I heard angels sing ...

Year after beautiful year as winter peeks over the horizon and the first chill presents itself, I experience a shift. About late October as things transition from languid warmth and lush green to icy bone chilling cold and desolate bare drudgery (a little resentful here), I need comfort. And warmth. And wine. Especially (lots) wine. And …well …fat. All kinds of fat. Crispy fat, soft fat, gelatinous fat …Duck fat, pork fat, back fat, lamb fat…

Part of the changing of seasons is learning to recognize and of course, acknowledge what our bodies (and souls) crave: fat! fat! fat! (I am talking as if I were some sort of bear about to go into hibernation … I know …) Anyhow, in my world, this acknowledgment usually means I am about to get myself into some kind of mess and will drag all kinds of good, unsuspecting people with me.

One very ordinary day, as I stood in my kitchen admiring the antique cabinet we purchased a few months ago (I love this thing it brings me back to my Aunt’s farm kitchen and every day I walk past it and give it a kiss … no no, just kidding … but I do tell it how nice it looks …) I knew I was in trouble. I really knew it when (as if there was some kind of gravitational force pulling me) my hand landed on Martin Picard's Au Pied de Cochon.

Long parenthesis alert: (What was I so worried about you ask? I must be exaggerating you say? Here is "step one" in one of his recipes: “Using a saw, cut the top of the piglet skulls to remove the brains” … I dare you not to shiver ...)

I remember standing there, opening the book, looking at the recipe I wanted to make long and hard, and thinking to myself (long and hard) do I really want to get involved in this? I mean we are talking about 1 Liter of pig’s blood here. Not to mention chestnut flour, very precise cooking techniques (there is a temperature measuring gadget involved) and a crazy move of hand funneling the pig’s blood mixture into the sausage casing. It took about a week of debating before I decided Au Pied de Chochon’s Boudin Maison was my charge. This itsy-bitsy decision dear readers, is how I found myself, on a perfectly lovely Wednesday evening, elbow deep in pigs blood.

Pigs blood ...

Here we go ... Once (lunatic project) decided, the first thing I had to do was secure some guests. As much as I am in love with this magnificent recipe, I did not fancy the prospect of eating Boudin on my own every day for two weeks.

Another long parenthesis alert: (I must confess though, that I did give the thought of eating Boudin on my own every day for two weeks some serious consideration - I find myself a bit of a lone ranger within my close circle of cow and fowl loving folk especially when it comes to matters of … shall we say … a sanguine nature …).

You may not believe this dear readers but not everybody loves Boudin. So, I had to be crafty. I had to be persuasive. I had to pray. I pitched it as a tasting and sent out an exploratory e-mail titled “Who’s with me …”. 

I fessed up to the star of the tasting, gave them a three week window (the God’s saved me with this) to prepare themselves and gambled that the adventurous culinary spirit of the invitees and their curious palate would ensure at least a foot in the door. “A night of nibbles” I claimed. “Please eat first as this is not a supper” I pledged (could not have them thinking I wanted them to eat a whole supper of Boudin). And slowly, if a little hesitantly, the confirmations trickled in …

Guests secured, I immediately wondered where I would pick up my pigs blood. My first thought was to call Jean-Pierre (Ferme le Crepuscule) and just ask him for it. My back up plan, in case they were not killing a pig that week, was to just pop by my local butcher and ask him. Frankly, I was more concerned about where I was going to find chestnut flour. Oh my ... how little I knew…

My biggest concern ...

To get this blood dear readers turned out to be a community effort of herculean proportions. Getting this blood, dear readers, wound up taking three weeks, two farm trips, countless searches online, visits to almost every butcher in Montreal, visits to fish mongers (I thought if the meat people could not come through perhaps the fish people ... I do not discriminate), seeking council through Chowhound and all to no avail.

No blood.

The city was dry.

It was looking grim. It was looking like despite my best efforts, I would have to cancel my “tasting” and claim defeat. Then, it hit me. Poff! It was clear. There was no other choice. I had exhausted all my other options. I was going to have to go to the source. To the mecca of all things pig. To PDC. I dear readers was going to plead my case, throw myself at their mercy and beg for their suppliers.

Once on my way I was plagued with thoughts of would they laugh at me … would they ask who is this lunatic and why does she just not buy her Boudin like everybody else …would they yell at me … would they throw me out ...Then, I arrived, stood outside for a moment, gathered my courage and … Ahem ...excuse me please, do you know where I can find some blood in this city? I want to make your Boudin Maison but have been looking for three weeks and nothing …

There was discussion, debate, disgust (at not being able to freely access quality blood) and at once, all of a sudden I saw hands moving, heard when do you need it, gave the two wrists up I am at your mercy salute and I, was saved dear readers. Saved. A certain chef, made certain arrangements, and a week later, vast grin on face, there I was again collecting my thick, dark prize. I heard angels sing …

As I headed home with my goodies, panic struck. Who did I think I was going home with blood and casings! I had gone too far this time! What had I done! How would I do it!

A little voice whispered … just follow the recipe …

Dear readers, if you will allow me to paint you a little picture:

Me, guests in home, casings in water, blood mixture ready, wine in hand, ready to go. Then: “ummm … don’t you need some kind of machine for this? I think my grandmother uses a machine …” (again the machine predicament! I do not know how I keep doing this!). I had intended to use my big yellow plastic funnel … so … I confessed to no machine (again), begged for help and silently prayed…

Now, the simple act of eating Boudin these days is seen as a “big deal” (hence preliminary exploratory e-mail). Asking friends to hold casings and ladle blood mixture into big yellow plastic funnel while you squeeze it through with big giant toothpick is a whole other ballgame. Steph (who had never eaten Boudin before) was a champion. She grabbed her courage by the collar, stood right beside me and feet planted firmly on the ground, ladled away until four feet of casings were plump and glistening with beautiful chestnut colored blood mixture.

The result ...

I then plopped the plump sausage into the water (all the while imagining it smashing to the ground and splattering everywhere) with the thermometer waiting to alert me to any temperature fluctuation (I checked it every 30 seconds for a half an hour).

Obsessive checking ...

Once done, I took the Creuset off the heat, looked at the beauty that was inside, placed a creamy morsel in my mouth and tasted heaven.

Tasting ...

Heaven ...

Wine, candles and newspaper ...

Debates ...

Rosso Cornero ...

Time to dish:

**dear readers, please make this if you can, I promise you it will be worth every effort and is much easier than you think**

Martin Picard's Boudin Maison 
From celebrated cookbook Au Pied de Cochon 

Here is what you need ...

• Pork casings
• 1 liter of pig's blood (good luck oh adventurer!)
• 3 medium onion, minced
• 10 ounces of pork back fat cut into 1/4 inch dice
• 300 ml 35 % cream
• Fresh thyme, leaves from two sprigs
• 1 teaspoon of 4 spice mix (grind your own! you've come this far! you can do it!) 
• 1/4 cup of chestnut flour (warning, this stuff is incredible you will become addicted) 
• 2 cups of bread, crusts removed and cut into 1/4 inch cubes
• 1 tablespoon of salt

Here is what to do ...

1. Soak the bread in the cream (what a first step n'est ce pas?).
2. Blanch back fat in boiling water for about 25 minutes, chill and set aside.
3. Sweat onions in a pan with thyme, 4 spice and salt until translucent but not brown. Add chestnut flour and stir for about 2 minutes. Set aside.
4. Check to make sure the casings have no tears by running cold water through them, measure out 4 feet and then tie one end with butcher string.
5. Using a large funnel (or machine! for heavens sake ...) pour in blood mixture until you have plump, gorgeous sausage. Then tie the other end.
6. The sausage must be cooked right away as casings are permeable.
7. In water that does not go above 80C or 175F (they may burst on you otherwise) cook the sausage for 25-30 minutes depending on the size. Make sure to poke tiny toothpick holes in them at the beginning of cooking (once in water) to avoid tearing.
8. Once done, stop cooking by dunking glorious sausage in ice water.

Remove. Enjoy.

For those of you who care to know what else was on the Menu, it was:

Hearts, livers & blood, oh my ...

• Crostini of turkey hearts seared in butter, quartered and slathered with tarragon cream.
• Crostini of turkey livers sauteed in butter and served with maple and balsamic glazed figs.
• Crostini of beef livers sautéed in butter (of course) and doused with a lemon, tarragon and maple cream sauce.
• Mini frisee cups with lemon and olive oil dressing.

Lettuce cups ... hands only please ...

An expression of gratitude … I have always loved how food unites people in a common adventure and this was no exception. From the many butchers, fishmongers, old ladies, chowhounders and farmers who guided me, gave me advice and tips and stories of how their ancestors made “Blood Sausage” to Stephanie helping me through the whole process with her voice of reason and bravery to Nicolas at the SAQ who so lovingly chose our wines after asking what was on the menu and salivating with glee to Marc and Emilie at PDC for their time and conversation to Mr. Picard and his kindness and sheer generosity without which this Boudin would not have seen the light of day there was a whole community of people behind this beautiful evening that we were lucky enough to share together.

Thank you.


Originally published on dish chronicles 1.5.11

Wait for it ...

Warning: No recipe, no photographs. Not for the weak of mind. Carry forth brave one.

Okay, so I don't have a post this week. I know. I know! 

In lieu of my predicament, I have decided to fess up and beg for your forgiveness (insert me here begging please). It was certainly not for lack of trying mind you. I really tried. Really really hard. Really (one too many?). And ... fell flat on my hard trying behind. But, dear reader, I tell you, I had no comprehension of the monumental force that I was up against. I have spent the last three weeks, yes, count them, three, weeks, searching. 

For what exactly was I searching, you ask? How does that concern you in any way, shape or form when all you want is the story this week, you ask? Well, in the holiday (choose yours) spirit it is always kind to exercise that patience muscle (I have to use anything I can get here) and moreover, what I have finally found (miraculously and after some serious stunts) is truly worth waiting for. I promise.

Wait for it ...


Originally published on dish chronicles 12.16.10

Bottoms up ...

After the initial gasps and numerous proclamations of really’s and are you serious’es (such wonderful, down to earth, sweet and genuinely kind people are a rare find in such serious titles), it was time to get down to business. It was time for questions. I may as well confess now as I will inevitably be outed... I (pause here please for dramatic effect) am a lover of learning. I am interested in everything. I want to know. To understand. To appreciate. Hence, I ask questions. Lots of them. So, I proceeded in asking my myriad of questions, rapturously listening to tales of travels, a multitude of culinary adventures, Bajan gossip and planning the next adventure. It was heaven. A little while (and a lot of rum) later, heaven came to a temporary end when I suspiciously started seeing 2 bottles of rum on the table but was pretty sure there was only one there…yes … At this point, very happy and hot, we went home and yours truly spent the rest of the night thinking about the next days agenda …a journey to an ancient coral beach called Bottom Bay.

I could barely contain myself.

Gratuitous fish pic ...

Middle, almost:

The next morning, I was up bright and early, dragged myself into the ocean (body felt like a sack of potatoes after night of pig tails and rum) and then proceeded to pester husband into consciousness. We met Ale and Gene at the local grocery where they picked us up and after the initial greetings (and relief that they were just as awesome if not more so the next day, you know how that can go) our adventure began. The drive was long, green, bumpy (we thought this was bumpy but we had not seen bumpy yet), filled with Ale’s inspired architectural commentary and simply beautiful. The air smelled of sweet flowers, rain, salt and the occasional cow.

Our arrival brought us onto a “parking lot” in a “field”. I took a look around me and for the life of me could not understand how in the world we were going to get to the ocean way below. We were quite high up and I saw no signs of a humanly possible, on the ground decent. At this point, for an instant, I started having thoughts of: What have I gotten myself into? These people are strangers. They can say anything, be anybody! Maybe they have climbing gear in the trunk and expect me to climb down? Maybe they are adrenalin junkies and expect me to cliff dive! Maybe … At this point, angel Ale mercifully interrupts my thoughts and magically steers us towards a bulky bunch of tropical plants that, yes, magically concealed natural coral steps, leading all the way down to the beach. Thank goodness!

The path ... thank goodness ...

The opening ... thank goodness ...

As we made our way down this ancient path, tucked into the tropical forest, giant trees and their winding roots enveloped us, lizards were scuttling past, frogs were unseen but chirping, Ale was pointing out the magnificent natural fossils in the corals, Gene was ever so graciously urging us along, Axel and I were transported into a wild paradise. After a while everything opened up and we were greeted by an enchanting Robinson Caruso’esque beach with immense coral cliffs and big rolling waves. Big ones. Really big ones. In fact, being the semi obsessive that I am, I glanced at Ale and right after the ooohhh’s and aaahhh’s, the spectacular look around (a lot of it at the big waves) and the discarding of our possessions, I asked him if we could swim in there because the waves were, well, so huge! My answer came from all three of them and being the men that they are, they looked at me in that “awww isn’t she so cute and scared” way and immediately proclaimed it safe.

“Come on in! All you have to do is get past the crashing point!” they said. Phhftt! No way my friends. I laughed, waved, and stood safely on the beaches edge watching my peeps get thrown around, toppled, laughing, smiling and waiving me in as I shook my head mmmm mmmmm and took in the massive waves and rolling water. It was terrifying and wonderful at the same time. In the end, I finally went in (only for a bit and screaming) due to peer pressure and the fact that I was roasting. It was wonderful. 
Terrifying and wonderful, at the same time.

If you will allow me a mini “you see?!” moment here, when arriving back home (Montreal) I immediately checked out Bottom Bay and the “swimming conditions” and what do I see? This. This, dear reader, is the warning on the “swimming conditions”: “Bathing here is not recommended, as the waves are very strong, and great care should be shown by those who choose to do so”.  Hah! …

Anyhow, back to paradise. After getting knocked around, ahem, excuse me, swimming in the ocean, we ran for our lives, sorry, excuse me, walked out of the water and onto the beach we sat down and as all beach dwellers in my world naturally do, broke out homemade rum punch (Ale and Gene’s dynamite recipe) and proceeded to discuss food. We spoke of crepes made in earthenware, of lemon trees, of Gene’s memorable trip to Italy with Ale where he had ribs that he has not forgotten to this day. Ribs from a pig that they chose themselves. A pig that fed on plump acorns and wild grass. Of plantain lasagna. Of cooking classes in an ancient water mill. Of the local unpasteurized goats milk for making cheese. Ale had made some and was aging it for shaving on pasta (I of course attempted it the next day and failed miserably but it was glorious and I am going to give it a second attempt here at home).

This was it friends. Here it was. I had achieved my dream on earth. My perfection. Sitting here, in this prehistoric paradise, with my love smiling contentedly at me, Ale smoking a cigar, Gene dusting himself off of sand, jade ocean, sunshine, wild coral beach, salty breezy air, rum punch, discussing food. Glorious food. This was it.

Then, all of a sudden out of my blissed out stupor comes a contented sigh from Ale and a casual “one day, I would love to have a bonfire here and grill some food under the stars…”. Well, his wish was my command. I hoped. Enter Sam.

Junior Sam Gittens ...

Junior Sam Gittens to be exact. The easy smiling, ya man talking, smooth singing, Bottom Bay guardian Rasta. Sam was the man here along with second Rasta in command, Esra. He greeted you upon arrival, took care of anything you needed. Most beaches you go to these days have some evidence of urban interference and you can be fairly certain that food and drink are not far away. Not here. Sam sent the local people to get what you needed. Do not ask me where because there was nothing in sight for miles.

I spot him and walk towards him, tap him on the shoulder and (practically jumping) ask: Sam, we want to have a bonfire here one evening. Do you think you can arrange something? Of course man! he says smiling. When you want to do it man! he asks smiling. I then tapped Ale on the shoulder and (practically jumping) said: Ale! He can do it! He can do it! Can you do it?! When can we do it?! Gene, when can we do it?! Tomorrow? The next day?! At this point, I think I actually was jumping and to my great delight, after some discussion of times, dates, best possible weather, what food and drink we were each to bring, it was set. The four of us were scheduled for a private bonfire in the coral cave, in two days! I could (can you guess?) hardly contain myself.

Almost end:

It was decided that Ale and Gene would bring fish to grill, the rum punch, of course, and a local delicacy called Ground Provisions Salad. We were going to bring Grandfathers Salt Fish Cakes (see previous post for recipe) and lots of rum. We were limited in what we could carry as we insisted on taking the bus, you know, for the local experience. Who was it that said to us that whenever we travel we move in …?

Just one more ...

I will take you two days forward, to the fish market bus stop, where the bus is picking us up and ask you to imagine this scene: Us on the bus. One hundred degree heat. Axel with a beer and three bags in hand, me with my rum and coke (the bus arrived faster than we anticipated!) and my fritter dish in hand, squashed cheek to cheek, sweat bead to sweat bead with everyone on the bumpiest bus on this planet. The locals took one look at us and had mercy on our souls. The old ladies took my fritter plate so I could finish my rum and coke (bless their souls) and made space for Axel to put the bags down so he could finish his beer (I love these people).

The time passed and bus started to empty out (I tell you, this was the never ending bus ride) and eventually, after an indeterminable amount of time and several how much further is it (answer was always “far”), we were the last ones left. As we were being shaken like little pebbles in a gold sifter, much worse now that the bus was empty, Axel looking particularly green, I could not help wondering who thought this was a good idea again. Why didn’t we just impose and take the car ride offered? But, as always, as things were looking their worst and I was contemplating emptying a plastic bag for Axel just ...in case, at last we arrived and every bump (so many) and all the time (it was long) it took was worth it when the bus stopped and dropped us off at the top of a road.

Smiling, a bit wobbly and green, we thanked the driver picked up our considerable belongings and bid him good day.

Ahead of us was a small, narrow, country road with fat little goats happily munching on the long, bountiful (and apparently quite tasty) grasses. As we started the long walk down, I took a deep breath of the salt air and thought to myself, how wonderful. How wonderful is it to be walking down a small country road, goats around, sun shining, ocean waves crashing in the background, with my beloved, carrying a plate of just made salt fish fritters, about to embark down coral steps to a secluded paradise for an evening beach bonfire. Life was beautiful.

We reached the beach and Sam was there to greet us with his big, easy smile and “How ya doin’ man!” Put all your stuff here man and go enjoy the beach man. But first come and let me show you what we did for you man” We follow him into the coral cave and see that they had carved out a pit in the sand for us and placed some driftwood on either side to hold the makeshift grill. It was gorgeous. It was awesome. There was also a “table” for us to store our things. The dream was off with a bang…

The bang ...

Men work ...

As we waited for Ale and Gene to arrive the men began their men work. I swear! One minute I am basking in the sunshine and thoughts of things to come and the next I am watching Axel and Sam carrying an entire palm tree log to the cave for the fire and collecting other beach wood for anything we might need in terms of fuel. I was sure I was on Gilligan’s Island for a moment. Then, as if it was a beautiful sonata winding its way up to a glorious crescendo, the evening sky took hold and Ale and Gene arrived with native friend in tow. Smiling, with lots of goodies in hand we greeted one another and then got down to the beautiful business of food. We examined each others bounty, thanked Sam repeatedly, strategized on the best timing for each dish, marveled at the glory that was this place and the fortune that was ours in meeting one another and poured large, stiff drinks.

We even experienced a slight pre-dusk storm where we all had to hide in the cave and watch the storm come in and rain pass us by. I mean come on. Once the storm passed, amid the stories, laughter and natural kinship, night had fallen. The sky was clear. The ocean, black. The moon and stars were lighting up the sky. The ocean gracefully offered a soft breeze that was moist with sea water. At this point Ale decided it was time for the fire to really burn and the men went to work. It was not long before we had two beautiful fires. One bonfire for our visual pleasure and one grill fire for our soon to come culinary delights.

The fire ...

The storm ...

The cave ...

Those two magnificent fires, combined with sensorial overload from the natural beauty around us and the good friends laughing hysterically and strolling the evening beach were enough of a whollop to send me into another “I cannot believe the camera stopped working and I can’t take pictures of any of this and how can this happen and I have to fix it etc etc ” rant. Because I was quite vocal and quite obviously dismayed (well, as dismayed as you can be in paradise after several (many) rum punches, of course) at the inability to take pictures so I could forever capture the moment, the men went into action.

All of a sudden I see huddling, lights are moving and then …there they all are, I kid you not, shining beams (yes, someone actually brought a shining beam), cell phones and camera lights in my face all in an attempt to light me up enough so they could take a picture! It was so touching and wonderfully odd.… Here is the result …

The result ... bless their hearts ...

This being the eventful evening that it was thus far, we were all famished and it was time to grill. First were the Bajan fritters (which were soggy after the long, foil enclosed bus ride but nevertheless got recipe requests from the Rastas!). Then there were the swordfish skewers grilling on the fire which were absolutely gorgeous. Finally, there was Ale’s Ground Provision Salad which was, creamy, savory, spicy, sweet and absolutely delicious. We were literally scraping the container. Just imagine it ...

Blatant attempt to distract you from the no provision salad photo predicament ...

This story closes with stomachs full, hypnotized by the fire (and endless bottles of rum) Sam and his friends singing songs of long ago, beauty in our hearts and rum glasses (of course) in hand … dear readers, Ale, Gene, dear friends, these are the days of our lives (sorry, sorry I got carried away a little) until the next time cheers and bottom’s up.

End. Really. I swear.

Time to dish:

Ale’s Spectacular Ground Provision Salad

What you need:

• 3 large sweet potato (purple skin) chopped into hunks
• 3 large plantain (semi-ripened) sliced into pieces
• 1 large taro root, chopped in large chunks
• 2 medium sweet green pepper, chopped
• 1 medium sweet red pepper, chopped
• 3 large Celery stalks, finely sliced
• 2 medium Onion, finely diced
• 1 cup Spring Onion, finely diced
• 3 cups Pumpkin cubed
• 3 small garlic cloves, very finely minced
• 1 tablespoon green seasoning (Caribbean herb mix ground in blender, recipe below)

Peanut oil for frying

A bowl of ice water for blanching the sweet potato and taro

Salt and hot sauce, of course, to taste

What to do:

1. Bring a pot of lightly salted water to a rolling boil. Start boiling the sweet potato until soft. Retrieve cooked potato with a slotted spoon and transfer to a bowl with enough ice water to cover it. Using the same boiling water cook the taro and once it’s softened, transfer it to bowl of ice water.
2. Next, fry the plantain slices in a skillet until the sugars contained have browned, but not blackened, flipping over once.  Transfer onto a paper towel to absorb excess oil. Repeat for the cubed pumpkin. Once the two batches are fried, drain almost all the frying oil, leaving enough of it to brown the onion. Once browned, remove the cooked onion and set aside.
3. Once the  sweet potato and the taro have reached room temperature, drain and transfer to a bowl and gently mix them together. Add the remaining ingredients (browned onion, raw spring onion, green & red pepper, celery, pumpkin, minced garlic and fried plantain), very lightly mashing them up. Add salt to taste. Refrigerate for at least one hour. Serve lightly chilled.

Carribean green dressing

1 bunch of Cilantro
1 stalk of celery, include leaves if you have it
1 small head or garlic
4 green onions
1 bunch of fresh thyme
1/4 cup of water
pinch of salt
2-3 shallots
2 pimento peppers, 1 banana pepper and 1 Cubanelle

Roughly chop and blend all ingredients in a blender and you will have a gorgeous, emerald, herby, spicy warming dressing that you can use for the ground provision salad as well as a marinade for lamb, chicken and fish. Freeze for up to 3 months. Enjoy with loved ones.

Originally published on dish chronicles 12.08.10

Promises ...

This week dear readers, I come to you with an amuse-bouche. Of sorts. A figurative and literal one. 

Figurative because all I can give you are little nibbles of stories to come because alas, at the most inopportune time (as they always are yes?) my camera has broken down and I am on a quest to retrieve the photos. And literal because I will share with you a recipe I made for our bonfire adapted from an old Bajan grandfather.

So, as part two of my Bajan adventures, I come to you (once camera back in action, pray for me) with promises of stories of tropical forest paths with coral steps leading down to a Robinson Caruso’esque beach with immense coral cliffs and big rolling waves (I have a rant to go with this one which I can’t wait to share with you). Of Rasta’s and solitary bonfires in caves with the grill carved in the sand that roasted fish as we drank rum and listened to the waves crashing.

Of picking up a chef (who just happened to be the owner of one of Barbados best rated Zagat restaurant’s, total fluke!) at the local fish market and trying to negotiate for his fish but hesitantly winding up at his restaurant instead, to one of the most magnificent Bajan meals you can imagine. Of little, black hummingbirds who suckle every morning on the most fertile plants I have ever seen (it loses all its flowers every afternoon and every morning it is in full bloom).

Of roadside, church parking lot spareribs. 

Of exquisite, hot, crunchy, golden flying fish fingers. Heaven.

Of brilliant Ambassadors and glorious Tuscans (and us of course) on the coral sand beach, sipping homemade rum punch while discussing Asian crepes, ancient water mills, lemon trees and where to obtain fresh, unpasteurized goats milk for making cheese (I did it and failed miserably but it was divine) and more typical food obsessed beach conversation.

And of course, of the kind and wonderful people that make Barbados such a unique place to visit.

Now, onto the literal one.

Bajan Grandfather's Salt Fish Cakes ala dish …

What you need:

• 2 tablespoons of melted butter (plus extra for sautéing the onions)
• 1 small onion finely minced
• 1 cup flour (plus extra to adjust batter consistency)
• Salt and pepper to your taste (if you can find Caribbean black pepper, do it)
• ¼ cup finely diced fresh green pepper
• 2 tablespoons of chopped chives
• 2 tablespoons of Bajan hot sauce
• 1 ounce of dark rum
• 2 eggs lightly beaten
• ½ cup milk
• ½ cup old cheddar cubed into ¼” cubes
• ¼ cup mozzarella cubed as the old cheddar
• 2 cups saltfish, boiled 3 times and flaked
• Peanut oil for frying

How to make them:

1. In a heavy frying pan, sauté the onions in butter until they are translucent an luscious (you’ll know).
2. Place flour in a big bowl and make a well in center. Pour in eggs, butter and milk. 
3. Mix together lightly and then add the onions and all other ingredients to the bowl and stir gently until a beautiful batter forms. The consistency should be something between cookie dough and muffin batter.
4. Once done, drop tablespoon by glorious tablespoon full into the hot oil. Please give them space and do not crowd them in. Fry until they are a beautiful golden color.
5. Serve hot hot hot! (for the extra heat loving peeps out there,  mix mayonnaise with some of the Bajan hot sauce, add a squirt of fresh lime juice and dip on in)

 Until we meet again ...



Originally published on dish chronicles 11.24.10

13º 10 N 59º 32 W …

No matter where I am in the world (right now it happens to be Barbados) it always comes down to the simple things. The things that make life beautiful to me. Like homemade Bajan hot (insane hot) sauce, sitting on the floor with Axel eating blackened bluefish caught just this morning wrapped in chinese cabbage that was picked, you guessed it, just this morning. Tiny little limes that burst with juice. Bouquets of the local herb mix of thyme, marjoram, chives and hot peppers. All bought from little old ladies selling their food goodies on the street.

It's very hot here. So hot, that it took all my effort to write said paragraph. This being the case dear reader, if you will indulge me, I am going to tell the rest of my story in pictures.

Little things that have captured my heart here so far...

The local reggae blasting Dolmus ...

Beehive glasses ...

This one speaks for itself n'est ce pas ...

Obama nike's on Rasta's ...

Pac   pac    pac  ...

The local Bluefish ... thank you sea ...

People and fish ... and signs ...

Long roads ...

Next week dear readers, if all goes as planned, I hope to come to you with recipes and stories of barbecued pigs tales, macaroni pie, flying fish and a possible petition to keep the hamburger across the street thick. Wish me luck.


Originally published on dish chronicles 11.10.10

Oh sweet pig ...

Beginning was difficult today. It took me all morning to extract those three tiny, little title words from my over stimulated brain. We (I take liberty, it may just be me) always travel the most complicated paths before coming back to what usually makes the most sense. Simplicity. The path, of least resistance.

I had visions of so mysterious must read titles such as In the strangest places … then, I shifted and went for the one word wonder of Gratitude … then, I went to the possibly poetic Every day at 5am a man wakes up … then, because I was driving myself up the wall, I stopped. I sat quietly for a moment and asked myself a simple question: what do I want to say? Genius, I know.

The answer came back whispering (in an odd Eat Pray Love'ish sort of way): Pig … oh sweet pig … tell them about the beautiful, *fat (see rant later), succulent little breakfast sausage that fed seven hungry soccer players on the weekend. So here I am dear readers, with my story.

It all started last year, with these same seven hungry men, sitting around my breakfast table in silence. Silence.

Now, if you have ever been around a group of men, you know this is a very rare occurrence. So rare in fact, that I can almost picture David Attenborough’s voice (as always he would of course be ever so conveniently placed in the perfect observing position) in the background with “here, we have a group of men participating in a most elusive ritual, silence… watch carefully now and you will witness one of life’s most mysterious states amongst men in their packs …

Yes … anyhow, I went outside hoping to witness the cause of this extreme rarity and there it was staring me right in the face. The one thing, the most powerful force, the culinary kryptonite that can render the most verbosely inclined men silent. Meat.

There, in the middle of the mountainous pile of eggs, plates of feta and sweet, fall tomatoes nesting and happily glistening in olive oil and fresh basil, lay a sizzling plate of Soujouk (soujouk dear readers, is a lovely, stinky, gorgeous cured sausage of Armenian origin).

All around me were faces planning their next move. What was the fastest way to the soujouk? How much could be taken without offending the rest of the pack? What was the best strategy for fastest plating to retain maximum heat? Who would have to go down once the last piece battle began? It was awesome. So marked was I by this extraordinary experience that back in present day, with looming breakfast ahead, here I am with another secret to expose (starting to get a liiiittle concerned about this confession theme here …).

I dear reader, am a selfish individual.

There, I’m out. I’ve said it.

There are very few things in life that give me as much pleasure as watching people relish food. Especially when this relishing is collective and it involves food directly from a farm. It literally makes me happy. So selfish as I am, I jumped at the chance to recreate last years meatty joy. But naturally, I could not present the same sausage again (God forbid, I know!). This time I wanted to make the little bundles of meat joy myself.

So naturally, this meant I had to hunt the perfect pig, or at least (let’s be real here) our farmer who reared one. In comes farmer extraordinaire Jean-Pierre who’s farm La Ferme le Crepuscule is responsible for feeding me (you will be hearing more about him). This week, he had the most beautiful ground pork ever (seems I didn’t have to hunt far) and so it was my duty to showcase its pure magnificence with the proper preparation. That said, I am about to share a little gem with you that could not be easier to make and is gorgeously delicious. This is a simple sausage recipe adapted from Alton Brown that will knock your socks off (I dare you to try to figure out where the citrusy hint comes from, because frankly I’m stumped).

Warning: if you do not have a meat grinder, ask your butcher to grind the required fat into the pork. I realized too late that I don’t have one (how could I possibly not know that I do not have a meat grinder for heaven’s sake you ask … I mean really, it’s just one of those things you just know you have or don’t have you say …) so I had to leave out the extra fat (sacrilege - I hate myself - from freaky not knowing no meat grinder incident I know!)

The lesson: please, remember the fat or you will (if you are obsessive like me) wind up making the whole thing again, yes, like I did (the “fat free” version was so flavorful and awesome but a tad, well, sans fat). This second batch resulted in full, plump, bronzed, succulent fatty glorious sausage. Thank you dear pig.

Okay, I’m done. Time to dish.

Here is what you need:

2 pounds pork butt, ground

1/2 pound fat back, ground with the pork

2 teaspoons sea salt

1 1/2 teaspoons freshly ground black pepper

2 teaspoons finely chopped fresh sage

2 teaspoons finely chopped fresh thyme

2 teaspoons finely chopped fresh dill

1/2 teaspoon finely chopped fresh rosemary

1 tablespoon organic light brown sugar

1/2 teaspoon freshly grated nutmeg

1/2 teaspoon cayenne pepper

1/2 teaspoon red pepper flakes (Turkish if you can please)

Special equipment: meat grinder (yeah … I don’t know how I missed that ...)

Here is what to do:

Combine glorious pork with all other ingredients and chill for 1 hour. Form into perfect sausage shapes. Refrigerate and use within 1 week or freeze.

For immediate gobbling, sauté little bundles of sausage joy over medium high heat. Sauté until brown and golden turning on all sides to ensure an even tan (approximately 10 minutes. Keep warm covered in aluminum foil until ready to serve.

Yield

Enough for 7 hungry men.

Was meat induced silence achieved you ask? No. This year ravenous bunch diving into everything leaving crumbs in wake was achieved, but very noisily. This year, I had stiff competition that I had not planned for and am convinced I would have persevered given the following elements had been eliminated: Big screen TV, football, soccer and hockey (seriously, how many critical sporting events can be on at the same time!).

Even the most heavenly meat does not render man silent when in his most beloved state, watching sports, with his pack, in front of a big screen TV. David, are you there?

In the end, this is what it’s all for yes?

For those of you curious about the rest of the morning Menu, it was:

Farm eggs (24!) with cream scrambled in organic butter with feta and fresh dill

Pancetta crispy and lovely

Moroccan Olives

Sliced Lebanese cucumbers with lemon zest and sea salt

Creamy, ooozy Bulgarian triple cream feta with drizzled olive oil and Turkish red pepper flakes

Greek, farm extra thick and creamy yogurt

36 hour French baguettes

(Seems like the United Nations here … yes!)

Bagels (Montreal only please if you can, I have to discriminate here, they are the best)

Ferme Reid raspberry jam

And beer

Lots and lots of beer …

Originally published on dish chronicles 11.03.10



Originally published 11.03.10