Blossoms

Living in  Austria was a cultural odyssey. After a brief stint in Northern Virginia, my family was shipped back to Europe and stationed in Vienna, Austria. Unlike most of the places we lived overseas (behind concrete on walls on American army bases), Vienna was a different animal. We moved smack dab into the middle of the city. No walls. No uniforms.  As a kid, it was an unfamiliar and strange cultural immersion. My father often spoke Russian, my friends were German, and our nanny was Czek. Hell, even my favorite cartoons were broadcast in German. Sensory overload. I struggled with the steep learning curve, but managed to keep up with everybody. My oasis was school. Because of our Army ties, I attended the Vienna American International School, a school designed to accommodate families with military, United Nations, or Foreign Embassy connections. All in all, it is was a fairly normal English speaking American school nestled on the outskirts of the city near tranquil parks and the Vienna Woods. Pretty basic stuff. Classes. Lunch Break. Recess. While I was happy to be around kids like me, nothing topped recess. That said, we had two very opposing options for recess. On alternating days, weather permitting, we'd either line up in single file for a march over to the ragged dirt-covered embankment overlooking the soccer field to play on the rusty jungle gyms or we'd carefully cross bustling Salmanndorferstrasse for a gentle hike up the tree-lined slope at the base of the Vienna Woods to play in the meadows that unfolded at the top of the hill.  It was a no brainer for me. I abhorred the embankment days and adored the hill days.

In early spring, when everything was damp and new, I couldn't wait to climb the wet slippery hill. It was worth every single slight bruise or muddy smudge, clinging to mossy tree trunks and large rocks, to reach the clearing at the the top of the hill for a glimpse of the undulating multicolored sea of lavender, blue, yellow, and white spring flowers bending in the breeze. It certainly beat the crap out of eating dirt on the jungle gym. Recess. In typical childhood fashion, it was a free-for-all on top of the hill. The girls would skip off to do girl things while the boys huddled around for games of tag or kickball. And Me? I'd brush through the soft meadow, curl down into a nest, flop onto my back with naive abandon, stare at the empty sky, and eat the flowers.

I guess it stuck.

Fried Squash Blossoms with Summer Squash Salad.
It's weird, squash blossoms seem to be everywhere. In years past, everyone told me they were simply too much trouble to harvest. Not this year. While they're plentiful, the early bird gets the blossoms. In recent weeks, local
chefs have scampered down to the farmers market very early to snatch up the bounty. Every last blossom. Finally,I got with the program, joined the fray, and scored a few baskets of gorgeous feathery Jessamine County squash blossoms.

A simple fresh bite of summer.
Minor prep. Big payoff.
Starting with the blossoms, I snipped the stamens from the center of each male flower. Traditionally, the blossoms are stuffed with goat cheese, ricotta, or fresh mozzarella. I'm a rule breaker, so I brought a bit of Tuscany to Kentucky and stuffed the blossoms with Dad's Favorite Asiago Sun-dried Tomato Cheese Spread. Yep. After carefully scooping a spoonful of the cheese into each blossom, I gave the ends a quick twist, covered them with plastic wrap, and slid them into the refrigerator to chill.

Squash ribbons.
I'm a huge fan of raw squash ribbons.  In fact, I rarely cook yellow squash or zucchini anymore. When sliced thinly, they're delicate, tender, and incredibly sweet. Normally, I simply use a vegetable peeler to make the ribbons. Because I wanted somewhat more uniform slices, I used a mandolin to shave 3 large Casey County zucchini and yellow squash into ribbons, feathered them into a mixing bowl, and set them aside.

Tempura batter.
Really, any kind of batter would have worked beautifully. Personally, I prefer a  light tempura batter to allow the squeaky freshness of the blossoms to poke through the coating. I'd rather taste the flower than a deep fried thick batter.

Using a heavy stock pot, I warmed 2 cups of vegetable oil over a medium flame.  While the oil heated up, I mixed 1 cup of all purpose Weisenberger Mill unbleached white flour with 1 1/2 cups sparkling water (Pellagrino) and 1 teaspoon salt.

When the oil reached 350 degrees (I used a candy thermometer), I swiped the stuffed blossoms into the batter, let most of the batter drip back into the bowl, and gingerly dropped them into the hot oil. Within 2 minutes, they were lightly browned and crisp. I scooped the fried blossoms onto a clean dish towel to drain and set them aside.

I pulled the chilled squash ribbons from the refrigerator and twirled them onto a large serving platter. After splashing them with fresh lemon juice and extra virgin olive oil, I nestled the fried blossoms over the ribbons and tumbled sliced Henkle's Herbs and Heirlooms cherry tomatoes to the side. After a light dusting of flaked sea salt and cracked black pepper, I finished with a restrained scattering of fresh basil.

Bare summer vegetables flaunting a full frontal. Irresistible. Fresh.
While the delicate lemon-kissed ribbons provided bright snappy crispness, the cheese-filled blossoms added sexy deep fried shattering crunch. Perfect. Funny, the cheese didn't drip or ooze like traditional stuffed blossoms. It melted into the petals and infused them with an intense concentrated cheese flavor that crackled like lighter-than-air fancy cheese puffs.

A happy accidental win.

Fabulous.

Eat Your Peas

I was never a fussy eater. I'd eat anything that anyone shoved in front of me. I was the he'll-eat-anything-kid. And I did. "Can I have your pickle?"  "You really don't want your tomato?" "I'll take your corn." Hell, I didn't care. I was too happy to be proud or embarrassed. Aside from 7-Eleven Slurppies and barbecued potato chips, I lived for vegetables. Vegetables of any kind. Growing up in Europe and Africa, Frau Olga spoiled me with her Czechoslovakian/Hungarian/Austrian take on vegetables while Ababa pushed my naive buttons with her exotic Ethiopian spin. Long before we settled onto my grandparent's farm in Western Kentucky to enjoy the bounty of fresh vegetables from their enormous garden, most of my vegetables came from frozen TV dinners. You see, my father jumped on the frozen TV bandwagon. Totally smitten with them, he fell for the concept hook, line, and sinker.  They weren't swank or fancy, but for a single military father, they were convenient and quick. As seen on TV, we even ate them directly from the wobbly compartmental aluminum trays. Americana. Living the dream in a living commercial. I adored frozen TV dinners. What wasn't to love? Just like those multi-pack waxed-paper lined individually boxed cereal sets, the selection seemed infinite. Lined up and stacked in the freezer like books in a library, we had choices. For a kid, that was fairly heady. Although I wasn't picky, I gravitated toward the frozen blocks that offered little fruit pie triangles and peas. I understood what happened to TV dinners in the oven. I might not have been able to figure out basic mathematical equations in school or diagram sentences on a chalk board in front of my classmates, but I knew that when a frozen dinner bubbled away long enough in an oven, the sticky pie fillings would eventually spill over into the peas and mix with the buttered instant mashed potatoes. Savory and sweet. Heaven. Thanks to Swanson and Banquet, I fell in love with peas. Pea boy.

One summer, midway through my unfortunate stint in summer school (see above) between the fourth and fifth grades, I stopped eating peas. Thinking back, I'm not sure why. Out of the blue, I simply stopped. Nobody understood my folly. I said no to the peas and no to my military father. Bad move. So, for weeks, on frozen pea nights  (in true Leave It To Beaver fashion), I had to sit at the table for hours and stare at my aluminum tray until I finished my peas. I was stubborn. Knowing bedtime would eventually rear its ugly head, I never finished them. Ever. In reality, I might have missed the eschewed peas, but my little game was fun in a weird sort of way. Without fanfare, my resolve weakened. Other desires (paper routes, dolls, slurppies, backyard clubhouses, and puppies) seemed like more important battles to mount. After a few stubborn weeks, my rebellion waned, I once again embraced my frozen peas, and I never looked back

To this day, I'm still a pea fanatic. And, I'm still not picky. Canned, frozen, split, dried, pureed, or mashed, I love them all. In my little world, all peas are created equal. That said, fresh English garden peas are game changers. They can be elusive, though. Over the years, I don't recall ever seeing them at our local farmers' market. I'm sure that if I had seen any, I would have melted like a frozen dinner. Recently, that changed. Even though I've learned to expect the unexpected when I browse the farmers' market, I was shocked  when I stumbled across a  basket of fresh English peas (shell out peas) from Stonehedge Farm. They were dainty, small, and delicate. Mistaken for snap peas, I almost overlooked them. When I realized what they were, I melted.
Pea puddle.

Game on.
Petits Pois a la Francaise (Sauteed Peas and Lettuce).
Except for shelling a few pounds of fresh peas, I'm not sure anything could be simpler than this emerald green take on early summer peas.

Snap. Tear. Scoop. Repeat. Shelling peas has a natural rhythm and flow. Snap the end, tear the string down the side, and scoop the peas into a bowl. Like snapping green beans in a rocking chair on a warm summer day, shelling peas can be wonderfully relaxing.

 After ripping open a paper bag filled with 2 1/2 pounds of fresh English peas, I easily and methodically dispatched the shells.

I cranked a heavy cast iron skillet over a medium flame and added 2 tablespoons of butter. When the butter started to sizzle, I added tiny round slivers of Paw Paw Plantation green onions. Just before the butter browned, I tumbled 2 cups of shelled peas into the butter and sauteed them for 4 minutes before splashing  them white wine to create puffs of steam to soften the peas. After seasoning the peas with sea salt and cracked white pepper, I added an additional 2 tablespoons of butter, let the butter melt into the peas, and pulled the skillet from the flame before tossing  them with loosely torn leaves of Elmwood Stock Farm butterhead lettuce and red leaf lettuce.

Before the lettuces completely wilted from the heat, I scooped the peas into a small bowl and finished with snipped chives.

Here's the deal. Fresh peas pop. Not only did these peas pop, they exploded. Tender and sweet, they retained a slight bite back quality that reminded me I was eating something special, real, and farm fresh. The real deal. And lettuce? Yep. Layers. Flavors. Textures. Nestled into the tiny pea bombs, the slightly wilted lettuces added a soft wet crunch that countered the intense buttery sweetness of the garden fresh peas. Balance.

Summer peas with lettuce.

Simple.
Fresh.
Perfect.

Softies

I've pulled countless blue crabs from the murky marsh waters of Swan Cove on Assateague Island. I spent most of my childhood summers vacationing in Chincoteague, a small island on the Eastern Shore that's famous for its annual pony swim benefitting the local fire department. Assateague Island, a barrier island that protects Chincoteague from the Atlantic Ocean, is flanked by the ocean, fresh water marshlands, and salt water marshlands. Rippling alongside the causeway that connects Chincoteage and Assateague, Swan Cove was my summer crabbing paradise. From mid to late summer, we'd spend hours in the intense sun dangling chicken necks into the water to lure the crabs ashore. When we had our limit (a bushel), we'd mosey back to the house to cook and eat them up. Little boy heaven.

While Michael and I still make occasional trips to the Eastern Shore, it's been years since I've gone crabbing. It's not so dreamy without the trappings of childhood, I guess. The next best thing here in landlocked Kentucky is to let The Lexington Seafood Company do the crabbing. It's crab season here in Kentucky and The Lexington Seafood Company makes a concerted effort to have fresh Maryland Blue Crabs flown in once a week. They sell out fast.  Very fast. I missed the first few weeks of crab mania because I was waiting for the softies to arrive. They finally made it to the party. For a couple of months in late spring and early summer, blue crabs molt and shed their shells. During the short period it takes for the new shell to harden, soft shell crabs are entirely edible (except for a few parts). Not only is it crab season here in Kentucky, right now, it's soft shell crab season. Booya.

Soft shell crabs have to be very fresh and alive. They should be eaten soon after they've been cleaned. Because they sell out quickly I ordered and reserved 6 jumbo soft shell crabs from The Lexington Seafood Company. I forgot to request cleaned soft shell crabs. Thinking I'd be cooking a few crabs on different days, I asked to have half of them cleaned while I enthusiastically watched and learned the process. They were alive. Good to know. How hard could it be?

My brief bout of enthusiasm waned a bit as I watched the fishmonger methodically snip off their faces, remove the aprons, and clip out the gills before tidily stacking them into carryout containers while the faceless crabs still fluttered about. "Are you sure the others will stay alive in the refrigerator for a couple of days?", I asked. Hoping to hear him say "Hell no. Let me clean them all. Eat them now. Eat them raw. Eat them in the car before you get home", he simply replied, "Oh sure, they'll last. The refrigerator might slow 'em down a bit, but they'll last." Slow them down a bit? I knew it wasn't going to happen. "Go ahead, clean the rest of them.", I said.

It was my fault. I didn't have to watch. That said, I grabbed my bag of crabs and happily headed to the farmers' market for slaw stuff. Crabs and cole slaw. I was head on for a basic cabbage slaw until Elmwood Stock Farm bok choy and  gorgeous Stonehedge Farm kohlrabi entered the mix. I wasn't expecting those cabbage-like things so soon at the market. Game changer.

Game on.

Sauteed Soft Shell Crabs with Kohlrabi Bok Choy Slaw.
Slaw.
I kept it simple. Normally, I would have pulled out the mandolin and used the julienne attachment to shred the bok choy and kohlrabi. Nope. I peeled the kohlrabi and set it aside. After slicing off the root end of the bok choy, I rinsed the stalks, cut them into 6 inch batons, reserved the leaves, and set them aside. Using the shredder attachment on the food processor, I shredded the kohlrabi lengthwise into fine ribbons and tossed it into a mixing bowl. After trimming a few radishes, I shredded them and added them to the kohlrabi. Because bok choy is too fiberous to shred, I simply julienned it into equal sized lengths and added it to the mix. For color, I julienned a red bell pepper and tossed it with the radishes, kohlrabi, and bok choy.

To counter the richness of the crabs, I wanted a tangy slaw. Sweet tang. Sour tang. I poured 1/3 cup unseasoned rice wine vinegar into a small mason jar before adding 1 heaping tablespoon of sugar, 1 teaspoon of salt, and 1 1/2 tablespoons of olive oil. I sealed the jar with a lid, gave it a good shake to emulsify the dressing, poured it over the slaw, and slid the slaw into the refrigerator to marinate/macerate while I worked on the crabs.

Typically, I fry soft shell crabs for the crunch factor. Didn't happen. I took an easier and gentler approach. Seriously, it was so simple. I placed a large cast iron skillet over a medium high flame before adding equal amounts of unsalted butter and canola oil. While the skillet heated up, I mixed 1 1/2 cups flour with 2 heaping tablespoons of Old Bay Seasoning. When the butter started to sizzle in the oil, I dredged the crabs with the seasoned flour, placed them top side down in the skillet, and sauteed them for 2 1/2 minutes before turning them to cook for an additional 2 1/2 minutes. When the shells turned red beneath the browned flour dusting, I pulled them from the heat, drained them on paper towels, and stacked the crabs onto a large platter lined with Elmwood Stock Farm red leaf lettuce. I filled small coffee cups with the kohlrabi bok choy slaw, scattered sliced lemons over the crabs, and finished with Stonehedge Farm fresh spring pea shoots.

It's difficult to eat and moan at the same time.  I've had my share of crabs over the years. Steamed. Baked. Stuffed. Fried. Casseroled. Ceviched. Raw. In my crab world, I've only eaten fried soft shell crabs. Deep fried. Throw that ball and chain out the window. Don't get me wrong, I love them fried. Crunchy. Sweet. Classic. That said, a light saute took them into another realm. Without the intense heat of a deep fryer, they didn't have a chance to overcook. With a slight crisp bite from the flour-dusted soft shells, the barely cooked sweet meat remained incredibly tender and moist. Each lemon-splashed bite popped, squirted, and dripped through my fingers. It felt familiar. Smelling and tasting like the sea, the softies transported this Kentucky boy back to Swan Cove and paradise.


     

                                                                 

Frills

Michael and I took a short jaunt to New York City a couple of years ago as a precursor to a bigger jaunt. We planned to spend a few quiet days in town before boarding a ship for a week long stay in Bermuda. Well, our low key layover quickly morphed into a gluttonous romp through the streets of Chinatown, Koreatown, Little Italy, Chelsea, and the East Village. After three raucous days, our rampage wound down and we found ourselves at The Odeon in Tribeca. Glitzed out in neon with understated Art Deco trappings, The Odeon (with its classic brassier menu) was a perfect refuge from our food storm. We arrived for lunch/brunch before they actually opened. The doors were unlocked, so we bellied up to the bar and ordered cocktails. While the entire simple menu made my heart sing,  the Country Frisee Salad sold me. Fourme d'Ambert cheese, lardon, croutons, bacon vinaigrette. Then, add poached farm fresh egg. Classic Lyonnaise bistro frisee salad. Happily moaning and groaning (literally) I made a fool of myself eating that salad. Warm bacon dressing. Warm oozing egg yolk. Salty lardons. Crisp croutons. Tangy vinaigrette. The stuff of dreams. Really.

I've made frisee salads with poached eggs a few times since that particular Odeon day. It's not difficult to throw together. It's a salad, for Pete's sake. It's just that frisee can be hard to find. While most chicory greens seem to be readily available ( albeit expensive), frisee is typically a hit or miss variety. What gives? When I want it, I can't find frisee. When I  happen upon it, it's not on my radar. Because of that conondrum, my dreamy salad rests in limbo. Not on the radar. Not even a single blip. That logic changed when I stumbled across bags filled with something that looked like strange frisee from Stonehedge Farm at the farmers' market. That something turned out to be feathery Scarlet and Emerald Frilled Mustard Greens. Mind blown. They were absolutely gorgeous and peculiar. After asking a few questions, I learned that frilled mustard greens lend themselves beautifully to quick sautes or stir fries.  That said, because they're incredibly delicate and tender, young frilled mustard greens are perfect for salads. Game on.


Scarlet and Emerald Mustard Green Salad with Warm Bacon Dressing, Crouton, and Poached Egg. 
Sure, it was a salad. While simple, the symphony of flavors and textures needed to be constructed carefully. After all, I didn't want to muck up an unexpected  riff on my dream salad. I found it easier to simply mise en place each component one at a time.

Greens.
After separating the tangled greens, I washed them thoroughly, patted them dry, trimmed a few of the rough stems, wrapped them a clean dish cloth, and slid them into the refrigerator to chill. Funny, when wet, the greens looked and felt like ocean swept seaweed. Weird and beautiful.

Lardons.
Classically, lardons are small matchstick-cut pieces of bacon or larding fat cut from a slab of pork belly. Fail. I used my last bits of pork belly in a mess of long simmered country style green beans. I had bacon. Ordinary run-of-the-mill bacon. I sliced 8 pieces of  center cut bacon into 1/4 inch strips and dropped them into a cold cast iron skillet before cranking the heat to medium high. I wanted to render as much fat as possible to crisp the bacon and have enough residual fat for the vinaigrette. When the bacon was fully cooked and crisp, I scooped it onto paper towels to drain,  reserved 5 tablespoons of the fat in the skillet, pulled it from the heat, and set it aside.

Croutons.
While fabulous, croutons (plural) can be fussy. They burn. They cook unevenly. They make me crazy. That said, I kept the notion of croutons by making large croutons for the crunch factor. Egged on by my frilled mustard greens moment at the farmers' market, I bopped over to Blue Moon Farm and snagged a loaf of Sunrise Bakery Sourdough bread. I sliced thin pieces of the wonderfully dense sourdough bread on the bias, brushed both sides with olive oil, grilled them until they were a bit charred, and set them aside.

Poached Eggs.
Heaven knows, egg poaching can be daunting. I've tried every trick in the book. Michael gave me an egg poacher several years ago. At the time, I used it a lot because it was handy and useful.  In my egg world, there was something about that egg-poaching wonder that never jelled with me. The eggs came out perfectly every time, but they were tiny and a little too perfect. Perfectly perfect. Perfect little round uniformly poached eggs that had no verve. I always wanted poached eggs with attitude and spirit, so I gave up on the poacher and tried every other method. Ring molds. Cups. Large spoons. Ladles. I gave up on those, too. Back to basics.

I brought 4 cups of water to a simmer in a wide sauce pan, about 4 inches deep. When the water started to ripple, I added a splash of vinegar and 1 tablespoon of kosher salt. Fresh eggs were key. Fresh egg simply poach better than supermarket eggs. After swirling the salt and vinegar into the simmering water, I cracked 3 (allowing for a mishap) Dutch Creek Farm eggs into individual ramekins before gently sliding them into the water. I used a large slotted spoon to coax the egg whites around the yolks to hold their shape while they steeped in the bubbling water. After 1 1/2 minutes, I carefully scooped the eggs onto a clean dish towel to drain and  gently patted them dry.

Vinaigrette.
I warmed the reserved bacon fat over a medium flame and added 2 tablespoons of minced shallots. After sweating the shallots until they softened, I deglazed the skillet with 3 tablespoons of sherry vinegar and added 2 heaping tablespoons of sharp Maille dijon mustard. Within seconds, the vinaigrette emulsified. I pulled it from the heat and tossed the vinaigrette with the reserved bacon and chilled frilled mustard greens.

I tumbled the dressed greens over sourdough croutons, nestled the poached eggs into the frilly greens, and drizzled the eggs with extra virgin extra olive oil before finishing with snipped  flowering chives from my garden.

Hello revamped frisee salad. Back on the radar.

I knew it would be love at first bite the moment the warm yolk spilled from my jiggly egg, gurgled, and oozed through the greens before puddling into the vinaigrette. While the smoky tang of the warm dijon bacon dressing slightly wilted the lacy mustard greens, it also downplayed their inherent spiciness and cut through the richness of the farm fresh egg. I tried to be civil. It didn't last  long. When most of the greens were gone, I swiped the drenched crouton through the creamy yolk-infused vinaigrette and ate it with my bare hands. No apologies.

No frills.
Fabulous.

Chivo Guisado

It's almost impossible to island hop in the Caribbean and not bump into some variation of goat stew. Because it's everywhere, I've tasted quite a few. While most Caribbean goat stews are curry based, a few concoctions  take a different spin. Goat Water is a beloved stew found on the islands of St Kitts & Nevis. Fortified with a stock made of goat's heads, it's loaded with goat meat,  breadfruit, paw paws, and tomatoes. Several years ago, lazily perched under a palm tree on a pristine beach in Nevis, I shared a bowl of goat water with a hungry wild horse. As much as I loved that bowl of goat water stew, the horse got the last few precious drops. Unfazed by the experience, we both reveled in its gelatinous fabulousness. That said, I'm particularly partial to Dominican Goat stew. Chivo guisado picante is a tomato based stew that utilizes a sour orange marinade to tenderize the meat before it's caramelized in a mysterious Trinidadian-style  browning sauce. I love sour orange and adore a sticky browning. Combined, they make my heart sing.

Always the trusty sidekick, Michael tagged along while I hit my various markets in search of goat stew stuff. Sure, boneless goat stew meat might have been the logical way to go. More stewy, I guess. I'm a rule breaker. I needed/wanted bones for added flavor. After snagging 2 pounds of gorgeous goat shanks from Quarles Farm at the farmers' market, we stopped by the African Caribbean Market for ripe plantains, pigeon peas, rice, and coconut milk. Game on.

Dominican Goat Stew.
Because sour oranges are kind of difficult to come by outside of the Caribbean, a combination of fresh orange and fresh lime juice was a great
substitute. After squeezing the juice from 2 large oranges and 3 limes, I tossed the combined juices into a large bowl before adding 2 diced cubanella peppers, sliced green onions, and chopped cilantro. For the spice rub, I crumbled 2 tablespoons Mexican oregano into a mortar and added 1 tablespoon of kosher salt. After smashing 2 peeled garlic cloves, I tossed them into the mortar and used a pestle to grind the mix into a rough paste.


When braising shanks of any kind, I really like the meat to pull down and away from the bones, so I simply snipped the tendons at the top of the bones before dropping them into the marinade. After rubbing the spices and marinade into the meat, I covered the bowl with plastic wrap and slid the meat into the refrigerator to soak up the flavor overnight.


The fun part. I like to call it the brown down. I've used the caramelized sugar browning method for Trinidadian chicken several times. It's tricky business. And weird. And amazing.

After scraping most of the herbs off of the goat shanks, I patted them dry and set them aside. With the shanks at room temperature, I slid a large cast iron skillet over a medium high flame and added 3 tablespoon of brown sugar. Patience was key. I wasn't making a caramel sauce. It wasn't supposed to be pretty. I knew I had to take it to the edge. It needed to look almost burnt (or burnished) without
actually burning. Within seconds, the sugar melted and turned golden brown.
Just before it combusted, I carefully nestled the shanks into the molten sugar and browned the pieces on all sides. When the shanks were deeply caramelized, I added the reserved marinade, 10 split grape tomatoes, 2 tablespoons tomato paste, 2 cups chicken stock, cracked black pepper, and 1 whole habanero pepper. I brought the mix to a boil, reduced it to a simmer, sealed the skillet with aluminum foil, clamped a lit over the foil, and slid the stew into a 350 degree oven to braise for 2 1/2 hours.

While the shanks braised away, I sliced 2 large ripe plantains on the bias and fried them in olive oil until they were golden brown. Peas and rice. Rice and peas. Beans and rice. Rice and beans. Like goat stew, the combination is found throughout the Caribbean. Dominican rice with pigeon peas gets jazzed up a bit with the addition of coconut. I sauteed 1/3 cup minced onions in olive oil for 5 minutes.  When the onion softened, I added 1 tablespoon minced fresh cilantro, 1/4 teaspoon oregano, and 1 tablespoon tomato paste. Just before the tomato paste caramelized, I added 1 can of drained pigeon peas, 3 cups chicken stock, and 1/2 cup coconut milk. I brought the stock to a boil, added 2 1/2 cups long grain rice, reduced the heat to a simmer, covered the pot, and cooked the rice until it was tender, about 25 minutes.

I pulled the goat shanks from the oven to rest. To perk up the sleepy stew, I scattered julienned yellow peppers and scallions over the shanks before nestling them over heaping spoonfuls of the creamy coconut rice and pigeon peas.

I suppose it could have been stewier. Some folks probably would have added more stock or water to the base. I purposely chose to let it cook down or "fry down" to create a more intense flavor base. Here's the deal. It was ridiculous. Period.  The sultry shards of goat slipped off the bones like wet silk stockings. Tender. Moist. Succulent. Sure, the shanks weren't swimming in sauce. It didn't matter. There was just enough vegetable-studded jus to bathe the shanks, seep into the rich coconut rice, and puddle around the meat. Funny, the intense caramelized browning of the meat didn't bring sweetness into play. At All. It added a subtle smoky depth to the fiery sweet tomato-based stock  that countered the slight tang of the sour orange marinade and tamed mild gaminess of the goat meat. Fabulous.

What trumped everything?
In the end, we had bones to suck. Win.

\

Ramped

Ramps are the fleeting darlings of the early spring farmers' market. With a very short three to four week growing season, they're usually the first thing to arrive at the market and the first to go. Blink and they're gone. Members of the allium genus, ramps are also referred to as wild onions, wild leeks, or wild garlic. With feathery leafy tops and long purplish stems, they have a pronounced garlic aroma with a strong onion flavor, making them interchangeable with both garlic and onions in most recipes. If you run across ramps at the market, catch them while you can because they're very versatile and utterly fabulous.

I got lucky. Red River Farm had buckets of gorgeous ramps at the Lexington Farmers' Market. Even with their beautiful leafy tops fluttering in the morning breeze, most of the people in line were buying eggs and bacon. I filled my bag with ramps. Booya.

I toyed with the notion of tossing the ramps over burning coals to char before serving them on newspaper like Spanish colcotes (early spring green onions) with a ruddy Romesco sauce. I even thought of roasting them and twirling them into nests to cup gently poached eggs. In the end, I went with a very simple spring soup.

Chilled Ramp Soup with Blackened Sea Scallops. 
Ramps.
Typically, ramps are a bear to clean. They're usually covered in crud and take time to prep. Because they stored them in buckets of water to keep them fresh, the ramps from Red River Farm were almost pre-prepped and ready to go. I simply snipped the roots from the bulbs and gave them a quick rinse. After slicing the greens from the stems, I set them aside before roughly chopping the stems and bulbs.

After heating a skillet over a medium high flame, I sauteed the ramp stems in a combination of olive oil and butter. When they started to caramelize, I deglazed the pan with 1/2 white wine, let it reduce by half, and added 2 cups chicken stock. I brought the stock to a boil, reduced the heat, and added 2 peeled and chopped Elmwood Stock Farm new potatoes. While the potatoes simmered away in the ramp stock, I blanched the ramp greens along with a handful of fresh spinach (in heavily salted water) for exactly 45 seconds before plunging them into a salted ice-water bath.

When the potatoes were tender, I scooped them into a blender along with the cooked ramps, stock, and drained greens.  After adding 1/4 cup parmigiano reggiano cheese, a splash of fresh lemon juice, salt, and white pepper, I blitzed the soup into a verdant puree before sliding it into the refrigerator to chill.

Scallops.
Michael and I are both fools for scallops.
That said, I wanted them to have bite. To counter and play off of the delicate spring ramps. I slid a small cast iron skillet over a blazing hot flame. When it started to smoke, I added a whisper of oil to the pan, dredged the dried scallops in cajun seasonings, blackened them on each side for 90 seconds, scooped them out of the smoky mess, and set them aside.

I ladled the chilled ramp soup into shallow bowls and nestled the blackened scallops into the center of each bowl before topping them with slivers of mango, red bell pepper, and shallots. After scattering Garey Farms micro mizzuna and arugula over the scallops, I finished with a few drops extra virgin olive oil. Simple. Bright. Light. Fabulous.

Bones

There are few short cuts when it comes to making a good demi glace. Although it's a simple sauce, it takes time. Sure, there are plenty of commercial products on the market to cut the time crunch. While some of the products are quite good, most of them are grainy salt bombs. In its most elemental form, demi glace is a concentrated brown sauce. Getting to the demi stage is a different matter all together. Classically, it's made by reducing veal stock with equal parts of Sauce Espagnole (a roux-thickened brown Mother Sauce).  Old school. The school of Escoffier. Nowadays, most modern kitchens bypass the roux-based Espagnole Sauce  by utilizing a straight up reduction for purity.  While demi glace specifically refers to veal based stocks, chicken and beef are often substituted. Pick the method. Pick the protein. It doesn't matter. Demi glace starts with stock. Bones are key.

Four Hills Farm Rack of Lamb with Mint Bordelaise.
Stock.
I had some time to kill. Lots of time.
Armed with 5 pounds of meat-covered beef knuckle bones from Elmwood Stock Farm, I started my little journey. Typically, a combination of oxtails, shanks, necks, and knuckle bones would have been ideal. Gobs of surface areas exposed to heat allows optimum browning to occur. The deep browning process produces a deeper stock. Blah. Blah. Blah. That said,  I had knuckle bones. Big ones. Think huge beefy knee caps. If (emphasis on if) I had a butcher's bone saw withing arms reach, I supposed I could have broken down the knuckles into smaller pieces. Didn't happen.

After plopping the bones onto a sheet pan, I tossed them with canola oil and slid them into a 400 degree preheated oven to roast for 45 minutes. Midway through the browning process, I added chopped (unpeeled) onions, roughly chopped carrots, smashed garlic cloves, and chopped celery. When the vegetables, meat, and bones were deeply caramelized, I pulled them from the oven, transferred them to a stock pot, and added enough cold water to cover them by 2 inches. I placed the messy sheet pan over a medium flame, deglazed the sticky bits with a splash of red wine, and scraped the fabulous goo into the stock pot. After adding fresh parsley stems, thyme, bay leaves, and black peppercorns to the mix, I brought the stock to a boil, reduced the heat, and let it simmer for a ridiculous 8 hours, skimming the scum along the way. Yep.

After several glasses of wine, supper, and a small nap, I strained the stock through a cheesecloth-lined chinois (excessive), placed the bowl of stock into an ice bath to cool, and slid it into the refrigerator to chill overnight.

Demi Glace/Borderlaise.
Bordelaise is simply a red wine-infused demi glace.
The next morning, I pulled the stock from the refrigerator and removed the layer of fat. I poured 2 cups of cabernet sauvignon into a stock pot, cranked the heat to high, brought the wine to a boil, turned the heat down to a simmer, and let the wine reduce by half before adding 3 tablespoons of tomato paste, and 8 cups of my reserved defatted beef stock. Going a bit new school without the roux-based Sauce Espagnole, I simmered the wine-infused stock for 4 1/2  hours. Crazy. When it reduced to 2 cups, I scattered a handful of fresh mint into the sauce to steep and let it simmer until it could coat the back of a spoon. After straining out the mint, I ladled the mint bordelaise into a small sauce pan and placed it over a very low flame.

The Extra Stuff.
During the down time, I baked  individual  potato gratins, pickled  a few radishes, and pureed a small bunch of boiled carrots with specks of citrusy sumac. Enough said. Garnish. Meat and three, so to speak.

Lamb.
I had a gorgeous 1 pound frenched 8 rib rack of lamb from Four Hills Farm in Slavisa, Kentucky. It was so petite and delicate, I certainly didn't want to muck it up. After bringing the lamb to room temperature, I brushed the lamb with olive oil before seasoning it with garlic powder, salt, and pepper. I cranked a cast iron skillet to medium high heat (dry) and browned the lamb rack on all sides, 4 minutes per side. I pulled the rack from the skillet and brushed it a thin coating of the simmering bordelaise before rolling it through a combination of minced fresh parsley, fresh snipped chives, and minced fresh rosemary. I packed the herbs onto the  flesh, tossed the rack of lamb back into the cast iron skillet (fat side up), and roasted it at 400 degrees until the internal temperature reached 125 degrees. After about 15 minutes, I pulled the lamb from the oven, removed it to a cutting board, tented it with foil, and let it  rest for 15 minutes.

After slicing the lamb rack between the tiny rib bones, I nestled the chops over the potato gratins, puddled the mint bordelaise around the ribs and smeared the sumac-scented carrot puree to the side before finishing with Bourbon County micro greens and quick pickled radishes.

Here's the deal. The demi glace/bordelaise might have been a little excessive and troublesome. I didn't care in the least. Happily dogged by trouble and excess, I had a blast. And the result? Ridiculous. The bordelaise was both intense and light. The subtle hints of mint poked through the heavily concentrated  sauce and offset the slight gaminess of the tender lamb. While the soft sumac-spiked carrot puree added whispers of perky creaminess, the radishes and micro greens provided biting acidic crunch. Perfect. That said,  it was all about the succulent lamb and rich bordelaise. At some point, we tossed our utensils. The ribs begged to be manhandled. Finger food.  Swipe. Eat. Repeat.

We had bones.
Full circle.