Not Quite A Peck

Michael and I adore eating stuffed stuff. We're particularly fond of stuffed peppers.  Apparently, my stuffed peppers are atypical because I don't include rice in the filling or pre-cook the meat.  I load halved peppers with a highly seasoned combination of meats before braising them in a vinegar infused tomato sauce and topping them with cheese.  Sweet. Acidic. Piquant.

I had stuffed peppers in mind while browsing the farmers' market the other day. With my Martha Stewart canvas tote in hand, I made my way through the market shopping.  My little mission was interrupted by the sight of ambrosia corn spilling  from wooden racks off the back of a Pulaski County truck. I wasn't there for corn, but at that instant I had to have corn. I had to have it before it was gone.  Before it was too late.

The morning was quiet and still, leaving the market void of the early summer hysteria. It was peaceful, reminding me of walks on the farm with my father while shuffling through dried fallen leaves. Pleasant, yet melancholy. Happy and sad.

Feeling nostalgic about the early days of summer (with fresh ears of corn in tow), I rounded the bend to make my final pass down the other side of the Tuesday/Thursday market.

My self inflicted melancholy was jolted  and snapped by a vibrant Casey County display of fresh peppers. They were gorgeous. Italian peppers, poblano peppers, hot banana peppers, sweet banana peppers, serrano peppers, habanero peppers, and red/green/black jalapeno peppers were standing tall in baskets, like soldiers at attention.

Oh, there might have been a few green bell peppers tucked around the table. I was pepper-sprayed from the beauty of the others and didn't notice.I bagged a basket of fully ripened sweet red banana peppers.

 A pepper is a pepper is a pepper. Right?  Stuff one...stuff  them all.

When I got home from work, I sliced the lovely long red banana peppers lengthwise, removed the seeds, and set them aside. After mixing ground pork with ground beef, minced garlic, parsely, 1 beaten egg, grated onion, salt, and pepper, I filled the shallow pepper boats with  the meat mixture, squishing it into every crevice of the peppers before topping them with thinly sliced garden tomatoes.

I always serve stuffed peppers over steamed rice.  Always. Well, I didn't have any rice. I had polenta and Attiecke, a west African quick cooking cassava couscous.

I took the polenta route.  I love the soft porridge-like  consistency of buttery cheesy polenta. Michael, not so much. Fried polenta was the answer.

Before joining Michael for wine, I topped the peppers with tomato sauce along with a few splashes of red wine vinegar, covered the dish, and slid it into a pre-heated 350 degree oven to braise for an hour.

While the peppers braised, I made a huge pot of polenta using Italian polenta meal and chicken stock. After stirring the molten cornmeal mush for what seemed like an eternity, popping and spitting like an angry volacno,  the polenta eventually pulled away from the sides of the pot. 

I slid the pot off of the heat and tossed in 1/2 stick of unsalted butter, an ear of cut off ambrosia corn kernels, 2 cups of grated parmigiano reggiano cheese, 1/2 cup mascarpone cheese, and a handful of baby arugula.  After a quick stir to wilt the arugula, I poured the gooey polenta into an oiled casserole dish to harden and set up.

Wine.

1/2 hour into the pepper braise, I pulled the hardened polenta from the refrigerator. Using a wine goblet, I  cut the polenta into circles, floured the discs, and fried them until golden brown before sliding them into the oven to keep warm until we ate.

After several glasses of wine, I pulled the peppers from the oven,  topped them with fresh mozzarella cheese, and slid them back into the oven to melt the cheese.

So, here's the deal.  Apparently, not all peppers are created equal. Tough hard-skinned stuffed green bell peppers have no problem holding up through a long braise. They soften and collapse a bit, but retain their shape. Not so with tender-skinned peppers. The delicate flesh of the stuffed ripened red banana peppers completely disintegrated during the braise, happily creating an accidental cheesy braised pepper and meat-filled ragu.

I flew with it.

After stacking the fried polenta cakes onto our plates,  I wrestled the peppers from the pot and surrounded the cakes with the stuffed pepper sauce. It was hysterical. Strings of melted mozzarella cheese clung to everything, whipping and snapping like gooey rubber bands.  With little effort, I could have fashioned a splendid cheesy Jacob's ladder with my hands.

The polenta cakes were fantastically crisp with arugula-flecked soft interiors while nutty parmigiano and sweet mascarpone added depth and complexity. With chards of pepper-less meat masquerading as elongated meatballs, the accidental braised ragu had all the familiar flavors of stuffed peppers.

Did it turn out as intended?  Hell, no.

But, it was delicious.

 

Paint The Mother Pink

Bechamel, Espagnole, Hollandaise, Tomato, and Veloute are the five mother sauces of French cuisine from which many  sauces are broken down into derivative smaller sauces.  Hollandaise might the most popular and most difficult of the five to master because the delicate emulsion of egg yolks, lemon juice, and melted butter over simmering water can be tricky. Very tricky.

The smaller derivative sauces from Hollandaise are fascinating and fabulous. Adding cream, horseradish and fresh thyme turns Hollandaise into Sauce Bavaroise. Replacing lemon juice with fresh blood orange juice creates a lovely Sauce Maltaise (I've made tons of Maltaise...great on Grand Marnier marinated salmon). Whipped cream folded into a finished Hollandaise produces a light and airy Sauce Mousseline.

Sauce Bearnaise is probably the powerhouse of the  Hollandaise derivatives. Replacing lemon juice with a very concentrated reduction of white wine vinegar, white wine, fresh tarragon, peppercorns, and shallots elevates the sauce with bright anise undertones. Beranaise pairs beautifully with steak. With additions and tweeks, Bearnaise  sauce boasts a litany of variations. Adding tomato puree, tomato paste, or tomato concasse to the Bearnaise emulision produces a pink-hued Sauce Choron. Sauce Paloise is made by replacing  tarragon with mint.  Sauce Foyot has a meat glace folded into the Bearnaise, while Sauce Colbert is Sauce Foyot with  additional  reduced white wine.

Whew.

I had a hankering for eggs benedict. Although I'm a fool for Hollandaise and Bearnaise, I wanted to tinker and try something a bit different for our  breakfast dinner last night. When I stumbled across sauce Choron, I was intrigued. Sandwiching  poached eggs between fresh tomato slices and a tomato-infused Bearnaise sauce seemed like a natural pairing. Sold.

I'll admit, most of the time I pull out the blender for safe fuss free versions of Hollandaise or Bearnaise.  Without risk of curdling or scrambling the egg yolks over low heat, blender sauces are fullproof. That being said, fueled by extra time on my hands along with a few glasses of wine, I happily plunged head first into the classic preparation of Bearnasie-based  sauce Choron.

To create the flavor base, I  sauteed 3 tablespoons of white wine vinegar, 3 tablespoons of white wine, 1 tablespoon of chopped fresh tarragon, and 10 Tellicherry peppercorns until the liquid reduced to 1 tablespoon before straining it into a small ramekin.

While the vinegar reduction cooled, I brought 3 egg yolks to room temperature and prepared the tomato paste. Ok, I had a tube of tomato paste in the refigerator. Nope. I wasn't feeling it. I also had an overripe windsill heirloom tomato that was a breath away  from exploding, so I roasted , peeled, and deseeded it before mashing the flesh into pulp and sauteeing it over low heat until the pulp reduced into an intensely aromatic tomato paste. Call me crazy.

After tossing 1 tablespoon of  the tomato paste, 3 tablespoons of water, egg yolks,  and tarragon vinegar  into a mixing bowl, I whisked the mixture over simmering water until the yolks were frothy.

Using a steady hand while furiously whisking the tomato-stained yolks over the steaming bath , I slowly drizzed 1 cup of melted unsalted butter into the yolks until the sauce pulled away from the bottom of pan , emulsified,  and turned  rosy pink.

I removed the sauce Choron from the heat, added fresh tarragon, took a deep breath, and chugged an entire glass of wine.

After parking the sauce over very low simmering water to hold,  I toasted English muffins, poached a few eggs, and sliced a a couple of tomatoes.

With everything ready to go, I stacked our very traditional eggs benedicts with toasted English muffins, sliced garden tomatoes, speck (smoked prosciutto), and poached eggs.  After ladling a very untraditional sauce Choron over the jiggly eggs, I dropped a few tarragon leaves over the top, seasoned everything with salt and cracked black pepper,  and nestled a lightly dressed baby arugula salad to the side.

It was insanely fabulous. Really. The sauce was velvety soft with a surprisingly light mouthfeel. The deeply reduced tomato paste tamed the normally tart anise brashness of the Bearnasie while providing complex layers of acidity and sweetness.  When sliced, runny yolks oozed from the tender poached eggs onto the speck and tomatoes, pooling around the muffins and mixing with the sauce. Crazy. Rich. Decadent.

Normally, I work very clean in the kitchen. Last night, I destroyed it. 

At some point during the night, Michael washed every pan and cleaned the kitchen.

 Bliss.

Watermelon Ride

My grandparent's house was nestled on a slight hill surrounded by patches of trees and rolling fields on a lake in Western Kentucky. White-washed wooden planked fences separated the main house and work buildings from the fields, creating idyllic panoramas for the property. After we moved back to Kentucky to live with my grandparents, one of the first things my father did was haul out the Bush Hog, attach it to my grandfather's tractor, and mow a large square area around a huge oak tree on one side of the house beyond the white-washed fencing. After leveling the knee high hay, he climbed aboard a riding lawn mower and mowed the same area until it resembled a well manicured lawn.  I had no idea what he was doing. I really didn't care. At the time, restless catfish jumping around our murky moss-laden pond fascinated me a lot more.

The next morning, he fastened  thick grass rope to an old tire, climbed the tree (with the help of my brother), and secured the rope over the thickest arching limb from the oak tree.  He made a tire swing.  I'd never seen one before.  Being an  eleven year old boy, it certainly grabbed my attention. I assumed he created it for me, so I happily played on the swing for several days until the catfish lured me back to the pond.  The swing hung lifeless in the tall grass  for the duration of  autumn and winter.

The following spring, he was back out there Bush Hogging, mowing, and manicuring the tire-swing lawn in preparation for an upcoming Memorial Day family cookout. During our first few years living there, he repeated the ritual twice a year for family cookouts on Memorial Day and Labor Day.

Memorial Day was the usual  pot-luck affair, but the Labor Day cookout was his baby.  After everyone gathered under the oak tree, lounging about in those old timey brightly colored aluminum folding lawn chairs, he'd light the fire and grill onion studded cheese-stuffed hamburgers and  husked-wrapped buttered field corn. Condiments, hambuger fixings, Hamburger buns,  potato salad, and his un-worldly Boston baked beans were meticulously lined up on his fold-out Coleman's camping picnic table.

Dessert was always sliced and chunked sun-kissed watermelon straight from the garden served atop leftover newspapers to catch the mess.

The tire swing was in constant use during those picnics, its rope rhythmically squeaking around the worn tree limb from the weight of the people riding it throughout the day. Summer sounds.

After a few years, the picnics slowly faded away until they stopped all together. Toward the end of what was to become our final picnic, I somehow managed to wrestle the rights to the tire swing.  Seizing the moment, I grabbed an end chunk of warm watermelon, climbed onto the tire, pushed my feet to the ground for acceleration,  and lazily flew through the air chomping on watermelon while spitting tiny black seeds into the newly mown grass.

Watermelon ride.
Bliss.

All's Quiet...

Lately, Michael and I have been dining very simply on the home front.  After feeding a bunch of hungry folks out on the meadows of Keeneland  for two outdoor concerts featuring Tiempo Libre with the Lexington Philharmonic, we really craved quiet time at home and in our kitchen.  Sliced melons with cottage cheese and marinated tomatoes with cucumbers provided cool calm answers for quiet kitchen time.

Last night, we were ready to fire up the burners. Michael prepared his fabulous salmon cakes with hollandaise. His gentle deft hand with them always produces moist cakes with crackling exteriors.   I was excited to sit back and let him work his magic while I whipped up a side dish to accompany them.  Yesterday morning, I stopped by the market to pick up a few tomatoes. I left with a couple of heirloom  black brandywine tomatoes, baby leeks, and a bag of very ugly early season small watermelon radishes.  Aside from a couple of ears of corn, a can of cashews, and a jar of preserved lemons, the leeks and radishes were all I had to work with.

Except for a trip through an occasional salad bar, I can't remember the last time I ate a raw radish. I adore cooking and pickling them, so I decided I'd prepare both (together) to accompany our salmon cakes.  It was stupidly easy.

I scrubbed and peeled the gnarly-skinned radishes, leaving a bit of the root for interest. They were skanky ugly....until I sliced them. Wow. I was stunned.  When sliced, the cantankerous radish bulbs remarkably revealed vivid fuscia flesh softly bleeding to snow white while finishing with a slight green rim, much like....well, small seedless watermelons. Gorgeous.

After quartering and dividing the radishes into equal portions, I set them aside and sliced the baby leeks into thin diagonals.

Adapting a quick pickling method from The Lee Brother's, Simple Fresh Southern cookbook, I simmered 1 cup of white wine vinegar with 4 cloves of garlic, 2 teaspoons of kosher salt, 1 teaspoon of sugar, and 1 teaspoon of whole peppercorns.  When the sugar and salt dissolved, I poured it over the quartered radishes, covered the container, and slid it into the refrigerator to chill.

For contrasting texture and flavor, I decided to braise the remaining radishes in butter and chicken stock.  After melting 3 tablespoons of butter in a very hot skillet, I added the sliced leeks along with minced garlic, salt, and pepper.  When the leeks softened, I tumbled the radishes into the skillet and deglazed the pan with 1 1/2 cups chicken stock. 

I brought the stock to a boil, reduced it to a low simmer, clamped on a lid, and let the radishes bubble away while we happily drank wine in the parlor.  After an hour, I slipped the braised tender radishes into an oven proof dish and slid them into a warm oven to hold until we were ready to dine.

After a few more slaphappy glasses of wine, Michael worked his magic with the salmon cakes. When they were perfectly crisped  until golden brown, he topped them with a quick blender hollandaise (a delicious cheat),  and  snipped chives from the garden. 

I nestled the braised radishes alongside the salmon cakes, tumbling the pickled radishes over them for a sensory contrast.

We've eaten braised radishes countless times. Since they're related to turnips, they tasted like turnips. No brainer. Last night, the braised watermelon radishes tasted like turnips jacked up on steroids. When cooked,  their raw vibrant color and crisp texture mellowed into subdued softness,  innocently cloaking the unexpected intense turnip flavor. Brilliant. The long braised leeks melted into onion candy, wrapping the bold radishes with needed sweetness.

Ideally, I should have sliced the pickled radishes a bit smaller.  That being said,  their crunchy, tart, and peppery bites  were thankful respites to the big bold turnip flavors. 

The golden crisp salmon cakes were unbelievable. Although utterly bathed with an oozing lemony hollandaise, they retained their exterior crunch while their moist salmon-flecked centers hinted with undertones of Old Bay Seasoning and snapped with bites of  minced fresh green peppers. Heaven. Michael's magic. His realm.They were his best. Period. 

Without shame, I licked my plate

completely clean.

Groundhogs & Melons

I've waited all summer for my beloved sweet juicy Casey County melons to appear at the market. Yeah, cantalope and honeydew melons have popped up at the market during the summer, but the ripest  late season Casey County melons have finally arrived.  They taste richer and  sweeter this time of year, as if bathing in the hot summer humidity while clinging to thier vines intensifies their ripening.

We lugged a gigantic Casey County melon home  from the market this past weekend. It wasn't the biggest one in the pile, but with a firm slight give to the rind, it felt the way a melon should feel. Knowing I would have melon envy, I convinced myself that the largest one was overly ripe and would've exploded with the slightest touch. We certainly didn't need that on a beautiful Saturday morning. Envy avoided.

A few minutes after unloading our market stash on the kitchen table, both Michael and I  noticed that our entire house smelled like fresh melon. Crazy.  Without even slicng the melon, it perfumed our entire  house with the scent of summer.  Michael walked into the kitchen and exclaimed, with child-like glee, "It smells like Granny's kitchen." I've nevered smelled ripe summer melons in his Granny Hallie's kitchen, but I've been in her kitchen plenty of times over the years (for every season) and could understand his joy.

The aroma swept me back to my father's summer garden.  For years, he and Marge had a gloriously huge garden.  Their house was nestled on a slight slope under a canopy of oak trees, overlooking fields that eventually spilled into a tree guarded lake.  Their 1/2 acre garden  was meticulously plotted behind the house where the gentle slope flattened out into the remaining fields. I loved that house.  Our house. During the warm summer months we'd sit on the second story open-aired deck, while gazing down onto the garden,  and eat our evening meals. My father always had a shotgun within arms reach. On most nights, a groundhog would eventually  rear his head through the cucumber rows, tomato plants, or cabbage leaves. Without a break  in the conversation, Dad would reach for his shotgun and blow its head off.

It was normal.

Aside from garden tomatoes, my father adored his fresh melons.  He always ate them at room temperature with a sprinking of salt and a dash of ground pepper. As a kid, I thought that was weird.  To this day, I eat garden melons the way he did.  Sweet salty juices with a slight peppery bite.

I'm contantly fascinated with the power of food. Familiar flavors and aromas are electric, having the power to transport us anywhere at any time.

One huge fresh market melon swept Michael back to his grandmother's cozy kitchen.

I drifted away into memories my father's garden.

With headless groundhogs 

Peel Me A Grape

My morning visits to the Tuesday/Thursday farmers' market are usually quick fire grab-and-go shopping sprees on my way to work. Sometimes, I don't even remember what I picked up until I'm home from work. This past week, I had the luxury of time. It wasn't a sprint as I strolled leisurely through the dusty gravel visiting every vendor, stand by stand. I sensed the growing season was starting the slow process of winding down. The crazy weather had taken a toll on the growers.  Their faces and voices exuded it.

My favorite Casey County vendor had baskets of teeny baby yellow squash.  When I remarked how unusual they were this time of year, he simply responded, "That patch is nothin' but dust." He wasn't selling cute cheffy baby squash. He brought what he had to the market to sell.  Purposeful neccessity.  I bought them all. The whole lot. Sweet tiny bites.

We've been away for a while on a seaside vacation. Our pantry was bare, so I needed stuff.  I think I bought something from every vendor. Too much, in fact.  Heavy bags bounced off  my knees as I meandered through the market. 

On my way out, something caught my eye as I passed by Elmwood Farm's well stocked stand. Tiny clusters of seedless Reliance grapes spilled over the gigantic basket that held them. I was mezmerized. They looked like delicate champaigne grapes. Grapes of any kind usually don't pop up at the market. They completely took me by surprize. I dropped my bags around my feet, pinning me in place, and tasted one. It snapped like a grape, but tasted like a sweet small plum. That lone exploding little bite was exactly what I was hoping to find at the market that day. I happily handed over my last two dollars, dropped a small cluster of them into one of my bags, stumbled to my car, and made my way home.

While on vacation, we devoured incredibly fresh seafood at whim. It was there for the taking and we took brilliant advantage of  it. After eight straight days of seafood gluttony, we were in desperate need of a meat intervention.  Specifically, pork. Yeah, baby.  Pork with roasted plum-like grapes. I could taste it just thinking about it.

I pulled a couple of plump boneless pork chops from the freezer to thaw while I sliced a few juicy heirloom  tomatoes, dried apricots, and onions. When the chops were completely thawed, I wrapped  them with thick cut applewood smoked bacon, secured the bacon with skewers, seasoned them with salt and pepper, and set them aside.

Using a small baking dish, I layered alternating slices of fresh black and yellow brandywine tomatoes, topping each layer with fresh thyme, salt, pepper, and pungent crumbled stilton cheese.  The cheese filled tomato stacks would have been fabulous simply dressed with a vinaigrette, but I couldn't leave it at that. Nope.  I roasted them until the cheese melted into a wonderfully smelly pungent cheese puddle while the tomatoes remained somewhat firm. I let them bathe in the fondue while I cranked a skillet on high heat to saute the pork medallions.

When the skillet was blazing hot, I added a splash of olive oil and sauteed the pork until it was deeply caramelized, about 4 minutes per side. After pulling the pork out of the skillet to a side dish, I added sliced onions to the pan juices and allowed them to sweat until translucent before deglazing the pan with 1/2 cup chicken stock combined with 1/2 cup madeira wine. After tossing a handful of loose Reliance grapes  into the sauce, I slid the bacon-wrapped pork medallions back into the skillet, topped them with the remaining grape clusters along with fresh rosemary sprigs, clamped on a lid, and carefully placed the simmering mix into a 350 degree oven to braise for 25 minutes.

After two or four glasses of wine with Michael, I pulled the pork from the oven to rest and plumped pearl couscous with slivered dried apricots  in simmering  chicken stock for about 15 minutes.

It was time for pig.

After plating the saucy pork medallions, I spooned the apricot-flecked couscous to the side, nestling  the oozing tomato stacks between the two. I dropped a few fresh grapes onto our plates and finished with snipped chives, parsley, and thyme leaves.

It was a ridiculous flavor party. There was so much going on. The sweet tiny grapes collapsed from the heat and melted into the madeira wine sauce, infusing it with additional soft sweetness. The velvety sauce napped the tender pork, enhancing its clean taste with a savory and sweet balance. Crazy. While the braised grape-clinging pork evoked an incredibly rich sleepy trance, the oozing pungent roasted stilton-tomatoes provoked mouthwatering culinary chaos. Bold.  Fabulous.

Beulah, peel me a grape.

                 -I'm No Angel

Take The Eyes Out

After driving through Tennesse and Alabama for what seemed like an eternity, we finally arrived at our small beachside town for vacation.  Although our car was stocked to the gills with things we knew we'd need, we still had provisions to procure before settling into our quaint effciency overlooking the Gulf of Mexico.

Local farmstand for produce, check.

Liquor store, double check.

Seafood market, check, check, check.
We found the most reputable fresh seafood market in town.  Reputable, because they offered boat to market fresh seafood/shellfish both retail and wholesale, meaning their product went very fast and stayed incredibly fresh.

It was insane.  The shop operated at a frantic, cash only, pace.  Money was flying over the counter like mad. Pick. Point. Bag. Pay. Leave. When they sold out of everything, they closed. It was that simple.

While  Michael and I mulled over fresh whole flounder, pompano, and triggerfish filets, a small docile asian gentleman made his way to the counter and ordered 4 pounds of colossal head-on shrimp. Wow.
As the sweet-cheeked counter clerk finished bagging his enormous shrimp, he shouted, "Take the eyes out!"

The bustling fish market became very quiet and still.

The baffled clerk looked up and said, "What?"

"Take the eyes out", he implored.

Silence.

Beat. Beat. Beat.

Why on earth would you purchase gorgeous behemoth shrimp with pointed spiny heads and beady eyes if you wanted the eyes taken out?  Really?  Why? Eyeball by eyeball?  It could take hours.  We didn't have hours.

I was impressed with the clerks I've-seen-it-all-composure.  "Sir, you'll have to take care of that yourself.", she matter-of-factly replied.  Fair enough, I thought.

As she plopped the bulbous bag of shrimp onto the scale, he pleaded, "No, no, no.  Take the eyyyeees out!"  You could have heard a fish scale hit the floor.  The burly market boss slowly slithered to the counter and barked, "Sir, we do not remove their eyes here."

With utter desperation, the gentle asian gentleman pleaded, "Take the eyes out before you weigh!"

Oh.
A quiet wave of understanding undulated throughout the market.

Take the ICE out. The ice. Ohhhh, the ice.
Nervous giggles.

The clerk pulled two chunks of ice from the bag, tossed them back onto the massive pile of shrimp, and weighed his ice-less bounty.  He handed over what appeared to be a few thousand dollars, snatched his catch, and scurried out the door.

"Next!", the surly market boss shouted.  Feeling a bit intimidated, I mumbled, "I'd like 2 pounds of triggerfish, a pound of head-off, tail-on 16-20 count shrimp, and 1/2 pound head-on jumbo shrimp."

Adding, "With eyes......and ice."

His stern face melted into a soft smile. "Yes, sir."

At that moment, our vacation began.