Bourbon Balls

The weeks and days  leading up the annual Kentucky Bourbon Festival always fill me with nostalgia. Long before bourbon and food formed the perfect marriage, the Culinary Arts: Bourbon Style-Cooking School filled a fun niche for a lucky few of the thousands of people attending the annual two week festival held in September smack dab in the middle of National Bourbon Heritage Month.  Limited to 250 (give or take a few). it was one of the first events to sell out months before the festival welcomed the world to Bardstown, Ky to celebrate our beloved Bluegrass elixir. For consecutive years, I was fortunate enough to lead a team and take our little show a few miles down the road to set up, mise, cook, perform demos, and serve bourbon inspired 4 course dinners in a small event space tucked under century old magnolias and maples on the overly quaint grounds of My Old Kentucky Home State Park. Washing over our controlled chaos, haunting tower bells tolled the languid music of  "My Old Kentucky Home" throughout the serene grounds of the park. In the heat of the action,  those echoing bells calmed, energized, and grounded my sense of self as a simple hard cooking Kentucky boy. So, yes. As the Bourbon Festival nears, I grow  nostalgic for a sip of that serenity and the slow glorious burn of cooking with bourbon. Eat, drink, and be merry.

Great balls of bourbon! 

Not all bourbon balls are created equal. Oh sure, we all adore our iconic, potent, and  addictive chocolate delicacies laced with copious amounts of bourbon, but sometimes it's fun to think outside of the box and take a little ride on the wild side.

Blugrass Arancini. 
(Bourbon Meatball Fried Rice Balls)

Arancini, deep fried rice balls made with leftover risotto filled with cheese or meat, are an ingenious way to utilize leftover rice. And while a well made risotto is a creamy ethereal dream, any forthcoming arancini  captures the dream in another state with deep fried crunch. Enough said.

Risotto.
Risotto doesn't have to be a chore.  All it takes is a little organization, time, attention, and 20 minutes of patience. Have fun with it. Just about anything can be incorporated into risotto. To let the bourbon stand out, I steered clear of an all out classic saffron-infused Milaniase risotto and went straight up basic.

I warmed 5 cups chicken stock in a stock pot over a medium flame and parked it on a back burner to simmer on medium low.

After sauteing  1 minced shallot in 2 tablespoons butter and 2 tablespoons olive oil until the shallots turned translucent, I added salt, pepper, and 1 1/2 cups arborio rice, turning the rice in the oil/butter combo to coat all the grains. When the glistening rice turned opaque, I hit the pan with 1/2 cup white wine and let it reduce before adding 1 cup of the warm chicken stock. When the rice absorbed most of the first installment of stock, I added additional stock in 1/2 cup increments, allowing the rice to absorb the stock after each addition before adding another.  After about 20 minutes, the rice was perfectly al dente and creamy.

While the risotto was still steaming hot, I added 2 tablespoons butter and 1/2 cup Parmigiano-Reggiano cheese. After pulling the risotto from the heat, I whipped it like a mad man before pouring it into a buttered sheet pan and sliding it into the refrigerator to chill and set.

Bourbon Balls.
Instead of simply coating the meatballs with a fabulous bourbon glaze, I bourbonized them through and through.
Meat. Caramelized onions. Bourbon.

After heating 2 tablespoons neutral oil in a large saute pan over a medium flame until the oil started to shimmer, I tumbled  2 1/2 cups finely sliced Casey candy onions into the hot  pan, showered them with salt to release their juices, reduced the heat to medium low, and let the onions go low and slow for about 35 minutes. When the onions were on the brink of caramelizing, I pulled the saute pan off of the heat, added 1/2 cup Bulliet bourbon, returned the pan to heat, flamed the bourbon, allowed the flames to subside, and added  1/4 cup balsamic vinegar along with 1/3 cup brown sugar before reducing the heat  and letting the onions rip until they melted into sexy strands of sticky bourbon-spiked  onion candy.

After pulling the caramelized onions from the heat, I minced half of the onions (reserved the other half) and set them aside.

Where's the beef?
After feathering 1 pound Jerod's grass fed ground beef into a large mixing bowl, I added 1/2 cup of the minced bourbon onions, 1/2 cup Parmigiano-Reggiano, 1 egg yolk, a splash of fresh bourbon, 1 minced garlic clove, salt, and cracked black pepper. Being mindful not to over mix the meat, I gently combined the ingredients, rolled the mixture into 3/4" meatballs, and placed them onto a greased sheet pan before sliding them into a preheated 350 oven. When the boozy balls were cooked through (about 15 minutes), I pulled them from the oven and set them aside to cool.

Wrap it up.
When the bourbon balls were cool enough to handle, I pulled the chilled risotto from the fridge, flattened about 3 tablespoons of risotto in the palm of my hand to about 1/4" thickness, wrapped the bourbon balls in a layer of risotto, sealed the balls within the risotto, rolled them until smooth, and set
them aside.

Flour. Egg wash. Crumb.
Dry hand. Wet Hand.
Fry.

After dredging the arancini in seasoned flour, I dipped them egg wash, rolled them through herb-flecked fresh breadcrumbs, and carefully dropped them into a preheated 360 degree deep fryer.
When they turned golden brown, I pulled them from the oil to drain on paper towels.

While still warm, I tumbled the crispy bourbon balls onto fresh basil leaves nestled over the reserved caramelized onions and  pierced them with bamboo basil picks before finishing with flaked sea salt,  and quick-pickled Stonehedge hot chilies.

Raise a glass!
And have a ball.

Corn Days

Summer hits full throttle when the corn trucks back into our local markets and dot the sides of our county roads. Spilling from truck beds with reckless abandon, the fresh picked ears embody the essence of summer. Gather and shuck. For some folks, shucking corn is a mundane chore. Not this guy. Shucking corn, layer by layer until the wispy silks fly into the air like delicate gossamer threads,  gets me every time. It never gets old. Silver Queen. Ambrosia. Peaches and Cream. Bi-Colored. Any Variety. Any time. All the time. When the first waves of corn start rolling in, the first few dozen might best be eaten straight from the cob slathered in butter and dusted with salt.
After that, anything goes.

Chipotle -Tomato Jam Glazed Shrimp and Chorizo with Mexican Street Corn Salad

Full throttle.

Jamming.
Whether it's for work or for play, I make a lot of tomato jam. It takes a little time, but it's very forgiving and the payoff is huge. Here's deal with the tomato jam.  Even with hints of warm spice, fresh ginger, garlic, vinegar, and sugar lending complex tangy sweetness, the not-too-sweet long simmered jam still packs a big fresh tomato punch. Almost any tomato variety works for jam. During tomato season, I usually gather the culls and the uglies. If those aren't available, I shoot for the heirlooms. No seeding or peeling necessary. The peels add body and texture to the jam.

After coring 4 pounds of very ripe Mercer County heirloom tomatoes, I diced them into 1" pieces and tossed them into a large stock pot, adding the residual seeds and juice. After cranking the heat to medium high, I added 1 cup light brown sugar, 1 cup white sugar, 1/4 cup lemon juice, 1/4 cup balsamic vinegar, 1 heaping tablespoon freshly grated ginger, 1 teaspoons cinnamon, 1/4 teaspoon ground clove, 1/4 teaspoon allspice, salt, and cracked black pepper. When the tomatoes started to bubble and spit, I reduced the heat to a simmer and let the jam rip for 2 1/2 hours, stirring occasionally and adding a splash of water if it appeared too dry. When it reduced to the  sticky consistency of jam, I finished with 2 tablespoons reduced balsamic to boost the sweet tang and a generous dusting of salt to level the playing field.  When the jam was cool enough to handle, I spooned it into a 1 quart mason jar and slid it into the fridge to chill.

Chipotle-Tomato Jam Glaze.
Kicking it up.
After warming 1 1/2  cups of the reserved tomato jam over a low flame, I added 1 minced chipotle
pepper in adobo sauce  along with 1 tablespoon of the smoky sauce. When the chipotle pepper melted into the jam, I pulled it from heat and set it aside.

Skewering.
Surf 'n' Turf on sticks.
After peeling and deveining 1 pound 16/20 count large shrimp, I nestled 3/4" thick half moon slices of smoked Spanish chorizo into the curved nooks of the shrimp, skewered them with pre-soaked wooden bamboo skewers, wrapped the skewers with blanched Marion County green onions, brushed the shrimp with the chipotle tomato jam, and set them aside to marinate.

Shucking.
Leaving the husks intact for easy handling,  I peeled back  the husks, layer by layer, from 5 large Benton Farm Ambrosia corn cobs, pulled the feathery silks away, and tossed the ears (along with 2 halved limes) onto an oiled hot grill until they started to blister (about 4 minutes per turn). Just before the corn popped, I pulled the ears from the grill and carefully sliced the kernels from the cobs.




Esquites
Mexican Street Corn Salad.
Packed with the same ingredients as Elotes, grilled Mexican street corn on the cob, Esquites is the somewhat less messy daintier version. Forget the corn facial.

After mixing the warm cut off corn kernels with 2 tablespoons fresh squeezed grilled lime juice, I added 1 1/2 tablespoons mayo, 1 1/2 tablespoons Mexican crema, 1/3 cup Cojita cheese, 4 sliced green onions, 3 tablespoons minced fresh cilantro, 8 halved Pulaski County Sun Gold cherry tomatoes. 2 teaspoons ancho chili powder, salt, and cracked black pepper.

With the salad on deck, I slid the shrimp/chorizo skewers onto the grill and turned them from time to time, brushing them with additional chipotle tomato jam after each turn, until the shrimp cooked through, about 4 minutes per side. When the shrimp caramelized from the smoky heat,  I pulled skewers  from the grill, and nestled them over the esquites.

After splashing the shrimp and chorizo skewers with grilled fresh lime juice, I finished with a sprinkling of salt, a dusting of chili powder, fresh cilantro, scallion spears, extra grilled limes, and halved Pulaski County perky red cherry tomatoes.


Corn Daze.

Full throttle.

Get your summer on.

Eat Your Vegetables

Come summer, I long for the smell of my grandmother's  floral cotton dresses. Almost threadbare from wear, they smelled of powder, lavender, love, and hard work. Draped across her belly with miss-matched aprons adorned with large patchwork pockets,  those faded cotton dresses were the summer uniforms she donned to take care of the homestead and tend to the garden. Just steps from the back door and enclosed with barbed wire fencing covered in grape vines to keep the cattle at bay, the garden always needed tending. Apple trees edged the garden like watchtowers , providing shade from the sun and respite from the heat. It was my secret garden. Her secret garden. Lush. Private. Safe.

Although every summer day seemed like high season on the farm, midsummer upped the garden ante. Warm sun-kissed tomatoes hung heavy form their vines or fell to the ground begging to be gathered, sliced, salted, and eaten. Greens beans always needed snapping. Carrots and onions had to be pulled. All the while, endless meandering vines of summer squash and cucumbers twisted their way through everything. Gardening. Country work. Hard work. Armed with her curious aprons (the tools of her trade), my grandmother methodically worked the rows of the garden, filling her pockets with whatever was ripe for the picking. When she wasn't gathering, she was cooking. No the matter the hits and misses along the way, she plodded on and cooked with crazed abandon. Her fried green tomatoes and  marinated cucumbers  were the stuff of dreams. When the corn rolled in,  her fresh pan fried corn could make farm hands weep.  That said, there were times when she drowned boiled carrots in off brand margarine, obliterated summer squash before smothering them in black pepper, and hammered green beans until they became one with her bacon grease. Either too young to care or too naive to know better, I loved every single bite. Like a good farm boy, I ate my vegetables. I adored my vegetables. I still do. And while I don't much obliterate or boil them to death these days, I still enjoy a bit of heat and char.


Pan Roasted Chili Glazed  Carrots And Radishes.

Heat.
Not my grandmother's heavy handed back pepper.
After blooming 1 tablespoon smoked paprika in 2 tablespoons unsalted butter over a medium flame, I added 3/4 cup Cracklin' Hen hot pepper sauce, 1/4 cup local honey, and 2 tablespoons brown sugar. When the honey melted into the sweetened buttery hot sauce, I pulled it from the heat and set it aside.

The roots of the matter. 
What grows together goes together.
Even banged up with dirt and soil, French breakfast radishes are stunners. When bunched together, they explode from their feathery greens to steal the show. I'm a sucker for showstoppers. Tossed in salads or swiped through butter with a dab of salt, raw radishes bring peppery spice to the party.When cooked, they transform into sweet translucent jewels with surprisingly mild turnip-like undertones.
Game on.

I simply snipped the greens off a hearty large bunch of Stonehedge Farm French radishes, gave them a quick wash, and set them aside.

Bunched up as stubs or bundled up as slender beauties, locally gown tender sweet carrots have no comparison. Beauty plays second fiddle to taste. Without much fuss, I sliced the carrot tops from 1 pound Stonehedge pencil thin carrots. Leaving the fragile skins intact, I gently rinsed the unpeeled carrots, and set them aside.

My grandmother knew her way around a cast iron skillet. Most farm folks did and still do. Count me in. These days, they might seem old fashioned in the age of sous vide and high performance cookware, but they've endured for a reason. They're workhorses. For the lucky few, our hand-me- down cast iron  skillets are tangible tactile legacies seasoned with time and love.

After sliding a large cast iron skillet over a medium high flame, I add 2 tablespoons bacon grease (from my stash) and 1 tablespoon butter. Just before the butter took on color, I tumbled the carrots and radishes (reserving a few radishes) into the pan and let them rip, undisturbed, for about 5 minutes. When they started to caramelize just a bit, I turned the vegetables over, shook the skillet to settle them down into the oil, and let them go for another 5 minutes before adding 1/4 cup of the chili sauce.  After cranking the heat to medium high, I let the chili sauce reduce until the carrots and radishes were draped in a light spicy sweet glaze.

I pulled the skillet from the heat, splashed the vegetables with fresh lemon juice, and  hit them with kosher salt before finishing with Mercer County micro greens, Elmwood pea shoots,  and the reserved fresh radishes.

Painted with blistered spice, the earthy sweetness of the tender carrots and cooked radishes tempered the muted fire of the brick colored glaze. While the greens added pokes of freshness, the perky raw radishes provided bright peppery crunch.
Fabulous.

I  have one of my grandmother's tattered aprons.
And I store bacon fat in the fridge.

And like a good urban farm boy,
I eat my vegetables.

Hot Potato

Sliding into summer, the warmer weather teases, tugs, and pulls us outside for backyard barbecues and outdoor cookouts. We make big plans,  hit our farmers markets for local produce, and  dream of the beautifully smoked meats, caramelized char, and aromatic smoke poofs that signal summer has arrived. Lost in the wafts of scented smoke, the thrill of the grill is real. Even then, it's good to know  that grill fests don't always have to be about the big guns.  Almost anything can be slapped over burning coals or fire. Local fruits, vegetables, and the all important sides sing when kissed with hints of smoke and char.

Sides Matter.

I'm a potato salad junkie. I have a pinky-swear relationship with any and all kinds of potato salads. Mustard based. Mayo based. Egged. Baconed. Mashed. Cubed. Chunked.  Hot. Warm. Cold. Been there, love them all. While I'm a total sucker for southern creamy potato salads, my German heritage inherently sparks my  fondness for German versions,  served warmish enveloped with a bacony sweet/tart dressing. Creamy, tangy, tart, or sweet, I'm an easy to please bi-coastal, tri-coastal, intercontinental potato salad loving  Kentucky boy.

Grilled Potato Salad With A Fresh Herb Vinaigrette.
A simple salad meets the thrill of the grill.

Dressed.
Taking advantage of the abundance of fresh herbs, I went full throttle with an herb forward vinaigrette.

After whisking together 12 tablespoons extra virgin olive oil, 1/2 cup apple cider vinegar, 2 tablespoons Wallace Station Bourbon Mustard, and 1 tablespoon Oberholtser's Sorghum, I added  2 cloves minced garlic, 1 minced Casey County baby leek (white part only, about 3"), 2 tablespoons snipped fresh garden chives, 1 tablespoon diced Fresno chili pepper, 2 tablespoons minced fresh parsley, 2 tablespoons minced fresh dill, and 2 tablespoons capers. Using a wooden spoon, I gently folded the herbs into the vinaigrette and set it aside.


Fire.
With a little prep, potatoes are fabulous on the grill.
I  halved 2 pounds baby new potatoes and tumbled them into a large pot of heavily salted cold water

before  bringing the water to a gentle simmer and letting the potatoes rip until they were knife tender without falling apart, about 6 minutes. After scooping them out onto a clean dish towel to drain, I patted them dry, and let them hang out to quasi dry.

When the potatoes were cool enough to handle, I drizzled them with olive oil, dusted them with salt, and placed the potatoes cut side down on an oiled grill over hot coals (alongside a few baby leek remnants) for 6 to 7 minutes until they cooked through and developed a slight char.

After pulling the hot potatoes from the grill, I tossed them with  fresh dill fronds, Casey County baby swiss chard leaves, and the reserved vinaigrette. When the chard wilted from the residual heat of the potatoes, I finished with flaked sea salt , cracked black Tellicherry pepper, and tiny sliced shards of  chard stems.

Creamy on the inside with a smoky grilled crust, the warm potatoes absorbed the bright grassy punch of the herb vinaigrette. While the wilted greens and dill fronds added delicate contrast to the briny capers and hints of peppery heat, the chard shards provided pops of wet crunch.

Hot Potatoes.

Simple.
Fresh.
Fabulous.


.

Sip

My mother's delicate bone china  has  logged quite a few miles over the years. Purchased in Stuttgart after marrying my father and moving to Germany in the ‘50’s,  her precious china filled our ultra modern  Danish teak buffet. Neatly stacked in the sleek buffet, entree plates, dessert plates, bread plates, finger bowls, serving bowls, serving platters, crystal glassware, teacups, coffee cups, and individual salt and pepper shakers rounded out the complete service for 12. Shortly after I was born, our stint in Stuttgart ended and we were on the move, china in tow. Over a 60 year stretch, the china crossed oceans and continents several times, following my family from Germany to Washington D.C. , Austria , Africa, and back to Virginia before landing in my father's farm house in western Kentucky. Sometime between moves, my mother passed away. She simply vanished from my life.  I was told years later that I was too young to fully understand. They didn’t tell me. That's how families rolled back in the day. I wasn't sad. Didn't  miss her absence. You can't miss what you don't remember losing. I guess I just went with the flow  as we moved on. And we were always on the move. Without much thought,  I went from waiting for the ice cream truck on a curb in suburban D.C. to staring out the window of a cold apartment on a busy Vienna strasse. Normal life. Army life. Not skipping a beat, we simply kept going and going like nothing had ever happened.

To ease his load and maybe some guilt, my father secured nannies and housekeepers to fill what he thought was my missing void. Despite navigating a few cultural and language barriers, I held fast to my German, Czech, Swedish, and African caretakers. They were all that I had to love. They formed me. Loved me. Molded me. Still, as much as I counted on them, they changed as often as our addresses,  vanishing as my family moved on.  As an innocent Buster Brown-clad kid, I grew  accustomed to constant change and frequent good-byes. Even then, one thing never changed. Throughout all the moves and rotating surrogate stand-ins, my mother's china was a constant. Pieces of her were always present. Delicate. Pristine. Familiar. An unknown connection.

Years later, when my father passed away, her china made one last journey to our home here in Lexington. Although a bit too matchy-matchy and over the top for most folks, Michael and I adore it.  And while all the previous caretakers of the china only pulled it out for special occasions, we drag it out and manhandle it all the time. It's too precious to be precious. Stacked and arranged in what is now considered  a noteworthy mid-century modern Danish teak buffet, the well traveled china endures. Although dinged up somewhat from years of use and bumpy journeys, her delicate whisper-thin china mysteriously haunts me, reassures me, and comforts me. A tangible lost memory I can touch.

Mothers are the storytellers and keepers of our secrets.
My mother's china is my story.

Teacup Carrot Soup With Chilled Crab
A simple soup.

After peeling and chopping 2 pounds of carrots, I diced 1 medium sweet onion, minced 5 Bath County spring green garlic bulbs, and set them aside.

After heating 2 tablespoons olive oil in a larger dutch oven over a medium high flame, I tumbled the carrots, onions, and garlic into the sizzling hot oil before adding salt, ground white pepper, and 1 tablespoon grated fresh ginger. When the carrots and onions softened (without taking on color), I added 2 cups water, 3 cups chicken stock, and 2 fresh bay leaves. I brought the soup to a boil, reduced it to a simmer, covered the pot, and let it rip for 45 minutes.



Gilding the lily.
While I'm a sucker for crunchy deep fried or baked croutons as soup toppers, I took a softer route.

I carefully separated and flaked 4 ounces chilled crab claw meat before gently tossing it with lemon
zest, fresh lemon juice, olive oil, snipped chives, slivered red bell pepper, a pinch of salt, and a dusting of ground white pepper. After a quick taste to adjust the seasoning, I slid the crab into the refrigerator to chill.

The silk road.
When the carrots were knife tender, I removed the bay leaves, transferred the soup to a blender,  pureed the soup in batches until it was silky smooth, and let it cool just a tad  before tumbling the chilled crab salad into the vibrant puree and finishing flaked sea salt, a drizzle of olive oil, and Elmwood Stock Farm spicy micro greens.

Clean and fresh, hints of ginger and spring garlic poked through the inherent earthy sweetness of the carrots, giving the simple puree a subtle spicy warmth and depth of flavor. While the delicate flaked crab brought understated briny lux to the party, the punchy lemon, slivered peppers, and micro greens provided acidic fresh crunch.

Pureed carrot soup.
Chilled crab.
Precious worn china.

Hold fast to the storytellers.

Tomato-Land

Grow them and I will come.

As we leave winter behind and slowly segue into spring, I dream of tomato-land. With my token seedlings planted and tucked away, I dream of  the endless sea of sun-kissed heirlooms that will flood our markets during midsummer's high season. Even now, knowing they're still months and months away, I close my eyes and can taste the warm sweet acidity  that only just picked vine-ripened summer tomatoes can bring to the table.



Last season was spectacular. Almost like no other. Almost overkill. Almost. Before I sensed my crazy, I'd already morphed into an obsessed tomato addict. Peeled. Unpeeled. Sliced. Chunked. Salted. Marinated. Roasted. Broiled. Sandwiched. Any way and every way possible to get my fix. I almost maxed out when popping tiny sweet sun golds like candy replaced gummies as my go to snack. I was in it to win it from the very first moment tomatoes arrived.

Because of the rains and weather, tomatoes were prolific. They kept coming and coming and coming. By late summer into early fall, the jewels of summer started to wane. Fewer in number with lesser intensity (but no less gorgeous), the late season tomatoes played second fiddle to the stalwarts of autumn. Even then, I wasn't quite ready to let them go. I needed to preserve the bounty.

I

Never much of a canning pro, I gave up it a while back. Even though I watched and helped my grandmother put up hundreds of jars of canned tomato during my summers on the farm, I found that through years of trial and error I lacked the stamina, fortitude, and dimly lit cobweb-swathed cellar to live out her legacy. Canning simply didn't work out for for me and in lieu of the homespun sentimentality of mason jars, I turned to the freezer.




All Varieties. All sizes. All shapes.
A mishmash of late season tomatoes.
Sliced. Salted. Peppered. Herbed. Roasted. Bagged.
Frozen.







To capture a hint of summer and thwart the early spring chill, I pulled my stash from the freezer for an ode to tomato-land.

Braised Fennel With Roasted Tomatoes.
A simple braise.

After pulling my frozen roasted tomatoes from the freezer to thaw, I trimmed the stalks from 2 large fennel bulbs (fronds reserved) before quartering and coring the bulbs while being mindful to leave the root ends intact. After heating 2 tablespoon vegetable oil in a medium sized skillet until smoking hot, I sauteed the fennel quarters on all sides, seasoning them with salt and pepper after every turn. Just a hair before the fennel started to caramelize, I removed it to a side plate and tumbled 3 thinly sliced garlic cloves and 1 thinly sliced purple onion into the sizzling oil. When the garlic teetered on the brink of browning, I deglazed the skillet with 1 cup white wine, reduced it by half, and added 3 cups roasted tomatoes.



I brought the tomatoes to a gentle simmer, tossed a few fennel seeds into the mix to up the anise factor, and seasoned them with salt and cracked black pepper before nestling the reserve sauteed fennel quarters into the sauce. After raising the heat for a brisk simmer, I pulled the skillet from the heat and slid it into a preheated 350 oven.

Without fussing with the fennel, I let the quarters stew in the bubbling tomatoes for roughly 1 hour until they softened, caramelized around the edges, and melted into the sauce.

With the kitchen windows fogged over with the sweet scent of candied fennel, I pulled the braise from the oven and let it rest before finishing with a splash of fresh lemon juice, crunchy flaked sea salt, crumbled feta, and the reserved feathery fennel fronds.

Dolled up with the perky tang of  feta, the slight acidity of lemon, and the mellow sultry braised fennel, the roasted summer tomatoes poked through the glam to blow a wistful kiss to tomato-land.

Coddled

Chasing shamrocks.

From the misty green fields of Ireland to the windswept bluegrass of Kentucky, we're all a wee bit Irish on St. Patrick's Day. Carpe deum. When Lexington rolls out the green carpet to celebrate the patron saint of Ireland, there's something Irish for just about everyone in every restaurant, on every corner, and in every bar throughout town.  Green beer, Guinness Stout, and Irish whiskey flows freely from indoor, outdoor, and curbside bars. Whether strictly authentic or riffs on authenticity, Irish fare stands front and center. Variations of Shepherd's Pie, Colcannon, Lamb Stew, Corned Beef and Cabbage, Irish Stew, Boxty, and Guinness-infused anything are plentiful.  Fancy a parade?  Grab a drink and stake claim to a curb on Main Street to soak in the familiar sound of bagpipes echoing  through the downtown buildings to usher in the throngs of Irish dancers, horses, cars, and clowns happily meandering down Main Street. Go ahead, raise a glass, kiss the Blarney Stone, or forage for clovers. Eat, drink, and be merry. When the frivolity wanes, the festivities ebb, the parade passes by, and it's time to retreat, cuddle up with a comforting bowl of  Dublin Coddle.

Dublin coddle, in its purist form, is a humble Irish stew containing only chopped potatoes, sliced onions, Irish pork sausages, bacon (rashers) and parsley layered in a pot with enough stock or water to cover and left to simmer (coddle) low and slow for 2 to 4 hours. Variations (considered sacrilege  by some folks) might include carrots, parsnips, or pearl barley. Staying true to the spirit of a traditional Dublin Coddle, I brought the  Emerald Isle to the bluegrass with the local flavors of Kentucky.

Dublin Coddle.

Porked.
After drizzling 1/4 cup vegetable oil into the bottom of a cast iron dutch oven set over medium heat, I fried 1/2 pound sliced Foothills Meats fresh bacon for 5-6 minutes until crisped before scooping the pieces out onto paper towels to drain. While the oil was still sizzling hot, I placed 1 1/2 pounds Stonecross Farm pork sausages into the pot and let them rip, turning occasionally, until they were deeply caramelized on all sides.

After removing the sausages to drain, I tumbled 10 peeled whole shallots into the steaming pork fat. When the shallots softened and started to brown, I added 4 whole (peeled and smashed) garlic cloves along with  2 sliced leeks. Just before the leeks took on color, I deglazed the pot with 3/4 cup Kentucky Ale Bourbon Barrel Stout and let it reduce by half before pulling it from the heat.


Layered.
Off the heat, I scattered 5 sliced carrots over the shallots followed by a layer of chopped yukon gold potatoes, chopped Casey County white sweet potatoes, salt, pepper, and minced fresh parsley. After nestling the sausages into the potatoes, I showered them with additional parsley and topped everything off with overlapping 1/2" thick sliced potatoes.

After adding enough chicken stock to cover the sausages, (about 2 1/2 cups), I brought the stock to a boil, reduced it to a simmer, covered the pot, and slid it into a low preheated 325 degree oven to coddle in its juices for 2 1/2 hours.

I pulled the stew from the oven and brushed the top layer of potatoes with melted unsalted butter. After spooning the tender pork sausages and softened sweet vegetables over seasoned plumped pearl barley, I finished with the unctuous drinkable broth, Celtic grey
sea salt, cracked black pepper, and fresh parsley.



Rustic.
Simple.
Warming.

Coddled.