Bones

There are few short cuts when it comes to making a good demi glace. Although it's a simple sauce, it takes time. Sure, there are plenty of commercial products on the market to cut the time crunch. While some of the products are quite good, most of them are grainy salt bombs. In its most elemental form, demi glace is a concentrated brown sauce. Getting to the demi stage is a different matter all together. Classically, it's made by reducing veal stock with equal parts of Sauce Espagnole (a roux-thickened brown Mother Sauce).  Old school. The school of Escoffier. Nowadays, most modern kitchens bypass the roux-based Espagnole Sauce  by utilizing a straight up reduction for purity.  While demi glace specifically refers to veal based stocks, chicken and beef are often substituted. Pick the method. Pick the protein. It doesn't matter. Demi glace starts with stock. Bones are key.

Four Hills Farm Rack of Lamb with Mint Bordelaise.
Stock.
I had some time to kill. Lots of time.
Armed with 5 pounds of meat-covered beef knuckle bones from Elmwood Stock Farm, I started my little journey. Typically, a combination of oxtails, shanks, necks, and knuckle bones would have been ideal. Gobs of surface areas exposed to heat allows optimum browning to occur. The deep browning process produces a deeper stock. Blah. Blah. Blah. That said,  I had knuckle bones. Big ones. Think huge beefy knee caps. If (emphasis on if) I had a butcher's bone saw withing arms reach, I supposed I could have broken down the knuckles into smaller pieces. Didn't happen.

After plopping the bones onto a sheet pan, I tossed them with canola oil and slid them into a 400 degree preheated oven to roast for 45 minutes. Midway through the browning process, I added chopped (unpeeled) onions, roughly chopped carrots, smashed garlic cloves, and chopped celery. When the vegetables, meat, and bones were deeply caramelized, I pulled them from the oven, transferred them to a stock pot, and added enough cold water to cover them by 2 inches. I placed the messy sheet pan over a medium flame, deglazed the sticky bits with a splash of red wine, and scraped the fabulous goo into the stock pot. After adding fresh parsley stems, thyme, bay leaves, and black peppercorns to the mix, I brought the stock to a boil, reduced the heat, and let it simmer for a ridiculous 8 hours, skimming the scum along the way. Yep.

After several glasses of wine, supper, and a small nap, I strained the stock through a cheesecloth-lined chinois (excessive), placed the bowl of stock into an ice bath to cool, and slid it into the refrigerator to chill overnight.

Demi Glace/Borderlaise.
Bordelaise is simply a red wine-infused demi glace.
The next morning, I pulled the stock from the refrigerator and removed the layer of fat. I poured 2 cups of cabernet sauvignon into a stock pot, cranked the heat to high, brought the wine to a boil, turned the heat down to a simmer, and let the wine reduce by half before adding 3 tablespoons of tomato paste, and 8 cups of my reserved defatted beef stock. Going a bit new school without the roux-based Sauce Espagnole, I simmered the wine-infused stock for 4 1/2  hours. Crazy. When it reduced to 2 cups, I scattered a handful of fresh mint into the sauce to steep and let it simmer until it could coat the back of a spoon. After straining out the mint, I ladled the mint bordelaise into a small sauce pan and placed it over a very low flame.

The Extra Stuff.
During the down time, I baked  individual  potato gratins, pickled  a few radishes, and pureed a small bunch of boiled carrots with specks of citrusy sumac. Enough said. Garnish. Meat and three, so to speak.

Lamb.
I had a gorgeous 1 pound frenched 8 rib rack of lamb from Four Hills Farm in Slavisa, Kentucky. It was so petite and delicate, I certainly didn't want to muck it up. After bringing the lamb to room temperature, I brushed the lamb with olive oil before seasoning it with garlic powder, salt, and pepper. I cranked a cast iron skillet to medium high heat (dry) and browned the lamb rack on all sides, 4 minutes per side. I pulled the rack from the skillet and brushed it a thin coating of the simmering bordelaise before rolling it through a combination of minced fresh parsley, fresh snipped chives, and minced fresh rosemary. I packed the herbs onto the  flesh, tossed the rack of lamb back into the cast iron skillet (fat side up), and roasted it at 400 degrees until the internal temperature reached 125 degrees. After about 15 minutes, I pulled the lamb from the oven, removed it to a cutting board, tented it with foil, and let it  rest for 15 minutes.

After slicing the lamb rack between the tiny rib bones, I nestled the chops over the potato gratins, puddled the mint bordelaise around the ribs and smeared the sumac-scented carrot puree to the side before finishing with Bourbon County micro greens and quick pickled radishes.

Here's the deal. The demi glace/bordelaise might have been a little excessive and troublesome. I didn't care in the least. Happily dogged by trouble and excess, I had a blast. And the result? Ridiculous. The bordelaise was both intense and light. The subtle hints of mint poked through the heavily concentrated  sauce and offset the slight gaminess of the tender lamb. While the soft sumac-spiked carrot puree added whispers of perky creaminess, the radishes and micro greens provided biting acidic crunch. Perfect. That said,  it was all about the succulent lamb and rich bordelaise. At some point, we tossed our utensils. The ribs begged to be manhandled. Finger food.  Swipe. Eat. Repeat.

We had bones.
Full circle.

Red Wattle

The long arctic winter came to a crashing halt when I spotted  gorgeous baby rainbow chard from Elmwood Stock Farm at our Lexington Farmers' Winter Market. Skidaddle, winter. Boom, it's over. You've lost your power here. Because I'd grown accustomed to the usual winter market pickings, I was surprised to find something green (other than kale) dancing in the morning light. Finally. With the official Farmers' Market Spring Kickoff on April 5th just days away, the feathery baby chard leaves offered a sneak peak of what's to come. Shop local. Shop often. Expect the unexpected. There will always be surprises. Always. Bring it.

Puffed up from my self-declared secret find, I went on my merry way. Bounding past the unassuming Two Forks Farm table, home of Hood's Heritage Hogs,Travis Hood pulled me in with his unabashed enthusiasm and commitment to his craft. Talk about passion. I was totally blown away. Their mission statement begins very simply, Know your farmer. Know your food. As I flipped through the various Red Wattle Hog cuts he brought to the market that day (roasts,loins, chops, bacon, ham steaks,and sausage), people hovered around waiting for me to choose something. When I finally settled on a rather small tail-end pork tenderloin, the gallery jumped into the fray and gobbled up the rest. That was exciting.  In a way, it reminded me of those frenzied early summer mornings when I felt the need to rush to the farmers' market to buy the good tomatoes before they vanished. Welcome back, Spring. Open arms..

Roasted Pork Tenderloin with Wilted Baby Rainbow Chard.
Years before my cooking stints at The Kentucky Bourbon Festival, we hosted bourbon tasting/pairing dinners at work.  Back in the day, (my baby step days) I tried to keep things as simple as possible. My go to entree at the time was bourbon braised pork loin. I seasoned  a few 8 pound boneless pork loins with salt, slathered them with dijon mustard, and packed them with brown sugar before roasting the pork until the fat melted away and swirled into the pan juices, about 2 1/2 hours. While basic, it was killer.

Scaling everything back with a few downsized changes, I adapted my old stand-by method to fit the shorter cooking time for my smaller less fatty Red Wattle pork tenderloin.

I mixed 1 cup dark brown sugar with 1 tablespoon each onion powder, garlic powder, smoked paprika, kosher salt, ground mustard, and cracked black pepper.  After smearing the whole tenderloin with sharp dijon mustard, I packed the spiced brown sugar on all four sides and set it aside to come to room temperature.

After 35 minutes, I splashed 2 tablespoons of olive oil into a large cast iron skillet and cranked the heat to medium high. Just as it started to ripple, I added the pork tenderloin and browned it on all sides before deglazing the hot skillet (off the heat) with 1 cup of Town Branch bourbon. I scraped the sticky bits from the bottom of the skillet, added 1/2 cup chicken stock, and slid the pork tenderloin into a preheated 400 degree oven to roast until the internal temperature reached 145 degrees. After 30 minutes, I pulled the meat from the oven, placed it on a cutting board (covered) and let it rest for 15 minutes to let the juices redistribute throughout the meat.

I strained the pan juices through a fine mesh strainer, poured them back into the skillet and added 1/2 cup chicken stock along with a splash of bourbon. I brought the sauce to a boil, reduced it to a simmer, and let it bubble away.

Typically, when preparing swiss chard, the tender leaves are stripped from the tougher stalks. The newly harvested baby chard was so fresh, I left the tiny stalks attached to the leaves, trimmed them up a bit, and rinsed them under cold running water.

With everything on deck, I didn't want to cook the crap out of the chard. Working over a medium flame, I sauteed 2 thinly sliced shallots with 2 quartered hot pickled cherry peppers. When the shallots started to caramelize, I threw a handful of the baby chard  into the pan, kissed it with fresh lemon juice, gave it a quick toss, and pulled it from the heat.

After slicing the pork tenderloin into 2" medallions, I nestled them into pillows of creamy celery root puree, twirled the wilted baby chard to the side, spooned the pan sauce over the medallions, and finished with peppery watercress.

I loved everything about this. Anchored by the airy celery root puree and lovely wilted chard, the utterly tender heritage pork tasted like pork should taste. Real. As the tenderloin roasted, the few ribbons of fat basted the meat like butter and melted into the mustardy brown sugar rub. Like my old school method, the spiced caramelized fat mixed with the reduced bourbon to create a sauce spiked with vanilla undertones. With a bit of added stock, the sauce morphed into a subtle sum of it parts. Savory, sweet, delicate, and complex.
Perfect.

Salty Fish

There's a lot more to anchovies than salty little fish. We're all familiar with those salt bombs that stick to the top of carryout pizza boxes (well, if you order anchovies). That type might be on the lower rung of the anchovy food chain, but they're great mixed into salad dressings or sauces for that special umami thing. That said, not all anchovies are stacked and packed in razor sharp flip-top cans. Salt and pressure are the keys to curing anchovies. After stacking alternating layers of anchovies and salt into drums, the anchovies are pressed with weights, and left to cure. The salt draws out the moisture and preserves the fish. From that stage the anchovies are either canned in oil, jarred in oil,  or packed in salt. I usually opt for oil-packed jarred anchovies. Whether swimming in a plain olive oil bath or jarred with garlic and red chilis, they usually come vertically packed or rolled up like little fiddlehead ferns. They're easy to work with and the residual flavored oil is an added bonus. Win. Salt-packed anchovies are a different beast. Prized for their cleaner taste, the salt-packed varieties have to be filleted, cleaned, and rinsed before use. I really don't care how they prepared, packed, curled, or stacked, I'm an absolute fool for anchovies.

Several years ago, while lunching with Michael at an area restaurant, I discovered marinated white anchovies or boquerones en vinagre (fresh anchovy fillets marinated in vinegar and olive oil). The pristine fish fillets arrived unannounced as a garnish on an overworked and heavy handed  salad nicoise. I ravaged them with abandon, dangling the slightly pickled darlings over my tongue before slurping them down like wet ramen noodles. The slippery-skinned and mild tasting unsalted fish changed the anchovy game.

To this day, when I'm lucky enough to run across them, I order white anchovies straight up. No salad needed. On really fabulous days, Michael brings them home. Cue the music.

Simple Flatbread with Baby Arugula, White Anchovies, and Stuff.
Me and my anchovies. A lesson in self indulgence.
I wasn't gunning to make pizza, foccacia, or true flatbread. I guess I was shooting for something like a big cracker. I sifted 2 cups of all purpose flour with a pinch of salt and 1 1/2 teaspoons baking soda before adding 1/2 cup chilled water. After forming the dough into a loose ball, I kneaded it for 5 minutes, floured a large wooden board, and rolled the dough into a very thin misshapen oblong. Hell, I didn't care what it looked like. I brushed the dough with olive oil, scattered thinly sliced onions over the top,and slid it into a 400 degree oven to bake for 35 minutes. When the cracker-bread browned and the onions charred, I pulled the crust from the oven to cool.

I tossed baby arugula with fresh lemon juice, olive oil, flaked sea salt, and cracked black pepper. After covering the baked cracker with lettuce, I tumbled slivered red bell peppers and sliced kumquats into the leaves before finishing with butterflied white anchovies. Booya.

So simple. Like glammed up canned sardines on crackers (one of my father's favorite things), the unlikely combination worked. Bitter arugula. Sweet/tart kumquats. Charred onions. Cracker crust. White anchovies. Perfect.

Game changer.                                                          

Pearls

I think beets get a bad rap. They're almost polarizing. People either love or hate the earthy downtrodden root. I know there are people out there who love beets. While I'm on the love-fest side of the fence, very few people I know share my enthusiasm. I typically have to grab them on the sly or catch them on an occasional salad bar. That said, my last few salad bar adventures were beet-less. Zero. Slim pickings for a beet lover.

Sometimes, you have to grab the bull by the horns and take a little ride. I wanted beets. Period. Giddy-up, Mr. Bull.

Roasted Beet Salad.
Typically, I roast beets in individually-wrapped aluminum packets. While it's a great method, it's messy business. The beets usually stick to the foil and bleed from the packets. Familiar territory. Low on my foil supply, I took a simpler approach. After snipping the greens (washed and reserved)  from 3 bunches of chioggia, red, and golden beets, I scrubbed the beet bulbs before dropping them into a shallow roasting pan. I added 1/2 cup water, covered the pan with aluminum foil, and slid them into a 375 degree oven to roast/steam/bake for 1 1/2 hours.

When the beets were tender enough to poke through with a wooden skewer, I pulled them from the oven and let them rest until they were cool enough to handle. Using rubber gloves, I easily slipped the skins from the beets and tossed them into the refrigerator to chill. Sure, I splattered everything in sight with wet crimson beet juice. When you play with beets, expect bloodshed.

With the beets safely tucked away, I gave a demure nod to molecular gastronomy with a simple method for balsamic pearls from Modernist Cooking Made Easy.
Balsamic Pearls.
After placing 1 cup of olive oil into the freezer to chill for 45 minutes, I boiled 1/2 cup balsamic vinegar with 1 tablespoon agar agar and poured the mixture into a squeeze bottle.  When the olive oil was quite chilled and cloudy, I carefully drizzled droplets of the thickened balsamic vinegar into the oil. As the droplets fell through the cold olive oil, they formed into tiny little spheres. Fabulous. I gave the pearls a quick stir to break them apart before dropping them into chilled water to set.

I pulled the beets from the refrigerator, sliced them paper thin rounds, tossed them with sliced watermelon radishes, added a few small raw beet greens, and drizzled everything with a simple lemon vinaigrette. After layering them will-nilly onto a serving plate, I nestled the balsamic pearls into the beets before finishing with flaked sea salt and slivered serrano peppers.

The glistening jewel-toned beets packed a potent earthy punch. Sliced whisper thin, they were both robust and delicate. Crazy. Mimicking the tender sweet beets, the watermelon radishes crashed the party with killer stinging crunch.  So, balsamic pearls and lemon vinaigrette? Overkill? Nope. It was a fantastic combination. The jellied balsamic pearls countered the bright clean acidity of the lemon vinaigrette with small pops of concentrated dark sweet acidity. Balance.

Beet fix.
Total self indulgence.

Tail

At first glance, it might appear that Quarles Farm offers only baked goods, salsas, jams, and jellies at the Winter Farmers' Market. Not so. Dig a little deeper and ask a few questions. Their coolers (loaded with goat, lamb, and beef) are goldmines.  On my last visit, they offered  local apples and parsnips alongside their fantastic canned goods and breads. I was on the prowl for neck bones. Nope. I had to think fast, spin on a dime, flip a coin, journey to the other end, and choose tail. Oxtail. Aside to myself. Oddly, oxtail is commonly referred to as oxtails. Plural. Lots of tails. Many tails.  I kind of get the notion. Packaged supermarket oxtail fools the eye with big meaty chunks of tail. Locally sourced oxtail is readily packaged as one tail. Oxtail. Singular. From the fat butt-end section down to the tiny fly swatter, it's one tail.

Slapped back to reality, I passed on the apples, snagged a bundle of parsnips, and picked up a gorgeous piece of tail. My initial plan was to conjure up an intoxicating curried neck bone stew. With the same gelatinous marrow content of neck bones, I could have easily substituted the tail for the neck bones. In the end, I took a straightforward approach (with a few tricks) with the oxtail.

Red Wine Braised Oxtail with Parsnips, Carrots, and Cipollini Onions.
Braised oxtail is a beautiful thing. Because of its wonderful fat content, oxtail is best prepared a day in advance. Perfect timing for a lazy weekend.

Day 1.
After tying the oxtail pieces with kitchen twine to keep them intact, I seasoned them liberally and  browned them in sizzling  hot oil. When they were deeply browned (almost charred), I pulled them from the pot before adding chopped celery, onions, carrots, parsnips, and 2 tablespoons tomato paste. When the vegetables and paste caramelized, I deglazed the pot with a full bottle of cabernet sauvingnon. I scraped the bits from the bottom of the pot, let the wine reduce by half, and added 2 cups beef stock. At that point, it was pretty basic stuff. Beef stew, in a sense. To give the braise an extra oomph, I tossed 3 salty oil-packed anchovies into the stock along with 2 tablespoons pulverized dried porcini mushrooms. Although it might sound odd, I knew the anchovies would melt into the stock and quietly disappear. Masquerading as invisible umami bombs, the glutamates in both the mushrooms and anchovies would actually make the beef taste beefier. Win. That said, I brought the stock to a boil, reduced it to a simmer, added bay leaves, covered the pot, and slid it into a 350 degree oven.

After 31/2  hours, I pulled the pot from the oven, removed the meat to a side plate, drained the stock, discarded the vegetables, and wiped out the pot before pouring the reduced cooking liquid back into the pot. I nestled the oxtail into the warm stock and added a few fresh parsley sprigs to steep in the braising liquid while it cooled. When completely cooled, I covered the pot and slid the oxtail into the refrigerator to chill  overnight.

Day 2.
Thankfully, I tied the delicate meat with twine because the bundles were completely embedded in the coagulated beefy wine jelly. After carefully plucking them from the wine-infused demi glace, I skimmed the fat from the top, spooned the remainder into a cast iron skillet, added the oxtail, and set it aside.

To balance the richness of the oxtail I simply steamed a few carrots and parsnips until they were tender before sauteing them in butter with blanched cipollini onions. I set the vegetables aside and  gently rewarmed the braised oxtail over a medium flame. As the demi glace melted into the skillet, I used it to constantly baste the meat  until it was deeply glazed and lacquered with the mahogany jus. I scooped the tail from the sultry sauce, tucked the pieces into swaths of chive-flecked white sweet potato puree, and tumbled the vegetables to the side before finishing with lightly dressed celery leaves, slivered red pepper, and baby arugula.

Here's the deal, there is nothing fancy about braised oxtail. I mean, it's a tail.  A fly swatter. A bony thing with meat.

There was a lot going on. Cooked low and slow for hours, the collagens dissolved into the meat, rendering it utterly tender. Unleashed from its twined corset, the tender shreds spilled into the unctuous sauce, peppery parsnips, and soft sweet carrots. Hearty, lusty, and far from the dainty, the innocent meat-and-three quickly morphed into a shameless bone sucking meaty romp.

The perfect piece of tail.

Gone Fishin'

The best laid plans...

I had a simple plan. Braise a spatchcocked cornish hen in white wine with yellow tomatoes and yellow bell peppers. Simple. Lazy. A little somethin' somethin' Sunday night supper kind-of-thing. I wanted to break in a new enamel cast iron dutch oven that Michael and I recently picked up on the cheap. It wasn't fancy. It was cheap and cute. 

With everything on deck, I cranked the dutch oven over a medium high flame, drizzled the pan with olive oil, and added 2 minced shallots.  When the shallots turned translucent, I scattered minced garlic into the mix. Just before the garlic went too far, I hit the pan with white wine to release the sticky bits before adding chicken stock. I immediately recognized that sound. I knew exactly what had happened. In rapid fire slow motion (think strobe light), the faux cast iron dutch oven splintered and cracked into large broken shards, spilling sticky butter, shallots, garlic, and white wine everywhere. Yep. As the braising liquid oozed down the sides of the oven and puddled onto the floor, I stood in awe of my ridiculous mess. Sometimes, I simply amaze myself. Professionally and personally, I've had my share of kitchen blunders. Trust me. Crap happens. I've learned to roll with the punches and move on.

I trashed everything, had a good laugh,  cleaned up the mess, poured myself a glass of wine, and used a kitchen cleaver to hack the dainty splayed hen into several bite sized chunks.  After battering and deep frying the pieces, I smothered them with buttery hot sauce. Deep fried Buffalo chicken, thank you very much. Celery batons for crunch  and creamy gorgonzola for dipping. Go with the flow.

Needing to wash that hen right out of my hair, I decided to go fishing. Well, not fishing fishing. I stopped by The Lexington Seafood Company and caught gorgeous fresh grouper filets. Easy. Simple. Safe.

Poached Grouper.
I'm not much of a poacher. Sure, I'll poach eggs for brunch or midnight snacks, but when it comes down to meaty or fishy stuff, I prefer a quick saute or long braise. Typically, fish is poached in either olive oil, white wine, or court boullion. It's delicate work. Delicate doesn't become me, so in lieu of the traditional mediums, I used tomatoes for a heartier and less dainty approach.

 That said, the grouper filets begged for a light hand. Using our reliable cast iron skillet, I warmed 4 tablespoons of olive oil over a low flame before adding minced onions and sliced garlic. As they started to perfume the oil, I hand-crushed a 28oz can of San Marzano whole tomatoes into the mix. After adding 1/2 cup white wine, smashed kalamata olives, fresh tarragon, and sliced Meyer lemons, I brought the poaching liquid to a boil, reduced the heat, and let it ripple for 15 minutes before sliding the grouper filets into the simmering sauce. Because I didn't want the fish to overcook, I reduced the heat a bit further and covered the skillet to gently poach the fish for about 8 minutes.


After sliding the grouper filets into shallow soup bowls, I draped them with the tomatoes and tumbled simple boiled potatoes to the side before finishing with fresh tarragon, lemon slices, steamed julienned snow peas, olive oil, and white buttered bread for sopping.

Although the tomato poaching liquid might have bumped up the heartiness factor, the grouper remained incredibly tender and moist. During the quick poach, the fresh tarragon infused the tomatoes with subtle anise undertones. While the Meyer lemons added spunky sweet acidity,  the briny olives countered with needed saltiness. Grounded by the potatoes and crisp snow peas, the poached filets were surprisingly light, soft, and airy. Bathed in the sweet crushed tomatoes, lemons, olives, and fruity extra virgin olive oil, the grouper flesh flaked apart on a whisper, melted into the sauce, and teetered on the edge of morphing into a delicate fish stew. A fabulous unexpected win.

Simple. Complex. Crazy.

Chocolate

Mole (pronounced moh-lay) comes from the Nauhauti (Aztec Language) word "mulli", which means sauce or concoction. Depending on the ingredients used to create the concoction, regional variations of mole are very diverse and can be either green, yellow, red, or black. Where did mole originate?  It's common lore that 16th century nuns from the Convent of Santa Rosa in Puebla, Mexico were expecting a visit from the Archbishop. In a panic to feed him, they gathered what they had on hand (chiles, nuts, tortillas, spices, and chocolate), roasted and toasted them, ground them into a paste, diluted the paste with water, threw the mix into a cazuella with a slaughtered wild turkey, and created Mole Poblano de Guajolote or Turkey in Mole Poblano.

Mole Poblano is probably the most familiar and popular of the mole variations. While most people refer to it as a Mexican chocolate sauce, it's actually a complex multilayered  chile sauce with a little chocolate. And it's fabulous. Around our part of the country, it usually pops up in restaurants served over enchiladas or as a side sauce. Occasionally, I'll come across Pollo Mole Poblano on a restaurant menu. When I do, I'm all over the spiced chocolate chicken.

As much as I adore mole, I've never had the time or tenacity to attempt making it because of the time commitment. I finally had the time and the inclination to play with mole.

In Mexico, mole poblano varies from household to household, village to village, and from region to region. With the common denominator being chiles and chocolate, almost anything goes. Whether using a minimum amount of ingredients or going all out with as many as 30 ingredients, technique is crucial. There are some rules. Roast. Toast. Grind. Blend.

After deciding to do a full blown make-the-nuns-proud mole poblano, I made a quick trip to Super Mercado Aguascalientes to source my ingredients. Chiles, check. Spices, check. A gazillion other things, double check.

Turkey in Mole Poblano.
Round 1
While no two moles are alike, they're all loaded with sultry madness. Some folks simply throw everything into a pot at the same time. Nope. I wanted to honor the complexity of the layers. It was all about building flavors. To do so, everything had to be prepared individually. Although it was a bit involved, it was simple and straightforward. That said, I had a hard time wrapping my head around the process. I stayed true to the technique, but created my own little crazy method. Mise en place was key. Big time.

Chiles.
I stemmed and seeded 6 dried ancho chiles, 6 dried pasilla chiles, 4 dried mulato chiles, and 3 dried tobacco-colored dried chipotle chiles. After tearing them into pieces, I dry roasted them in a very hot cast iron skillet before covering them with boiling water to soften for 30 minutes.

Spices.
Working over a medium flame, I used the same hot skillet to individually toast 1 teaspoon black peppercorns, 1/2 teaspoon whole cloves, 1 teaspoon whole aniseed, 2 crumbled bay leaves, 1 tablespoon whole allspice berries, 1 stick canela (mild Mexican cinnamon, broken), and 1 tablespoon Mexican oregano. When the spices cooled, I ground them into a powder and set them aside.

Nuts and Seeds.
To help thicken the mole and ground the flavor with a slight nuttiness, I  toasted 5 tablespoons sesame seeds, 1/2 cup hulled pumpkin seeds, 1/2 cup peanuts, and 1/2 cup whole almonds before tossing them into the spice mixture.

The Fresh Stuff.
After halving 2 plum tomatoes, 2 tomatillos, and 1 large white onion, I broiled them until they were charred. Really charred. Just before they cumbusted , I tossed 5 whole garlic cloves into the mix to cook and soften.

Sweeteners.
Sweet balances heat. I chopped a ripe plantain and sauteed it in 1 tablespoon olive oil.  When the soft flesh started to caramelize, I tumbled 1/2 cup raisins into the skillet and added a splash of liquid from the soaking chiles to plump the raisins.


Thickeners.
Down the stretch. Over an open flame, I toasted 2 corn tortillas and 2 slices of white bread before tearing them into small pieces and setting them aside.

With everything on deck, I poured myself a huge glass of wine and took a break.

Round 2.
To strain or not to strain? I wanted a smooth mole, so I strained everything.
Working in batches, I pureed the re-hydrated peppers (with soaking liquid) in a food processor, pressed them through a fine mesh strainer, and discarded the solids. After heating 3 tablespoons of bacon fat (in lieu of lard) in a dutch oven until it was smoking hot, I lowered the heat, added the chile puree, and simmered it for 15 minutes. Without cleaning the bowl, I tumbled the charred vegetables, garlic, spice mixture, nuts, raisins, tortillas, bread, and plantains into the food processor.  After adding 2 cups chicken stock, I gave it  a quick puree, strained it, discarded the solids, and added it to the simmering chile puree.

I cracked the Mexican chocolate into large pieces with a sharp knife, scraped them into the bubbling mole along with 2 tablespoons of piloncillo (raw cane sugar), simmered the sauce for 35 minutes, pulled it from the heat, and cooled it to room temperature before sliding it into the refrigerator to chill overnight.

Round 3.
Turkey. I know, right? Who the hell roasts a turkey a week before Valentine's Day? In all fairness, I didn't roast a whole 15 or 20  pound turkey. I kept it somewhat reasonable by roasting a 4 pound bone-in turkey breast. I slathered the skin and underlying flesh  with oregano, thyme, and seasoned butter. After preheating the oven to 325 degrees, I slid the turkey breast into the oven to roast for 1 1/2 hours. Traditionally, turkey is poached or simmered in the mole. Because I wanted some turkey flavor and fat to seep into the sauce, I plopped 2 large turkey drumsticks into a cast iron skillet, covered them with the mole, added a few sprigs of fresh cilantro, covered the pan, and slid the legs into the oven to braise alongside the breast. Two for the price of one. Knockout round.

So, here's the deal. I've always been served chicken mole on a bed of iceberg lettuce topped with sesame seeds and sliced white onions. I'm not sure why. It's not traditional. Traditional or not, it's pretty fantastic.

After basting the breast and babysitting the legs for 1 1/2 hours, I pulled them from the oven to rest. I carved a whole turkey breast lobe from one side of the turkey, sliced it into thin pieces, and fanned it over iceberg lettuce with cilantro-flecked white rice to the side. I drizzled the mole poblano over the turkey, tucked sliced white onions between the slices, and dusted them with sesame seeds. Grilled corn tortillas, avocado, and fresh limes finished it off.

Holy moly. As the turkey juices dripped through the flesh and puddled with the sauce, I almost felt naughty eating the mole-stained meat. There was a lot going on. While the seductive sweetness of the chocolate tempered the smoldering heat of the chiles, every individual spice, vegetable, herb, seed, nut, and fruit seemed fully present. Big. Bold. Soft. Perfect.



And the drumsticks?
Two-fisted midnight snacks.
Messy mole lipstick.