A Chicken In Every Granny Cart

With apologies to Simon & Garfunkel, at this time of year, darkness is my old friend.

By the time I’m wrapping up my day at work, the building has shut off the a/c and I’ve been sitting at my desk, sweating from both effort and atmospherics, for on some days, over two hours. Leaving the sweltering confines of my cubicle and stepping out onto the half-lit, hurly-burly of lower Fifth Avenue feels refreshing.

And by the time I step onto the by-comparison-silent sidewalks of Bay Ridge, the sun is nothing more than a spectacular neon bruise over Staten Island, bent into gaudy fractals by the evening’s weather pattern stomping across the harbor.

The darkness makes it feel cooler, but it’s the sounds of the city settling into stillness that help erase the day’s woes. Let’s be honest, there are no sounds of silence anywhere in New York City. But stillness? Yes, stillness is something we can do. Stillness has a sound; many little noises melting into a gentle swell of quietness. Cats mewling for dinner, dogs yapping at planes, the Yankees game on my neighbor’s radio while she grills steaks for dinner, birds wishing each other good night, an easing of traffic, teenagers strolling hand-in-hand whispering as they head for home.

I’ve grown used to these noises and find them soothing. So it was a shock to arrive at our friends’ house in the Catskills on July 4th to the cacophony of the country; the rustlings and bustlings of animals settling in for the night, the whizzes and whistles of birds catching dinner, the humming and droning of mosquitoes, children giggling and screeching while chasing fireflies, dogs gossiping about the day’s events, thunder echoing off valley walls and finally, just past sundown, fireworks popping and booming in patriotic celebration of the day.

And what a revelation the morning was! What lies in a bird’s heart that makes it sing with such gusto and glee first thing in the morning? Is it the joy of seeing another sunrise? Happiness at being surrounded by so much greenery? The self realization that the ability to fly is a rare gift? It’s easy to be annoyed with birds in the summer, especially when one has gone to bed too late, full of the world’s most delicious barbecued pork ribs (seriously, better than any of the one’s I’ve ever managed to get here) and possibly one glass too many of rosé.  But one should never be annoyed with birds.

What was in reality little more than 40 hours in the country felt like days and days by the time Isaac and I packed up and headed out for a hike on our way home. We were relaxed and well fed and ready to face another week of daunting proportions.

We arrived home just as Brooklyn was settling in for the evening. I walked to the back of the apartment, opened the fire escape window and reached out into the stillness to pluck two tomatoes off my plant. They were small, but perfectly ripe. I also pinched-off two wee crowns of basil.

And then we stood next to the sink, half a tomato each held in our hands, and ate them with a dusting of sea salt and a few tiny leaves of basil, in silence.

Head below the jump for the recipe for Mint & Arugula Pesto.

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Ever been to Times Square?

It’s the crossroads of the world, where Broadway crosses 7th Avenue, the intersection of commerce, art and technology, home to the famous New Year’s Eve ball and the TKTS booth and one of the most iconic locations in New York City. The next time you’re there, staring into the pulsing rivers of neon, standing on that tiny piece of asphalt as taxis and people whip by in a tidal flow, crane your neck back, gawk at the enormous buildings all around and try picturing Times Square as it once was; a farm.

This isn’t a trick that’s difficult only in Times Square. It’s easy to forget that New York was once a wild place. But if you pay close attention and do a little research, it’s easy to spot vestiges of our wild past. Spring Street was, yes, named for a spring. The ridge in Bay Ridge is actually a glacial moraine. And if you’ve ever wondered why city roofs are so often punctuated by water tanks, that’s nature, too.

Sometimes nature comes barging in, demanding to be recognized. The short, tragic lives of Hal the coyote and Sludgie the whale remind us that New York can still be a dangerous place. But other feral friends, much like their human counterparts, slip in and make themselves at home. They often serve as harbingers of a healthier environment, like the Harbor’s population of seals, some of whom enjoy swimming up the Hudson (itself a natural phenom, technically being a fjord that has tides and brackish water). And sometimes they’re just pure comic relief.

But then there’s the celebrities.

Who hasn’t heard of Pale Male & Lola? The pair of red-tailed hawks have chosen a prime piece of real estate, on 5th Avenue overlooking Central Park, to call their own (and they live rent-free) where they’ve happily raised successive broods of pigeon-eradicating birds of prey to the delight of the City’s birders and tabloids. But, just in case you need more, there’s a PBS special, and a wonderful book, and one for your kids or nieces and nephews, this website, and this website.

Or, if you’re in the city, you could just go for a walk.

That’s what Isaac and I did on Sunday, and boy were we lucky. We managed to start and end our walk with, what were probably, sightings of two members of Pale Male & Lola’s happy family.

I wanted to walk from the Upper East Side down to the Lower East Side, so we took the train to 86th Street, grabbed a bite and headed for the East River. But just behind Asphalt Green on East End Avenue, we were stopped in our tracks by a flurry of feathers. I looked around trying to discern where they were coming from and spotted a red-tailed hawk up in a tree about 10 feet away hunkered down over a pigeon.

The hawk stared at us for one moment then went back to plucking his feathery treat. We stood and watched for at least five minutes, possibly more. As I snapped away, the hawk would look up every now and then, as if he were posing. It was exhilarating. Even in the country I’ve never been that close to a hawk. They’re huge.

Despite the glorious 60° weather, breathtaking architecture, flurry of river traffic and endless parade of dogs, everything after that hawk was a bit of a let down. We were forced off the river by the UN and decided to walk down to Trader Joe’s in Union Square as I’d had the brilliant idea of making paninis for dinner.

But alas. The line to check out started at the entrance and snaked all the way around the store. No way. I don’t care how cheap TJ’s food is. There’s no way I’m standing in line for over an hour for it. We’re well enough suited for money to pay a premium to not waste time. So we hoofed it up 14th Street to the Greenmarket.

And there, wouldn’t you know it, as we were passing through the park, was another hawk. He was shuffling around in the grass looking aimless and shifty. I pulled out my camera, he took off and landed in a tree, silhouetted perfectly against the setting sun. These hawks, they sure know how to vamp it up for the camera!

And so, with two hawk sightings under our belt we set off to Garden of Eden for some tangy goat cheese and paper thin slices of Jamon Serrano. I layered the meat and cheese on a loaf of Yianni’s amazing bread with baby arugula, olive oil, balsamic vinegar and sun-dried tomatoes for me (none for Isaac). I set the sandwiches in a pan under a foil-wrapped brick and then I committed a cardinal sin. I walked away.

A few minutes later I smelled burning. I ran into the kitchen, which was full of acrid smoke to see my beautiful, lovingly crafted sandwiches burnt to blackened slabs of coal. Isaac was, as ever, kind about the situation. He gamely told me to flip them over anyway, they’d still be delicious, so I did. And they were. To a point.

I know a burnt sandwich isn’t the end of the world, but after such a perfect day, a perfect sandwich, the world’s most perfect food, would have been, well, perfection. But I learned a valuable lesson that is easy to forget.

Nature will do as nature wants to do, whether that is sending a tornado through one’s backyard of singeing an unguarded sandwich.

Which leads me to ask: What’s the most important lesson you’ve ever been taught by nature?

On Saturday morning, I still did not know what I was going to do for Thanksgiving.

My mom had made an off-hand comment about the whole family maybe coming down to Brooklyn to dine chez Granny Cart. Even though I was 98% sure she was joking, it lodged a bee in my bonnet. On Saturday morning I woke up and wanted to cook.If the whole Upstate gang was going to descend on my humble home, I was going to be ready for them.

And so for Saturday night dinner Isaac and I had a faux Thanksgiving dinner. No messing around with making up my own recipes, if I was going to cook for a crowd, I was going to make stuff that other people had already vetted. I turned to Florence Fabricant’s Brussel’s Sprouts & Chestnuts in Brown Butter, Molly’s squash purée, and Flying Pigs farm’s absolutely, utterly, fantastically, astonisingly perfect pork chops (with the maple & bourbon pan sauce, naturally).

Whaaaaa? Pork chops? For Thanksgiving dinner? Well… As odd as this may sound, on Saturday, there were no (affordable) turkeys at the greenmarket. I wanted meat, so we got pork chops. And boy oh boy were they good. They completely overwhelmed everything else.

Molly’s purée was delicious. FloFab’s sprouts were good but watery (when she says to drain those sprouts, she means it). But the pork! Oh the pork!

This is the best method for cooking pork chops ever! And if, in fact, the whole crew were to descend upon Bay Ridge for Thanksgiving dinner I would have quite the conundrum: To cook a turkey (something I’ve never done) or to cook perfect pork chops (something I can definitely do).

Happily, it’s a conundrum I will not find myself in this year. I’ll be spending Thanksgiving day relaxing on our couch, catching up on my reading. What will we eat? The leftover squash and sprouts, to be sure, and I must have stuffing and maybe some mashed potatoes for Isaac (I’ve got my eye on this recipe, I bet the color is amazing).

Maybe we’ll have turkey, it all depends on today’s trip to the greenmarket. I know I’ll have turkey this weekend when I head Upstate for a slightly delayed turkey fest with the whole family, so I’m not all that stressed about it.

Or maybe I’ll just buy some more pork. The pilgrims had pigs didn’t they? No, apparently they did not. Poor pilgrims.

Do you remember which emotion you woke up feeling on October 5th, 1987?

If you lived anywhere within 100 miles of Albany, you probably woke up feeling awed. That was the night upstate New York was hit by the earliest blizzard in its history.

When you’re a kid in snow country there’s certain aural clues that alert you to the possibility of a snow day. Hushed whisperings between your parents, the grinding of the snow plow on pavement, the whimpering of the dog who doesn’t want to go out to do his business in belly-high snow.

But on that Sunday I remember waking up and thinking, something’s up, everything’s too quiet.

I looked at my clock’s blank face, that meant no power. No power means a lot of snow. I sat up in bed and peered out the window and looked upon the most glorious winter scene I’ve ever seen. It looked like the world had been iced. Every surface was covered by an inches thick layer of wet, glittery snow.

The house was still a little warm even though the furnace had quit working when the lights went out, and since we relied on a well with an electric pump there was also no water. My dad dragged the kerosene heater in from the garage and got it lit, at least the living room and kitchen would be warm.

It didn’t seem like a big deal, snow in October, until it became apparent that the DOT had made a huge booboo. All the plows were still snoozing away their summer siesta and each and every grain of salt sat giggling in a crystalline warehouse under lock and key, just waiting for someone to say “open sesame.”

All the roads in the county were closed and since no one expected a blizzard (didn’t they learn anything from Monty Python?) the usual pre-blizzard panic shopping hadn’t occurred. What you had in the pantry was what you ate. Refrigerated things had to be chucked and frozen things went out back into the snow on the porch, but with an electric stove and no electricity there was no way to eat them anyway.

I’m sure that there were other edible things in the house, but I only remember eating one thing the whole week: Spam.

I decided, in all my 12 year old wisdom, that Spam was going to be what I cooked on top of the kerosene heater to keep my family alive and nourished. I folded up some tin foil, sliced off some slabs of Spam, cooked them until they were sizzling and served them in a pool of A-1.

The roads eventually opened, the power came back and by the end of the week I was back at school, but those few days live on in my memory as the most magical days ever.

I made a makeshift harness for my dog who pulled me all over the neighborhood in an orange plastic tobaggon, picking up friends as we went (don’t worry, he was huge and he loved it). There were sleepovers and no baths, maple syrup candy made on snow just like in Little House In The Big Woods and lots of games of Life. It was amazing.

My freshman year of college I fractured a vertebra sledding. It was a long, boring recuperation during which I read many, many books. My favorite was one given to me by my stepdad, Mark Helprin’s Winter’s Tale. I devoured it. It was about upstate, the Hudson and New York City, it was about love and fidelity and awe and the past and the present and every big, weighty, delicious theme ever worth writing about.  And the winter scenes in Lake of the Coheeries reminded me of that blizzard.

It’s all of these things I was thinking about last week when the weather in New York City was more appropriate to July than October. We set a new record on Saturday the 8th. 87°F! On the 20th anniversary of the blizzard? 83°F. I don’t know if it’s global warming or living near the water or just a decision made by the weather gods, but I miss “normal” weather. Crisp in October, snowy in December, rainy in April, hot in August.

And so I decided to say chuck it all and cook something autumnal, even though it felt like summer (this happened last year too). I braised a blade roast of pork rubbed with ground ginger, pimenton de la vera, brown sugar and lemon juice from Flying Pigs Farm in grape juice and roasted Brussels sprouts and fingerling potatoes.

The roast was disappointing. It was riddled with fat, in a bad way. We ate a few pieces and then pulled the rest for leftovers.

A few days later I arrived home starving and stressed. I looked in the fridge. All that stared back was the pork, eggs and a world of condiments. So I fried the pork in shatta and added two whisked eggs, cooking them until they clung to the pork. The final touch? A drizzle of sherry vinegar and a sprinkling of sea salt. I don’t know if it was hunger, desperation or skill, but this was the best off-the-cuff cooking I’ve done in years.

That said, I’d give it up for 2 feet of snow, a kerosene heater and a slab of Spam coated in A-1 in a heartbeat.

P.S. The pictures are from Bay Ridge’s Third Avenue Festival. Due to some much needed running of errands, we missed the Ragamuffin Parade, which I’m kind of sad about. Next year for sure!

I love Spain.

No, I’ve never been to Spain. I’d really like to go though, if only to wallow in the pork.

Since I’m about to use up the last of my vacation days for this year*, a trip to Spain in ‘07 is highly unlikely. Luckily, I live in New York, and wouldn’t you know it but there’s a next best thing?

Despaña.

There’s a giant bull’s head on the wall. They sell Iberico (when it’s in stock). They make drool-worthy bocadillos. They have an entire wall of tiny tinned fishes and tunas, piquillo peppers, rices, olive oils, white asparagus products, sherry vinegars, honeys, sweets, pickles and mayonnaises. It’s like walking into a physical manifestation of Ximena’s blog.

Oh, and they always offer tons of samples.

Sometimes when the boy and I are out walking around in Soho we’ll get a little hungry and want a snack. The snack options in this ‘hood are priced as stupidly as the rest of the merchandise on offer so we’ve come up with a far cheaper option. First we’ll hit up the olive bar at Gourmet Garage and then head over to Despaña to round out the graze.

After a lunch of tacos and tortas at Esquina (whoever invented the mushroom taco, I salute you sir!) we still had enough room in our stomachs for a light nosh. The Boy hit up the cheese (I know, you’re shocked) while I sampled the world of bizzaro alliolis. Spain, have I mentioned that I love you? I love any culture that can invent so many ways to flavor mayonnaise, and then takes the time to bottle them.

Grazing is good, but I had a real goal for being at Despaña. I’d had a random week at the Greenmarket. I impulse purchased some fresh chorizos from Tamarack Hollow Farm, avocado squash and more pimientos de padron from Yunos Farm, plus tiny cauliflowers and tons of tomatoes. I was at Despaña to find a way to tie them all together.

I bought some Bomba rice. I had no idea what to do with it, so when we got home I pulled a good dozen books from the collection and sat at the kitchen table, perusing, to no avail. My books had failed me. I was gutted. And so I turned to the internet. I typed in the query “recipe cauliflower chorizo” and on the second page of results was this. Sounds delicious doesn’t it? Until you actually read the instructions. Boil each vege on it’s own? Ugh, how fussy! But I had found a source. These La Tienda people sure have a lot of recipes!

I searched and combed and then I hit on the perfect recipe. It used rice. I had rice! It used egg. I had eggs! It used rabbit and chicken. I had chorizo! It used chickpeas. I had peppers, squash and cauliflower! It was a perfect match, possibly not in the real world, but in the recipe world of Ann’s head, it was.

And since I couldn’t get those alliolis out of my head I decided to make a sauce too. I was going to make this one, but it didn’t solve my tomato problem, so I settled on making a romesco. I’m sure I’ve had romesco before, I know I have, but it’s never made an impression on me. Well, no more!

Romesco is my new favorite sauce on the face of the earth.

I want to bathe in it, wallow in it, eat it on everything. It’s piquant, and smoky, and tomatoey and dear god, it’s just so damn good! If you’ve never had it before, I implore you, make some this weekend. It’s good on meat, and fish, and on vegetables, spread on bread, in salad dressings, and, yes, I’ll admit it, straight out of the Tupperware container while standing in front of the refrigerator while one is supposed to be asleep.

But man and woman cannot live on romesco alone (although I’m thinking of trying). So, about the rice… Good! Delicious! Fantastic even! But I don’t recommend making this in the summer. It just takes too damn long in the oven. Save this recipe for a nice dark, cold, snowy day when the saffron yellow rice and golden eggs will serve as a bolt of sunshine into a dreary grey day.

Te amo Espana indeed!

*P.S. — Slow walking San Franciscans beware!! The Boy and I are flying out to the Bay Area on Saturday for 3 days in San Fran, 3 days in Napa and then a wedding in Sonoma. If anyone has any suggestions as to things to do, places to eat, vineyards to visit, goats to pet, I would LOVE to hear them! Neither of us have spent any significant time in this neck of the woods so all advice would be heartily appreciated! And if anyone wants to meet up, well…

Head below the jump for the recipes for Romesco Sauce and Ann’s Arroz con Costra.

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A real quick hit before the weekend.

Do try and get yourself up on a roof this weekend if at all possible. Or to a park. Or to a backyard.

And if the fruit where you live is as incredible as the fruit is here in New York this summer, go grab some, buy a little prosciutto, or jamon, or whatever cured pork product you can find, and wrap it around something!

We all know and love melon with prosciutto, but what about porky peaches? Possibly even better if you can believe that!

So I ask you… What’s your favorite thing to wrap prosciutto around?

Happy weekend ya’ll!

Be on the lookout for some “firecrackers” around here early next week.

I’ve been thinking about sausages a lot lately.

I blame Luisa. She invited me to a blogger dinner at my favorite East Village Ukranian joint, Veselka, last week in honor of Shuna who was in town. The conversation was bright and lively and though carried out while munching on pierogis and kielbasa (Polish sausage), it inevitably turned to ice cream. For this I blame David and his book. He’s turned a world of rational women into ice cream obsessed zombies.

It seems Luisa has been aching for an ice cream maker for this very reason. The always amusing and astute Deb said that rather than buying an ice cream maker she should buy a Kitchen Aid stand mixer and get the ice cream making attachment. Finally, not being one to lust after homemade ice cream (except for this stuff), I saw my entry into this conversation. “Oh, and if you have a stand mixer you can also get the meat grinder attachment and make sausages!” I interjected. Luisa turned to me, laughing, and said something to the effect of, “Ann, if anyone at this table is the one to make sausages, it’s not me, it’s you!” I had to admit, she had a point.

And so, I blame Luisa for my current sausage obsession.

But wait, no, not just Luisa, also Salman Rushdie.

I was sitting on the train reading Fury, heading to the Greenmarket. There’s a wonderful scene where a hapless young gentleman offers a woman his sausage, to which she sharply retorts, “Oh, but there are some animals I simply never eat.”

You see, simply by the accident of their shape, sausages are a funny, embarrassing food; the subject of many jokes, double entendres and awkward moments.

Once I went to my favorite Polish grocery, Eagle Provisions in the South Slope, to buy kielbasa. There were some smaller sausages I had never seen before, so I asked the disarmingly handsome man behind the counter what they were. He said something completely unintelligible to me, and then leaned across the counter in a secretive, sly, conspiratorial way, and whispered, “In my village, we call them little penises. Would you like to try one?” I blushed from the top of my head to my very tiniest toe and stammered something that I think could have been interpreted as yes or no, then he winked at me and said, “Why not I just slip you one?” I think it was at that point that I stumbled backwards, grasped for my package of kielbasa, tripped over a little old lady and nearly took out the entire display of spices.

I had been sent off to the market on Saturday with only one specific instruction: buy baby carrots and whatever else I could find suitable for roasting. The weekend was going to be relatively cool and therefore suitable for culinary activities involving the oven. I found the carrots and gorgeous multi-colored beets, went nutsy buying lettuces and grabbed some other staples before I realized I was very nearly out of money.

But I had sausages on the brain. I needed to buy some bangers.

I approached one stand where a woman was fretting over whether or not the sausages contained wheat gluten. When did gluten intolerance become the new lactose intolerance? Unfortunately for me and my sausage cravings, the proprietor indulged her (most likely) made up concern and launched into a long winded diatribe about how he wasn’t sure what was in his sausages because the FDA won’t let him grind his own and then sell them. Yawn.

So I wandered further up the market to Flying Pigs Farms where I asked the guy what he could sell me for $8. “Anything!” he said. Ah, music to my ears. I settled on herb sausages which are a most magical fate for any pig.

Porky, fatty and herby, the sausages didn’t hide from the roasted vege. Although I felt there was one odd, off-note to the dish the boy was over the moon. He’d been craving a meal like this for months and was heartily satisfied. I was just happy I could stop obsessing over sausages. I was beginning to feel like a walking Freudian slip.

Head below the jump for the recipe for Bangers, Beets & Baby Carrots.

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I missed the Big Apple BBQ this year. Of course, considering how well it went last year, I’m really not all that broken up about it. A Yankees stadium hot dog is just about as good as a Southside Market Elgin hot sausage anyway, right?

I thought I had wallowed only briefly in pork-deprivation misery. A co-worker who was also going to miss the event and I wasted some quality time by toying with the idea of going on the ultimate NYC BBQ crawl; starting in Harlem at Dinosaur, hitting Hill Country and finishing up in the borough of Kings at Fette Sau with sundry other stops in between. It would be a crawl for the ages, for science, for culinary infamy!

Those 15 minutes were the last time I thought about barbecue (I thought).

We’ve had a 2 pound chunk of smoked pork loin lurking in the refrigerator since last weekend. The Boy bought it last weekend for our aborted dinner of rhubard and roasted carrots, but instead it just sat and waited for it’s ultimate calling.

We had no plans for it other than sandwiches. We’d picked up some Jalapeno Sauerkraut from those freaky, fun Hawthorne Valley kids, impulse purchased some lovage and bought a loaf of bread, that was it.

Yesterday was really hot. Finally. It’s been raining like summer here. Most evenings have been punctuated by massive, roiling thunderstorms that have drowned my radishes and ripped my basil to shreds, and yet the temperature has been struggling to stay above 70°.

The tomatoes look miserable. You can tell they want some heat. Maybe not day after day of near 100° heat wave heat, but something. I think they’ve finally gotten what they wanted. One day of near 90°s and they look happier already.

I’m happier, too. We finally found a fourth chair and can begin having people over for dinner, like real adults. We pushed ourselves through the Park Slope throngs and summer sunshine to haunt stoop sales to no avail. Just as I and my legs were about to give up, we found one and were able to take a seat on the subway platform and return home triumphant.

The Boy assumed the sandwiches would be a thrown together affair; sliced pork and kraut straight from the fridge. But despite the heat I felt a little warming up was called for. Ibroiled the pork for a few minutes and then kept it warm in the oven. The kraut got mixed in with sautéed onions and simmered with sherry vinegar and a few lovage leaves to provide a counterpoint to the piquancy of the chiles.

Two slices of bread, a slick of slightly-sweet Colorado mustard, a mound of kraut and a few slices of pork all mooshed together and the meal was complete. Pure heaven. We contentedly munched away, oohing and aahing over how something so simple could taste so good. I think I used the term “taste symphony” to describe my culinary happiness.

The Boy had other ideas. “You know, if you closed your eyes, this could easily be an Eastern European precursor to a North Carolina pulled pork sandwich,” he said. “I don’t think you’d ever actually see a sandwich like this in Poland,” I replied with a sniff. He sat there, looking at me, munching and contemplating and then an idea struck him and he laughed. “Maybe you could call your post about this Pole-d Pork!”

Apparently I hadn’t forgotten about the barbecue after all.

Head below the jump for the recipe for Pole-d Pork Sandwiches.

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I remember reading a piece in the New York Times a few years ago about happiness and stuff and things.

I like to be happy. I also like stuff and things, I won’t lie. I love shoes, and books, and marbles but like most people, if I’m remembering this article correctly, the things I think will make me happiest don’t always do so.

Those new flip flops I was so anticipating because I thought they’d make me look like I just got back from the Capri? They actually make me miserable. They hurt like a sonofabitch.

But I have discovered one reliable source of consumerist happiness, Tamarack Hollow Farm. I love to swing by their stand on Wednesdays at the Greenmarket and impulse purchase pork.

I’ve only done it twice now and the joy is undeniable. Unlike a car which soon becomes a money pit, a pork shoulder or a couple of chops provides happiness that lasts a few days, culminating in an intense sense of well-being.

First there’s the purchasing. Who doesn’t like buying stuff? Then there’s the plotting and planning. What should I do with my pork? Thirdly there’s the concocting. Will the marinade actually add flavor? Is that relish really necessary? And finally there’s the cooking and eating. Does it taste as good as I thought it would?

So far I’m two for two on the last question, which makes me, well, happy!

My most recent impulse purchase pork, a pair of chops, got an 8 hour marinade in some Chinotto, the brine of Rick’s Picks Pepi Pep Peps and some secret herbs and spices (Yes I use pre-made spice blends sometimes. I’m not a saint! And my mom knows the guy that makes them. And they’re awesome.) before being lightly dusted with flour and fried in a little olive oil.

I made up a quick relish from the Pepi Pep Peps and mashed some potatoes and rainbow chard. It was a simple, hearty, unpretentious finger-lickin’ good dinner. So good in fact I’ve been made to promise not to impulse purchase any more pork for a month. We’ve been eating too well!

While this promise makes me a bit sad, it won’t be that hard to keep. We’re heading out of town on Friday for a very well-earned vacation. We’re heading into the sunset, westward into the Rockies; Colorado Springs, Ridgway, Denver and Boulder.

Are there any must see places that you guys would care to recommend? Must eat delicacies? Must hike trails? Any suggestions for all things dorky, artsy and foodie would be greatly appreciated!

I may be able to blog from the road, but just in case I can’t or I decide I don’t want to, I’m still trying to hunt down some guest bloggers for while we’re gone.

I’d bring back the rabbits, but, well, we ate them.

Head below the jump for the recipes for Chinotto Chops, Chard Mash and Pepi Relish.

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I keep telling myself that the little old lady didn’t mean to do it, but I’m not really sure I believe it.

It’s becoming very hard to control myself as I take my post-commute spin through the Greenmarket on Wednesday mornings. Things are really beginning to pop. Spinach, broccoli rabe and that allium the world loves to hate on, ramps are busting out all over, and I can’t stop myself from buying them.

I had all of them in my bag, plus some tomatoes, basil, a bottle of milk and a loaf of bread when I was stopped dead in my tracks last week. I was heading to Tamarack Hollow Farms for bacon, I wanted a BLT for dinner, when their sign made my stomach do a little two-step; “Suckling Pig! Today Only!” The birdies started tweeting a little more sweetly. The sun was casting rainbows in an aura around my head. And I only had $21 left in my wallet.

But Fate was on my side. The nice folk had a shoulder for exactly that amount.

Suckling pig is a very rare treat the farmer told me. Usually they’re raised to sell only to restaurants, but this one pig was deemed too big for fancy schmancy dining, and so he was there for us mere mortals to pay an arm and a leg for. I couldn’t have been happier, impulse purchasing pork has got to be one of the greatest feelings ever.

And so I set out, leaden like a mine pony, for the office. I was happy as a lark and kind of rushing when I turned the corner and was dropped like a stone by a little old lady from the Gold Coast.

Wait, what? How does one get felled by a granny?

Well, to start, one has to have fallen like a sack of potatoes in the middle of Fifth Avenue while wearing her sassy new spring shoes thus giving herself what can only be described as a shiner on her knee earlier in the week. And then one has to be perceived as walking too aggressively by an old lady with a cane who has the uncanny ability to thwack! you squarely on your already existing knee shiner while mumbling under her breath, “Ingrate!” Yeah, that’s how a full grown woman gets dropped by a granny.

Intense pain and intense embarrassment aside, I made it to the office, tucked my piglet into the community refrigerator and hoped no one would steal him. (No one did, and yes, I did go back for bacon which made the best BLTs I’ve eaten in April ever).

So, what does one do with a shoulder of suckling pig? My first thought was pulled pork, or a dark, sticky roast a la Nigel. But I eventually decided it was time to play with a concept I’ve been obsessing over since I saw it on America’s Test Kitchen; using Lapsang Suchong tea to impart a smoky, barbecued flavor to meat.

Rather than using the tea to smoke the pork, this recipe assured me that you could use it to marinate the meat. Ah yes, a much better solution. No baby sitting the shoulder meant we could go outside and enjoy the beautiful weather!

We toyed with the idea of going to the Brooklyn Botanical Gardens to stare at the cherry blossoms, but it turns out we didn’t need to! We’ve got one huge tree right in our front yard. As I type I can turn and stare at the ruffly, rococo, frilly pink blossoms through my window. This Brooklyn, she is a magical world!

But I digress. I rubbed my pork with the smoky marinade and allowed it to sit for 16 hours or so and then I sent him into a nice warm tea bath to braise for four hours in the oven. I wish I could share the smell with you.  I’m sure that the aromas wafting out of the oven could have fooled anyone, even our local barbecue fanatic, into believing we had a nice smoky Weber going in the backyard. The tea made it smell so authentic. Apartment dwellers rejoice!

While my piggy was braising away I decided, with the boy’s enthusiastic approval, to tackle Homesick Texan’s biscuits (wow, that came out sounding kinda dirty, sorry Lisa!) and slow cook some spinach with ramps.

I was mixing the biscuit dough and kind of freaking out because it didn’t seem to be coming together all that well, when the boy came in and said, “Hey babe, relax, remember biscuits are all about Butter, Love and Everything Else.” It took me a minute, but then I turned around and saw that he was pointing to a postcard from Clinton St. Baking Co. that had made the move with us. I immediately relaxed and began to beat my biscuits (god, there’s another one).

You know, I think the great biscuit making cultures of America are propagating the notion that biscuits are hard to make, that us Northerners should stick to the fool-proof Bisquick or canned biscuit methods. I don’t know why, but there has to be a conspiracy involved, because making biscuits from scratch is so easy! Who knew? And they smell divine and taste delicious. Or maybe Lisa’s recipe is just that good. The one thing I know for sure is that you must try it. You can thank us later…

And so pork braised, biscuits beaten, spinach confited, (and no ingredients forgotten) we sat down to what the boy admitted was, “A pretty good approximation of Southern fare. I bet you could fool a few people with this!” I think that was a compliment. But I didn’t need any from him. After my first bite I was contorting myself into spirals of happiness just so as to pat myself on the back.

This was possibly the best dinner ever.

The pork fell apart at the touch of a fork. It was tender and succulent, faintly smoky, sweet, spicy and sour in exactly the right proportion, and went perfectly with my precious, tiny little bottle of the best Costa Rican salsa on the face of the planet (for those similarly obsessed a stand at the Essex St. Market recently began carrying the stuff).

But the apex of the meal came when I split open a still warm biscuit, piled a little mound of greens on one side, and topped it with a few shreds of pork.

Pure, unadulterated, porcine bliss!

Head below the jump for the recipe for City Slicker Barbecued Pork Shoulder and Confit of Spinach, Ramps & Bacon.

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