The Upper Crust

My dad was my hero.  When our family moved back to the United States after living overseas, we left behind our nannies, caretakers,  and housekeepers. Without Frau Olga or Ababa cooking for our vagabond traveling troupe, my dad had to fend for himself. For us. Apart from his occasional batches of fantastic sticky, savory, and sweet Boston Baked Beans, he had an arsenal of meals  loaded from top to bottom in our drab pea-green overhead  freezer. My dad totally embraced the notion of Banquet and Sawnson TV dinners. They were easy and quick to prepare. He was a single father who worked a lot and had to feed two growing boys. As a military officer (and in pure military fashion),  he kept our frozen stash of TV dinners filed like books. Left to right, by title.  Frozen edible books.

Stacks of small frozen beef and turkey pot pies anchored his arctic library. The variety of frozen stuff seemed endless and I adored it all. I grew accustomed to mashed potatoes sweetened with cherry pie filling, salisbury steak glazed with chocolate pudding, and  buttered sweet corn spiked with apple sauce.  Glistening on top of compartmental aluminum foil trays, those frozen treats were fun, flawed, and adventurous.  Life was good.

Michael and I love to wrap our lips around pot pies, but I rarely make them because I suck when it comes to making pastry and pie dough. We both have issues with restaurant versions because they're never pies. They typically consist of pretty bowls loaded with savory fillings topped with flaky flavored biscuits, cornbread, or beautifully browned  puff pastry poofs. Toppers. Tops without bottoms.  Pot pies should have both.

I gambled and took a chance.

The Crust.

I had phyllo pastry dough. Paper thin flaky phyllo dough. Yep.  Think about it.The filling didn't really matter. I could have used any filling. Beef stew, creamed chicken, stewed eggplant, lobster bisque, or vegetable succatash would have worked beautifully. I imagined that a lightly spiced lamb and eggplant Greek Moussaka topped with eggy bechamel would have been splendid.  I used  turkey because,...well, I had a lot of leftover turkey.

It wasn't about the filling, it was all about the crust.

After bagging up and freezing the pretty slices of leftover turkey, I chopped the remaining scraps into bite sized  pieces and made a basic roux by cooking  2 tablespoons of butter with 2 tablespoons of flour. When the flour cooked out a bit, I added 1 cup of warmed cream and 1 cup of  warmed chicken stock. As the sauce thickened, I tumbled a handful of sliced snow peas, green peas, halved black olives. pimentos, and the reserved turkey into the creamy mix. I seasoned the pot pie filling with salt, cracked black pepper, and grated nutmeg before pulling it from the heat to cool.

While phyllo can be fussy and finicky to work with, it's very forgiving.  If a sheet tears, who cares?  Butter it and slap it into place.

I thawed a sleeve of frozen phyllo dough overnight in the refrigerator and unfolded the delicate sheets, covering them with a damp towel to prevent them from drying out. Layers were key. 10 layers for both the top and bottom of the pot pie. I melted 1/2 cup butter and swirled it into 1/2 cup olive oil. After buttering 10 individual sheets of phyllo, I layered them into a 10 inch fluted Bybee Pottery dish, tucking the extra dough in, around, and under the edges of the dish before spooning the creamed turkey onto the bottom crust and covering it with 1 cup of grated pecorino romano cheese.

I repeated the 10 layer process for the top crust and placed the sticky slab on top of the cheesy  turkey filling. I initially intended to bake the top crust flat, but decided to poke the dough into the edges to seal the pie. I buttered one last sheet of phyllo and draped it over the top like a wind blown tissue. That was it.

I slid the enormous pot pie into a 350 degree oven and let it rip for 45 minutes until it was gorgeously browned and crisped.


After smashing the crust open with a large spoon, the feathery phyllo sheets shattered like broken glass, creating a crackingly creamy fabulous mess.

It was wonderfully ridiculous.

From top to bottom.

Spent?

Discard the vegetables.

In lieu of my fancy  nonstick v-shaped roasting rack, I typically roast whole chickens or turkeys on top of chopped carrots, celery, and onions. While they suspend the meat just above the heated pan to allow browning on the underside, the low-lying vegetables also allow the meat to melt into the pan juices, creating the  fabulous sticky caramelized skin candy that clings to the bottom of the pan.

With a relatively short cooking time, chicken roasted over vegetables is a no brainer. With  tender meat, crisp skin, and caramelized vegetables bathed in savory pan juices, it usually results in a great one pot meal. Turkey is a different beast. The long cooking time of roasted turkey transforms the underlying vegetables into saturated soft melted  jewels. Most people might consider long  braised vegetables useless.  Spent. Done. Toast. Kaput. Flavorless. Discard  the vegetables and strain the pan juices. Blah. Blah. Blah. I guess I'm a rule breaker and a heretic because I don't discard the vegetables.

Sometimes, I've mashed them into pulp before swirling them back into the pan juices as a natural thickener. Occasionally, I've served them to the side  with a dollops of sour cream and  grated fresh horseradish. Most of the time, I've eaten them straight from the pan as savory sweet treats.

 Last weekend, I repurposed them.

After roasting a 15 pound turkey for hours, I heaved the bird from the pan to rest and scooped the braised vegetables onto a  small platter before storing them in the refrigerator.

Shenanigans.

Pureed Carrot Soup with Goat Cheese Croutons.

I pulled the carrots, celery, and onions from the refrigerator. To perk up their long sleepy braise, I sauteed sliced shallots and minced garlic in olive oil. When the shallots started to caramelize, I deglazed the pan with 1/2 cup white wine along with 1 1/2 cups chicken stock. I brought the stock to a boil, reduced it to a simmer, and tumbled the reserved vegetables into the pan. For zing, I showered the vegetables with a heaping tablespoon of citrusy sumac before covering the pan to warm everything through.

When the stock reduced by half, I carefully blended the vegetables and stock into a velvety puree. After returning the puree to the pot, I added a 1/2 cup chicken stock and a splash of heavy cream.

Goat Cheese Croutons.

Pureed soups need crunch. I jacked up the crunch factor with the crisp  tang of deep fried goat cheese.
I divided 4 ounces of fresh chevre into quarters, rolled them into small sticky balls, and shaped them into four small cheese discs.  After rolling the discs through flour, egg wash, dried bread crumbs, and fresh minced parsley,  I slid them into the freezer for an hour to harden.

After heating  the soup to a plopping spitting simmer, I ladled it into small soup bowls and  pan seared the croutons in buttered olive oil until they were gooey and  golden brown. Moments before the croutons  collapsed into a fried cheesy mess, I carefully dropped them into each bowl with a sprinkling fresh thyme leaves.

With deep roasted layers of flavor, the silken puree was light, rich, and complex. While the sumac brightened the sleepy puree with brash citrus undertones, the oozing goat cheese added creamy tang and crunch.

Spent vegetables?
Nope.
Simply repurposed.

You Say Potato...

What's in a name?
Gratin Dauphinois, Pommes Anna, Au Gratin Potatoes, Scalloped Potatoes Au Gratin, and Scalloped Potatoes are all  variations of basically the same thing; they're names of preparations for sliced potatoes baked in butter or cream, with or without cheese, garlic, herbs, and/or breadcrumbs. Although there are classic methods for each variation, the possibilities and combinations are endless.

I'm not much of a rule follower.

 A couple of years ago, we took a gruyere laden yukon gold and red-skinned sweet potato gratin to my family holiday potluck.  Flecked with specks of fresh rosemary and layered with oozing gruyere cheese, the gratin was encased in a double rolled cheese-filled pastry crust. It might have been a little over the top,  but my family loved the curious gratin. Michael and I didn't taste a single crumb.  As the line formed around the food, we slipped out onto the chilly screened-in side deck and chugged  boxed white wine from paper Dixie Cups. By the time we finished our wine, the impressive monstrosity was completely gone.

For a recent  laid-back weeknight supper, I took a much simpler approach.

Sweet potatoes are...well...naturally sweet.  While I adore the marshmallow-topped brown sugared sweet potato casseroles that dot our holiday tables, I tend to lean toward a more savory bent when preparing them at home. Balance.

Scalloped Sweet Potatoes, with a twist.

Using my mandolin, I sliced a combination of four Madison County white-skinned and red-skinned sweet potatoes into 1/8 inch rounds. I buttered the bottom and edges of a spring form pan, dusted the butter with dried breadcrumbs, and layered the potatoes by color in a circular pattern with overlapping edges (Pommes Anna style), dotting each layer with butter, salt, and white pepper. Midway through the potato stack, I tumbled a cup of dried sour cherries onto one layer before finishing the layers with a topping of additional butter, salt, pepper, grated parmigiano reggiano, and fresh parsley.

After drizzling a cup of heavy cream over the potatoes, I tapped the pan to evenly distribute  the cream, covered it with foil, and slid it into a 350 oven to bake for 1 1/2 hours.

While the scalloped potatoes bubbled away, I soaked 1/3 cup of the dried sour cherries in equal portions of brandy and apple cider vinegar.

After an hour, I uncovered the potatoes for the remaining 30 minutes to brown the top. I drained the plumped sour cherries and used 3 tablespoons of the infused brandied vinegar to make a very basic vinaigrette ( 3 tablespoons vinegar, 1/4 cup olive oil, salt, and pepper).  

I pulled the gurgling scalloped potatoes from the oven to rest and tossed baby arugula in the sour cherry brandied vinaigrette with orange zest, slivered tomatoes, and the re-hydrated cherries.

When the sweet potatoes were cool enough to slice, I nestled  delicate wedges over the arugula and served them  alongside rolled slices of leftover roast beef with  pan gravy.

Soft and creamy, the potato layers seemed to melt and  fuse together in the buttery cream. While the bronzed parmigiano cheese crust provided slight salty nuttiness, the hidden cherries cut through the richness, adding tangy tart bites with contrasting textures.

Sweet potato pie with attitude.

Savory.
Sweet.
Simple.

Turn It Up

Mental food juggling. This is the time of year when my mind usually drifts away and fills with carnal thoughts of  holiday gluttony. Cerebral food orgies. This year, while thoughts of juicy turkey meat, moist dressing, lusty gravy, and rich side dishes dance through my head, I  have an event at work 4 days before Thanksgiving that has me focused on Puerto Rican  stewed pork (Carne de Cerdo Guisada) and fried pork skins (chiccarrones).
Juggling.

Interruptus.
Distracted.
One day at a time.

Lately, I've had a wistful hankering for turnips. Ever year, one of my aunts prepares a small bowl of fabulous whipped turnips as a side dish for our family Thanksgiving and Christmas gatherings. Nestled among the gray-ish  turkey, rum-infused ham, giblet gravy, dressing, casseroles, jellied salads, cookies, cakes, and pies, her buttery whipped turnips always glisten under the overhead kitchen fluorescent lights.  One tiny bowl of turnips for 30 people. I've never snagged more than a single spoonful.

She says they're simple to prepare. Peel, boil, and mash. Her magic. While I've done everything with turnips except marry one, I haven't attempted her hallowed  method for delicate, light, and airy turnips. I patiently anticipate my yearly holiday rations.

Juggling.

With turnips on my brain, plans for Puerto Rican empanadas, shrimp mofungo, and ceviche were  immediately pushed to the back burner when I bagged 2 hefty purple-skinned Casey County turnips from the farmers market on a cold Tuesday morning.

Whipped turnips? Nope.

Turnip Souffle.
Souffles have a reputation for being finicky, but I think they're worth the small effort. Yes, they deflate. A lot of things in life deflate without tasting like an utterly  fantastic collapsed souffle. Who cares? Go with the flow. Even when they fall, their flavors and textures remain intact.

Before starting the process, I brought 5 large organic eggs to room temperature and separated them into 4 beaten yolks and 5  whites.

After peeling and dicing 2 large turnips (2 1/2 pounds), I plunged them into salted water and boiled them for 45 minutes.  When the turnips were fork tender, I drained them in a colander before pureeing them in a food processor and allowing them to cool.

I used a basic souffle base for a 6 cup souffle dish.  After melting 3 tablespoons of butter in a skillet over a medium flame, I added 3 tablespoons of flour to the butter and combined them to form a light roux (no color). When the roux pulled away from the skillet, I added 1 cup of warmed whole milk and whisked it to break up any lumps until it thickened, about 5 minutes. When the bechamel sauce napped the back of a spoon, I tempered the egg yolks  before incorporating them into the sauce along with 1 cup extra sharp aged white cheddar cheese, 1/2 cup pecorino romano cheese, 1 cup of the turnip puree, fresh picked thyme, salt, and white pepper.

Turn it up.

I tossed the egg whites into a squeaky clean mixing bowl, added a pinch of cream of tarter, and beat the egg whites with an electric mixer until they formed very stiff glossy peaks. To lighten the souffle base, I added 1/2 cup of the beaten egg whites before carefully folding (without over mixing) the remaining whites into the base.

After buttering  a 6 cup souffle dish, I dusted it with fine bread crumbs before filling it with the eggy turnip mix. I cranked the oven to 400 degrees, slid the souffle into hot oven, turned the temperature down to 375 degrees, and let it rip....without peeking. Hard.

While the souffle did its thing in the oven, I pan seared a thick ham steak in melted butter over medium high heat until the edges started to curl. When the ham caramelized,  I deglazed the pan with 1 cup of strong coffee spiked with 2 tablespoons of brown sugar and a splash of pure maple syrup. After turning the heat to low, I sliced the ham steak in half and let the two pieces gurgle in the sweetened red eye gravy/glaze.

Wine. No peeking.
After 40 minutes, I pulled the turnip souffle from the oven. As it quietly deflated, I double-swiped the ham steaks through the red eye glaze and topped them with slivered fresh Casey County red bell peppers before rolling large spoonfuls of puffed turnips to the side.

Clouds.
With sharp nutty undertones from the combined cheeses calming the slight earthy tang of the pureed turnips, the souffle was ridiculously light.

Like eating flavored air.                      

I Went To A Garlic Party

Chicken with 40 cloves of garlic is a classic old-school braised chicken dish that doesn't really pop up much anymore. Maybe it's passe', but it used to be cool.  Back in the day, I made every variation possible using peeled garlic cloves, unpeeled garlic cloves, whole chickens, or cut-up chickens.

Although I crave the flavor of deep roasted garlic, I haven't fiddled with 40 clove chicken for quite some time because it takes effort and time.  With cooler temperatures settling in,  my hankering for it started to get the best of me and I wanted to find a less fussy approach.

Bare bones.
Lazy chicken with 40 cloves of garlic.

Instead of peeling a ton of individual garlic cloves, I halved 4 whole heads of garlic. While 3  heads of garlic  split beautifully, the fourth one splintered like the  blue angry bird, shooting garlic shrapnel everywhere. With enough garlic flesh exposed, I knew the flying pieces would work perfectly.Win. Reload.


Using kitchen shears, I snipped the backbone from a very small chicken and tossed it into my freezer chicken-scrap bag  for a future stock.  After pressing down on the breasts to flatten them (spatchcocked), I carefully sliced through the breast bone, cutting the chicken in half.  To insure even cooking, I cut slits through the skin and flesh before sliding the tips of the drumsticks into the slits to secure them.  I seasoned the chicken  with kosher salt and slid  it into the refrigerator to air dry.

After a couple of hours, I pulled the tucked halves from the refrigerator to come to room temperature. I cranked a skillet over a medium high flame, melted 2 tablespoons of butter into a drizzle of olive oil, and seared the chicken on all sides (about 4 minutes per side) before removing it to a side plate.  While the skillet was still hot, I sauteed thinly sliced leek ribbons along with  the individual angry garlic cloves. As the garlic started to caramelize, I deglazed the pan with 1/2 cup brandy and 1 cup chicken stock.

When the brandied stock came to a boil, I reduced it to a simmer before nestling  the chicken halves, split garlic heads, and halved heirloom garden tomatoes into the sauteed leeks and garlic bombs.

I scattered fresh tarragon over the chicken,  covered the skillet with aluminum foil, and slid it into a 350 degree oven to bake/braise  for an hour.  During the last 15 minutes, I tossed fresh brussels sprouts with salt, pepper, and thinly lemons before roasting them alongside the chicken.

When the chicken bundles reached 160 degrees, I  plucked them from their bed of melted vegetables, placed them onto a sheet pan, and returned  them to the oven to brown. for an additional 10 minutes.  After squishing the nutty soft garlic pulp from their slippery skins (reserving 2 halves), I used a fork to mash the roasted tomatoes, leeks, and garlic into a rustic  loose puree, thinning it with a splash of chicken stock.

I plated the chicken and spooned the puree over the top. As the garlicky aromatic puree puddled around the moist browned meat, I tumbled the charred  brussels sprouts to the side and nudged the reserved roasted garlic heads next to the chicken for squeezable toasted crostini toppers.

That was it.  A one pot wonder.

Oh sure, it was a ridiculous amount of garlic, but the long braise turned it into sweet nutty garlic candy. When mashed into the brandied stock, melted leeks, and roasted tomatoes, the broken roasted garlic puree bathed the moist chicken with savory sweetness and slight soft acidity.

Forks?  Nope.

Finger food.

Sticky.
Drippy.
Messy.
Lazy.


Fabulous.

Southern Comfort

Meat.  Potatoes.  Greens.

I stood there staring at an interesting stack of Paw Paw Plantation rhubarb.

Have you ever made rhubarb sauce?

I suppose I could have lied, said yes, and moved on.

No, I haven't.

Here's what you need to do. Don't peel them. Just cut off the brown spots and cut them up as big or little as you like. Put them into a pan and add a little water.  Not too much water or you'll dilute the flavor of the rhubarb. Don't leave the stove.  Bring the water to a boil and turn it down to a simmer.  Don't leave the stove or it might scorch.

After a few minutes, the fibers will break down and it will thicken.  You can add as much sugar as you want.  I only add a little because I like the tart flavor of rhubarb.

As I asked him a few questions, he genuinely seemed to care that I wanted to cook his rhubarb. His sauce. His old fashioned recipe for rhubarb sauce.

Smitten by his culinary storytelling, I  temporarily lost my mind and  asked him one last really stupid question.

What color will the sauce be after it's cooked? 

Really?  Did I actually think cooked green rhubarb would magically morph into the wonderfully pretty pink color of an old fashioned rhubarb pie?

Mr. MacIntosh weighed my rhubarb, bagged it up, and flashed me a wicked sweet smile.

It'll turn out the color that it is.

Enough said.

I was surprised that he didn't pat me on my head and gently shoo me away.

I followed his method, but changed it up at the end by pulling the rhubarb from the heat when the water evaporated to prevent it from breaking down completely.  I wanted individual tart bites of rhubarb for wilted mustard greens.

Meat.

Succulent pork tenderloin. To make it a little easier to handle, I sliced a 1 1/2 pound pork tenderloin in half and browned the halves in a hot skillet on all sides, about 2 minutes per side.  After brushing both pieces with dijon mustard, I rolled them through cracked tellicherry peppercorns, snipped chives, and finely grated fresh horseradish root. I thoroughly packed the coating onto the tenderloins and placed them in an oiled baking dish before sliding them into a 350 degree oven to roast for 35 minutes.

To make the most of the pork bits left into the bottom of the skillet, I cranked the skillet over a medium flame and added 1 cup fresh apple cider and 1/2 cup chicken stock. I brought the sauce to a boil, reduced the heat to a simmer, and let the sauce reduce  to 1/3 cup (almost a glaze), before pulling it off the heat and swirling 2 tablespoons of unsalted butter into the sauce for a glossy finish.

Potatoes.

I have a thing for white sweet potatoes. They're tricksters. Like edible Tromp l' oeil, they defy the senses. They may look like normal white thin-skinned potatoes, but they taste like sweeter fluffier versions of their pale orange sweet potato counterparts. Fabulous.

White Sweet Potato puree.
I peeled 1 1/2 pounds of Casey County white sweet potatoes, sliced them into uniform pieces, and dropped them into  a stockpot of cold water.  I brought the water to a boil, salted it generously, turned the heat down to a simmer, and let them rip for about 30 minutes, until fork tender. After draining the potatoes, I pureed them in a blender with a few pats of butter, salt, pepper, and a splash of  warmed  whole milk. I kept the puree warm in a mixing bowl placed over simmering water while I pulled everything together.

Greens.

To balance the richness of the pork, apple cider gravy, and potato puree, I took a somewhat twisted approach with gorgeous Scott County mustard greens.

Wilted Mustard Greens Salad.
I tore the feathery tender mustard green leaves into bite sized pieces and tossed them into a a bowl with thinly sliced Fuji apples. After heating a small cast iron skillet over medium heat, I sauteed 8 ounces of diced Finchville country ham until it crisped and rendered about 2 tablespoons of salty ham  fat. I scooped the caramelized ham from the skillet to drain before adding 1/4 cup minced shallots to the smoking fat. When the shallots softened, I deglazed the skillet with 1/3 cup red wine vinegar, 2 tablespoons of dark brown sugar, and 1 tablespoon dijon mustard.  Yep. Warm country ham vinaigrette.

I pulled the pork tenderloin from the oven, tented it, and let it rest for 10 minutes while I joined Michael in the parlor for a glass of  wine.

After slicing the pork into medallions, I nestled the medallions over the white sweet potato puree and napped them with  the reduced apple cider gravy before finishing with fresh chives and diced apples.  I spooned the wilted mustard greens to the side of the pork with a scattering of tart diced rhubarb, country ham, and thinly sliced apples.

Crazy.

The silky sweet potato puree provided a mellow sweet blank canvas for the tender pork. While the pungent fresh horseradish crust cut through the subtle sweetness of the cider gravy with aromatic stinging heat, diced apples and chives added tiny bursts of freshness.

Surprisingly, the delicate mustard greens  wilted ever so slightly from the warm country ham vinaigrette. Their tender bitter leaves popped with tart rhubarb and crisp wet apples, providing a soft acidic balance to the sleepy meat and potatoes.

Meat. Potatoes. Greens.

Fresh horseradish-crusted pork tenderloin with apple cider gravy, white sweet potato puree, and wilted mustard greens.

Southern comfort food.

More Flour Dust

I spent a quiet morning at the Tuesday/Thursday Lexington Farmers' Market  kicking stones along the gravel paths. While the smell of toasting crepe batter wafted through the cool crisp air, deep  elongated autumnal shadows spilled across the almost empty lot subduing the colors of the pumpkins and mums.
Peaceful foraging.

Casey County lima beans. Check.
Scott County turnips. Check.

On the way to my car, a pile of Cleary Hill butternut squash caught my attention. Double check. Sweet nutty butternut squash. Perfect for soups,

 purees, roasted side dishes, or stuffings. It might be the most versatile fruit/vegetable available while our farmers' markets transition from summer into fall. Sold.
Lately, I've been on a fresh pasta kick, cranking out huge batches once a week and using them for just about everything. Fresh pasta. Butternut squash. Butternut squash ravioli?  Nope. While all the cool kids in town are turning out gorgeous variations of winter squash ravioli, I took a simpler route, using the same basic method for a less fussy butternut squash lasagna.

Store bought lasagna sheets would have worked  beautifully, but I love making fresh pasta. It's in me.  I love the way it feels, smells, forms, bends, twists, turns, and tastes. Soft. Plump. Forgiving. Over the years, I've  winged it when making fresh pasta. Flour. Eggs. Eggs. Flour. I've played with the proportions at whim. It never seemed to matter because the pasta always turned out great... until I accidentally stumbled upon the ideal combination while trying to tame a  temperamental batch of fresh  angel hair pasta. It was a revelation.  In fact, a few months ago I was hired by an executive chef (for a very brief stint) based primarily on the fact that I could throw together a decent batch of finicky fresh angel hair pasta. It's now my go-to pasta dough.

Butternut Squash Lasagna.

Mise en place.

I mixed 2 1/2 cups flour with 3 eggs and a pinch of salt.  After pulling it together from the outside edges to form a straggly ball, I kneaded the dough for 10 minutes until it was soft and pliable before wrapping the dough in plastic wrap to rest and relax the glutens.

I carefully halved my Cleary Hill Farm butternut squash, scooped out the seeds, brushed the flesh with olive oil, and seasoned it liberally with salt and pepper. After placing the halves cut-side down on a sheet pan, I added 1/2 cup chicken stock (to help steam/roast the squash), and slid them into a 400 degree oven to roast for 40 minutes.

Wine break.

After cutting the pasta dough into fourths, I rolled each piece through my pasta machine, changing the setting after each pass, until I had four long pasta sheets. No cutting, stuffing, crimping, primping, or sealing. I simply sliced the sheets into 8 inch lengths. Done.

I pulled the roasted butternut squash from the oven to cool, brought a water-filled stock pot to a rapid boil, tossed a handful of salt into the rolling water, and cooked the lasagna sheets in batches until they were al dente (maybe a bit under al dente), about 7 minutes.  After draining the pasta, I scooped the slippery sheets onto kitchen towels to drain and absorb any excess water.

When the squash was cool enough to handle, I scooped the orange mash into a large mixing bowl before adding 1 cup whole fat ricotta cheese, 1 cup grated pecorino romano cheese, 1 minced garlic clove, a pinch of nutmeg, salt, and pepper. I could have used a food processor to puree the mix, but I chose to whip it like mad it until melted into a lusty creamy butternut squash puree. Spoon, please.

Wine break.

Before assembling the lasagna, I simmered 2 cups of  heavy cream with 4 fresh sage leaves until it thickened and set it aside. After quartering a large fennel bulb, splitting 3 green onion bulbs, and thinly slicing 2 lemons,   I tossed everything with olive oil, salt, pepper, and  pomegranate molasses before sliding them into a 350 degree oven to roast for 45 minutes.

I spooned a thin layer of the cheesy pureed butternut squash onto the bottom of a buttered deep casserole dish before building the lasagna with alternating layers of squash, grated pecorino romano, sage cream, and steamed fresh spinach.  After four heaping layers, I topped the lasagna with a generous portion of grated pecorino and slid it into the oven to bake alongside the vegetables.

When the lasagna browned on top and the fennel caramelized, I pulled them both  from the oven to rest while I rested with a huge glass of wine or three. Maybe, four.

Instead of slicing the lasagna into wedges or squares, I used a ring mold to cut them into timbale-like round portions. After sliding them into pasta bowls, I drizzled  the towers with sage cream, topped them with  fried fresh  sage leaves, and tumbled sweet red peppers to the side. I nestled the fennel quarters, onions, and lemons around the lasagna timbales,  finishing with fresh fennel fronds.

Unlike more traditional  hearty lasagnas, the butternut squash variation was soft, light, and  delicate. The thin fresh pasta sheets melted into the layered fillings, leaving them with the texture of an airy mousseline. While the cream sauce gave a wink and a nod to sage without screaming holiday food, the pomegranate molasses-glazed fennel, onions, and lemons added a subtle sweet tart acidity that balanced the richness of the lasagna.

Crazy.