Pumpkin Spice

It's pumpkin time! All varieties and sizes are popping up everywhere.
Right now, seguing into autumn, pie pumpkins are the darlings of our local markets. Try as we might to fight the seasonal change, pie pumpkins beckon and call. Their demure scruffiness kindles autumnal dreams of scratch  made pies on cool lazy days.

That said, pie pumpkins aren't just for pie.


Pumpkin Beignets With Salted Dulce De Leche.

Pumpkin Puree.
So, canned pumpkin or fresh pumpkin? Let the debate begin. While most folks agree that there is very little taste difference between either fresh or canned pumpkin puree, fresh puree has a lighter texture compared to the compacted dense texture of canned. . When incorporating it into airy deep fried doughnuts, lightness is key.  While it might be a little more liquidy than the canned stuff, a few extra steps easily eliminates the wet factor. Obviously, canned pumpkin is a bit more convenient and accessible, but when everything's coming up pumpkins at our local farmers' markets, fresh pumpkin puree is the way to go.

After rinsing 3 Casey County pie pumpkins (about 1 1/2 pounds each), I split them in half, scooped out the stringy seeds, placed them cut side down on parchment paper-lined sheet pans, and slid them
into a preheated  375 degree oven to roast for 40-45 minutes. When  knife tender, I pulled them from the oven to cool before carefully scraping the softened flesh from the wilted skins.  After picking  out a few stray wandering bits from the cooked pumpkin, I pureed it in a food processor (in batches), and spooned it into a fine mesh sieve set over a bowl to drain for 30 minutes. To help evaporate additional excess moisture, I placed the puree in a saute pan over a low flame, simmered it for 30 minutes, pulled it from the heat, and set it aside to
cool. The whole shebang netted about 3 cups pureed pumpkin.


Salted Dulce De Leche.
Again, baked canned sweetened condensed milk or the  fresher stove top version? Since I ditched the can for the pumpkin puree, I went with the fresh version.

After stirring together 4 cups milk, 1 1/4 cups sugar, 1/4 teaspoon baking soda in a heavy saucepan, I brought the mix to a boil, reduced the heat, and simmered it for about 1 1/2 hours until it thickened and caramelized. I pulled the dulce de leche from the heat and added 1 teaspoon pure vanilla extract along with 2 teaspoons flaked sea salt before setting it aside.

Bienets. 
Go nuts for dough.
I sprinkled 1 1/2 teaspoons instant yeast over 1/4 cup warm water in the bowl of a stand mixer fitted with a dough hook. When the yeast proofed, I added 3/4 cup pumpkin puree, 1/4 cup sugar, 2 beaten eggs, 2 tablespoons melted butter, a pinch of salt, and a 1/4 cup heavy cream. After mixing the wet ingredients on a low speed, I added 2 teaspoons ground cinnamon, 1/2 teaspoons ground ginger, 1/2 teaspoon nutmeg, and a pinch of ground cloves before gradually adding 4 cups all-purpose flour. When the dough pulled away from the bowl and formed a smooth pliable dough, I covered it with a clean dish towel to rise.

After the dough doubled in size, I turned it onto a floured work board, patted it down, rolled the dough 1/4" thick, cut it into diamonds, and covered it to rise again for 1 1/2 hours.

Fry.
Time to make the doughnuts.
I heated vegetable oil ( 3" deep) in a heavy dutch oven until it reached 380 degrees. Working in batches, I carefully slipped the beignet diamonds into the hot oil and fried them for about 2 minutes per side to puff up and brown before scooping them out onto paper towels to catch any excess oil. While they were still warm, I showered the pillowy beignets with powdered sugar and nestled the salted dulce de leche to the side.

Crisp.
Puffy.
Utterly messy.
Like eating powdery pumpkin-spiced clouds.

Pass the dulche de leche.

Fabulous.

The Watermelon Patch

My grandmother's vegetable garden was a wonderland. Tucked inside white planked fencing covered with grapevines, rows and rows of vegetables flourished in the well plowed clay-packed soil of our western Kentucky farm. Meticulously attended to and lovingly cared for, her garden was a lush and harsh workhorse of a garden that provided fresh food for our family during the summer months and  cellar provisions for the bleaker months. As a  newly transplanted city-to-farm boy,  her garden felt like a beautiful secret garden. The stuff of dreams. Emotionally naked and eager to please, I was the fetcher of the family. Tomatoes. Green beans. Corn. Potatoes. Summer squash. Zucchini. Onions. Beets. Carrots. I didn't harvest. I fetched. Roaming her garden with my list  drew me into her secret world, filling me with a sense of belonging I didn't know I needed or wanted. Her garden enveloped me like one of her worn tattered bed quilts. Wonderland.

My grandfather's watermelon patch, on the other hand, was a whole other story. Yards from the farmhouse and vegetable garden, the watermelon patch covered a large portion of a cow field. Surrounded by a single row of barbed wire to keep the cattle at bay, the patch was left mostly unattended through the long summer growing season in wait of the August through September harvest. Out of sight and out of mind, dozens of  watermelons were left to meander and grow through the dusty patch. If one split open from neglect, the wet beady seeds fell into the soil for the hovering hungry birds. As it wasn't my charge,  I didn't tend to the watermelon field. I played in the field of melons. I was the watcher. I knew their every move.  I watched them grow, roam, ramble, roll, split, and sometimes rot. Most importantly, under my watchful eye, I knew when it was watermelon time.

Here's the thing, we didn't fuss over watermelons. On our rural Kentucky farm, watermelons weren't utilitarian. They didn't need to be prepped, processed, preserved, canned, put up, or cooked. They were simply grown for pleasure. Big fat pleasure bombs. We'd throw a few newspapers over an outdoor table, slice open a watermelon, chop it into wet wedges, slurp the sweet juices, spit the seeds, and drink in the long hot summer.

Right now, varieties of watermelon are hitting their stride. Summer might be waning, but there are still picnics, cookouts, barbecues, and tailgates to be had. Stop by a local farmers' market and bring the watermelon patch home. Slice. Slurp. Spit. Repeat.

Or, think outside the box
and take a walk on the Thai side.

Watermelon plays well with others. Salty feta. Briny black olives. Cucumbers. Tomatoes. Basil. The sky's the limit, really. As a wet blank canvas, fresh watermelon can take the tart heat, acidic punch, and earthy funk of a balanced Thai vinaigrette.

Thai Watermelon Salad.
Aside from the vinaigrette, garnishes (accessories) are key.

Crispy fried garlic.
I sliced 5 cloves garlic into paper thin discs and tumbled them into a cold skillet along with 1/2 cup olive oil before turning the heat to medium to gently poach/toast the garlic. As the oil heated, the garlic slowly started to brown and crisp. Just before it went too far, I scooped the crisped garlic chips onto a paper towel to drain and  cool. When completely cooled, I crumbled the garlic into pieces and set it aside.




Vinaigrette.
Few things match the addictive mysterious tart/sweet/funk of a Thai vinaigrette.
Embrace the fish sauce. It's transforming.

After dissolving 1 tablespoon light brown sugar into 5 tablespoons fresh squeezed lime juice, I added
1/4 cup fish sauce, 1/2 cup water, 2 minced garlic cloves, 1 teaspoon crushed fresh ginger, 3 thinly sliced Stonehedge multi-colored Thai bird chilies, Thai basil, purple basil, and fresh mint. I mixed the vinaigrette until combined and set it aside.

Chopped salted roasted peanuts. Check.

Thai. basil. Check.
Sweet basil. Check.
Purple basil. Check.
Mint. Check.

Watermelon. Double check.
After slicing and sectioning a 5 pound Pulaski County Sugar Baby watermelon, I removed the rind and sliced the firmer flesh closest to the rind into 4" by 1/2' batons, reserving the remaining looser watermelon flesh for snacks. Leaving a 1/4" space between pieces, I stacked the batons across each other Jenga-esque and drizzled the vinaigrette over the watermelon until it spilled through the crevices and puddled underneath. After splashing the melon with fresh lime juice, I finished with bits of crispy fried garlic, crunchy roasted peanuts, basil, mint, and additional chilies.

Simple.
Fresh.
Unexpected.

Find a watermelon patch.
And play.

Jammin'. Summer BLT.

It's raining tomatoes. After a sleepy start, gushingly ripe heirlooms have finally crashed our farmers markets in dizzying waves. From farm stand to farm stand, brilliant patchworks of homegrown color tease, beckon, and shamelessly flaunt their  bejeweled innocent flooziness. Lost in the spell of the sultry purples, perky greens, vibrant reds, carefree oranges, demure whites, and come hither hybrids, the challenge of choosing is real. With varying sugar to acid ratios, all the colors and varieties bring something different to the table. When it comes to summer tomatoes, we love what we love. Taste, like beauty,  lies in the eye of the beholder. I'm easy. Very easy. Whether sweet, tart, ugly, gnarled, or drop dead gorgeous, I adore them all. They flaunt, I fall. Win.

With so many tomatoes, kick back, and enjoy the ride.
Really, nothing tops the simplistic beauty of a sliced and salted ripe-to-the-core sun-kissed summer tomato. Boom, call it a day. Or, for a throwback to childhood, toss a few sliced tomatoes on cheap supermarket white bread with a mayo smear, take a bite, and feel the juicy drip. Not feeling it? More is more. Slap crunchy bacon, crisp wet lettuce, and ripe tomatoes on toasted bread for a classic summer B.L.T.. Salty. Wet. Sweet. Heaven. Better yet, take it up a notch and replace the crispy bacon with bacon jam for a slammin' heirloom tomato homespun home run.

Scoot on over B.L.T., there's a new kid in town.

Bacon Jam, Basil, and Heirloom Tomato Sandwich.
The B.B.T.

Bacon Jam.
Bacon jam just might be the beacon for all that is good and right in this world.
Small effort, big payoff.

After heating a large cast iron skillet over a medium flame, I sliced 1 lb  Stone Cross Farm smoked
bacon into 3/4" pieces and tossed them into the skillet. When the bacon started to crisp, I scooped it out with a slotted spoon, set it aside. reserved 1 Tablespoon bacon fat in the hot skillet, drained the remaining fat, and added 1 cup chopped Boyle County Red Bull candy onions. After sweating the onions until they turned translucent, I scattered 4 minced garlic cloves into the skillet. Just before the garlic browned, I deglazed the skillet with 1/4 cup apple cider vinegar and 1/3 cup brewed coffee, scraped the tasty bacon bits from the bottom of the pan, and I added 1/2 cup brown sugar, 1/4 cup Oberholtzer's sorghum, 3 tablespoons balsamic vinegar, and cracked black pepper. After tumbling the reserved bacon into the molten mix, I brought the jam to a boil, reduced it to a low simmer, covered the skillet, and let it bubble away for 1 1/2 hours, stirring and adding a splash of water from time to time.

When jammy enough, I pulled the bacon jam from the heat, scraped it into a container, licked the spatula bone clean, and set it aside.

Summer love.
Heirloom Tomatoes.
Toasted bread.
Bacon jam.
Say no more.

Build it and they will come.
After slathering bacon jam onto toasted Bluegrass Bakery Black Pepper Parmesan Bread, I feathered fresh garden basil into the sticky jam, piled wet juicy slices of Casey County, Pulaski County, Fayette County heirloom tomatoes over the basil, drizzled the jewels with extra virgin olive, and finished

with a flurry of flaked sea salt, cracked black pepper, and snipped garden chives.

Green Zebra. Lemon Boy. Mountain Trash Red. Cherokee Purple. Big White. Kentucky Beefsteak. Orange Persimmon. Purple Plum. Taste the colors.

Kentucky wonders.
With pig jam.

Fabulous.

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.