Christmas Bread. My Stollen Heart.

Loathed by many and loved by few, fruit cake can be a polarizing holiday treat. Even with their centuries old heritage, they're still often maligned. Some folks joke that there  might only be one fruit cake that gets handed down from generation to generation. Re-gifted again and again  Let's face it, loved or loathed, there will always be fruit cake. I'm  on team fruit cake. Yep, I was that odd ball kid who wanted to win those cellophane-wrapped fruit cakes that showed up
at festival cake walks. During the holidays, I still live for the sound of that glorious thud a fruit cake makes when it hits the front stoop for delivery. While I didn't grow up eating those dense holiday cakes packed with sweet candied fruit, I've always adored them because they remind me of Christmases past.  My primer for fruit cake was German Christmas stollen or Christstollen, a dense yeasted spiced  bread packed with boozy plumped dried fruit and covered with confectioner's sugar.  In Germany, it was (and still is) unheard of to have Christmas without stollen. Whether scratch made or outsourced, most every household had stollen during Christmas. Ours was no exception. Frau Olga loved making stollen. Gliding through the kitchen like a graceful stout swan, she'd spend days proofing dough, rolling dough, and soaking various dried fruits in rum before shaping the dough, proofing it again, and sliding it into the oven to bake. When cooled, she showered the bread  with an avalanche of  powdered snow. Frau Olga's Christmas miracle. The stuff of boyish dreams.

When my family left Germany and moved back to the States, the familiar flavors of  holiday fruit cake took my heart back to stollen.

Stollen (jazzed up Christmas bread) is simple enough to throw together, but it takes time and planning. Like fruit cake, it's best aged for a few days or weeks. The plumped fruit gets fruitier and the booze gets boozier.  Total win.

Christmas Stollen.
2 loaves.

Fruit.
Although traditional stollen has hard-to-find dried citron in the mix, any combination of dried fruit works with this sweet/savory Christmas bread.

Using separate containers to keep the dried fruits from bleeding into each other, I soaked 1 cup dried currants, 3/4 cup candied orange peel, 1 cup chopped dried apricots, and 3/4 cups dried sour cherries in 12 tablespoons white rum (3 tablespoons per fruit). After letting the fruit  macerate for a couple of hours, I slipped them into the refrigerator to absorb the rum and plump overnight.

Proof.
I dissolved 1 1/2 tablespoons active dry yeast in 1/4 warm (not hot) water and set it aside to proof and bubble up.

Rise.
I love playing with dough.

After sifting together  5 1/2  Wiesenberger Mill all-purpose flour, 2/3 cups granulated sugar, 1 teaspoons salt, 1/2 teaspoon ground mace, I teaspoon ground cardamon,  and 1 teaspoon freshly grated nutmeg into a large mixing bowl, I added 1 cup warm whole milk, 1 1/4 sticks melted unsalted butter, 3 lightly beaten eggs, 1 teaspoon pure vanilla extract, 1 teaspoon almond extract, and the reserved  yeast. I turned the shaggy dough onto a lightly floured work surface and kneaded the dough until it was smooth.


I flattened the dough into a workable rectangle before adding the reserved soaked fruit, 1 1/2  cups chopped blanched almonds, and 2 tablespoons grated lemon zest.

After kneading the dough for roughly 10 minutes until smooth (poking wayward fruit back into the dough from time to time), I transferred the dough to an oiled bowl, covered it with plastic wrap and tucked it aside in a warm place for 2 hours until it doubled in size.

Braid.
Traditionally, stollen is folded and formed into the shape of a swaddling baby. I took the braided

route.

I punched the down and used a bench scraper to cut the dough into 6 even pieces for 2 loaves. For each loaf, I rolled the individual pieces into 14" ropes, pinched the ends of 3 ropes together,  braided the dough, and placed the loaves onto half sheet pans covered with parchment paper.

After covering the loaves with oiled plastic wrap, I tucked them away to rise again and double in size for 2 hours.

When doubled in bulk, I brushed the loaves with melted butter and slid them  into a preheated 350 degree oven to bake for 35-40 minutes, rotating the pans midway, until they were golden brown before cooling them completely on wire racks and showering  them with powdered snow.

Christmas Stollen.

Home for the holidays.

Drunken Turkey

Iced tea or a shot of bourbon?

I suppose we've all heard tales of families that have that one  relative who manages to overindulge at holiday gatherings. We didn't have that problem in my family. Aside from the underage kids or a few folks on-the-wagon, we ALL were that relative. It was pretty much a level playing field. Thanksgiving, in particular, was always very spirited.

Early mornings on our rural western Kentucky farm were usually quiet and peaceful.  When the sun cracked trhough the trees and kissed the sleepy fields, only  the muted sounds of hissing coffee or cattle chomping in a nearby field disturbed the quiet. Thanksgiving mornings were a whole other story. While the surrounding beauty of the countryside played out in form, everything else had a different tone. The mornings were crisper, the shadows longer, and the trees danced with multicolored leaves. Although the coffee still brewed and the cattle chomped, those familiar sounds were muffled by the quiet hubbub in the kitchen. Thanksgiving morning. Silent prep. Lots of busy work. By mid morning,  the subdued chaos  was shattered by cracked ice hitting empty mason jars for the forthcoming bloody marys made with cellar tomato juice we canned from summers past.Yep, that's how we rolled. To this day, I still believe we put up tomato juice just for Thanksgiving morning. After obligatory glasses of boxed red wine hit the table for Thanksgiving dinner,  bourbon eventually  made its entrance. While soft drinks and windowsill sun-brewed tea were at the ready, we were bourbon people. My father loved his bourbon. 

Although our bourbonized Thanksgivings on the farm are long gone, I  hold fast to  memories of those crisp autumn mornings, quilted trees, and the serenity of the dew-kissed countryside.

Nowadays, on Thanksgiving, I let the turkey drink the bourbon. 

Drunken Turkey
Bourbon all the way.
Inside and out.

To wet brine, dry brine, or inject? I've done them all. Without the luxury of time and space, I'm on team injection. It's quick, simple, and dependable.

A shot of bourbon.
Inside.

I rinsed and dried  a 15 pound young organic turkey and set it aside. After combining  1 cup melted unsalted butter, 1/4 cup chicken stock,  1/4 cup Makers Mark bourbon, 1/4 cup fresh squeezed blood orange juice, 1/4 cup Evans Orchard fresh apple cider, 1 teaspoon dried rubbed sage, 2 teaspoons salt, and 1 teaspoon ground black pepper, I loaded  a large turkey injector with the marinade and carefully injected the breasts, thighs, and legs in several locations. After the meat plumped from the shots, I slathered the flesh with softened butter, showered it with salt, and slipped the turkey into the refrigerator to marinate overnight.

After bringing the boozed up turkey to room temperature, I stuffed the cavity with 1 quartered Casey County onion, 2 quartered Pulaski County Macintosh apples, 1 quartered blood orange, 2 stalks celery,  fresh parsley, fresh sage, and fresh thyme. In lieu of a roasting rack, I lined the bottom of a large roasting pan with fresh unpeeled whole carrots, celery stalks, and trimmed leeks. After tying the turkey legs together for an even cook, I nestled the turkey onto the vegetable rack, and  added 1 cup chicken stock, 1/2 cup apple cider, and a 1/4 cup bourbon to the bottom pan before sliding the turkey into a 350 degree preheated oven to roast for roughly 3 1/2 hours. Being mindful to not over brown the skin too early, I covered the breasts with aluminum foil after an hour and basted the turkey with the pan juices every 30 minutes.

Outside.
I combined 1/2 cup Makers Mark bourbon, 1/2 cup fresh apple cider, 1/2 cup fresh squeezed blood orange juice, 1/2 cup brown sugar, 1/4 cup apple cider vinegar, and 1/2 cup fresh milled Oberholzer's Kentucky Sorghum (form the Morgan County Sorghum Festival). After bringing the mix to a boil, I reduced the heat and let it simmer until it softened into a loose sticky glaze.

After the turkey reached 155 degrees, I started brushing the glaze over the skin every 15 minutes.

When the internal temp hit the 165 degree mark measured in the deepest part of the breast meat, I pulled the bourbon burnished turkey from the oven, hit it with flaked sea salt for crunch, and let it rest for 20 minutes before nestling it over an aromatic bed of fresh herbs.

Thanksgiving turkey.

Bourbonized.

The Cusp

Well, it seems another slap happy summer has zipped by at a breakneck pace. Even our  local markets joined the frenzy, amping things up as the season evolved.  Week after week, we zeroed in on the ever changing produce and the simplicity of prep that matched the fast paced wonder of the season. Right now, we're straddling the seasonal cusp. Although a few late summer gems are still coming on strong, it's time to slow down and embrace the jewels of autumn. While they might not jar the senses with multicolored wonder, their calming muted tones soften the segue from summer to fall, quietly beckon, and pull us in. Let go of the frenzy. Give the grill a rest and take harbor in the solace of a
long sultry braise.

Braised Lamb Shanks With Pumpkin.
There's more to pumpkin than pie.

Simple prep for a one pot wonder.

I rinsed, split, and seeded a 2 pound Casey County pie pumpkin before slicing  it into 2" wedges and setting it aside.

After trimming the excess fat from three (1 pound each) lamb shanks, I liberally seasoned them with a mix of equal parts ( 1 Tablespoon each) salt, cracked blacked pepper, smoked paprika, dried thyme, dried basil, and dried coriander. Working over a medium flame, I heated 3 tablespoons vegetable oil to the smoking point before giving the shanks a hard sear on all sides and setting them aside. While the oil was still hot, I added 1 quartered unpeeled onion, 2 sliced carrots, 1 halved whole head of garlic, and a combo of 4 toasted/seeded/soaked dried pasilla and ancho chile peppers. When the vegetables softened, I added 2 tablespoons tomato paste, swirled it through the vegetables until it browned, and deglazed the pan with 1 cup dry red wine to release the fond.  When the red wine reduced by half, I added 2 cups beef stock, 2 fresh bay leaves, 2 whole Mexican cinnamon sticks, the reserved pumpkin, 3 fresh whole cayenne peppers, 2 halved Pulaski County beefsteak tomatoes, 5 dried figs, 5 dried plums, fresh parsley, and fresh cilantro. After tucking the lamb shanks into the pan, I brought the stock to a boil, reduced it to a simmer, covered the pan, and slid it into a preheated 350 degree oven to braise for roughly 2 1/2 hours.

When tender, I carefully scooped the shanks to a side plate along with the braised pumpkin, whole cayenne peppers, and plumped dried fruit. After removing the bay leaves, cinnamon sticks, spent herbs, and onion skins, I skimmed the fat from the braising stock. I wasn't going for a full on puree, so I  roughly mashed the long cooked vegetables and mixed them into the stock for a loosey-goosey riff on a Mexican mole rojo sauce (sans toasted nuts and seeds) before returning the shanks to the pan to warm through in the sauce.

Much like any long  braised fatty meat, the tender lamb easily slipped from the bones like silken lingerie and melted into the sauce. Naughty and nice.

While the pumpkin added earthy back notes, the soft sweetness from the dried fruit and subtle smoky heat from the dried peppers tempered the slight gaminess of the lamb.

Riding the cusp.

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.