Hail Caesar

I mourn the demise of the  table-side Caesar.

Caesar Cardini created the Caesar Salad in 1924 at his Tijuana restaurant by using ingredients he had on hand after an unexpected Fourth of July rush wiped out his kitchen. To bolster the oomph factor and woo his remaining hungry guests, Cardini  had his chefs  prepare, assemble, and toss the salads table-side. The notion took off and its notoriety catapulted its migration  north to restaurants across the United States. Once considered a showstopping staple of high end steakhouses and restaurants, the grandeur  of a tossed table-side Caesar Salad endured for decades. Over time, that grandeur  slowly and sadly faded into extinction. Granted, from the production side of things, table-side Caesars were high maintenance.  The rolling carts, huge wooden bowls, ingredients, and the gratuitous time involved probably bogged down the timing of busy dining rooms. But hey, from the other side of the cart, it was pure adventure. Time stood still when the server rolled the salad cart to the table and  prepared the simple dressing with anchovies, garlic, lemon juice, egg yolks, worchestershire sauce, parmesan cheese, cracked pepper, and olive oil in a large wooden bowl before tossing it with chilled crisp romaine lettuce, hand torn croutons, and copious amounts of more parmesan. It was a moment. High drama. Cue the lights. And yes, showstopping. I still long for that bygone relic.

My last table-side Caesar was at a newly opened restaurant on Valentine's Days years and years ago. Even through  the reckless chaos of a boisterous dining room on a night of pure mayhem, time melted away when the cart rolled up to the side of our table and the server meticulously constructed a classic table-side Caesar. Pure magic.

Although the drama of table-side service might be a thing of the past, the ubiquitous Caesar salad still endures. In Cardini's original salad, dressed romaine leaves were left whole to be picked up and eaten as finger food. Nowadays, you're most likely to find them chopped, hand torn, smoked, grilled, or topped with various grilled proteins.

Whether for a special date night or cozy fireside dinner, invite Caesar to the party. And if you're feeling nostalgic, grab a bowl and toss it table-side.

Grilled Caesar Salad

Dress it up. 
Like a strand of pearls with a simple black dress, the dressing makes the salad.

Embrace the anchovy.
After smashing, mincing, and pasting 2 whole peeled garlic cloves, I used the tines of a fork to mash 6 oil-packed flat anchovy filets into the garlic paste. When thoroughly combined, I added 2 tablespoons fresh squeezed lemon juice, a few dashes worchestershire sauce, 1 tablespoon dijon mustard, 3 tablespoons grated freshly grated parmesan, cracked black pepper, and two coddled organic egg yolks (unpeeled eggs simmered for 60 seconds in boiling water). After whisking the mix until smooth,  I drizzled in 2 tablespoons extra virgin olive oil and 1/2 cup neutral canola oil while using  an immersion blender to emulsify the dressing.

Dress it down.
I'm a big fan of grilled lettuces. Hardy romaine can take the heat and caramelize just enough to wilt the edges while remaining crisp and fresh.

After halving 3 medium hearts of romaine, I brushed the cut sides with olive oil, dusted them with salt, and nestled them onto a screaming hot grilled pan for about 3 minutes. When they were slightly charred, I tossed them into a large bowl, added the dressing, and carefully massaged the dressing through the leaves of the romaine before finishing with Sunrise Bakery French bread grilled croutons, shaved parmesan, cracked black pepper, and flaked sea salt.

Suspended throughout the glistening  leaves, the piquant creamy anchovy-flecked dressing tempered the slight caramelized char of the lettuce. While the shards of cheese added nutty bites, the crusty grilled croutons provided needed crunch.

Grilled Caesar.
Everything old is new again.

Slow Down With Slower Food

After a hectic holiday season, I suspect we all need to tap the brakes and slow down. When the blurred flurry of  meals, snacks, parties, and celebrations dies down, we can finally exhale. Take it easy and slow down.  Tuck away the cookie cutters, bundt pans, roasting racks, new fangled multi cookers, and angst. Embrace slower food. As languid as they might be, I'm not talking about the low and slow braises, hours long simmered stews, or crock pot cookery. Take it down one notch further and explore fermentation, the ultimate slow food. With little effort (a welcome respite) fermentation is
a lesson in slow motion magic. With fermentation, there are no deadlines to meet, temperatures to monitor, or stress to endure. It simply needs time. As an ages old means of food preservation, just about anything can be fermented. While deli style sour pickles and saurkraut might be the most familiar examples, Korean Kimchi, fermented chili-spiked funkified napa cabbage,  takes it to another level and lets the wheels fly off the cart. Better yet, it's fun to prepare, healthy (loaded with off the charts priobiotics), downright delicious, and utterly addictive.  It can be be eaten straight up out of the jar, served as a side dish,  or added to a myriad of other things. With time on your side, slow down and enjoy the ride.

Kimchi.
Packed with aged funk, tangy sour undertones, and peppery heat, kimchi is a sexy power hitter.

Funk it up.

Brine.
There are a couple of different ways to prep cabbage for  kimchi. It can be chopped into bite sized pieces or sliced into quarters before the initial salt bath. For a variation in texture, I combined both methods.

I halved one 3 1/2 pound crisp napa cabbage, chopped one half into 2" pieces, quartered the remaining half, and tumbled  the cabbage into a large bowl before tossing it with 1 large jullienned daikon radish and 4 jullienned carrots.   After dissolving 1 cup kosher salt in 2 cups water, I poured the brine over the vegetables, massaged the salt into the nooks and crannies (making sure to have everything come into contact with the solution), and set the cabbage aside to brine overnight.

When the cabbage wilted and could bend without snapping (about 9 hours), I thoroughly rinsed it under cold water to wash away any excess salt and set it aside.

Spice.
Umami bomb.
The spice paste is everything. It defines kimchi. Grab some rubber gloves.

After tossing 6 peeled and smashed garlic cloves into a food processor, I added a peeled 2" knob of chopped fresh ginger, 1 peeled and diced Red Valley Farm pear, 1/3 cup fish sauce, 2 tablespoons dried shrimp, and 2 tablespoons palm sugar. I buzzed the mix into a paste and mixed it with 1 cup Gochugara (Korean chili flakes). After tossing 2 bunches of  scallions (sliced into 3"batons) with the wilted cabbage, daikon, and carrots, I slathered everything with the fiery paste before stuffing the kimchi into a large 3 quart glass container. After loosely covering the container, I set the kimchi aside in a coolish dark place to do its thing for 3 days, monitoring the bubbling fermentation every day. On the third day, I transferred the kimchi into smaller glass jars, sealed the lids, and slid them into the refrigerator to slow down the fermentation.

While the kimchi is good to go after one day of refrigeration, it gets better and funkier with time.

Slow down.

All good things take time.

Winter Candy

It doesn't take long for the cold gray days of winter to erase the warm embrace of summer. With a damp chill in the air, those sun-kissed tomatoes, overflowing corn trucks, delicate lettuces, and vibrant vegetables seem like distant childhood memories. The lucky folks, with enough fortitude to put up their summer hauls, have pantries and freezers stocked for the long haul. Constant visceral reminders of summer.  Still, during the winter months, we all revel in the jeweled-toned winter squash, hardy greens, dried beans, pantry goods, turnips, and wild array of overwintered potatoes.

And just when the muted colors of winter seem to lull and blanket us with calm, perky winter citrus rolls into town, crashes the party, and changes everything. Sweet. Acidic. Bright. Sun bombs.

Upside Down Grapefruit Polenta Cake with Candied Almonds.

Sugar Sugar.
Candied Almonds.
Unlike traditional sugar-coated baked candied almonds, these nuts are a fun riff on spun sugar without the frenzy of a whirling dervish.

I combined 2 cups granulated sugar with 1/2 cup water in a heavy sauce pan. After bringing the combo to a boil, I let it rip without stirring (scraping down the sides with a pastry brush to prevent crystals ) until it bubbled and foamed. When it turned light amber, about 8-10 minutes, I pulled the molten sugar from the heat and carefully placed the pan over an ice bath to stop the cooking process. After letting caramelized sugar cool just enough to drizzle or spin, I skewered individual blanched whole almonds, slipped them through caramel, and hung them upside down to
completely cool. When the sugar hardened, I snipped off the ends and set the candied almonds aside.

 Almost Candied Grapefruit.
Wanting to utilize the rind, pith, and flesh of the grapefruit, I knew I needed to temper the bitterness of the peel before incorporating it into the cake. Sidestepping the traditional method of an upside cake, I brought 1 cup sugar and 1/2 cup fresh squeezed and strained ruby red grapefruit juice to a rolling boil in a large cast iron skillet before reducing it to a gentle simmer and sliding 3/4" thick grapefruit slices ( in single layer batches) into the simmering syrup. When the pithy peels turned translucent, I scooped the grapefruit slices onto parchment paper, reserving the gloriously sticky grapefruit syrup.

Eat Cake.
Grapefruit polenta cake.
Polenta cake (gluten free) is very forgiving.  Almost teetering on the edge of savory, it's a fabulous foil for the sweet/tart grapefruit.

I sifted 2 cups almond flour, 3/4 cup fine polenta, and 1 1/2 teaspoons baking powder into a bowl and set it aside. Using a stand mixer with a paddle attachment, I creamed 1 3/4 sticks room temperature unsalted butter and 1 cup castor sugar until light and airy. With the mixer running, I added 1 teaspoon vanilla extract and incorporated 3 large eggs one at a time, alternating 1/3 of the flour mixture after the addition of each egg, until the batter was well blended.

After folding 2 tablespoons of grapefruit zest into the batter, I buttered  4" ramekins,  lined them with trimmed parchment paper, buttered the parchment paper, and nestled the grapefruit slices into the bottom of each ramekin before pouring the batter into the ramekins, smoothing the tops with an offset spatula, and sliding them into a preheated 350 degree oven for 35-40 minutes.

When the toothpick test came out clean, I pulled the cakes from the oven, brushed the tops with the grapefruit syrup, and set them onto a wire rack to cool.

Upside Down.
After 10 minutes, I inverted the cakes, peeled away the parchment paper, and drizzled the remainder of the reserved grapefruit syrup over the now downside up grapefruit before finishing with flaked sea salt, candied almonds, and fresh mint.

Let the sunshine in.

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.