Spooned

I tasted my first bite of spoonbread years ago when Michael and I had dinner at Historic Boone Tavern in Berea, Kentucky. I had just moved back to Kentucky from New York City to live with the boy of my dreams in a small townhouse apartment located a few blocks from downtown Richmond. Nestled on a steep embankment surrounded by a sea of pavement, the apartment had ample parking and a tiny deck overlooking Interstate 75. With romantic innocence, we simply pretended that the relentless roar of the interstate traffic sounded like continuous crashing ocean waves. High tide all the time. Cozy.

There wasn't much to do in Richmond circa 1985. We were both college graduates living on the cheap in a college town. Aside from sunbathing on our asphalt beach (drinks in tow), date nights at Ponderosa Steakhouse, or occasional trips to Lexington for late night drag shows at Johnny Angel's Disco, we spent  most our free days driving around the rolling back roads of Madison and Estill Counties. Windows down. Music blaring. Trips to nowhere. On one particular drive, after hiking up the pinnacles of Indian Fort Mountain just outside of Berea, we passed Boone Tavern and thought it would be great fun to live large and return for a sampling of their classic southern fare. Reservations? Check. Jackets? Nope. Back in the day, Boone Tavern had a dress code. Gentlemen were required to wear jackets at dinner. Period.  If anyone arrived without one, they were invited to browse through their lovely complementary selection. I didn't have a jacket. As a transplanted New Yorker, I landed in Kentucky with a lone suitcase filled with Andy Hardy-esque cuffed baggy pants, skinny ties, weird dress shirts, and saddle oxfords. Yep.

Undaunted by my hip hapless wardrobe, we arrived  for dinner. After rifling through the complementary jacket closet, I dressed like a wayward clown and joined Michael for dinner in the old dining room of Historic Boone Tavern. Within minutes, a student-server glided by our table offering dollops of fluffy souffle-like spoonbread with butter. I have no idea what else I ate that night. It was all about the light and airy spoonbread. Swallowed in my ill-fitted borrowed jacket that certainly didn't match my saddle oxfords, the spoonbread got to me.

Spoonbread is totally southern. Cornmeal. Eggs. Milk. Butter. Humble ingredients. It's like a crazy cross between cornbread, souffle, and savory corn pudding. It's like nothing else. Spoonebread is simply spoonbread. There are countless variations.  Some folks like to gussy it up with various add-ins. Sometimes, less is more.

I went the less-is-more route. I wanted the real deal. I wanted the one served to Michael and me several years ago under the painted watchful gaze of Daniel Boone at his namesake tavern, so I went straight to the source. Served as an appetizer or southern amuse before every meal, Boone Tavern has been kicking out killer honest spoonbread for decades. It's what diners remember and crave. Richard Hougen, restaurant manager of Boone Tavern for over 30 years, compiled regional Kentucky dishes and his restaurant favorites in three cookbooks, including the recipe for spoonbread.

Boone Tavern Southern  Spoonbread.
3 Cups Milk
1 1/4 Cups White Cornmeal
3 Eggs
1 Teaspoon salt
1 3/4 Teaspoons Baking Powder
2 Tablespoons Butter

Stir meal into rapidly boiling milk. Cook until very thick, stirring constantly. Remove from the heat and allow to cool. The mixture will be very stiff. Add well-beaten eggs, salt, baking powder, and melted butter. Beat with an electric mixture  for 15 minutes.  Pour into well-greased pan and bake at 375 degrees for 20-30 minutes. Serve from pan by spoonful with butter.
        Look No Further - Richard T. Hougen

It was fairly straightforward. I boiled the milk, added Weisenberger Mills unbolted plain white cornmeal, stirred it into a thick cornmeal mush, let it cool, added the remaining ingredients, and beat it with hand mixer for 15 minutes. Here's the deal, beating anything for 15 minutes seemed ridiculous. Determined to follow through, I actually attached my hand mixture to an extension cord, sat on the couch, and watched football while I mixed the spoonbread ingredients.

During the first 10 minutes of beating, I was very tempted to toss in snipped chives or cheese because it seemed downright boring. After 15 minutes, the weirdest thing happened.  The mixture transformed from a grainy cornbread texture into a silken batter.  I didn't want to muck it up with extra stuff, so I poured it into a well buttered dish and slid it into a preheated 375 degree oven to bake for 30 minutes.

When I pulled the puffed spoonbread from the oven, it deflated immediately. I slathered the top with 4 tablespoons of unsalted butter, cracked it open with a large spoon, let the butter slowly ooze into the center, and spooned dollops onto small serving plates.

Spoonbread butter bombs.
Just as I remembered.
No jacket required.

A Late One

A late One. Ale-8-One. Ale-8. Whatever you call it, the local soft drink owned by the same family and bottled by The Ale 8 Bottling Company down the road in Winchester, Ky since 1926 is a beloved homegrown Kentucky icon. Flavored with citrusy ginger undertones, the Bluegrass favorite contains less fizz, a bit more caffeine, and fewer calories than most other soft drinks. It's great straight out of the bottle or spiked with bourbon over ice. When taken out of its drinkable comfort  zone, Ale-8-One is a fantastic ingredient.

Bourbon & Ale-8-One Braised Short Ribs.
I love short ribs. With a little prep, they practically cook themselves. Season. Sear. Braise. Like a lazy Sunday pot roast, short ribs are very forgiving. For a wine guzzling forgetful cook like myself, short ribs are the ultimate get-out-of-jail-free cards. They're impossible to mess up.

Typically, I braise short ribs with mirepoix in red wine and beef stock.  When braised for hours, the burgundy stained ribs collapse  into sultry shreds of wine-infused meat candy. Perfect. Classic. That being said, I wanted to shake things up a bit, so I used the same method with different ingredients for an unconventional rustic riff on the classic braise.

Mise en Place.
Doubled mirepoix.
Carrots. Onions. Celery. Parsnips.
For the braising mirepoix, I peeled and quartered 1 bunch of rainbow carrots (reserved half), chopped 3 stalks of celery into 2" batons, diced a large candy onion, peeled whole Madison County baby parsnips(reserved 4), and smashed 3 unpeeled cloves of garlic before setting them aside.

For the finishing mirepoix, I combined the reserved carrots and parsnips with a pint of peeled pearl onions. Oh sure, pearl onions are pesky and impossible to peel, but they're also fabulous. While there are fussier methods for peeling them, I simply snipped off the root ends, tossed them into salted boiling water for 4 minutes, rinsed them under cold water, and slipped the tender onions from their tough outer  skins.

I took a little wine break and cranked the oven to 350 degrees.

Braise on.
After liberally seasoning 3 gorgeous slabs of grass fed short ribs with salt and pepper, I seared them on all sides until they were well browned to create a great crust, seal the meat, and render the fat. After 15 minutes, I removed the ribs to a side plate, drained off the fat, added a drizzle of olive oil, and sauteed the uncooked carrots, onions, celery and garlic until they were tender, about 10 minutes. As an homage to my Bourbon Cooking School stint at The Kentucky Bourbon Festival, I cranked the heat to high, deglazed the pot with 1 cup of  Bulleit bourbon and let it reduce to a smoky amber glaze before adding 2 bottles of Ale-8-One.

When the liquid came to a simmer, I added canned  hand-crushed whole San Marzano tomatoes, 2 cups chicken stock, and a gorgeous knob of impossibly fresh Casey County ginger. I brought  the soda-infused stock to a boil, tossed in 3 large fresh bay leaves along with a bundled  bouquet garni (fresh parsley, rosemary, thyme, and lovage), sealed the lid with foil, and slid the pot into a preheated 350 degree oven.

While the ribs braised, I blanched the reserved carrots, onions, and parsnips until they were fork tender before shocking them in an ice bath to stop the cooking process.

The aromas wafting through the house were distracting. Intoxicating. I could taste the air as the invisible flavors dripped down the fogged kitchen windows.

After 3 hour hours, I carefully pulled the lacquered ribs from the intensely reduced sauce, slid them onto a plate, and covered them with foil. After skimming the fat from the sauce, I strained the sauce through a fine mesh strainer, pressing the solids through the strainer for extra texture and flavor. I ladled a cup of sauce into a small cast iron skillet, added the blanched vegetables, seasoned them with  black pepper, and simmered them over a low flame.

I returned the sauce to the dutch oven, added the ribs, and placed them back into the oven to warm through. After basting the ribs until they were sealed with layers of the rich mahogany-hued sauce,  I carefully nestled the jiggly meat onto beds of cooked spaetzle, haphazardly scattered the vegetables to the side, and  finished with a perky  fresh horseradish, parsley, and lemon/lime gremolata.

Ale-8-One.
Whether we drink it
or eat it, cheers to you, Mr. Wainscott.

The Last Bits

The October farmers' market.

Frost on the pumpkins.
Crisp cool breezes.
Damp fallen leaves.
Fresh Summer corn.

Fresh summer corn? Really? Yep.  Perched on a farm stand table, a lone basket of Shelby County sweet corn seemed oddly out of place surrounded by a sea of pumpkins, gourds, apples, and pears. Although I knew it wouldn't have that familiar you-could-almost-eat-it-raw fresh taste of the first summer corn, I couldn't resist its peculiarity and grabbed a few ears. The last of the summer corn.

October tomatoes. Right now, they're few and far between.  "That's the last of them. I'm not coming back next week." Those were chilling words to hear from a passionate tomato farmer, so I bagged a few handfuls of  Clark County Green Zebra, Yellow Pear, Black Cherry, Yellow Plum, and Dona cherry tomatoes. The last of the summer tomatoes.

In an attempt to perk up my market melancholy, I took the last bits of summer and bridged the seasons with a simple roasted corn and tomato soup.

A very simple soup.

After slicing the kernels from the cobs, I used the back of my knife to scrape the corn milk from the tiny honeycombed sockets and tumbled them onto a foil-lined sheet pan. I halved the larger tomatoes, left the smaller ones whole, and tossed them with the corn. Because I had a few vegetable stragglers (you know, the ones that got away or were hidden under other stuff?), I tossed a few Bourbon County peppers, Blue Moon Farm baby patty pan and yellow squash into the mix before tossing everything with olive oil, kosher salt, and cracked black pepper.

I slid the corn, tomatoes, and vegetables into a preheated 350 oven to roast for 30-35 minutes. When the tomatoes collapsed into the caramelized corn, I
pulled them from the oven and scooped them into a blender.  After adding 2 cups of vegetable stock, I pureed the slightly charred vegetables until smooth, strained them through a fine mesh strainer to get rid of the gritty pulp, and added the pureed/strained soup back to the pot. Working over a low flame to keep the soup warm, I seasoned it liberally and added the juice of 1/2 lemon for a hint of acidity.

After a glass of wine or two, I ladled the soup into large pasta bowls before finishing with chives and deep fried basil leaves.

The complex layers of flavor belied the simplicity of the soup. While the slight whisper of lemon countered the deep roasted sweetness of the tomatoes and charred richness of the corn, the fresh chives added a slight grassy punch under the fragile crunch of the fried basil. Delicately smooth, the starchy late season corn gave the soup body, the tomatoes kept it light, and Michael's decadent buttery grilled cheese sandwiches (for sopping) gave it soul. Perfect.

The last bits of summer.

Boned

Simple little ballotines.

Ballotine.  A hot or cold dish based on meat, poultry, game birds or fish in aspic.  The flesh is boned, stuffed, rolled, and tied up with string, usually wrapped in muslin (cheesecloth) - sometimes in the skin- then braised or poached ( galantine). 
                                                 -Larousse Gastronomique
I hadn't boned out a chicken in ages. Fussy. Boring, even. Bones add flavor, right? Why get rid of them? Well, I got a wild hair and sharpened my boning knife. For some ridiculous reason, I thought deboning quail would be much easier than deboning a small chicken. Yep, that's what I thought.

Galantine or ballotine? Or both?

Tucked under partridges, sweetbreads, guinea fowl, and duck breasts, I found four farm raised quail at Chritchfield Meats. Game on for a weekend project.

Day 1.
Prep.
Using a very sharp boning knife, I removed the neck portions from the quail and carefully cut around the tiny wishbones before pulling them out. After clipping the wings at the shoulder sockets, I pulled the wing joints from the meat and sliced along the backbone to remove the meat from the spine and rib bones, keeping the carcass intact. I could have deboned the tiny legs.  I didn't. Nope. I snipped them off at the sockets, removed the cartilage, and tossed them into a pot with the other bones for stock.

Before moving forward, I covered the quail bones with cold water, added a handful of whole black peppercorns, a bay leaf, and sliced purple cipollini onions (skins on). I brought the stock to a boil, reduced it to a simmer, skimmed the scum without stirring, and let it bubble away for 1 1/2 hours until it reduced to 3/4 cup.After straining the small batch stock through a damp cheesecloth-lined colander, I cooled it in an ice bath and slid into the refrigerator to chill.

Assembly.
The fun part. I covered a large cutting board with plastic wrap, overlapped 2 thinly sliced pieces of pancetta
on the plastic wrap, positioned the boned out quail (skin side down) on top the plastic wrap, smeared finely ground chicken over the meat, and finished with steamed baby kale. After seasoning the filling with salt and cracked black pepper, I used the plastic wrap like a sushi roller and rolled the stuffed quail into cylinders, tying up the ends to form tight seals.

Galantine.
I brought 6 cups of water to a rolling boil, reduced it a gentle simmer, lowered the quail parcels into the water, weighed them down with a small plate to keep them submerged, and poached them for 20 minutes. When they  were cooked through, I scooped them from the poaching liquid, let them cool, and refrigerated them overnight.

Day 2.
Busy work.
Beets, onions, and potatoes. I drizzled unpeeled golden beets and peeled purple cipollini onions with olive oil, sealed them in aluminum foil, and roasted them for an hour. While the beets/onions roasted, I filled two small stock pots with cold water, filled one with peeled Bourbon County pink-fleshed Mountain Rose new potatoes and filled the other pot with peeled Casey County purple sweet potatoes. After boiling the potatoes until they were fork tender, I pureed them in batches (separately) with butter and cream.


I pulled the congealed quail demi-glace from the refrigerator, warmed it gently over a low flame and added blanched pearl onions. When the demi started to bubble, I tossed a few quartered fresh mission figs into the stock to poach for a few seconds. When the figs softened, I pulled the sauce from the heat and set it aside.


Ballotine.
First and foremost, I poured myself a two-fisted pilsner of cheap chardonnay.
After breaking the seal on the wrapped quail rolls, I sauteed them in a combination of olive oil and unsalted butter to crisp the poached pancetta. When the bacon caramelized, I slid the ballotines into 350 degree oven to warm through.

I pulled the roasted beets and onions from the oven, slipped the skins from the beets and drizzled them with olive oil. After slicing the ballotines into half inch rounds, I nestled them over ribbons of the potato purees and brushed them with the fig-infused quail jus. I tumbled the roasted beets to the side before finishing with snipped chives, micro sunflower shoots, sliced fresh figs, and julienned red pears.

Alrighty, then. Meat and potatoes.  For such innocent looking food, there was a lot going on.  The deep earthy sweetness of the roasted beets countered the sexy brash freshness of the figs and pears. Soft beets. Wet figs. Crisp pears. Naughty. Although they seemed like polar opposites, they complimented the salty richness of the ballotines and the slight bitterness of the microgreens. While the baby kale got lost in the twice-cooked shuffle, it wasn't missed. Perched on top of the dueling potato purees, plumped with finely ground chicken, encased with bacony pancetta, and napped with subtle quail jus, the quail ballotines were incredible. Tender. Moist. Firm. Rich.

Tiny birds.
Big flavor.
\
Ridiculous.

Double Squashed

So, how on earth did I leave the market with an unlikely combination of clunky acorn squash, summer
heirloom tomatoes, Asian pears, feathery oyster mushrooms, and delicate late season squash blossoms? It's that crazy time of year at the farmers' market when the growing seasons seem to bleed into each other. Bins of summer tomatoes, baby yellow squash, herbs, and watercress happily line up on tables next to pumpkins, gourds, butternut squash, apples, and pears. Tomatoes and pumpkins. Is it summer or fall? Season straddling taunting confusion. It's a lot to take in. Mix and match.

Acorn Squash Ravioli with Other Stuff.
Butternut squash ravioli with sage and brown butter is the typical go-to winter squash-filled ravioli preparation. Sometimes, hazelnuts are thrown in for crunch.  It's a classic pairing because it works and is downright perfect. Well, I'm a sucker for acorn squash when it hits the market, so I changed things up a bit.

Squash.
I split 2 large Silas Farm striped acorn squash in half before scooping out the seeds and piercing the skins.
After drizzling them with olive oil, I roasted them cut side down for 45 minutes in a preheated 350 degree oven until they were fork tender. When the squishy squash halves cooled down, I pureed the soft cooked flesh with a pinch of nutmeg, salt, pepper, and 1 cup of parmigiano reggiano.

Pasta.
I could sleep under sheets of pasta. Soft, puffy, and warm. Stuff it, quilt it, and call it a duvet. While the squash roasted in the oven, I threw together a fairly basic pasta dough.  I sifted 2 cups 00 flour into a very large bowl before adding 3 whole eggs, 1 egg yolk, salt, and 1 tablespoon olive oil.  After gradually pulling the flour into the eggs with my fingertips until it was combined, I added a splash of water to loosen it up before kneading the dough for 15 minutes, wrapping it in plastic wrap, and setting it aside for an hour to rest.

Rolling.
While it's messy work, I adore rolling pasta. Using a bench scraper, I cut the wedge of dough into 4 equal portions. After dusting the dough with flour, I passed it through the roller 2 or 3 times on the lowest setting to knead it and prepare it for the big stretch. When the dough felt right, I rolled it out, changing the settings for thinner sheets after each pass.  When I reached the next to last setting, I dusted the sheets with flour and set them aside. Typically, when I make angel hair pasta or fettucini, I allow the pasta to dry somewhat before cutting it into ribbons. However, when filling raviolis, it's easier to seal the edges when the dough is still pliable.

Filling.
I dotted the pasta sheets with 1 tablespoon of the pureed acorn squash, painted the edges with egg wash,
and topped the filling with another pasta sheet. After pressing out the air, I sealed the edges, used a fluted ravioli stamp to cut the pasta, dusted them with flour, and slid them into the refrigerator to chill.

The Other Stuff.
Stuffed squash blossoms. Squash blossoms are a rarity at our farmers' market. A few vendors have told me that they're just too labor intensive to harvest.  On top of that, only the male blossoms can be harvested to allow the squash to keep producing. Who knew? When I came across a few baby squash blossoms from Blue Moon Farm, I squealed a small  internal squeal. They were gorgeous. It seemed so weird to see them in October. I felt like I was cheating.

I carefully clipped the pistels from inside the blossoms, stuffed the blossoms with whipped goat cheese, twisted the ends to enclose the filling, and set them aside. After preheating the deep fryer to 350 degrees, I whisked rice flour and soda water together until it was the consistency of a loose crepe/tempura batter. When the oil reached 350 degrees, I dipped the stuffed blossoms into the batter, briefly deep fried them, removed them to drain on a dish towel, and sprinkled them with sea salt.

Brown butter. In lieu of the more traditional sage butter, I opted for a fresh rosemary brown butter. Sage is fabulous with butternut squash, but I prefer rosemary with acorn squash. I killed two birds with one stone. I melted 3 tablespoons of unsalted butter in a small cast iron skillet before adding a few fresh rosemary sprigs and sliced Blue Moon Farm oyster mushrooms. When the butter foamed, receded, and started to brown, I splashed it with
white balsamic vinegar for a hint of acidity and pulled the skillet from the heat.

Note. It takes approximately 1 1/2 glasses of wine for water to boil.

I brought a huge stock pot of water to a rolling boil, doused it with kosher salt, and dropped the raviolis into the hot bath. Within minutes, they bobbed to the top and were finished cooking.  Using a spider, I scooped them out of the water, patted them dry, and slid them onto serving plates. After drizzling the raviolis with the rosemary brown butter, I tumbled the sauteed oyster mushrooms and fried stuffed squash blossoms to the side before finishing with fresh rosemary.

For such ordinary looking ravioli, there was a lot going on. The natural sweetness of the pureed acorn
squash was tempered by the salty parmigiano-reggiano cheese and the piney fresh rosemary. When sliced, the filling oozed from the pasta like yellow ocher pudding and mixed with the nutty brown butter, creating a bonus sauce for the airy pasta. Win. While the sauteed oyster mushrooms added soft earthiness, the goat cheese stuffed squash blossoms countered with tangy crunch. Light. Crisp. Rich.

Acorn squash ravioli. Stuffed squash blossoms. Sauteed oyster mushrooms.
Fall and summer...on a plate.

Go figure.

BLT

Thick crunchy bacon, crisp lettuce, and garden fresh tomatoes on toasted bread with mayonnaise. What's not to love about a good BLT? Simple. Basic. Classic. Oh sure, there are countless gussied up variations. I could have cured my own bacon, baked a fine loaf of artisanal bread, or whipped up a creamy lemon-infused aioli. I didn't.

I spent a lazy weekend spinning a twist on the humble BLT.

BLT.
Belly. Lettuce. Tomato.
Pork belly is a wonderful thing. Cut from the underlying belly of the pig, thick ribbons of soft white fat are layered with pinkish colored meat. It looks like a big slab of fatty uncooked bacon. In fact, when cured and smoked, pork belly becomes the bacon we all know, love, and crave. Left uncured, it can be cooked low and slow to break down the collagen before crisping up the fatty stuff. The good stuff.

Pork Belly.

I managed to track down a local source for pork belly, but they only sold it in 10 pound slabs. Even for big time pork lovers, 10 pounds seemed like overkill. I stopped by one of our local Asian markets and hit the aromatic meat/seafood/guess-the-product butcher counter. Tucked between bins of chicken feet and other things, I thought I recognized pork belly. I got the butchers attention, held up a slab, and pointed to my stomach. He approved with a simple nod. Win.

Here's the deal. Preparing pork belly takes time. A little time. Small effort. Big pay off.

Brine. To flavor and tenderize the meat, I threw together a simple brine. After simmering 6 cups of water in a stock pot, I added 1/2 cup salt, 1 cup sugar, bay leaves, fresh lovage, fresh thyme sprigs, whole black peppercorns, and dried green peppercorns. I tossed a few trays of ice cubes into the pot to cool the mix before carefully trimming the skin from the top fatty layer of the belly and submerging it into the brine. I covered the pork with plastic wrap and slid it into the refrigerator to marinate for several hours.

After 8 hours or so, I pulled the belly from the brine, scraped off the herbs, and patted the meat dry.

Braise. I heated olive oil in a large dutch oven until it was smoking hot. After scoring the fat on the pork belly, I browned it fat side down, flipped it over, and browned the other side. We adore thick cut applewood-smoked bacon. To mimic that familiar flavor profile for our twisted BLTs, I deglazed the pot with 1 cup apple cider to pick up the sticky fond. When the cider reduced to a light syrup, I added 1 1/2 cups chicken stock, 1 cup apple cider, 4 tablespoons apple cider vinegar, a sprinkling of chardonnay-smoked sea salt, and 4 tablespoons of pure maple syrup. I brought the stock to a boil, reduced it to a simmer, covered the pot, and slid it into a 325 degree oven to braise for 2 1/2 hours, basting the scored fat every 30 minutes.

After a few glasses of wine hours, I pulled the pork belly from the oven and let it rest. When it was completely cooled, I transferred it to a deep baking dish, covered it with the fatty braising stock, and covered it with plastic wrap. To compress the meat and squeeze out additional fat, I placed a small baking pan  on top of the plastic-sealed belly and weighed it down with  an aluminum foil-wrapped brick before sliding it into the refrigerator to chill overnight.  By the time I called it a night, I was covered in pork fat and smelled like pig...in a good way.

Crisp. I preheated the oven to 400 degrees and pulled the pork belly confit out of the refrigerator. After scraping the solidified fatty lid from the top of the pork, I carefully scooped the slabs of belly out of the gorgeous gelatinous  pork stock. I sliced the pork into small serving pieces and placed them fat side down in a small cast iron skillet before adding  the jiggly stock, a few split tomatoes, sprigs of fresh thyme, salt, and pepper. I roasted the belly pieces for 10 minutes, turned them over to expose the scored fat, and basted them constantly with the reduced maple-cider pork stock  until they were deeply caramelized.

Wine break.

Burnished with crackling fat, I pulled the mahogany-stained pork from the oven to rest.

BLT. After slathering Weisenberger Mills toasted cornbread croutons with mayonnaise, I nestled the candied belly bites onto the croutons and tumbled peeled green zebra cherry tomatoes to the side. I mixed the last harvest of Stonehedge Farm baby romaine with baby arugula, tossed both lettuces in a roasted Brown Berry cherry tomato poppy seed vinaigrette, and finished with scattered slivered radishes, halved Black Plum tomatoes, split Italian Ice tomatoes, and pickled apples.

Unconventional, to say the least. It's hard to cook and describe pork belly without embracing the fat. Fat. Good fat. Crisp fat. Sweet fat. Fatty fat. Embrace the fat. Fat equals flavor. Period. That being said, the fat was there without being overly there. It simply melted into the layers of pork, keeping the meat moist and tender. The charred scored tips were crisp and sweet. Candy. Salted maple-cider braised pork candy. Yep. However, like any conventional BLT, balance was key. With all the porkiness going on, it needed other stuff to make it work. While the roasted tomato vinaigrette added sweet zing, the ripe tomatoes, peppery radishes, lettuces, and pickled apples leveled the playing field with crunchy fresh acidic balance. Crazy.

Belly up

Conch

Michael and I took our first joint jaunt outside the continental United States a little over twenty years ago. Back in those halcyon days, we were young, adventurous, naive, and very poor. After a few beachside camping vacations (we're not campers), we booked a cheap package excursion to Freeport, Grand Bahamas. It seemed simple enough. Drive to Miami, board a ship, sail to Freeport, and have fun...with little money.

After loading my hand-me-down Ford Granada with our duffel bags, traveling snacks, and vodka, we set out on the 1200 mile trek to Miami.  It was an adventure. Although the Port of Miami was a hectic place to maneuver, we managed to get our ducks in a row before boarding the Scandinavian Sun, a relic of a ship retired from bygone European cruising itineraries. We had no idea what cruise ships were supposed to look like, but we had an inkling the Scandinavian Sun had seen better days. It didn't really matter. The boat was merely transportation to the Bahamas. Well appointed with restaurants and bars, it was a glorified water ferry with perks. We had a blast on the 6 hour journey. Because it was a small ship without modern day stabilizers, the ship tipped and rocked violently as it cut through the rolling swells. When the crew eventually turned the ultra hip discotheque into a sick bay for the other passengers, we mocked them with rum runners. Six hours on an archaic boat and suddenly we were sailors. Drunken sailors.

Not knowing what to expect, we finally docked in Freeport Harbor. The harbor looked like an industrial wasteland. It wasn't fancy. It wasn't anything. A few shacks, rope, water, and boats. What the hell were we thinking? After making our way down the gangway, we shuffled our way through the stifling heat, a dusty parking lot, and stray chickens to find a cab to our hotel. It wasn't the right time to second guess our apparent folly. Covered in sweaty red dirt, we hailed a cab, tumbled inside, and made our way the The Lucayan Beach Hotel & Casino ( demolished years ago, it's now the Our Lucayan Radisson Beach Resort).

The hotel vanquished the port of misery from our rum-ridden heads. It was gorgeous. Our skanky cheap room was under renovations, so they upgraded us to a suite located in one of the newer wings of the hotel. After winding our way through fragrant dangling bougainvilleas, we stepped into our unexpected and undeserved ground level floor-to-ceiling marble tiled ocean front suite. We were speechless. Instead of a coffee maker, the vanity was lined with bottles of Stolichnaya vodka and Myers Dark Rum. Boom. Booya. We dropped our bags, made cocktails, kicked open the french doors leading to the patio, and stared at the clear Caribbean Sea serenely lapping at our doorstep. Within seconds, we quietly fell into the pristine teal blue water. Naked. Raw.Wet.

Swaddled in faux luxury, we made the most of our time on limited funds. We gambled once, shared a few gazzilion-dollar shrimp cocktails, and  spent our days on the hotel beach drinking Bahama Mamas. Everything changed when the sun went down. Armed with plastic cups filled to the rim with rum, we strolled the beachfront properties of the surrounding hotels (pretending to be guests) and enjoyed their nightly complimentary Bahamian beach cookouts.On those rum-induced nights, we fell in love with  puffy conch fritters, tomato-based conch chowder, fry fish, and conch salad. I was totally smitten with the ceviche-like conch salad. With the texture of abalone or calamari, tender sweet pieces of conch were tossed with diced tomatoes, peppers, onions, and  flecks of habanero peppers before taking a quick swim  in fresh orange juice and lime juice. The brilliant combination offered a cooling respite to the warm night air and sticky dark rum. Heaven.

Eventually, the clock struck midnight and we had to leave paradise. Back into a cab. Hello chickens. Long lines at the harbor. Immigration hut? Check. Our pumpkin awaited. On the sail home, we didn't drink, gamble, or mock anyone. We climbed to the highest most forward section of the ship, rested against the hot metal siding, held hands, and melted into a sea of dreams.

Until recently, we never returned to Freeport.

20 years later, after a fabulous 7 day Caribbean cruise, we barreled into a revamped Freeport Harbor on a grand seafaring chariot. For a brief time, we were back in our forgotten paradise.

Michael wanted a watch.
I wanted conch.

We boarded a tender for a scenic sail to Port Lucaya Marketplace.  When we arrived at the dock, Mr. Brown (Da Conch Man) greeted us, arms outstretched, with fresh conch hanging from his fingertips.  We shopped around the marketplace before settling into a dockside bar.  While we waited for our Yellow Birds to arrive, I snuck behind Mr. Brown's pastel-colored wooden shed for a peek at conch cleaning. Working under the splintered shade of the conch shack, his crew split the spiral tips of the shells (cracking), snipped the tendons to release the squiggly meat (jooking), and washed the conch meat in fresh water (slopping) before slicing off the head, foot, and tough outer skin. Messy business.

With the conch dispatched and cleaned, I watched Mr. Brown prepare my conch salad.  Using a machete, he gracefully diced tomatoes, onions, green peppers, habanero peppers, and conch. After seasoning everything with a sprinkling of salt, he scooped the salad into a plastic cup before showering it with hand squeezed orange juice and lime juice.That was it. No herbs. Nothing fancy.

I grabbed my salad, plastic spoon, and paper napkin. We chugged our cocktails and boarded a bus for the short trip back to the ship.

Michael had his Movado watch.
I had my fresh conch salad.

Paradise lost.
Paradise found.
Lucky boys.

Back in our old Kentucky home, I wasn't quite ready to let go. I ordered 5 pounds of frozen cleaned conch meat from Charlie's Seafood Market. Yep. No cracking, jooking, or slopping. I let it thaw overnight in the refrigerator. The next morning I made a beeline to the farmers' market and picked up Casey County green bell peppers, Elmwood Farm cipollini onions, Stone Hedge Farm  habanero chilies, and Madison County Mountain Spring beefsteak tomatoes.

I simply mimicked Mr. Brown.
Diced. Chopped. Sliced. Squeezed. Nothing more, nothing less.

I even dished it up in the same plastic cup.

So, how did the conch salad stack up to the fresh  Freeport version?  It was close enough to turn the page, finish the chapter, and close the book on the islands.

For now.