baby carrots and set them aside. 

I pureed the soup, returned it to the dutch oven, and added 2 small diced yukon gold potatoes, 1 chopped green pepper, the reserved washed  red lentils, 1 tablespoon of sumac, 3 tablespoons of minced fresh parsley, salt, and pepper.  On a whim, I tossed a few thawed ( leftover from a previous meal) Stone Burr Farm ground lamb meatballs into the simmering soup.  It smelled amazing.  The moment the ground sumac hit the steaming liquid, aromatic citrusy  sumac exploded through the wafting steam.  Wow!

When the lentels and potatoes were tender, I ladled the soup into large pasta bowls and topped it with the sauteed collard greens, baby carrots, and parsley.  A final shower of burnt umber ground sumac finished it off. 

Every sense of taste was assaulted in a gorgeous way. Bitter bright green collards swirled through the soft pureed tomatoes, giving way to earthy rich potatoes and al dente lentil pearls. The baby carrots offered sweetness while the poached lamb meatballs provided salty depth. Although the  parsley added a wonderful grassy freshness, the tangy tart sumac stole the show, brightening the robust soup with crunchy citrus acidity.  Balance. 

Buffalo Summer Sausage. A Winter's Revelation

I was totally inspired when a colleague at work decided to make summer sausage.  I love that sort of thing.  I have always been fascinated with charcuterie, making my own duck prosciutto, cured salmon, ground sausage links, pates, and terrines, but have generally stayed away from actually curing meats  because curing seemed just too precise, difficult, and frightening.  I mean, pink salt? Saltpeter? Sodium Nitrate?  I don't have a smokehouse, curing chamber, or the patience for long cured meat making.

Summer sausage is different.  It's easy, quick to make, and uses a very tame sounding Morton's Tender Quick Salt for curing. No laboratories involved. Morten's Quick Salt does contain 6 % sodium nitrate which is essential for curing.  At least it's not pink or acrid smelling.  It simply  looks like salt.

2 pounds ground meat.

2 Tablespoons Morton's Tender Quick Salt.

2 Tablespoons brown sugar.

1 TeaspoonMustard Seeds.

1 Teaspoon peppercorns.

1 teaspoon Garlic Salt.

1 Teaspoon Onion Powder.

1/2 Teaspoon Allspice.

That's it.   The important element being the salt to meat ratio.  The flavorings can vary.

Any type of ground meat would work for summer sausage.  I chose buffalo meat because it was very lean.

While keeping the meat as cold as possible, I tossed the ground meat into a large mixing bowl with the curing salt and remaining ingredients.  I tripled the amount of peppercorns, using green, pink, and black,

After the mixture was thoroughly incorporated, I formed the meat into logs, double-wrapped them in plastic wrap, and tied the ends with kitchen twine, forming tightly rolled buffalo meat casings.  I wanted the rolls to stay round, so I hung them in the refrigerator to cure.  The hanging step was not neseccary, purely self indulgent, and very challenging.  Home refrigertaors  are not constructed for hanging meat. I had to rig the rolls onto Michael's soft drink container-section of the refrigerator door, letting them dangle over the jams, jellies, chipotle pepper, and mayonaise containers.  The rolls bobbed and swayed every time the door was opened, but they stayed round.

I let the sausages cure overnight before unwrapping them, positioning them on a rack over a baking pan, and sliding them into a low 200 degree oven to cook for two hours, turning them over once.

After slow roasting for two hours, the buffalo meat transformed into glistening red gorgeous summer sausage rolls.  I was surprised, amazed, and a wee bit pleased with myself.

I let the sausage rolls cool to room temperature before sliding them back into the refrigerator to finish curing for 24 hours. Very easy.

The next morning, I sliced the chilled  sausages and served them with crackers, Buffalo Trace bourbon-tinged stone ground mustard, and Boursin cheese.

Although I tripled the amount of peppercorns, the sausage meat wasn't overly spicy. Along with the mustard seeds they added texture and bite to the firm cured meat.  Paired with  crackers, cheese, and mustard, the buffalo summer sausages were fantastic. A revelation, even.

I can't wait to make them again.  I'll keep the important salt/meat ratio, but change up the ingredients. 

 The sky's the limit.