The Morning After

Nothing swells the hearts of Kentuckians quite like Derby week in Kentucky.

With parties, balls, horse racing, and festivities welcoming  revelers from all over the world, Derby week is filled with fervent anticipation. When morning breaks on the first Saturday in May, it'a all about the Run for the Roses. Whether donning fascinators and finery for live racing at Churchill Downs, strolling the gorgeous grounds of Keeneland with mint juleps in hand, bar hopping with wagering phone apps on deck, or attending laid back Derby parties, we all want to play along, have great fun, and celebrate a tradition that is uniquely ours. It's simply what we do.

That said, Derby Day can be a very very long day. Without fail, eager morning bloody marys, mimosas, or screwdrivers slowly segue into serious shots of bourbon, gin, vodka, or beer. Gradually, the post times between races lengthen and lengthen. By mid afternoon, our seriously happy libations morph into Mint Juleps (well, just because) while we wait for the start of the most important horse race in the world. Eventually, awash in a haze of bourbon and mint, the racetrack bugler calls the horses to post as a weepy and soaring chorus of My Old Kentucky Home captures the frozen moment in time. It's fabulous, exhilarating, and exhausting.

Derby Day day drinking.
Plan ahead.

There's always a morning after.

Farmers Market Breakfast Skillet.

While I used a small single serve cast iron skillet, a larger skillet filled with multiple eggs and bumped up ingredients would seal the deal for a groggy crowd.

I trimmed the ends from a bundle of Gary Farm pencil thin asparagus, sliced them on an extreme bias (almost halved). briefly steamed them for 10 seconds, and set the asparagus aside.



Working over a medium flame, I sauteed a few pieces of thinly sliced Browning's Country Ham. When the ham started to crisp around the edges, I added 1 minced garlic clove, 3 chopped Shelby County spring green onions, julienned red bell peppers ( a quarter pepper), a handful of halved grape tomatoes, kosher salt, and cracked black pepper.  Just before the tomatoes collapsed from the heat, I kissed the skillet with a splash of fresh lemon juice, nudged the tomatoes and peppers to the sides of the skillet, twirled the asparagus around the edges, carefully cracked a large Elmwood Stock organic egg into the center nest, and slid the skillet into a preheated 400 degree oven for 8 minutes.


When the egg whites set, I pulled the skillet from the oven and dusted the top with cracked black pepper before finishing with flowering chives from my garden.

A simple market breakfast skillet.

Knock it back a bloody mary chaser
for a perfect morning after.

Winning

1893-1899.
Lookout. Chant. Halma. Ben Bush. Typhoon II. Plaudit. Manuel.

7 Horses.
7 Kentucky Derbies.
7 Winners.

It's widely believed that sometime between the 1893 and 1899  Derby races Jennie Carter Benedict, the celebrated Louisville caterer, restaurant owner, cookbook author, and businesswoman, created her iconic Benedictine spread for crustless tea sandwiches. After graduating from Fannie Farmer's Boston Cooking School, Benedict returned to Kentucky in 1893 and opened a catering kitchen in her back yard. Eventually, she became so successful that she moved her business in 1900 to downtown Louisville and opened a restaurant/tearoom. As her restaurant flourished, she became a powerful businesswoman, active humanitarian, and cookbook author. Her Blue Ribbon Cookbook was first published in 1902 and went on to be reprinted several times, most recently in 2008. For unknown reasons, her recipe for Benedictine didn't appear in her Blue Ribbon Cookbook until the 2008 reprinted edition. While some of her recipes have fallen out of favor, some are still staples on Kentucky tables. Her recipe for Benedictine put her on the map and has stood the test of time. Along with mint juleps, country ham biscuits, and chocolate pecan bourbon pies, Benedictine is a Kentucky Derby tradition. You'd be hard pressed to not bump into variations of her cucumber-tinged, onion, cream cheese spread during any Derby day celebration.


In its purest form, Benedictine is a simple blend of cucumber juice, onion juice, cream cheese, and cayenne served on crustless white bread. Sure, it's gotten dolled up over the years with the addition of bacon, grated cucumber, grated onion, or watercress. Some folks thin it out with mayo for dipping or smear it onto dark rye. While trimming the bread crusts might seem a little old school and fussy, I'm down with old school and fussy. I kept it pure and simple, gilded the lily a bit, and turned it inside out.



Open-Faced Benedictine Finger Sandwiches.

Plain old white bread.
Although just about any white sandwich bread would be fine, a simple scratch made white sandwich bread has a firmer crumb and texture.

I added 1 tablespoon active dry yeast, 1 tablespoon sugar, and 1/2 cup warm water to the bowl of a stand mixer. When it became foamy and alive, I added 3 cups Weisenberger Mill all purpose flour and 1 teaspoon salt. After incorporating the yeast and flour together with a wooden spoon, I added 2 cups warm water, 1 stick softened unsalted butter, and 3 1/2 cups additional flour.

I blended the mix, attached a dough hook to the mixer, and let it work for 3 minutes before scraping down the sides, setting the speed to medium, and the letting it rip for 10 minutes. When the shaggy dough turned smooth and tacky, I turned it out onto a bread board, kneaded it by hand for a few minutes, smoothed the dough into a ball, placed it into a buttered bowl, covered it with a dish towel, and set it aside until it doubled in size.

After 2 hours, I punched down the dough, divided it in half with a bench scraper, and worked each half into 9 x 5 rectangles. I folded each rectangle into thirds, placed them seam side down into 2 buttered 8 x 4 metal baking pans, tucked in the edges, covered the pans with a dish towel, and set them aside.

When the loaves doubled in size, I slid them onto the middle rack of a pre-heated 375 degree oven for 30 minutes. When the crusts were honey brown, I pulled them from the oven, turned them out onto a wire rack, and let them cool to room temperature.

Down the stretch...
Benedictine.
To green or not to green? Truth be told, I haven't a shred of moral objection to green food coloring. I simply have lingering angst from far too many over tinted and over minted chocolate mint cakes served up to me as a kid back on the farm in Western Kentucky, so I omitted  the green food coloring and  used what is considered to be Jennie Benedict's original old fashioned recipe reprinted in Winning Bluegrass Recipes: A Cookbook, published in 1985.

After peeling and chopping a medium sized cucumber, I pureed the pieces in a food processor, scooped the pulp into double lined cheesecloth, and squeezed the juice into a small bowl. Without cleaning the bowl of the processor, I repeated the process with a peeled, halved, and chopped medium sized onion. I added 3 tablespoons of the cucumber juice and 2 tablespoons of the onion juice to 8 ounces softened cream cheese and mashed it together with the times of a fork until it was somewhat smooth. After seasoning the Benedictine with a pinch of salt, black pepper, and cayenne pepper, I briefly blitzed the mix with a handheld blender until it was light and creamy.

The finish line.
I sliced the fresh white bread into 1/2" slices and spread generous amounts of Benedictine onto each slice, smoothing it out to the ends of the crusts.

After  thinly slicing 2 large unpeeled English cucumbers on a mandolin ( a vegetable peeler would have done the job), I cut them in half lengthwise and shingled the slices across the bread on a diagonal, overlapping the peeled ends over the centers until each bread slice was covered. Using a very sharp knife, I cut the crusts from the bread and sliced each piece in half before finishing with shaved radishes and Gary Farm pea tendrils.

Bendictine finger sandwiches.
Dressed for the Derby.

Light.
Bright.
Refreshing.

Win, Place, and Show.

Green Garlic

The annual Calcotadas in Spain are Catalonian spring festivals celebrating the harvest of their over-wintered twice-planted beloved calcotes. Rooted in deep tradition, calcotes (large mild green onions) are harvested, roasted over open flaming pits, wrapped in newspapers to steam, peeled, and eaten one by one with romesco sauce and bread. After the calcotes are removed from the pits, various cuts of meat are thrown onto the grills to feed the zealous onion eating crowds. Festival goers gather around the smoldering onions, don paper bibs, guzzle red wine poured from porrons, and eat everything with their fingers. Calcotadas are messy messy business.

Smitten by Blue Moon Farm's market green garlic (the mild thinned out shoots of immature garlic bulbs) and their crazy uncanny resemblance to Kentucky green onions, I embraced the notion of a Spanish Calcotada and paired baby green garlic with local quail for a Bluegrass take on a Catalonian Calcotada.

Ale-8-One Barbecued Quail with Charred Green Garlic.

Bobwhite.
One or two bite wonders.
Local farm raised quail are just so darned precious and fragile. Masquerading as dainty little chickens, their teeny tiny bodies simply beg to be gently stuffed, tied, wrapped in some kind of pork, and quick cooked to keep the meat moist and tender. Nope. I resisted the urge to get all fiddly, tossed the kid gloves, and roughed them up a bit.

Using kitchen shears, I snipped the backbones from 2 1/2 pounds small Stonehege Farm farm raised Bobwhite quail and smashed the birds with the palm of my hand to flatten them out. Duly spatchcocked, I sliced the quail in half, and tossed the pieces into a gingery Ale-8-One quick brine (1 1/2 cups Ale-8-One soda, 1 tablespoon minced garlic, 2 tablespoon sugar, 2 tablespoon kosher salt, 1 tablespoon freshly grated ginger, a few grinds of cracked black pepper, and 3 tablespoons vegetable oil), and set them aside.


A Late One.
Sauce.
Working over a medium flame, I sauteed 2 tablespoons minced garlic in 3 tablespoons olive oil. When the garlic bloomed from the heat, I deglazed the pan with 1 cup Ale-8-One and let it reduce by half before adding 1 1/2 cups ketchup, 1/2 cup dark brown sugar, 3 tablespoons apple cider vinegar, 3 tablespoons worchestershire sauce, 1/2 teaspoon celery salt, 1 teaspoon smoked bourbon salt, and cracked black pepper. I brought the sauce to a boil, reduced it to a simmer, let it rip for 20 minutes, and pulled it from the heat.

Green garlic. 
I rinsed and trimmed 2 bundles of Blue Moon Farm baby green garlic, patted them dry with a dish towel, and drizzled them with olive oil before showering them with salt and pepper.

Fire.
After soaking a handful of hickory chips in water for 30 minutes, I ignited a fire in an outdoor grill. When the flames settled into glowing hot coals, I tossed the green garlic onto the grill grate and let them singe from the heat.. When they started to blacken and char, I pulled them from the grill, wrapped them in newspaper, and set them aside.


While the coals were still very hot, I brushed the quail with the reserved barbecue sauce and slipped them onto the grill breast side up. After 4 minutes, I flipped the birds and let the other side cook for 4 minutes before basting and flipping them for 3 additional minutes until they were cooked through, lacquered up, and caramelized.

I peeled the charred outer skins from the baby green garlic, twirled them onto a bread board, splashed them with fresh lemon juice, and nestled the barbecued quail halves into the smoky steamed ribbons. Instead of a roasted red bell pepper/almond -based romesco sauce, I slid a fresh red bell pepper-flecked gorgonzola sauce to the side.

.

Tucked under the caramelized sticky crisped skin, the slight gaminess of the tender quail poked through the assertive smoky sauce. While the lemon-splashed charred green garlic countered the sweetness of the glaze with soft garlic undertones, the gorgonzola dipper provided creamy sharp punch.


Swipe. Dip. Suck. Repeat.
A Bluegrass Calcotada.
Fired up finger food.

Spring

Spring has sprung.
We're mere days away from the the opening of the Spring/Summer season at our downtown Lexington Farmer's Market. Even now, although it's early in the season, nibbles of Spring (baby arugula, baby kale, and wild mushrooms)  have saddled up next to the familiar hardy winter stalwarts.
Riding the seasonal cusp, the arrival of the baby stuff at the farmers market has always been one of my favorites times of the year. Quietly, they whisper hints to what's yet to come. Eager to get the ball rolling so early in the season, farmers fill their farms stands with whatever is big enough or small enough to offer those of us wanting to shake off the the long winter's tale. While we'll have to wait a bit longer for the glorious jewels of summer, now is the time for the delicate firsts of Spring.

A springtime spin on shrimp and grits.

Fried Shrimp and Grits with Andouille Marmalade, 
Baby Kale, and Blood Orange-Chili Gastrique.

Grits.
I brought 3 1/2 cups water and 1 cup milk to a boil in a medium saucepan, stirred in 1 cup Weisenberger Mill stone ground white grits, added 2 teaspoons salt, reduced the heat, covered the pan, and let the grits rip for 25 minutes, stirring the pot every few minutes to prevent the grits from sticking to the bottom of the saucepan. When the grits were smooth and creamy, I pulled them from the heat, added 1 cup shredded sharp white cheddar cheese, 4 tablespoons unsalted butter, and 1 cup thinly sliced green onions. After incorporating the cheese until it was thoroughly melted, I poured the grits onto a parchment-lined half sheet pan, and slid them into the refrigerator to set up.

Andouille Sausage Marmalade.
Throwing reason out the window, I totally went there. After petite dicing 9 ounces smoked andouille sausage, I tossed the tiny pieces into a small skillet set over a medium high flame. When they started to crisp around the edges, I added 1/4 cup minced shallots and 2 minced garlic cloves. Just before the garlic browned, I deglazed the skillet with 1 tablespoon worchestershire sauce, 1/4 cup sherry vinegar, 2 tablespoons Makers Mark bourbon, and 1/2 cup chicken stock. I let the liquids reduce by half before adding 3 tablespoons Oberholtzer's organic sorghum and 1/4 cup dark brown sugar. After seasoning the marmalade with salt and cracked black pepper, I reduced it to a porky sticky syrup and pulled it from the heat. I could have stopped right there and called it a day.

Gastrique.
I adore gastriques. Sweet. Savory. Acidic. Tart. Whether sweet, savory, or a combination of the two, they pack a powerful punch. I halved 3 large blood oranges, squeezed enough juice out of all three to yield 1/2 cup juice, and set the juice aside. After heating a small cat iron skillet over a medium flame, I added 4 1/2 tablespoons sugar and stirred constantly until the sugar slowly melted from the heat and turned from glossy clear to molten amber. When the sugar hit the amber g-spot, I hit it with 1 tablespoon red wine vinegar and a whopping 1 1/2 tablespoons Green County Cracklin' Hen Jalapeno Hot Sauce. Tricky business. It's the nature of the beast for a gastrique to seize up when acid is added to burning hot melted sugar. When it relaxed and melted into itself, I added 1/2 cup fresh blood orange juice and 3/4 cups chicken stock. I brought the gastrique to a boil, lowered the heat, and let it bubble away until it reduced to 1/4 cup before pulling it from the heat, about 40 minutes.

Shrimp.
I peeled, deveined, and rinsed 1 pound U/15 shrimp. After carefully separating handfuls of pre-thawed shredded phyllo dough  (Kataifi dough, where have you been my entire life?), I aligned long portions of the fragile flaky strands onto a wooden bread board. Starting at one end, I loosely wrapped each shrimp with the delicate dough, covered them with a damp towel, and set them aside.

The fun part.
I pulled the chilled grits from the refrigerator, used a cookie cutter to slice the grits into into uniform discs, dusted them with flour, pan fried them until they were golden brown, and placed them onto paper towels to drain.When the oil came back up to temperature (350 degrees), I used a spider to carefully lower the phyllo-wrapped shrimp into the hot oil. Within seconds, the phyllo bloomed and crisped around the perfectly cooked shrimp, so I scooped them out and gently rolled them onto paper towels. They. Were. Gorgeous.

I slathered the fried scallion-flecked grits cakes with the smoky sweet andouille sausage marmalade, feathered fresh lemon-splashed Elmwood Stock Farm baby kale on top of the sausage, nestled the delicate phyllo-wrapped juicy tender shrimp into the kale, and puddled the fiery sweet/tart chili-infused blood orange gastrique to the side before finishing with slivered fresh red bell peppers and chives from my garden.

Unconventional.
Unexpected.
Utterly fabulous.

Flower Power

I'm not sure why my family didn't grow cauliflower on our rural lakeside farm in western Kentucky. It seemed like we grew everything. For the most part, we lived off the fat of the land. Almost everything we ate came from the farm my grandfather nurtured after the Great Depression. Back in the day, they had little and wanted for nothing. The old farm was their modern day supermarket. That deep-rooted notion carried its weight for decades and still existed when I found myself plucked from another world and planted on their farm. Canned garden fresh vegetables eventually made their way down to the dimly lit root cellar, friendly cows wound up in the deep freezer, and pet chickens ended up on the Sunday table. Farm life..

My grandparent's vegetable garden was huge.Seemingly planted with an eye to aesthetics, cherry trees filled the center, splitting the garden in half. A wooden planked fence, draped in grape vines, stood guard between food and livestock, protecting our treasures.. Packed with almost everything we needed, it felt like a lush storybook secret garden.

When my dad built our own home across the rolling meadow within eyesight of my grandparent's house, he tilled and tilled an old barren field for a bigger and better garden. Big tools. Big equipment. Bigger. Better. Best. It was a fine garden. Wrapped with bothersome barbed wire, trapped and bathed in perfect sunlight, it produced the biggest melons, the tallest corn, tons of pickling cucumbers, juicy sun-kissed tomatoes, new potatoes, sweet potatoes, turnips, beets, radishes, and green beans. Although I don't recall ever eating cauliflower, I'm sure frozen nubs might have popped up in curious casseroles, soups, and stews. But, farm to table? Nope. Not from my father's garden.

I met the cauliflower of my dreams when I left the farm and skipped off to college. Armed with a prepaid meal card, the student cafeteria was my lone option for 'real food'. On one of my first visits to the uncool cafeteria, I discovered cauliflower bubbling and bobbing away in a vivid orange cheese sauce. Glowing through the drab wasteland of the sterile buffet, that cauliflower slapped me silly. I fell for it hook, line, and sinker. Over the course of my freshman year in college, I scooped the seemingly endless supply of cheesy cauliflower over meatloaf, swirled it into pasta, spooned it over dry salisbury steaks, mixed it with other vegetables, or simply ate it on its own. Aside from an occasional pizza or late night  Hot Fudge Cake from Jerry's Restaurant, I lived for that cauliflower. I adored it.

While I still have a soft spot for the cheesy stuff I slathered on everything, nowadays, I'm more prone to roast, mash, or puree cauliflower as a sidekick to the main event. There are times, however, when cauliflower takes center stage.

Whole Roasted Cauliflower Puttanesca.
Simple and straightforward.

Cauliflower.
I trimmed the bottom of a medium sized cauliflower to level the playing field before thoroughly rubbing the entire head with 4 tablespoons of olive oil and seasoning  it with sea salt, cracked black pepper, paprika, and citrusy sumac. I massaged the spices into the bumpy crevices of the cauliflower, placed it into a parchment paper lined baking pan, and slid it into a 425 degree oven. To create a little steam for a moist environment, I slipped a pan of boiling water on a rack beneath the cauliflower.


Puttanesca Sauce.
Tomatoes. Onions. Black Olives. Capers. Anchovies.

While I typically prepare puttanesca sauce with farm fresh tomatoes, it's way too early for those summer jewels.  So, what's the next best thing to use this time of year? Farm fresh canned tomatoes.

I drizzled a large cast iron skillet with olive oil and cranked the heat to medium high. When the oil started to smoke, I added 2 slivered shallots, 4 pasted garlic cloves, and 6 oil-packed anchovy fillets. Using the back of a wooden spoon, I crushed the anchovies until they melted into the oil and added 1 pint hand crushed Triple J Farm canned halved tomatoes, juices reserved. As the tomatoes collapsed, I tumbled 1 cup halved Kalamata olives and 3 tablespoons capers into the skillet. When the sauce started to thicken, I deglazed the skillet with 1/2 cup white wine and 1 cup of the reserved tomato juice. After showering the sauce with cracked black pepper, I reduced the heat to low and let it simmer.on a back burner.

After an hour, I pulled the cauliflower from the oven and carefully placed it into the skillet with the puttanesca sauce, covered the skillet with aluminum foil, and returned the cauliflower to the oven to steam/roast/braise for an additional 45 minutes, removing the foil during the last 15 minutes. When the cauliflower was tender enough to pierce with a metal skewer, I removed the skillet from the oven, lifted the cauliflower out of the sauce, and set it aside,

To loosen the reduced sauce, I added 4 tablespoons extra virgin olive oil along with the juice and zest of a Meyer lemon to create a loosey-goosey riff on a warm broken vinaigrette.

 I sliced the cauliflower into 1" steaks and nestled them into pools of puttanesca before finishing with
flaked salt, shaved parmigano-Reggiano and fresh parsley.

Splashed with sauce, the crispy tinged edges of the cauliflower played off the delicate and pristine roasted center meat. The slight sweetness of the melted tomatoes mellowed the intense salty funk of the anchovies and the subtle punch of garlic. While the small hit of fresh lemon added bright notes of acidity, the capers provided tiny pops of tang that countered the briny bitterness of the softened black olives.

Whole roasted cauliflower.
Hold the cheese.
Fabulous.

Eat Your Beer: Beef And Guinness Pie

You don't have to dangle backwards from a parapet of Blarney Castle and kiss the Blarney Stone to feel a wee bit Irish on St. Patrick's Day. Whether slamming back a few pints with Jameson chasers, donning something green, watching a parade with friends and family, or chowing down on hearty Irish fare, most everyone embraces the revelry and spirit of the day dedicated to the patron saint of Ireland.. Some of us might enjoy it a little too much. That said, it's really all about balance. Eat, drink, and be merry. Do it all separately or do it all together. I'm all in for a combination of the three....at the same time. Balance.

Guinness Beef Pie with Hot Water Crust Pastry
Meat pies, in general, are fairly straightfoward. Meat + Pastry = Pie. Choose a filling, choose a pastry, and call it a day. Pretty basic. However, under the big umbrella of meat pies, things  can get tricky. Which pastry dough works best for which filling? Shortcrust pastry, puff pastry, flaky pastry, rough puff pastry, suet crust pastry, or hot water crust pastry? Then, double crust, or single crust? It's all subjective and a matter of personal taste. For something as robust as Guinness steak pie, I went very old school with a double crust hot water lard crust pastry. Yep.


Filling.
A hearty and rich booze infused stew.
I seasoned 4 pounds of Marksbury Farm beef short ribs with salt and pepper, dredged them with flour, shook off the excess flour, and set them aside. After heating 3 tablespoons bacon fat to the smoking point in a large dutch oven, I carefully browned the short ribs in batches until they developed a gorgeous crust, scooped them from the pot, and set them aside. While the pot was still smoking hot, I added 3 tablespoons vegetable oil to the smoky bacon fat. When the two fats melted together, I tumbled 4 sliced carrots, 3 sliced celery ribs, and 1/2 cup chopped onions into the hot oil.

Just before the onions started to caramelize, I added 2 tablespoons minced fresh garlic and 2 tablespoons tomato paste. After swirling the tomato paste through the softened vegetables, I let the tomato paste brown before deglazing the pot with 2 cups Guinness Stout bottled  beer. Heads up.
When the heady foam settled back into the pot, I added 3 cups beef stock, 2 tablespoons freshly grated horseradish, 1 heaping tablespoon dried shitake mushroom powder,  3 tablespoons dark brown sugar, salt, cracked black pepper, 1 tablespoon dried English mustard, 3 bay leaves, 1 sprig fresh rosemary, and 3 sprigs fresh thyme. I brought the stock to a boil, reduced it to a simmer, tumbled the reserved browned meat (with juices) into the stock, covered the pot, and slid it into a pre-heated 350 oven.

After 1 1/2 hours, I pulled the stew from the oven, loosened the base with an additional 2 cups beef stock, added 2 cups peeled pearl onions, and returned the stew to the oven. At the 2 1/2 hour mark ( an hour later), I pulled the stew from the oven to rest. When the short ribs were cool enough to handle, I pulled the meat from the bones and sliced it into 1' pieces.  After scooping the vegetables into a side dish, I tossed them with the cooked meat, covered the dish with plastic wrap, and set it aside. I skimmed the glistening  visible fat from the surface of the stock, covered it with plastic wrap, and slid it into the refrigerator to chill.

When the stock chilled enough for the fat to congeal on the surface, I scraped off the remaining fat and draped the gelatinous sauce over the meat and vegetables.

Pastry.
Hot water pastry is an interesting beast. By breaking the keep-everything-well-chilled rule, it goes against the norm. In doing so, the process creates a strong  flaky crust that can withstand the weight of any savory filling.

After sifting 3 2/3 cups all purpose flour and 1 teaspoon salt into a large mixing bowl, I made a well in the center of the flour, poured 2 beaten eggs into the well, and feathered the wall of flour over the eggs. Working over a medium high flame, I melted 2/3 cups lard in a small saucepan before adding 6 tablespoons milk and 6 tablespoons water. When the lard/water/milk came to a rolling boil, I carefully poured the hot liquid around the edges of the flour and used a fork to pull the dough together. When it formed a ragged dough, I turned it onto a well floured bread board, kneaded it until the egg strands disappeared into the dough, patted the dough into flattened disc,wrapped it in plastic wrap, and slid it into the refrigerator for 30 minutes to chill.

I divided the dough with a bench scraper and rolled the bottom crust into a jagged  16" x 1/4" circle, rolled the dough onto the rolling pin, and unrolled it over a 8" spring form pan, leaving a slight overhang. After pinching the dough into the base of the pan, I pushed the dough up the sides, smoothed the creases, patched a few tears, set it aside, and rolled out the remaining dough for the top.

I mixed the room temperature filling with the sauce, spooned the mixture into the pastry case, sprinkled fresh parsley over the filling, brushed the exposed pastry with a beaten egg wash, and carefully rolled the top crust over the pan.  After trimming the edges, I brushed the top of the pie with the egg wash, crimped the edges to form a tight seal, sliced three vents to allow the steam escape, and shoved the massive pie into a pre-heated 390 degree oven.

After 45 minutes, I pulled the pie from the oven, released the spring form pan, brushed the sides of the crust with egg wash, and returned the pie to the oven for an additional 25 minutes to brown before pulling it from the oven to rest.

When cooled, I scattered snipped chives over the top of the pie and sliced it into oversized hearty thick wedges. Boom. It was not my grandmother's dainty beef pot pie.

Deep and complex, the tender meat and sweetened root vegetables melted into the rich mahogany sauce. Although still very present, the Guinness stout relaxed its bitter edge from the long cook. While the brown sugar enhanced the inherent chocolaty roasted sweetness of the beer, it also tempered the hoppy assertiveness.


Cracked and splintered, large crusty pie shards easily became edible spoons for sopping, leaving the smaller flakes to fleck through the unctuous sauce like delicate crisp croutons.

Eat your beer.
One bite at a time.
Fabulous.

Cured

I started catering by accident. Thirty odd years ago, I moved to New York armed with a theatre degree, a cute wardrobe, and boundless energy. Hardly a triple threat. In the beginning, I juggled several odd jobs to earn enough money for bills with enough pocket change left over for cheap vodka and cigarettes. During the day, I worked the first floor information desk at the American Museum of Natural History located on the Upper West Side. "The dinosaurs are on the 4th floor. The elevator is straight ahead." "The dinosaurs are on the 4th floor. The elevator is straight ahead." "Whales? Down the hall and to the right." "The dinosaurs are on the 4th floor." "Yes, ma'am. The 4th floor." "The. 4th. Floor." On and on and on. At night, I split my time hawking 'I heart NY' coffee mugs and feathered theatre masks in a dingy souvenir shop on a dank ally just off of 45th Street and manning the lowest station in the kitchen of a failing restaurant on Restaurant Row. I was living the dream.

At the time, I had a good friend who helped curate the theatre collection for the City of the Museum of New York on the Upper East Side. Fancy digs. One one particularly insignificant day, he asked me if I'd be interested in catering an exhibit opening at the museum as a replacement for a caterer who bailed at the last minute. Embracing my impetuous inner me, I said yes without giving it a thought. Here's the deal. I was a hustling  pizza-by-the-slice, street vendor hot dog, Asian take-out, Blarney Stone Bar buffet kind of guy. The closest I came to my imagined notion of gentrified museum snacks were the occasional nibbles I'd snag from the sample counters of Zabars and Dean and Deluca. I was a kid without a clue. Hell, that didn't stop me. I embraced what I knew and took my interpreted  mish-mashed Jewish/Italian arsenal of goods on the road. Old school crab-stuffed cherry tomatoes (yep). Chopped chicken liver on matzo crackers. Smoked whitefish dip. Gravlax on rye. Skewered buffalo bocconcini balls. I was brazen, young, and unafraid. At the end of the night, when the dust settled, my traveling food show was a hit.

While my  real jobs evolved and changed over time, I held fast to my museum catering gigs. In the chaos of New York, it was grounding. Sure, I grew with the changing food trends.That said, even though I mixed things up a bit, I stubbornly kept my bread and butter workhorses. My last hurrah unfolded at a satellite exhibit opening housed in a large temporary kiosk on Times Square. The exhibit was designed and mounted to showcase the historical connections and relationships between the costumes of Hollywood and Broadway.From Broadway to Hollywood and back. Bi-coastal.

The night went off without a hitch. As a one man band, I had my hands full keeping foods trays stocked and supplied. Midway through the opening, I huddled under the formica ticket counter top to refresh a tray of salmon. When I pulled up....boom. Ethel Merman and Ginger Rogers stood inches away smiling at me through the dimmed rose-colored underlighting that softened their worn faces beneath the gaudy flickering neon of the entrance sign.  Of course they were there, I thought. I stood there, shell-shocked and disheveled, a pastry bag in one hand with salmon slipping through the fingers of my other hand. Flummoxed, I simply used my elbow to point toward the salmon on rye. They both slipped a few pieces onto their plates and vanished into the exhibit. And that was that.

Several years later, after landing a big boy theatre job totally unrelated to food, I sat 1st Row, Center, 1st Balcony at Carnegie Hall for Ethel Merman's last live performance. Full circle. Lucky me.

Beetroot Cured Salmon on Pumpernickle Rye.
At its most basic, cured salmon simply needs salt, sugar, and time. While the ratio of salt to sugar is forgiving, it has to be strong enough and balanced to properly set the cure. I always use a 50/50 salt to sugar ratio for the foundation. After that, almost anything goes.

First and foremost, using beets in the curing process does not make the salmon taste like beets. The beets simply impart a shockingly surreal color that defies common sense. Commit and go big.

Mise en Place.
Rubber gloves. Plastic wrap. Full on rubber body suit. Beets are messy business.

I rinsed a 1 1/2 pound salmon filet under cold water, meticulously removed the pin bones, sliced it in half to make it more manageable, and set it aside. After donning plastic gloves, I grated 3 large peeled beets on the course side of a box grater over a large mixing bowl, added 1/4 cup grated fresh horseradish root, 1 cup kosher salt, and 1 cup granulated sugar.

I double lined a large sheet pan with plastic wrap (with enough overhang to wrap the salmon), spread half of the beet/horseradish/sugar/salt mixture onto the bottom of the sheet pan, placed the salmon on top of the mixture, brushed the flesh with local Pure Blue Vodka, covered the salmon with the remaining cure, nestled thinly sliced lemons into the macerated beets, and feathered fresh dill over the lemons.

I loosely folded the plastic wrap over and around the salmon, leaving enough air space for the salmon to breathe and sweat. After covering the salmon with another sheet pan, I weighed it down with 4 full bottles of wine and slid the salmon into the refrigerator to cure for 3 days, flipping the salmon  once a day, draining off the liquid, and weighing it back down.

Quick Pickled Beets.
After simmering 2 medium beets in salted water for 45 minutes, I slipped the skins from the beets (rubber gloves) and set them aside.  When they were cool enough to handle, I sliced them into 1/2" cubes, tumbled them into pint canning jar, added 1/2 cup water, 1/2 cup red wine vinegar, 1 teaspoon peppercorns, 1/2 teaspoon mustard seeds, and 1 bay leaf before sliding the beets into the refrigerator to chill.

After 3 days, I wrapped myself in plastic wrap, unwrapped the salmon, scraped off the beet-infused
cure, rinsed the salmon under cold water, and set it aside.

The fun part.

After patting the salmon dry with a clean dish towel, I sliced it on a sharp bias into paper thin ribbons using a very sharp boning knife. Slow and steady was key. I gently pulled the salmon into the knife while carefully slicing the flesh with long slicing motions, letting the salmon fall from the knife.

I brushed pumpernickle rye toasts with creme fraiche and  feathered the ridiculously vibrant salmon ribbons onto the rye before finishing with slivered shallots, radishes, pickled beets, fresh chervil, and fresh dill.

Salmon on rye.
Light years (and miles) away from my vagabond museum days.

Cured.