Spaghetti? Nope.

I've spent the past few weeks testing authentic Dominican Rebublic recipes for a work event that took place last weekend.  Testing recipes has a special meaning in our home. As usual, the testings turned into several Dominican suppers for Michael and me. Thankfully, he was a good sport about our Caribbean culinary journey. Pollo Chicherones (lime-marinated double fried chicken), Pollo Guisada (soffrito-spiced stewed chicken), tostones, rice, and beans became our temporary new norm. While tatsy, after weeks of eating our way through their unique and delicious cuisine, we needed a change of pace. Big time.

I still had a gorgeous Stripetti spaghetti squash from Elmwood Farm plopped inside a giant wooden bowl on our kitchen countertop. Although we adore straight-up roasted and buttered spaghetti squash, I wanted to put a new spin on it, so I used a dozen small littleneck clams and threw together a riff on spaghetti  alle vongole (spaghetti with clams......or, spaghetti squash with clams).

After preheating the oven to 350 degrees, I halved the squash, scooped out the seeds, brushed the flesh with olive oil, seasoned it with salt & pepper, and placed the squash halves cut side down on a baking sheet before sliding them into the oven to roast for an hour.

While the squash baked, I diced a 1/3 cup red bell pepper, 1/3 cup green bell pepper, and 1 small shallot into small diagonals before setting them aside. After a couple of glases of wine, I played around with a few meyer lemons. Shellfish. Lemons. No brainer. I wanted more. I wanted contrasting textures and layers of lemon flavor, so I thinly sliced three meyer lemons into wheels before slicing  one into half moons and setting it aside for a bright acidic garnish.  After cranking the deep fryer to 375 degrees, I lightly dusted the remaining lemon wheels with cornstarch and fried them until golden brown. Sea salt and fresh parsley flecks finished them off.

I wanted another depth of salty crunch for the steamed clams. Although crispy fried  bacon was the obvious choice, I had a few leftover shavings of Browning's Country Ham tucked away in the meat drawer of the refigerator that I picked up at the Kentucky Proud Market  during one of my many trips through the Lexington Civic Center last week. Perfect. I julienned the ham shavings and baked them alongside the squash for 10 minutes until they morphed into glistening country ham brittle.  Perfect.

After an hour, I pulled the spaghetti squash from the oven and used a fork to scrape the delicate threads from the halved shells before tossing them with  melted unsalted butter.

While the squash absorbed its sweet butter bath, I melted 2 tablespoons of butter into an equal amount of olive oil in a large skillet over a medium flame. When the butter started to brown a bit, I tossed the reserved peppers and shallots into the sizzling butter/oil combination. After they softened, I added 2 tablespoons of minced garlic and deglazed the pan with 1 cup of white wine. When the wine reduced by 1/2, I spiked it with 1 cup of bottled clam juice and tumbled the tiny littleneck clams into the boiling stock. I showered the clams with fresh meyer lemon juice,  fresh parsley, and (on a whim) split grape tomatoes before covering them to steam open.

Within seconds, the briny clams opened their shells upward, revealing their plump sexy meat. Annointed with flavor, I pulled them from the heat.

After twirling the spaghetti squash into large pasta bowls, I placed the steamed clams around the squash and bathed them with the aromatic stock. After nestling the fried lemon wheels between the clams, I scattered minced fresh red and green bell peppers over them to mimic and contrast their sauteed counterparts. To gild the lily, I crumbled the country ham brittle onto each splayed juicy clam.

The clams were sweet and tender. They exploded with flavor, squirting briny juices that mixed with the bright lemony luscious stock. Bits of crisped ham added crunch and saltiness while the peppers provided tiny bursts of wet freshness. The spaghetti squash, bathed with stock, was perfect. The strands were delicate and light, yet bold enough to retain thier  integrity after being slathered and scattered with an array of wonderful crazy ingredients.

Roasted spaghetti squash with clams.

Fabulous.

The Indoor Winter Market...

Early last Saturday morning, I planned to quietly slip out of the house for a quick trip to the indoor winter farmers' market.  Although it's a fairly short walk from our house, I decided to drive because it was freezing outside. I grabbed my Martha Stewart market-designated canvas tote bag and drove down our driveway.  After two or three thumpity thumps, I realized I had a flat tire. Great.  Michael was sound asleep.  It was really early, very cold, and I was dressed  like an unkempt overly bundled up character from a wintertime South Park episode. All bundled up with nowhere to go. Bliss.

I cautiously jostled Michael awake, without scaring  him to death in my arctic outfit, and we eventually swapped driveway car positions. I used his car for my 'quick'  market excursion. I loved the serenity of the indoor winter farmers' market. It was calm and quiet with gentle guitar music humming through hidden speakers. It felt great to be back at the market.

Quarles Farm had canned vegetables, salsas, chow-chows, relishes, breads, and coffee cakes. Even at 9:00 a.m. , I couldn't resist a taste of their stewed beef wafting  heavenly aromas from cranked up slow cookers.  Samples? Sure.

Perched on a higher level overlooking the other vendors, Elmwood Farm offered the motherload of the indoor market.  They had the usual suspects; baskets of watermelon radishes, beets, turnips, black radishes, sweet potatoes, collard greens, winter squash, gorgeous celeriac, garlic, organic eggs, and chicken.

 I was totally surprized by bags of fresh English Bordeaux spinach.  Really?  In January?  With deep green lacy leaves highlighted by bright red viens and stems, the spinach  reminded me of  delicate swiss chard. Apparently, it's a hardy variety that grows profusely until temperatures dip into the teens. They actually harvested their my spinach during  our latest snowfall!. It was still damp....from the snow. Wow.

I filled my bag with organic eggs, spinach, Stripetti squash, garlic, and sweet potatoes before driving home. 

It's been a while since our kitchen countertops were covered with market booty. I was giiddy and couldn't wait to play with my stash.

I wanted to try something different with the small sweet potatoes, so I adapted a recipe from Fine Cooking and threw together individual sweet potato and goat cheese galettes.  Crazy, right? Goat cheese and sweet potatoes? Weird,  fascinating, fabulous, and a far cry from sweet potato casserole.

Before getting started, I slushed  through our snow-covered back deck to snip handfuls of  fresh thyme and chives. I pulled out my mandolin and sliced the sweet potatoes into thin rounds. After buttering small individual ramekins, I filled them with alternating layers of sweet potatoes, parmigiano reggiano, crumbled goat cheese, fresh thyme, salt, and pepper before ending with a final layer of goat cheese.

After preheating the oven to 375 degrees, I placed the galettes onto a foil-lined sheet pan and slid them into the oven to bake alongside a pan of  roasting whole grape tomatoes.

Because  the individual galettes were small, I checked on them frequently.  I burn stuff...a lot. Really. Yep. After 45 minutes, they were beautifully browned and tender, so I pulled them from the oven to rest.

Pomegranate Molasses-Glazed Smoked Pork Chops.

I cranked a cast iron grill pan over high heat until it was smoking hot  and tossed two smoked boneless pork chops onto the grill to cook through. While the chops caramelized on the grill, I brushed them generously with a thick ruby red glaze made with 1/2 cup pomegranate molasses, 2 tablespoons of dark brown sugar, the juice of a fresh lemon, and a splash of red wine. The glaze seared onto the  pork flesh like molten lava, sealing the juices inside while encrusting it in a sweet tart candied pomegranate shell.  Just before the pork chops combusted, I pulled them from heat and slid them into a low oven to keep warm.

After a glass of wine or three, I gave the snow-kissed spinach a quick rinse before sauteing it in olive oil with minced garlic, shallots, and julienned red bell peppers.

I plated the wilted garlicky spinach and nestled the sweet potato goat cheese galettes into the spinach nests.  After scattering fresh julienned red peppers over the spinach and galettes, I slid the tart sticky pomegranate glazed pork chops onto our plates before tumbling roasted grape tomatoes to the side. Lemon zest and sliced chives finished them off.

Ok. So, here's the deal.  It was a ridiculous riot of flavor. Really. The earthy spinach balanced the tart sweet moistness of the pork chops with bits of pungent garlic, sweet red pepper, and meltingly soft shallots. When sliced, the plump roasted grape tomatoes popped their sweet wet juices over  the pork, creating a bonus sauce. Win. The sweet potato goat cheese galettes were ridiculous.  Oh. My. The cheeses didn't ooze or drip.  It wasn't about that. The galettes were delicate, soft, and sweet. The nutty parmigiano added subtle saltiness while the fresh thyme provided floral undertones. The goat cheese profoundly elevated the simple  galettes to another  level. Suspended between layers of thinly sliced sweet potatoes, the soft goat cheese had the mouthfeel of tangy soft marshmallows. Air pillows. Clouds. Fabulous.

Wow.

Check out the indoor winter farmers' market.

It's full of surprizes.

Glitter Dust

The broken ornaments have been swept away and the glitter dust has settled on the holiday season.  It was a whirlwind  run with  head-spinning action, eating, drinking, and merry making.

Although  it's over, reminders of the Christmas carnage still dot our kitchen counters. Gifted bottles of red wine, corked and uncorked, stand at attention like a a vintner's Stonehenge.

Michael and I don't drink a lot of red wine. When we have leftover wine, I usually cook with it.

On the final day of my short holiday break, I used a bottle of Kendall Jackson Merlot for a slow and lanquid braised beef bourguignon. Typically, I'm not fussy with the details of beef bourguinon.  I'll brown some beef,  deglaze the pot with red wine, add beef stock, toss in a few vegetables, and throw it into the oven to bubble away. A few days ago, I felt frisky and had an entire day to putz around in the kitchen. As a final curtsy and nod to the end of a fabulous holiday season, I embraced the details of cooking a good beef bourguignon.

The method was fairly straightforward.  Orderly steps and mise en place were key.

Marinate. Brown. Braise. Garnish.

I sliced 1 1/2 pounds of well marbled beef chuck into large cubes and doused it with a full bottle of Kendall Jackson Merlot. After adding fresh thyme, bay leaves, chopped carrots, onions, and garlic, I slid the red wine beef bath into the refrigerator to marinate for a few hours.

After 5  hours in the fridge, I brought the purple wine-tinted meat to room temperature and patted it dry. 

I sliced a few pieces of thick cut bacon into lardons, browned them in olive oil until crisp, and removed them to drain.  While the sizzling bacon fat was still spitting hot, I browned the beef in batches until the fat melted away and the flesh was beautifully caramelized.  I removed the beef to drain before tossing the marinated vegetables into the smoking crimson-stained bacon fat.

Once the vegetables browned, I slid the beef (with their juices) back into the pot, added a tablespoon of tomato paste, and let it saute until the tomato paste coated the beef.  When the tomato paste caramelized, I flambeed the mix with 1/3 cup brandy,  deglazed the pot with the reserved marinade, let it reduce by half, and added beef stock to barely cover the beef.  I brought the stew to a boil, reduced it a simmer, covered the pot, and slid it into a 325 degree oven to braise for 3 hours.

Michael and I adore eating  beef stew, beef in red wine, or beef bourguignon served over pasta. Specifically, perfectly cooked egg noodles.  Although I can make pasta in my sleep, I've never attempted egg noodles.  That was the challenge.  

While the bourguignon simmered in the oven, I made pasta.

I haven't followed a pasta recipe  in years. By trusting my instincts and feeling the dough, I usually know when it's ready to roll. On any given day, depending on weather conditions, the measurements for pasta dough can vary.

I sifted 2 cups of Weisenberger Mill unbleached all purpose flour onto a large wooden cutting board.  After forming a well in the center of the four, I added 1 whole egg, 2 egg yolks, a pinch of salt, a drizzle of olive oil, and a 1/3 cup water.  Using three fingers, I gently mixed the eggs with a bit of the flour before gradually pulling the remaining  flour into the center and mixing it until a loose, somewhat sticky, ball formed.  After adding a few drops of water to bring it together, I kneaded the dough for several minutes, formed it into a ball, covered it with plastic wrap, and let it rest for 30 minutes to allow the glutens to develope.

After clamping my pasta roller to the side of the kitchen island and preparing the working area, I was ready to roll. I cut the dough into thirds and floured it.  Starting with the lowest setting, I passed the dough through the rollers several times, increasing the setting after each pass until I reached the final setting and the pasta sheets were paper thin.

Freestyle.  After allowing the pasta sheets to dry for  a few minutes, I cut them into 4 inch squares before slicing the squares into 1/2 inch ribbons. I wasn't sure how to form egg noodles, so I simply wrapped the ribbons around a wooden spoon handle and slid them off onto floured dish towels. Unconventional. Not egg noodles. Not even close.  What the hell.  Who cared?  I finished rolling my curly pasta noodles and set them aside to dry.

Nothing can fill a home with warmth like a long simmering braise. Within an hour, amazing aromas seeped into every crevice of our old house, covering  the windows with delicate steam.  Heaven.

After 3 hours, I pulled the bourguignon from the oven to rest before removing the beef to finish the sauce. Classsically, the sauce is thickened with a beuure manie (kneaded butter and flour).  I wanted a bit more body and texture, so I pureed the braised vegetables in the beefy red wine stock and finished it with a few pats of butter for lusciousness. After tumbling the tender meat back into the sauce to warm through,  I pulled everything else together.

I brushed off a handful of small cremini mushrooms and tossed them into a hot skillet with butter, olive oil, and minced garlic. When they turned golden brown, I added blanched pearl onions, fresh parsley, salt, pepper, and let them rip until the onions were caramelized.

I dropped the pasta into heavily salted boiling water to cook for 7 minutes while Michael and I finished our glasses of wine.

Bring the beef.

I drained the steaming noodles, tossed them with butter, plated them, and topped them with gorgeous shreds of beef bourguignon.  After sprinking  the reserved crisp bacon lardons over the top, I scattered the sauteed mushrooms and pearl onions around our plates.

To balance the richness of the stew, I served a peppery watercress, artichoke, and celery leaf salad, dressed simply with fresh lemon juice, olice oil, salt, and pepper. Bright. Clean. Fresh.

The meat was ridiculously moist, tender, and deeply infused with the earthy tannins of the red wine. The buttery rich sauce dripped from the uncutous meat and oozed through the noodles until it puddled on our plates. Crisp bacon added salty crunch to the soft mushrooms and candied onions. Texture. Balance.

Crazy good.

At the same moment (without even noticing it) Michael and I both had moved the  beef slices to the sides of our plates. Although the sensual succulent meat was fabulous, it was all about the pasta, onions, bacon, mushrooms, and sauce. The noodles were perfectly al dente. Velvety and to the tooth.  Brilliant. After absorbing the rich sauce, they were meaty and soft with a wonderful mouthfeel.

Best batch of pasta I've ever conjured up.

I had a dream day in the kitchen. The world was my oyster. No deadlines. No worries. No glitter.

Just fun.

And good food.

As Smooth As Butter

After living in Europe and Africa for 10 years as the kid of an Army officer, my father moved our family back to the States to prepare for his Army retirement. Before the actual move, we took an extended European farewell tour as we made our way to Naples, Italy to board the U.S.S. Constitution for our trans-Atlantic journey home.. We lived out of suitcases for weeks while we country-hopped from Africa to Egypt, Turkey, Greece, Spain, and Italy. The last leg of our trip resulted in a two week stay in Rome before taking a final train ride to Naples for our Atlantic sailing. 

We stayed in an ancient crumbling hotel overlooking a piazza dotted with fountains, people, and rambling motorbikes.  By American standards, the hotel certainly would have been condemned.  It wasn't America. Situated on the edge of an old Italian piazza, our hotel was considered  a thing of beauty. We had modest accomodations with marbled floors that glistened under floor-to-ceiling windows purposely cracked open for fresh air which allowed sheer white curtains to flutter from warm gentle breezes.  Heaven.

As a nod to public safety, (and our own) we were told to stay off of the balcony. It was probably hanging onto the side of the hotel by a mere whisper of hope.  Being an inquisitive and precocious kid, I was fascinated with the off-limits balcony. How could it be forbidden territory?  It was ours, wasn't it? I stared at that damn balcony every morning, yearning to test the warnings  by jumping up and down on it with my heavy scruffed-up Buster Brown lace-up shoes. As much as I wanted to test the fates, I played by the rules and left the balcony alone.   My father was an Army Major.  There would have been hell to pay for that mischief.

We spent our days in Rome sightseeing and eating our way around the city. Although the various pastas, pizzas, and pastries were fabulous, my fondest Roman food memory was the simple butter that accompanied our morning continental breakfasts. Served at room temperature in tiny glass bowls on  linen covered trays, the butter arrived every morning surrounded by crunchy rolls and pots of jam. Sweet. Clean. Fresh. I couldn't get enough of it.

Nowadays, when Michael and I want high end European style butter, we'll simply buy Plugra, President, or Kerrygold Irish butter.  When I crave the taste of my childhood Roman holiday, I'll make butter.

A few nights ago, I caved into my craving and literally whipped up 1/2 pound of fresh soft butter.

No recipe.  I really didn't do anything.  It just happened.

Using a stand mixer with a whisk attachment, I whipped a pint of organic heavy whipping cream until it formed beautiful stiff peaks.  Whipped cream.  Standard.

After thoroughly wrapping the stand mixer with plastic wrap, (trust me on that) I turned the speed up to medium high and let it rip for about 25 minutes until the whipped cream broke apart and I could see splashing liquid splattering around the mixing bowl. I turned off the mixer and removed the plastic wrap.  Fresh butter dangled over a pool of residual buttermilk.  Fabulous.

After scooping the soft  butter into a chinois to drain, I squeezed it into a ball to release any additional liquid.  

I tossed the buttermilk, scraped the creamy fresh butter into an eggplant-shaped butter dish, and topped it fresh snipped chives. 

Bon Appetito!

Elfin Shenanigans... Snacks, Leftovers & Stuff

A few nights ago, we had a few friends over to share a little holiday cheer. After a full night of merry making, we tucked the nutcrackers into their silver tree branches and unplugged the Christmas Disco Seal before dragging our tired butts to bed.

Early the next morning, (still tightly bound in my red and green elf tights) I was back in the kitchen scrubbing  cabernet sauvignon splatters from every kitchen appliance. It was hysterical. 

When everything was clean and back in order, I scrounged for something simple  to cook for dinner. With small snippets of leftover party snacks dotting every inch of refrigerater space, things looked bleak until I found a small tub of Dad's Favorites Beer Cheese tucked under a glistening halved pomegranate in the vegetable bin. In a split hangover-induced second, it dawned on me that beer cheese would make a great filling for grilled cheese sandwiches.

I'm a firm believer that a little hair of the dog soothes a weary hangover, so Michael and I chugged a few margaritas as an elixir to ours.  Emboldened by the power of tequila on a quiet Sunday afternoon, I threw together a couple of ordinary white bread sandwich loaves for our grilled beer cheese sandwiches.

Thankfully, my 18 year old KitchenAid stand mixer did most of the work.

I proofed 1 tablespoon of yeast with 1/2 cup warm water (110 degrees) 1 tablespoon sugar, and a pinch of salt in the bowl of the mixer. When it bubbled and foamed, I added 3 1/2 cups bread flour, attached the dough hook, and blended the mixture on low speed until it was fully incorporated.  After adding an additional 3 1/2 cups flour, 1 cup warm water,  I cranked the speed to medium and let it rip for 10 minutes before turning the dough out on a floured cutting board.

I gave the plump dough a few pats, tucked it into a ball, and dropped it into an oiled bowl (covered) to rise and double in size before slicing it in half with a bench scraper.  I folded the halves in rectangles, pinched the seams, snuggled them into 2 buttered loaf pans, and let them rest for a second rise.

After 45 minutes, I slit the tops of the loaves, brushed them with egg wash, and slid them into a 350 degree oven to bake  until golden brown.

Once the loaves cooled completely on a wire rack, I sliced enough pieces for Michael to make killer grilled beer cheese sandwiches flecked with baby arugula and biting minced shallots. Jacked up comfort food. The  buttered crunchy grilled white bread oozed with spicy beer cheese. While the slightly wilted baby arugula provided fresh peppery bitterness, tiny shallots added subtle bursts of wetness. Elevated grilled cheese. Fabulous.

A couple of nights later, Michael's sister stopped by with a friend. We needed snacks, so I sliced the remaining bread into very thin batons, trimmed the crusts, brushed them olive oil, and baked  the crostini until they were golden brown.  After they cooled, I topped them with sliced brie, caramelized pears, and toasted pecans before sliding them back into the oven to melt the brie.  I finished the crostini  with sliced fresh Red Barlett pears, chives, and served them with clusters of globe grapes. Smalls bites of crunchy bread, gooey mild cheese, sticky caramelized pears, toasted pecans, and  moist  fresh pears. Crazy good. Repurposed  party leftovers. Heaven.

                Happy  Holidays!

Not Just For Toast

I taught the Culinary Arts Bourbon-Style Cooking School at the Kentucky Bourbon Festival for two years before eventually stepping down to let someone else take over.  It was fun, but a lot work. The process took months of menu planning and recipe testing before actually taking our little traveling  bourbon show on the road to My Old Kentucky Home State Park in Bardstown, Kentucky.  Both years, I cooked five bourbon-filled courses for sold-out crowds of 230 people before demonstrating all the courses on stage while they ate them. Crazy.

I had a blast doing it, but after planning, testing, tasting, and drinking hundreds of bourbon-infused recipes, I bottomed out on bourbon. To this day, I rarely drink or cook with bourbon......until last night.

Lately, I've tossed around ideas for something to cook for an upcoming family Chritstmas dinner we enjoy every year housed in a cabin overlooking the lake at Barren River Lake State Resort Park. It's a potluck affair for a large group of people packed into a rented cabin anchored by a tiny kitchen with very limited storage...150 miles away. Tricky business. Think about it.

While rifling through our kitchen cabinets and pantry for potluck inspiration, I stumbled across a small jar of Kentucky Proud Applecreek Orchards Bourbon Cherry Preserves that Michael picked up when we attended The Incredible Food Show in October.  Bourbon cherry preserves?  Uh, bourbon?  My head started spinning. During the food show, vendors from Applecreek Orchards served samples of their Bourbon Cherry Preserves on pretzels and toast points..

Nope. I used it to slather a bourbon-soaked  honey cured smoked ham.

I fell off of the bourbon barrel.

After scoring  the outer layer of fat on a small 3 pound honey cured smoked  ham, I slowly brushed the split fat and exposed ham flesh with 1/2 cup of Maker's Mark 46 bourbon.  While the ham soaked up the potent 94 proof  bourbon,  I mixed together 1 cup of dark brown sugar, 1 tablespoon of ground mustard, 1/2 tablespoon of ground ginger, and a tablespoon of fresh minced rosemary.  I rubbed the wet ham with the spiced brown sugar,  wrapped it tightly in aluminum foil, placed it into a dutch oven with 1/2 cup of water, covered the pot , and slid it into a 350 degree oven to bake for an hour.

While the smoked ham simmered in its intial sugary bourbon bath, I threw together a finishing glaze using the Applecreek Orchards Bourbon Cherry Preserves. I melted 8 ounces of the preserves in a small sauce pan over a medium flame before adding 1/4 cup red wine vinegar and 2 heaping teaspoons of prepared horseradish.  I brought the glaze to a quick boil, reduced it to a simmer, and let it bubble away to thicken before setting it aside.

After 45 minutes, I uncovered the ham, basted it with the gooey brown sugar rosemary-flecked Maker's Mark 46 pan drippings, brushed it with the bourbon cherry glaze, and returned it to the oven (uncovered) for an additional 15 to 30  minutes to finish cooking. 

When the ham was beautifully glazed and caramelized, I pulled it from the oven, let it rest, and joined Michael in the parlor to finish off the last of our Georges Duboeuf Beaujolaise Nouveau.

Good to the last drop.

After slicing the glistening glazed ham, I served it on puddles of the sticky bourbon pan juices nestled alongside blistered Green Beans Amandine and individual pots of  creamy Weisenberger Mill spoonbread. Old school.

Without being cloyingly sweet, the succulent ham hinted a slight caramel flavor from the Maker's 46-infused brown sugar sauna.  Peppered with hot pungent horseradish, the  dreamy bourbon cherry preserves oozed over the salty smoked ham, creating a fabulous sweet and savory balance. Pork candy.

Double shot.

Maker's 46.

Applecreek Orchards Bourbon Cherry Preserves.

Not just for cocktails or breakfast.

Try it on pig. 

Roasted & Toasted

A few days before our farmers' market closed down for the season, I stocked up on several varieties of winter squash; butternut, spaghetti, delicata, and acorn. After cooking most of them, a lone Elmwood Stock Farm acorn squash  sat nestled in a wooden bowl on the countertop for over a week. I'd grown weary of sweet and sticky lip-smacking glazed roasted squash, so I ignored it. 

A few nights ago, I needed  low impact time in the kitchen.  I didn't want to labor over anything fiddly or fussy, so I  took a second glance at the neglected countertop squash and decided to throw together a very simple roasted acorn squash soup using my familiar method for butternut squash soup.

After halving the squash, I scooped out the seeds, brushed the cut sides with olive oil, seasoned them with salt and pepper, and slid them into a 350 degree oven (cut side down) to roast for 45 minutes.  While the squash roasted, I sliced a couple of carrots, diced an onion, chopped a celery stalk, and diced a peeled bosc pear (unconventional). I tumbled the vegetables into a soup pot, added 2 cups of chicken stock, brought the stock to a boil, reduced it to a simmer, seasoned it,  covered the pot, and let the vegetables bubble away until they were tender.

I wanted a crisp garnish for the soup, but knew that croutons  would swell into gigantic puffy glops of bread. Although I usually suck at toasting seeds (burn baby burn), I took a chance and toasted the seeds from the acorn squash.  After rinsing and drying the seeds, I tossed them with melted smoked paprika butter before sliding them into the oven to toast alongside the roasting squash.

I poured myself a glass of wine and joined Michael in the parlor. My tufted chenille chair  blissfully swallowed me whole. Happy camper.

I almost forgot that I was cooking.

When the squash was beautifully caramelized and tender, I scooped the flesh from the shells, plopping  it into a blender with the chicken stock and cooked vegetables. Using a kitchen towel to cover the blender (trust me on that one), I pureed the mix until smooth,  poured the puree back into the soup pot, thinned it out with a bit of chicken stock, gave it a taste,  and kept it warm over a low flame until we were ready to eat. 

After a glass of wine or three, I ladled the velvety roasted acorn squash soup into our chipped hand-me-down Bybee Pottery bowls before finishing it with swirls of pure maple syrup-infused sour cream,  toasted spiced seeds, and fresh snipped chives

The soup was lighter than air with a soft luxurious mouthfeel. While the tangy sour cream cut through the richness with  smoky maple nuance, the verdant chives added tiny bites of freshness and the toasted seeds provided crunch.

Fabulous.