Ducks In A Row

Several years ago, in a desperate effort to escape the suffocating summer heat of New York City and my non air-conditioned 4th floor walk up apartment in Hell's Kitchen, I  rented a cheap car and blasted out of the city for a day trip to the Hamptons on Long Island. Without an agenda or schedule, I simply wanted to get as far away from New York as possible. I hadn't driven a car in years, so managing the expressways, exits, bridges, and tunnels out of New York was a stretch, to say the least. Once I made it safely out of the tangled mess and onto Highway 27 (Montauk Highway), a calm blew over me like a gentle cool breeze. Without a care in the world, I spent the day driving, beach hopping, and soaking in the countryside.

With time melting away, a late afternoon mist echoed my melancholy as I made the turn to return home.  Hoping to squeeze more time out of the day, I pulled into what appeared to be a rundown roadside restaurant. Swallowed by the shadows of overhanging pine trees and draped in a faux tudor-style facade, the restaurant seemed to be lost in time. Embracing its time worn sensibility, a low fire burned in a cobblestone fireplace next to tufted half moon leather banquettes surrounded by empty white tablecloth covered tables. Summer in the Hamptons, I thought. Snugly tucked into one of the enormous scalloped banquettes and feeling decades older than my 22 years, I tasted my first bite of duck confit. Stained with a brooding red wine reduction and splayed over a simple potato puree, that old world succulent duck confit forever anchored my crush on crispy unctuous fat. Yep.

Confit: confire or to preserve.
Cured with salt, poached in duck fat, cooled, and stored beneath a layer of fat, duck confit was and is an old school method for preserving cooked duck without refrigeration for long periods of time. Nowadays, without the need for long term preservation, the method is used mostly as a tenderizer and flavor enhancer.

Once cooked and chilled, duck confit is wildly versatile. Whether served over duck fat fried potatoes, stuffed into tacos, shredded onto wood fired pizza, sauced with pasta, tucked into cassoulets, or packed into rillettes, duck confit is a glorious concentrated fat forward flavor bomb.

While simple to prepare, duck confit takes time. Like a slow meandering drive through the backroads
of the Bluegrass, the journey is worth savoring.

Duck Confit Summer Market Salad.
While whole ducks, breasts, and thigh/leg quarters are readily available at most supermarkets or specialty food shops, I was a very happy boy when I stumbled across locally raised whole Peking ducks offered up by Farmer Joe from Salvisa, Kentucky at the Chevy Chase Farmers' Market. I snagged two plump birds.

The Breakdown.
Working with one thigh/leg quarter at a time, I sliced the skin between the legs and breasts from each duck, pulled the legs back to snap the bones, sliced through the connecting tissues and joints, ripped the thigh/leg quarters from the birds, set them aside, and repeated the process until all 4 quarters were dispatched.

I took a gentler approach with the breast meat. After making long slices down each side of the breastbones, I carefully pulled the meat away from the bones while making long slicing passes down the rib cages until the meat fell away from the breastbones, leaving visible fat lines as guidelines as to where to slice the breast meat away from the birds. After repeating the breast cuts for all 4 breasts, I set the breasts aside and trimmed the remaining fat from each duck before stashing the carcasses and breast meat in the freezer. I tossed the reserved fat into a cast iron skillet set over a medium flame, slowly rendered the fat for 1 hour and 45 minutes, strained the fat, set it aside to cool, and slid it into the refrigerator to chill.

The Cure.
After snipping the tendons at the tips of the each leg to release the skin, I showered the duck quarters with 3 1/2 tablespoons kosher salt, tossed them into a bowl with a few sprigs of fresh thyme, 5 cloves of smashed Jessamine County garlic cloves, and cracked black pepper. I massaged the salty cure into the meat, covered the bowl with plastic wrap, and placed the duck into the refrigerator to cure for 24 hours.

The Fat Tub.
I pulled the cured duck quarters from the refrigerator, rinsed off the salt, patted them dry with a dish towel, and set them aside. After warming 4 cups duck fat ( 2 cups rendered combined with 2 cups purchased from Critchfield Meats) in a large cast iron dutch oven, I submerged the duck pieces in the melted fat, brought the heat to a rippling simmer, and slid the dutch oven (uncovered) into a preheated 235 degree oven for 2 1/2 hours. When the meat was knife tender, I carefully lifted the quarters out of the molten fat, gently placed them into a deep dish, strained the hot fat through a fine mesh strainer, ladled the cleaned fat over the duck, and let the fat cool before sliding the confit into the refrigerator to chill overnight.

Duck. Fat. Duck.
The Salad.
I gingerly plucked the duck quarters  out of the congealed fat (while leaving some fat clinging to the pieces), slipped them into a large cast iron skillet skin side up, and slid the skillet into a preheated 350 oven to warm through and crisp.

I have a thing for glazes. I spooned 4 tablespoons sugar into small cast iron skillet set over a medium flame. When the sugar started to caramelize, I hit the bubbling browned sugar with 4 tablespoons sherry vinegar and let it rip until the combination slowly relaxed and melted into a glossy sweet and tart gastrique.

After 25 minutes, I pulled the crispy duck quarters from the oven, brushed them with the gastrique, and set them aside to rest.

I tossed hand torn Stonehedge Farm feathery baby mustard greens and  julienned Marion County raw baby yellow squash with a bracing dijon vinaigrette ( 3 tablespoons dijon, 3 tablespoons vinegar, 6 tablespoons extra virgin olive oil, salt, and crfacked black pepper). After nestling the duck confit over the greens, I scattered roasted Stonehedge Farm baby fennel to the side before finishing with quick pickled Boyd County radishes, steamed Casey County baby beets, and Boyle County cherry tomatoes.

Tucked under the ridiculously tender confit, the peppery greens and sharp vinaigrette cut through the haunting richness of the lacquered duck. While the chilled earthy beets, halved tomatoes, and snappy yellow squash added fresh pops, the quick pickled radishes provided acidic biting crunch.


Sassy.
Fresh.
Fun.
Fabulous.

Get your ducks in a row
with a confit market salad.

Butter Up

When my family left our housekeepers and nannies behind for our final move back to America, my father faced a steep learning curve when it came to raising two young boys as a single military father. After leaving Africa, we settled into a very middle class suburb of Washington D.C. for a brief period while my father segued into retirement  We lived in a tiny two-story brick house with a dilapidated screened-in side porch, a dusty back yard surrounded by a chain link fence, and a musty basement that smelled of unhappy swamp frogs. We were living the dream.

Nested in our urban oasis, without others to watch over and tend to us, my father relied on gadgets and convenience foods to ease his transition into domestic bliss.  A freezer filled with  TV dinners, cabinets stocked with multiple jars of swirled peanut butter and jelly, and individually boxed cereal variety packs stacked high on top of the refrigerator gave him enough wiggle room to focus on the few things he enjoyed cooking.  Armed with a plastic Veg-A-Matic to chop onions for his onion-studded cheese-filled hamburgers, a spiffy modern charcoal grill for butter grilled steaks, and a lethal old school pressure cooker for his infamous scratch made baked beans, he had everything he needed to tackle his big three.

While the occasional steaks and burgers were a nice respite from the revolving routine of TV dinners, I lived for his dreamy baked beans. Funny, they really weren't baked at all. They were pressurized. Sealed inside the hissing molten pressure pot for what seemed like hours, the beans bubbled away until they steamed, collapsed, and caramelized into a sticky sweet mess of tender beans with crunchy bits studded with meltingly soft shards of candied pork. I guess that sensory taste and memory stuck. However they're prepared, I'm a sucker for baked beans.

Our farmers markets are taking off just when grilling season is knocking at the door. Stock up on the bounty, fire up the grill,
and don't forget the baked beans.

Bourbon Barbecued Baked Butter Beans. 
Yep. Sometimes it's fun to change things up a bit.

I still have my father's 1960's vintage aluminum pressure cooker. Nope. Didn't go there. Think about it.

Baked, not pressurized.

I soaked 1 pound organic dried baby butter beans in water overnight, drained the water, added the beans back into the pot with 6 cups cold water, cranked the heat to high, reduced the heat, let the beans simmer for 1 1/2 hours, drained them, discarded the cooking liquid, and set the beans aside.

I sliced 1/4 pound Bell County pork jowl bacon into 1/4" thick slices and sauteed them in a cast iron skillet until the fat started to melt. When the jowl bacon crisped around the edges, I scooped the pieces onto a side plate. While the oil was still hot, I tumbled 1 diced green bell pepper and 1 bunch sliced Boyd County spring onions into the skillet. When the vegetables wilted from the heat, I added 3 tablespoons tomato paste, browned the paste for depth of flavor, carefully deglazed the skillet with 1/2 cup Makers Mark bourbon, and let it reduce by half before adding 1/4 cup brewed coffee, 2 cups Elmwood Stock Homemade Tomato Ketchup, 1/3 cup molasses, 1/4 cup worcestershire sauce, 1/4 cup apple cider vinegar, 3/4 cups dark brown sugar, 2 tablespoons dijon mustard, 1 tablespoon chili powder, 1 teaspoon cumin, cracked black pepper, garlic powder, and smoked sea salt. I brought the sauce to a spitting popping boil, reduced the heat and let it simmer for 30 minutes.

After mixing the reserved butter beans with the bourbon barbecue sauce, I scooped them into my oiled Bybee Pottery Appalachian cazuela. I nestled halved batons of trimmed Boyd County spring onions into the beans, tucked the reserved sliced bacon pieces between the onions, and slid the cazuela (uncovered) into a preheated 325 degree oven. for 2 1/2 hours, adding a splash of water now and then when they appeared dry.

I pulled the bubbling beans from the oven and let them cool before finishing with feathery ribbons of curled spring onions.

Tucked beneath the caramelized crust, the mellowed bright undertones of bourbon, vinegar, and worcestershire cut through the fatty richness of the lickable sticky sauce. With a nod to the familiar flavor profile of smoky sweet pork-infused saltiness, the butter beans packed a soft buttery punch that countered the crunch of the candied bacon and grassy freshness of the slivered spring onions.

Unexpected.
Familiar.
Fabulous.

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.