Austria

As a kid on the farm, scalloped canned oysters were a mysterious staple on my grandmother's Christmas table. Tucked alongside the normal food, they seemed oddly out of place. Unlike anything else on the table, they felt downright luxe. I adored those oysters. Left mostly untouched by the pickier eaters, they were mine for the taking. The world was my oyster. 

Years later, the beat goes on. Whether shucked raw on the half shell, deep fried, poached, grilled, broiled, or baked, oysters are my holiday jam.

Baked Oysters Florentine With Hollandaise Mousseline

Shucked. Shucking oysters can be tedious. It helps to have an oyster knife and glove. I learned a little trick to ease the angst. After bringing water to a rolling boil in a large stock pot, I blanched the oysters for 20 seconds before plunging them into an ice bath. After draining the oysters, I shucked them with ease into a strainer placed over a bowl to catch their liquor without any grit, dropped the oysters into their liquor, and set them aside.

Spinach.  I rinsed, dried and chopped 1 large bunch Madison Count fresh spinach. After frying 4 strips bacon until crisp in a cast iron skillet, I removed the bacon, drained all but 2 tablespoons bacon, returned the skillet to the heat. and added 2 minced shallots.  When the shallots turned translucent, I added 2 cloves minced garlic. Before letting the garlic brown, I tumbled the spinach into the skillet along with 1/2 cup chopped fresh parsley, 1/4 cup chopped chives, and1/4 cup torn fresh tarragon. As the spinach started to wilt, I deglazed the skillet with 1/4 cup white wine and let the wine reduce by half before hitting it with salt and cracked black pepper and setting it aside. Mousseline. Mousseline is an airy light combination of hollandaise and whipped cream. I've made plenty of old school hollandaise sauces over the years. It's a mother sauce that most everyone should have in their back pocket. That said, it can be tricky. Blender hollandaise if full proof.

  

After separating 6 large eggs, I dropped the yolks into the base of a blender along with. 4 tablespoons

freshly squeezed lemon juice, 1/2 teaspoon salt, and 1 teaspoon ground white pepper. I melted 1/2 pound unsalted butter over a medium flame and transferred it to a glass measuring cup. After blending the yolks and lemon juice until frothy, I slowly streamed the melted butter into the blender until  the sauce thickened and emulsified, poured the hollandaise into a small dish, and set it aside.

Whip it. After whipping 1 cup heavy whipped cream until it reached stiff peaks, I gently folded it into the hollandaise for the mousseline, and set it aside.

Stuffed. I spooned a small amount of the herby spinach mix  into the reserved oysters shells, nestled a plump oyster into each shell, topped the oysters with additional spinach, and spooned the mousseline over the spinach, letting it drip will-nilly over the sides. 

After scattering panko bread crumbs mixed with grated parmegiano-reggiano  over the mousseline, I slid the oysters into a 450 degree oven for 8-10 minutes.

When browned and crisped, I pulled the oysters from the oven and  let them rest for 3 minutes before finishing with pearls of salmon roe and snipped fresh garden chives.

Although a far cry from my grandmother's oysters, they took me back to her holiday table.

A Christmas Past.

A Christmas Present.

 

Thankful

Over the river and through the woods...

Maybe not this year.

I can still feel the warmth of my grandmother's kitchen on Thanksgiving morning. 

When my family moved to Kentucky and settled in with my grandparent's on their remote rural farm, the notion of Thanksgiving was completely new to me. It just wasn't a thing in Austria, Germany, or Africa. There were no turkeys, dressings, or casseroles to share. No day after shopping. No football. Our large family was thousands of miles away. Thanksgiving never happened.

Life on the farm was a different kind of life. Big Sunday dinners followed long church meetings with a  rotation of relatives stopping by to visit. While I eventually grew accustomed to the large family gatherings, Thanksgiving was a whole other story. Unlike other family get togethers, Thanksgiving  was a hectic potluck affair. Most everyone had their time worn assigned and  beloved sides to tote over the river and through the woods to our grandmother's house. And only one person, the turkey aunt, was allowed to bring the turkey. There were no surprises. Ever.  

On Thanksgiving morning, my grandmother's demeaner changed. Through the flurry and hubbub, she'd quietly and serenely crank out countless sweet potato pies, chess pies, transparent pies, and pumpkin pies. As utterly contrary as she could be could be at times, her Thanksgiving serenity felt like an odd miracle. By midmorning, the family started piling in. Choreographed like a country version of Swan Lake, the array of sides and fixings were laid out over every inch of counter space, including a makeshift cover over the kitchen sink. Synchronized with clockwork precision, it was an absolute thing of beauty and smelled like heaven. Always feeling like an awkward interloper, I swooned with awe. How? Why? Yes!

After my grandmother filled her milkwood punch bowl with Cola Lemonade iced down with lemonade ice cubes, the Thanksgiving blessing opened the buffet. 

Those early Thanksgivings made me realize I had missed something that I didn't even know was missing in my life. Family, friends, and even Thanksgiving.

During these times, it's ok to miss all the hoopla when you hold close what is missing. There's a simple joy in knowing that our friends and family share the missing. No doubt, this year will be different than than any other. Although smaller, simpler, safer, and softer, this year can also feel the same as years past. Hold fast to the missing and embrace the present.

Roasted Turkey.

Simpler.

Heaven knows, over the years I've done just about anything and everything  you can do with a turkey. Depending on how fancified or low brow I wanted to go, I've deep fried, spatchcocked, brined, smoked,

braised, buttered, herbed, stuffed, unstuffed, deboned, and ruined quite a few turkeys. They've all been fantastic. Each and every method had its pros and cons. ALL of them were fussy and labor intensive....because...well....isn't that the point?  We go overboard for the sake of those we love. 

These days are different. Overboard is overboard. Simple wins.

Surprisingly, I snagged a very small 11 pound fresh turkey. Big enough to feel festive, yet small enough to feed a few close friends. With adjusted cooking times, this simple method works with any sized turkey.

Shots. Injecting is the way to go. With no buckets to fill, ice to chill,  or coolers to store, injecting is a great shot. 

After melting 1 cup unsalted butter and letting it cool, I added 1/4 cup olive oil, 1/2 cup white wine, 2 tablespoons sorghum, 2 teaspoons salt, 1 teaspoon finely ground black pepper, 1 teaspoon ground poultry seasoning, 1/2 teaspoon rubbed sage, and 1/2 teaspoon ground thyme. I whisked to combine, and loaded an injection syringe with the mix before carefully injecting the breasts, thighs, and drumsticks under the skin in several locations, pushing the marinade and pulling the needle to evenly distribute the marinade throughout the flesh. After liberally salting the skin of the turkey, I massaged softened butter over every square inch of the skin and slid it into the refrigerator (uncovered) to dry out and marinate overnight.

To keep things less fussy, I braised vegetables along with the turkey. Like any good roast, that method benefits from a 2 step process.

In leu of a roasting rack, I scattered 4 unpeeled carrots, 3 quartered unpeeled Madison County purple onions, 5 trimmed celery stalks 4 Scott County cleaned leeks, and 3 unpeeled parsnips into the bottom of a medium sized roasting pan. After stuffing the turkey with 1 halved lemon, 1 halved blood orange, 1 sliced celery stalk, onion, fresh sage, fresh rosemary, and 2 peeled garlic cloves, I tied the turkey legs together with kitchen twine, and nestled the turkey onto the vegetables. I poured 1 1/2 cups chicken stock into the roasting pan, let the turkey rest on the counter for 20 minutes to take the chill off, covered the breast with aluminum foil, and slid it into a preheated 335 oven.

The baste debate. I like to baste. It's hands on and allows ample opportunity to check on the browning

of the skin and level of pan juices, so I basted the turkey with the pan juices every 30 minutes or so. Midway ( 1 1/2 hours in), I added an additional 1 cup stock, removed the foil from the breast meat,  and  covered the legs with the foil to prevent overbrowning. At the 2 hour mark, I removed most of the spent vegetables before adding fresh peeled carrots, sliced fresh celery, sliced onions, and 2 seeded and sliced Casey County acorn squash. After basting the skin every 20 minutes during the last hour, I finished with a whisper thin glaze of 2 tablespoons sorghum mixed with 2 tablespoons fresh squeezed lemon juice. When the internal temp hit 165 degrees, I pulled the turkey from the oven, tented it, and let it rest for 30 minutes before nestling it onto a bed of fresh sage and fresh bay leaves along with apples, blood oranges, pears, and  roasted acorn squash.

Simpler.

Smaller.

Always Thankful.

 

Donuts In The Pumpkin Patch

 

Corn mazes. Fodder shocks. Pumpkin patches. 

Yep, it's coming on autumn. The vibrancy of summer has slowly slipped into the calming pace of fall. Crisp cool breezes dance through the trees, gently releasing their worn leaves to scatter over long shadows on the tired grass. Like summer, autumn will be very different  in our new normal. Still, we'll navigate the changes as we cling to familiarity. While gushingly ripe summer tomatoes, thin skinned cucumbers, tender summer squash, mush melon, honeydew melon, green beans, and fresh picked corn might be fading away, we have a new season to  celebrate. We'll cling to  pumpkins, winter squash, potatoes, and hardy greens to get us through our autumnal  new normal. 

And, through it all, there will always be pumpkin spice. And donuts.

As much as the pumpkin spice forces tried  to rush us into fall before we were ready, it is finally pumpkin spice's time.

So, go ahead, put it in anything and everything. Make pies, muffins, pancakes, coffees, and scented whipped creams. Or simply dab it behind your ears. It's pumpkin spice season. And, now, we're ready.

Maple Glazed Pumpkin Donuts With Candied Bacon.

Lord knows. I have and will fry anything. If it'll fit in a fryer, I'll fry it. Like most folks, I'm a fool for fried donuts dripping with glaze. That said, I went down the baked donut route with these pumpkin-y donuts because they're  consistent and easier to work with. 

Time to make the donuts.

Glaze/Donut lipstick. Oh sure, for a subtle matte lipstick, cinnamon dusted donuts are great. In fact, these donuts are fabulous with a simple sugar dusting. But, no no no, I wanted shiny lipstick. Bawdy, even. I combined  1 1/3 cups powdered sugar, 2 tablespoons pure maple syrup, 1 teaspoon vanilla extract, 2 tablespoons milk, and 1 teaspoon Oberholtzer sorghum before whisking the glaze until it was just thick and thin enough to drape the donuts.

Bacon. After completely coating and covering 6 slices thick cut bacon with light brown sugar, I placed them directly onto  a foil lined sheet pan (no wire rack) and slid them into a preheated 350 degree oven. As the they started to caramelize and crisp, I turned the bacon and swept it through the sweet sticky bacon fat, returned it to oven, repeated the flip/swipe until the bacon candied in its own fat., and removed it to wire rack to cool. Think about it.

Dough. So, fresh or canned pumpkin? Although completely interchangeable, I get a kick out of roasting fresh pumpkins. More savory than sweet, fresh pumpkin seems to have a cleaner flavor. And, why not? It's pumpkin season. After halving and seeding 2 Madison County fresh sugar pumpkins, I roasted them in a 350 degree oven until they collapsed ( about 45 minutes), let them cool to the touch, scraped the warm flesh into a blender, and pureed the pumpkin until smooth.

After scooping 2 cups pumpkin puree into a large mixing bowl, I added 1 1/2 cups sugar, 1/3 cup vegetable oil, 4 tablespoons melted butter and 3 large organic eggs. Using an old school hand held mixer, I blended the wet mixture until well combined and silky smooth.

I sifted 2 cups Wiesenberger Mill all purpose flour, 2 teaspoons pumpkin spice (ground cloves, ground

cinnamon, ground allspice, ground ginger, ground nutmeg), 2 teaspoons baking powder, and 1 teaspoon salt into a smaller mixing bowl. After a quick whisk to combine, I added the spiced flour to the pumpkin puree, and gently folded the two together until well incorporated (without overworking the batter). 

To make life easier, I spooned the donut dough into a pastry bag and piped it into 2  oil-sprayed silicone donut molds, cleaned the edges, placed the molds onto a sheet pan, and slid them into a preheated 350 degree oven for 15 minutes. When cooked though (clean toothpick test), I pulled the donuts from the oven and let them rest for 5 minutes for turning them out onto 2 wire racks to cool.

When almost completely cooled, I dipped the donuts into the maple glaze and  let the excess swirl backinto the bowl before finishing with shards of candied bacon.

Suspended under the slightly hardened glaze, the baked donuts were soft, tender, and as light as air. While the warming pumpkin spice punched through the rich caramel-like maple glaze, the candied bacon added salty sweet crunch.

Sticky.

Sweet.

Salty.

Donuts in the pumpkin patch.

Get your spice on.

Inside Out

 As a kid, I believed that if I could swing high enough to fly over the swing set my world would turn upside down and inside out. My private little Wonderland.

Now, as an adult, the world is upside down and inside out. No swings attached.

These days, it seems that most everything has been shuffled around, rescheduled, rearranged, postponed, cancelled, or vitrualized. Even the 146th running of the Kentucky Derby has been moved from the first Saturday in May until the first Saturday in September, happily landing it smack dab in the middle of National Bourbon Heritage Month. Bourbon and horse racing. A winning ticket. Win. Place.Show. Oddly enough, the annual 2 weeks long  Kentucky Bourbon Festival, which draws tens of thousands of people to the Bluegrass  in September to  celebrate all things bourbon,  has been postponed and rescheduled as a virtual affair until October. Thinking back on my stints teaching the Culinary Arts: Bourbon Style Cooking School for hundreds of bourbonites at the Bourbon Festival, and remembering all the things that could and did go wrong during those live cooking demos, the thought of a virtual reality show now sounds somewhat appealing, but not as much fun. Take 1. Take 2. Cut. Edit. Silence. Repeat.

As things gets rearranged and the seasons change, bourbon remains constant.

Whether you sip it, shoot it, mix it, or cook with it, bourbon is always in season.

Bourbon-Sorghum Glazed Chicken With Late Season Succotash.

Make it shine. Oberholzter sorghum, deep and rich, is like silken golden honey. After sauteing 2 minced shallots in 1 tablespoon olive oil until translucent, I hit the pan with 1/2 cup Bookers Bourbon, ignited it, and let it reduce before adding 1 cup Oberholzter sorghum, 1/4 cup apple cider vinegar, 1/4 cup light brown sugar, 2 tablespoons white balsamic vinegar, 1 teaspoon garlic powder, 1 teaspoon smoked paprika, and 1/2 teaspoon ground mustard. I brought the glaze to a boil, reduced it to simmer, and let it bubble away until it mellowed out into a smooth glaze, (about 20 minutes) and set it aside.

Stick it. I'm on team skewer. Not only are skewers inherently more fun, they provide a safer option for small gatherings celebrating the Derby and National Bourbon Heritage month. After slicing 2 pounds Garry Farm boneless chicken into manageable 1 1/2" pieces, I threaded the chicken onto pre-soaked bamboo skewers along with with Casey County red and green bell peppers sliced into wedges, peeled and quartered Stonehedge Farm purple onions, 2 sliced Madison County yellow squash, and 2 sliced and halved Woodford County Zucchini. I drizzled the skewers with olive oil and seasoned them with smoked paprika, salt, cracked black pepper, and garlic powder before setting them aside to marinate.

Suffering succotash. Succotash gets a bad rap. Oh sure, it's filled with a hodgepodge of garden stuff, but right now is the time of year to make that garden stuff shine. I grew up with succotash. On our family farm, during mid to late season when the garden was in full swing and everything was coming on strong, my grandmother's go to catch-all side was succotash. Her low brow country version was fried in bacon grease and smothered in  pepper. Even then, it was fabulous alongside her refrigerator pickles, cornbread, and tomato pudding. Endless versions of succotash vary from region to region and even from family to family. The sky's the limit. As long as the three sisters (lima beans, corn, squash) join the party, anything goes.

Echoing some of the same ingredients as the skewers, I sauteed and salted 1 cup diced purple onion, 1 cup each diced Casey County red and green bell peppers, and 1 /2 cups shelled, peeled, and blanched Madison County lima beans, and 2 cloves minced garlic in 2 tablespoon olive oil. When the vegetables softened and the onions turned translucent, I added 3 cups (5 ears) fresh Pulaski County cutoff corn. After kissing the corn with a bit of heat, I deglazed the pan with 1/2 cup chicken stock and let it reduce before adding 2 cups Rolling Blue Farm diced big boy tomatoes and 1/2 cup heavy cream. When the cream reduced enough to lightly nap the vegetables, I pulled the succotash from the heat and added chives, fresh basil, and  1/2 cup freshly grated parmigiano reggiano cheese. 

Fire. With everything on deck, I slapped the skewers onto a grill over hot coals and grilled the chicken for 10-12 minutes, turning them from to time and liberally brushing them with the glaze after each turn.When they were cooked through and slightly charred, I pulled them from the grill to rest and grilled 3 halved Stonehedge Farm purple onions cut side down. When the onions softened and caramelized, I carefully scooped out the inner layers to serve on the side, filled the grilled onions with  heaping spoonfuls of succotash, and nestled them alongside the sorghum-bourbon glazed chicken before finishing with snipped garden chives and fresh basil.

While the bourbon added subtle smoky oak undertones to the sticky glaze, the vinegar-spiked sorghum  provided mellow sweet acidity as it napped the tender chicken. Spilling from the soft caramelized onions,  the lightly creamed succotash  countered the charred crunch of the grilled vegetables and the smoky sweetness of the bourbon glazed chicken.

Fresh.

Fun.

Fabulous.

Bourbon Season. Never postponed. 

Cracked

In the midst of this crazy lost summer, the arrival of sun-kissed tomatoes makes everything almost seem normal. Like crashing undulating waves, they flood the local markets with breathtaking color. The thrill of summer. Yet, while overwhelmed in the beginning, we eventually and quietly take them for granted. Another day, another tomato. And then before we know it, they're gone. In a flash, they vanish and summer slips away. Hang on to simple pleasures. Hold fast to this lost summer.

Like most folks, I'm a fool for the perfect jewels of summer. The pretty ones. They glisten, pulse, and beckon like sirens of the sea. Even so, I'm most smitten with the gnarled culls, cracked catheads, and scarred want-nots. The outcast jewels relegated to the back bins of the farm stands sold on the cheap. Oh sure, they're not pretty, easy to handle, or great for slicing , but they're mighty fabulous. Once manipulated and cleaned, they're great diced up for salads, roasted for sauces, or chunked up for snacks. Along with the pretties, they're also the reason for the season. Embrace the uglies.





B.L.T.
Bacon. Lettuce. Tomato.
Summer on bread....or wrapped in lettuce.

Pork Belly Tomato Jam Lettuce Wraps.
Summer pig candy.
BLT with a twist.
86 the bread and mayo.

Bacon.
Bacon is simply cured and smoked pork belly. Belly is bacon. Bacon is belly.
The key to good bacon and great pork belly is the crispy unctuous fat. Fat equals flavor.

Unlike fabulous jacked up methods for preparing pork belly, I kept it simple for a summer BLT.

After salting a 1 pound slab of Rolling Blue Farm pork belly, I slid it  into the refrigerator to dry brine overnight.

After bringing the pork belly to room temp, I liberally seasoned the skin with additional salt and cracked black pepper before sliding it into a preheated 350 oven to roast for 2 hours, crisping the top under the broiler during the last 10 minutes. When crisped and evenly browned, I pulled the pork belly from the oven and let it rest for 15 minutes before slicing it into 1/4" lardons.

Tomato.
Lipstick on a pig.
Tomato jam is my summer jam. It works  great during early season when new tomatoes are iffy, during  high season when they're unbelievable, and during late season when tomatoes are fading and we're holding onto memories.

Some tomato jams are labor intensive and persnickety No seeds. No skins. Precise cuts. Perfect perfect perfect. It's hard to jam when bound by fussy preciousness. Just go for it.
Tomato jam should be fun.

I used a 2 pound combination of farmers' market tomatoes (beauties and beasts).
After coring and chopping 4 large Pulaski County Beefsteak cathead tomatoes, 4 Shelby County      Purple Cherokee tomatoes, 4 Hienkle Heirloom Romas, and 4 split Casey County Big Boys, I tossed them together into a large bowl and seasoned them with salt.

Jamming.
Working over a medium flame in a large dutch oven, I sauteed 1 cup diced Boyd County candy onion, 2 teaspoons minced garlic, and 1 heaping tablespoon grated fresh ginger in 2 tables olive oil.  When the onions turned translucent, I tumbled the tomatoes into a dutch oven, seasoned them with salt and cracked black pepper, mixed everything together, and let the tomatoes rip until they released their juices and started to break down. As the tomatoes softened, I added 1 teaspoon cinnamon, 1/4 teaspoon ground clove, 1 teaspoon grated nutmeg, 1 teaspoon allspice, 1 teaspoon ground mustard, 3/4 cup brown sugar, 1/4 cup Olberholtzer sorghum, 1 tablespoon Modena reduced balsamic,  and 3 tablespoons cup apple cider vinegar. After giving it a good stir, I lowered the heat to a simmer, and let the jam gurgle away, stirring from time to time,  until it reduced and thickened into a rich sticky jam.

After pulling the tomato jam from the heat, I let it cool before spooning it into  pint sized mason jars.

Lettuce.
While the sticky sweet jam was still on the warm side, I tossed 1 cup of tomato jam with the reserved pork belly lardons, added 2 tablespoons snipped garden chives, and nestled the pig candy into wispy butter lettuce leaves before finishing with quick pickled sliced Stonehedge radishes and fresh basil.

Crunchy.
Wet.
Sweet.
Salty.

A lost summer BLT.
Get your jam on.

Blistered

As  restrictions loosen and we adjust to our ever changing new normal, it's time to think about firing up the grill for those backyard cookouts and barbecues. Things will be different. Very different. Although masked up at safe distances, it's still a time to be together and (most importantly) climb out of our bunkers for fresh air. And there's no better air than sweet smoky barbecued  air. It's grilling season. Barbecue season. Corn season.

Few things set my heart aflutter more  than the first sight of  roadside corn stands spilling over with fresh corn or when the first fresh ears hit the local farmers markets. Corn season is summer slathered in butter.

Typically, when corn starts rolling in, I channel my grandmother and keeps things simple. Boiled with

butter, fried in bacon fat, or creamed with scraped-from-the-cob- milk juices are my go to preps. Simple. Pure. Fabulous. Eventually, I branch out into crazy land with deep fried corn on the cob, pureed fresh corn grits, corn puddings, and spoon breads. That said,  I will forever be enamored with grilled corn. It hits every note. Smoky. Sweet. Crunchy. Soft. Once grilled, the possibilities are endless. Whether smeared with butter for a traditional take, slathered in mayo, dusted with chili powder, and sprinkled with cojita for a Mexican street corn spin, or sliced off the cobs for easier bites, grilled corn is everything.

So, go ahead, fire up the grill. Load it up with barbecued ribs, chicken, burgers, and dogs. Slather everything in sauce. Just remember, the sides are key. They're the reason for the season. And while fresh vegetables and salads  keep things civilized, grilled summer corn bridges the gap between beauty and brawn.

Blistered Corn Fritters with Quick Kentucky Chow Chow
Unlike dense corn cakes flecked with corn, these airy cakes are filled with smoky grilled corn lightly bound in batter and are more fritter than cake. Teetering on the edge of precious, they can masquerade as delicate finger food. Or, better yet, they can be swiped through sticky barbecue drippings to keep it real. After all, that's what summer's all about.


Quick Chow Kentucky Chow.
Whether purchased or scratch made, I am never without a jar of chow chow on hand. Can't imagine soup beans and cornbread without chow chow. Sweet, spicy, tart, and crunchy, it's the ultimate southern relish.

Most chow chows are processed and canned for preservation to last over the long winter months. Quick pickled with a 2 or 3 week refrigerated shelf life, there are no long winter months in the waiting with this chow chow.

After grating 2 cups Rolling Blue farm cabbage into a large bowl, I added 1 cup rolling Blue Farm diced green tomatoes, 1 cup sliced Stonehedge green onions, and 1 cup diced red bell pepper. I tossed the vegetables with 1 tablespoon kosher salt, covered them with plastic wrap,  and slid them into the refrigerator to macerate overnight.

Once softened from the salt bath, I drained the vegetables and set them aside.
Working over a medium flame, I toasted 2 teaspoons mustard seeds, 1 teaspoon whole black Tellicherry peppercorns, 2 tablespoons whole allspice berries, and 1 tablespoon coriander seeds. When the seeds started to pop, I hit the pan with 1/2 cup apple cider vinegar, 1 cup water,  and 1/2 cup sugar. When the sugar dissolved, I added the reserved vegetables along with 1 teaspoon ground mustard, 1 teaspoon ground ginger, and 1 teaspoon ground turmeric. I brought the chow chow to a boil, reduced it to a simmer, and let it rip for 1 1/2 hours ( stirring occasionally and adding water when needed) until it thickened before pulling it from the heat. When cooled, I slid the chow chow into the refrigerator to chill.

 Fire.
Corn can be grilled with or without the husks. When grilled in their pre-soaked husks, the corn steams while picking up subtle smoky notes. When grilled without the husks, it blisters and chars from the smoky heat, hammering home a deeper flavor. I love and do both. For these finger sucking  fritters, I wanted blistered crunchy corn.

After pulling the husks away from the cobs for easier handling, I scrubbed the silks from the ears, brushed the ears with vegetable oil, slid them onto a hot grill, turned them from time to time until they started to blister, and  pulled them from the grill. When they were cool enough to handle, I sliced the corn from the cobs, stirred a cup of the grilled corn into the reserved chow chow, and set the remainder aside.

While the grill was still hot, I tossed a few Stonehedge green onions over the fire to wilt and char before pulling them off and slicing them into whisper thin ribbons.

Batter up.
I use one basic cornbread recipe for everything. It works with any kind of cornmeal and never fails. It's great for skillet cornbread, corn muffins, corn cakes, hush puppies, and old fashioned cornbread salad.

After sifting 1 cup Weisenberger Mill all purpose flour and 2 tablespoons baking powder into a mixing bowl, I added 1 cup Weienberger Mill plain yellow cornmeal, 4 tablespoons sugar, 1 teaspoon salt, 4 tablespoons vegetable oil, 2/3 cups milk (or buttermilk), and 2 beaten eggs. I folded 1 1/2 cups of the reserved grilled corn into the batter, and gently mixed the batter until combined before setting  it aside for 10 minutes to rest.

Working over a medium flame, I brought 1/4 cup vegetable to the edge of smoking in a large cast iron skillet.  When the oil sizzled around the end of a wooden spoon ( a grandmother trick), I spooned 1/4 cups  batter into the oil, spacing the fritters  about 3 inches apart.  When the batter settled into the hot oil and started to set, I twirled a few of the reserved grilled green onions over the cakes before carefully flipping them over and gently patting them down. As each batch crisped up and browned on both sides, I pulled them the skillet and set them aside. After brushing the tops with a smidgen of melted butter, I dusted them with sea salt, and finished each corn fritter with a puckery kiss of chow chow.

Suspended in the crisped batter, the corn popped with a smoky sweetness that played off the spiced sweet/tart crunch of the chilled chow chow.

Blistered corn fritters.
Keep it real.

And get your grill on.

Revisiting

We left Ethiopia a couple of years before civil war devastated the region and ended the reign of  Emperor Haile Selassie. Sensing the growing unrest and  tense relations between the Ethiopian government and the Unites States , my father knew the percolating tension was reason enough to leave. After receiving a transfer to a new post back in States, we packed up and took a mini whirl-wind tour of the Mediterranean before boarding a ship for a Transatlantic crossing back to America. Even with his gruff army ways, my father loved a good adventure. With as much emotion as he could muster at the time, he wanted to share that joy with my brother and me. Although he was strict and hard-edged, his intent was founded in affection and  love. He sacrificed a lot of his own happiness to keep our little fractured family together after my mother died. When we left Africa for our little adventure, he tapped into his quiet happiness and took us along for the ride.

After shipping his beloved beaten up Rambler  across the Mediterranean Sea to Naples to load as cargo on the ship, we sky-jumped on several short flights for extended stays in Egypt, Morrocco, Turkey, and Greece before renting a snazzy car for a lazy tour through the entire boot of Italy to reach Naples for the crossing. My father was in heaven. He might not have displayed much emotion, but I could feel it.

Cooped up in our tiny one portal cabin, I gave him fits during the nine day crossing. While I wanted to hang over the railings and fish for whales, he insisted I play shuffleboard and cards. He won. Shuffleboard it was.

We finally made it back to the states for a short stint in Washington, D.C. before my father retired  and moved us to the family farm in western Kentucky. With time, the calm that swept over him trickled down and swept over me. All the while, Africa  stayed fresh in my heart. Years and years later, it still does. The food. The sand. The safaris. The Red Sea. The red-butted baboons. Most importantly, my father's insight and foresight to keep our little clan happy and safe.

Food is my memory trigger.
I might not remember the small details of my childhood, but I can taste them.

Revisiting Doro Wat.
Revisiting Africa.
Ababa, our housekeeper in Ethiopia, occasionally cooked her food for us. Even now, those flavors wrap me in her warm and gentle hug.

My father took us out of Africa.
I don’t  know what became of Ababa.

Moments before boarding a plane to leave Africa behind, Ababa cupped my face with her calloused hands and kissed my forehead with her sun-parched lips. And we left.

My family lived in Ethiopia for a few years  while my father was stationed on an army base located on the dusty outskirts of Asmara. It was a sprawling military base surrounded by 20 foot concrete walls topped with tangled webs of sharp barbed wire. As a kid, I wasn't sure if the walls were there to keep people out or to keep us in.

The isolated self contained  base had everything we needed. Aside from occasional weekend jaunts to the Red Sea or adventurous Kenyan faux safaris, we happily lived our lives within our walled-in fortress.

Ababa was bussed onto base daily with other off base domestic workers. With a gentle grace and serenity, she took care of my family and me. I adored her.

Every day, in addition to her other tasks,  Ababa cooked for us. Intermingled with Swanson TV dinners and frozen pot pies, she'd prepare curious interpretations of American food. But, once in a while, she'd pulled out the big guns and cook her food. Her intoxicating doro wat and tangy injera bread captured my tender young heart. I've craved it my entire life.

Nowadays, I don't prepare it as often as I'd like. While it seldom compares to her humble version of long braised chicken smothered and stained with spicy blood red berebere, the labor of love it requires to prepare takes me straight back to Africa. And to her. And to my father.


While the preparation of doro wat and injera is fairly straightforward,  the days long process reveals its true essence and soul.

Niter Kibbeh.
Spiced clarified butter.
I melted 1/2 pound unsalted butter in a small cast iron skillet. When the butter started to foam, I added 1 cup diced purple onion, 2 whole garlic cloves, 1 tablespoon grated ginger, 1/4 teaspoon cardamom seeds, 1/4 teaspoon fennel seeds, and three whole cloves.  When the onions turned translucent, I covered the skillet, reduced the heat to low, and let the butter steep for 45 minutes before draining it through cheesecloth to trap the solids, covering it, and setting it aside.

Berbere Paste.
After toasting 2 teaspoons cumin seeds,1 teaspoon dried red pepper flakes, 1 teaspoon cardamom seeds, 1 teaspoon fenugreek seeds, and 4 whole cloves, I pulverized them in a pestle before mixing them with 1 tablespoon kosher salt, 1 1/2 tablespoons paprika, 1 teaspoon ground ginger, 1 teaspoon ground turmeric, 1/2 teaspoon ground allspice, and 1/2 teaspoon ground nutmeg. After adding 1/2 cup peanut oil and 1/2 cup dry red wine, I blended the berebere into a thick fiery paste and slid it into the refrigerator to chill.

Injera Bread.
Injera can be tricky.
To achieve the characteristic tang of the bread, a sour started needs to proof and ferment for several days. There are methods for quick starters, overnight starters,  three day, five day, or seven day starters. The longer it proofs, the more intense the flavor. I took the middle road with a 4 day starter.

On the first day, I added 3/4 cup warm water  to 1/2 cup fine teff flour. After sprinkling a pinch of active dry yeast over the mix, I covered the bowl with a kitchen towel and set it aside. Every morning, I added 1/3 cup  teff flour and 1/2 cup warm water to the bubbling starter. As it slowly fermented, gurgled, and popped, the started exuded the familiar pungent aroma of injera bread.


After cranking an electric skillet (perfect for injera) to 400 degrees, I ladled 1/2 cup injera batter into a corner of the skillet and tilted it to swirl the batter over the bottom of the skillet (similar to crepe making). When it covered the surface, I let it cook until holes appeared in the batter and the bread cooked through . As each spongy injera crepe came off the skillet, I stacked them between sheets of waxed paper before rolling them up.

Doro Wat.  
Chicken stew.

 

After breaking down a whole chicken into 8 serving pieces, I marinated the chicken in 1 cup freshly squeezed lime juice for 1 hour. Working over a medium low flame, I slowly sauteed 3 cups thinly sliced red onion, for 45 minutes. When the onions caramelized, I added 1/2 cup of the reserved niter kibbeh, 1/2 cup berebere paste, 1/2 cup red wine, and 1 cup chicken stock. I brought the sauce to a boil, reduced it to a simmer, and added the marinated chicken to bubbling blood red sauce. I covered the skillet and let it rip for an hour, adding boiled eggs to during the final 15 minutes.

In keeping with tradition, I covered a platter with pieces of the spongy injera, tumbled the saucy chicken over the bread, and nestled the reserved rolled injera to the side before finishing with parsley sprigs and the stained boiled eggs.

No utensils.
Just injera.
Finger food.

Scoop.
Sop.
Repeat.

Hold fast to revisiting.