In a previous post, I had talked about lamb chops. Big on taste, sometimes big on price, low on actual meat. Enter: ground lamb. I came across a recipe on Epicurious for lamb sausage patties stuffed with mint and feta and instantly wanted to try it. The mixture of mint and feta is what really pulled me in, as I am generally unimpressed with most ground meat.

Mint from the garden? Check. Feta? Not so much. I was concerned about the blandness of the cheese not adding much to the recipe, but was going to try it anyway. At the store, I came across “Bulgarian Feta.” I took a chance on it, and am really quite glad I did. It’s not like other fetas. It’s stronger, saltier, and dare I say, it’s almost a stinky cheese. It contributes some serious punch to this recipe and I wouldn’t use any other sort of feta with it.

See? Salty melty goodness. These work great on their own, as shown, or as burgers. With the former I just strain some yogurt and mix in chopped cucumber with a little mint to eat as a side. For burgers, a tzatziki is more appropriate. Serve on ciabatta rolls with some thinly sliced red onion, and you are seriously good to go.

One final note about lamb: if you think you don’t like it, try it again. Unless your reasons are political/moral, in which case, ignore me. But I’ve had lots of people declare they don’t like lamb, then have a bite of one of these, and practically inhale the thing. It’s my suspicion that somehow, lots of people have only ever tried Australian lamb which can be really gamy. Domestic is where it’s at.

Say hello to open-faced steak sandwiches on garlic buttered bread with provolone and parsley oil. This is one of those recipes that you should never serve to your friends unless you’re okay with making it many, many more times. I am, so I did. I did however, make the mistake of actually calling them “steak sandwiches,” and was met with the inevitable “sandwiches have two pieces of bread!” comments. So now they are lovingly referred to by many as my “steak toasts.”

This is one of that damnable Bobby Flay’s recipes. I can’t eat one of these without experiencing internal conflict. Despise the man, love his food. I shake my fist at you, Bobby Flay!

To be honest, it’s a darn good thing I’m not Italian. If I were, my grandmother would be slapping the hell out of me for what I’m about to say. But I’m just going to say it, while the angels weep. In my Spaghetti Carbonara, I did not like Guancale nearly as much as I like Pancetta. So there. The photos below are of my Guancale version.

It just doesn’t have the charm Pancetta has. And if you know me at all, you know that I will gladly defy Italian tradition in the interest of charming pork products.

To date, the above is definitely my most ambitious Italian attempt. It gets easier with time; a good set of tongs is crucial and I’ve learned to temper the eggs with the pasta water. The first time I ever made this, it was basically noodles, bacon and scrambled eggs with a ton of pepper. Ideal? No. Delicious? Yes. This is a pretty great recipe, and it’s generally what I go on. But really, once you do this once it’s hard to forget how it goes.

But I’ve found that authenticity and degree of difficulty aren’t what impresses friends. What does impress them, you ask? Lemons and grain alcohol. More specifically, high proof liquor that over a period of time, extracts the oils from lemon peels then is married with sugar and water and kept at freezing temperatures to create a divinely thick, syrupy, creamy and sweet lemon flavored Italian digestivo.

Also known as, Limoncello.

If you’re familiar with the Gumbo debacle, you might know by now that when I embark on what can only be described as a culinary project, I do research. And lots of it. In fact, my tendency to procrastinate on the actual execution of my hairbrained schemes gives me lots and lots of time for research. But finally the day came where I was ready to inflict myself with carpal tunnel syndrome by painstakingly peeling (not pithing) dozens of lemons and dumping them into two liters of 165 proof everclear. Below is the result of my first half-batch being combined. This was on July 10th. I have been diligently agitating daily. I even passed the Jar of Holiness to my mother to shake for me when I was on vacation in Portland. It is now August first, and I’m just about ready to combine the whole mess with simple syrup and toss it into the freezer.

Assuming I can keep from drinking it all, this will probably be everyone’s christmas presents this year. A couple ounces of homemade Limoncello in itty bitty apothecary bottles. Of course, even if I do drink it all I can always make more.

More pictures to come. I got most of my guidance here and here.

 So when I finally got my hands on the le creuset pot I’ve been dying for (in lemongrass green, natch), the absolute first place my mind went was: gumbo.  I won’t lie and say the research process was simple.  I agonized over recipes for the better part of a week.  I’m an incurable shellfish addict, but did I want to spend a bunch of money on shrimp and crab for a first-try gumbo that may turn out awful?  I decided not, and went with andouille and chicken.

Throughout all my gumbo research, the recipes I saw kept ping-ponging back and forth between okra and file.  File and okra.  It’s enough to make a Californian’s head spin.  The recipe that appealed to me the most actually called for neither.  I didn’t trust this, so I plugged in the okra instructions from another recipe.  To make matters worse, I’d read somewhere that you never, ever use both file and okra.  But my coworker, a seasoned gumbo maker at the wise age of 56, insisted I use both.  Well, it ended up a moot point, because by the time I tossed my broth and chicken thighs in the pot, I’d completely forgotten to add the okra.

In typical Juli form, my first instinct was: panic.  Alas!  I did not.  I trudged onward and let that bad boy cook for two and a half hours, skimming from time to time, and when it was ready we sprinkled some file and went to town.  I was a nervous wreck over my roux, and babied it incessantly.  Thankfully, the milk chocolate roux I ended up turned out to work perfectly as my thickening agent.

 And while I’ve had better for sure, my gumbo was DAMN good for a west coast girl’s first stab at the dish.  So good in fact, that I forgot to take photos of the finished product.  So here’s one in the next morning’s tupperware.

Please also note that I made bread pudding.  Spongy, creamy, rich, cinnamonny, and crisp where it counts.  Hot damn, that stuff was good (again, so good the Canon was utterly neglected).  My date doesn’t enjoy food with alcohol in it, but I whipped up a whiskey cream sauce to drizzle on top and it was divine.

 As for the recipes, you can find them both here:

Chicken and Andouille Sausage Gumbo

Bread Pudding

While grocery shopping last weekend, I stumbled across some lovely looking, inexpensive lamb chops. I’ve always wanted to do lamb chops. I went ahead and snagged them, confident I would find a great recipe. I’d also never done brussels sprouts (aside from steaming and buttering frozen sprouts, which I regret to inform you all, does not count), so I decided on those today. Here are the little guys prior to being blackened.

The recipe I decided on for the lamb called for a garlic and rosemary coating. In the store, I made a spur of the moment switch to Thyme instead. I. Love. Thyme. More on that later. They were delicous, but very fatty and mostly bone. 2-3 bites of meat in each chop. I’m pretty sure this is simply the nature of lamb chops, but it also explains why they were on the thrifty side. If you make the chops, you absolutely have to reduce the salt by at least half.

The deliciousness atop the sprouts is garlic. Great recipe, I’ll be using it over and over.

I’d like to point out, for the record, that I followed the recipe exactly and used high quality ingredients.

It’s pretty though, no? Oh well. Two recipes to avoid:

Spicy-sweet tangerine shrimp

Braised baby bok choy

Sorry, epicurious!

I wasn’t really interested in doing a cake, or a shortbread dish. I wanted to do something creative though, because I’ve never really cooked with fruit before! I briefly considered a granita, but a gelato recipe caught my eye. I googled the process of making ice cream without an actual ice cream maker, and away I went! Of course, it turns out that what I made is actually a sorbet, and not gelato because there is no milk or cream in it. But either way, it’s damn tasty and elegantly showcases the character of the berries.

Believe it or not, I’d never really used my paring knife for a proper paring knive use. I hulled and halved these beauties, so they could fit in my little Cuisinart mini-prep.

The final product. I made too much! Someone needs to come help me eat this.

So the answer? Corn tortillas, oaxaca cheese and chorizo from the mercado across the street. Like many Americans, my idea of a quesadilla was originally jack or cheddar cheese, or even american cheese, in a flour tortilla. That is until I met my first boyfriend, who was born in mexico. And thusly met his cousins, who are to this day two of my best friends; the people to whom I give all credit for my valuable albeit limited knowledge of Mexican cooking. I can make a mean tostada with shredded chicken, tomatillo salsa, guacamole that’ll sear your nose hairs, and of course, quesadillas.

I might be one of the only white girls around to whom this is “comfort food.”

I think what I love most about these is that in the past, I’ve generally had them made for me after a night of fun times and alcohol. So I’m sure there’s a component of good memories here. They go so great with a Corona. Not to mention, the ultra-nourishing grease factor. We mustn’t ever forget the grease factor. Odelay!

Fast forward to today, when I wanted to hit the farmer’s market for the week’s goodies, and overslept instead. I ended up at the Milk Pail, and couldn’t resist the beautiful mint, which would go nicely with an eggplant recipe I eyed a few weeks back.

When I got home, the overpowering scent of fresh mint said one thing: Mojitos. Except this posed a problem: no light rum, only dark. Hey, when the craving hits, compromise, right? So I did. After checking with an online source first, to ensure it wouldn’t be a hideous mistake. I gotta say, it was pretty tasty.

I wonder what kind of dirty looks I’d get if I ordered this in a bar. A mojito with dark rum, that is. I should try it sometime. Until then, salud!

When I got home yesterday, my neighbor was watering his plants and his dog. The dog was cute, but I was more interested in talking tomatoes. His plants are a couple years old, and are on the verge of an overwhelming crop of ripe romas and big boys. He gave me a sneak preview. I had it today, sliced and dressed with nothing but a pinch of sea salt.

Speaking of neighbors, the ones on the other side supply me with wonderful lemons. They just don’t know it. It’s thanks to them my tuna and provolone melt last week had bite not just from the capers I tossed in, but from fresh picked and fresh squeezed citrus.

Does the mercado across the street count as a neighbor? Because they have some lovely mangoes. This is actually an older photo, from a month ago or so. I was waiting for a friend to be ready so we could head out to dinner, but my stomach was having a hunger fit. So I diced up this mango and had it with an ice-cold glass of pinot grigio. It was pungent and fragrant, and so ripe. A little stringy due to the aforementioned ripeness, but who cares? Not me.

And finally, peas. Sweet peas and sugar snap peas, with ginger, soy sauce and sesame oil. Complemented my fish nicely. The fish which turned out tasty, but not pretty. Therefore, the peas and only the peas are pictured. Pretty, those peas. Don’t you think?  Actually, if anyone knows why the shelled ones puckered, I’d appreciate the feedback.  I don’t think I overcooked them, it was a quick blanch.

And so I leave you with the words of the great Paul McCartney: what’s so funny about peas, love and understanding?