The odd couple

I have a feeling this one’s not going to be a crowd-pleaser–I’ll just get that out of the way right now. But because I foreshadowed the recipe here, and because my brother-in-law Toby insisted, and because, in general, this blog is an honest account of the food that successfully passes through my kitchen…I just had to.

It’s a pheasant and pig’s trotter pie. Yes, pig’s trotter–as in hoof. If you are a hunter, or you’re into nose-to-tail eating, or you’re just naturally curious, you may want to give it a whirl. It’s delicious–really, it is. If you’re vegetarian or kosher-keeping or faint of heart, you may want to click away now.

Fergus Henderson’s cookbook, The Whole Beast: Nose to Tail Eating, has graced my collection for a while now, and I had the pleasure of trying this particular dish in his London restaurant, St. John, over Sunday lunch–and I highly recommend that experience if you’re in London. My English mother-in-law split it with me (‘atta girl, Pauline!). The one we enjoyed contained a marrow bone, which was lovely, but which I left out. In the name of moderation, I also forwent the suet crust that appears in the cookbook and instead used pre-made puff pastry dough; Dufour makes by far the best one I know.

First, the pheasants. The craziest thing is, I swore at the end of that blog entry that I would make the recipe as soon as someone sent some pheasants my way. When was that likely to happen? The very day I posted, Ben was on his way up to Connecticut to fetch our ski gear for the trip that never happened, and to check in on some painting in progress. The fantastic painter we work with, who is named Rock, has done several projects for us over the years, and it is because of him that the Blue House is no longer the grey house. In terms of the world’s top likeable people, he’s up there. He’s also an outdoorsman, and he knows we like to cook. Last summer he left us a stash of apple wood, hacked by his own hands, for us to use in our smoker.

On that particular December day, Ben chatted with him for a bit, and then drove off to run some errands, leaving our dog in the house with Rock. When he returned, Rock and the dog were gone, and on the kitchen table was a note:
 
Wet paint, so I put the pup in the guest house. He’s a cute little shit. Pheasants in the freezer.

Rock had shot the pheasants on a recent hunting excursion and had thought of us. When Ben returned to Brooklyn he handed me the note and the pheasants and the story–but he had not yet read my post about the pheasant and trotter pie and of course, nor had Rock. Seriously, I got chills! But most of all, I took this serendipitous alignment of events as a sign that I had to make the recipe, and soon.

As for the trotters, that part of the equation required a mere call to the Meat Hook in Williamsburg to line up. The Meat Hook is one of my most favorite places, powered by loud rock and an affable new generation of meatsters. They bring in the animals whole, from humane, sustainable local sources, so I can always count on them to supply any cut I need–but even everyday items like their coarse-ground beef (grass-fed), are life-changing. I get great advice from the butchers there when I’m wading into unfamiliar territory, but best of all, they don’t blink an eye when asked for something like trotters or tail or the skin left on. None of the concerned looks and “you sure you don’t want that trimmed off, sweetie?” I get from the old-timers in our neighborhood (whom I still frequent, by the way). Instead, what I got, from Sara the girl butcher, was: “Great–what’re you making? I’ll pick out the least hairy ones for you.”

But the recipe’s casual instructions could not have prepared me for the work of dealing with piggy feet. I have picked crabs. I could break down a chicken or fillet a fish blindfolded. Organs don’t faze me. I’ve got a stomach of steel, but it was tested that day by the sensory experience of plunging my hands into warm trotters. The recipe says simply to “pick the flesh and skin from the bones,” but the flesh in a trotter, aside from one or two little bits, is not what we typically think of as meat. In fact, it’s mainly skin and gelatinous fat. That’s what melts so silkily into the pie, once you break it apart, and what makes the whole thing so unctuous. I evolved a method: basically, I tried not to peer too carefully into the confusing bundle of parts, tried not to think too much, and just went by feel. Anything bony or gristly got pulled out and discarded, and anything yielding got shredded up to put into the pie. The recipe does note that you should do this while the trotters are still warm, and you must heed that advice, because as they cool–which they will unless you work lightning-fast–the natural gelatin begins setting and sticking to anything it touches.

That adventure out of the way, the whole thing came together beautifully. The coupling of main ingredients, bizarre at first glance, is actually brilliant–since anyone who has ever cooked pheasant knows how difficult it is to avoid a cardboardy texture. Gently bathed in trotter essence, the game birds can reach their full potential. As Mr. Henderson so eloquently describes: “This is a most rich and steadying pie.” And it was. We enjoyed it with Cara and Toby, my sister- and brother-in-law, in Vermont this past weekend, and its steadying properties were indeed the thing for a night of howling wind, which threatened to rip the house we’d rented apart at the seams, early rising kids, and ice skiing the next day.

Pheasant and Pig’s Trotter Pie  

Adapted from Fergus Henderson’s The Whole Beast  
Feeds 6

Filling  

• 3 pig’s trotters, outer hoof and hair removed (skin on) 
  
• A bundle of fresh herbs (I used parsley and thyme but would add sage) tied with kitchen string  
• 1 head of garlic, skin on  
• 2 bay leaves  
• 10 black peppercorns  
• 2 stalks of celery, chopped  
• 2 red onions, peeled and halved  
• 2 carrots, chopped  
• 1 bottle of red wine, such as an inexpensive Rhone  
• 1 ¾ quarts chicken stock  
• ½ lb. pancetta or unsmoked streaky bacon, cut into chunks (you can use up to 1 lb., which is what the recipe calls for)  
• 2 pheasants, split in half at the spine and breast bone (you can use kitchen shears) kept on the bone, and sprinkled with salt and ground pepper  
• 3 medium onions, peeled and sliced

This is best made the day before, as Mr. Henderson says, “to find itself.” Put the trotters in a pot with herbs, garlic, bay leaves, peppercorns, celery, red onions, and carrots. Cover with wine and chicken stock, bring to a boil, reduce to a simmer and cook for 3 hours, until the trotters are cooked and very tender. Remove the trotters from the pot, then strain the stock and set aside. While the trotters are warm, pick the flesh and skin from bones and discard bones. As you remove flesh, tear it into small pieces with your fingers and add these pieces back into the strained stock.

Preheat oven to 425˚F. Heat a large skillet and put the pancetta or bacon in. Cook, stirring, for about 5-10 minutes until some of the fat renders and the pieces brown slightly. Remove to a deep roasting pan. Brown the pheasants on all sides in the remaining fat, then move them into the pan with the bacon. Sweat the onions in the same skillet for a few minutes until they begin to turn translucent, and add them to the roasting pan, along with the trotter flesh and stock, and cover with aluminum foil. Put this in the oven for 15 minutes, then reduce oven temperature to 350˚ and cook for another 30 minutes. Remove, check the seasoning, and allow to cool in the stock.

When cool, remove the pheasant and pull the meat off the bones, keeping pieces relatively large but not unwieldy. Often, people find the leg meat of pheasants too tough to eat, but I found many useable bits, since they were braised in magic trotter stock. Discard any pieces that seem too sinewy, along with bones and other inedible parts. Put the pheasant meat back into the stock and store in the refrigerator overnight.

Pastry  

• 1 package good-quality puff pastry  
• 1 egg yolk, beaten, for glaze

Preheat oven to 375˚. Thaw puff pastry at room temperature if it is the frozen variety. Place meat mixture in a pie dish (if it’s shallow you will need two), ½ inch or so below the rim. If there appears to be a lot of liquid, hold some back; it will be congealed when cold but will melt when heated up, and you don’t want it to bubble over the sides. Cover pie dish(es) with pastry, crimping and trimming to fit around the edges. Cut a small hole in the center of dough, brush with egg yolk, then place in oven for about 40 minutes, or until crust is golden brown and puffed, and you can see filling bubbling through the hole in the middle. Serve immediately. We enjoyed it with roasted potatoes, and Brussels sprouts sautéed with bacon.

Granola

I don't have any extra-special Valentine's Day post this year. Although I treated my loved ones with the utmost kindness yesterday, I wasn't in the kitchen whipping up heart-shaped sugar cookies or champagne truffles or pink macaron lollipops–so I have nothing along those lines to offer. You can blame it all on my Mom, who each February 14th handed us a ritual card or a store-bought sweet–but let it be known this was but a Hallmark Holiday, and she would never pretend otherwise. Thus disabused, I now tend to follow her ways when it comes to Valentine's Day: ever-so-slightly observant but not devout.

So, what I'm here to talk about is granola. Not too romantic, I know–the name itself doesn't quite have the musical ring of éclair or meringue or millefeuille. But this treat I'm offering is honest and fortifying and crisp. My friend Tara shared it with me after her cousin, Kristen, put her on to it. This recipe is like an edible game of "telephone" that evolves a little with each round (Tara added coconut oil and flax seeds; I threw in maple syrup and chopped, dried apricots). Pass it along...I'm sure it'll change again before it's all over.

This also happens to be the first granola I ever made, and now I ask myself why I waited so long: granola's not cheap in stores around here, and there is nothing worse than paying $8 for a quart of stale, hyper-sweet oats. Making your own big batch every week or two and stashing it in mason jars just makes sense. After you stock your cabinets and measure out the ingredients, all you have to do is mix and bake and attend a bit–virtually no technique or skill whatsoever is required. What I like about this recipe is the super-nuttiness and the mellow, just-right sweetness supplied by honey and maple syrup. And, there's just the right amount of coconut. Normally, I avoid coconut in baking altogether, because the aroma tends to stir up bad teenage memories of overzealous tanning sessions and a dalliance with Malibu rum that ended badly. But this may be the recipe that changed my mind, since the coconut flavor translates to a subtle warmth and adds an extra measure of crispness.

Just a couple of notes: if you use dried fruit, make sure to add it afterward–I made the mistake of baking the apricots in with the rest, and they hardened into acrid little nuggets. Also, be sure to stir the granola around occasionally as it bakes, so that the nuts and grains brown evenly.

Kristen & Tara’s Granola
Ingredients: 

• 1 cup rolled oats (not “quick oats”)
• 1/2 cup Scottish Oatmeal, a.k.a. quick steel-cut oats (I use Bob's Red Mill)
• 1 cup sliced almonds
• 1 cup walnuts, lightly chopped
• 1/4 cup pumpkin seeds, (pepitas)
• 1 TBS shredded coconut (unsweetened)
• 3 heaping TBS ground flax seeds

*** 

• 2 TBS honey
• 2 TBS maple syrup
• 2 TBS grape seed oil (you can also try canola, sunflower, or olive)
• 1 TBS coconut oil or coconut butter, melted
• 1 TBS vanilla
• ½ cup dried fruit, chopped (I used unsulphured apricots and would also suggest chopped dates, or whole cranberries or raisins)

Instructions:
Preheat oven to 325˚. Mix together dry ingredients (except for fruit) in a large bowl. Whisk together liquid ingredients in a medium bowl, then drizzle over dry ones, mixing to coat evenly. Spread onto a tray lined with silpat or parchment, and put in medium rack of oven. Bake for 20-30 minutes (depending on your oven), stirring every 10 minutes or so to redistribute browner “edge” pieces with less cooked “middle” pieces, until beginning to turn golden brown. If you’re using dried fruit, stir it in when you remove tray from the oven. Cool—granola will crisp as it cools down–and store in an air-tight container. This recipe makes about a quart and change.

Winter at the greenmarket

This is the time of year when I start rebelling against roasted root vegetables–I mean really dreading them. What was such a refreshing change from tomatoes and zucchini back in October is now about as welcome as another snow day. Although I don’t follow the Animal, Vegetable, Miracle diet by any stretch, I do try to support regional farmers by eating as locally as comfortably possible through the winter–and that’s no easy feat in the New York City. It can be limiting. Our growing season looks like a mirage glimmering in the distance right now, and our fresh vegetable and fruit CSAs won’t kick in again until June. And yet, on certain days–yes, even freezing ones–I find myself craving a nice crisp raw salad–one bursting with real, vibrant leafy things beyond the wan lettuces on the store shelves.

It turns out, thanks to inventive, intrepid growers, we have quite a few options around here now: wonderful, colorful creations that were actually grown within a morning's drive. Roots, of course, store well, and we still have some nice looking ones from this fall’s CSA–and believe it or not, roots don't have to mean cranking up the oven (more on that in a second). Our winter share, from a Hudson Valley-based cooperative called Winter Sun Farms, not only keeps us in frozen vegetables for our soups and berries for our smoothies, but delivers the sprightliest (greenhouse) pea shoots you can imagine, which we enjoy this fine way.
 
They're brave people, the farmers up here, and I'm grateful for that. Last Saturday I trekked to the Grand Army Plaza greenmarket in Brooklyn with temperatures in the teens, and quite a few growers had shown up, offering wares such as grass-fed milk, crisp apples, sustainably raised pork, frilly mushrooms, and roots–and even some whole, frozen heirloom tomatoes from last fall.

Then, on Wednesday, at the start of another mighty blizzard, I hopped the subway to the Union Square Greenmarket to answer the burning question of what sort of inspiration can be found on a snowy day. The answer was this: plenty, including some truly amazing options for salad. And not just sprouts, like the psychedelically-hued selection at Windfall Farms. I also spied cucumbers, lettuces, and peppers at Bodhi Tree Farm. Peppers! Even my beloved shishito peppers, which I blister in a hot pan and dip in paprika salt, and to which I thought I had bid farewell until August. At first coming face to face with them in a greenmarket tent in January felt all wrong, until I realized that the bell peppers I occasionally buy in our organic market are raised in greenhouses and shipped all the way from Holland.

…At Windfall Farms:

In the end, there were simply too many choices. I paid a pretty penny for some of the greenhouse items, but I believe supporting local growers will pay dividends in the end, on many different levels. The salad I ended up tossing together was a happy marriage of greens and of raw root vegetables. What's that? Raw root vegetables in a salad? Yes! If you have a mandoline or even a very sharp “Y” peeler, you can shave your root vegetables thin as petals, for texture and flavor that are brighter, more delicate, and leafier than what results from cubing and roasting those very same vegetables. Jerusalem artichokes, which are actually the roots of sunflower plants, taste especially nice this way and add a touch of nuttiness. Watermelon radishes and black radishes (below) supply color and drama and a hint of heat. Try it–just make sure to get them thin enough to let light through.  

My salad was mostly raw, but I did sprinkle some toasted hazelnuts on top because they work so nicely with the nuttiness of the sunchokes and the sunflower and rosy buckwheat sprouts. I used hazelnut oil too, and would recommend it, but there’s no reason not to use other nut oils, or olive oil. (The hazelnuts were not local, and if anyone could point me in the direction of hazelnuts grown around here, I would be grateful!). The recipe below is a loose guideline, meant to incorporate anything you might happen upon in the market, on any given day. If you sprout your own beans and seeds at home, this is a perfect place to use them.

Winter Greenmarket Salad: 
Vinaigrette:
Serves about 2

• 1 teaspoon dijon mustard
• 1/8 teaspoon honey
• 1 tablespoon white wine or champagne vinegar
• pinch sea salt
• crank of black pepper
• 3 heaping tablespoons hazelnut oil (or other oil, such as walnut or olive)

Whisk together all ingredients except oil. Gradually whisk in oil a drop in a time, then in larger dribbles until it's all incorporated smoothly. Taste, and if you feel it's too acidic add a couple more drops of oil. 


Salad:

• Young greens: dandelion, mizuna, arugula or tat soi
• Sprouts: sunflower, buckwheat, or radish
• Roots: Jerusalem artichoke, radishes, turnips, celeriac
• Hazelnuts
• Optional: minced chives

Toast hazelnuts in a 350 degree oven for about 10 minutes, until deep golden brown. Cool them, and rub the skins off. Crush the hazelnuts under the side of a large knife, or in a bag, with a rolling pin. Wash the roots you have selected, dry, and then thinly shave them horizontally (see picture above of the pink watermelon radishes). It's up to you to decide the amount and proportion of roots and greens you want. Count on a small handful of greens per person, with about half the volume of roots. Put these in a large bowl and drizzle dressing, starting with about 1 tablespoon per person. Toss gently with clean hands, adding more dressing if needed. Gather up haystack bundles of salad and heap onto plates. Sprinkle with toasted hazelnuts and, if you like, fleur de sel (fine sea salt crystals).