Tomato Pudding

I peeled a lot of tomatoes the summer I moved back home to take care of my father. By golly, my dad loved his tomatoes. Bolstered by a sprawling garden tucked away in pasture just off the back deck, his tomato supply was endless. The garden fueled his need to have freshly picked sun-kissed sliced and peeled tomatoes with every meal. Yep, peeled tomatoes for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. One by one, row by row, bushel by bushel, I peeled a gazillion tomatoes that summer....with a dull paring knife.

For most of the summer and fall, we simply ate tomatoes with a dusting of salt. Sometime along the way, I slipped a small canister of flaky sea salt onto the table for added crunch. A delicious small win. Cracked Tellicherry peppercorns would have been a stretch, so I didn't go there. One day, out of the blue, my dad requested his mother's tomato pudding. Tomato pudding? News to me. By the time I'd settled onto the farm as a kid, her beloved tomato pudding must have fallen out of favor or slipped through the cracks as a forgotten recipe from leaner times because it never made it onto our dinner table. I'm not sure what bolted him back to memories of his childhood on the farm and his need for her pudding. It simply happened. Just like that. Boom. He wanted his mother's tomato pudding. Alrighty, then. I tried to play along.

Apparently, back in the day, my grandmother fashioned her old fashioned tomato pudding with canned garden tomatoes from the cellar mixed with sugar and leftover breakfast biscuits. Much like other bread puddings, the bread soaked up the juices, disintegrated into the tomatoes, and turned into pudding.

Without the luxury of a dank dark cellar, I relied on the sea of fresh tomatoes at my fingertips combined with frozen Fort Knox commissary white bread. I kept the puddings basic for a while. Before long, I got a little uppity and started  adding stuff.  There were hits and misses along the way. Wild mushrooms? Miss. Anchovies? Big miss. Raisin bread? Nope. Goat cheese? Big mistake. Croissants? A one hit wonder. Through it all, he was a good sport. In the end, my tarted up  tomato puddings lacked soul, so I reversed course and went back to the basics by using leftover breakfast biscuits mixed with fresh garden tomatoes. Humble. Old school. Endearing.

When lusty tomatoes start fading into warm summer memories, tomato pudding is a great use for the seconds, culls, uglies, or end of season tomatoes. As unassuming as it might be, Michael and I still adore tomato pudding warmly wrapped up in hand-me-down memories.

Tomato Pudding.
Right off of the bat, I peeled the tomatoes the easy way.
After coring and scoring 5 large overly ripe Pulaski County Big Boy tomatoes, I plopped them into salted simmering water for 45 seconds.  When the skins started to curl away from the flesh, I fished the tomatoes out of the water with a wire spider, dropped them into ice water to cool, placed them onto a dish towel, and slipped off the skins. No fuss.

Without a shred of finesse, I chopped the tomatoes into juicy chunks, tumbled them into a bowl, and squished the wet fruit into a pulpy mess. Tomato carnage. Because they were packed with tons of juice, I sauteed the tomatoes with 1/2 cup minced candy onion, salt, pepper, and a pinch of brown sugar over medium heat to tighten up a bit before adding 3 large roughly crumbled  leftover buttermilk breakfast biscuits. When the biscuits softened and swirled through the pulp, I scooped the mix into a buttered Bybee Pottery baking dish.

For texture and crunch, I smashed 2 additional biscuits into crumbs with a rolling pin before tossing them with minced  fresh parsley and parmigiano reggiano ( sacrilege).  After lightly packing the breadcrumbs over the tomato pudding, I drizzled the topping with olive oil, and slid the pudding into a 350 degree oven (uncovered) to bake for 40 minutes.

When the crumb topping was nicely browned, I pulled the tomato pudding from the oven to rest.

As the pudding settled down from the heat, I cracked the biscuit shell with a spoon  to snag the ruby red filling. Sealed beneath the herbaceous parmigiano crust, the salty biscuits softened, plumped with the juices of the crushed tomatoes, and jiggled on the spoon like a proper pudding should.

Sweet and savory.
Soft and crunchy.
Old fashioned tomato pudding.

Simple country fare.
Fabulous.

Vietnamese Beef Noodle Soup

Fragrant and aromatic. Alluring and intoxicating. Pho bo, the iconic Vietnamese beef noodle soup, is a powerful force. A really good bowl of pho mystically captures the soul and sweeps it away. Anything less is like a bad date prolonged by cheap warm wine. With fresh garnishes, chiles, herbs, and condiments on hand to accent the soup, the mysterious essence of pho lies in the broth. It's all about the broth. Anchored by marrow-rich meaty bones cooked low and slow for several hours with charred onions, ginger, sensual tongue-numbing cloves, exotic licorice-like star anise, fennel, cardamon, and the warm subtle heat of cinnamon, pho is a lovely complex assault on the senses. It only takes one very brief slurp to understand pho. One sip. One slurp. Drinkable.

Here's the deal. With such a rich heritage, there are many deep-rooted variations of Vietnamese beef noodle soup. I'm no pho expert. I'm just a Kentucky boy who loves to stick his face in a steaming bowl of pho. While fabulous restaurant versions are great for instant gratification, I wanted  to experience the essence of pho with an adventurous culinary jaunt.

Pho Broth.
There's a fine line between broth and stock. In a way, they're interchangeable. The bone to meat ratio is key. Whereas stocks use mostly bones, broths use a combination of meat and bones. Pho broth, with a few fun tweaks and interesting change-ups, is actually very similar to classic French beef stock. With the exception of some minor prep, it might even be simpler. Who knew? It's definitely more fun.

Typically, basic beef stock is made from roasting beef bones and mirepoix (separately)  until they are caramelized. The combination is then tumbled into a stock pot with herbs and spices, covered with water, brought to a boil, and left to simmer for a few hours with periodical scum skimming to achieve clarity. Blah. Blah. Blah.  Pho broth takes an alternative route.

I fell in love.

Bones.
Meat.
Spice.

Blanching. The crud police.
To achieve purity and alleviate the need for excessive skimming, I tumbled 3 pounds of Quarle's Farm meaty beef shins into a large stock pot along with 2 pounds of Elmwood Stock Farm oxtails. After covering them with cool water, I cranked the heat to high and boiled the bones/meat for 10 minutes to release the crud. I drained the bones into a colander, rinsed the pot, and rinsed the bones before returning them to the pot.

Aromatics. Onions and ginger.
I sliced 2 Shelby County candy onions in half (skin on) and split a 5" hand of ginger before grilling the pieces over flaming hot coals until they were charred. Yep. Blistered caramelization. The quirky looking outer char insured succulent and aromatic sweet flesh.

Spice:
I bundled 5 gorgeous star anise pods, 1 tablespoon fennel, 5 cloves, 1 large stick cinnamon, and 1 tablespoon whole coriander into frilly cheesecloth, tied it up in a knot, and set it aside.

Broth.
After tossing the charred onions and ginger into the stock pot with the blanched meaty bones, I added the spice bundle along with a 2" chunk of white rock candy. After throwing an additional cinnamon stick into the pot for good measure, I filled  the pot with 3 quarts of cool water, brought it a boil, reduced it to a simmer, added 1/4 cup Three Crabs fish sauce, and let it rip for a ridiculous 9 hours. Some broths can go for as long as 24 hours. Nope.  9 hours allowed enough time for the aromatics, spices, collagen, marrow,
and beef to amply  flavor the broth.

Just before calling it a day, I drained the broth through a colander double-lined with cheesecloth, quickly chilled it down over an ice bath, discarded the bones, reserved the oxtail meat, and slid the broth into the refrigerator to chill overnight.

When thoroughly chilled, stock/broth should have a thin layer of fat covering jiggly deeply flavored beef gelatin. Beef jelly. After carefully cracking the layer of fat, I scraped it from the top (with a few bits reserved), plopped the coagulated broth into a sauce pan, and brought it to a smoldering simmer.

As the beef jelly slowly melted into the pan, I blanched fresh Banh Pho rice noodles in boiling water for 10 seconds, rinsed them under cold water, and briefly set them aside.

I feathered the rice noodles into large bowls, tucked warmed shards of oxtail meat into the noodles, draped thin slices of raw beef tenderloin over the top, scattered slivered candy onions to the side,  and carefully covered the noodles with the aromatic broth. I served the garnishes on the side to keep them fresh and vibrant for every sensual bite.

Transcendent steaming broth. Tender beef. Slippery noodles. Fiery Sriacha. Spicy sweet Hoisen. Perky mint. Thai Basil. Flowering chives. Crisp jalapenos. Crunchy sprouts.


Pho bo.
Toss the chopsticks
and slurp the magic.

Colors

Pink. Red. Yellow. Orange. Green. Brown. Purple. White. Black. Striped. Rusty Red.
Summer tomatoes.
You can taste the colors. From high sugar/low acid to low sugar/high acid to a fifty-fifty balanced split, the flavors of ripe summer tomatoes are literally reflected in their varying colors.While I might be partial to the lusty dark purple and black varieties, I love them all. Any simple stroll through the sea of tomatoes at the farmers market usually makes my head spin. New varieties pop up all  the time. Expect the unexpected. Depending on my mood on any particular day, I might opt for tangy Green Zebras over the irresistible deep smoky sweetness of Purple Cherokees. Then again, cheery Lemon boy or Yellow Pear cherry tomatoes might out-pretty my bent toward sultry Sun Golds. On some days, I can't choose which way to go. Big. Small. Sweet. Smoky. Tart. On other days, I'll forego the decision making and pick a few from my  garden.

And... then there are those days when I simply choose them all. Boom. Yep. The whole shebang. It happened on a very normal early morning pre-work market romp. Befuddled by the dizzying array of colors dancing under the morning sun, I grabbed every variety and color I could get my hands on. Gone was the notion of characterizing and labeling them by sweet/tart ratios. With that in mind, why not toss them all together with a few market peaches and see how nicely they play together? Sun-kissed tomatoes with warm ripe peaches.

Summer Peach and Tomato Salad.
I can't say I did much. It was a simple salad. With such gorgeous tomatoes, my goal was to not muck it up. Starting with the smaller ones, I halved a few Paw Paw Plantation black Indigo Rose plum, Speckled Roman Roma, and Sun Gold tomatoes before splitting several Stonehedge Farm Green Zebras and setting them aside. After slicing Pulaski County red Mule Team, Amana Orange, Great White, and Virginia Sweet tomatoes into thick rounds, I halved a few Green Doctor cherries and sliced thick wheels of Casey County Purple Cherokee tomatoes before snagging a few dainty Yellow Pears from the garden to add to the mix.

With everything on deck, I overlapped the larger sliced  tomatoes onto Milk Glass plates, scattered the smaller ones over the top, tucked thin wedges of warm freestone market peaches into the tomatoes, and splashed the salad with a faint drizzle of white balsamic vinegar and extra virgin olive oil before finishing with parsley, purple basil, coarsely cracked black pepper and flaked sea salt.

Taste the colors.
Eat summer while it lasts.

Simple. Fresh. Fun.

Fabulous.

Ajo Blanco. The Other Gazpacho

Long before tomatoes arrived from the new world and made their way into the silken tomato-based gazpacho we're all familiar with, ajo blanco was the gazpacho of Spain. Ajo blanco (white garlic) was a simple chilled peasant soup concocted to supply nourishment to field workers and help quell the blistering heat that pounded the southern provinces of Spain. Like its red cousin, ajo blanco was created in the southern region of Andulacia, specifically Malaga. The region, rich with olive groves and moorish-influenced almonds, made ajo blanco affordable and readily available. Made with pounded almonds, olive oil, garlic, vinegar, and grapes, it's referred to as the gazpacho of Malaga. Nowadays, ajo blanco has been taken out of the fields and gussied up a bit, paving the way for more refined versions to grace the tables in tapas bars throughout Spain. While elevated from its humble roots, the beauty of ajo blanco lies in its simplicity.

Garlic. Water. Bread. Olive oil. Sherry vinegar. Grapes. Peasant food. Ajo blanco. White gazpacho.

We've had a great tomato season here in Kentucky. Beautiful. Plump. Bountiful. Perfect for gazpacho. That said, while we're still in peak season for summer tomatoes, local grapes have also started to hit the farm stands. Demurely tucked in and around the brash darlings of summer, grapes don't crash the markets like thundering tomato tsunamis. They filter in quietly as they ripen and mature. Amused by their unexpected appearance, I bagged a few Graskop Farm Reliance grapes sold by Elmwood Stock and embraced the other gazpacho.

Ajo Blanco.
Bread.
Without the addition of any cream, good bread provides the faux creaminess that characterizes ajo blanco. I sliced 2 fat Sunrise Bakery tear baguettes in half and ripped the soft bready guts into small pieces. When I accumulated 2 1/2 cups of torn bread, I soaked the pieces in 2 cups of iced water until they softened.

Almonds and garlic.
While the bread plumped in the water, I tumbled 2 cups of raw almonds into simmering water to blanch and help release the skins. Although raw garlic is traditionally used in ajo blanco, I wanted to temper the biting rawness, so I added 4 smashed cloves of Elmwood Stock garlic to the simmering almonds. After 45 seconds, I scooped the almonds and garlic onto a dish towel to drain. When they were cool enough to handle, I slipped the skins off of the garlic cloves and set them aside.  Instead of popping each individual skin from every individual almond, I used the dish towel as friction to slip off the skins and reveal their buttery flesh.  Who knew? Magic.

Back to the bread. I squeezed as much liquid out of the bread as possible, reserved the remaining water, and set the soggy bread aside.

Traditionally, the bread, almonds, and garlic were pounded into a paste using a mortar and pestle. Nope. Didn't happen. I dropped the bread into a food processor along with the almonds, garlic, salt, and white pepper. After adding the reserved soaking water to the processor, I blasted the mixture for 2 minutes before slowly drizzling in 1/2 cup fruity extra virgin olive and 4 tablespoons of Spanish sherry vinegar.

Most folks would've left it at that. To alleviate the slight graininess from the pureed almonds, I strained the soup through a chinois and tossed it into the refrigerator to chill for several hours.

When the ajo blanco was bone cold, I poured the velvety soup into tiny parfait glasses, floated split Reliance grapes over the top, and added a few halved almonds before finishing with snipped chives from my garden.

Funny, while the unlikely combination of ingredients seemed weird, they totally worked together. The soup was deceivingly light and didn't scream garlic. Swirled through the emulsified creamy puree, faint whispers of garlic mingled with the fruity olive oil, pureed bread, buttery ground almonds, and musky tang of the sherry vinegar to create rich complex layers of flavor. While the suspended almonds added crunch, the split grapes provided pops of sweet wet freshness.

The other gazpacho.
Sexy.
Refreshing.
Captivating.

A perfect Kentucky summer tapas.

Lady Fingers

What's in a name? Abelmoschus esculentus. Bhindi. Bamia. Lady fingers. Bendi. Gombo. Okra.
However it's labeled, the slender slime filled pods elicit different responses from different people. It's a love hate thing. Me? I have a total lusty affection for okra and wholeheartedly embrace the slime. That said, it's not all about the slime factor. Granted, when used to thicken Louisiana gumbos or low country okra stews, the mucilaginous stuff melts into the base and disappears. Tricky. It's there without really being there. Makes me smile. Crossing continents and oceans, okra can be found in almost every cuisine throughout the world. While it might not have taken a few European countries by storm, it's revered in Africa, the Middle East, Greece, Turkey, India, South America, the Caribbean, the southern United States, and Kentucky.  That's a love thing. Over the years, I've prepared huge vats and steam kettles filled with creole/cajun sauces containing hundreds of pounds of okra for Mardi Gras merry makers. Even the okra haters gobbled it up.

When not in season, frozen okra is a great understudy for stews and gumbos. Fresh okra, on the other hand, is a real game changer in other preparations. Keep an eye out. Fresh local okra is rolling into farmers markets with unabashed abandon. This year, while the small green pods are still the most common, Stonehedge Farm has pulled out the big guns with Red Burgundy okra. Twisted, long, slender, and gorgeous, they're the fancy pants of the okra world.


 

I adore combining okra with tomatoes. Fresh or frozen okra. Sun-ripened or canned tomatoes. It's a classic pairing. Right now, it's all about fresh okra and sun-kissed tomatoes. As much as I love hoarding the culls and ugly castaway red tomatoes from the market for cooking, I  gravitate toward super ripe Sun Gold cherry tomatoes during the peak summer season for an okra hoot-a nanny.

Red Burgundy Okra with Sun Gold Tomatoes.
Not quite a stew. Not quite a gumbo or saute'. Simply, okra and tomatoes with a few twists.

Tomatoes.
I halved 2 pints of Paw Paw Plantation Sun Gold tomatoes and tossed them into dry cast iron skillet. After seasoning them with salt and pepper, I cranked the heat to high and sauteed the tomatoes until they started to break down. When the sweet pulp oozed from the skins, I mashed the tomatoes with back of a fork to release the rest of the juices and deglazed the skillet with 1/2 cup white wine. As the wine reduced, the skins separated form the pulp and floated to the top. I drained the tomatoes and wine through a medium strainer to catch the skins before returning the remaining pulpy juice to the skillet. After the wine reduced to a silken
glaze, I added 2 cups of chicken stock and let the golden tomato stock bubble away until it reduced by half.

Okra.
Here's the deal. To slime or not to slime? While I could have gone either way, I wanted a bit of crunch to offset the sweet stewed tomatoes. Typically, I blister okra in a very hot skillet to seal the pods with heat. To keep the prep as simple as possible, I took an easier route.  After slicing the burgundy okra pods in half lengthwise, I dropped them into a deep fryer (350 degrees) to flash fry for about 3 minutes. When the split pods were charred and caramelized, I scooped them from the hot oil to drain on paper towels.

I pulled the tomato stock from the heat and tumbled the fried okra into the steaming sauce. To brighten and echo the flavor of the stewed tomatoes, I tumbled a few halved fresh Sun Gold tomatoes around the skillet before finishing (on a whim) with fresh thyme, file' powder, and a heavy-handed dusting of hot smoked paprika.

Simple and rustic, it seemed innocent enough. The okra, suspended over the sauce, crackled and snapped. The stewed tomatoes tasted like wet melted tomato jam. When the okra pods collapsed into the stock and softened, the swollen seeds spilled into the mix like slippery edible pearls. Spice. While the ground sassafras added an earthy level of heat, the hot smoked paprika added pure fire. Innocence lost. The combination of the two added an unexpected explosive depth of flavor and complexity that belied the simplicity of a quick stew/saute'.



Sweet heat.
Lady fingers.
What's in a name?
Fresh Kentucky okra.
Win.

Hand Pies

My grandmother and Miss Lottie were best friends. Their homesteads in Western Kentucky, separated by a winding narrow country road lined with patches of woods, were perched on two rolling hills adjacent to each other. During the winter, when the trees were bare, their houses were visible through the twisted branches. Country neighbors. They might not have spent a lot of  social  time together outside of church, community functions, or shared telephone party-lines, but it was quite evident they were close. Bonded by parallel life experiences, they were similar in many ways. They raised families through the Depression while tirelessly tending to their gardens, pastures, and barnyard animals. Farm life. While I assumed they were the same age, I always had an inkling that Miss Lottie might have been a few hundred years older than my grandmother. When you're a kid, you simply know things.

As similar as they were, Miss Lottie and my grandmother were polar opposites in other ways. During the summer months, my grandmother floated around the house like an aging wisp draped in lightweight sleeveless floral cotton dresses accented with mismatched terrycloth aprons cinched tightly around her waist. Lovely. Miss Lottie, on the other hand, always seemed to be buttoned up from head to toe in sturdier heavy dresses anchored by ankle high black leather sensible shoes. Scary stuff. Opposites. That said, beneath her rigid exterior appearance, Miss Lottie had a heart of gold. During those  hot summer months, when we weren't fishing, swimming, mowing fields, rewiring  fences, or opening/closing cattle gates, we could count on Miss Lottie for two things: her small black pony she kept loosely tied to a tree in her front yard with a long grass rope for neighboring farm kids to ride and her flaky deep fried apple pies. She was the patron saint of summer. While the pony was a given, we never knew when or where her fried apple pies might appear. They simply happened. Without notice, she'd pull up the hill leading to my grandmother's house and deliver a platter of fist sized half-moon shaped deep fried apple pies carefully tucked under meticulously pressed dish towels. Sweet, without being overly sweet, the cooked apples dripped from the fried crusts faster than we could lick our fingers and arms to prevent the precious goo from spilling onto the ground. I can still smell and taste those summer gifts.

Back in the day, fried fruit pies were made from sun dried harvested fruit. Apples. Peaches. Apricots. Preservation. Waste not want not. Right now, it's all about the abundance of ridiculously ripe fresh summer fruit hitting the farm stands and markets. In the fall, when apples flood the markets, I'll give Miss Lottie's fried apple pies a go. During the peak summer season, I'll stick with peaches, plums, blackberries, raspberries, and blueberries. The sky's the limit.

I might not be a baker,
but I believe I can fry.

Fried Blueberry Hand Pies.

Pastry.
Tricky business. I suppose just about any good pie pastry would have fried up into  fantastic fried fruit pies.

I went very basic. After sifting together 3 cups Weisenberger Mill all purpose flour with 2 tablespoon sugar, 1/2 teaspoon baking powder, and a pinch of salt, I dumped the mix into a food processor and added 6 tablespoons of chilled unsalted butter. I pulsed the butter/flour mixture until it resembled course crumbs before adding 1 beaten egg and 1 cup milk.


I blitzed the dough until it formed a loose ball, rolled it onto a floured cutting board, gathered it into a disc, wrapped it in plastic wrap, and slid the dough into the refrigerator to chill for an hour or so.

Blueberries.
Although blueberries might be hitting their final stretch for the season, they're still plentiful. In fact, they're everywhere. Score. I didn't want to kill the pies with overly sweet filling, so I tip-toed between a pie filling and a compote. I tumbled 3 1/2 cups of beautifully plump Silas Farm blueberries into a sauce pan, added 3 tablespoons sugar, 2 tablespoons cornstarch, lemon zest, and 2 tablespoons water. After bringing the berries to a boil, I reduced the heat to a simmer and let the filling rip. When the berries collapsed and the mixture thickened, I pulled it from the heat to cool before folding in a handful of julienned 'mini purple' basil leaves and 1/2 cup whole uncooked blueberries.

Chill. Chill. Chill.

I knew it was important to keep the pastry chilled during every step of the process. I failed that test once in a classroom. Once.

I pulled the dough from the refrigerator and plopped it onto a floured cutting board. Starting from the inside out while turning the dough in quarter turns, I rolled the dough into a large 1/4 inch thick circle and used a 6 inch pastry ring to cut the dough into several discs. After covering them with plastic wrap, I slid the discs back into the refrigerator to chill for 30 minutes.

Filling.
Trial and error. Too little or too much? Like crepe making, the first few sucked. After brushing the edges of the dough with an egg wash, I spooned about 1 1/2 tablespoons of filling onto each piece of dough, folded them over, and sealed the edges before crimping them with a fork to really seal the deal. Back into the refrigerator they went to chill for an additional 30 minutes.

Fry Time.
Although I have an awesome deep fryer, I used a heavy cast iron skillet as an homage to Miss Lottie. After adding enough canola oil to measure about 2 inches in the skillet, I cranked the heat to medium high. Using a thermometer to gauge the heat, I let the oil reach 325 before turning the heat down to medium. When the oil reached 350 degrees, I carefully fried the pies until they were golden brown, turning them occasionally to prevent them from sticking to the bottom of the hot skillet. After 2-3 minutes on each side, I scooped the fried blueberry pies from the oil and placed them onto paper towels to drain. While they were still hot, I sprinkled them with superfine sugar and Cerulean sea salt. Yep.

I transferred the fried pies to a rack to cool before slipping them onto a cutting board and showering them powdered sugar.

Hand pies.
Fried blueberry pies.

Fistfuls of summer.

Fabulous.

Braisin' In The Sun

Braising tends to get put on the back burner during the summertime. Granted, our local markets are exploding with beautiful fresh produce right now that beg for light summery fare.  I get it, I really do. I'm on the bandwagon. That said, it's a shame to shy away from succulent long braised meats just because it's summer. Forget the hot kitchen and steamy windows. Ditch the clunky cookware, keep it fresh, keep it simple, and move the fuss outside onto an outdoor grill.

Grilled/Braised Chicken in Fresh Tomato Sauce.
Simple. Nothing fancy. I used our old charcoal grill with a hinged lid, a few fantastic local ingredients from the farmers' market, herbs from my garden, and a couple of pantry staples to turn a somewhat traditional braise into a riff on a summer cookout.

Earlier this summer, I signed up for Elmwood Stock Farm's FarmFan program (It's still available). With the program, I receive points for every purchase and text notifications before each market telling what they'll have on hand. Pretty nifty. Because of the program, I knew in advance that they'd have fresh (never frozen) organic free-range chicken at the next market day (while they lasted). Niftier still, I reserved one and didn't have to awake at the crack of dawn to snag a bird before the market madness began. Booya. Sold. Fresh chicken.

Game on.
Chicken.
Using a sharp paring knife, I broke down the gorgeous 4 pound chicken into eight good sized serving pieces. After slicing the thighs and legs from the breasts, I separated the thighs from the legs and set them aside. Using kitchen shears, I snipped the backbone from the breasts, tossed it into the freezer with my other chicken parts, and sliced the large breasts in half. After seasoning the chicken pieces liberally with salt, I slid them into the refrigerator to dry brine.

Tomatoes.
Sure, I like the pretty tomatoes. The jewels of summer. There's nothing better than a sun-kissed warm tomato sliced into thick pieces and sprinkled with flaked sea salt or beautiful heirloom tomatoes sandwiched between slices of white bread or Caprese Salad or gazpacho. On and on and on.

However, when I intend to cook the tomatoes, I head straight for the ugly ones. The culls. The throwaways. The ugly ducklings. I needed quite a few fresh tomatoes for the braised chicken, so I bagged a few pounds of gigantic puckered ugly tomatoes from Henkle's Heirlooms and Herbs "Uglies" bin before stopping by The Paw Paw Plantation to bulk up the tomato factor with a few almost overripe pretty tomatoes.

To keep it fuss free, I eschewed the blanch and peel method and simply cored the tomatoes, chopped them into manageable wedges, and ran them through the course disc of a food mill. After scraping the disc clean, I ended up with about 5 cups of outrageous blood red tomato pulp.

I thought about using a large cast iron skillet for the braising vessel, but because the chicken pieces were quite large, I opted to use my well-seasoned grill tested 14" paella pan.

With everything on deck, I lit the coals,  pulled the chicken from the refrigerator, and quartered 4 small Scott County candy onions.

So, here's the deal. Most traditional braises (pick a meat) include aromatics, herbs, seasonings, wine, and stock. Pretty basic. I stuck to most of the basics, but switched out the wine for a good quality red wine vinegar. A little twist with French and Spanish influences.

When the coals settled into their glowing/grey ashen mode, I scooped the coals to the sides of the grill to create an outer ring of heat as opposed to an intense direct heat source. I place the paella pan over the grill and drizzled it with olive oil. When the oil started to smoke, I lightly dredged the chicken through flour, carefully placed them into the hot oil, browned the chicken on all sides, removed the pieces to a side plate, and added 1/2 cup minced candy onions. When the onions turned translucent, I scattered 3 crushed garlic cloves into the pan and deglazed the pan with 3/4 cups red wine vinegar. After allowing the vinegar to reduce to a loose glaze, I added all of the tomato pulp and 1 cup of chicken stock.

When the tomato sauce started to pop and spurt, I nestled the chicken pieces into the sauce, tucked the candy onions around the chicken, slipped a few bay leaves under the chicken, swirled stems of fresh lovage throughout the sauce, covered the paella pan with aluminum foil, lowered the lid of the grill, and let the chicken braise for 60 minutes, removing the foil and lid for an additional 20 minutes to allow the sauce to reduce.

The timing was perfect. At first, I thought I was killing the chicken with the heat. As time went on, the coals burned down a bit and regulated the heat inside the grill. After an hour and 1/2, I pulled the chicken from the grill to rest. To freshen the sleepy braise, I finished with tiny halved Madison County sun gold tomatoes, fresh lovage leaves, and snipped chives.

I was amazed at how a few simple ingredients could offer such crazy multi-layered depth to a simple braise. While the candy onions melted into the sauce, the humble old fashioned lovage packed  intense celery flavor both in the braise and as a garnish. Celery essence without chunks of celery. Win. Tarted up with subtle piquant undertones from the reduced red wine vinegar, the tomato pulp bathed the tender chicken with soft acidic smoky sweetness. Perfect balance.

And the chicken? Organic free-range fresh (never frozen) chicken. Think about it. The meat was so unbelievably moist and tender. We couldn't tell the difference between the breast meat and the thigh meat. They were literally  interchangeable in a weird how-did-this-happen kind of way. Sure, my off-the-cuff method added tons of unexpected flavor, but the chicken was key. Even after a long hot sunny braise, it didn't shred or fall apart. Every messy fistful (trust me) yielded juicy succulent shards of flesh that slipped from the bones like butter. Pull. Swipe. Suck. Repeat.

Braisin' in the sun.
Killer.