Proof

If you could splash it on the ground and ignite it with gunpowder, you had 100% proof that it was at least 50% alcohol.

Buffalo Trace Distillery, nestled on the banks of the Kentucky River in Frankfort, is the oldest continuously operating distillery in the United States. Buffalo Trace (known then as the George T. Skagg Distillery)  remained operational during the era of prohibition. Buffalo trace was one of four distilleries issued permits to bottle bourbon for medicinal purposes. During prohibition, six million prescriptions for bourbon were filled in Kentucky. Happy sick people.

I had few expectations when Michael and I joined other professionals on a bitterly cold morning for a private industry tour of Buffalo Trace Distillery. Simply along for the ride, I knew there would be bourbon, bourbon barrels, and bourbon bottles. Other than that, I was game for anything. Blinded by the snow-covered grounds and brilliant blue sky, I guess I expected pretty things. Shiny stills. Pretty buildings. Flowers. I know, unrealistic great expectations.

It felt like a routine bourbon-tour-kind-of-a-day. After a brief introduction in the George T. Skagg Gallery & Gift shop, we broke off into smaller groups for a composite tour that included snippets of the The Trace Tour, Bourbon Barrel Tour, National Historic Landmark Tour, and The Hard Hat Tour. We started the day poking around a 130 year old brick and stone warehouse. Warehouse C, one of the earliest remaining intact
examples of "continuous rack warehouses",  stores nearly 24,000 bourbon-filled charred white oak barrels in a rigid grid of wooden racks that extend uninterrupted from top to bottom in the warehouse.The aging process is determined by where the barrels are stored. They age quicker at the top of the warehouse where they're exposed to more temperature variables. The really good stuff  (23 year old Pappy Van Winkle, for example) takes longer to age on the first floor.

After a quick stop in the barrel inspection warehouse, we slid over a few icy roads to watch workers hand bottle and label premium bourbons in the Blanton's Bottling Hall. The building, built in 1890 as a boiler room, was the original power and heat source for the distillery. It's now used to bottle their premium bourbons.


*Side note. Apparently, there's no rhyme or reason for the selection of the famed racing horse corks used to seal Blanton bottles. Who knew? I always thought it meant something. A little secret something something.
Nope. They're randomly pulled from a box and carefully plugged onto the bottles. Boom. Sealed.

Everything about the adventure was fascinating. Although I was merely along for the ride, I was captivated, mesmerized and bourbonized.


Halfway through the tour, we made our way to the Elmer T. Lee Clubhouse for a catered lunch and bourbon tasting. Booya. Warmed by lunch, a roaring fire, and teeny tastes of White Dog, Eagle Rare, Buffalo Trace Straight Bourbon Whiskey, and Bourbon Cream, we bundled up for the Hard Hat Tour. We almost skipped the last leg because Michael didn't want to wear a hard hat.  Didn't blame him, really. Hat hair. As it turned out, hats were not required.

The game changed when we left the clubhouse. The skies turned grey as we made our way down slippery side roads to explore the mash, fermenting, and still houses. It was a weird and different world.  Heavy metal doors. Twisting steel stairwells. Grated steel flooring. Catwalks. Ramps.  We passed the old coal furnaces that still stands at the ready, if needed. Coal chutes. Shovels. Clamps. Steel. Oliver Twist. After sliding past grain receiving, we ended up in the mash house where three 10,000 gallon pressure cookers cook the inspected ground corn with Kentucky limestone water for an hour before other grains are added.

A few more stairs followed by a covered skyway  led us to the fermenting house where twelve 92,000 gallon fermenting tanks gurgled and bubbled with sour mash.  The numbers were staggering.

More metal stairs led to passageways under noisy rumbling pipes. "That's the mash pushing through the pipes." Gotcha. Comforting. It was crazy. Crazy fantastic. Where the hell were we? "The floor gives a little, but it's fine. Just wanted you to know."

Crooked metal stairs led to another heavy door. When it squeaked open, we were standing on the rooftop. The rooftop. Bolstered by the freezing temperatures, endless poofs of steam billowed from nowhere. From everywhere. When the cold breezes shifted, the steam enveloped me. I lost track of my people. I could hear them, but I couldn't see them. Haunting. Mysterious. For a lost moment, I felt like Meryl Streep cloaked in mist on the stone jetty from that scene in The French Lieutenant's Woman. Transported.


Back through the door, down more flights of stairs, out onto the street, and the tour was over. Just like that, it was over. In so many ways, it was exhilarating. Sure, it was a fabulous peak into the history and tradition of Buffalo Trace Distillery. In the end, it wasn't all about distilling bourbon. For me, it was about feelings and emotions. Buffalo Trace felt real. Our little adventure gave us an honest, gritty and raw glimpse into what really happens inside a distillery. I went into the day expecting pretty things. I left with an unexpected insight and fond emotional appreciation for the art of bourbon making. Pretty cool.

Most folks drink bourbon. I eat bourbon. During our tour, I had a notion that I'd pick up a bottle of bourbon to use for a pork glaze when we got home. Nope. Didn't happen. Too fussy. After reveling in the starkness of the day, I wanted something I could put my foot in.

Collard Greens.
I filled a stock pot with 5 cups of water before adding 2 sliced onions, 2 large bunches of torn collard greens (with stems), 3 smashed garlic cloves, a split country ham hock from Finchville Farms, seasoning salt, onion powder, kosher salt, cracked black pepper, a splash of Chrystal hot sauce, 2 tablespoons of apple cider vinegar, and 1/4 cup Blanton's Bourbon.  I brought the stock to a boil, reduced the heat, and let it simmer for  2 1/2 hours.

After scooping the greens into bowls with ribbons of shredded pork, I topped our bourbon collards with poached eggs, a splash of vinegar, and cracked black pepper. With little resistance, the yolks exploded and spilled through the greens, oozing into the smoky sweet tang of the potent pot likker. Drinkable. Proofed.

Ridiculous.

The Winter Market

I finally made it down to the Winter Market. In previous years, the Lexington Farmers' Market moved their digs into the atrium of Victorian Square for the winter season. This year, they stayed put. Located  under the Fifth-Third Pavilion in Cheapside Park, the market is open from 8:00AM-1PM every Saturday. The free street side parking on Short Street makes it a cinch to stop by and pick up seasonal offerings from our local farmers. On any given Saturday, chicken, beef, pork, lamb, goat, sweet potatoes, onions, breads, dried beans, canned goods,  eggs, greens, turnips, and other great things can be found. We're lucky to have a resource for locally grown farm to table opportunities available to us downtown in the dead of winter. It's
urban and real.

While I was thrilled to hear they were staying outside under the familiar confines of the pavilion, I expected to find it sectioned off and protected from the elements with barriers. Wind breaks. Tarps. Something. Nope. Armed with huge heaters, it was a full blown outdoor experience.
Business has been brisk at the Winter Market. Freed from the inner shell of Victorian Square with its piped-in music, the market is now more visible and accessible. If it's cold, bundle up when you go. Every scarf and glove will be worth the effort.

Although the Winter Market has been operating outdoors for a few weeks now, I managed to hit it on one of the bleakest days of the year. Snow. Ice. Wind. Freezing temperatures. Given all of that, I was greeted by happy farmers with smiling faces huddled under blasting heaters. Kudos. Numbed by the bitter winds, I grabbed a few sweet potatoes and baby onions before skedaddling back to my car. I can't wait to go back.


Sweet Potato Soup. 
Sweet potatoes, onions, and other stuff. I think I've roasted and pureed everything at some time or another. With pureed soups, I typically roast vegetables until they're ridiculously caramelized before blitzing them in a blender with cream and stock. That's usually how I roll. Roasting deepens their flavors and brings out their inherent sweetness, resulting in rich creamy soups. I thought about that route... for a minute.  I suppose a sultry burnt umber sweet potato soup would have been perfect on a blustery winter day. Nope. I flipped off the weather and went to a brighter side of sexy.

I needed stock. I didn't need a textbook stock, so I used  what I had on hand. After thawing a few chicken
parts and backs from the freezer, I dropped them into a stock pot with snapped celery stalks, quartered onions, parsley, bay leaves, and black peppercorns. I covered the chicken with cold water, brought the water to a boil, reduced it to a simmer, and skimmed the scum. After 3 hours (for a light stock), I ladled the stock through a cheesecloth-lined strainer, chilled it down quickly in an ice bath, and slid it into the refrigerator.

Instead of peeling, slicing, and roasting the sweet potatoes, I simple baked them in a 350 degree oven until they were fork tender. Midway through, I tumbled the onions onto the sheet pan with the potatoes, poured myself a glass of wine, and took a break. After 45 minutes I pulled the potatoes and onions from the oven to cool. When the potatoes were cool enough to handle, I scooped the fluffy flesh( about 2 1/2 cups)  into a blender with 2 cups warmed chicken stock, onions, salt, pepper, and smoked paprika. After adding 1/2 cup fresh orange juice and 1/4 cup fresh lime juice, I pureed the soup until it was smooth.

I poured the soup directly into my hand-me-down chipped Bybee Pottery soup bowls before finishing with tiny dollops of lime-infused sour cream, snipped chives, toasted almonds, and smoked paprika.

Boom.
A new take on sweet potato soup. Without cream weighing it down, the citrus was key. The slight acidity of the orange/lime combination lightened the puree and countered the sweetness of the potatoes. While whispers of paprika gave the soup smoky warmth, the sour cream added subtle tang under the crunch of splintered almonds and grassy fresh chives. Light. Simple. Sassy.

Support the Lexington Farmers' Winter Market.

It's real.

Bundle up and check it out.

Citrus Bombs

Every year, Michael and I receive a crate of oranges and grapefruits from a dear friend. Without fanfare, they arrive on our front stoop on what always seems like the coldest day of the year. Like giddy school girls not knowing what to expect, we open the crate to reveal rows of individually wrapped plump and juicy citrus bombs. Sunshine in a crate. Delivered. Pretty cool.

Like clockwork, we pile the sunny fruit into large bowls and set them around the kitchen as if they'll radiate enough heat to offset the electric bill. Never happens. Eventually, we start eating and drinking them. The first few form the bases for mimosas, screwdrivers, greyhounds, and salty dogs. When we tire of squeezing them for juice, we start eating them. After the usual parade of citrus salads wears thin, I halve the grapefruits, score the little sections, dust them with  sugar, and broil them until they deeply caramelized.  Even with all of those shenanigans, we still have more oranges and grapefruits than two people could possible want to eat or drink. The citrus bombs always win. They outlast us.

Not this year.
I had a trick up my sleeve.
Grapefruit Tart.
Although I'm not much of a baker, I can muddle through a few citrus based things like curds and tarts. I have enough common sense to stay away from flaky pastry things, so I tend to go with more forgiving crumb crusts. Push and press. Yep.

The Crust.
For a subtle punch of spice, I crushed enough gingersnaps in a food processor to measure 2 1/2 cups. After mixing the crumbs with 6 tablespoons of melted unsalted butter, I pressed them into a 9" tart pan and tossed the shell into a 350 degree oven to bake for 10 minutes before setting it aside to cool.

The Curd.
I'm a sucker for citrus curds of any kind. I whisked 3 eggs, 3 egg yolks, and 1 cup sugar in a large mixing bowl. After adding 1/2 cup fresh squeezed grapefruit juice, 2 tablespoons grapefruit zest, and a pinch of salt, I placed the bowl over a pot of simmering water, whisked constantly, and cooked the filling until it was thick enough to coat the back of a spoon, about 15 minutes. I pulled the curd from the heat , added 4 tablespoons of butter, strained it directly into the cooled tart shell, placed the pan onto a sheet pan, and slid the tart into the oven (350 degrees) to set the curd, about 12 minutes.  When it started to puff, I pulled the tart from the oven to cool.

The Extras.
So, here's the deal. I wanted to play with a mix of grapefruit textures and flavors. Maybe....just maybe, I had a little too much time on my hands. Or, maybe I simply needed to gild the lily, tart up the tart, and take it out on a date. Whatever the case, I had a blast dabbing lipstick on the tart. Candied grapefruit...without the fuss. Candied citrus anything takes time. It's a process. Blanch. Drain. Blanche. Drain. Repeat. Blah blah blah. I wasn't opening a candy store, for Pete's sake. It was a garnish. In lieu of a production line, I simply melted 1 cup sugar into 1 cup water over a low flame.  When the mixture started to ripple, I dropped a few grapefruit slices into the simple syrup, simmered them for an hour, killed the heat, and let them cool in the sticky mix before transferring them to parchment paper to air dry. To echo the mild heat of
the gingered crust, I whipped 1 cup heavy cream with 1/4 cup powdered sugar. After hitting the stiff peak stage, I folded 2 tablespoons of crushed candied ginger into the whipped cream. Booya.

I topped petite slices of the grapefruit tart with dollops of whipped cream and candied grapefruit shards before tumbling a few supremes of fresh grapefruit to the side. From top to bottom, it was all about texture and flavor.

For such an innocent looking thing, the dainty little tart packed a multi-layered punch.  Mellowed by the whipped cream, the lingering spice of the crisp gingersnap crust poked through the slight tang of the soft curd and tempered the sweet wet acidity of the fresh grapefruit. It was a killer combination. Sweet. Crisp. Tart. Fresh.  Unexpected.
Fabulous.

Cravings

How do you solve a problem like a craving?

It started out very simply. I had a craving for chicken marsala. I know, right?  Sometimes, the relics of the past just seem so right. Think about it. What could possibly be wrong with pounded chicken scallopini dredged in flour, pan fried in butter, deglazed with fortified marsala wine, finished with sauteed button mushrooms, and served over pasta? Italian-American old school. Think of candlelit red and white checkered tablecloths topped with rope-entwined bottles of chianti covered with dusty white candle wax. Yep.  I craved old school chicken marsala. The problem? With the frenzied energy of the holidays richocheting off the walls like rubber Wham-O Super Balls, I wanted the familiar flavors of chicken marsala without all of the last minute fuss. I wanted it to calmly cook itself while I took a nap on the couch.

Braised Chicken Marsala.
I was determined to find the path of least resistance.

I picked up a beautiful (albeit incredibly expensive) organic fresh Pike Valley Farm Foods whole chicken from Good Foods Market & Cafe. The pricey little bird was so fresh that it only took a few swipes with a sharp knife to easily break it down. I seasoned the chicken pieces with liberal amounts of salt and pepper before dropping them into sizzling hot oil. When the chicken started to lightly brown, I added 3 whole garlic cloves (peeled), a handful of pearl onions, and a few untraditional trimmed yellow carrots. Just before the carrots took on any color, I deglazed the pan with 1 cup marsala wine and let it reduce by half before adding 2 cups of chicken stock. I brought the stock to a boil, reduced it to a simmer, tossed in a bundle of fresh thyme, covered the pot, and slid it into a preheated 350 oven.

After a short blood mary-induced nap ( about 30 minutes), I knew the chicken needed a bit more marsala and stock. I could tell from the aroma. Trust me. I've walked that fine line between perfectly reduced stock and burned stock, so I added 1/2 cup each  wine and stock before returning the chicken to the oven.

After 20-25 minutes, I pulled the chicken from the oven to rest while I played around with the finishing garnishes. Typically, chicken marsala is served over pasta with sauteed thinly sliced button mushrooms, sauteed shallots, and minced fresh parsley. Hell, I'd already taken the old out of old school, so I stepped outside of the box.

In lieu of button mushrooms, I went with gorgeous  hard to find fresh chanterelles. Instead of shallots, I chose pearl onions. Frozen pearl onions. The path of least resistance. Pasta? Nope. I went with Lexington Pasta Company potato gnocchi.

After chugging a few glasses of wine with Michael, I warmed the chicken over a low flame before sauteing the chanterelles in equal parts butter and olive oil. When the mushrooms were beautifully caramelized, I seasoned them with salt and pepper before pulling them from the heat.

I tumbled the chicken pieces into large pasta bowls filled with pillowy cooked potato gnocchi, scattered the onions to the side, topped the chicken with the mushrooms, and smothered everything with the insanely reduced sauce. To perk things up, I finished with a tangled combination of pea shoots, lemon zest, and orange zest for an unconventional riff on gremolata.

Here's the deal. Ditching the a la minute version of chicken marsala for a braised version deepened the slightly sweet smokey undertones of the wine and produced  meltingly tender chicken.  Napped with the garlic-infused sauce, the succulent meat slipped from the bones like softened butter. That said, the pricey chicken took a back seat to the mushrooms. It was all about the rich meaty chanterelles. Plumped somewhat by the slightly sweet sauce, the caramelized bits on the chewy flesh intensified the natural nutty earthiness of the marsala glazed mushrooms. Golden sponges.

Chanterelle Marsala with Chicken.
A twisted take on a familiar craving.
Fabulous.

Christmas Pears

It's been ages since I've poached pears. Even though they seem so old school, I still cling to the notion of those nostalgic relics. Nowadays, I'm more likely to toss sliced fresh pears into salads or crisp them up in a low oven for chips to serve alongside whipped gorgonzola mousse.  The last time I poached pears was for a swanky Christmas supper at my father's country house on his lakeside farm. While others stayed busy cueing up the ham, turkey, and usual holiday fixings, I casually danced around the chaos and quietly banged out a totally retro platter of poached pears. Nobody saw it coming. Although  my father was a big time bourbon drinker, he always stashed boxes of cheap red wine on the enclosed second story back deck, so I used a few glugs of his cheap stuff to poach pears as a savory side to accompany the familiar holiday trappings. While a wee bit over the top, I'm not quiet sure the glistening ruby-red pears brought a heck of a lot to the party or tickled the fancy of the hungry crowd, but they certainly packed a stunning unexpected punch to the holiday table. In my book, more is more. I really haven't thought much about those happy holiday pears since that night.




It's coming on Christmas.
Reflection.

Red Wine Poached Pears With Chevre and Candied Pecans.
Most preparations for poached pears require tons of sugar simmered in wine (red or white) to create simple syrups for pear desserts. Nope. I reduced the sugar and took a savory route.

Small effort. Big payoff.

After peeling four firm Bosc pears, I left two whole before coring and halving the other two, leaving the stems attached. I filled a stock pot with a bottle of Merlot, added black peppercorns, fresh lemon juice, 2 bay leaves, a whole semi-dried chili pepper, 3 cloves, and 1/2 cup sugar to balance the acidity in the wine. I carefully plunged the pears into the wine, brought the wine to a boil, reduced it to a simmer, covered the pot, and let the pears poach until they were tender, turning them over in the simmering wine every 10 minutes to insure they cooked evenly. I used very firm (almost under-ripe) pears, so it took about 40 minutes until they were tender enough to pierce with a knife.

I pulled the pot from the heat and let the pears come to room temperature in the reduced wine. When they were completely cooled, I carefully placed them into a deep pan with the aromatic wine, covered them with plastic wrap, and slid them into the refrigerator to chill overnight. Occasionally, during wine refills or snack attacks, I basted the pears with the chilled wine until they were deeply stained. Like fruity sponges, they continued to absorb the wine.

I knew I was going to fill the pears with cheese. Wine and cheese. Classic. Pears pair beautifully with any blue veined varieties, so I thought about gorgonzola or stilten. I toyed with the notion of grating Boone Creek Creamery blackberry wine-infused gruyere ( my current favorite) over the pears, but that seemed like overkill. In the end, I went with whipped cracked black pepper chevre.

After nestling the poached pears onto baby arugula, I piped enough whipped chevre to fill the hollowed cavaties, seasoned them with pepper, drizzled the reduced poaching wine over the flesh, and finished with a scattering of candied pecans.

With hints of pepper, chili, and bay, the soft acidity of the wine balanced the inherent sweetness of the pears, tipping them over to the savory side. Paired with the subtle graininess of the cooked pears, the creamy tang of the chevre and the sweet crunch of the pecans created a fantastic play on textures.

Holiday (or any day) Red Wine Poached Pears.

Simple.
Festive.
Fabulous.

Bread and Butter

I'm a fool for bread puddings, so when I snagged a few gorgeous baby leeks from Elmwood Stock Farm I was downright giddy about whipping up a batch of Thomas Keller's savory Leek Bread Pudding. Whether they're sweet or savory, bread puddings seem fairly straightforward. Bread. Cream. Eggs. Stuff. Piece of cake, right?  The bread base for Keller's bread pudding was his recipe for brioche. Yep. Brioche. Butter bread. With tons of butter and eggs, brioche is bread pretending to be pastry. What the hell,  I embraced the madness.


Two days later, (after mixing the dough, proofing it for 3 hours, punching it down, chilling it it overnight, molding it into loaf pans, proofing it for an additional 3 hours, brushing it with egg wash, and baking it for 45 minutes) I had two small loaves of brioche.

The  leek bread pudding didn't happen. Overkill. My two-day romp with Keller hit the proverbial wall, so I scrapped it and re-purposed everything for a riff on onion soup. I reserved one of the buttery loaves and threw the rest of the bread into the freezer for Thanksgiving stuffing.

Michael and I both love traditional French Onion soup. It's hard to resist bowls of deeply caramelized onions simmered in a beefy red wine-infused stock topped with croutons and melted gruyere cheese. That being said, I wanted to lighten it up a bit.

Leek Soup.
Stock. Chicken stock felt like the way to go with the delicate baby leeks. After thawing hoarded chicken parts from the freezer, I tossed them into stock pot with chopped onions, carrots, celery, green peppercorns, bay leaves, fresh parsley, lovage, and thyme. I filled the pot with water, brought it to a boil, reduced it to simmer, and let it gently rip for 4 hours.

Leeks. I trimmed the leeks by removing the dark green stalks and root ends. Not wanting to waste anything, I tossed the sliced dark leek ends into the stock pot to fortify the leekiness of the stock. After slicing the leeks as thinly as possible, I rinsed them well and patted them dry. I melted 3 tablespoons of butter in a dutch oven, added a drizzle of olive oil, and tumbled the leeks into the pot. When pale rings started to sizzle, I showered them with salt, turned the flame to low, and simmered them for 2 hours.  Every 20 minutes or so, I stirred the leeks and skimmed the scum from the stock.

Brioche Croutons. While the stock and leeks mindlessly simmered away on the back of the stove top, I sliced the brioche loaf and used a biscuit cutter to create 2 inch round croutons. After brushing them with melted butter, I sprinkled them with sea salt, and slid them into a 350 oven to toast for about 15 minutes.

When the leeks collapsed into tender pulp, I pulled them from the heat to cool.
After 4 hours, I strained the stock through a cheesecloth-lined colander, quickly cooled the stock in an ice bath, removed the fat, and set it aside.

Soup. I re-warmed the leeks over a medium flame. When they started to spit and stick, I deglazed the pot with 1/3 cup sherry and let it reduce to a glaze before adding the chicken stock.

After simmering the soup for 45 minutes, I ladled it into 2 crocks, floated the brioche croutons on top, and smothered them with grated Boone Creek Creamery Smoked Gruyere cheese before sliding the bowls under a preheated broiler. When the cheese  browned, I pulled the soup bowls from the oven and finished them with a scattering of fresh thyme.

It's funny how things can spin on a dime.
Weighed down by the mounds of melted gruyere, the fragile brioche croutons disintegrated in the gelatinous stock and absorbed  the leeky broth. As the smoked nutty cheese collapsed into the swollen mix, it swirled through the suspended leeks and puffed croutons. Within seconds, the bread, broth, cheese, and leeks plumped into a wonderfully wet accidental riff on leek bread pudding.

Full circle.
Go figure.

Stalks

When it comes to Thanksgiving, I gave up trying to reinvent the wheel. I've mucked up quite a few Thanksgiving staples attempting to reinterpret our favorite family stuffings and side dishes. I won't even mention what I've done to countless turkeys over the years. There was no limit to my insanity. Lessons learned. Some things should be left alone.

Nowadays, we keep things simple and honest.  In the end, it's about remembering our families with the food that we  love.  That being said, on Thanksgiving, Michael has to have his stuff and I have to have mine. When combined, we have enough food for a small army. An army of two. Booya. While we keep the non-negotiable big ticket items rooted in tradition, we leave wiggle room for the bonus stuff. The unexpected extras. We've never been sticklers for the green stuff on Thanksgiving, so we'll mix things up from year to year by throwing together quick steamed broccoli with hollandaise, skillet roasted green beans with fried shallots, buttered green peas, or brussels sprouts. While those play second fiddle to the heavy hitters (in our world), the green stuff is always a nice respite from the array of oranges, grays, and browns. Balance.



Brussels sprouts. You either love them or hate them. We love them. Most people are turned off by the sulfuric taste of mushy overcooked brussles sprouts. When prepared properly, they're nutty, sweet, versatile, and sensational. Whether shaved into salads, deep fried, shredded into slaw, or oven roasted to bring out their inherent sweet nuttiness, brussels sprouts are no longer culinary wallflowers. They're the sophisticated belles of the ball.


Brussels sprouts just might be the perfect Thanksgiving side dish. However they're prepared, they deliver just enough fantastic cruciferous  funk to perk up the savory richness of everything else on the table.

It's hard to resist stalks of fresh brussels sprouts. When I ran across a few nestled on crushed ice in a basket at Good Foods Market and Cafe, I knew I hit the vegetable jackpot.

Oven Roasted Brussels Sprouts and Prosciutto with Pomegranate Molasses.
With a little forethought, they were a cinch to prepare. Because I have a tendency to get ahead of myself when roasting things together with different cook times, I stepped back and decided to add the ingredients in layers. I've burned my share of onions and scorched plenty of roasting pans with sheer impatience. Trust me. Ask Michael. We have a pot graveyard in the garage.


Using a small paring knife, I snipped the sprouts from the woody stalk. I sliced the larger sprouts (from the bottom of the stalk) in half and left the smaller ones whole.  After tossing them with olive oil, I seasoned them with salt and pepper before tumbling them into a large cast iron skillet.

Brussels sprouts caramelize better and cook faster with high heat, so I slid them into a preheated 375 degree oven to roast for 40 minutes. After 15 minutes minutes, I added 2 sliced purple candy onions from Elmwood Stock Farm and returned the skillet to the oven.  15 minutes later, I pulled the brussels sprouts from the oven and deglazed the hot skillet with a 1/4 cup homemade chicken stock.

When the stock reduced, I drizzled 2 tablespoons of tart pomegranate molasses over the sprouts, gave them a quick toss, draped torn pieces of prosciutto around the glazed vegetables, and slid the skillet back into the oven for 10 minutes to crisp the prosciutto.

After allowing the caramelized brussels sprouts to cool for a bit, I finished them off with a scattering of fresh pomegranate seeds and delicate Long Valley Organics radish micro greens.

Here's the deal,  pomegranate molasses is a misleading misnomer. We tend to think of typical molasses as a wonderfully thick sticky sweet syrupy goo. While pomegranate molasses has the sticky part down, it's  incredibly tart with dark sweet undertones. Combined with the saltiness of the reduced stock, it created a soft slightly acidic tart glaze.

Nutty. Sweet. Tart. Intense. Mellowed by the high heat, the charred brussels sprouts were both crisp and tender. As the crisped prosciutto melted through the soft sprouts, the salty fat tempered the subtle sassy tang of the glaze and countered the vibrant wet crunch of the pomegranate seeds. Killer.