Puffed

For years, I made the 300 mile round trip trek to my grandmother's house to plant pansies for her on Mother's Day. I'd load up the bed of my Ford Ranger with flats of multicolored pansies and ramble the back roads of Kentucky until I reach her farm, the very farm I grew up on years earlier. After scrubbing her weathered, chipped, and cracked clay pots, I packed them full for ultimate impact before maneuvering the heavy pots around her front porch for optimal country road curb appeal. When the dirt settled, I'd wash up and join her at the kitchen table for a short visit over warm chess pie and sweet iced tea before heading home. Even with cheery colors, the pansies certainly weren't showstoppers. They were barely tall enough to peek over the planters and flutter in the afternoon breezes. On top of that, we both knew  their delicate nature would succumb to the heat of summer. But, that wasn't the point. They brought us together on Mother's Day and made my grandmother happy. So, was the long one day drive worth the trouble for a few potted flowers and brief visit? Driving away and watching her wave goodbye as she slowly disappeared through my rear view mirror  made every single mile worthwhile. And, there was pie.

How much trouble is too much trouble?  On Mother's Day, it's in the eye of the beholder.

Spring Asparagus Tart With Smoked Salmon

Trouble.
To puff or not to puff.
Store bought puff pastry is dependable, fabulous, and a very good thing. Here's the deal, with very simple ingredients (flour,water, butter, salt) and a lot of rolling, scratch made puff pastry is a doable  labor of love.

Roll. Fold. Chill. Repeat.
Classically, puff pastry is made by wrapping a simple dough around a block of butter,  rolling it out, folding it into itself, chilling, and  repeating the process 6 times to achieve a laminated dough with over 1000 layers. Working with a block of butter is the tedious hurdle that makes it intimidating. Skip the hurdle.

After freezing 1 3/4 sticks unsalted butter, I used a mandolin to shave the butter into 1/4" pieces, separated the pieces, and tossed them back into freezer.

I sifted 1 1/4 cups bread flour (stronger gluten) into the bowl of a food processor and added 1 teaspoon salt.  With the motor running, I drizzled 1/2 cup cold water into bowl until the simple dough came together. After shaping it into a rough rectangle, I rolled it out into a larger rectangle about 14' x 6" and 1/4 " thick. Without overlapping, I positioned the shaved butter pieces over the dough and, starting lengthwise, folded the dough 4 times, brushing the excess flour off the dough as I folded it in. First turn.

Working quickly, I rolled the dough out to the same dimensions and folded it 4 times, brushing the excess flour off the dough as I folded it in. Second turn. To maintain the temperature of the butter and  integrity of the layers, I slid the dough into the refrigerator to chill for 20 minutes.

Once chilled, I repeated the process an additional 4 times or turns, chilling the dough for 20 minutes after each turn.  Roll. Fold. Brush. Chill.
After 6 turns, the 800-ish  layered laminated dough was ready to rest and chill out. And so was I.

Double Trouble.
The cure.
There are gorgeous varieties of gravlax, lox, and smoked salmon available at the market. But, what the heck, it's very simple to pull off. Why not go all in and cure a little salmon? Labor of love.

Although a variety ingredients can be added to the curing process (dill, juniper berries, gin, aquivat, fennel, spices), I kept it very basic. I mixed 2 cups sugars with 1 cup kosher salt. After drying off a beautiful 1 pound sockeye salmon filet, I brushed the flesh with 2 tablespoons vodka and placed the filet over fresh parsley sprigs and half of the sugar/salt combo. After covering the filet with the remaining cure and sprigs of parsley, I wrapped the salmon in parchment paper, sealed the salmon in plastic wrap, and slid it into the refrigerator to cure. After 48 hours,  I rinsed the salt and sugar away from the salmon, patted it dry, wrapped it in plastic wrap, and tucked the cured (or cold smoked) salmon into refrigerator.



Puff Tart.
Working on a floured board, I rolled the pastry into a large rectangle
and used a straight edged ruler to cut it into a 14"x 5" slender rectangle. After carefully scoring a 1/2" border on the inside of all four sides of the pastry to help the borders puff, I added a few squiggles from rolled out leftover dough scraps, brushed the pastry with an egg wash (one beaten egg with a splash of water), docked the pastry with the tines of a fork, and slid it into a  preheated 400 degree oven to par bake for 10 minutes. Before it poofed, I pulled it from the oven, poked down the slightly puffed base and  brushed the base with a thin layer of dijon mustard. After scattering freshly grated gruyere cheese over the mustard, I nestled pencil thin spring asparagus into the cheese, drizzled the asparagus with good extra virgin olive oil, and slid the tart back into the oven for 20 minutes.

When the pastry puffed and turned golden brown, I pulled it from the oven and let it cool for 10 minutes before finishing with thin slices of the smoked salmon, flaky sea salt, and Elmwood Stock pea shoots splashed with lemon juice and olive oil.

Like eating buttery crisp air, the  pastry shattered and scattered bits of flaky crumbs throughout the simple tart. Enveloped by the nutty cheese, the slight earthy undertones of the delicate asparagus countered the tangy bite from the dijon, the silky salinity of the salmon, and the bright acidity of the perky pea shoots.


Mother's Day.
Puffed.

Get into trouble.

Crowned

As a kid, when Easter rolled around, I was a lamb loving boy in a  ham loving family.

I had a steep learning curve when my father retired from the army and we settled onto the family farm in rural western Kentucky. Leaving the grandeur of Vienna and the starkness of Ethiopia for a much different life on a lakeside farm was overwhelming, to say the least.  In the blink of an eye, life changed. I swapped my lederhosen for overalls, schnitzel for fried pork chops, and the Red Sea for a quiet Kentucky lake. Acclamation.  It didn't take long for me to relish farm life. With rolling hills, windswept meadows, patches of shade trees, and a pristine lake, the farm  was a lush playground for  a weary retired kid. The roaming cattle, pecking chickens, vegetable gardens, ham shed, crooked red barn, apple trees, grape vines, tractors, barbed wire, and  murky pond were all the stuff of dreams. Wonderland. A different land. I didn't miss my lost places as much as I missed the food I'd known. My grandparents stockpiled food out of necessity. We had blocks of government cheese neatly stacked in our   refrigerator, a dank dark cellar lined from floor to ceiling with dusty jars of garden jewels, and 'Not For Sale' beef stashed in freezers from the very cows we regrettably named and loved.  Still, with all of that beef stowed away and our coffers filled to the brim, we were ham people. Big time ham people. Go figure.

On most all special occasions, holidays, and family gatherings,  ham was front and center. Staggeringly endless incarnations of ham hit the table at church pots lucks, funerals, family picnics, birthdays, reunions, Thanksgivings, Christmases (of course), and eventually... Easter. Don't get me wrong, I loved each and every sticky glazed, cola braised, and crispy fried shred of ham. It's just that by the time Easter rolled around, I didn't crave ham. I craved my lost lamb, Frau Olga's Easter lamb. Slow roasted and served in courses with Bavarian sides to suit her hotel chef mentality, I became a lamb boy at an early age. On the farm, it was another story. A ham story. For years, I hoped a fancy relative from a distant land would swoop into our Easter fest toting  frenched lamb chops teetering on the edge of medium rare or  roasted leg of lamb nestled on a bed of fresh rosemary. It never happened.

When I eventually moved away from the farm, I carried my familial love of ham and my familiar quest for Easter lamb right along with me.

Herb Crusted Crown Rack Of Lamb With  Spring Vegetable Salad.

Crowned.
Crown rack of lamb is a glorious thing. While almost any reputable butcher would be more than happy to fashion a crown rack of lamb, it's fairly simple to throw together. A little prep goes a long way for a big payoff.

I positioned  2 frenched racks of lamb (1 1/2 pounds each with 8 rib chops  per rack) flesh side down side by side on a large cutting board. After slicing small slits between the rib bones for easy bending, I stitched the two racks together where they met using kitchen twine and a butchers needle. I flipped the joined racks over, pulled the ends of the racks together ( loin side facing in) until they met, and secured the loose ends with additional twine. After forming the racks into the shape of a crown, I double looped the base of the crown with twine, pulled it taut, tied it up, trimmed the loose twine, and showered the meat with salt and pepper before setting the lamb aside.

Crusted.
I mixed 1/2 cup dijon mustard, 2 tablespoons local honey, and 1 tablespoon Makers Mark bourbon until combined before slathering the sweet boozy mustard over the outer side of the lamb.

After combining  4 minced garlic cloves, 4 tablespoons minced fresh parsley, 3 tablespoons minced fresh thyme, and 1 tablespoon minced fresh rosemary to form a lose paste, I patted the garlicky herbs over the mustard coating  before placing the crown rack on top of a bed of chopped carrots, leeks, celery, and onions scattered willy-nilly in a large cast iron skillet. After adding 1/2 cup white wine to the skillet, I drizzled the lamb with olive oil, slipped aluminum foil caps over each of the exposed rib bones to prevent over browning,  and slid the crown rack of lamb into a preheated 425 degree oven for about 40 minutes.

Shaved.
A perky salad for Easter lamb.
After whisking 1/2 cup extra virgin olive oil, 3 tablespoons fresh squeezed lemon juice, 1 teaspoon dijon mustard, salt, and cracked black pepper until the dressing emulsified, I shaved 2 pounds rainbow carrots and 1 1/2 pounds asparagus into delicate ribbons with a v-shaped vegetable peeler, tossed the ribbons with the vinaigrette, and set the salad aside.

When the lamb reached an internal temp of 130 degrees, I pulled it from the oven to rest, removed the pieces of foil, and strained the pan juices to serve alongside the lamb.

After a 10 minute rest, I filled the cavity of the lamb with minted basmati rice and nestled the crown rack onto a bed of perky pea shoots and watercress before finishing with the shaved vegetable salad,  slivered shallots, and crunchy fresh radishes.

Easter lamb.
Crowned.

Irish Hand Pies. Dingle All The Way.

Cue the bagpipes and top off the Guinness, St. Patrick's Day is coming on soon. While some of us might celebrate the patron saint of Ireland with a one way ticket to boozeland, most folks might toast the day with iconic Irish fare. I'm on team both. Not only is St. Patrick's Day a great day to kick back with dyed green beer, pints of Guinness, or shots of Jamesons, it's also a day to celebrate and explore the food that evokes thoughts of shamrocks and pots of gold. On the other side of the rainbow,  we're all a wee bit Irish on St. Patrick's Day.

Pick your craving. Although braised corned beef and cabbage is more Irish American than Irish, it remains  the benchmark grub on St. Patrick's Day. And while sleepy shepherd's pies, bangers and mash, cottage pies, lamb stews, or Dublin coddles are calming comfort staples, Irish hand pies punch the ticket for serious on-the-go revelers who crave a drink in one hand with food in the other.

Almost anything can be fashioned into hand pies. Similar to Cornish pasties (meat and vegetable filled hand pies), lesser known Dingle hand pies, from County Kerry,  bring spiced mutton or lamb to the party. Braised with humble root vegetables like a traditional lamb stew, the filling for Dingle pie gets an unexpected kick from the addition of ground cumin and cinnamon.

County Kerry Dingle Hand Pies.

A simple stew.
I trimmed and cubed 2 pounds Double F boneless lamb shoulder  into 1" pieces, seasoned the meat with salt and cracked black pepper, and dredged the meat in flour (shaking off the excess flour) before browning it in 3 tablespoons rendered bacon fat. When deeply browned, I removed the meat to a side plate and tumbled 2 chopped parsnips, 3 chopped carrots, 2 sliced celery stalks, 1 medium diced onion, and 2 diced yukon gold potatoes into the sizzling fat. After showering the vegetables with salt, I added 1 tablespoon tomato paste and swirled it through the vegetables for even cooking. When the tomato paste caramelized around the softened vegetables, I added 2 minced garlic cloves, 1 teaspoon ground cumin, 1/2 teaspoon ground cinnamon, 2 tablespoons flour, salt, and pepper. After the flour tightened the spiced vegetables, I added 4 cups warmed  beef stock, 1/4 cup minced fresh parsley, and 2 fresh bay leaves. I brought the stew to a boil, reduced it to a simmer, added the reserved lamb (along with the juices), covered the pot, and slipped  it into a preheated 350 degree oven.

After 1 1/2 hours, I pulled the stew from the oven and let it cool completely before sliding into the refrigerator to chill.

Wrap it up.
Once thoroughly chilled, I removed the thin layer of fat and scooped 1/3 cup of the meat and vegetable filling onto 1/4"x 4" rounds of basic short crust pastry. After brushing the edges with egg wash, I folded the pastry into half moons, carefully sealed the seams, brushed the pies with egg wash, used kitchen shears to snip tiny vents into the dough, and slid the pies into a preheated 450 degree oven.

When the pies turned golden brown, about 25 minutes, I pulled them from the oven and let them rest before finishing with flaked sea salt and fresh parsley.





One handed wonders.
Sealed in crispy crust and kissed with subtle warm spice, the meltingly tender lamb swirled through the savory stew. While the root vegetables added soft sweet earthiness, the flaky crust provided buttery crunch. Perfect finger food. Hand pies.

Grab and Go.
Follow the rainbow.
Dingle all the way.

Wine And Cheese

Like walking a tight rope of hope, navigating the frenzy around special occasion date nights can be tricky business. I'm looking at you, Valentine's Day. Whether it's a big night out at a fancy-shmancy restaurant, the comfort of a local dive bar, or the warmth of a cozy fireside meal, we all want something special, romantic, and memorable.  I totally get the hype and the hope. And while I'm  down with  the glitz, glam, and hoopla of a big night out, I'm also perfectly content with a simple low key riff on wine and cheese.

Drunken Red Wine Spaghetti With Gorgonzola Mousse.
Spaghetti cooked in red wine brings sexy to the table.

Whip It Up.
With a haunting pungent funk, the creamy buttery texture of blue-veined Italian gorgonzola dolce works magic when blended into a savory ethereal mousse.

After bringing 6 ounces gorgonzola  and 3 ounces cream cheese to room temperature, I used an old fashioned hand held mixer to whip them together until fully combined and set the mix aside.

Working with a chilled bowl and whisk on a stand mixer, I whipped 3/4 cups heavy whipping cream until soft peaks formed before adding 1 tablespoon sherry.  When the whipped cream formed stiff peaks, I gently folded the creamed gorgonzola into the whipped cream until it almost floated off my spatula, covered the mousse plastic wrap, and set it aside.

Lady And The Tramp.
Spaghetti. Plain old dried spaghetti. That's the happy dance here. As much as I love making fresh pasta, scratch made pasta doesn't work with this method. It cooks too quickly. Dried spaghetti needs time to absorb the wine as it cooks while remaining al dente. Total win.

With a bit of pot juggling, drunken spaghetti is simple and quick. Little effort. Big payoff.

Double duty.
Working over a medium flame,  I sauteed 2 minced shallots in 2 tablespoons olive oil in a wide high-sided saute pan. When the shallots turned translucent, I added 2 minced garlic cloves, a pinch of dried red pepper flakes, 1 teaspoon dried oregano, salt, and cracked black pepper. After letting the garlic release into the oil, I hit the pan with a full bottle (750ml) of Cabernet-Sauvignon.

While the aromatic wine did its thing, I filled a large stock pot with water and bought it to a rolling boil before adding a handful of salt  and 1 pound dried spaghetti. After 3 minutes, I drained the pasta, reserving 1 cup of pasta water, and feathered it into the simmering red wine. Once added to the wine, I cranked the heat to high and boiled the pasta for 6-8 minutes until tender (yet, still al dente) and the pasta absorbed the wine. After adding 1/4 cup of the reserved pasta water and 1/4 cup freshly grated parmigiano-reggiano cheese, I pulled the pasta from the heat and downed a glass of comforting Cabernet.

Twirl.
While the pasta was still warm, I used a large carving fork to twirl it into shape, piped the gorgonzola mousse to the side, and nestled  prosciutto-wrapped fresh Bartlett pears into the mousse before finishing with a drizzle of extra virgin olive oil, fresh parsley, and flaked sea salt.

Infused and stained with red wine, the pasta popped with robust earthy undertones. Faintingly light, the creamy mousse softened and swirled through the drunken spaghetti, tempering the tinge of heat from the red pepper flakes. While the parsley and olive oil added fruity grassiness.  the prosciutto-wrapped pears provided salty fresh crunch.

A little wine and cheese.
A little unexpected.

Fabulous.

Ham For The Holidays

There were two things you count on come Christmas in Port Oliver. Magnolia leaves would adorn our farmhouse and cured country ham would take center stage.

Tucked into a patch of woods on the family farm in western Kentucky, the house my father built from  scratch was gussied up with homespun flair at Christmastime. Teetering on the edge of overly quaint, it dripped with sentimentality. While the typical high end holiday frenzy was in full swing, the accompanying swag always suggested otherwise. Fresh magnolia leaves, snipped from a relative's ancient  towering tree, cascaded down wooden stairwell railings, windows, and mantels as if they had grown from the recycled wood my father fashioned them from. Without fail, airy delicate 12 foot cedar trees, cut from the farm and gently nudged  into a designated corner of the combined living area, were always draped in handcrafted wooden ornaments tied with ribbons, fresh cranberries, cherished delicate lace, and simple white lights. To my dismay, there wasn't was shred of glitz or glam. Even so, the simplicity captured me.

The week before Christmas was ham tending time. With our ham shed long gone, our cured Christmas hams were  handpicked and procured weeks in advance from various local folks who took the time to do such things. After the hams were soaked in several changes of water for days, simmered on a low flame for hours, wrapped in blankets to steam and cool down, the humble whole country hams were ready for their closeup. Year after year, when the Christmas ham hit the table served on my mother's fine bone china under the dim glow and flickering whisper of tree lights, I knew Christmas had arrived. In my book, there was no need for anything else. It was all about the ham.

Throughout the years, there were too many times I couldn't be home for Christmas. Even then, ham ( any kind of ham) punched my homecoming ticket.  My first Christmas living in New York as young naive adventurer, I had very humble resources. Hawking I Heart NY mugs in a suspect souvenir shop on a dank ally within spitting distance of Times Square, I didn't have the fare for the 16 hour train ride to Kentucky for Christmas. Holding fast to what I knew and loved, I clicked my heels. Sweltering in the tiny kitchen of my 3rd floor walk-up above a 24 hour laundromat in Hell's Kitchen on the West Side, I baked a canned ham studded with cloves, marachino cherries, and canned pineapple rings smothered with leftover Chinese take out sweet and sour sauce. Happy Holidays to me.

Nowadays, I go back and forth with various methods for preparing Christmas ham. While old school country ham takes my heart home for the holidays, I'm always game for a sticky glazed smoked ham.  It's about the Christmas spirit. As long as there's ham.

Pomegranate Citrus Glazed Bone-In Smoked Ham.
First of all, spiral cut hams are fabulous. While they're incredibly easy to prepare and serve, I like to have slicing options. There will always be leftovers. Always. Aside from using the bone for stock, soup beans, or greens, ham leftovers can run the gamut. It's always good to have a variety of cuts to play with. Thick cut, thin cut. diced, torn, or shredded, whole half hams deliver the option.

Ham it up.
I rarely, if ever, trim extra fat off of ham. Fat is flavor. Fat is fabulous. Working with a 10 pound shank portion of a bone-in smoked half ham, I scored the outer surface of the ham 1/4" deep in a 1" diagonal pattern.
After filling a large roasting pan with 1 cup water, 1/2 cup white wine, 3 bay leaves, 2 cloves whole peeled garlic cloves, fresh thyme sprigs, and a few cloves, I placed the ham cut side down into the roasting pan, covered the ham with aluminum foil, and slid it into a preheated 325 degree oven for 2 1/2  hours, about 16 minutes per pound.

Getting sticky.
I'm a sucker for a sweet sticky glaze. Ham begs for one. That said, pomegranate brings a perky tartness to the party that somehow tempers the typical cloyingly sweet temperament of a traditional ham glaze.

After reducing 2 cups pomegranate juice by half, I added 1 cup fresh squeezed mandarin orange juice, 1/4 cup fresh lemon juice, 1/4 cup light brown sugar, 1/4 cup granulated sugar, 1/3 cup Olberholzter's Sorghum, 1 teaspoon grated fresh ginger, salt, and black pepper. I brought the glaze to a boil, reduced it to simmer, and let it bubble away until it had the consistency of...well..glaze before pulling it from the heat and setting it aside.

Lipstick on a pig.
When the internal temp of the ham hit 145 degrees, I pulled it from the oven, removed the aluminum foil, brushed the ham with the pomegranate glaze, cranked the oven to 425, and slid the ham back into oven. Keeping a close eye, I brushed the ham with additional glaze every 15 minutes until it caramelized and laquered up.

After pulling the ham from the oven to rest for 20 minutes, I nestled it onto a bed of fresh magnolia  with sliced pomegranate, lemons, mandarin oranges, and persimmons.

Ham for the holidays.

Fry Me To The Moon

I learned a thing or two the year I misfired and overshot Thanksgiving.

My father was well into his months long battle with cancer when autumn gently rolled in and  brushed Port Oliver with blistering color. Breathtaking at every glance, autumn was always kind to the lakeside hamlet of Port Oliver. Not long after we welcomed the crisp chill and settled into the season, my father announced that we were hosting the entire family on his rural western Kentucky farm for what was to become his last Thanksgiving.  Driven by the empty isolation of caregiving, I was hell bent on shooing for the moon, cooking everything from scratch, and putting my spin on the traditional feast.  Over the course of a few gorgeous mid-November days, I brined and rubbed an enormous 18 pound fresh turkey, shucked a few dozen oysters, procured a fine brie for the creamed fresh pearl onions, compiled buckets of chopped mirepoix, dried various types of bread for stuffing, snapped fresh green beans, peeled pound of potatoes, made cranberry sauce, and poached more pears than anyone should ever poach.  Oh sure, it was a fine feast. The burnished turkey hit the table glistening from the midday sun piercing through naked windows left exposed by the absence of leaf covered trees.  The creamed onions floated in the sticky melted brie, moist dressing sported perfectly crisp edges, buttery whipped potatoes, laden with cream, were unexpectedly light, oysters Rockefeller (in lieu of scalloped oysters) teetered on rock salt, and poached pears filled with dollops of whole berry cranberry sauce sparkled like jewels. I outdid myself.

Coyly basking in the glow of  'nothing was a bit of trouble', I knew from the get go that I overshot the familiarity of Thanksgiving. I also realized that while it's ok  to buck tradition and tweak a few things, it's a whole other ball game to change everything. The biggest takeaway  from my Thanksgiving folly?  No doubt, the poached pears with cranberry sauce. Surprisingly fresh and somewhat familiar, the humble pears struck a happy balance that felt right at home. They still do.

Nowadays, I hold fast to simpler things. Thanksgiving sides (pick a side, any side) are deep rooted from family to family. We have to have what we want to have. And while most folks hold onto strong turkey traditions, I believe the turkey has wiggle room for fun variations.

Deep Fried Turkey With Whole Berry Cranberry-Pear Sauce

For years, I could never wrap my head around fried turkey. How can you make giblet gravy without the pan juices?  What about the sticky bits ( flavor bombs) stuck to the bottom of the roasting pan? Where do you stuff the stuffing? Most importantly (in my book), what becomes of the fatty gelatinous turkey butt that caramelizes in all the braising love? Why? How? What?

As it turns out, you can have it all.  The relative quick fry and hot oil seals the meat under shockingly crisp skin, locking in moisture and flavor without being a bit greasy.  Better yet, fried turkey frees up the ovens for the important stuff. You can have your moist turkey, scratch gravy (made from giblets and extra turkey parts), stuffing (dressing baked on the side), sides, crispy fried turkey butt, pumpkin pie, and eat it too. Everything is possible.

I traded my turkey baster for an injector, and threw caution to the wind.

Marinade.
Being mindful to remove the giblet package from the cavity, I rinsed and thoroughly dried a 10 1/2 pound fresh turkey. I combined 1 cup warm melted unsalted butter, 1 cup dry white wine, 1 cup honey, 2 tablespoons kosher salt, and 2 teaspoons ground white pepper. After whisking  everything together to blend the ingredients, I used a meat injector to carefully inject the marinade  (maneuvering the syringe to distribute it evenly) under the skin of each breast, thigh, and leg,  about 4 or 5 pokes per section.

Rub.
After mixing 2 tablespoons light brown sugar, 1 tablespoon Bourbon Barrel  Bourbon Smoked Paprika, 1 teaspoon ground dried sage, 1 teaspoon ground dried rosemary, 1 teaspoon ground white pepper, 1 teaspoon onion powder, 1 teaspoon ground dried thyme, and 1 teaspoon garlic powder, I rubbed the turkey under and over the skin before sliding it into the refrigerator to rest overnight.

Poach. 
I adore poached pears.Their simplicity belies their "it" factor.
I brought equal parts water and sugar (2 cups each for a basic simple syrup) to a rolling simmer before adding 1/2 white wine, 2 tablespoons lemon juice, and 1 tablespoon whole black peppercorns. After peeling 8 fresh pears, red and bosc for textural/flavor variation, I halved them without coring, and tumbled them into the simmering spiced simple syrup.When they were knife tender, I pulled them from the heat, let them cool completely in their bath, and used a small scoop to easily core out little pockets before sliding them into the refrigerator to chill.

Cranberry-Pear Sauce.
With bright sweet acidity, cranberry sauce is the reason for the season.

After bringing 4 cups fresh cranberries, 1 cup sugar, and 1 cup water to a boil, I reduced the heat and let it rip until the cranberries popped and melted into the sauce. When the sauce thickened, I pulled it from the heat before adding  1 tablespoon lemon zest, 2 tablespoons fresh lemon juice, and 1 1/2 cups of diced fresh peeled pears. Into the fridge to chill and set up.

Fry.
A deep fried turkey cooks fast. 3 1/2 minutes per pound. Set the table and set the timer.

Here's the deal. By nature, I'm a risk taker. Deep frying a turkey in molten hot oil over a flaming  gas burner remotely near our 130 year old wooden Victorian home was not an option. Nope. Not even close. While most folks seem to handle it just fine, I found a fantastic user friendly detour.

After filling an 11 quart indoor electric turkey fryer with 2 3/4 gallons (yes, gallons) peanut oil, I
cranked the heat to 375 degrees, closed the lid, and let the oil preheat. Knowing it would take about 45 minutes to an hour for the oil to come to the right temperature, I pulled the turkey from the refrigerator to take the chill off.

When the oil hit 375, I positioned the turkey, breast side up, in the frying basket, and very carefully lowered it into the shimmering hot oil. Once submerged and on full fry throttle, I released the basket, lowered the lid, set the timer for exactly 39 minutes, and poured myself a glass of wine.

At the 39 minute mark, I lifted the turkey from the oil, hooked it onto the side of the fryer, used an instant read thermometer to make sure the internal temp hit 165 degrees, and let it rest for 20 minutes before nestling the fried bird onto a bed of  greenery topped with aromatic fresh herbs and tucking the cranberry sauce poached pears to the side.

Fry me to the moon.

You Say Pumpkin, I Say Pasta.

As much as I adore summer and the abundant ripe produce, I am, at heart, a total sucker for autumn. Slowly, summer segues into fall without a big aha moment and everything changes. Crisp air, cool breezes, long cast shadows, and the sultry colors of fall  replace the wild vibrancy of summer. We all have our autumn triggers. Football. Horse racing. Pool closings. School openings. While we might resist the change, pumpkin spice seems to rush the process as we slowly adapt. The early onset of pumpkin spiced everything might be the pre-trigger to my trigger.  For me, the flood of sugar pumpkins (or pie pumpkins), winter squash, ornamental gourds, and late season produce at our local markets sets my autumn rhythm. Grow it and I will come. Pull me into the season.

While I'm a big fan of sweet pumpkin things (pie, cake, muffins, lattes, on and on and on), I  embrace the savory earthiness of pumpkin. Much like butternut squash, acorn squash, or any other variety, sugar pumpkins have no bounds when it comes to application.  Sweet or savory, the sky's the limit. Oh sure, I'm all over versions of maple brown sugar roasted winter squash, but at the end of the day, I'm on team savory. Salted. Roasted. Whipped. Stuffed. Mashed. I'm down with them all. More often than not, when winter squash hit the markets, I jump on the pasta bandwagon. The sexy silken texture and warm earthy undertones of pureed squash pairs perfectly with pasta. Typically, I fill ravioli, layer lasagna, or load jumbo par-cooked manicotti shells with winter squash purees.  Right now, on the cusp of change, it's pumpkin time. Seguing into fall after a stroll through a pumpkin patch, I turned things inside out with savory pumpkin flavored pasta.

Pumpkin Garganelli (Ribbed Penne Pasta) with Pumpkin Brown Butter and Fried Sage.

Puree.
Canned or fresh? While canned is fantastic and agreeably much more convenient, why not take a
little detour with fresh local pumpkin?

After scrubbing and rinsing 3 medium sized Casey County sugar pumpkins, I split them half, scooped out the seeds, placed them cut side down onto parchment paper-lined sheet pans, and slid them into a preheated 350 degree oven. When the skins were knife tender and the flesh softened (about 45 minutes), I pulled the pumpkin halves from the oven, scooped out the flesh, and blended it in batches for a smooth puree. To pull out any excess moisture from the puree, I spooned it into a large sauce pan set over a medium flame, let it reduce until it thickened, pulled it from the heat, and set it aside.

Pumpkin Pasta.
Garganelli.
Without a pasta extruder to form the short hollow shapes, scratch made tubular pasta can be tricky. Garganelli pasta is hand rolled on a garganelli board to form the ribbed tubes, leaving visible external seams that distinguishes it from extruded penne pasta.

Flour. Eggs. Olive oil. Salt.
Ratio ratio ratio.
Scratch made pasta needs to feel right.
After sifting 2 cups all purpose flour into a soft pillowy mound, I formed a well in the center before adding 2 large local eggs yolks, 1/4 teaspoon salt, 1/3 cup of the reserved pumpkin puree, and 1 tablespoon olive oil. Working from the outside in, I  pulled the flour into the well bit by bit, mixing it with the egg/puree combo until it formed a rough dough. I gathered the dough into a ball, kneaded it for 20 minutes until smooth, wrapped it in plastic wrap, and set it aside to rest.

After 45 minutes, I divided the dough into eights. Working with one piece at a time (keeping the remainder covered in plastic to prevent drying out), I rolled the dough through a pasta roller, narrowing the setting after each pass until I reached the second to last setting on the pasta machine. With the pasta rolled out into sheets, I trimmed them into workable lengths, floured them, stacked them onto each other, cut them into 2" squares, and set them aside to dry just a tad.

Without a garganelli board,  I simply could have rolled the pasta squares on a floured work surface for smooth garganelli. Scratch made penne for the win.

Rolling right along.
I placed each pasta square (pointed sides vertical) onto the ribbed garganelli board and, starting from the corner ends, rolled each piece around a small floured wooden dowel before sliding them off of the dowel onto a floured work board and setting them aside.
Roll. Press. Repeat.





Getting Saucy.
Not wanting the kill the delicate pasta in a heavy sauce, I took the brown butter-ish route.

I place a sauce pan over a medium high flame and carefully tumbled 8 tablespoons (1 stick) unsalted butter into the hot pan. When the butter started to sizzle, I tossed a handful of fresh sage into the butter, flashed fried it until crisp, scooped the sage onto paper towels to drain, and reduced the heat to medium.  There's a fine line between browned butter and burned butter. It goes fast. The moment  the butter turned toasty-brown, I carefully added 2 tablespoons  white balsamic vinegar, let the butter settle down, and whisked 1/4 cup pumpkin puree into the mix before pulling the sauce from the heat.

After bringing a large pot of water to a rolling boil, I hit it with salt and dropped the ribbed penne pumpkin pasta into the water. When the pasta floated to the top, I scooped them into the brown butter pumpkin sauce and  used 1/2 cup pasta water to loosen the sauce before finishing with flaked sea salt, curled cracked black pepper parmigiano-reggiano crisps and fried sage.

Insanely light, the loosey-goosey sauce swirled through the pasta, clinging to the soft ridges. While the whisper thin fried sage added delicate airy crunch, the white balsamic provided hints of acidity that poked through the sage-infused fat of the nutty brown butter and the subtle earthy undertones of the roasted pumpkin puree.


Fresh.
Fun.
Fabulous.

Get your pumpkin on.