Not so lucky

We eat the same meats again and again: pork, salmon, chicken, beef, and shrimp repeat.

I fall victim to the easy, familiar and accessible though I have cooked and eaten: frog legs (does not taste like chicken), alligator (does not taste like chicken), kangaroo (definitely does not taste like chicken) and guinea pig (most definitely does not taste like chicken). However, I cannot claim that any of these alternatives occurs with any regularity on my dinner table even with my desire to less the burden on the genetic and environmental stress by consuming a mere fraction of the animals available to us.

I am trying to expand the repertoire of our nightly meals incorporating duck, goat, and buffalo. And, most recently rabbit. I remember the first time I was served rabbit. I was eighteen and on a solo trip to Paris, right out of High School. I accepted an invitation to dinner at a friend of a friend’s apartment. I bought a bottle of vin de table feeling all French and sophisticated, and climbed the four flights of stairs to the tiny apartment.

We chatted awhile and not once did I feel the sting of disdain due to my lack of any native language skills. Then dinner was served – Lapin au Moutard. Sounds delicious. Then I was offered the translation, and all I could think is that is a bunny’s foot is not all that lucky. I eat the meal, being a polite guest and not wanting to tip my hand as being a culinary Neanderthal. It was good; reminded me of chicken.

I have cooked rabbit since then on numerous occasions in kitchens from San Francisco to New York to Nice. Though be warned the rabbit in France comes with the head and feet still attached so you better be ready for it. It is not a meat that takes to the grill, and is definitely best braised, making this time of year the prefect time to put it on my shopping list. If you are fortunate your butcher will break it down for you though don’t go looking for the wings.

Braised Rabbit – yeilds 4 servings

Appox. 2-1/2 pound rabbit -cut into 6 pieces

2-tablespoons all-purpose flour

3-tablespoons coconut butter

1-large onion – sliced thinly

1 fennel bulb – sliced thinly

4-small carrots – sliced julienne

¼-cup freshly chopped parsley leaves

1 teaspoon fresh chopped thyme leaves

2-tablespoons roughly chopped loveage

½-teaspoon lavender

2-heaping tablespoons Dijon-style mustard

Salt and freshly ground pepper to taste

Toss the rabbit with the flour and season with salt and pepper.

Heat a 10-inch skillet over a high heat, and add the coconut butter. Brown the rabbit on both sides – doing this in two batches. Remove the rabbit from the pan to a bowl and hold.

Add the onions, fennel and carrot into the skillet, and cook until the vegetables start to wilt. Then mix in the parsley, thyme, loveage, lavender and mustard. Return the rabbit to the pan, and pour over a ½-cup of water. Reduce the heat to low, and cover with a lid.

 

Braise the rabbit for 75 to 90 minutes. Correct seasoning with salt and pepper. Serve hot over polenta. 

hello-good-bye

And so it happens, Labor Day comes and goes and Mother Nature seems to know we are finished with our beach rentals; pool memberships are being considered again for next year, and everyone is back to work in earnest. Even my garden has gotten the note – cucumbers are petering out and the tomato branches are showing signs of exhaustion. However, it is the crimson display of my pineapple sage that signals the seasonal shift for me. All summer long this abundantly, aromatic garden sentinel perfumes my iced teas, and offers a bit of magic to my husk tomato pie. I have been seen just nuzzling up against it for a sweet smelling hit.

The profusion of flowers that erupts from it this time of year is a siren’s call to hummingbirds as well as myself. I guiltily snip the flower heads knowing I am stealing a beak full of nectar from a creature that is fueling up in order to successfully make it back to its winter home. But those darn flowers are so seductive –

I have tossed them into an evening’s salad along with nasturtiums, rose petals and Johnny Jump-ups for an ethereal first course and buried them in layers of sugar in an effort to preserve them.  Since I cut the plant back before the first frost hits, and have it winter under an insulation of hay I have no need to allow the flowers to go to seed. It is tragic that summer must end for I would gladly live in a world where tomatoes are always ripening and cantaloupes engorge on their vine, but alas, life has it cycle, and what a beautiful way to signal a change.

Pineapple Sage Vinegar

2-cups pineapple sage flowers and leaves (you cannot use too much)

1-part white distilled vinegar

1-part rice vinegar

1-part coconut vinegar

In a clean glass jar place the pineapple sage, and pour over the vinegars. Cover with a tight fitting lid, and place in a cool, dark place for 6 to 8 weeks. Strain into a clean glass bottle with a tight fitting lid. 

Summer's slippery one

I was in my early twenties and visiting Austin, Texas for the first. I fell immediately in love with the “keep it weird” city – perhaps it was the Drag Queen Scavenger Race down 6^th Street or the Shiner Boch I was sipping as I watched spiked heeled racers hobble by that led me to believe I had fallen down the rabbit hole.  Houston wasn’t this arousing.

I was there for work, and since it was the end of the workweek I decided to stay for an extra day. I got out to Lake Hippie Hollow where my lack of appropriate bathing attire turned not a single head. Rhythmically I bounced along to the sounds at the Continental Congress. I even bought a pair of snake-skinned-cockroach-killing cowboy boots. I was taking it all in. So, it made prefect sense that I would make self available the local foods – chicken fried steak with thick white gravy; bar-b-que, I mean bar-bque; and a known by alien food – okra.

Now, I was born in the Deep South, which I always said gave me right to, y’all. However, I did not make it a full year before my parents decided to repatriate to the north. It was not a food my mother brought back as part of her cooking arsenal so all I really knew about it was it was fried – like zucchini just minus the lemon and parmesan. I was game but this version was not fried rather pickled. I love pickled cucumbers, green tomatoes, onions and the like so I figured why not – because upon first bite a viscous slim filled my mouth and refused to be washed away by bottle after bottle of Shiner Boch. How could this be? This iconic vegetable was that terrible.

It would be years before I dared that bite again. And, I could never imagine that I would grow a couple

of varieties in my garden that have become summer favorites, cook it in various fashions and freeze fresh cut okra for winter consumption. I have learned to avoid them if they are longer then about 2-inches in length, and acid (lemon, vinegar, tomato) are the best ways to mitigate that overwhelming reaction of YUCK. I have even taken to pickling my own though only small ones make into my jar which become the prefect garnish to a Bloody Mary.

Pickled Okra

2-pounds orka

1/3-cup coarse pickling salt

2-tablespoons smoked Spanish paparika

1-teaspoon whole black pepercorns

4-cups white distilled vinegar

Use orka that is no longer than about 2-inches in length – these will be less slimy. Wash the orka well under cold water.

Sterlize a 4-quart glass jar.

In a 2-quart saucepan bring 4-cups of water to the boil along with the salt, and boil for about 4 to 5 mintues.

Into the jar place the okra, paparika, black peppercorns nad the vinegar. Once the water/salt has boiled pour it over the okra. Fit the jar with a secure lid, and refrigerate for a minimum of 4 weeks. 

One of My Garden's Fragrant Notes

While becoming a member of the Atlanta Botanical Gardens a few years back I started chatting with one of their resident botanists. Of course, I was making inquiring about growing all things culinary. I lamented how I was not sure if I was going to be able to procure some of my more esoteric herbs in this unfamiliar city I found myself in. Curry leaves was one of the plants I wondered if I could grow myself, and to my absolute surprise he said he propagated them and had a few for sale. Immediately I made arrangements to get one.

The precious 5-inch tall plant came with two pages of instructions and came with the warning that they are not the easiest to establish and maintain. I did not let it get over watered, and made sure the sapling had plenty of sand mixed into its soil for drainage. I fed it a suspicion of the fertilizer, as was recommended -- I would be able to snip a strand of its highly perfumed output? Winter set in and it took up residence in a western facing window. By the time we were two thirds through winter its leaves clung precariously to the branch, and a mere touch would send them drifting down into the pot. I feared I had killed it, for the plant had the look of the Christmas tree from the Charlie Brown holiday special. I could not give up on it, and I fed it some of its “tonic.” As late winter morphed into a quick spring with even more light flooding in the curry leaf plant exploded with a verdant umbrella of leaves renewing my hopes and dreams.

Its life returned, and so once again it was returned to the outdoors to spend the warm months basking – flourishing. What I could have never expected was twenty-four straight days of rain. Almost everyday had a soaker come through, and with the sun making fleeting appearances, drying nothing up. I move the curry leaf plant to a more sheltered spot fearing a wind gust would just simply uproot it. I mean bigger, more well established trees have toppled over.  Rather my herb plant that came with two pages of instructions thrived – clearly a monsoon season is what it really wanted.






Savory Grits – yields 4 servings

3-cups water

1-cup plain yogurt

1 large onion – thinly sliced

1 to 2 Thai green chili – thinly sliced

10 curry leaves

3 whole black cardamom

1-teaspoon brown mustard seeds

1-teaspoon salt

1-cup white grits

In a 1-1/2 quart saucepan add the water, yogurt, onion, chili, curry leaves, cardamom, mustard seeds and salt and bring to a full boil. Then rain in the grits stirring, using a whisk, as you add the grits – this is to prevent the grits from clumping up. Lower the heat to a simmer, and stir the grits mixture for 5 minutes. Then place a lid on the saucepan and cook for 20 minutes.

Correct seasoning, and serve warm.