Drums

Classically, timbales are sweet or savory custards baked in drum-shaped molds. With savory versions, creamy minced meat, fish, or vegetables are folded into timbale molds and baked before being turned out for presentation. Nowadays, almost anything packed into a drum mold can be tagged as a loosey-goosey interpretation of a timbale. Most folks might be more familiar with the iconic molded pasta/meatball/salami/mozzarella/sauce-filled Italian timbale (timpano) triumph from the movie 'Big Night". A brazen beauty. That said, not all timbales have to be dramatic over-the-top centerpieces large enough to feed a crowd. They can also be dialed back for more intimate affairs. Drum roll.  Size doesn't matter.

Spaghetti Squash Timbales with Arugula-Lemon Basil Pesto

As our farmers markets segue from summer into fall, varieties of winter squash are quietly nudging out the darlings of summer. I'm not quite ready to completely let go of those darlings, so I took the middle road with a gorgeous Casey County spaghetti squash and a few handfuls of Pulaski County chocolate cherry tomatoes. Balance.

Pesto.
I tumbled 1 cup baby arugula, 1 cup lemon basil, 2 cloves garlic, salt, pepper, lemon zest, and 1/3 cup toasted pecans into the bowl of a food processor. After processing the mix until it was finely minced, I slowly drizzled in 3/4 cup extra virgin olive oil (with the motor running). When the mixture was smooth, I added 1/2 cup grated parmigano-reggiano, gave it a few quick pulses to blend in the cheese, scraped the pesto into a small bowl, covered the top with plastic wrap, and slid it into the refrigerator to chill.

Squash.
I adore spaghetti squash. When cooked, it shreds into delicate, almost translucent, pasta-like threads. Typically, I halve the squash, remove the seeds, and roast it cut side down in a 350 degree oven until it's incredible tender and a wee bit caramelized. For a change, I wanted to avoid any toasted sugary caramelized bits, so I bellied up to the microwave. Using a heavy sharp knife, I split the squash in half, scraped out the seeds, placed both halves on a microwavable dish, added 1/2 cup water to help it steam, covered the squash with plastic wrap, and microwaved the squash on high for 20 minutes. After carefully removing the squash from the microwave, I removed the plastic wrap and let it rest.  When it was cool enough to handle, I used the tines of a fork to gently pull the strands from the body of the shell and tossed them into a bowl to cool.

Bechamel.
I didn't want to kill the squash with a heavy sauce, so I threw together a small batch bechamel as a binder. After melting 1 tablespoon unsalted butter in a small sauce pan, I added 1 tablespoon flour, salt, pepper, and a pinch of freshly grated nutmeg. When the roux started to bubble, I drizzled a 1/2 cup warmed milk into the pan, whisked the sauce until it napped the back of a spoon, and pulled it from the heat to cool.

Timbales.
After buttering 5 4oz. ramekins, I placed buttered parchment paper on the bottom of each ramekin before dusting the ramekins with a mixture of finely grated parmigiano-reggiano and toasted bread crumbs.

I tossed the spaghetti squash with 1 cup of the arugula-lemon basil pesto and the reserved bechamel. After twirling the creamy pesto faux pasta into the individual ramekins, I added a bit more cheese for good measure, gently tamped the squash into the molds, slid the timbales into a 350 degree oven, and let them rip for 50 minutes before pulling them from the oven to rest.

While the timbales were still somewhat warm, I ran a knife around the edges of the ramekins to release the squash and turned them out onto plated puddles of pesto. After dabbing the tops with a tad more pesto, I finished with halved/quartered chocolate cherry tomatoes and fresh lemon basil leaves.

Tucked inside the crisped outer shells of each timbale, the delicate wisps of spaghetti squash snapped through the creamy bechamel, hints of garlic, and the nutty parmigiano-reggiano undertones of the peppery arugula pesto. While the perky basil added bright lemony freshness, the tomatoes provided sultry popping wet sweetness.



The middle road.

Simple.
Fresh.
Fantastic.

Planted

Fried eggplant parmesan can be a fabulous thing. Unfortunately, more often than not, most versions usually end up over-sauced and cheese laden. By the time they bake off in the oven and absorb all of the other ingredients, they resemble swollen cheese-packed tomatoey eggplant sponge cakes. Over wrought and heavy handed with the happy crunch factor lost in translation. Trust me, I've hammered my share doing that very thing. Sometimes, less is more.

It's been a great season for eggplants at the farmers market. While some things have suffered from our incredibly wet summer, eggplants are everywhere.

Fried Eggplant.
Redeeming the crunch factor.

Fry it once, use it twice.

After slicing a bulbous Casey County globe eggplant into 1/2' slices, I halved a few slender Jessamine County Asian eggplants and tossed them into a colander with the sliced globes. To leach out some of the bitterness, I salted the eggplant slices and let them drip/drain for 30 minutes before rinsing them under cold water and thoroughly patting them dry. I set up a standard breading station for my eggplant-palooza. Highly seasoned flour (salt, pepper, garlic powder) in one dish, beaten egg wash in a second dish, and parmigiano reggiano-studded panko bread crumbs flecked with minced chives, rosemary, basil, parsley, and thyme in a third dish.

Using the wet hand/dry hand method, I dusted the slices in the flour, dipped them through the egg wash, dredged them in the herbed breadcrumbs, and set them aside.

Simple Eggplant Parmesan.
After bringing 1/2 cup vegetable oil to 350 degrees in a cast iron skillet, I carefully slipped the breaded eggplant slices into the sizzling oil and shallow fried them until  they were golden brown before removing them to a dish towel to drain. I wiped out the skillet, slid the crispy eggplant cutlets back into the skillet, shingled thin slices of fresh mozzarella cheese over each piece of eggplant, nestled Boyle County tomatoes (still on the vine) into the cheese, slid the skillet into a 450 degree
oven to bake for 20 minutes, and finished the deal with a quick spin under the broiler for the last couple of minutes. When the tomatoes started to blister and collapse over the oozing cheese, I pulled the skillet from the oven and let the simple riff on eggplant parmesan settle down before finishing with fresh basil, extra virgin olive oil, and flaky sea salt.

Although blanketed in the creamy melted mozzarella cheese, the eggplant remained crisp from the high heat of the oven and cast iron skillet. Slippery gooey crunch. Where's the sauce? It took a mere whisper for the incredibly ripe blistered tomatoes to pop open and seep their sweet warm juices over the bubbling cheese, spilling into puddles around the charred edges of the mozzarella and eggplant. While the tomatoes provided just enough subtle sweet acidity to cut through the rich cheese, the basil added hits of freshness. Simple. Fresh. Perfect.

Eggplant Milanese.
As a bright side kick for the eggplant parmesan, I breaded and fried the slender Asian eggplant halves until they were beautifully browned, dabbed them with a dish towel to soak up any excess oil, and topped the tubular slices with fresh baby arugula before finishing with a spritz of fresh meyer lemon juice, lemon slices, salt, coarsely cracked black pepper, and and crisped parmigiano fricos. In true Milanese fashion, the lemons and slightly bitter baby arugula countered the fried earthy meatiness of the eggplant with biting acidic freshness. Light. Bright. Fabulous.


Fried Eggplant.
Two for one.
Embrace the crunch.

Fire & Ice

Although I spent most of my summers on the Eastern Shores of Maryland and Virginia, years slipped by before I tasted raw oysters on the half shell.

Back in the day, wild oyster beds dotted the waters of Little Tom's Cove in the small town of Chincoteague, Virginia. Accessible by boat or by foot during low tide, the few oyster beds offered some of the finest oysters on the Eastern Shore. Fed by the Atlantic tides, the Chincoteague "Salts" were (and still are) prized for their high briny salinity. During our summers on the beaches of Maryland and Virginia, we were certified ameteur clammers and crabbers. Whether we were holed up in a tent on Pine Grove Campground or comfortably bundled up in a swanky Chincoteague house, we hunted and gathered clams and crabs to prepare for ourselves. We left the oystering to the big guns. Deep fried, broiled, baked, frittered, or stuffed, fresh Chincoteague oysters were restaurant treats reserved for special occasions. Even then, we never ate them on the half shell.

That all changed on one particularly hot day during one particular summer on the Eastern Shore.

We did our crabbing from the causeway that separated the oyster beds in Little Tom's Cove from the blue crabs in Swans Cove Pool. While we never gave the oysters beds much more than a passing glance as we baited our twisted strings with chicken necks, I always had my eyes on those mysterious bumps in the water. At high tide, they seemed to float like jagged beached whales. Hunched. Lifeless. Silhouettes against the quiet sea. Although I secretly yearned for the unknown adventure, I was stunned when my father announced, out of the blue, that he and I were going to hit the oyster beds at the next low tide. Still haunted by the unfortunate hook-in-my-scalp incident from a previous deep sea fishing escapade (again, his idea), I was filled with excruciating awe and dread.

Tides are funny things. On the beach side of the deal, not much changes with low/high tides. Sure, the beaches get thinner or wider, but they still stay fairly neutral. In the inland coves and waterways, the tides change everything. Low tides reveal the underbelly of the sea. Grayish green muck. Cracked shells. Dead crabs. Slimy kelp. Bubbling holes. Gurgling muck. Icky stuff. The underworld.

Oystering with my father. Yep, all in a days fun. Of course, we assumed it was low tide. It looked low. After parking on the sandy edge of the causeway, we grabbed a couple of buckets from the back of his orange GMC and headed into the underbelly. Scattered around the cove a few hundred yards from shore, the oyster beds appeared easily accessible.  That was hardly the case.  Every footstep seemed herculean as the muck swallowed my white sneakers and tiny legs like smelly decomposing quicksand. Although horrified, I embraced the plentiful enormous cracked shells of dead horeseshoe crabs and used them as stepping stones. When we finally reached the first of several oyster beds, we got down to business and zoned out.  Moving from bed to bed, like hens pecking into dirt, we plucked oyster after oyster from the craggy beds until our buckets were filled to the rim with what appeared to be nothing but oyster shaped rocks. We were so taken with ourselves that we didn't even notice that the tide had gently crept back into the cove. High tide. There we were, perched on a damn oyster bed hundreds of yards away from our tiny orange truck, stranded at sea. The only solution seemed simple enough. We had to walk/swim/wade/float/sludge back through the murky underbelly carrying our heavy oyster-filled buckets. My father was fine. I was a kid. I knew what lurked beneath the steel-blue water. Plodding through the lapping chin-high sea,  I tilted my head into the fiery sun to keep tidewater out of my mouth, eyes, ears, and soul. With my submerged water-logged bucket dangling from my forearm like a cheap plastic purse, I slowly squished through the muck with kelp-shackled ankles and  unseeable things swimming between my legs. Feigning bravado, I never gave up or abandoned my prized oysters. The young boy and the sea. When we finally reached the embankment that kept the cove waters at bay, we climbed the slippery slope, tossed our oysters into the truck, drove away, and left the conquered beds floating in our dust. At sunset, after the emotional dust settled, I tasted my first raw oysters straight from the sea. Splashed with Tobasco, I swallowed them whole, gulping one after another until I oystered myself out. Happy boy. Well played, Dad.

Oysters With Watermelon Granita and Grilled Watermelon.


Whether dressed to the nines with the clean acidity of a classic mignonette or chased back with the biting heat of a horseradish-spiked cocktail sauce, I'll take oysters any way I can. To embrace the heat and height of the season, I changed things up a bit and brought watermelon to the summer party.




Ice.
After halving a gorgeous Lincoln County Sugar Baby watermelon, I sliced one half into small triangles (rind on) and chopped the other half into 1" cubes (rind removed). I tumbled 4 cups cubed watermelon pieces into a blender, added 3 tablespoons fresh lime juice, and blended the watermelon into a ruby red puree. I poured the puree into a 9"x 13" glass dish, showered it with lime zest, slid it into the freezer, and used the tines of a fork to scrape the frozen granita every 30 minutes until it resembled vibrant watermelon snow.

Fire.
Just like any grilled fruit, watermelon takes on deep smoky sweet flavors when grilled.  I lit the coals on one side of a charcoal grill, let the flames reduce to glowing embers, and spread the coals around the grill. For kicks, I brushed the watermelon slices with jalapeno pepper jelly before sliding them onto the hot grill along with a few halved lemons and limes. When kissed by the heat, the natural sugars in the watermelon and pepper jelly caramelized the sweet flesh of the watermelon. When they started to char, I pulled them from the heat, diced a few into tiny pieces, and set them aside.

Oysters on the half shell.
I had a dozen or so Blue Point oysters sitting on ice that I'd picked up from The Lexington Seafood Market. Working very carefully, I cupped each
oyster with a dish towel and used an oyster knife to pry open the hinged end of the oyster shell before slicing through the muscle on the top half of the shell to release the oyster.  After cleaning the shells with a dish towel, I used the oyster knife to slice the oysters from the bottom shells
before nestling them into crushed ice.

I spooned the perky granita onto the oysters, tumbled a few grilled watermelon bites into the shells, and scattered thinly sliced serrano  peppers over the granita before finishing with Harmony Hill organic pea microgreens.





Tucked beneath the granita, the plump oysters popped with a soft brininess that countered the icy sweet/tart crunch of the frozen lime-spiked watermelon, the fiery heat of the peppers, and the crisp freshness of the microgreens. Spicy. Sweet. Salty. Tart. Wet messy business.
Fabulous.

Summer on the half shell.

Ride the tide.

Shipwrecked

Some accidents are happy accidents. Case in point? A simple little salad to take on the run for a snack between events. I tumbled diced cucumbers, tomatoes, and candy onions into a small disposable container.  After drizzling them with extra virgin olive oil, I splashed the market vegetables with white wine vinegar before crumbling fresh chevre over the top. Nothing fancy. No big deal. Here's the deal, salads on the go get jostled around. By the time I got around to eating my marinated salad, the goat's cheese had swirled through the olive oil and vinegar, creating an unexpected cheese-speckled vinaigrette for the cucumbers, tomatoes, and onions. A happy accidental win.

As haphazard as it was, I've found that it works with any vinaigrette. Whether homemade or store bought, it just doesn't matter. Fleck fresh chevre into a vinaigrette and let the creamy bits float around or whisk them into a creamy emulsion. The combination is unexpected and fantastic.

Heirloom Tomatoes with Tomato-Chevre Vinaigrette.

It's high tide for tomatoes at the farmers market. All shapes, sizes, and colors undulate like waves over endless seas of tomatoes. While I fall for the pretty ones like most folks, I'm always lured by the siren song and drawn to the uglies. Happily serenaded and shipwrecked.

The beasts and the beauties.

The Beauties.
After quartering/halving a few meaty Orange Persimmon, sugary Sun Gold, mellow Yellow Roma Banana Legs, smoky Chocolate Cherry, plummy Indigo Rose, and achingly ripe red Carmellow tomatoes, I tossed them with slivered candy onions before finishing with a scattering of fresh basil.


The Beasts.
Armed with a few "Uglies But Goodies" from Henkle's Herbs and Heirlooms, I went full out tomato on tomato with a tomato vinaigrette. I've done the cheesecloth-lined drippity drip pure tomato water thing. While it's a great way to capture the essence of tomatoes, it takes a very long time (up to 24 hours) for the magic to happen. Drip...drip.........drip. To harness the same essence without all the fuss, I simply cored the tomatoes, sliced away the dried splitting seams, chopped the tomatoes into 1" pieces, pureed them in a blender (seeds and peels), passed the puree through a fine mesh strainer, mashed the pulp to release every drop of tomato-ness, and set the jus aside.

To whisk or not to whisk? Although emulsified creamy vinaigrettes are fine and dandy, they can be a bit heavy handed when dressing fresh summer tomatoes, so I kept it loosey-goosey by opting for a broken vinaigrette. I combined 1/4 cup tomato jus with 1/4 cup white wine vinegar, 1 teaspoon local honey, and 1/2 cup olive oil. After adding a pinch of salt and ground white pepper, I gave the mix a gentle stir before flecking creamy bits of Bluegrass Chevre into the vinaigrette.

Gorgeous heirlooms kissed with a fresh tomato-chevre vinaigrette.

Vibrant summer sweetness.
Soft bright acidity.
Subtle creamy tang.
Tomatoes on tomatoes.

Fabulous.

Pucker Up

Goodness knows, I've pickled just about everything under the sun. Name it and I've pickled it.
Although  I gave up full blown pickling and canning a couple of years ago after putting up loads of pickles only to give every last jar away, I still dabble in the pickling biz. Nowadays, I keep vinegar-marinated summer cucumbers in the refrigerator all summer long and whip up small batches of quick pickled what-nots from time to time. Quick pickled red onions, carrots, okra, turnips, and radishes are great to have on hand when bright bites are needed for perky acidity. All in all, I've never met a pickle I didn't like or love. While my love for all things pickled is steadfast, my shameless lust for fermented stuff is unbounded. Merely thinking about the fabulous fermented funk of kimchi. saurkraut, injera bread, fish sauce, gouchujang, or anchovies, pounds my inner drums. To ferment or not to ferment? Sure, some of the heavy hitters (like fermented rotting fish) might be better left to the big guns, but some things are manageable enough to easily and safely throw together on a smaller scale.  Case in point? Half sour and full sour pickles. Unlike vinegar-based processed pickles, half and full sours are brined in a simple salt/water solution and left to stew in their own juices. When the natural sugars react with the salty brine, the lactic fermentation transforms the vegetables into lip pursing pucker-tastic jewels. Prio-biotic lacto-fermented treasures.

Half and Full Sour Pickles.
Simple pickles. There's no need to drag out a huge enamel canning pot, sterilize a drawer full of lids, dig for tongs, or search for funnels. Sour pickles are very basic. Cucumbers. Salt. Water. The most important thing might be the brining solution or the ratio of salt to water. Some folks swear by a lower ratio (3%) while others stand by a higher ratio (10%). I fall somewhere in the middle with a 5% ratio or 1 tablespoon salt per 1 cup water.

After slicing the blossom ends off of 1 pound smallish Stonehedge Farm kirby cucumbers, I thoroughly washed them in iced water before cramming them into a quart mason jar with 5 sprigs of fresh dill, 4 garlic cloves, 2 bay leaves, 2 tablespoons whole allspice seeds, 2 tablespoons whole coriander seeds, 2 tablespoons whole Tellicherry peppercorns, and 1 sliced Fresno hot pepper.

I dissolved 4 tablespoons of kosher salt in 4 cups of filtered water and filled the jar with enough brine to completely cover the cucumbers. Now, sticky uppy bits are not a great thing. The cucumbers must be covered and submerged in the brine for proper fermentation to occur. If not covered, the wrong kind of bacteria could take over. Not a good thing. I used a small demi-tasse saucer to weigh down the cucumbers and keep them submerged.

Gurgling living food needs to breathe.  If sealed too tightly, the gases from the fermentation have nowhere to go and could...well...explode. I've had my share of gaseous brined saurkraut mishaps. After  making sure the pickles were submerged in the brine, I covered the mouth of the jar with layers of cheesecloth and secured the cloth with a rubber band. Although hardly high tech, I knew the cheesecloth would keep the bad things out of the pickles while still allowing them to breath and let the gases escape.

Covered and banded, I nestled the quart mason jar into a bowl ( to catch whatever might bubble over) and placed the bowl/jar/cucumbers in a cool dark corner of the garage.

Here's the deal. The great thing about sour pickles is that the process is fairly quick. Saurkraut can take up to 6 weeks to ferment. Depending upon the desired level of rot, kimchi might take months. Half sour pickles might be ready to go in 5 or 6 days. Full sours hit their full pucker punch in about 2 weeks. The level of sourness is totally subjective. Tasting  along the way is key.

After 3 days, I peaked under the cheesecloth to see if anything was happening. With some bubbling action going on, I knew the pickles were off to a good start, so I slid them back into their little hide-away and left them alone.

After 8 days, the somewhat shrunken pickles bobbed away in the murky and cloudy brine. It wasn't pretty, but it was normal.  I snacked on a few pickles, covered the jar, and decided to let them go for another week. The full monty. Full sours.

After 15 days, I slid the pickles into the refrigerator to chill. Sour pickles can last for a month in the refrigerator before they start to soften. They're fantastic as snacks, piled onto fatty deli sandwiches, or served with anything  barbecued. I treated the pickles like big boy cornichons and tumbled  them onto a cutting board alongside bourbon-spiked chicken liver pate topped with snipped chives and extra virgin olive oil.

Sour.
Salty.
Simple.

Pucker up.

Silks

Fire. Heat. Smoke.

It's summertime and the grilling is easy.

Can anything possibly be better than grilled locally grown fresh corn on the cob slathered with melted butter and doused with salt?

Yep.

Elotes. Mexican street corn. Smeared with mayo or crema, rolled in cojita cheese, sprinkled with ground chili, and brightened with fresh lime juice, elotes ups the ante on our beloved grilled summer corn candy.

It's simple, fun, and downright fabulous. Don't let the ingredients form a roadblock. Sure, there's the whole mayo thing. Can't tolerate mayo? Use crema, sour cream, or butter. Want to take a leap of faith? Try a teeny weeny bit of jarred mayo or whip up a batch of airy, tangy, creamy, and easy homemade mayo. Don't want to bother with sourcing cojita cheese?  Crumbled feta or good quality parmesan are a great substitutes.

Celebrate summer. Snag a few ears of fantastic corn and fire up the grill.

Elotes.

Mayo.
Scratch made mayonnaise is unbelievably simple to throw together.

After cracking 1 whole Elmwood Stock Farm organic egg into a small mason jar, I added 2 tablespoons white wine vinegar, 3 tablespoons neutral canola oil, 2 tablespoons fresh lime juice, 1/4
teaspoon dried mustard, salt, pepper, and a pinch of sugar. Using a hand held immersion blender, I creamed the mix before slowly drizzling in an additional 5 tablespoons  canola oil. Within seconds, it emulsified into a creamy dream. A mayonnaise miracle.  I slid the mayo into the refrigerator to chill and fired up the grill.

Corn.
There are no rules when it comes to grilling corn. Shucked or unshucked? Soaked or dried? Wrapped or naked? It's really doesn't matter, if you keep an eye on it during the process. The caramelized toasty bits are fine. Cinders, not so much.

I was lucky enough to stumble across fresh (newly harvested) Lincoln County corn at the farmers market. Still damp from the morning harvest, the fresh corn was a total win.

So, I'm a husk on kind of boy when it comes to grilling corn. The silks are another matter. Some folks don't bother removing the silks before grilling because they burn away from the heat and flames. Well, I guess I fall in the middle. You see, I grew up on a farm with a zero tolerance for corn silks. My father had kitchen drawers filled with very odd corn silk removing gadgets. No silks allowed. Period. Ever. Although I'm not quite that fussy, I removed some of the silks.

After peeling back the husks, I scraped away most of the silks, loosely formed the husks back over the corn, and tied the ends with a few wayward husk scraps.

When the fire died down, I spread out the glowing coals, and tossed the ears onto the grill. While I didn't bother soaking the corn, I did spritz the ears with water after they hit the heat. I poured myself a glass of wine, sat down next to the inferno, and turned the ears of corn every few minutes. As the husks burned away, bit of corn kernels singed and caramelized from the heat. After 10 minutes or so,
I pulled the corn from the grill and scraped away the burned husks before peeling back the inner husks to reveal the candied corn. Steamed. Charred. Caramelized. Gorgeous.

While the corn was still warm, I brushed it with the lime spiked mayo, tumbled cojita cheese over the top, dusted it with ancho chili powder, and finished with fresh lime zest before scattering lime wedges and fresh cilantro to the side.

Crunchy sweet summer corn. Light creamy mayo. Salty cojita cheese. Spicy ancho chili. Bright fresh lime. Perfect.

Not into a corn facial or wearing elotes on your face, hands, hair, and elbows? Try esquites, the daintier street corn salad version. Simply cut the corn off the cobs after grilling and toss the kernels with all the remaining good stuff.

Summer has arrived.
Get your grill on.

If You Grow It, I Will Come

So, fresh fennel really doesn't scream summer. I get it. Typically, it's thought of as a vegetable  most wildly available from autumn through spring. Well, think again. It can pop up at farmers markets in the early summer before it bolts and goes to seed. I stop by the farmers market two or three times a week, so not much gets by me. If someone plops a few bulbs of fennel between summer white cucumbers, cherry tomatoes, and baby squash, I'm all in. Expect the unexpected. If you grow it, I will come.

While the bold licorice crunch of raw fennel is fine and dandy when shaved into salads or shredded into slaws, I prefer the softer subtle punch of cooked fennel. Braising and/or roasting fennel draws out the natural sugars and allows it to caramelize into tender anise-flavored fennel candy. That said, cooking it until tender doesn't always relegate fennel to an aromatic flavor boost for sleepy stews or braised meats. Come summertime, it can stand on its own.

Roasted Fresh Fennel with Marinated Sun Gold Tomatoes.

Roasting fennel straight up produces a nice charred crunch that lacks a little love. Sure, it's all fennely, but it's also somewhat  harsh.  I've found that a braise/roast combination allows the fennel to cook through and soften before it caramelizes.

I sliced the stalks from 2 medium sized Stonehedge Farm fennel bulbs (fronds reserved), removed the tough outer portions of the bulbs, sliced each bulb into quarters, and set them aside. After cutting the green tops from 3 Boyle County purple candy onions, I added them to the fennel quarters and tossed everything with extra virgin olive, salt, and cracked black pepper before tumbling them into a shallow saute pan. I splashed the vegetables with a 1/2 cup white wine, covered the pan with foil, and slid the pan into a preheated 425 degree oven.  After 25 minutes, I removed the foil, flipped the fennel quarters, and returned them to the oven to roast for an additional 30 minutes. During the last 10 minutes, I brushed the quartered bulbs on all sides with equal portions of fresh lemon juice and local honey.

When they were beautifully caramelized and softened, I pulled them from the oven to cool.

Although the throngs of vine-ripened large tomatoes haven't quite stormed the market, multi colored heirloom cherry tomatoes have definitely arrived. I quartered 1 pint of Marion County Sun Gold tomatoes and tossed them into a bowl. After showering the little jewels with snipped chives, I seasoned them with salt and cracked black pepper. I didn't want to get all fiddly with an emulsified vinaigrette, so I simply drizzled the tomatoes with 1/4 cup extra virgin olive oil and 3 tablespoons of white wine vinegar before tossing them with the broken vinaigrette.

After an hour or so, I tumbled the marinated quartered tomatoes over the fennel and finished with a few whispers of delicate fresh fronds.

Served at room temperature, the quirky salad meets side dish would pair wonderfully with grilled meat, chicken or fish. The subdued sweet anise undertones of the caramelized fennel poked through the light agro dulce (sweet and sour) glaze of the lemon and honey.  While the bits of char added slight candied licorice crunch, the perky tomatoes provided bright sun kissed freshness.

Roasted fennel with tomatoes.
An unexpected summer scream.
Fabulous.