Tricky Times

The days leading up to Thanksgiving can be tricky times in our kitchen. Generally, Michael and I don't want to eat or taste anything remotely  familiar to the food  we look forward to eating on Thanksgiving day. Anticipation. 

I've spent the past few days dancing around Thanksgiving flavors. 

A few nights ago, we devoured a slow simmered sultry vegetable Moroccan tagine filled with silken turned carrots, wedged parsnips, sliced onions, halved black grape tomatoes,  golden raisens, and dried apricots bathed in a sensual broth spiced with  ground turmuric, smoky cumin, fragrant saffron, ginger, smoked paprika, citrusy sumac, salt, and cracked pepper.  

Exotic warmth.

The following night,  I threw together a very traditional sauteed veal scallopini piccata napped in browned butter and spiked with bright briney capers served  over untraditional steamed ribbons of yellow squash and zucchini.  The kicker?  Oven-roasted  Elmwood Stock baby purple potatoes jacked up with fresh rosemary, garlic, and lemons. Yeah, the potatoes came dangerously close to eating a standard Thanksgiving staple, but their mere pungent piney purple-ness averted the comparison. Safe.

No brainer. I sliced the potatoes into quarters, revealing their gorgeous flesh. After preheating the oven to 400 degrees, I tossed the lavender-swirled spuds with olive oil, sliced unpeeled candy onions, sliced lemon wheels,  minced garlic, minced rosemary,  fresh lemon juice, salt, and pepper. I gave everything a good mix and slid it into the oven to roast for 45 minutes.

When the potatoes were tender and browned, I finished them with fresh rosemary and  tumbled them onto our plates alongside the sleepy veal piccata  

The crisp purple potatoes were a great foil to the piccata, balancing the nutty brown butter sauce with flecks of pine-scented rosemary, mellowed acidic lemon, and roasted garlic. The onions completely melted into the potatoes, providing a slightly charred calming sweetness. Simple. Fabulous.

They were not my grandmother's Thanksgiving potatoes.

Mission accomplished.

Now, it's time to think about turkey.

Bring it.

Two Bits

I ran into a friend  at the farmers' market this past weekend.  She was knee deep in Casey County sweet potatoes, rifling through baskets  for a vegetarian stew she planned to make. Thinking she might be interested in other varieties of sweet potatoes for her stew, I brought  her attention to a basket filled with small white sweet potatoes. Bad move. Information overload.  In an attempt to quell her obvious perplexed response,  I made a complete fool of myself praising the virtues of their uncanny delicate pale white sweetness.  She didn't go for it.  At. All.

Oh well.

As I walked away, a basket of baby purple eggplants caught my eye. They were gorgeous and only 25 cents each. Two bits for an eggplant? Brilliant.  How could I resist? Sold. I picked out a couple of plump purple babies and handed the vendor 50 cents. "Take the entire basket.", he said quietly. "It's the last of my crop. Take 'em all if you want 'em."  Really?  I guess he was tired of hauling them back and forth to the market.  Win. I happliy tumbled them into my bag, thanked him profusely, and stumbled away wondering what on earth  I would possibly do with  1/2 bushel of baby eggplants.

We were rolling in eggplants.

Caponata? Ratatouille ? Baba Ghanoush? Baked, stuffed, or grilled eggplant? While Michael and I enjoy any and all eggplant preparations, we're both suckers for fried eggplant. Specifically, fried eggplant parmesan. So, here's the deal.  I've had some  hits and misses with eggplant parmesan. To avoid any chance of yet another another miss, I decided to look at eggplant parmesan differently and deconstruct it.

I had a blast breaking rules.

I started with the sauce.  For unknown reasons, I had lean ground pork tucked away in the meat drawer of the refrigerator. Using a wooden spoon to break it up, I sauteed the ground pork in olive oil until it was cooked through before adding diced onions and minced garlic. When the onions were translucent, I seasoned the bubbling mix with crushed fennel seeds, salt, cracked black pepper, minced fresh rosemary, and chopped parsley.

I wanted to keep the sauce light, so I pulled several overripe heirloom black brandywine tomatoes from the windowsill, sliced them into wedges, and tossed them with the simmering pork. The tomatoes  immediately collapsed into the meat and released their sweet juices, creating a light pork ragu. I reduced the heat to a low simmer, covered the pan, and let it cook away.

 Funny, I could only salvage six of the baby purple eggplants from my 1/2 bushel. Tired aubergines.  It didn't matter. I wasn't feeding an army.

After slicing the ends from the eggplants, I used a vegetable peeler to remove alternating sections of the bitter skins. I sliced them into 1/4 inch rounds, dipped them in egg wash, and dropped them into well seasoned  parsley-flecked parmigiano-reggiano dusted  breadcrumbs.

I wanted cracklingly crisp eggplant pieces,  so I cranked the deep fryer to 375 degrees and waited for the green light to pop on. Working in batches, I carefully slid the breaded eggplant patties into the hot oil and fried them until they were golden brown. As I pulled each batch from the fryer, I seasoned them  with kosher salt and set them aside on paper towels to drain.

Mise en place.

Break.

I poured myself a huge glass of chardonnay and joined Michael in the parlor.

When it was time to eat, I stacked the fried eggplant rounds with alternating  layers of fresh mozzarella cheese and slid them into a 350 degree oven. While the eggplant crisped and the cheese melted, I whipped together a batch of quick cooking polenta.

The polenta was a no brainer. Following the instructions, I cooked the polenta until it erupted into plopping volcanic spurts. I calmed the molten mess by adding 1/2 stick of unsalted butter, a cup of creamy mascarpone cheese, a handful of grated parmigiano-reggiano, and fresh chopped parsley.

I spooned the creamy  polenta onto our plates and nestled the oozing eggplant parmesan stacks into the polenta pillows. I've killed many eggplant parmesans with too much sauce. Trust me. To avoid soggy eggplant,  I ladled the pork ragu  to the side of polenta which allowed the sweet tomato jus to spill around our plates, leaving the crisp eggplant stacks unscathed.  

To tart things up a bit, I topped the fried eggplant parmesan with a feathery baby mizuna salad tossed  in a light lemon vinaigrette. Unconvential. Sassy. Fabulous.

 With hints of anise from the fennel, the tomato-infused pork ragu was surprisingly light, like eating a delicious bite of porky air perfumed with  braised sweet heirloom  tomato essence. Ridiculous. Crazy.

Dripping and oozing with melted mozzarella cheese, the fried eggplant parmesan stacks remained perfectly crisp, breaking the soft richness of the polenta with needed crunch. Reminiscent of veal or chicken Milanese, the lemony mizuna salad provided bright acidity and subtle bitterness. Win.

Two bits for an eggplant?
Priceless.

To The Side

Some of the vendors at our farmers' market have started packing up for the season. The recent frosts and freezes have zapped most of their tender produce. 

On our last visit to the market,  most farmers were hawking the last of their seasonal wares. While pickings were slim at most tables, we were blown away with the variety of interesting things still offered by Elmwood Stock Farm. As I filled my bag with baskets of purple potatoes and handfuls of tender kale, Michael asked about their huge watermelon radishes.  He wanted to know if the green tops were edible.  I loved that. Of course, we snagged a bundle of the bulbous radishes.

A few nights ago, Michael and I craved comfort food. Old school comfort food like meat and potatoes with a little something to the side.

Cooked radishes taste a lot like cooked turnips, so I decided to pull a riff on basic kale and turnips by braising  the kale with sliced watermelon radishes and their greens, creating a  mixed  mess o' greens.

I wasn't shooting for pretty greens.  I wanted down and  dirty soulful long cooked greens. The kind that show up at church Decoration Day potlucks.

After slicing a few slabs of thick-cut bacon into 1 inch pieces, I dropped them into a very hot dutch oven to crisp before adding sliced onions, mashed garlic, and red pepper flakes.  While the onions cooked down, I  stripped the tender leaves from the kale and sliced them into bite sized pieces, repeating the process with the radish tops. After rinsing the sliced greens, I tossed  them into the hot oniony bacon grease to steam and wilt.

The pale exteriors of watermelon radishes belie their inner beauty. When sliced, they reveal shockingly vibrant fuschia colored flesh. The pinkness took my breath away. Stunning. 

When the simmering mixed greens wilted into the bacon fat, I deglazed the pot with chicken stock and added the sliced watermelon radish wedges. After bringing the liquid to a boil, I reduced it a simmer, covered the pot, and let it bubble away for 1 1/2  hours, adding more stock as needed to insure we'd have plenty of pot likker.

Just before serving, I showered the drab greens with cracked tellicherry peppercorns and freshly squeezed lemon juice. I spooned the greens into individual bowls, tucking the translucent radishes into the soupy nests with a scattering sliced purple onions, chives, and lemon slivers to brighten the sleepy mess o' greens.

Spiked with biting cracked pepper and acidic lemon, the long braised mixed greens were robust and deeply flavored, providing an earthy base  for the mellowed turnip-like tang of the watermelon radishes. Edible jewels. Comfort.

Although the braised greens and radishes were wonderfully warming, they paled in comparison to the luscious pot likker puddled in the bottom of our bowls. Tangy. Salty. Sweet. Tart. Drinkable.

In fact, sometime during the wee hours of the night, I snuck down to the kitchen, tipped the entire pot of greens to my lips, and drank every last drop of likker. Heaven.

So much for leftovers.

Fry Me To The Moon

I'll deep fry just about anything.

Confession: I used to have a mack daddy deep fryer. It was a beauty, complete with a programable thermostat and the ability to auomatically drain cooled cooking oil through a fine meshed filter into a well, assuring me of clean oil for each use. Spiffy. What it took up in counter space, it made up for with outstanding  productivity and usefullness.   I loved it. I adored it.

CUI (cooking under the influence..of wine) can have its drawbacks and pitfalls in the home kitchen.  Given enough time, the odds of things going wrong are pretty strong. Trust me.  Stuff happens. Several months ago, during a slap-happy CUI evening, I cranked the deepr fryer to a ridiculous high temperature without refilling the cooking well with oil, causing the heating element to burn out. Bad move.  The fryer was dead.  Kaput.  Cooked.  I killed Kenny.

I've been stove-top deep frying since that night. Although I've gotten used to it, watching the mercury rise and fall through the looking glass of a thick teetering candy thermometer (while trying to retain a constant temperature)  hasn't been as fun as setting the temperature gauge and waiting for the green light to pop on.

It was a happy day when Michael surprised me with a smaller more compact  version of our old mack daddy deep fryer. Back in business. A few nights ago,  I decided to christen our new kitchen countertop toy with an all out  fry fest. I fried everything we had on hand. Literally.

There's nothing genius about frying food.  Culinary clouds don't part with thunder claps.  It's simply fun. A lot of fun. Period.

Using Weisenberger Mill seasoned flour, I double battered chicken wings by dredging them in the seasoned flour, egg wash, and additional flour before carefully lowering them into the smoking hot fryer oil. I covered the basket with a filtered lid to calm the usual messy spattering and let the chicken rip until it was crackingly crisp. After pulling the chicken to drain, I slid the pieces into the oven to keep warm while I fried everything else.

I sliced a huge onion into thick rings,  leafy celery into 4 inch batons, and market peppers into thick strips, and lemons into wheels.  While the chicken warmed in the oven, I brought the oil back to temperature and whipped together a very loose tempura-like beer batter with the seasoned flour, fresh herbs, and light beer.

After blanching the celery to soften it, I battered the batons, dropped them into the hot oil  to fry until golden brown, pulled them drain, and repeated the process with lightly battered  onions rings, pepper strips, and lemon wheels.

When the last lemon caramelized from the heat of the oil, I pulled the chicken from the oven and tossed it in a combination of floral wild flower honey, salty dark soy sauce, and fiery Sriracha sauce.

I finished the sticky chicken wings with a sprinkling of white sesame seeds and chives,  tumbling them onto our plates alongside the batter-fried vegetables. After filling small individual ramekins with stilten dressing and citrus-based ponzu sauce for dipping, I nestled little stacks of sliced fresh jicama sticks on the far edges of our plates for the slightest nod to freshness.

Happy dance. 

Although crisp and light, the batter-fried peppers and onions were fairly predictable. The fried celery, on the other hand, was a revelation with tiny bursts  of sweetness squirting through the crunchy coating. I mistakingly relegated the batter-fried lemon wheels to garnish status. They were bittersweet with soft tart undertones. Crazy good with the ponzu sauce. 

 The fried chicken was insane with juicy moist meat oozing through the crispy skin dripping in honey, soy sauce, and Sriracha? Are you kidding me? Crunchy sweet salty fire. Oh, my.  Heaven.  

 Fry me to the moon.

And back...for more.

Unplugged

It started with the ice trays. For two days, Michael and I both thought someone had mysteriously used all the ice and replaced it with fresh water-filled ice trays. Nope.

Hoping it was a minor thing, we called a reliable freezer repair person. He ran diagnostic tests before babbling a littany of  freezer lingo... coils, condensers, defrosters, thermostats, blah, blah, blah. White noise. Wasn't  listening. Blah, blah, blah.  Of course, he had to order the parts, telling  us he would get back in touch with us when they arrived.  He reassured us that it wasn't a hazard and that our kitchen wouldn't flood while we were out of town.

When the parts arrived, he called to tell us to unplug the freezer and refrigerator for two days to let it thaw before he could  work on it. Unplug the freezer and refrigerator? Um... Really?  Now, that thunder clap got my attention. The thought of it sent daggers through my heart and chills up my spine. I'm a food collector.  The freezer's literally my bountiful treasure chest full of my things. My fun stuff.  My scraps of artisinal breads for Thanksgiving stuffing, bones, meats, fish parts, calamari, doughs, and  sauces.  Unplug it  and remove it from life support?  Heavy boots.

Last night was my last chance to use what I could before we removed the plug and tossed everything away. There was so much stuff. How?  What? All in one meal? A last supper using all of my prized hoarded food collection?

I took a deep breath, pulled everything from the freezer,  and methodically set about the sad business of closing down shop.

I started by making a small batch of chicken stock with chicken backs, necks, wings, carrots, celery, onions, bell peppers (because I had them), black peppercorns, parsley, thyme, and purple basil. I let the stock bubble away while I thought about what to do next. Because I had a tons of meat tucked away, pasta bolognese quickly came to mind. I had enough of the ingredients to knock out a decent riff on the classic sauce from Bologna, so I readied the food processor for some heavy duty work.

The meat drawer.

I sliced 1/2 pound  slab of thick-cut applewood smoked bacon into lardons, fried them until crisp, scooped  them out to drain, and removed half of the bacon fat. After chopping the remaining carrots, onions, celery, and peppers into large pieces, I tumbled them into the food processor and pulverized them into mushy pulp. When the bacon fat smoked, I dropped the vegetable pulp into the hot oil along with a few tablespoons of tomato paste and thawed San Marzano tomatoes, letting the concoction pop, spit, and simmer until it was deeply caramelized before turning the heat to a low simmer.

Since bolognese is a meat-based sauce, I needed to add meat.  I had plenty of it, but it had to be broken down to create a velvety bolognese sauce.  After dicing garlic marinated filet mignons, 2 pork tenderloin medallions, 2 Italian sausages (casings removed),  and 4 pounded veal scallopinis, I dropped the meat pieces  into the food processor and pulsed them until they were ground together. Sacrilege. Meat carnage. It had to be done.

Unplugged.

After straining the chicken stock through a cheesecloth-lined chinois, I ladled it into the gurgling sauce, brought it a simmer, and  added the uncooked ground meat mixture. I wanted the raw mixed meats to slowly cook in the sauce, releasing  their individual succulent  juices and flavoring it.  When the meat was fully incorporated, I turned the heat to low, covered the pot, and chugged a few glasses of wine.

The cheese drawer.

I had a lot of cheese. So much so that that my little riff on Pasta alla Bolognese had to be tweeked. Baked spaghetti? Spaghetti casserole?

It turned into my take on Timballo, an Italian molded baked pasta dish that, depending on ingredients, varies from region to region in Italy. 

Disregarding rules, recipes, and Italian regions, I went with what I had on hand.

I boiled a pound of spaghetti in heavily salted water for 7 minutes, purposefully undercooking it. After draining the pasta, I folded it into the Bolognese sauce and added handfuls of grated pecorino romano, grated parmigianno, shredded sharp white cheddar, smoked gouda, grated fontina, fresh mozzarella, and baby arugula leaves.

I preheated the oven to 375 degrees, poured the sauced spaghetti into a buttered parmigianno-dusted springform pan, and slid it into the oven to bake for an hour.

After several glasses of wine, I removed the Timballo from the oven, letting it rest for 20 minutes before slicing it into wedges and plating it.

With nothing else to serve with it, I simply scattered a few quartered market tomatoes around the plate for freshness.

We ate what we could and trashed the remaining Timballo. There was nowhere to store it.

We were unplugged.

 

Clean slate.
Time to reload.

Autumn Market Salad

Michael and I had a fun willy-nilly day at the farmers' market last weekend.  Without an agenda or plan, we roamed the market at whim, chatting with vendors and buying stuff. The results of such a carefree shopping spin? A hodgepodge odd ball assortment of fruits and vegetables that didn't relate to each other. We simply bought what looked interesting, filling our bags with Blue Moon Farm baby arugula, Elmwood Stock  delicata squash, and Raggard Creekside Farm concord grapes. Somewhere along the way, I managed to bag a beautiful sweet dumpling squash that resembled a cross between delicata and acorn squash.

With our market stash occupying every wooden bowl on the kitchen countertop, I stared at it for few days trying to figure out what to do with it. As whole, it didn't make sense, but with an out of town trip on the books, I needed to use it or lose it.

An effortless autumn salad fit the bill perfectly.

I split the sweet dumpling squash in half and scooped out the seeds. Following the outer ribs as a guideline, I sliced the squash into small crescents, tumbled them into a mixing bowl, and tossed them  with salt, pepper, olive oil, and  pure maple  syrup. After cranking the oven  to 400 degrees, I covered the squash with foil and roasted it for 45 minutes, removing the foil for the final 20 minutes.

After I uncovered the squash, I tossed a few slices of speck into the roasting pan to crisp for 10 minutes.

While the sweet dumpling squash slices caramelized in the oven, I whisked together an unconventional vinaigrette, using a 2 to 1 ratio of oil to acid instead  of the traditional 3 to 1 ratio. After squeezing the juice from an orange, I added a tablespoon of apple cider vinegar, a tablespoon of Wallace Station Bourbon Mustard, salt, pepper, snipped chives, and a scant drizzle of maple syrup. After doubling the amount of olive oil to acid, I emulsified the vinaigrette by shaking everything together in a sealed Mason jar.

When the squash crescents were golden and deeply caramelized, I pulled them from the oven to cool. While they bubbled-down  in thier sticky coating, I sliced a few end-of-season tomatoes along with a small candy onion.

That was it.

When it was time to eat, I gently tossed the tender squash, baby bitter arugula, sliced tomatoes, and slivered onions with the orange maple vinaigrette.

After plating the roasted sweet dumpling squash salad, I topped it additional dressing, orange zest, toasted pecans, shaved sharp white cheddar cheese, and concord grapes. For contrast, I nestled the crisped speck under the squash for a salty crunch.

Wow.

It was fun to eat with all the contrasting textures and flavors balancing each other nicely. The buttery tender squash melted under the exploding wet freshness of the tomatoes and concord grapes while the wilted baby arugula wrapped the vegetables with a slight bitterness. Tucked  throughout the salad,  slices of roasted brittle speck provided a much needed smack of saltiness and crunch. Pork candy.

For a different take on traditional roasted winter squash,

it was fantastic.

Come To My Window

Puttana: Itlalian slang meaning whore.  Pasta Puttanesca: Whore's Pasta.  There are many stories disputing the origin of the name. Some say pasta puttanesca was prepared by Italian prostitutes because it was quick and could easily be thrown together between customers. Others believe that the common Italian pantry ingredients involved with making puttanesca alleviated the need and distraction for the ladies of the evening to shop for food. The most common story (my favorite) is that the hard working girls placed  hot steaming bowls of pasta puttanesca on their window sills hoping to lure in passing  potential clientele with wafting intoxicating aromas.

Whatever its origin, I adore pasta puttanesca.  There are many methods for preparing it, but the ingredients  remain constant; anchovies, garlic, chili flakes, olives, olive oil, tomatoes, and pasta. Like any good working girl, I had the ingredients in my pantry.

I thought about tossing cooked pasta in a raw sauce using  gorgeous  heirloom "seconds" from  Raggard Creekside Farm. With Michael out of town on business a few nights ago, I knew I had the luxury of time to putter around the kitchen, so 

I decided to slow roast the tomatoes to intensify their flavors, blend them with fish stock, and serve the pasta puttanesca with fresh mussels from Charlie's Seafood.

I quartered the tomatoes, drizzled them with olive oil, seasoned them with salt and pepper, and slid them into a 325 dregree oven to roast until they collapsed, caramelized, and charred,  about 45 minutes. 

Surprisingly, I didn't have fish stock, but knew I had a bag of shrimp shells tucked under a bag of chicken backs, so I pulled the shrimp shells from the freezer and made a simple stock. After filling a small stock pot 3/4 full, I dropped the shells into the cold water along with peppercorns, onions, parsley, thyme, and chervil. I brought the stock to a boil, reduced it to a simmer, skimmed the scum, and let it bubble away until it reduced by half, creating an intense shrimp flavored stock.

I strained the stock into a blender, added the roasted tomatoes, and pureed them into a lovely shellfish tomato-based sauce.

With all the separate components in place (mise en place), I cranked a skillet to high and sauteed chili-flecked anchovie filets until they melted into the oil before adding thinly sliced candy onions and minced garlic.  When the onions and garlic caramelized, I deglazed the pan with white wine, letting it reduce by half before tossing in a handful of un-pitted picholine black olives and drained capers.

Just before the wine completely evaporated, I added the tomato sauce and brought it to a boil before tumbling 2 pounds of cleaned mussels into the spurting sauce. I reduced the heat, covered the pan, and let the mussels steam open, releasing their juices into the sauce. When the last mussel opened, I added 1/2 pound of under-cooked spaghetti to the bubbling sauce, gave it a stir, and allowed the spaghetti to absorb the sauce while it finished cooking.

I twirled piled the pasta puttanesca into a very large pasta bowl and haphazzardly scattered the mussels around the pasta.  Because I simply couldn't leave well enough alone, I drizzled the plump mussels with a decadent Sriracha lemon chive butter.

 Gratutious fresh parsely finished it off.

Ok.  So, here's the deal. The pasta puttanesca had a lot going on. It was complex, deeply flavored, multi layered, and fun. The intensly sweet slow-roasted tomato sauce was a heavenly mellow canvas for the al dent spaghetti,  pungent garlic, briny soft olives, biting chili peppers, and tangy capers. The mussels, bathed in Sriracha butter, were plump, tender, and ridiculous. Using  the emptied mussel shells as tiny spoons, I slurped the squirting mussels, mixing their juices with the fiery Sriracha lemon-spiked butter. I couldn't stop eating them. And didn't. 

With no bread to sop,

I licked my bowl completely clean until my shiny lips burned.