Sprouts Revisted

Roasted. Sauteed. Hashed. Shaved. Chilled. Deep Fried. Stewed. Steamed. Broiled. Boiled. Skewered.

I think I've done everything possible to brussels sprouts except shellac a few to make bauble bracelets and clip-on earrings. Well, almost everything. There's always a riff up the proverbial sleeve. Some things can always be reimagined or tweaked.  The more I thought about it, the more jazzed I got about riffing on one of my own riffs. Why not take something I love and turn it upside down? My current go-to brussels sprouts crazy involves everything that's good and right with this world: gorgonzola cheese, sherry, chicken stock, shallots, heavy cream, and thick cut bacon. That was my starting point. Enough said. Game on.

Pureed Brussels Sprouts Soup with Gorgonzola Mousse and Crisped Prosciutto.
Pretty basic stuff.
I trimmed and quartered a pound of brussels sprouts (reserving a handful of leaves). After heating a cast iron skillet over a medium high flame, I drizzled the skillet with olive oil and tossed the brussels sprouts into the sizzling hot skillet.  When the sprouts started to caramelize, I added a minced shallot, 2 smashed roasted garlic cloves, salt, and cracked black pepper. Just before the shallots charred in the hot oil, I deglazed the pan with 1/2 cup sherry and let the sherry reduce by half before adding 1 cup heavy cream.  When the sherry-infused cream thickened, I added 2 cups chicken stock, brought the stock to a boil, reduced it to a simmer, covered the skillet, and simmered the sprouts until they were fork tender, about 7-8 minutes.

 
Using an immersion blender, I carefully blitzed the tender brussels sprouts, cream, and stock before returning the puree back to the skillet. After melting 3 ounces of crumbled gorgonzola cheese into hot puree, I added a bit more stock to loosen it up, and slid the skillet over a very low flame.

Gorgonzola Mousse.
I love this stuff. While downright perfect with this soup, it's also fantastic served alongside crisp pear chips or dolloped onto endive leaves with halved grapes.

I creamed  4 ounces of room temperature gorgonzola with 1 tablespoon of local clover honey and set it aside.  I poured 1/2 cup heavy whipping cream into a well chilled bowl and used a crappy handheld mixer to whip the cream into soft peaks. After folding the honey-sweetened creamed gorgonzola into the soft cream, I finished whipping the combo until it tightened and formed firm peaks.

Crisped Prosciutto.
There had to be pig. Brussels sprouts beg for bacon or prosciutto. Pick your poison. While I'm crazy for both, a crisped prosciutto garnish lends an incredible salty crackle that bacon can't deliver. Period. Ever. On top of that, it's so simple and quick to throw together.  I placed 3 paper thin sheets of prosciutto onto a sheet pan and slid them into a preheated 350 degree oven to bake for about 15 minutes. Done. Salty pig chips.

Soup's on.
After reheating the creamy puree (without boiling), I topped the soup with broken shards of prosciutto, quenelles of gorgonzola mousse, and snipped chives before finishing with deep fried sprouts tossed in a Sriracha vinaigrette. Yep.

Changed up a bit, the pureed soup had all the familiar trappings and flair of the original dish. Without the obvious bites of whole or halved brussels sprouts, the  pureed sprouts packed the same earthy punch in a softer way. As the whipped mousse melted into the warm velvety puree, it lightened the soup with airy hints of mild gorgonzola that countered the intense meaty crunch of the crisped prosciutto. While the chives provided grassy freshness, the deep fried Sriracha-laced sprout leaves added delicate fiery heat.

Sprouts revisited.
Fabulous.

Lucky Pie

It happens every year.

After several hours of banging back Guinness pints with Jameson Irish Whiskey chasers, Michael and I always find ourselves stranded on a street-side curb waiting for the annual St. Patrick's Day parade to pass us by.  Stranded and hungry. Here's the deal, we don't really ignore the blatant opportunities surrounding us to chow down on Irish fare. On St. Patrick's Day, practically every bar and restaurant hawks variations of Irish Stew, Corned Beef and Cabbage, Reuben Sandwiches, or Shepherd's Pie. While food is everywhere, the day gets a wee bit complicated. During the frenzy leading up to the parade, our resolve to eat something and pace ourselves dissolves into the foam of endless rounds of beer or the melting salt of bright green margaritas.  Would you like something to eat? Hell no, wrap me up in a green feather boa topped off with a glittery leprechaun hat. Shiny clip-on tinsel hair? Yes, please. And while you're at it, I'll have another beer. Or margarita.  And so it goes. Before we know it, the haunting drone of echoing bagpipes always lures us down to the parade route.

Year after year, there we are,  trapped on a random sidewalk (far far away from the mere aroma of food) surrounded by happy families, drunken parade goers, bagpipe pipers, prancing horses, local bands, funny cars, and over enthusiastic scary clowns. Trapped and starving. What's a boy to do? This year, I might skip the parade, rent a little pushcart, and wander through the crowded revelers peddling little Shepherd's Pie Portable  hand pies. Cue music. Who will buy my hot savory pies? Such a pie I never did see. Think about it. Munchies for the merry masses. St. Thomas, the Pie Bearer.

Savory Irish Pies.
Not to be confused with Irish Pasties, the batter-dipped deep fried meat pies sold throughout Northern Ireland in fish and chips shops, Shepherd's Pies  (lamb) and Cottage Pies (beef) are fabulous common casserole dishes composed of various meats, vegetables, and potatoes.  Minced or braised meat? Sliced or mashed potatoes? Peas and/or carrots? It doesn't really matter. Whatever combination, they're nearly impossible to muck up.

Shepherd's Pie Hand Pies.
A fun little riff on shepherd's pie.

The Filling.

To accommodate the smallish nature of the pies, I finely diced 3 carrots and 4 stalks of celery (slightly larger than an 1/8 " brunoise). After trimming the roots and green ends off of 2 medium leeks, I split the white sections in half, gave them a good rinse, and sliced them into very thin half moons. Working over a medium high flame, I sauteed the vegetables until they started to sweat before adding 2 smashed roasted garlic cloves. As the tender leeks took on a bit of color, I scooped the vegetables onto a side plate and tumbled 1 pound of Four Hills Farm ground lamb into the skillet.

I used a wooden spoon to break up the ground lamb and let it brown for a few minutes before adding 2 tablespoons of tomato paste, 1 tablespoon dry mustard, 1 heaping tablespoon smoked paprika, salt, and cracked black pepper.  After swirling the spiced tomato paste throughout  the browned lamb, I let it toast to deepen the flavor. When the brick-colored lamb started to caramelize, I deglazed the skillet with 1 cup Guinness, 2 cups beef stock, and 1/4 cup Worcestershire sauce. I tossed 2 bay leaves along with a handful of fresh thyme stems into the mix, brought it to a boil, reduced it to a simmer, and let it rip for 45 minutes, stirring during wine refills.

When the highly aromatic lamb concoction reduced and thickened, I added 1 cup of peas and pulled the skillet from the heat to cool.

The Pie.
While store bought pie dough would have been fine, I had the stuff to throw together a very basic pie dough. I sifted  2 1/2 cups of flour, 1 teaspoon salt, and 1 teaspoon sugar into a food processor, added 16 sliced tablespoons of very cold unsalted butter, pulsed the mix a few times until it crumbled, added 1/4 cup ice water, and pulsed it again for a split second to pull the dough together. I scooped the dough out of the processor, divided it in half, patted it into two discs, wrapped the discs in plastic wrap, and slid them into the refrigerator to chill.

After 25-30 minutes, I floured a large cutting board and rolled the dough into two 1/8" rounds. I used a 3" fluted cookie cutter to lightly score the bottom crust and mark the shapes.  After brushing the scored edges with an egg wash, I spooned dollops of leftover mashed potatoes onto the scored pastry circles and nestled heaping tablespoons of the filling into the potatoes before showering the tops with extra sharp white cheddar cheese. So, instead of trying to crimp together individual pastry pies like empanadas, I draped the second pastry sheet over the first sheet, tapped around the mounded fillings to squeeze out any excess air, and used the cookie cutter to stamp through both layers to seal them together with clean edges. I brushed the little pies with the remaining egg wash, scattered sea salt over the tops, and slid them into a preheated 425 degree oven to bake for 35 minutes. When the pies were beautifully browned, I pulled them from the oven, transferred them to a wire rack, and finished with flash-fried thyme leaves.

Cracked open, the filling spilled and oozed from the steaming pies. Tucked inside the buttery crisp shells, the mild malty bitterness of the  Guiness-infused beef stock  tempered the slight gaminess of the ground lamb. While the vegetables added subtle sweetness, the flaky salt provided a clean crunch that countered the soft earthy tang of the melted sharp white cheddar cheese. Fabulous.

Little lucky hand pies.

Bring on the bagpipes.

Butter Bombs

I was 14 years old. She was a stripper.

Several years ago, during summer break, my high school band traveled to Dallas to march in a downtown civic parade. Afterward, for a little fun, we boarded our rickety bus  and made a severe detour to visit New Orleans on our way back home to Kentucky. Trudging through the intense heat and thick humidity, we meandered around the streets of New Orleans before taking in the historic above ground graveyard and vaulted tombs of the St. Louis Cemetery.  Row after row, we lost ourselves amid the sun-bleached tombs, rusty wrought iron gates, and elegant decay of the city of the dead. When our band of merry wanderers had soaked in enough of the fun, we made our way to the French Quarter, a few blocks away, for lunch. With promises of gumbo, barbecued shrimp, and po' boys, we were more than happy to depart the land of the departed.

On our way to the French Quarter, I guess I lolly-gagged a bit and fell behind most of the group. While trying my best to catch up with my people, I passed a dimly lit  hole-the-wall brick bar. I stopped dead in my tracks and froze with adolescent awe when I saw her from the dank doorway. My stripper. There she was, dancing on a small round tabletop wearing nothing but 5 inch black stilettos and a red heart-shaped fun fir merckin. Squirming, squatting, splaying, her undulating wet flesh rippled to the guttural thump of a relentless pounding base. Transfixed  by her voluptuous wonder, my blossoming gayness briefly betrayed me. I could not stop watching. When our eyes finally met, she winked and slowly brushed back her hair. Loosening her plumped puckered lips into a gentle smile, my merckin Valentine shot me a private lapless lap dance from across the dingy room through the cheerless wake of smell and smoke. Framed by the doorway, between inside and outside, my eager backlit silhouette absorbed every pulsing thump of my siren's song.

Thump. In a flash, a forceful tight-fisted grip yanked me from the doorway. Within seconds, I'd rejoined my band for a carefree lunch. Secrets. With doe-eyed innocence, I coyly sucked down a steaming hot platter of sticky butter-drenched barbecued shrimp.

When Mardi Gras rolls around, I always embrace my merckin  muse. Let the good times roll.

Yep, it's that time of year. Mardi Gras. I've prepared tons of food for thousands of Mardi Gras revelers over the past several years. In doing so, I've left no stone unturned prepping and cooking for all kinds of Fat Tuesday food frenzies. That said, I kept one little gem to myself, New Orleans Barbecued Shrimp. I wasn't being selfish, I was being practical. There's not enough butter in North America to prepare enough  New Orleans Barbecued Shrimp to feed hundreds and hundreds of people in one short drunken night.

New Orleans Barbecued Shrimp.
A simple little lap dance.
I smacked a large saute pan over a high flame and dropped 1/4 pound of sliced unsalted butter into the pan. When the butter started to sizzle, I added 2 tablespoons minced garlic, 1/4 cup worcestershire sauce, a juiced lemon, several lemon slices, 1/4 cup white wine, 2 bay leaves, 3 tablespoons sweet paprika, 1 tablespoon smoked paprika, 1 tablespoon creole seasoning, 1 heaping teaspoon cayenne pepper, kosher salt, and cracked black pepper.

Just before the highly aromatic buttery bath came to a boil, I tumbled 1 pound of unpeeled head-on shrimp into the pan. When the shrimp started to turn pink, I reduced the heat to medium and added an additional 1/4 pound butter a few pieces at a time to emulsify the sauce.  After about 3 minutes, I pulled the pan from the heat, covered the pan, and let the shrimp steep for 5 minutes before finishing with a handful of snipped chives and crusty bread to sop.

Pop off the heads. Suck. Repeat.
Then, grab a bib, plastic gloves, or full on latex body suit to dig into these slippery sweet and spicy butter bombs.

Packed with intense acidic buttery heat, they're wonderfully messy, rich, succulent, and perfectly indulgent.

Eat. Suck. Lick. Sop.

Laissez les bons temps rouler.

Eat Your Heart Out

I'm a sucker for the offal bits,  organ meats, or the more polite term, variety meats. While tender sweetbreads (thymus glands), honeycombed tripe, and kidneys make me swoon, I'm particularly fond of livers and hearts. I'm not picky. Foie gras (my personal favorite) might be the standard bearer in the liver world, but I'll take a basket of fried chicken livers covered with peppered cream gravy or calf's liver smothered in onions any day. Crunchy. Soft. Irony. Heaven. Hearts, on the other hand, beat to a different drum. Depending on the animal and the size of the heart, the  textures and flavors vary wildly. When cooked, chicken hearts tend to tighten up. Whether grilled or braised, they turn into little chewy savory gumdrops.  Larger turkey hearts, (most often relegated to giblet gravies or stuffings) also pack a firm bite, but have a stronger flavor. Big robust beef hearts, the king of hearts, have meaty steak-like qualities. Long cooked, grilled, or pan seared, the tender meat has subtle mineral high notes while still retaining a slight chew.

And then we have lamb hearts. Bigger than poultry hearts, but much smaller than beef hearts, lamb hearts have genteel sensibilities. They're more...well... manageable. When cleaned, their hollowed out chambers are perfect vessels for stuffing. A natural fit, so to speak. Perfect pouches. Stuffed with anything under the sun, lamb hearts become meltingly tender when braised low and slow. That said, they can also be grilled or quick seared with a hint of pink for a lighter touch.

Grilled Lamb Hearts.
In the heart cleaning world, I got lucky. After ripping open a small package of Four Hills Farm Lamb Hearts, I realized that the folks at the farm did most of the dirty work. The hearts graciously arrived butterflied and cleaned of their tubes, arteries, vessels, ventricles, and valve flaps. Win. I simply trimmed the fat from the outer chambers before flipping them over to trim away the remaining sinew, silver skin, and stringy membranes from the inner chambers.

With all the junk dispatched, I sliced the cleaned hearts into bite sized pieces and tossed them into a small mixing bowl before marinating them in 1/4 cup fresh lemon juice, 1/2 cup olive oil, 1 tablespoon chopped fresh parsley, 1 tablespoon minced garlic, a dusting of citrusy sumac, salt, and pepper.

After 3 hours, I carefully stabbed the marinated broken heart pieces onto pre-soaked wooden skewers along with roasted garlic cloves, shaved zucchini, tiny pickled Peruvian peppers, slivered shallots, and sliced red bell peppers.

Working over a high flame, I brushed a heavy cast iron grill pan with vegetable oil. When the grill pan started to smoke, I slapped the skewered hearts onto the grates, brushed them with the marinade, and seared them for 2 minutes on each side before pulling them from the heat to rest.

With the slightly charred hearts on deck, I used a vegetable peeler to shave 1/2 pound of gorgeous organic rainbow carrots into ribbons and tossed them with a blood orange vinaigrette (3 tablespoons olive oil, 2 tablespoons fresh blood orange juice, 1 minced  shallot, 1 tablespoon sherry vinegar, salt and cracked black pepper).

I nestled the lamb skewers into the feathery ribbons, scattered a few  peppers to the side, and seasoned the meat with flaky sea salt before finishing with fresh mint and pea greens.

Fresh.
Bright.
Gritty.
Bold.

The offal bits.
Eat your heart out.

Drinking Flowers

Whether it's a Roselle, aqua de Jamaica, Sorrel, Red Sorrel, Bissap,  Arhul Ka phool, or Hibiscus Tea, the sweet tart drink infused with the sun dried magenta colored petals of hibiscus flowers is mystically refreshing. While hibiscus tea (served hot or cold) is common in most tropical climates worldwide, I'm most familiar with the perky chilled Caribbean versions. It's simple to make and even easier to drink. Sure, there are dozens of mass produced pre-processed instant powder products, cute packaged individual teabags, and concentrated extracts available to whip up  batches of hibiscus tea, but taking a few moments to steep the gnarled and strangely beautiful dried flower petals unleashes their pure seductive essence.

After dropping into Selby's Tropical Market to pick up a few pounds of bacalao (salted cod) for a riff on brandade, I was drawn to a small bag of dried hibiscus flowers. I was so taken aback by their absurd exotic oddity that I almost forgot about the salted cod. That's another tale.

Hibiscus Tea.
Simple.

Using a deep sauce pan, I brought 4 cups water, 3 whole allspice berries, a small peeled knob of ginger, and 1 cup sugar to a boil. When the sugar dissolved, I tumbled 1 cup of dried hibiscus flowers into bubbling water, let it rip for a couple of minutes, removed the pan from the heat, and covered the pan before letting the flowers re-hydrate and steep for 45 minutes.

When the concentrated purple tea cooled, I strained the solids, added 4 cups of water and 1/2  cup fresh lime juice. After pouring the tea into a large glass pitcher, I slid it into the refrigerator to chill.

With hints of spicy ginger and bright lime juice poking through the sassy cranberry-like undertones of the hibiscus, the tea was fantastic simply chilled over ice.

A shot of vodka made it happy.

A heavy handed splash of Veuve Clicquot made it sing.

Winter Ribs

Lazy days and winter short ribs. Braised for hours, the utterly tender rib meat falls from knobby bones and melts into obscene puddles of  succulent beef napped in unctous jus. Meat. Fat. Sauce. Oozing. Dripping. There are few things better than a pot of long braised beef short ribs. Period. After hours of intense aromatic foreplay, rustic short ribs are dirty, messy, and downright sexy. Shredded, pulled, piled, or plopped, there's nothing particular fancy about short ribs. They beg to be devoured, slurped, licked, and manhandled. That's typically how I roll. A raucous romp with juicy bone-in meat. Well, my game changed when I stumbled across a small (very small) package of dainty Marksbury Farm grass-fed boneless short ribs while browsing/grazing at Good Foods Co-op. Looking more like slab bacon than big beefy ribs, I took the ribs on a lighter tumble in the hay.

Slap on the lipstick and strap up the heels.
Dainty short ribs.
Game on.

Braised Short Rib Pinwheels.

After scoring the fat caps of each little rib to encourage the rolling process, I tied each rib with kitchen twine, smooshed  slivered garlic quarters into the center of each roll, seasoned them liberally with salt and pepper,  and browned them in a hot cast iron skillet over medium high heat. When the fat started to render and the flesh crusted over, I transferred the ribs to a side plate before tumbling 2 sliced carrots, 2 sliced celery ribs, 1 chopped onion, and 3 whole garlic cloves into the smoldering skillet. Just before the mirepoix caramelized, I added 2 tablespoons of tomato paste and let it brown before deglazing the skillet with 1 750ml bottle of cabernet sauvignon. After letting the wine reduce by half, I added 2 cups of beef stock, 3 bay leaves, and a handful of fresh thyme. When the stock came back to a boil, I slid the rolled ribs, along with the accumulated juices, back into the skillet and topped the skillet with a cartouche (a folded/vented parchment paper lid). After lightly patting the cartouche over the cast iron skillet, I slid the ribs into a preheated 350 degree oven to braise for 2 1/2 hours.

While the short ribs braised, I peeled a large rutabaga and diced it into cubes before carefully dropping them into boiling salted water. When they were fork tender, about 45 minutes, I scooped them into a bowl and showered the steaming pieces with freshly grated meyer lemon zest. I spooned the pieces into a blender, added 3 tablespoons of melted unsalted butter,1 cup warmed heavy cream, 1 cup beef broth, the juice of the zested lemon, salt, and ground white pepper. After blitzing the mix into a smooth puree, I scooped it out of the blender and set it aside.



When the ribs relaxed and tenderized in the braising stock.  I carefully removed the cartouche, snipped off the kitchen twine securing the pinwheels,  slid the ribs onto a  side plate, placed the hot skillet over a medium flame, and reduced the red wine-infused beef stock by 3/4 before adding a couple pats of butter for a little silky kiss.

After warming the pinwheels in the thickened sauce, I nestled them onto the rutabaga puree and tumbled steamed baby golden beets to the side before finishing with shaved Elmwood Stock watermelon radishes, slivered shallots, julienned red pepper, and kale micro greens.

Packing a bold meaty punch, the tender ribs almost collapsed under the insanely reduced sauce. While the meyer lemon-flecked rutabaga puree countered the inherent richness of the meat with earthy sweet acidity, the crisp jeweled radishes provided biting fresh crunch.

Refined.
Delicate.
Decadent.

The perfect romp.

Winter Citrus

No sooner had I drop-kicked the last of the ham and turkey into the back of the freezer than our annual crate of citrus bombs arrived on the front stoop. Individually wrapped, the grapefruits and oranges were a welcome respite to the relentless weeks of holiday fare.

While most of them get squeezed into perky pulpy mimosas, greyhounds, or salty dogs, I always have great fun gussying up the stragglers.



Broiled Grapefruit.
I grew up on broiled grapefruit. You know, the standard halved grapefruit sprinkled with sugar and scorched under the broiler? Although fantastic and familiar, I took a different route with this years citrus bounty.

I sliced the thick skin off of each end of two pink grapefruits, stood them on end, and trimmed the skin from top to bottom (making sure to remove all the bitter pith). After slicing them into 1/2 " discs, I sprinkled them with sugar and slid them under the broiler. As they started to char and caramelize, I pulled the slices from the oven and stacked them into individual bowls. While they were still warm, I drizzled them with local honey and freshly squeezed grapefruit juice.

To give the jeweled grapefruit slices a savory bent, I finished with coarsely chopped pistachio nuts, flaked sea salt, and fresh young parsley shoots from my garden. Juicy. Tart. Sweet. Salty.

A refreshing take on an old school standard.

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Hello oranges!
Bye bye bourbon balls.
See you next year chocolate bark.


Gluten free Orange Almond Cake.
Honestly, I didn't intend to go all gluten free. It just happened. An accidental win. Aside from a wee bit of advanced planning, it came together like a piece of cake. Because I'm not much of a baker, the simple ingredients made it very forgiving and almost fool proof.

Orange prep.
I filled a stock pot with cold water, plopped two large navel oranges into the pot, and cranked the heat to high.  When the water came to a boil, I reduced it to a simmer, covered the pot, and let the oranges steep at gentle ripple for 2 hours before scooping them out to cool. After slicing the oranges in half, I tumbled them into a food processor (skin, pith,  pulp, and flesh) and blitzed the hell out of them before sliding the pure orange puree into the refrigerator to chill.

Using a hand-held mixer, I blended 3 whole eggs with 1 cup of sugar. When the mix formed pale sugary ribbons, I added 3 cups almond meal/flour (ground almonds), 1 teaspoon of gluten free baking powder, a pinch of salt, and the reserved orange puree.

After buttering the bottom and sides of a spring form pan, I scooped the batter into the pan, leveled the top, tapped it a few times to settle the batter, and slid it into a 350 degree preheated oven to bake for 1 hour, give or take a few minutes. When the top was golden brown and the center cleared the tooth pick check, I pulled the cake from the oven, released it from the spring form pan, and settled it onto a wire rack.

While the cake cooled, I made a simple syrup by simmering 1/2 cup freshly squeezed orange juice and 3 tablespoons sugar. When the orange simple syrup reduced to a glaze, I poked several holes into the cake with a skewer and spooned the glaze over the top before finishing with delicate strips of fresh orange zest.

Flecked with bits of peel and pulp, the cake was surprisingly light and incredibly moist. Without being cloyingly sweet, it packed intense orange flavor grounded by the subtle nuttiness of almonds.

Fabulous.

Winter citrus.
Bombs away.