Stick It.

The Tuesday/Thursday Farmers' Market on the corner of Maxwell and Broadway can be an overlooked little jewel. With fewer crowds than the downtown Saturday Market, it's a great way to start an early morning work day. Right now, during peak season, it's still peaceful enough to chat with vendors and neighbors while shopping locally. Granted there aren't loads of food vendors (except for Le Petite Creperie on Thursdays), musicians, or bustling patio bars serving summery cocktails. Even without those well founded perks, it's convenient, accessible, and fabulous.

While I try shop leisurely and responsibly at our farmer's markets, most of the time it doesn't happen. I'm constantly blown away by fascinating and unfamiliar stuff. Introduce me to something special and all bets are off. Reason flies out the window. Grab, go, and think about it later. It happens a lot.

It happened again this week. Grab and go. After storming the market before work, my morning rampage left me with bags full of Haney's Orchard white-fleshed doughnut peaches, Madison County zucchini, gnarly fennel bulbs from Stone Henge Farm, multicolored cherry tomatoes, purple candy onions, and plump organic free range chicken breasts from Elmwood Stock Farm.

So, how do you make an unlikely mishmash of market fruits and
vegetables play nice together? Stick them.

Makers Mark Bourbon Peach Barbecue Sauce.
I'm certainly not a pit master or a barbecue guru, but I do prefer scratch made sauces over most commercial varieties. Fire. Coals. Barbecue. After teaching the Culinary Arts Bourbon Cooking School at the Kentucky Bourbon Festival for a couple of years, I knew I could play with bourbon and fire.

I sauteed 1 minced purple candy onion with 2 minced garlic cloves in a small sauce pan over a medium flame. As the onions started to curl and caramelize, I deglazed the pan with 1/2 cup Makers Mark Bourbon before carefully tipping the pan to ignite the bourbon. When the bourbon reduced by half, I added 1 1/2 cups ketchup, 2 diced peaches, 1 tablespoon chardonnay oak smoked salt, cracked black pepper, 1 teaspoon dry mustard, 1 teaspoon onion powder, 1/2 cup dark brown sugar, 1/4 cup worcestershire sauce, and 1/4 cup apple cider vinegar. I reduced the sauce to a simmer and let it plop and spit for 20 minutes before removing it from the heat to cool.

Stick It.
After cutting the tough outer portions of the fennel bulb from the root end, I trimmed away the fronds (reserved), quartered the bulb, removed the core, and dropped the quarters into salted simmering water with 4 halved purple candy onions. While they softened for the grill, I sliced the chicken breasts into 1 1/2" pieces and sliced the remaining peaches into small wedges.

With everything on deck, I poked and prodded everything onto pre-soaked bamboo skewers in alternating layers: chicken, zucchini, fennel quarters, halved onions, peaches, and tomatoes.

Fire.
When the raging fire mellowed, I seasoned the skewers and slapped them onto the sizzling hot grill. After allowing them to sear for a few minutes on each side, I basted the skewers with the bourbon barbecue sauce and let them cook until the chicken juices ran clear, about 15 minutes. When the chicken developed a slight char, I pulled the skewers from the grill and nestled them over the reserved feathery fennel fronds. Anchored by individual baby potato gratins, I finished with skewered raw zucchini ribbons and a scattering of  split cherry tomatoes.

With smoky vanilla undertones, the Makers Mark peach-infused barbecue sauce sealed the chicken with caramelized sweet zing.  While the collapsed tomatoes and melted peaches packed a fruity punch, the fennel quarters balanced their charred sweetness with a savory anise-flavored crunch. Unadorned, naked, and raw, the fresh zucchini rolls and tomatoes provided clean contrasting textures to the sticky meat, fruits, and vegetables. No forks needed.

Farmers' market on a stick.

With bourbon.

Enough said.

Squashed

I was 14 years old before I knew that squash was a vegetable. A vegetable. Singular.  Living with my grandparents on their Western Kentucky farm should have taught me a thing or two about vegetables. They had a huge garden located footsteps from the back door of their farmhouse. Dotted with apple trees and cherry trees, the garden was enclosed by a prickly barbed wire fence covered with tangled grape vines. I was given a very small portion of the garden to grow foot long cucumbers and gigantic melons for fun. My secret garden. On most days, between swimming in the nearby lake or fishing in the murky algae-covered pond, I had my share of real not-so-fun garden chores. While doing those chores, I must have seen yellow squash and zucchini winding throughout the dusty pathways. Yet, somehow, they never quite enjoyed the happy journey from farm to table as anything I recognized.

Pots of squash. As a transplanted newbie farm boy, I always thought that my grandmother's supper squash was a combination of mashed  garden vegetables. Heavily peppered unrecognizable squashed vegetables. Squash. At the time, it made sense to me.

Marge changed the game. Marge had a somewhat lighter approach to squash, opting to grill or saute it during the hot summer months. During the off season, holidays meals, or feast-days, she'd pull out the big guns and whip cream cheese with cooked yellow squash. It became my dish. My holiday/feast-day signature side dish. I adored it. While it's still my favorite way to eat squash, the preparation is a bit heavy handed for tender thin-skinned summer squash.

Layered Vegetable Casserole.

Whether called  a tian, tiella, gratin, or a Keller inspired confit byaldi, it was basically a simple vegetable casserole.

The Base.

To give the vegetables something to stew over, I sauteed 1 large sliced purple onion, 1 sliced red bell pepper, and 1/2 sliced green bell pepper in olive oil. After tossing a few fresh garden thyme sprigs over the vegetables, I cranked the heat to medium high, covered the pot, and let them rip.  When the onions and peppers collapsed from the steamy heat, I uncovered the pot and added crushed garlic before deglazing the pan with 1/4 cup white wine. When the wine reduced, I added 1/2 cup pureed fresh tomatoes and 1/4 white wine vinegar.


Market Vegetables.
While the casserole base simmered, I dispatched most of the vegetables quite easily with my mandolin. After
slicing Madison County yellow squash and zucchini into 1/16 inch discs, I set them aside. Because the McMaine Farm Japanese eggplants and Best Family Farm tomatoes were incredibly tender, I used a very thin serrated bread knife to slice them into uniform 1/16 inch rounds.

Ok, the assembly was a bit persnickety.  After spreading the concentrated tomato/onion/garlic/pepper puree
onto the bottom of an oven proof dish, I overlapped the sliced eggplants, zucchini, yellow squash, and tomatoes around the outer edge and worked my way into the center of the dish. I drizzled olive oil over the top, seasoned it with kosher salt and cracked black pepper, sealed the casserole with aluminum foil, and slid it into low 275 degree oven to bake fora ridiculous 1 1/2 hours, removing the foil during the final 30 minutes.

The long cook time along with the low oven temperature gently allowed the vegetables to steam/bake and melt into each other. While the flavor profile was distinctly ratatouille-ish, the addition of white wine vinegar to the underlying sweet caramelized tomato puree created an agrodulce brightness reminiscent of an Italian caponata.

Fresh.
Tender.
Un-squashed.

Salad Potatoes

Dressed up or dressed down, I'm a fool for potato salad. Throw in a few capers, cornichons, pickles, onions, boiled eggs, celery, or olives, and I'm a very happy camper. Whether draped in a puckery bacon vinaigrette, dressed with creamy mayonnaise, brightened with tangy mustard, or spiked with oil & vinegar, I'll eat potato salad any way I can. Take me to a church potluck and I'll head straight to the designated salad section to sample the endless variations on the humble potato salad.

While I've thrown together vats of potato salads over the years to feed hundreds of people for off-sight events, I've seldom taken the time or the effort to whip up a small batch for Michael and me.

That being said, I found myself stuck with a handful of impossibly petite Casey County new  potatoes that I picked up at the farmers' market. "Some folks like the small ones.", he said. Yep, I supposed we do because I completely fell for his subtle ruse. Sure, they were cute.  Really cute. Cute and small. Tiny. Petite. They were quite possibly the smallest potatoes I'd ever seen. While some of the larger potatoes were the size of table grapes, most were the size of garden peas. I certainly wasn't going to roast them with a big hunk of meat or mash them up for a one bite wonder. Nope.

Unconventional New Potato Salad with Lemon Chive Aioli and Pickled Radishes.

Potatoes.
After scrubbing 1/2 pound of the itsy-bitsy new potatoes with a toothbrush under cold running water, I tumbled them into a
small sauce pan and added 2 cups of cold chicken stock. I brought the stock to a boil, reduced the heat to medium, and let the potatoes ripple in the stock.  When they were fork tender (about 8 minutes because of their size), I drained them, spooned them into a small bowl, and splashed them with dry white wine while they were still warm.  I seasoned the cooked potatoes with salt and cracked black pepper before sliding them into the refrigerator to chill.

Aioli.

I love aioli. Emulsified with good olive oil instead of a neutral oil, garicky ailoi is essentially a sassy mayonnaise. Mayonnaise with attitude. I could have used a food processor, blender, or immersion blender to emulsify the aioli. I opted for an old fashioned whisk to achieve a softer and creamier texture.  Sometimes, our modern
contraptions can beat the crap out of delicate emulsions.

I had few gorgeous Home Pickins farm fresh eggs. After cracking open one of the pale blue eggs, I dropped the deeply colored orange yolk into a metal mixing bowl before adding a splash of cold water, a pinch of salt, 1 minced garlic clove, and a dash of white pepper.Whisking constantly, I added 1 cup of fruity Oliva Bella extra virgin olive oil in a slow steady stream.When the aioli started to thicken, I added 1 tablespoon of fresh lemon juice and 1/4 cup snipped garden chives
.

Quick Picked Radishes..
I wanted some kind of tangy crunch to balance the creaminess of the salad. In lieu of pickle relish, capers, dill pickles, or cornichons, I went with quick pickled radishes. After removing the greens and tendrils from a beautiful bunch of Elmwood Stock radishes, I cut them half lengthwise before slicing them into very thin half moons. I filled a small sauce pan with 3/4 cup white wine vinegar, 1/4 cup water, 1 tablespoon salt, 1 tablespoon sugar, 8 whole Tellicherry peppercorns, and 1 halved garlic clove. I boiled the mix to dissolve the sugar/salt combination,  poured the pickling liquid over the radishes, and set them aside to cool.

When the radishes, aioli, and potatoes were well chilled, I tossed everything together and finished with a few sprigs of fresh lovage.

Because I left the potatoes whole, the delicate skins snapped through the lemony aioli, exposing their tender flesh. While the chives added mild onion undertones, the radishes provided a biting peppery crunch. Without any actual bits of celery in the salad, the intense celery essence of the grassy lovage filled that familiar flavor void.

Light.
Fresh.
Unconventional.

I'd tote it to a potluck any day.

The Early Bird

I was late for the market.  Really late.  By the time I arrived at the farmers' market, most of the vendors were packing up for the day. With slim pickings, I knew most of the pretty tomatoes would get snagged by the market early birds. I didn't care.  I was on the prowl for the uglies.  The culls. The beasts, not the beauties. Sure enough, Cleary Hill Farm, Best Family Farm, and Henkle's Herb and Heirlooms  had a few cat-faced heirlooms lurking on their farm tables.


Blistered, puckered, and split, the tomatoes were a bit too gnarly to slice up for dainty salads or sandwiches, so I cracked them open like soft eggs and used the guts as a base for a very simple riff on Shrimp Saganaki (Greek shrimp with tomatoes and feta).

Tomatoes.
After resting on the windowsill for a couple of days, the Cherekee Chocolate, Golden Little Giant, and Big Beef tomatoes were beyond ripe. Without bothering to catch the seeds, I pulled the tomatoes apart, squished the pulp into a large bowl, doused the tomatoes with lemon juice, and set them aside.

Shrimp.
I haven't tasted a Kentucky farm-raised freshwater prawn since Michael and I sampled a deconstructed shrimp & grits amuse bouche prepared by Quita Michel at the James Beard Celebrity Chef Dinner Series: Cookin' In The Bluegrass. Because they've eluded me for years, I flabbergasted when I stumbled across them at Good Foods Cafe & Market. Who Knew? Not me. Win. With large black tails and tight opalescent shells, they looked like the sassy well-heeled cousins of salt water shrimp. Rinsed, peeled, and deveined, I kept the prawns chilled over crushed ice while I made the sauce.


Baked Shrimp Saganaki.
After heating 2 tablespoons of olive oil in a large cast iron skillet over a medium flame, I sauteed 2 small
minced shallots and 1 minced garlic clove. When the shallots melted into the oil (without taking on color), I added the crushed tomatoes, salt, pepper, fresh oregano, and fresh lime mint. I brought the sauce to a boil,
reduced it to a simmer, and let it ripple for 10 minutes.

When the sauce tightened, I pulled it from the heat and nestled the prawns into the tomatoes. After showering the prawns with cracked black pepper, I tucked chipped pieces of  feta around the skillet, and slid it into a 400 degree oven to bake until the prawns were opaque, about 14 minutes.

I pulled the saganaki from the oven and finished it with a scattering of fresh lime mint.

While the mint added subtle citrus lime undertones, the melted feta provided a creamy salty tang.  Steam-baked in the fresh tomato sauce, the cooked prawns had the lusty texture and rich flavor of sweet lobster meat. Bite-sized prawny lobster bombs.


Fabulous.

When The Cat's Away

I went to the farmers' market for peaches and mizuna.  I came home with precious little Shelby County  Montmorency pie cherries and gorgeous golden beets from Steve's Plants. Blind-sided. Hoodwinked.  Although I adore beets, I'm not sure why I buy them because most of the people I know don't care for beets. At. All. Michael humors me and tolerates them, but he's not crazy for them. Like a tawdry affair, I have to sneak around to get my fill.

Carpe diem. Left home alone for a day while Michael attended to the tale of Mary Todd as a docent at her childhood home, I seized the opportunity to hook up with my sassy golden beets for a casual midday romp and a self indulgent tumble with a heaping bowl of chilled beet soup.

Chilled Golden Beet Soup.
Typically, I'll  roast late season beets to coax the sweetness from the hardy flesh. Early season beets seem naturally sweeter to me, so I took a simpler route. Very simple.

I peeled and sliced 6 large golden beets.  After slicing 4 purple candy onions into rings, I sauteed them in olive oil over a medium flame.  When they turned translucent, I added the beets, 2 smashed garlic cloves, a liberal smack of salt, and ground white pepper. Just before the onions caramelized, I deglazed the pot with a splash of white wine to pick up the sticky fond that accumulated on the bottom of the pot. When the wine reduced to a glaze, I added 6 cups of chicken stock, brought it to a boil, reduced it to a simmer, covered the pot, poured myself a stiff bloody mary, and watered the herb garden.

After 45 minutes, the beets were meltingly tender. I pureed the soup in batches, cooled it down, and slid it into the refrigerator to chill.

Before dishing up my snack, I tamed the earthy tang of the cooked beets by whisking a splash of cream and creme fraiche into the soup. After tarting  it up with a lone sprig of fresh dill, I tipped the bowl to my lips and drank it all like a beet-starved heathen.


Simple.
Refreshing.
Sneaky.
Fabulous.

Tango

My first foray into cooking for large off-site events started with a tango. Taylor Made Horse Farm hosted a benefit production of Luis Bravo's Tony-nominated "Forever Tango" that featured the iconic partner dance.  With proceeds benefiting the Race for Education and Operation Read, the evening featured a two hour production at The Lexington Opera House that showcased  the sexy Argentine dance.

For a hefty price, guests could purchase tickets to premier seating and admission to a cocktail reception prior to the show. During the planning and prepping for 300-plus tango revelers, I immersed myself in Argentine cuisine.

The reception was insane. I was knee deep in the weeds with no way out. The cast, crew, and producers arrived midway through the event to mingle with the guests. While I hoped they'd appreciate the authentic array of exotic fruits, bowls of lime-spiked ceviche, fried plantains, salsas, and stacks of beef empanadas overflowing from large wooden street carts, they seemed to be most smitten with a small bowl of chimichurri sauce nestled next to a huge slab of beef on a carving station. It must have stirred emotions.

No Argentine asado (barbecue) would be complete without chimmichurri sauce. Although the piquant garlicky herb-infused olive oil and vinegar concoction is traditionally served with charred beef, offal, and sausages, it's also great served alongside grilled fish, chicken, or pork. Variations abound, but the classic ingredients for chimichurri are fresh minced parsley, chopped fresh oregano, tons of minced garlic, dried red chile flakes, salt, pepper, olive oil, and vinegar. There are emulsified variations that create a smooth puree, but the character of the sauce is better  when it's left in a loosey-goosey separated state.  Although it's called a sauce, chimichurri is actually more like an herb-laden vinaigrette jacked up on steroids. Used both as a marinade and a condiment, it's bright, biting, velvety, and fabulous.

Inspired by the warm weather and  abundance of herbs available at the farmers' market, I fired up the grill for a backyard Bluegrass asado.

Chimichurri Sauce.
I tossed 1 cup chopped parsley into a food processor along with 1/2 cup fresh oregano leaves, 5 minced
garlic cloves, and 6 tablespoons of white wine vinegar.  After a few pulses, I scraped the vinegary herbs and garlic into a bowl before adding 1 cup of extra virgin olive oil, salt, cracked black pepper, and 4 thinly sliced Elmwood Stock
semi-dried red jalapeno peppers.

With the sauce on deck, I rubbed a gorgeous Stone Cross Farm pork tenderloin with salt, pepper, brown sugar, cayenne pepper, and smoked paprika.  After brushing the tenderloin with chimichurri sauce, I slapped it onto a hot grill and let it rip until the internal temperature reached 145 degrees. When the meat was cooked through, I slathered a large wooden cutting board with the chimichurri sauce, placed the sizzling meat on top of the sauce, and tented it to rest for 10 minutes.

I sliced the tenderloin into medallions before scattering grilled Cleary Hill Farm yellow squash and roasted baby purple sweet potatoes around the board.

I expected the chimichurri sauce to pack a bracing garlic hit, but the fruity olive oil and vinegar softened the bite. While flecks of chile added subtle heat, the vinegar and fresh herbs packed a vibrant grassy punch that cut through the richness of the spice-rubbed pork.

Rustic and simple, we reveled in our asado from the shared chimichurri-stained cutting board.

Urban gauchos.

It takes two to tango.

Churn

As a kid growing up on my grandparent's Western Kentucky farm, my favorite summer days always involved homemade ice cream.   We didn't have it all the time, so it was a treat when my dad hauled the rickety old wooden hand-cranked ice cream maker from the dank cellar. Without fanfare, he'd prepare the ice cream base, flavor it with whatever was in season, and load the canister before covering it with rock salt and crushed ice. He'd crank the handle until the cream-filled canister glided smoothly through the melting ice before turning the wheel over to me. Churning ice cream was important work. While I loved the messy fun, he'd take over and finish the job when it got too hard for me to crank the cream. After wiping away the salty ice, we'd slide open the lid and sneak the first few bites of our homemade ice cream. Churner's treats. Secrets.

One year, out of the blue, my dad used an old hand drill, duct tape, and a long industrial extension cord to rig a very primitive hands-off electric ice cream maker.  It was a revelation. Although it was loud and absurd looking, his zany contraption did the trick. We were modernized.

When Michael and I bought our old Victorian house several summers ago, we jumped through hoops to make the old house feel like home. After filling the house, yard, garage, and deck with all the familiar trappings, we shopped around for an ice cream maker.  We looked at several fancy models before bowing to nostalgia and buying a clunky up-dated electric version of the ancient cranker. While it served us well throughout that long hot summer, we carelessly forgot about it and left it exposed on the back deck, letting it succumb to the elements. It's now a recycled retro-fitted tomato planter. Win.

Last summer, in lieu of anniversary gifts, we picked up a spiffy counter-top ice cream maker. The sleek modern box didn't scream nostalgia. It still doesn't,  but it cranks out damn tasty ice cream.

I'm not much of a baker or dessert maker, but I do love making ice cream. With so many variations and methods, ice cream has no boundaries. The possibilities are endless.

The first summer berries.
Strawberry Ice Cream.

Custard.
Basic custard. I warmed 2 cups of Chaney's milk and heavy cream over a medium low flame. After whisking 4 large egg yolks, 1/4 teaspoon salt, and 3/4 cups sugar until everything was well blended, I tempered the sugary yolks with a few ladles of the simmering cream before pouring the mix back into the pot with the remaining warmed cream. Stirring constantly with a wooden spoon, I cooked the custard until it thickened enough to coat the back of the spoon.  I pulled the custard from the heat, stirred in 2 teaspoons of Madagascar Bourbon Vanilla Paste, cooled it down over an ice bath, covered it with plastic wrap, and slid it into the refrigerator to chill.

Strawberries.
There are debates about whether strawberries should be cooked, pureed, or strained before making ice cream. Cooking the strawberries takes out excess water, pureeing them gives a more intense flavor, and straining them gets rid of the seeds. Every method is valid. I totally get it. Really.  I wanted a few frozen bits, so I simple mashed them.  Rule breaker.


I hulled and sliced 1 1/2 pints of gorgeous Cain's Strawberries. After tumbling the crimson jewels into a glass bowl, I splashed them with lemon juice, tossed them with 1/4 cup sugar, and slid them into the refrigerator to macerate.

 When the custard and strawberries were well chilled, I pulled them from the refrigerator. After smashing half of the strawberries into a rough pulp, I stirred them into the chilled custard, poured the mix into our 2 quart ice cream maker, and let it  rip for 25 minutes, adding the reserved sliced strawberries during the last 5 minutes.

Before stashing the strawberry-swirled ice cream into the freezer, Michael and I slurped several creamy spoonfuls straight from the frozen canister.

Just like I did as a kid.

Pure nostalgia.