Christkind

Before my family moved back to the States, our Christmases in Vienna, Austria were filled with a hodgepodge of American, German, and Austrian traditions. Tucked away in our five story duplex apartment, we absorbed the mixed Bavarian traditions in our own American way.  It was all that I knew, so I went with the flow. Santa Claus didn't exist. We lived in a snowy world filled with St. Nickolas, Krampus (the anti-St. Nickolas), and the Christkind (the Christ Child gift-bringer).

In mid November, the Austrian Christmas Markets took center stage. Almost every main public square housed a market. While Frau Olga and I shopped the regular markets daily for the basic stuff we needed, the Christmas Markets were different. The glorious music, greenery, and religious icons were mere backdrops for the endless displays of ornaments, chocolates, marzipan, and cookies. Vienna bloomed during the Christmas season. Hand in hand, mitten in mitten, Frau Olga and I would make our way through the frantic streets and crowded trolleys of Vienna in search of the markets. Occasionally, when the aromas were too much to bear, we'd pause for hot roasted chestnuts sold by curbside vendors. Served straight from glowing hot grills and tossed into small paper bags, the heavenly warm chestnut steam soothed the bitter winter air. As a kid, I never had much time to take it all in. As a mitten-tied extension of Frau Olga's arm, I spent most of my time being pulled and yanked out of harms way. Still, there were stolen moments for chocolates and chestnuts.

As strange as it might seem, our home didn't reflect the spirit of the public celebrations wafting throughout the city. Whether my father followed his interpretation of tradition or used it as an excuse, we didn't decorate for Christmas. No tree. No stockings. Nothing. There were hints and nibbles along the way. On St. Nickolas Eve (December 5th), my brother and I would put our largest pairs of shoes or boots outside our apartment door hoping they'd be filled with really good stuff. Of course, that all depended on Krampus, the mean evil-horned-red-tongued beastly sidekick of St Nickolas. Following tradition, on December 6th, he and St Nickolas visited towns and villages throughout Austria to ask all the children if they'd been good or bad during the previous year. If they answered incorrectly, Krampus chased them down with his big crooked stick to beat the hell out of them. Merry Christmas. Thankfully, he never darkened our doorstep. That said, we still had to fess up to our goodness or badness. My brother's boots were usually filled with a mixed bag of good and evil. Sticks. Rocks. Coal. Candy. I fared a little better. Because my boots were too small to hold much of anything, they were always filled with liquor-filled chocolate figurines wrapped in brightly colored crinkled foil. Chomp the head and drink the booze. Yep. Bliss.

When Christmas Eve finally rolled around, it was like any other night. Frau Olga prepared supper and we'd help clean up the mess before going about our business of being boys. When I took to my bed on Christmas Eve, I knew the drill. Cold room. Cold bed. Closed door. Shuttered window. Darkness. Christmas Eve. In my anxious pretend sleep, I could hear things happening. Every year, the clatter eventually faded into white noise before giving way to the gentle smell of Frau Olga's Christmas Linzer cookies seeping through the cracks of my tall bedroom door.

The next morning, like magic, a fully decorated Christmas tree sat smack dab in the middle of the living room. Beneath the molten hot multicolored bulbs and dangling wrinkled tinsel, unwrapped gifts and toys spilled from the base of the glowing tree. Amid the Christmas litter, when the dust cleared, Frau Olga's Linzer cookies left for the Christkind were always left untouched.

I guess my dad never cared for Christmas cookies.
Our win. Wrapped in early morning glee, we laughed and played under poofs of powdered sugar.

Austrian Christmas Linzer Cookies.
Linzer cookies or Linzer "Eyes" are a derivative of the iconic Linzertore, one of the oldest known tortes created in the 17th century. Using the same dough recipe as the torte ( flour, butter, egg, toasted almonds or hazelnuts), the cookies are small sandwich cookies filled with jam peeking through cutouts. Traditionally, the cutouts were small round holes (Linzer eyes). Nowadays, Linzer cookies and their cutouts can be any shape possible.

After toasting 2 cups of raw whole almonds and letting them cool to room temperature, I ground them in a food processor until they resembled finely crumbled flour. In a small bowl I combined 2 cups flour, 2/3 cups ground almond flour, 1/4 teaspoon cinnamon, a pinch of allspice, freshly ground nutmeg, 1/2 teaspoon baking powder, and 1/4 teaspoon salt. In a separate bowl, I beat 2/3 cups sugar with 2 sticks of softened unsalted butter until the mixture was light and fluffy before adding 1 egg,
lemon zest, and 1 teaspoon of pure vanilla extract.


Adding 1/2 cup of the flour at time, I incorporated the flour mixture with the buttered sugar, kneaded it a few times to pull it together into a soft pliable dough, and divided it into two  1 1/2 inch thick discs, After wrapping each disc in plastic wrap, I slid them into the refrigerator to chill overnight.

The next morning, I let the dough relax on the counter for 30 minutes before rolling out  the dough about 1/8 inch thick. So, I had a fancy Linzer cookie cutter with a bottom cutter and a top cutter for the cutouts. The little things. After cutting  half of the dough into stars for the bottoms, I used the same cookie cutter with the star-shaped cutout insert to cut the other half of the dough into toppers.

I transferred the tops and bottoms to parchment-lined baking sheets and slid them into a preheated oven to bake for 10-12 minutes. When they were lightly golden brown, I pulled them from the oven and carefully placed them onto racks to cool.  When they were completely cooled, I inverted the bottom cookies and spread them with 1 teaspoon of seedless raspberry jam.  After dusting the tops with confectioners sugar, I carefully sandwiched the cookies together and allowed the glistening jam to gently squirt through the small star-shaped cutouts. Spiced crunchy Christmas cookies with sweet sticky jam topped with soft powdered snow.

A Linzer  lullaby.

Pig In A Blanket

I only know one way to prepare and cook a Christmas country ham.

Marge and Dad married when I was 14 years old.  After they married, we moved from my grandparent's house to the other side of the farm into a home that my father built by himself from the ground up. Shaded under a patch of maple trees alongside Barren River Lake, the house was a fantastic base camp for an adventurous kid hell-bent on summertime shenanigans. Our house was special. It seemed to change and breathe with the seasons as if it were part of the landscape.  In the fall, multicolored maple leaves burned brilliant silhouettes into the crisp blue sky. Come winter, the bare branches danced over the house like floating sticks while casting flickering thin shadows across  the frozen ground. In an unassuming way, holidays in our home were low key and wonderfully magical.

Year after year, sometime during the Thanksgiving weekend, we'd pile into my father's orange GMC pickup truck to scour the farm for the perfect cedar Christmas tree. After hauling the tree home, we'd rearrange the furniture and gently secure the tree into its corner before decorating it with handmade wooden ornaments and fresh cranberry garlands. During the days and weeks leading up to Christmas, banisters were magnolia-ed and and wreaths were hung until the house was bedecked. Christmas in Port Oliver. Even so, it wasn't quite Christmas until the country ham arrived. Now, the ham didn't just appear on the Christmas table in the blink of an eye. It took days to prepare, relegating it to the status of house guest. Working in tandem, Marge and dad prepped, scrubbed, soaked, simmered, wrapped, and baked the beloved ham for Christmas Eve dinner. For years, I watched closely and learned how to prepare country ham the old fashioned way. While there are countless methods for cooking a whole uncooked cured country ham, I only know of one way to capture the taste of my Christmases past.

With my family's early Christmas gathering looming on the horizon, I journeyed home.

Christmas Ham.
A good Christmas ham starts with a great ham. Browning's Country Ham, from Dry Ridge, cures and ages their hams for 12 months. Both mild and robust, it's one of the go-to hams around these parts. When I had a hard time locating a retail source for their hams, I simply called them. Boom. In three days, a 14 pound whole uncooked country ham arrived on our front stoop bundled up to keep the varmints at bay.

Cleaning, Soaking. Simmering. Wrapping. Finishing.
Although I was forewarned to expect mold, it got the best of me. When I ripped open the butcher paper surrounding the ham, plumes of green-ashen powdered mold exploded from the package. Caught by the rays of the morning sun, the dust cloud dangled in the light for what seemed like an eternity. When the ash finally settled, I was covered in pungent funk. It was hysterical.  After a quick wipe down and clean up, I scrubbed the ham under warm water with a sturdy brush to remove the mold. Luckily, I had an enormous canning pot large enough to accommodate the ham. After plopping it into the pot, I filled it enough water to cover the ham, maneuvered the lid over the protruding bone (most folks remove the hock), and scooted the ham into a corner of the kitchen to soak for 2 days, changing the water
every 12 hours.

On the third day, I drained off the water and lifted the pot containing the plumped ham onto the stove top. After filling it with cold water, I topped it off with 6 bottles of Ale-8-One soda and a cup of pure maple syrup before cranking the heat to high. When the sweet gingery water came to a boil, I reduced it to a gentle simmer, covered the pot, and let it rip for 5 1/2 hours, about 25 minutes per pound.

When the internal temperature reached 160 degrees, Michael and I carefully removed the pot from the heat before wrapping the entire pot with several old quilts to let the ham slowly steep in its own juices overnight. Yep. Overnight. Pig in a blanket. When I was a kid, I knew it was coming on Christmas when the quilted ham blob made its way out to the enclosed back deck for its overnight rest.

The next morning, I carefully removed the ham to a roasting pan and discarded the cooking liquid along a fence row in our backyard. Still hot from the quilted insulation, I removed the skin from the ham and trimmed some off some of  the fat.

I lightly scored the soft fat cap on top of the ham, splashed the meat with bourbon, slathered the entire surface with good dijon mustard, and encrusted it with a thin layer of light brown sugar before sliding it into a preheated 400 degree oven.

When the brown sugar dissolved into the mustard and started to caramelize, I pulled the ham from the over to rest. At that stage, it could have been wrapped and chilled. Didn't happen.  After letting it rest for 30 minutes, I transferred the ham to a serving platter, scattered a few quartered Red Bartlett pears to the side, and finished with fresh lovage from my garden.

Down and dirty Christmas ham.
A pure labor of love.

A tender trip to Bountiful.

Persimmons

As Michael and I packed up the gorgeous array of wrapped gifts and gifts bags from our reception, he handed me a small bag and said, "June brought some kind of fruit." I peeked into the bag and instead of tapping into my inner squeal, I actually screeched like an untamed tenor, "Persimmons! I love persimmons!" Yep, I did. It must have ricocheted off of every old plaster wall throughout the building, echoing, --immons, --immons, --immons. It's true, I adore persimmons. They're just so beautiful and odd.

Teetering on the edge of utter simplicity, persimmons are a very versatile autumn fruit. Technically, because of some sort of genus or something or other, they're actually classified as a berry, much like tomatoes. Although there are several varieties of persimmons, hachiya and fuyu are the most common. Oval shaped hachiya persimmons are very astringent and are best eaten when extremely ripe.  Their sweet mushy flesh is ideal for baked goods, cakes, tarts, pies, and various other desserts. Squatty tomato-shaped fuyu persimmons, on the other hand, are best eaten when firm and almost under ripe. Simply sliced or diced, fuyu persimmons are great tossed into salads or eaten as snacks.  That said, fuyus can also be cooked and treated like any other traditional autumn fruit.  With mango, banana, and apricot undertones, fuyu persimmons are fantastic sidekicks when paired alongside succulent roasted meats like duck, goose, turkey, or ham.


Wrapped in tissue and tucked into a gift bag, our dear friend had given us a mother load of fuyu persimmons. Total win. Sure, I could have tossed them into a kale salad and called it a day. Nope. With visions of holiday turkeys and hams dancing in my head, I roasted them.

Skillet Roasted Persimmons.

After coring the crackled flower ends from the persimmons, I sliced them half and nestled them into a large cast iron skillet. Feeling a bit dandy, I drizzled them with dark rum, covered them with heavy aluminum foil, and slid the skillet into a pre-heated 350 degree oven to bake/roast/steam for an hour. When they were fork tender, I drizzled them with local honey, fresh squeezed lime juice, and a sprinkling of turbinado sugar before sliding them under the broiler. When they started to blister and char, I pulled the persimmons from the broiler to cool.

To dial back the sweet factor, I finished with a heavy-handed dusting of flaky sea salt, additional fresh lime juice, and lime zest.

While the caramelized honey and sugar added a smoky deep sweetness to the subtly sweet flesh, the aggressive salt and lime zest provided a bright tangy crunch. A perfect combo.

Simple.
Fresh.
Fabulous.

Sprouts

We all have our favorite side dishes that  absolutely must accompany roasted turkey on our Thanksgiving tables. For many of us, those familiar flavors are steeped in deep-rooted family traditions. For the past few years, Michael and I have spent Thanksgiving day alone in our house clad in pajamas drinking Beaujolais Nouveau while sliding holiday dishes in and out the of the oven like a choreographed ballet. Glorious organized chaos. That said, we've always had two very different notions and traditions that surround the side dishes that grace our Thanksgiving table. Because they're so deep-rooted, we can't eliminate anything and wind up having everything. Thanksgiving. One enormous brined, stuffed, roasted, basted, and glazed 15 pound  turkey  for two with 13 side dishes. Bliss.

Last year, Michael's sister invited us over for a family Thanksgiving meal. As any dutiful invited guest should do, I asked what we could bring to the feast. She requested brussels sprouts. Specifically, creamy blue cheese brussels sprouts with bacon, a dish she'd fallen head over heels for at an area restaurant. Interesting prospect. Unusual, yet interesting. While we love brussels sprouts, I'd never thought about serving them at Thanksgiving. That changed when we took our little show on the road over the hills and through the woods toting a restaurant riff on those beloved brussels sprouts. Everyone loved them, even the skeptical self-proclaimed brussels sprouts haters. With sweet sherry undertones tempering the soft pungency of the melted blue cheese, the earthy sprouts didn't compete or overpower the traditional food on the table. Their eccentric oddity actually complimented the familiar tastes of Thanksgiving. An accidental win.

It's funny, while I love brussels sprouts prepared just about any way possible, that particular method(with some tweaks and variations) has been my go-to preparation for them since that Thanksgiving day.

Pan-Roasted Brussels Sprouts with Gorgonzola Cream and Prosciutto.
Seriously, they were so simple and quick to throw together.  Perfect for a busy food day. Or even a lazy late night snack.

I clipped the root ends off of a pound of fresh brussels sprouts and sliced them in half. After heating vegetable oil in a large skillet over a medium high flame until it started to smoke, I carefully placed the brussels sprouts, cut sides down, into the sizzling oil. When they started to caramelize, I showered them salt and cracked black pepper before flipping them over in the skillet to sear on the other side. After adding a scant tablespoon of minced shallots, I deglazed the pan with 1/4 cup sherry combined with 1/4 cup chicken stock, covered the skillet, and let the sprouts steam for 3 minutes before removing the lid to reduce the stock. When the last drop of sherry-infused stock evaporated into an airy wisp, I added 1 cup heavy cream and 4 ounces of sliced gorgonzola cheese.  Within minutes, the pungent thickened cream enveloped the pan-roasted sprouts. Although that could have been enough, I took it one step further. I spooned the creamy sprouts into buttered gratin dishes, crumbled additional gorgonzola cheese over the sprouts, and slid them under a flaming broiler.

I pulled the gratins from the oven to calm the bubbling charred cheese before finishing with snipped chives and oven-crisped prosciutto crumbles.



Unconventional.
Unexpected.

A perfect Thanksgiving
party crasher.

Ice Cream In The Pumpkin Patch

Make no mistake about it, we are ice cream people. Big time ice cream people. One year, in lieu of exchanging anniversary gifts, Michael and I pooled our money and bought a mack daddy tabletop ice cream maker. At any given moment on any given day, we'll have some form of ice cream tucked away in the freezer. I can practically make it in my sleep. Some folks might think that ice cream is a seasonal treat.  Seasonal, as in the summer season. Sure, there's nothing better than bellying up to a cooling cone, bowl, or carton of ice cream on a blistering hot day. That said, it doesn't have to be relegated to summer. Ice cream can be seasonally seasonal. Think about it. The possibilities are endless.

Kicking through the gravel paths at the farmers' market, stacks and stacks of sugar pumpkins lulled me into daydreaming about the upcoming holidays. Or, most importantly the food associated with the holidays. Thinking about the usual suspects, my drooling mind zeroed in on pumpkin ice cream. Why not? There'll be pies galore wherever we turn. Pumpkin soup might even enter the picture. Pumpkin scones. Pumpkins biscuits. Pumpkin rolls. Pumpkin muffins. Pumpkin everything. Still, surrounded by pumpkins smack dab in the middle of an urban pumpkin patch, I drifted back to ice cream. Pumpkin ice cream.  Eaten on its own, scooped onto warm pumpkin pie for a holiday double whammy, or dolloped into steaming hot coffee for a sweet creamy boost, pumpkin ice cream could possibly be the white-canvas flavor bomb of the
season.

Because I'm not a baker, I've never given much thought to the debate surrounding the use of canned pumpkin versus fresh pumpkin. I have given a lot thought to  knowing where my food comes from as well as the faces behind the food. So, canned or fresh? Although it probably wouldn't have mattered, it's pumpkin season right now, for pity's sake. Why waste the riches?

Pumpkin Ice Cream.
Fresh Pumpkin.

It was probably as simple as opening a can. I halved a smallish Madison County sugar pumpkin (sometimes referred to as pie pumpkin), scooped out the seeds, reserved the seeds, plopped the two halves onto a baking sheet cut side down, and slid them into a preheated oven to roast for 1 hour before pulling them from the oven to cool.  When they were cool enough to handle, I scraped the soft yellow flesh into a food mill and turned it into a delicate puree. After a quick whisk, I slid it into the refrigerator to chill for a couple of hours.

Custard.
Gosh, I've tried every ratio possible. In the end, I used my tried and true method. Using an electric hand held mixture (old school), I whipped 5 egg yolks with 1 cup light brown sugar, 1/2 teaspoon ground cinnamon, 1/2 teaspoon ground ginger, and 1/4 teaspoon freshly grated nutmeg. After heating 1 1/2 cups heavy cream combined with  1 1/2 cups  whole milk to a low simmer, I gradually mixed the warmed dairy with the egg mixture to temper the eggs before adding the combined mixture back to the simmering cream. When the custard was thick enough to coat the back of a wooden spoon, I strained it through a fine mesh strainer, and added 2 teaspoons of thick Madagascar Bourbon pure vanilla bean extract before blending it with 1 1/4 cups of the chilled fresh pumpkin puree. Thinking it was still a bit grainy from the puree, I passed it through the mesh strainer again for a smoother consistency and slid it into the refrigerator to chill.

Churn.
The easy part. I poured the pumpkin custard into the chilled ice cream canister, clamped on the lid, and let rip for 25 minutes before scooping the ice cream into a plastic container and tossing into the freezer to set up.

Gilding the Lily.
The seeds were a no brainer. I rinsed the seeds under warm water to release them from the fibrous pulp and dried them with a clean dish towel before tossing them with 2 tablespoons melted butter, 1 heaping tablespoon sugar, a dusting of cinnamon, and a pinch of sea salt. After a quick mix, I slid the seeds into a 350 oven for about 8-10 minutes to toast and caramelize.

Maple Spun Sugar.
Yep.
Here's the deal, I might not excel at sweets, but I can spin sugar. Although it can be dangerously tricky, it's actually quite simple and fun. Now, I didn't want to go all croquembouche, spinning fine delicate sugar threads  all over the kitchen like a whirling dervish. I wanted sturdy shards of shatteringly crunchable spun sugar. Edible sugar glass.

I combined 1 cup sugar with 1/2 water, 1 tablespoon corn syrup, and 1 teaspoon pure maple syrup in a small cast iron skillet. After cranking the heat to medium, the sugar and corn syrup slowly dissolved into the water. Without stirring, I let the mixture bubble and rip until it reached the hard crack stage, 300-312  degrees on a candy thermometer. Working quickly and very carefully, I drizzled and twirled the molten maple sugar concoction over a non-stick silicone mat. It was a one shot deal. Spun sugar has a mind of its own. It waits for no one. Just before the melted amber sugar solidified into maple stained glass, I scattered a few candied pumpkins seeds into the lacy shards.

Pumpkin ice cream.
Candied seeds.
Spun sugar.
Decadent win.

Cheers to quiet daydreams
in the pumpkin patch.

Market Tagine

Caught under long cool shadows cast by the trees surrounding the Tuesday/Thursday market on a brisk autumn morning, I found myself quietly prowling for autumn/winter squash. It was easy to get swept away with the varieties of squash spilling from cardboard boxes and tumbling from truck beds. Although tempted by the assortment of cool stuff, this time of year I've always been a sucker for butternut squash. Lending itself to both sweet and savory applications, butternut  is probably the easiest squash to deal with and the most versatile. Typically, I roast seeded butternut squash halves cut side down, scoop the flesh into a blender, add a little stock, a few seasonings, and puree the hell out of it before mixing it with cream and  additional stock for a delicate velvety soup. Whether cooking for hundreds of people or for a quiet dinner at home,  I can't count how many times I've prepared and served that soup. Because it's a no brainer, lusty butternut squash soup has always been my go-to culinary transitional dance from summer to autumn.

This year, I changed things up. Armed with an armload of Casey County butternut and acorn squash,
I ditched my usual dance card.

The exotic tone of Moroccan spices are actually quite similar to the warming spices we play with this time of year. With that in mind, I danced down the silk road with an seductive riff on winter squash tagine. Tagines are North African ceramic conical cooking vessels as well as the meals that are stewed inside of them. Braised food within a braising pot. Low and slow. Although I used a tagine because I had one, any oven safe dish with a tight fitting lid would have worked beautifully.

Here's the deal, braised anything is rough around the edges. Cooked low and slow, whatever gets tossed into the pot (meats and/or vegetables) eventually breaks down and melts into a lovely concentrated essence of its former self. Deep. Succulent. Sexy. Although I love a down and dirty braise, I wanted to dial it back with a delicate bent. While I could have simply chopped the peeled squash for the tagine, I had a little fun and took it a wee bit further.

Butternut Squash Tagine.
An autumn vegetable stew.

Squash.
I hacked the neck from the bulbous end of a large butternut squash. After slicing off both ends of the neck, I stood it on one end and used a very sharp knife to peel and square off the neck until it resembled a gorgeous orange brick before slicing it into very thin rectangles. Using a vegetable peeler, I peeled the skin from the remaining bulbous end, scoop out the seeds, split it in half, and sliced it into thin half-moons.

For contrast in color and texture, I didn't bother peeling the thin-skinned acorn squash. I simply halved it, scooped out the seeds, and sliced it into half moons.

Assembly. The fun part.
To give the tagine structure and form, I snaked the pave' ( paving stones) slices down the center of the dish before wedging the remaining half-moons to the side. To offset the inherent sweetness of the squash, I nestled a few salted sliced lemon halves wherever I could make them fit.

The Silk Road. Happy Dance.
I didn't want to drown the squash in stock. Typically, when braising, the liquid used should measure about halfway up the sides of whatever is being braised. After blooming a pinch of saffron in 1 cup chicken stock, I set the stock aside and slivered a medium sized shallot. I sauteed the paper thin shallot ribbons in a drizzle of olive oil over a medium flame. Just before the shallots turned translucent, I added 1/2 teaspoon each: dried ginger, turmeric, paprika, nutmeg, cinnamon, cumin,  allspice, coriander, and ras el hanout. As the spices swirled through the softened shallots, I added a tablespoon of fiery harissa and deglazed the pan with the saffron-spiked chicken stock before adding 1/2 cup dried cranberries, 1/2 cup diced dried apricots, 2 tablespoons honey, salt, and cracked black pepper.

When the dried fruit plumped in the reduced spiced stock, I poured the stock over the squash, dusted it  with citrusy sumac,  placed the conical lid onto the tagine base, and slid it into a preheated 350 degree oven to braise for 1 hour.

After an hour, drunk from the aroma, I pulled the tagine from the oven, removed the lid to release the steam, and let it cool a bit before finishing with fresh parsley and quartered fresh Black Mission figs.

Booya.

With staggering layers of flavor and depth, the seemingly dainty tagine packed a crazy potent punch. Spicy. Sweet. Salty. Tart. Smoky. Like delicate edible sponges kissed with exotic perfume, the achingly tender squash absorbed the complex warmth of the aromatic stock and  fragrant  steam. Tucked beneath the fresh fleshy figs, speckles of plumped fruit countered the slight acidity of the lemons and heady heat of the harissa.

Stewed butternut squash.
Sexy.
Intoxicating.
Fabulous.

The Cusp

Yep, it's that time of year when confusion runs wild at the farmer's market. Not wanting the good times to end, it's hard to let go as the vibrant colors of summer slowly segue into the muted tones of fall. For a short time (the cusp), it's a crazy game of mix and match when gorgeous pumpkins, buffed chestnuts, decorative gourds, and leafy wild celery vie for the attention of a few late season plump tomatoes. Throw the dice. Bang the drum slowly. The colors are changing. We're dancing on the cusp.

That said, as the seemingly somber hues of winter squash, pumpkins, gourds, and green beans take over the farm tables, regal jewel-toned varieties of eggplant are still going strong. I've seen several varieties of eggplant (Globe, Thai, White, Graffiti, Japanese, Chinese, and Indian)  at the farmer's market. Smitten by their smooth purple skins glistening in the early morning light, I snagged a few bundles of slender Asian eggplant from Stonehedge Farm for a simple cusp season oven-roasted eggplant salad.

Farmer's Market Roasted Eggplant and Tomato Salad.
After rinsing a pound (total) of Japanese, Chinese, and Graffiti eggplant on the bias, I scattered them onto a sheet tray. Because they were so tender and fresh, there was no need to salt them. I pulled a handful of Henkle's Herbs and Heirlooms Red Zebra tomatoes from the window sill, quartered them, and tossed them with the eggplant slices before  tumbling a pint of whole Garey Farms cherry tomatoes into the mix along with slivers of Casey County candy onions.

After drizzling the tomatoes, eggplants slices, and onions with olive oil, I showered them with salt and cracked black pepper. I gave everything a quick hand toss and slid the sheet pan into a preheated 400 degree oven to roast for 45 minutes, turning the pan every 15 minutes.

I pulled the caramelized onions, collapsed tomatoes, and softened eggplant slices from the oven to cool.  When the fragrant steam lifted, I scooped them into a bowl, added 1/2 cup capers, a handful of halved fresh mozzarella bocconcini balls, purple basil leaves, quartered Green Zebra tomatoes, and fresh parsley before tossing the salad with a basic vinaigrette ( 1/2 minced shallot, 1/2 cup extra virgin olive oil, 1 teaspoon dijon mustard, 3 tablespoons apple cider vinegar, salt, and Pepper).

As the roasted tomatoes melted into the earthy eggplant, the juices wrapped the slices with a slight sweet acidity that countered the sweet tart perkiness of the fresh Green Zebras. While the halved bocconcini provided firm creaminess, the capers added subtle briny crunch.

Dancing on the cusp with a simple eggplant salad.