The Root Of It

I have been on a mission to clean out my stock-piled freezer. One of these nights I'm going to make a mystery stew with some of the leftover containers that contain heaven knows what.  Contrary to what I know I am supposed  to do, I don't label things.  I can recognize shrimp tails and chicken backs through their plastic bags, but the leftover stews, bourgiugnons, and pot roasts, not so much. Without apologies, I throw nothing away and I don't label what I don't throw away.

That being said, last night, hidden under brightly colored Italian Ice Pops, I found two long italian sausage links. Sausage and Kraut?  Nope, I'd have to schlepp through the snow to the garage for the kraut.  Sauteed savoy cabbage with sausages?  Nah, wasn't feeling it. I rumaged through the freezer one last time before finding frozen shrimp wedged behind the ice tray.  Bingo.  I'd make my take on shrimp and grits: Sauteed sausage, onions, green peppers, and shrimp over cheese grits.

I had one tablespoon of grits....still in the box in the pantry.  The woes of a food hoarder.  I had a gigantic bag of  polenta. I've cooked shrimp over polenta before, but didn't really feel like mucking through the process of stirring constantly while dodging plops and blops of erupting molten polenta.  Mashed potatoes?  Not again.   Rice? Wake me when it's over.

As I rifled through the vegetable  bin for the peppers, onions, carrots, and garlic, I spotted an ugly celery root tucked behind  mexican crema, Thai fish sauce, and a wine bottle.  I bought the celery root (celeriac) last week with the intention of making pureed celery root soup. Never happened.  I'd forgotton about it. 

I thought, if I treated the celery root like mashed potatoes or polenta,  it could the perfect base for my sausage, shrimp, and grits.

Game on.

No recipe needed.  I simply cooked.

Using a sharp knife, I sliced the waxy outer skin from the celery root before peeling the inner skin off with a vegetable peeler.  I chopped the root  into manageable pieces and tossed them  into salted boiling water with two small white baby potatoes to  cook for 45 minutes.

While the celery root bubbled away, I minced a garlic clove, sliced half an onion, green pepper, and carrots into thin strips and set them aside.  I sliced the sausages on the diagonal, seasoned the shrimp with Old Bay and smoked paprika, and slid them into the refrigerator alongside the prepared vegetables.

When the celery root was fork tender, I drained it, and returned it to the pot.  While it was still piping hot, I added 1 cup of parmigiano reggiano. 1/4 cup heavy cream, 1/4 cup chicken stock, salt, and pepper.  Using my immersion blender, I whipped the cheesy celery root until it was as light as air before setting it aside over a very low flame to stay warm while I joined Michael in the parlor for our daily musings over several glasses of wine.

When it was time to eat, I cranked a skillet on high heat and sauteed the sliced sausages until crispy and caramelized.  I removed the sausages to drain and sauteed the shrimp in the gloriously rendered seasoned sausage fat.  I scooped out the shrimp, adding them to reserved sausages, and dropped the sliced green peppers, onions, garlic, and carrots into the sizzling oil.  When the vegetables were tender, I tossed in the reserved sausages, shrimp, and fresh parsley to heat through before deglazing the pan with white wine and chicken stock.

After the wine and stock reduced into a succulent clinging sauce, I spooned the celery root puree into large pasta bowls and topped it with the wine-stock-fat napped sausages, shrimp, and al dente vegetables.  For freshness, I scattered plucked fresh  parsley and celery leaves over the top.

The pureed celery root was the star.  It had an incrediblly clean, mellow, and earthy flavor that hinted with celery undertones. It was meltingly light, vanishing on the tongue with every bite.  The briny sweet tender shrimp and  spiced sausages grounded the airy puree while the wilted green peppers, soft onions, and crisp sweet carrots  wrapped their textural flavors throughout the saucy  mix, adding depth and complexity.

The bright fresh celery leaves echoed the muted quiet flavor of the celery root.

It was ridiculously good.

I thought I had made too much, silently thinking ahead and looking forward to a late night sleep-walking snack. Nope. We ate it all.  Clean plates. Gone. Do over, please.

Although I will always adore polenta, mashed potatoes, cheese grits, or even rice, last nights parmiginano reggianno celery root puree vaulted to the head of the pack.

Pretty In Pink

 Every year during the holidays, our realtor sends us a crate filled with pink grapefruits and navel oranges. As lovely and generous as it sounds, a crate is a hell of a lot of grapefruit and oranges for two people to consume.  We've made salty dogs, greyhounds, and screwdrivers with a large portion of the bounty. I've even taken a few to work to halve, section, and broil until the tops bruleed into caramelized grapefruit crackling candy.  Last night, we had two left in the gigantic decorative bowl on the kitchen counter.  Recalling a recipe from Patrick O'Connell's Refined American Cuisine from The Inn at Little Washington, I decided to adapt his recipe for Scaloppine of Chicken with Grapefruit and Pink Peppercorns.  Instead of chicken, I used pork cutlets pounded into thin scaloppine.

 With the exception of  the grapefruit prep ( which I found fun) , it was very easy to prepare. 

I used everything the grapefruit had to offer. I zested the outermost layer into jullienned strips  before slicing the remaining pith away from the grapefruit to expose the glistening flesh. I candied the jullienned grapefruit strips in simmering simple syrup. While they simmered in their sugar bath, I carefully supremed the fresh grapefruit sections, allowing  them to drop into a bowl along with their juices. Once the grapefruit was completely sectioned, I squeezed it to release 1/2 cup of fresh juice and set it aside. 

I had gorgeous baby purple potatoes and cipollini onions in the pantry and thought they'd provide an earthy balance to the grapefruit pork scaloppine.  After scoring and blanching the onions to release their skins, I briefly boiled the baby potatoes to soften them. To gild the lily just a bit, I roasted paper thin slices of prosciutto until they morphed into salty ham crackers.

I set everything aside and met up with Michael in the parlor to chat and drink a few glasses of wine before dinner. The importance of mise en place.  Everything was in place.

After drinking the last of the Francis Coppola 2008 Black Label Claret Cabernet Sauvignon, it was time to cook.

It went fast. Really fast.

I got a cast iron skillet screaming hot before adding equal parts olive oil and butter.  When it started to smoke, I tossed the onions and potatoes into the cauldren to crisp and caramelize.  When they were perfectly browned, I pulled them from the heat and dropped in 2 tablespoons of butter, 1 tablespoon of fresh minced rosemary, salt, and pepper.  Buttery rosemary glazed baby purple potatoes and cipollini onions with prosciutto cracklings.  Call it a day.

Not quite.  There was more pork to be had.

I got another skillet smoking hot, swirled olive oil into the pan, dredged the pork scaloppine in flour, and carefully placed them in the sizzling oil.  After they were golden brown, I removed them from the skillet and  tented them to rest.

I deglazed the pan with the reserved fresh pink grapefruit juice, allowing it to reduce  by half before adding 1/2 cup heavy cream, white pepper, and pink peppercorns.

I plated the pork scaloppine with generous drizzles of  the creamy grapefruit pink peppercorn  sauce before topping them with fresh  grapefruit sections, candied grapefruit strips, fresh tarragon, and pink peppercorns.

I nestled the pan roasted potatoes, onions, and prosciutto onto the plates with a gratuitous spoonful of buttered peas.

Unbelievable.

A perfectly sliced bite revealed such complex layered flavors.  Bitter candied grapefruit rind gave way to tart fresh grapefruit pulp that bled into the soft rich concentrated grapefruit cream sauce. The complexity of those flavors bathed the crispy golden brown  pork scaloppine hidden underneath.  An occasional fiery snap from pink peppercorns provided heat and crunch while the randomly scattered fresh tarragon leaves hinted freshness with subtle anise undertones.

The caramelized cipollini onions and purple potatoes added grounding depth to the grapefruit assault while the prosciutto cracklings provided needed salt, texture, and pure pork essence. Crazy good.  Really.

Pink and pretty grapefruit.

Not just for breakfast or cocktails.

Who knew?

Smack Talk: Sumac

 One of my great pleasures in life is opening a hunter green gift box from Williams-Sonoma.  It makes me absolutely giddy.  Knowing that Michael is greeted with thunderous applause by employees when he enters Williams-Sonoma to shop (for me) makes me even giddier. They know he is there for  serious shopping. 

Recently, one particular box from Williams-Sonoma sent me on a culinary adventure.  It was filled with sensual exotic spices.  Spices I've always coveted and needed, but never had.  Six spice jars were individually wrapped in green tissue paper, extending the gleeful discovery. Saigon Cinnamon, African Curry, Harissa, Zahtar, Ras el Hanout, and Sumac unveiled their aromatic splendor in one glorious gift box.  Happy me.

That being said, my hopes of actually using them in our house were slim to none.  Most of the flavor profiles associated with those spices generally don't fall into Michael's culinary palate zone..  Sumac, however,  was one I believed he could joyously embrace. 

              Sumac: Refreshing bright, fruity flavor with natural

                              hints of tangy citrus and savory salt.

I stumbled across a recipe for a sumac-based Turkish Red Lentil Tomato Soup.  Sold.  It could be the first ticket to Michael's tasting tour of my new spice collection. Innocently, my head started to spin.  I had everything I needed to prepare a riff on the Turkish soup.  Everything, that is,  except red lentils. Knowing my grocery certainly wouldn't have them, I thought about going to Parisa International Supermarket, but didn't want to deal with the traffic.  The same issue arose with Fresh Market, Good Foods, and Whole Foods. Traffic.

I decided to split the travel distance and check out a relative newcomer to the foreign market landscape, Selby's International Market.

Off I went and my adventure began.

Selby's International Market is small, bright, clean, and extremely well stocked. Four aisles were packed to the gills.  I was mesmerized. Angela, the delightful proprietor, greeted me warmly and asked if I needed any help.

"I'm looking for red lentils.", I mumbled.  "I have Plenty, follow me.", she said.

She wasn't kidding. 

I was in the store for an hour wandering the aisles transfixed and awed by the assortment of brightly colored items stocked and stacked on the shelves.  It was beautiful.

I stepped into Selby's for red lentils and left with two bags filled with plaintains, yucca, tamarind paste, cardmom pods, black mustard seeds, fresh curry leaves ( a first), and lentils.

Mission accomplished.

Content with myself, I drove home with my treasures.

I wanted a roasted tomato base for the soup.  After preheating the oven to 350, I halved several roma tomatoes, drizzled them with olive oil, and seasoned them liberally with salt and pepper before sliding them into the oven to roast.

While the tomatoes caramelized, I washed and picked through the jeweled lentils before setting them aside.

To complete the flavor base, I sauteed sliced celery, carrots, onions, and minced garlic in olive oil until softened, but not caramelized.  When the tomatoes were well concentrated and broken down, I added them to the sauteed vegetables with 4 cups of chicken stock to simmer and combine.

While the soup gently bubbled, I prepped the garnishes.  I certainly wasn't making a traditional Turkish lentil  tomato soup.  Hardly.  Nope.  Not me.

I sauteed julienned  collard green ribbons with peeled small sweet baby carrots and set them aside. 

I pureed the soup, returned it to the dutch oven, and added 2 small diced yukon gold potatoes, 1 chopped green pepper, the reserved washed  red lentils, 1 tablespoon of sumac, 3 tablespoons of minced fresh parsley, salt, and pepper.  On a whim, I tossed a few thawed ( leftover from a previous meal) Stone Burr Farm ground lamb meatballs into the simmering soup.  It smelled amazing.  The moment the ground sumac hit the steaming liquid, aromatic citrusy  sumac exploded through the wafting steam.  Wow!

When the lentels and potatoes were tender, I ladled the soup into large pasta bowls and topped it with the sauteed collard greens, baby carrots, and parsley.  A final shower of burnt umber ground sumac finished it off. 

Every sense of taste was assaulted in a gorgeous way. Bitter bright green collards swirled through the soft pureed tomatoes, giving way to earthy rich potatoes and al dente lentil pearls. The baby carrots offered sweetness while the poached lamb meatballs provided salty depth. Although the  parsley added a wonderful grassy freshness, the tangy tart sumac stole the show, brightening the robust soup with crunchy citrus acidity.  Balance. 

Buffalo Summer Sausage. A Winter's Revelation

I was totally inspired when a colleague at work decided to make summer sausage.  I love that sort of thing.  I have always been fascinated with charcuterie, making my own duck prosciutto, cured salmon, ground sausage links, pates, and terrines, but have generally stayed away from actually curing meats  because curing seemed just too precise, difficult, and frightening.  I mean, pink salt? Saltpeter? Sodium Nitrate?  I don't have a smokehouse, curing chamber, or the patience for long cured meat making.

Summer sausage is different.  It's easy, quick to make, and uses a very tame sounding Morton's Tender Quick Salt for curing. No laboratories involved. Morten's Quick Salt does contain 6 % sodium nitrate which is essential for curing.  At least it's not pink or acrid smelling.  It simply  looks like salt.

2 pounds ground meat.

2 Tablespoons Morton's Tender Quick Salt.

2 Tablespoons brown sugar.

1 TeaspoonMustard Seeds.

1 Teaspoon peppercorns.

1 teaspoon Garlic Salt.

1 Teaspoon Onion Powder.

1/2 Teaspoon Allspice.

That's it.   The important element being the salt to meat ratio.  The flavorings can vary.

Any type of ground meat would work for summer sausage.  I chose buffalo meat because it was very lean.

While keeping the meat as cold as possible, I tossed the ground meat into a large mixing bowl with the curing salt and remaining ingredients.  I tripled the amount of peppercorns, using green, pink, and black,

After the mixture was thoroughly incorporated, I formed the meat into logs, double-wrapped them in plastic wrap, and tied the ends with kitchen twine, forming tightly rolled buffalo meat casings.  I wanted the rolls to stay round, so I hung them in the refrigerator to cure.  The hanging step was not neseccary, purely self indulgent, and very challenging.  Home refrigertaors  are not constructed for hanging meat. I had to rig the rolls onto Michael's soft drink container-section of the refrigerator door, letting them dangle over the jams, jellies, chipotle pepper, and mayonaise containers.  The rolls bobbed and swayed every time the door was opened, but they stayed round.

I let the sausages cure overnight before unwrapping them, positioning them on a rack over a baking pan, and sliding them into a low 200 degree oven to cook for two hours, turning them over once.

After slow roasting for two hours, the buffalo meat transformed into glistening red gorgeous summer sausage rolls.  I was surprised, amazed, and a wee bit pleased with myself.

I let the sausage rolls cool to room temperature before sliding them back into the refrigerator to finish curing for 24 hours. Very easy.

The next morning, I sliced the chilled  sausages and served them with crackers, Buffalo Trace bourbon-tinged stone ground mustard, and Boursin cheese.

Although I tripled the amount of peppercorns, the sausage meat wasn't overly spicy. Along with the mustard seeds they added texture and bite to the firm cured meat.  Paired with  crackers, cheese, and mustard, the buffalo summer sausages were fantastic. A revelation, even.

I can't wait to make them again.  I'll keep the important salt/meat ratio, but change up the ingredients. 

 The sky's the limit.

Snow Globes & Ham For The Ages

What a weekend!  A fabulous snow covered food indulgent weekend.We kicked off yesterday morning bright and early by listening to our favorite women co-host a radio show on 88.1 WRFL here in town.  Good Santa/Bad Santa.  They were so true to form with funny, whacky, and very smart commentary interspersed with great music. That was our coffee time.

We followed coffee time with several rounds of screwdrivers and blood marys as we tore apart packages from under the tree, warm and  snuggled inside while it continued to snow outside.  It was  storybook snow. Snow globe snow. 

After two hours of shenanigans, we were starving.  Thankfully, we had a carryout container  of leftover Waffle House covered, smothered,, chunked, diced, peppered, capped, and topped hash browns in the refrigerator.  Skanky, huh?  Not at all. Call the food police.  After reheating the hash browns, we topped them with sunnyside fried eggs and a sprinkling of fresh parsley.  Drop dead heavenly with succulent unctuous yolks dripping down through  many layers of hash brown toppings puddling on our plates for buttered biscuit sopping.

A gigantic bone-in ham from Critchfields Meats was destined for our dinner table.  It required a lot of attention.  Michael's attention.  He was in charge of the meat.  He selected , bought, and planned the preparation of it.  I watched in awe while taking care of the side dishes.

After breakfast, he had to trim the rind off of the ham before he could score the fat and dot the cloves in strategic intervals.  I winced at the waste of tossing the rind, but knew tons of fatty goodness would be left for future flavor enhancing.  Once the ham was trimmed, scored, and cloved, he placed it in the refrigerator to chill.

After a long winter's nap, we took a long walk through our snow covered neighborhood. It was quiet and still.  Frozen in time.  Beautiful.  The houses sparkled under the snow and glowed with warmth.  We could smell chimney smoke wafting through the trees.

Priorities.  Back to the kitchen and back to the ham.  After pre-heating the oven to a low 325, Michael brushed his ham with an apricot, dry mustard, peach syrup, and brown sugar glaze.  He slid the ham into the oven to slow bake.  After an hour, he glazed it again.  The entire house smelled like sweetly glazed baked ham.  I could taste the aroma.  It was everywhere.

Bitter sharp rapini, or broccoli rabe, would be a perfect foil our ham.  I blanched the broccoli rabe in heavily salted water to pull the bitterness out before plunging it into equally heavily salted iced water to shock the cooking process.  After draining the bitter greens, I set them aside for a later saute.

After three hours in the oven, the ham had morphed into a glistening thing of beauty.  It. Was. Gorgeous.

I sauteed baby Vidalia onions in french butter with lemon halves as garnish before tossing the broccoli rabe into the sizzling pan to saute with garlic, butter, salt, and pepper.

I sliced the ham as thinly as possible, plated it, drizzled it with the sticky pan jus,  and  perched the sweet baby Vidalia onions, dripping in butter, over the ham with broccoli rabe nestled to the side..

It was a ham for the the ages.  I have never tasted or eaten such succulent rich ham meat. It danced on my tongue. The jeweled glazed scored fat literally  caramelzed into candy.   Crisp sensual candied ham fat.  The clove essence was key, adding nuanced subtle spice to the juicy ham. 

Michael's sincere efforts were evident in every bite.

Amazing.

In the wee hours of the morning, I snuck down to the kitchen for one more bite. I'm still sticky.

Picnic With The Pope

We used to have elaborate Christmas Eve dinners.  Big  productions of Roast Prime Rib, Feast of the Seven Fishes, Roast Goose, Filet Mignon, and Peking Duck. Not any more.  Christmas Eve service at our church cuts a big chunk of time out of an evening for cooking. We wouldn't have it any other way.

Now, we snack on Christmas Eve, drinking gallons of Bailey's and coffee with hopes of staying awake for Midnight Mass with the Pope on television.  Last Friday was no exception.  No chips and dip this year.  Ruffles with french onion dip will have to wait for the Super Bowl.

Last Friday, we had crackling fried chicken wings for our picnic with the Pope.  No forks needed. We settled down with glasses of wine after church and basked in the soft glow of our living room tree. Toward midnight, Michael fired the coffee pot for our coffee drinks while I prepped for our picnic.

Pulling from the asian tradition for crisp fried anything, I dredged the wings in cornstarch and let them rest for an hour in the refrigerator.  The resting period allowed the coating adhere to the wings when frying.

After heating peanut oil to 365 in a cast iron skillet, I carefully nestled the wings into the shimmering oil.  I turned the chicken a few times until well browned before sliding them into a a warm oven to hold while I whipped together  a couple of sauces. In one bowl, I mixed together melted butter, brown sugar, Chystal hot sauce, and Georgia Peach Hot sauce.  In an ajacent bowl, I tossed reduced teriyaki glaze, minced ginger, sesame oil, and a splash of rice wine vinegar.

Of course we had the requisite celery sticks.  I wanted a salad, but I really hate juggling finger food with fork food.  Bothersome.  I made a finger salad with  snipped ends of spicy bitter escarole tossed in a light lemon vinaigrette. For texture and tatse, I threw in roasted red pepper, spanish olives, and pickled banana peppers.

I pulled the wings from the oven, tossed half in the hot sauce, half in the gingered teriyaki glaze, and plated them on a platter separated with bunched fresh parsley.

At the stroke of Midnight, we climbed the stairs with our platters of wings, suaces, and sides; and plopped down in front of the television as Midnight Mass began.

As the gold gilded Pope made his way into St. Peter's Basilica, we ate. Although well coated with sticky sauce, the chicken remained incredibly crisp.  The skin snapped and crunched like spicy brittle, revealing juicy sweet chicken meat. Chilled celery cut through the sticky heat with clean wet bites. It was odd eating salad with our fingers, but it seemed appropriate.  Messy fun. The vinaigrette-dressed escarole provided needed acidity to the sweet gooey midnight madness. 

We were covered in chicken goo.  Lip-smacking goodness with teriyaki hot-sauce brown sugar facials.

It was a terrific Papal picnic.