July 4th. The Boys Of Summer.

"How do you measure a year?
 In daylights, in sunsets,
 In midnights, in cups of coffee,
 In riches, in miles, in laughter, in
 strife." - Jonathon Larsen. RENT.

During the 1980's, the AIDS epidemic struck Key West to its core. Even through the difficult times,  the small island community knew how to party and celebrate life. Michael and I  joined the party for a couple of weeks in the summer of 1987 to celebrate our 3rd anniversary. Innocent times.

July 4th. Key West, Florida.

Hot days. Hot Havana nights.

After spending the week prior to the 4th drinking like locals, inhaling deep sunsets, dancing until dawn, eating seafood, and devouring Cuban fare, Michael and I found ourselves smack dab in the middle of the annual July 4th city-wide picnic benefiting the Key West Visiting Nurses Association and Hospice. It was a grand affair that brought the community together with heartfelt purpose. As the uplifting and melancholy picnic wound down, the antsy crowd shuffled en masse to the White Street Pier for the real party. Bedecked in matchy matchy beachwear, we joined the throngs on the massive concrete pier.

The first section of the White Street Pier had been parlayed into an elaborate disco with padded dance floors, gigantic speakers, tiered lighting, and multiple bars. Jutting hundreds of yards out into the Atlantic ocean, the heavy stark pier seemed to float above the water under the weight of bodies dancing in the heat of the sun. Hot. Wild. Free.

When the sun  finally crashed into the sea, lamps submerged beneath the pier reflected silhouettes of graceful stingrays silently gliding through the dark water like lost sunken kites. Mesmerizing and beautiful.

Poof.
Without warning, in the distance, wispy fireworks shot into the sky from an invisible barge anchored out in the ocean far from the pier. Flickering. Fluttering. Twinkling. Falling. As the fireworks grew more intense, the fiery rain shattered the empty sky with light. Suddenly, a deafening silence swept over the sea before a recording of Kate Smith's "God Bless America" blasted through the darkness, washed over the quiet water, and spilled onto the boys of summer. It. Was. Glorious.

It took a few fun filled days to recover from Kate Smith, the stingrays, the sun, and the concrete pier. On our final night, we bellied up to a walk-up food shack and ordered a shared paper basket of  Cuban pork with black beans and rice. After moseying over to a nearby dock, we dangled our feet into the warm water, shared our last supper, and melted into the sunset.

Bringing the sunset home.

Cuban Pork Belly With Mojo, Black Beans, White Rice, and Kale.
Cuban pork with mojo, served with black beans and rice, is traditionally made with a fatty bone-in pork shoulder ( or whole pig roasted over an open pit)  marinated in mojo and braised low and slow
until the fat  melts into the meat before a quick turn under a broiler to crisp the skin into crackling pork candy. For a more manageable riff,  I took it for a Kentucky spin with a braised uncured pork belly with  crispy black bean cakes and local kale.

Mojo Criollo
Mojo, a piquant marinade made up of tart citrus (sour oranges), oregano, cumin, and tons of garlic, packs a highly seasoned citrus punch that cuts the fatty richness of the braised pork .That said, sour oranges can be hard to come by. While some markets sell bottled sour orange juice, a combination of
fresh orange juice and fresh lime juice is a great substitute to hit the acidic mark.

I mixed 1 cup fresh squeezed orange juice, 1 cup fresh squeezed lime juice, 1/2 cup olive oil, 2 teaspoons salt, 1 tablespoon oregano, 2 teaspoons ground cumin, 1 teaspoon freshly cracked blacked
pepper, and 5 cloves chopped garlic until thoroughly combined. After pouring half the marinade (reserving the remainder) into a large plastic bag, I slipped a 2 pound slab of pork belly into the mojo marinade and tucked it into the refrigerator to marinate overnight.

After removing the belly from the refrigerator and patting it dry, I scored the fat and tossed it onto a
hot grill (skin side down) to  kiss it with smoke and render some of the fat. After 10 minutes, I pulled
the belly from the grill, placed it onto a wire rack positioned over a foil lined half sheet pan, and slid it into a preheated 350 oven to roast for 2 1/2 - 3 hours, basting it with the reserved mojo marinade from time to time.

Black Bean Cakes
While scratch made black beans are fabulous, canned black beans are fine and dandy. Either one. Pick your poison.

I rinsed and drained 2 cans of black beans before mashing half of the beans with 1 teaspoon cumin,
salt, and pepper. After combining the mashed beans with the whole beans, I added 3/4 cup cooked white rice, 2 tablespoons minced fresh cilantro, 1 tablespoon minced fresh oregano,  1 clove minced garlic, and a splash of fresh lime juice.

After forming the black bean concoction into 3 inch patties, I slid them into the refrigerator to chill and set up.


When the cakes were firm enough to handle, I carefully sauteed them in 2 tablespoon olive oil until
crisp, carefully removed them to a side plate lined with paper towels to drain, and set them aside.

Belly Up
When the pork belly was tender and hit 165 degrees, I slipped it under the broiler to blister before pulling it from the oven to rest. After straining the mojo infused pan juices through a fine mesh strainer and removing most of the accumulated fat, I mixed 1/3 cup of the highly concentrated acidic mojo drippings with 2/3 cups olive oil, 2 tablespoons fresh snipped chives, 2 tablespoons fresh oregano, 1 1/2 tablespoons fresh mint, salt, and cracked black pepper to form a broken vinaigrette.

While the vinaigrette was still warm, I splashed it onto 2 cups washed and rinsed hand torn Casey County kale. After massaging the kale with the vinaigrette, I tumbled it over the black bean cakes, nestled the glazed pork belly into the kale, and drizzled the remaining mojo vinaigrette over the belly to kiss the pig before finishing with slivered red pepper for crunch, fresh oregano, fresh mint, and flaked sea salt.

Hot Havana days.
Hot Kentucky nights.

Sunset included.

Radishing

As a haphazard urban gardener, if you grow it I will come.


Oh sure, I have my tomato plants tucked into the soil, herbs over planted in giant clay containers, and micro greens sprouting in make-shift greenhouses. Still, this time of year, it's really all about our local farmers' markets.  As we wait for the summer big guns to arrive, the markets are springing to life right now. Nestled among the  baby vegetables, hardy greens, tender lettuces, turnips, squash blossoms, and bedding plants, gorgeous radishes burst from almost every farm stand like imperfect
living kaleidoscopes.

No doubt thinly sliced or grated radishes add peppery bite to salads and cooling crunch to soups or stews. Left whole, they're also terrific swiped through good butter before quick dabs into pillows of sea salt. That said, radishes are more than a crunchy one trick pony. They can also bring their demure side to the party. When cooked, their vibrant punch softens and  mellows  into subdued unexpected jewels. Radishing.

Butter Braised Radishes.
Typically, I'd shoot for a hard caramelization with a deep long braise. Nope, not this time around. I kept it very simple. Pure and simple.

After soaking 3 bunches Stonehedge purple, red, rose, white, bi-color, and French Breakfast radishes, in lukewarm water to rinse away the soil, I trimmed the green tops to about 1/4" before halving the medium sized radishes, quartering the larger ones, and leaving the smaller ones whole. I melted 3 tablespoons unsalted butter in a large cast iron skillet, added 1/2 cup water, brought the buttery water to a boil, tumbled the radishes into the skillet, showered them kosher salt and ground white pepper, reduced the heat, covered the skillet, and let them simmer/braise for 15 minutes. When the radishes were knife tender, I removed the lid and raised the heat to evaporate the water until they shimmered in light buttery glaze. After splashing them with fresh lemon juice and spooning the radishes over fresh Stonehedge chicory greens, I finished with flaked sea salt and  a scant scattering of windowsill  radish micro greens.

Napped in butter with a hint lemon, the mellowed (almost sweet ) peppery crunch of the radishes countered the slight bitterness of the wilted chicory greens, reminiscent of slow braised baby turnips with turnip greens.

Unexpected.
Fresh.
Fabulous.

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.