Sunday Supper And Other Things

I'm not a DIY kind of a guy. Really, I'm not. At all.  Lately, I've found myself knee deep in projects that stupify me.  Not only are they tedious and frustrating, they keep me out of the kitchen.  Pouring concrete, re-building window frames, grouting, sanding, and painting have left little time for me to fuss around in the kitchen.

This past Sunday was filled with projects. Because they were my primary focus for the entire day, I needed our Sunday supper to practically cook itself, unattended. The ticket? A long slow languid braise.

German and Slavic flavor profiles inspire me. They're part of me. I was born in Germany, lived in Austria, and was cared for by an escaped Eastern Bloc Czechloslovakian  hotel chef.  My younger years were influenced  by the similar culinary traditions of those three countries. Frau Olga, my nanny, was a wonderful cook. She cooked effortlessly and  constantly, preparing meals inspired by her native Czechloslovakian cuisine intertwined with Austrian and German undertones. Her loving devotion to braising, simmering, and baking filled our house with warm comfortable aromas that gently wafted up and through the elaborate black wrought iron spiral staircase that anchored our 5 story Vienna apartment. I was a lucky kid.

 I craved that aroma and comfort last Sunday, so I drew from the spirit of my dear Frau Olga and adapted an unconventional version of her incredible braised Czech pepper steak.

I had projects to tackle, so I worked quickly. I sliced a well marbled (fatty) chuck shoulder into huge pieces, seasoned them liberally,  browned them in hot oil until they were crisp, and set them aside. After tossing handfuls of thinly sliced purple bell peppers and candy onions into the hot oil to sweat, I added minced garlic, tomato paste, pureed heirloom black brandywine tomatoes, and sweet Hungarian paprika.

After the tomato paste browned (adding an earthy deep flavor) I deglaced the pot with white wine and let it reduce until  the paprika-flecked evaporated wine formed small bubbles around the fond.  Just before the wine cooked completely away, I added 4 cups of beef stock, brought it to a boil and reduced it to simmer before returning the browned beef to the smouldering stock. When the liquid came back to a gentle simmer, I covered the dutch oven, slid it into a 325 degree oven, and let it braise for a ridiculous 3 1/2 hours.

3 1/2 hours gave me plenty of time to pour concrete.

And drink wine.

I did both.

After mixing, stirring, destroying, and trashing three different batches of concrete, I threw in the trowel and happily ventured back into the kitchen. Familiar territory.

As a nod to my German heritage, I made a big batch of Kartoffelkloesse (German potato dumplings) to accompany our Czech pepper steak.  Because I throw nothing away, I had a stash of  riced potatoes tucked away in the freezer. After allowing them to thaw, I measured out 2 cups of the potatoes before kneading them with 1/2 cup flour, 1/8 cup cornstarch (potato starch would have been ideal), 1 egg, and a pinch of nutmeg, adding additional flour or water to achieve a doughlike consistency. When the potato dough felt right, I dusted my hands with flour and rolled it into 2 inch round dumplings, eschewing the tradtional inserted crouton.  I set them aside, went back outside,  and ripped out a decaying 130 year old Victorian exterior window sill. Fun. 

With all my projects safely tucked away for the evening ( plastic-wrapped and duct-taped), I joined Michael in  the parlor for a proper glass of wine.  The house smelled heavenly.

When it was time for our Sunday supper, I pulled the  pepper steak from the oven to rest and  boiled  the potato dumplings in heavily salted water until they floated to the top and were tender, about 20 minutes.

After spooning  the Czech pepper steak pieces onto our plates, I topped them with thinly sliced onions and peppers to echo and reinforce the flavors of the long braised vegetables. I nestled the bulbous dumplings to the side, finishing them with fresh snipped chives.

The steak/stew, bathed in a rich smoky sauce, was meltingly tender and moist. The onion and pepper garnishes snapped when bitten, awakening the sleepy meat with needed crunch and wetness. With earthy riotous goodness swirling around our plates (and running down our chins), the pillowy dumplings provided  calm.  They were delicate and soft, perfect soppers for the fabulous messy sauce.

Although Frau Olga was a much better cook than I'll ever become, I could almost hear her broken English whisper, "You're a God boy, Tommy."

It was a good day.

Pop

I spent most of my time tripping over ornamental gourds at the farmers' market a few days ago. They were everywhere, gingerly stacked in piles throughout the market with occasional drifters falling from the stacks and rolling onto the graval pathways. Futball, anyone?  Generally,  Michael and I are not ones to display  atumnal cornucopias, so I wasn't really there  for decorative items.

I bagged the usual suspects;  a few ears of fresh corn, Stayman apples, black brandywine tomatoes (the last two) and  candy onions. While passing the Elmwood Stock Farm stand,  I was drawn in by the glorious colors of the final neon swiss chard of the season. I was surprised to see it and had to have it. While paying for the chard,  I took a second glance at what appeared to be yet another basket of decorative dried corn cobs. Nope. The basket, half emptied, displayed organic corn on the cob popping corn.  Really? 

Intrigued.

After asking a ton of questions about the popping reliablity of the corn, I was finally  told by the vendor that they  usually quickly sell out of it because kids love it. "*Yummy flavor. *Shell off cob and cook in pan on stove."  Where's the fun in that?

I had a different plan.

 A couple of nights ago, after having a few glasses of wine with Michael before dinner, I put my plan into action.

After removing the dramatic flared corn husks, I rubbed the cobs with olive oil and dropped them into a trimmed brown paper grocery bag. I rolled up the bag, leaving enough room for the popcorn bounty, and nestled it into our microwave.  After setting the timer for two minutes, I pushed start and waited for the fun to begin.

Nothing happened. Great.  Sucker. I fell for the pitch...or,  I didn't "shell of cob..."

I stuck the bag back into the microwave, set the timer for an additional two minutes, and started slicing leeks.

Pop.

Before I knew it, the brown paper bag was hopping around the microwave from eratic popping exposions. Well, hello Mr. Redenbacher. It was hysterical. 

I called Michael into the kitchen, pulled the bag from the microwave, ripped the bag open, and doused the popped kernels with salt. Like giddy children, we stuffed handfuls into our mouths.

It. Was. Fabulous.

We could have snacked on all of it, but I reserved some as a garnish for our cheddar ale soup made with Boone Creek Creamery aged Darby Cheddar Cheese and Leinenkugel's Fire Side Nut Brown Ale.

The soup was great, but the popped corn stole our hearts.  It didn't taste like puffed air.  It had an earthy  honest essence.

Michael summed it up perfectly when he simply said, " It tastes like corn."

Indeed.

Passion Fruit In The Pumpkin Patch?

I'm crazy about passion fruit. It's a new thing for me. With its brittle reddish-purple wrinkled exterior skin, I've never given it a second glance when rifling through the other more interesting looking exotic fruits while shopping. Prickly pears, horned melons, and cherimoya fruits have wonderfully bumpy and pointy exteriors that always looked like more fun to play with. Although sometimes difficult to work with, they've always been my go-to exotic fruits.....until this past weekend. For the sake of variety, I picked up a huge bag of passion fruit for a tropical fruit platter I planned to serve at an event. 

Not knowing what to expect, I was blown away when I finaly sliced one in half. Gorgeous tiny dark green seeds suspended in a gelatanous pale green yellow mass spilled from the sliced fruit.

After sucking  the seeds and pulp from the shell, I was totally hooked. Sweet, sassy, and tart, it tasted like rich guava.  Guava with attitude. Guava with tart crunchy edible jewels cacooned within the sweet flesh.

Although passion fruit is often eaten fresh, it's usually strained for the juice and used to enhance beverages, syrups, and desserts. For my maiden tasting,  I simply sucked the pulp from the shell and munched on the seeds as juice dribbled down my chin. Fabulous.

I had a few leftover passion fruits rolling around my vegetable bin that I wanted to use for something other than a delicious facial, so I decided to incorporate the pulp and juice into a glaze for sauteed shrimp and vegetables.

After slicing the passion fruit into quarters, I scraped the seeds and pulp into a seive before using a spoon to  extract the juice, allowing the vibrant canary yellow nectar to spill into a small bowl. I ditched the seeds and added fresh squeezed orange juice, lime juice, salt, and cracked pepper. To balance the acidity, I mixed the juices with a teaspoon each of caster sugar, soy sauce, and cornstarch.

After peeling and deveining a pound of 16-20 count jumbo shrimp, I sauteed them briefly in butter and olive oil  before setting them aside. With the skillet still smoking hot, I tossed in sliced purple baby bell peppers, sliced candy onions, diced mangos, halved grape tomatoes, sliced daikon radishes, and minced garlic. Just as the vegetables started to caramelize, I poured the glaze into the skillet, allowing it to spit, bubble, and thicken before adding the shrimp back into the mix to warm through.

With  the sauteed shrimp and vegetables gently napped in the passion fruit glaze, I spooned them into large bowls filled with floral jasmine rice, finishing with a dusitng  of black and white sesame seeds.

Oh, my.  Bowls of tropical paradise. The  plump briny shrimp,  bathed in a tart and slightly sweet glaze, were moist and tender while the vegetables added crisp bites of freshness. Although reminiscent of a sweet & sour stir-fry, it was cleaner and brighter. Think sweet & sour jacked up on steroids.

There was nothing seasonal about it. In fact, I couldn't have veered farther away from autumnal flavors.  

Total diversion.
And totally worth it.

Going With The Flow

I spent most of last week placing orders, shopping, prepping, and cooking for a Broadway Live series event associated with the Lexington Opera House. Although I had an absolute blast doing it, the process must have left me mentally distracted and fatigued because  kitchen disasters at home haunted me throughout the week.

Earlier in the week, in an attempt to put something fun on the table for us to enjoy, I made a huge blunder. After preparing and plating a long braised succulent stew, I selfishly tried to capture every drop of stew from the dutch oven by pouring it directly  from the pot into our large stew-filled  bowls. In the blink of an eye, my 400 pound enameled cast iron dutch oven slipped from my grasp and crashed  onto our serving bowls, rocketing molten glass-flecked stew into the air, onto the floor, and over the countertops. There were specks of stew juice spitting from the twirling ceiling fan. Fun. I was flabbergasted. It was ridiculous.  Michael and I stood in stunned silence staring at the catastrophe before we finally bolted into action. After mopping the floor and wiping the countertops, we noticed that Michael's portion had escaped the carnage. We checked it for glass chards (none), divided it into smaller bowls, and  enjoyed  our tiny amuse bouches.

The following night,  I somehow managed to overcook barbecued chicken by completely forgetting about it while I happily prepared roasted ears of butter-laden silver queen corn on the cob. Dry barbecued chicken? Really?  Yep. Go figure.  Distracted.

After that, I gave it a rest for a couple of days.

With massive mise en place, I finally got the event under control and decided to venture back into our tiny kitchen. I played it safe.  Very safe.

Because the previous nights mishaps steered me away from our kitchen, I had gorgeous thick-cut well marbled ribeye steaks accidentally dry-aging in the refrigerator  from purposeful neglect. I also had potatoes.  Specifically, I had wooden bowls filled with  long awaited late season farmers' market Casey County fingerling white and red sweet potatoes.  Steak and potatoes. Safe.

 Because the potatoes were young and tender, they didn't need  peeling. The skins were delicate and thin, making the preperation a snap. I simply sliced them in  half and tumbled them into a baking dish.  After tossing them with olive oil, I seasoned the potatoes liberally with salt and pepper, loosely tented them with foil, added 1/4 cup chicken stock, and slid them into a pre-heated 350 degree oven to roast/braise for an hour.

After a few glasses of wine, I pulled the steaks from the refrigerator and seasoned them liberally with salt and pepper. With a grill pan cranked on high,  I chargrilled the ribeyes until they felt medium rare to the touch, about 4 minutes per side.

When the steaks were perfectly chargrilled,  I tented them and set them aside to rest. While the steaks snuggled under foil, I blistered peppery Elmwood Stock Farm celery stalks in a screaming hot cast iron skillet until they wilted, charred, and caramelized  before dousing them with fresh lemon juice, salt, and pepper.

Back. In. Business.

I plated our crusty ribeye steaks and  topped  them with the tender caramelized pan-seared celery stalks. After nestling the braised/roasted sweet potatoes alongside the juicy steaks, I gilded the lily just a bit by drizzling  them with a combination of warmed pure maple syrup, melted butter, and crunchy sea salt.

The steaks were wonderfully tender and perfectly cooked. When sliced, buttery pink flesh  melted under the crusty charred exteriors, providing contrasting textural mouthfeels and flavors. We moaned while we ate. Gutteral joy.  The fingerling sweet potatoes were velvety sofy with each smooth bite balanced by snapping  skins. Napped in a buttery salty maple syrup, they hinted toward autumn without screaming bring on the holidays.  Delicate and sweet, they were reminiscent of darling early baby spring vegetables.

I was in heaven when the savory steak juices puddled with the sweet maple syrup, creating a new sauce to swipe the meat through. Perfect.

Without distraction, it was fun to cook again.

 And nothing broke.

Sunday Supper: Market Madness

 Last Sunday was one of those lazy kind of days that begged for a leisurely day in the kitchen.  It was overcast and cool with light rain falling through the leaves misting over our arched kitchen windows.

I found my self staring down at a ridiculous melange of ingredients that I had accumulated during the previous week. Flailing green leek tips protuded from the refrigerator vegetable drawer, tickling our legs whenever the  door opened. Their buried root ends  mingled with parsnips, turnips, celery, cabbage, daikon radishes, lemons,  purple carrots, cucumbers, snow peas, red bell peppers, and (for some reason) a large  fresh pineapple. As a produce collection, it made no sense. It reminded me of childhood dentist visits and those back cover challenges of Highlights Magazine..."What's wrong with this picture?"  

With plenty of time on a wistful Sunday afternoon, I came up with a plan to solve the challenge.

The Market.

Individual tomato, leek, and potato gratins.

I grabbed a few Carmello tomatoes from the windowsill, a medium sized leek from the veggie bin, and  a handful of dirt-covered baby red potatoes from the pantry. After tumbling my market produce onto our small kitchen island, I sharpened my knives, pulled up a stool, and leisurely went to work. I snipped the root end from the  leek and sliced the tender sections into thin rings before rinsing them thoroughly.   

After slicing the new potatoes into paper thin discs, I cut the carmello tomatoes into small crescent-shaped wedges. Thankfully, Michael and I recently purchased normal-sized grown-up ramekins. I grabbed a couple of ramekins, buttered them liberally, and dusted the buttered sides with parmigiano reggiano cheese.

Starting with the potatoes, I filled the ramekins with alternating layers of potatoes, tomatoes, parmigiano, leeks, salt, and pepper. After the final layer I drizzled 1/4 cup of heavy cream into each ramekin, covered them foil, and tucked them into the refrigerator to rest until I needed them.

The Madness.

Grilled smoked boneless pork chops glazed with Jezebel Sauce, topped with fried shoestring sweet potatoes and fried thyme.

Jezebel sauce (an old school southern condiment made with pineapple perserves, apple jelly, ground mustard, black pepper, and horseradish) is usually relegated to cocktail party status as a topping for cream cheese served with crackers.  Occasionally, it adorns  baked ham, grilled ribs, or chicken. Back in the day, I used it a lot as a party snack. With its biting horseradish heat tempered  by the sweetness of the perserves and jelly, it's a quick, easy, and tasty party favorite.

I decided to revisit the old stand-by as a glaze for grilled boneless smoked pork chops. I could have used supermarket perserves and jelly, but I had a huge fresh pineapple hogging precious space in the veggie bin. Why not make quick fresh pineapple perserves as a base for the sauce? It made perfect sense to me.  I sliced half of the pineapple into rings and removed the core.  Using a fork, I shredded the pineapple flesh into small pieces and tossed the shreds into a mixing bowl with twice the amount of castor sugar, letting them macerate for 30 minutes to release the fresh juices.

I got a cast iron skillet smoking hot, poured the shredded pineapple along with the accumualted juices into the skillet, reduced the heat, and let it foam and bubble for 25 minutes until it started to thicken and turn clear. For additional depth of flavor, I swirled a heaping spoonful of Quarles Farm pear perserves into the caramelized pineapple mixture before  removing it from the heat to cool.  When  cooled completely, I folded in ground mustard, cracked black pepper, pure horseradish, and diced red bell pepper for color and crunch.

Mandolin fun. I set the Jezebel sauce aside and  pulled my mandolin from the gadget garage. Using the smallest julienne attachment on the thinnest blade setting, I carefully sliced the sweet potato into gorgeous shoestrings.

Mise en place. Check.

I slid the julienned sweet potatoes into the refrigerator,  poured myself a big glass of wine, curled up in front of the flat screen television, and caught up on a few NFL football games. Heaven.

Eventually, I made my way back into the kitchen. After preheating the oven to 350 degrees, I popped the tomato, leek, and potato gratins into the oven to bake for 45 minutes.

While the gratins bubbled away, I cranked the deep fryer to 325 degrees and  fried the sweet potatoes in small batches until golden and crisp, carefully  layering each batch into small nests on paper towels to drain. With the fryer turned off, I used the residual heat from the oil to deep fry a few fresh thyme sprigs.

I pulled the gratins from the oven to rest and got a grill pan smoking hot before branding the pork chops with gorgeous caramelized hatch-marks. I plated the chops and painted them with the pepper-studded Jezebel sauce. As the glaze melted and oozed over the hot chops, I topped them with the golden fried potato straws and the insanely fragile fried thyme sprigs.

After nestling the unmolded gratins onto our plates, I tossed around a few steamed julienned snow peas as a nod to freshness.

The gratins collapsed into  wonderfully gooey cheesy puddles with  roasted tomatoes melting into the leeks and bathing the tender potatoes with intense sweet acidity. The soothing soft gratins were perfect foils to the riotous flavors exploding from the pineapple and  horseradish glazed pork chops smothered under crackling shoestring sweet potato fries. There was a lot going on. The soft, crunchy, sweet, and savory combinations played off of each other beautifully. We literally licked our plates devouring it,  leaving us both with sticky faces and Jezebel lips.

Madness.

 

Mock Foccacia

During the Gallery Hop this past weekend, Michael and I attended the Ace Best of Lexington Celebration  at John Lackey's Homegrown Press Studio + Gallery.  I wanted to take a little nibble to accompany  fried banana peppers (from Columbia Steakhouse) that Flo graciously prepared for the event.

After mulling several options, I decided to make foccacia bread topped with something.  The day before the event, I stopped by the farmers' market after work for inspiration. The usual suspects were all there. Peppers. Onions. Garlic. I was heading down that familiar route until I stumbled upon baskets of deep purple Casey County grapes. They were gorgeous. Although I've seen it done before, grape-topped foccacia wasn't on my radar until I saw those beautiful grapes.  Inspired, I bagged some grapes along with a couple of sweet organic onions and a large bulbous head of garlic.

Untimely mise en place. Timing  is usually my forte. I can rock out a meal for 350 people all the way  down to the last sprinkle of parsley or flourish of snipped chives.  The day of the Ace Best of Lexington Celebration event, I worked all day and simply ran out of time.

Pizza Dough.  Foccacia Dough.  They're basically the same, but treated differently. Ultimately, I prefer Anne Burrell's recipe for foccacia bread.  She manhandles the dough, roughs it up, and tears it apart throughout the process. Unfortunately, it  takes hours to make. Proof the yeast. Make the dough.  Knead the dough. Let it rise for an hour. Shape the dough. Let  rise for another hour. Nope.

I cheated. Shoot me.
I stopped by a local pizzeria and purchased a pound of lovely pizza dough. It was perfect.

When I got home from work, I oiled a sheet pan before rolling out the dough and pushing it into the corners of the pan. I let the dough relax before roughly dimpling it with my fingertips to create crevices and wells. I adapted and combined several methods for the grape topping. After preheating the oven to 400 degrees, I generously bathed the dough with olive oil, allowing it to fill the dimples with glistening puddles.

I showered the dough with sea salt, minced garlic, and minced red onion. As the dough began rising, I scattered caramelized onions over the top before studding it with halved purple grapes. After feathering fresh rosemary leaves over the foccacia dough, I popped it into the oven to bake for 25 minutes, rotating the pan every 5 minutes. 

I pulled the grape-studded focacia bread from the oven, let it cool, and sprinkled it with additional fresh rosemary.

The grapes exploded into the dough, bleeding their purple juices.  The sweetness of the grapes balanced the savory sea salt, garlic, piney rosemary, and candied caramelized onions. Although tasty, I probably needed another pound of dough to create a typical soft and luxurious foccacia bread.

I think I ultimately ended up with an  intriguing savory and sweet rosemary-flecked grape pizza.

Go figure.

Embrace The Season

I finally did it.  I crossed over to the dark side.

I was at the market on a cool gray morning with low hanging clouds spitting a damp mist. Nobody was there. Nobody. I stopped by Bray's Farm stand to chat with a friend. With very few vendors there, they were there because they had peaches to sell. It was far from ideal market weather. I picked up a few ripe yellow peaches along with gorgeous highly acidic Carmello tomatoes.

Thankfully, it's been a long tomato season. They're still plentiful at the market.

After passing by familiar vendors on the way to my car, it happened. While marveling over wonderfully aromatic individually-bundled baby celery stalks from Elmwood Farm, I reached across the table and grabbed an acorn squash from a heaping basket of squash. At that very moment, I crossed the line.  I officially surrendered my lusty desires for vibrant fresh summer produce, replacing them with  more languid yearnings for mellow soft-hued autumn produce. Until then, I'd resisited the temptation by clinging to the final bright vestiges of summer. I finally acquiesced.

Inspired by that humble acorn squash, I decided to pull a full monty, throw convention to the wind, and roast a turkey for our Sunday supper.

Well........kind of.

A dear friend recently gave us a pound of gorgeous bacon from her family's farm. I used and abused it for our roasted turkey. 

After unfurling the bacon from its Not For Sale packaging, I overlapped several strips of the bacon on parchment paper before plopping a three pound boneless turkey breast on top of the bacon shingles, seasoning it with fresh rosemary, salt, and pepper.  I carefully pulled the bacon slices around the turkey breast, secured it with kitchen twine, and placed the larded breast into a roasting pan along with wedged candy onions and whole baby celery stalks.

I sprinkled additional fresh rosemary, salt, and pepper over the bacon harness, poured a cup of chicken stock into the roasting pan,  and slid the bacon-bundled turkey into a 350 degree oven to roast for 1 1/2 to 2 hours, or until the internal temperature was 165 degrees.

Whacked.

While the turkey made merry in the oven, I sliced the acorn squash into quarters and removed the seeds.

After seasoning it with salt, pepper, and olive oil, I slid the squash into the oven to par-roast, uncovered,  for 20 minutes before pulling it out and dousing it with butter, brown sugar, orange zest, freshly squeezed orange juice, and fresh thyme sprigs.

I covered the squash with aluminum foil and placed it back into the oven to roast/braise for an additional 45 minutes.  When the sqaush was thoroughly cooked, I pulled it from the oven and let it warm on the stovetop while the turkey finished roasting. The aromas wafting from our kitchen were ridiculous.  Turkey.  Bacon. Rosemary. Brown sugar. Squash. Heaven.

I melted into my tufted chenille parlor chair and joined Michael for a few glasses of wine  while we anticipated our Sunday supper.  Happy campers.

Eventually, I pulled the turkey from the oven and checked the temperature.  It was perfect.  The bacon had crisped and carmelized into a salty sweet aromatic bacon shell. I tented the turkey and let it rest for ten minutes while I tossed a simple blanched green bean, Carmello tomato, and chevre salad with a very light lemon vinaigrette.

Before slicing the turkey, I removed it to a cutting board, placed the roasting pan over medium heat, added a pinch of flour, and whisked together a quick pan sauce from the roasted turkey and bacon drippings. 

Using the bacon slices as a guide, I sliced the turkey into medallions, drizzled them with pan gravy, and feathered fresh rosemary leaves over the top. I dropped the candied squash around the turkey and spooned the salad into small bowls, nestling them onto our plates.

The turkey was incredibly moist and tender with succulent juices trapped and sealed within the crispy bacon skin. 

While the bacon provided salty crunch, the oozing buttery sweet roasted acorn squash balanced it with soft earthy undertones. Thankfully, the lemon dressed chevre-flecked,  green bean, and Carmello tomato salad provided welcomed acidity, slicing through the richness with wild abandon.

Fabulous.

It's a new season at the market.
One I'll embrace with open arms.