At a recent party I encountered a Mexican treat that I’d never heard of. It was described to me as a dough made of masa harina (fine cornmeal with lime) wrapped around chorizo (Mexican sausage), potatoes, and cheese, fried and topped with black bean puree, salsa and queso fresco. I put one on my plate, sat down and dug in. It was so good—an irresistible combination of flavors and textures—that I hopped up to get another one. But it was too late; they were gone.

So I decided to attempt my own. I found a bunch of recipes in magazines and online and set off.

I mixed 4 cups of Maseca with 1/3 cup flour, 1 tablespoon of baking powder and 1 teaspoon of kosher salt. Then I warmed up about 3 cups of water with 2 tablespoons of lard (I bet shortening would be fine). I mixed the water into the flour mixture gradually until it made a dough that would hold its shape and not be too crumbly.

The masa harina dough ready to be filled.

Meanwhile I boiled two medium peeled and diced red potatoes (1/2 lb.) until they were tender, then browned 10 ounces of Mexican-style chorizo I made last week, similar to a recipe in Diana Kennedy’s The Cuisines of Mexico (Harper & Row, 1982). When it cooled I mixed in about 4 ounces of diced Monterey Jack cheese, and that was my filling.

Some masa dough went into my left hand, where I flattened it out as much as possible into an oval shape of about 2 x 3″. I put a tablespoon of filling in the middle then closed my fist around it,

Molotes dough holding the stuffing.

pressing to contain and seal the filling, then I shaped it into a torpedo, or football shape, about 3 x 1 1/2″. I thought how great these would be for a Superbowl party if I was throwing or attending one.

As I assembled the molotes I put them on a cookie sheet I’d sprayed, and then fried them in vegetable oil until they were golden, turning halfway through.

Once the molotes were drained on paper towels, I put them on a plate. On top went a drizzling of black bean puree that I’d made with dried beans from another of Kennedy’s recipes, frijoles de olla, then pureed with my immersion blender. Then I ladled on some My Brother Bobby’s Salsa and over that some fake crema I’d made with sour cream, lime juice and lime zest. Next was crumbled queso fresco and some fresh cilantro leaves. Radishes as a garnish would have been appropriate but I didn’t bother, this time.

Authentic, probably not. I think I have a lot to learn when it comes to molotes. They were fun and tasty, but there are a couple kinks to be worked out. There was too much dough in proportion to filling, so that technique needs to be refined. I need to contact the woman who made them for that party and ask her for her molote secrets. Once I get it perfect I’ll provide a real recipe in this space. Has anyone out there made molotes?

The finished molotes. At the back of the pic you can see the uncooked ones next to the stove, ready to go into the oil.

Clockwise from top left: Mash, mushy peas, and fresh bangers, topped with onion gravy and squirted with HP sauce

I had a fancy for bangers, had empty pockets, and pork trimmings were cheap, so I made some sausages the other day. It’s one of my favorite hobbies and a nice way to while away a windy winter’s day when one is feeling rather skint.

I love the creativity of sausage making, the mechanics of working with my gleaming cast iron meat grinder and yards of wrinkly hog casings, and especially the delicious results. This time I decided to make some Mexican chorizo for an upcoming molotes project (stay tuned), as well as some bangers, a classic sausage from the British Isles that’s laden with bread crumbs and sneered at by many sausage snobs. I love it anyway, remembering it fondly from a couple of trips to England when I was very young. I wouldn’t give up all other sausages for it, but it’s a lovely change of pace once in a while. I planned to eat it with some of its standard accompaniments, a pile of “mash,” as in “bangers and…”, some mushy peas, onion gravy and HP sauce.

I used this recipe for Oxford Sausages from about.com, substituting some very young ground venison that my ex, the hunter, gave me. The free-range meat is delicate, not gamey-tasting at all, and made a fine stand-in for the less humanely raised veal.  Not that it’s “humane” to kill wild animals, and I could never do it, but if one is to eat meat, that from animals who lived happily and free and ate a diet of wild foods rather than hormones and antibiotics, is a better choice, I think.

I used Pepperidge Farm Original White for the bready filler. Something called rusk, a type of dry biscuit, is used in commercial bangers, but Peggy of about.com said “white bread,” so that’s what I used.

I let the mixture steep in its own spice for a couple days, then made it into sausages, which I browned and poached while I boiled russets for my mash, heated canned mushy peas, and made an onion gravy by sauteing a bit of chopped onion in the drippings, adding flour, cooking and stirring, then adding a bit of chicken stock (beef would have been preferable but I had none handy), Kitchen Bouquet, and grainy Dijon. I added a pinch of salt and pepper and simmered until thick. The rich gravy, tangy HP, and even the pleasant green mushy peas (not mushy at all but firm and flavorful) were all perfect with the potatoes and savory sausages. It may have awoken my genetic memory of ancestry in the old country; it was that satisfying.

Bangers and Mash is a dish considered Irish as well as English, so perhaps in two months from today, when St. Patrick’s Day rolls around, you may want to remember these bangers and try some of your own. Or don’t wait that long and make some now.

Bell Peppers

But today I found some on the bargain rack and did them up. Sweet and fleshy, they are delightful just laid across slices of fresh crusty bread.

Roasted Peppers

3 red bell peppers

2 tablespoons extra virgin olive oil (here I used a fruity Greek one called Athena)

2 teaspoons balsamic vinegar

1/2 teaspoon fleur de sel or sea salt

Freshly ground black pepper to taste

If you have a gas stove you can just put them on the burner on a medium-high flame, or with an electric in a dry cast iron skillet big enough to hold them, again at medium high. Turn frequently with tongs until they are charred all over and place in a paper bag, close tightly and let sit 20-30 minutes.

Remove from bag and peel, reserving any juice if possible but discarding seeds, skin and charred bits. Tear into large strips or chunk and place in small non reactive bowl. Add remaining ingredients and toss well. Serve immediately or store in the fridge for up to a week or two.

Roasted peppers marinating in EVOO, balsamic, s & p.

Octopus and Shrimp Salad

Once a year, for a few fleeting moments, there are round blocks of frozen octopus in my grocer’s seafood case. Although it’s not cheap, I grab a couple so I can make something with the rare chewy delight, full of character and charm. Often I make a sauce for linguine, where the critter bathes in tomato sauce and red wine, but this marinated appy keeps a few days in the fridge. It’s a rich, tangy and piquant blend based on the multi-seafood salad I used to make for my Italian Christmas Eve feast.

Boiling time for the octopus is about an hour or more, depending on the size. This guy weighed about 3 1/4 lbs when raw and took an hour and a half of simmering with lots of water, a cork (I know, I know), some peppercorns, a bay leaf and a sprig of parsley.

When it was done, drained and cooled, I boiled a pound of medium shrimp for about three minutes, drained and cooled that, and added the two items to diced red pepper, diced celery, chopped parsley, an optional pinch of red pepper flakes, a generous-sized finely chopped shallot and a couple fat cloves of minced garlic. It also needed salt, freshly ground pepper, more extra virgin olive oil than would seem healthful, the juice of 1 and 1/2 lemons, and a generous glug of balsamic vinegar, not traditional but subtly flattering to both octopus and shrimp, I’ve discovered lately.

This luscious stuff can be eaten right away, but a day or two of steeping, with an occasional toss, makes it even better.

from "bhamsandwich's photostream" on flickr.

It goes without saying that the Kentucky Derby and horses go together like and honey and bees.

But some might say that the Derby and mint juleps have just as sure a relationship. Although I’m descended from some Kentuckians, I’ve never tried the beverage. But I’m looking forward to sampling one or two on Saturday at the annual gala for the Rhinebeck Science Foundation.

The mint julep is said to have originated in the South in the 1700s and has been the official drink of the Derby since 1938. Although most of what is served at the event itself is Early Times Mint Julep Ready-to-Serve Cocktail (to the tune of 8,000 liters), much better versions are made at Derby parties everywhere, although mixers disagree on how sweet it should be, and just how minty, whether the herb should be abundant and muddled (bruised) or merely a sprig to garnish the drink while teasing the nose with its subtlety.

James Villas, author of My Mother’s Southern Kitchen (Macmillan, 1994) and most recently Pig: King of the Southern Table (Wiley, 2010), describes in the former volume a collection of eight silver monogrammed julep cups given to him by his sister over eight consecutive birthdays. He says each drink must be made separately; the mint julep is decidedly not something you can mix up in a vat. He calls for shaved ice, never chunks, and for Jack Daniels Sour Mash as the bourbon of choice.

Henry Watterson, who founded The Louisville Courier-Journal in 1868, liked his with no mint or sweetness at all. “Pluck the mint gently from its bed, just as the dew of the evening is about to form upon it … Prepare the simple syrup and measure out a half-tumbler of whiskey. Pour the whiskey into a well-frosted silver cup, throw the other ingredients away and drink the whiskey.”

In spite of Watterson, the combination of bourbon, mint and sweetness is a classic one, a flavor combo that works beautifully in a pecan pie as well.

Bourbon Pecan Pie with Julep Whipped Cream

Pecan pie is my favorite decadent southern dessert and adding a bit of bourbon makes it even naughtier. If you like, substitute a different crust of your choosing or even a pre-fab single crust. Makes 1 9” pie.

Bourbon Pecan Pie with Julep Whipped Cream. Photo by Jessica Bard.

For pie crust:

1/4 cup unsalted butter (1/2 stick), softened to room temperature
1/4 cup shortening, at room temperature
1 1/2 cups flour
1/2 teaspoon salt
1 teaspoon sugar
1/4 cup ice water

For pie filling:
3 large eggs
1 cup dark brown sugar
¾ cup dark corn syrup
¼ cup butter, melted
2 tablespoons + 2 teaspoons bourbon, divided
1 tablespoon cornstarch
1 ½ teaspoon vanilla
¼ teaspoon salt
1 ½ cups pecan halves
1 cup whipping cream
1 tablespoon sugar
¼ teaspoon peppermint flavoring

For pie crust: Blend butter and shortening and chill until firm. In a medium bowl, mix flour, salt, and sugar. Add the chilled shortening/butter mixture in pieces and work quickly with your fingers until lumps shrink to pea size. Add just enough water to make the mixture hold together; it will still be somewhat crumbly. Pat it together to make a flattish disk, wrap in plastic wrap or wax paper and chill for half an hour.

Preheat oven to 350˚ F. Roll out dough on a floured flat surface (cutting board, marble slab or dishtowel-topped countertop), and lay it out into a 9-inch pie plate, pinching up the sides and crimping decoratively.

For pie filling: In a medium bowl beat eggs with hand mixer until just blended. Add brown sugar, corn syrup, melted butter, 2 tablespoons of the bourbon, cornstarch, vanilla, and salt. Mix well with hand mixer or spoon until completely blended. Stir in pecans and pour filling into prepared crust.

Cook for 70-80 minutes or until mostly set in middle when you give it a jiggle. Let cool on rack.

Whip whipping cream with hand mixer at high speed until soft peaks form. Add sugar, remaining 2 teaspoons bourbon, mint flavoring and mix in. Spread mixture on cooled pie, leaving pecans showing around edges. Decorate with springs of fresh mint if you like.

Alternatively, serve slices with hearty dollops of the julep whipped cream on top, or skip the whipped cream and serve the pie with mint chocolate chip ice cream.

A photo of Ethiopian-style stuffed tripe from Time Life's Foods of the World: African Cooking

Spiced butter (niter kebbeh), the irresistible foundation of Ethiopian cuisine.

Since I first became interested in Ethiopian food I’ve been oddly captivated by the photo on the left, a tripe stuffed with a spicy mix of chopped steak, toasted bread crumbs, and exotic spices, topped with a golden buttery spiced gravy.

But it’s been a long road. The photo in my copy of Time Life’s Foods of the World: African Cooking had no accompanying recipe; for that you had to use the spiral bound index that shipped with the book in 1970. And which I didn’t have, and couldn’t find. Until a couple of years ago when my online hunting finally paid off.

Then it was the whole three-pound cow’s stomach that proved elusive. Most tripe I buy once a year or so for a luscious Trippa alla Fiorentina comes in oddly shaped pieces not suitable for stuffing.

But fate would have it that I found a perfect piece of tripe at Hannafords recently, not 3 lbs. worth, but a one-pound pouch, so I could do a third of the recipe. So I was off and running.

The one-pound tripe pouch before cooking.

I turned the pouch inside out and boiled it for three hours until it was tender at knifepoint, then drained it and tried to dry it off as best I could with paper towels.

The Tripe Pouch Post-Boil.

Meanwhile I prepared the stuffing by sauteing chopped onion, green pepper, and a serrano chili in niter kibbeh, the foundation of much Ethiopian food, a clarified butter spiced with garlic, ginger, onion, turmeric, cardamom, cinnamon, and other spices. I added some chopped up round steak and a bit of a spice paste made with crushed garlic, pulverized peppercorns, allspice, clove, cardamom seeds, fenugreek, and nutmeg. After the meat browned, in went some salt, a touch of soft fresh breadcrumbs, and some toasted little cubes of Pepperidge Farm white bread.

Then into the beef belly it all went, to be trussed up with skewers and gently placed in a deep pasta bowl with some chunks of carrot, onion, and green pepper. I dolloped the top with some more spiced butter and then with a bit of difficulty I set it up to steam (thanks, Calico, for the birthday silicone steamer!–although I doubt you would approve of my first use of it!).

The tripe, all stuffed and ready to go.

Back view. Or is it the front?

After 1 1/2 hours of steaming and basting, the stuffed tripe was ready.

My husband had to get our son to baseball practice and couldn’t wait for the sauce to be made, so he dug right in (BTW, this wasn’t dinner, for that I made arroz con pollo).

The first slice of stuffed tripe, fresh from the steamer.

A fine slice of stuffed tripe.

I got to enjoy my own portion a few minutes later, gilded with the buttery gravy. And it was wonderful, hearty, zippy, and flavorful. If I ever happen upon another tripe pouch I will make it again.

We can't wait to get to Maine and have to stop for steamers at The Old Salt in Hampton, NH, on the way there.

Lobster wranglers wrestle cooked beasts into submission at Rockland, ME's Lobster Festival.

The menu is so overwhelmingly full of possibilities that we just can't choose. And the line is miles long anyway. We go to another booth for fried Maine shrimp and have no regrets.

Lobsters by the thousands are summarily steamed before being offered to the masses.

Wild Maine blueberries and freshly shucked local peas.

Fried scallops and clams at Shaw's in New Harbor, ME.

Outside Shaw's a young lobsterman surveys the day's catch.

Your hostess has eaten so much lobster on this trip, she's turned into one. But she doesn't seem to mind.

Sofia slurps a sweet Pemaquid oyster at The Anchor Inn in Round Pond, ME.

Sofia's opinion on the oyster's deliciousness.

“There are five reasons to drink wine: the arrival of a friend, the thirst of the moment, the thirst of the future, the quality of the wine, and any other reason.”

Or this, from my eight-greats grandfather Sir John Harington’s loose translation of an ancient Roman medical poem called The School of Salerno, in which the number five reappears:

“Choose wine you mean shall serve you all the year,
Well-savored tasting well, and colored clear.
Five qualities there are, wine’s praise advancing,
Strong, Beautiful, and Fragrant, Cool and Dancing.

And:

“White, Muscatel, and Candy wine, and Greek,
Do make men’s wits and bodies gross and fat;
Red wine doth make the voice oft-time to seek,
And hath a binding quality to that;
Canary, and Madeira, both are like
To make one lean indeed: (but wot you what)
Who say they make one lean, would make one laugh,
They mean, they make one lean upon a staff.
Wine, Women, Baths, by Art or Nature warm,
Used or abused do men much good or harm.”

I have on the schedule a wine presentation by David Pazdar of Pazdar Winery in Scotchtown, NY, a cooking demo of a lamb dish by Jessica Applestone of Fleisher’s Grass-Fed and Organic Meats in Kingston, a sheep cheese tasting by Debbie Decker, the cheese dept. manager at Adam’s Fairacre Farms in Poughkeepsie, and a talk and tasting with Charles Derbyshire of Old Mill Wine & Spirits here in Rhinebeck. It looks like I’ll be doing a couple demos myself, too, to fatten up the schedule, a Greek sheep cheese pie with phyllo and a North African lamb and quince stew.