A Winter's Tail (Oxtails Braised in White Wine)

 

Continuing on the theme of winter-worthy dishes, let us consider the oxtail.  I just saw a tweet from the National Weather Service to the effect that starting tonight (writing this Friday, January 15), temperatures are expected to remain below zero for at least the next 80 hours.  That’s three-plus days, folks, and that’s real Upper Midwest January weather.  Booya!  It could possibly be the coldest snap of what has otherwise been a fairly mild weather, and that makes it the perfect time to prepare the richest, most unctuous, rib-sticking, soul- and belly-warming dish that I know, and that is oxtail stew.

Actually, what I prefer to make is more of a braise than a stew, the difference being really not much more than how much liquid is used in the cooking and is left at the end: stew=lots of liquid; braise=not so much.  I think that in a stew the liquid is most often water, while a braise uses a more flavorful liquid like beer, wine, cider, but that’s not written in stone, or in Escoffier, that I know of, and opinions may vary.  What I’m looking for in the end result is oxtails cooked to absolute surrender, collapsing in a rich, savory, lip-smacking sauce, enough to bathe a mound of polenta or rice, or a tangle of noodles.

The term oxtail is an odd survivor from some earlier age when, presumably, people ate oxen.  What we’re really talking about is the tail of a cow, the same beast that gives us T-bone steaks, chuck roast, and hamburger.  Oxtails used to be pretty cheap, but in these days of nostalgic nose-to-tail cooking, they demand a premium, especially when you consider than most of what you pay for in a package of oxtails is inedible bone and cartilage.  The oxtails from grass-fed animals I picked up at Seward Co-op cost $6.99 a pound, over $15 for the two-pound or so package; that will feed the two of us generously for dinner, with perhaps a lunch for one or two leftover.  Eating low off the cow is not cheap these days. [We actually wound up getting two dinners for two out of these oxtails, plus a cup of soup each to round out another lunch.  First time through, we ate our fill of the recipe as presented here.  Second go, I removed all the meat from the leftover oxtails, added a little more broth and a splash of wine, some chopped cabbage, cooked chickpeas, simmered until the cabbage was tender-crisp.  Served with leftover polenta, it was a wonderful mid-week dinner.]

I said the cartilage in oxtails is not edible, but that’s not quite true.  There will be gelatinous or slightly crunchy bits of cartilage left even after long cooking, bits that will be our dogs’ delight.  But in that extended braise, the cartilage and bone will exude collagen into the braising liquid, and really, that’s the whole point of a dish like oxtails.  The meat is nice, for sure, but even more delicious is that unique, almost gluey, quality that imbues the sauce left at the end of cooking.  It’s a flavor sensation you don’t get any other way, and the rare case where the word “gluey” is likely to be attached to food in a positive sense.  Viscosity and specific gravity are other terms that come to mind, also rarities in the world of food writing.  As with the puree of cabbage and potatoes that I wrote about last time, oxtails are not the sort of thing you’re likely to crave in the midst of a July heat wave.  

No, this is apres-ski or post-wood-chopping food, to be washed down with a robust red wine (the Marietta Old Vine Red is one that pops immediately to mind, and is widely available; what we actually drank with the dish described below was an Italian barbera, cheap from Trader Joe’s, quite suitable).

When I’m making oxtails, I always think of my father, Albert William "Bill" Laidlaw, who died too young, at the age of 65, back in May of 1990.  During by childhood, in the 1960s and early ‘70s, the term foodie had not been invented (O, happy days!), and if it had existed, you would never have applied it to my dad.  But my father was, I think, a sort of secret gourmand, and as I think back on his brief catalog of favorite dishes, I realize that he specialized in what you might call difficult foods.  He would take charge of the broiler when he was home for dinner (a traveling salesman for much of my childhood, my father was absent a lot), cooking up sizzling rib steaks or pork chops.  Of course when we barbequed, he took the lead—his most important piece of equipment being a Bubble-Up bottle filled with water, with a sort of shower head stopper in the neck, essential for dousing the frequent flare-ups that threatened to incinerate the chicken. 

But on the more esoteric side, he absolutely loved marrow bones, and seemed to relish extracting each, last, savory morsel from the hollow bones.  For roast beef sandwiches he would mix up strong English mustard from the powder that came in those distinctive rectangular yellow metal containers, using a shot glass and a toothpick, stirring with the concentration of a medieval alchemist.  I remember taking a whiff of it, and thinking that my nose would never be right again.   

Perhaps the most exotic (and to me, at the time, oddly frightening) food he prepared was smoked Lake Winnipeg goldeye, a sort of whitefish.  My parents were from Winnipeg, and on our yearly trips to the homeland he would sometimes bring back a smoked goldeye or two.  The interesting thing about my father and the goldeye was this:  he would eat them all by himself, and outside of regular mealtimes.  He would heat them in foil in the oven, and the house would fill with that smell of warm smoked fish—a smell unlike anything else that ever issued from our kitchen on North Eden Drive in the Minneapolis suburb of Eden Prairie. 

Maybe my memory is selective, but I recall him then sitting alone at the kitchen table, with the foil packet of warm, fragrant fish open before him, and with an air of utter, blissful satisfaction, going at the flesh, revealed by pulling back the reddish-gold skin, with his fingers alone.  In this iconic memory the rest of the family stands at a respectful distance, beholding the ritual devouring of the goldeye with some mix of awe, delight, terror, and pride.  I think now that my mom simply couldn’t stand the stuff, and it was assumed that my brother and I would be equally unappreciative.  But there it is, the elemental power of food, that such memories (even if embroidered or dodgy) can survive decades, and help to define people, times, and relationships.

Oh, and my dad loved oxtails, so this recipe, though somewhat fancier in preparation than what we used to make, is one I’m sure he would have enjoyed, and so is dedicated to his memory.  There are lots of comfort food sorts of dishes—braises, stews, warming soups—that, when you take the first, long-anticipated bite, fill you with a sense of:  “You know, everything’s going to be okay…”.  Well prepared oxtails have that quality, and more.  The first unctuous, melting bite of really good oxtails brings a sense of:  “Everything’s going to be fabulous, and tomorrow’s going to be grand, and we shall live in joy from here ever after…”. 

You think I’m exaggerating?  Then go ahead, give it a try.  

I rendered some home-salted pork fat to use in browning the oxtails and vegetables, simply because I had it on hand.  The rendered pork fat has a high smoke point, little flavor of its own, and does a lovely job of browning things without burning.  But  you can certainly use vegetable oil in its place; if everything else is in place, don't let the lack of salt pork stop you from making this wonderful dish.

Also, re the garnish:  I browned up some small shallots and button mushrooms, which you'll recognize as the traditional garnish for coq au vin and boeuf bourguignon.  This is also strictly optional, though delightful.  You could also add fresh vegetables toward the end, to make it more of a stew--perhaps peas, blanched pieces of carrot, parsnip, rutabaga, or celery root, that sort of thing.  Put them in for the last 30 minutes of gentle cooking.

Oxtails Braised in White Wine

Serves two generously, with leftovers

2 pounds oxtails

2 ounces salt pork in ½-inch dice, divided, optional or

     3 tablespoons olive or vegetable oil, divided

1 medium carrot, peeled and cut in 5 or 6 pieces

1 small leek, white and green, cleaned, cut in 2-inch pieces

1 medium or ½ a large onion, coarsely chopped

2 cloves garlic, crushed

1 ounce dried tomatoes, chopped in small pieces

2 pinches dried thyme, or a couple sprigs fresh

12 black peppercorns

2 whole cloves

¼ teaspoon whole hua jiao (Sichuan peppercorns)

Salt

1 ½ cups dry white wine, such as sauvignon blanc

Water

¾ cup chicken or beef stock, optional

Optional garnish:

About 20 small button mushrooms, white or crimini

A dozen very small shallots, or pearl onions

Heat your oven to 325.

In an oven-proof dutch oven with a lid—enameled cast iron, like Le Creuset, is ideal—begin to render half the salt pork with a little bit of oil—the other half of the salt pork will be used the next day, so refrigerate it.  If not using salt pork, heat 2 tablespoons of olive oil in the dutch oven.  Salt the oxtails, then brown them over medium-high heat in the oil or salt pork renderings.  Turn them often to brown all sides; take your time with this step, as the browning develops a lot of flavor.  It will probably take a good 15 minutes.  If the salt pork cubes start to burn, remove them from the pan and set aside.

When the oxtails are well browned, remove them from the pan and add the carrot, onion, leek, and garlic, along with a couple pinches of salt.  Cook the vegetables, stirring often, until they wilt and start to take on a bit of color.  Add the wine, scraping the bottom of the pan with a wooden scraper to dislodge any browned bits.  Then add 1 ½ cups water, the dried tomatoes, thyme, peppercorns, cloves, and hua jiao.

Return the oxtails and salt pork cubes to the pan, bring to a boil, then remove from the heat.  Cover, and bake for 3 to 4 hours at 325, turning the oxtails over every 30 minutes or so.  Add water as needed to keep the liquid about halfway up the oxtails.  You want the liquid to be bubbling gently, so adjust your oven temp accordingly (some ovens run hot, others cold, etc.; mine, of course, is perfect…for this recipe, anyway).

After the 3 to 4 hours of baking, test the oxtails to see if the meat will come easily away from the bones.  If they’re properly done you should see the meat starting to pull away from the bones.  You want the meat to be utterly yielding; chewy oxtails are a travesty, and such a sad waste of all the time you’ve spent on them.  Provided that you don’t cook them to hot—i.e., furiously boiling, or so that the liquid all evaporates, and they burn—it’s really not possible to cook them too long.

When you are satisfied that the oxtails are tender, remove the pot from the oven, allow it to cool, then refrigerate the whole thing until a couple of hours before you are ready to serve.  The dish can be made up to this point several days ahead.

A couple of hours before serving, remove the oxtails from the fridge.  You will find that a good amount of fat has solidified on the surface of the liquid—which will now actually be more like gelatin.  Remove as much of the fat as you care to.  Start to heat the oxtails on medium heat, and add more water and/or the optional stock to keep the liquid at half-oxtail level.  Taste for salt; it shouldn’t need much, if any, as so much flavor will have developed in the long cooking of the meat and vegetables; as you taste the liquid, close your eyes and smack your lips a little—there, now you know what umami means.

For the shallot and mushroom garnish:  start to render the remaining diced salt pork in a bit of oil, or just heat 1 tablespoon olive oil, then add the shallots.  Cook, stirring often, until they begin to brown a bit, then add the mushrooms and a good pinch of salt and a grind of pepper.  Toss these around in the fat, and cook gently until they are quite brown, soft, and fragrant, 10 to 12 minutes.  Add the mushrooms and shallots to the oxtails.

Now we’re just about ready to serve:  open a bottle of hearty red wine.  Warm some crusty bread, and put a dish of butter on the table—I would go for salted butter here.  I like to serve oxtails with polenta, which ups the warm and fuzzy comfort food quotient considerably.  We do polenta at a 4:1 water to coarse cornmeal ratio, cooking it gently for 25 to 30 minutes, adding a little additional water as needed to keep it creamy, stirring in a good knob of butter at the end, seasoning well with salt.

So:  spoon a mound of polenta onto each plate—a shallow bowl sort of plate works well here—making a shallow depression in the polenta to catch the sauce.  Nestle a couple sections of oxtail beside the polenta, and spoon sauce and vegetables generously over all.  Drink a toast to beauty of winter cooking, and then get in there and enjoy.

Honey Hua Jiao Braised Lamb Shoulder with Turnips (Welcome to Braising Season)

Braising season is full upon us, that time of year when meats and roots and wines and seasonings convene in the stew pot, the dutch oven, the cocotte, even the crockpot, and slowly simmer to succulence, producing homey, savory dishes that warm the hearts of those chilled of cheek who come in from the frosty outdoors to the warm kitchen with grateful appetite and glasses all a’fog.  Or perhaps it’s incorrect to speak of braising season, since that occupies better than half the year in these parts; more like braising semester, plus.  Or a twist on the old joke about the two seasons of the Northland—road repair, and braising season.

I do love a braised meal, both for the simplicity and for the phenomenally satisfying results.  But given that our climate is more than generous in providing us opportunities to enjoy braised dishes, it’s wise to look for ways to keep our simmered suppers interesting.  Case in point, today’s plate of Honey Hua Jiao Braised Lamb Shoulder with Turnips. That’s a mouthful—and a delectable one, though I say so myself.  Let’s break it down.

The danger with braised dishes is that they can all start to taste the same—the pot roast factor, if you will.  Exactly what is comforting about this type of cooking is what can also make it dull.  The deep, meaty flavors imbue everything in the pot, and without some thoughtful flavor additions, the end result can be kind of one-dimensional.  So we look for flavors to counter-balance the meaty, salty, and fatty; we want acid, maybe even a little bitterness, and perhaps sweetness, and interesting spice.

This dish has them all:  acid from wine, cider vinegar, and honey; bitterness, just a smidge, from the turnips; sweetness from the honey, of course, and also the turnips, shallots, and garlic; interesting spice, from the hua jiao, aka Sichuan peppercorns, and my beloved thyme, which goes so well with lamb and with honey.

I think it’s about time for hua jiao to burst upon the American culinary scene.  It’s such an intriguing, appetizing spice, I think it’s a simple matter of unfamiliarity that keeps it on the back shelf—or, more literally, on some dusty shelf in a corner of the Asian market, where it may be labeled Sichuan pepper, but just as likely flower pepper (the literal translation from Mandarin), dried pepper, or even xanthophyllum (the plant genus from which it comes, a type of “prickly ash” related to citrus).  For a long time it was hard to find good hua jiao; I don’t know if mainstream sources like Penzey’s even carry it.  What I’ve been finding in my local Asian markets lately is pretty good.  But if you happen to travel to China, or know someone who’s going, of course getting it from the source is the best way to go.

Hua jiao is the spice responsible for the ma, numbing quality, in Sichuan ma la dishes, the la being chile heat.  But it also has a wonderful aroma, slightly sweet, a bit tart and citrussy, appetizing in the way that a well balanced curry powder piques the appetite.  It goes well with hot, sweet, and sour flavors, and in a long-simmered meat dish it creates a flavor layer that tempers the richness of the meat—in this case, it mellows the potentially gamy flavor of the lamb.

You could put the hua jiao in cheesecloth and remove it at the end of cooking, but I like to bite into the individual peppercorns, which will have lost most of their numbing quality in the long cooking, but which still provide intriguing bursts of flavor.

I only made this dish for the first time last night, and as soon as the various components began coming to mind, I started to write it down, thinking this might be something I might want to replicate, and pass along.  We were not disappointed.  Served over soft polenta, with the brothy sauce combining all the aforementioned flavors beautifully, still allowing the individual elements to come through, it was beyond satisfying. 

The lamb was from the Lamb Shoppe  via Seward Co-op, a lovely piece of shoulder that actually contained the end of the rib rack—just spectacular meat.  Anyone who thinks they don’t like lamb should give Lamb Shoppe meat a try.  Often when people say they don’t like lamb, it’s because the lamb they’ve had was closer to mutton.  Knowing your source in matters of meat can make all the difference.

Honey Hua Jiao Braised Lamb Shoulder with Turnips

Serves four

3 pound lamb shoulder, bone in

1 ½ cups stock, water, or a combination

½ cup dry white wine

2 tablespoons honey

1 tablespoon apple cider vinegar

¾ teaspoon whole hua jiao, Sichuan peppercorns

6 to 8 small shallots, peeled

6 cloves garlic, peeled and halved the long way

A few sprigs thyme

Salt and freshly ground glack pepper

4 small turnips, quartered

Butter

Season the lamb with salt and pepper.  In a dutch oven or similar, heavy-bottomed pot, brown the lamb in a little bit of oil (I used Smude sunflower).  Working over medium-high heat, brown it well on all sides.

Combine the stock, wine, honey, and vinegar, stirring to mix well.  When the lamb is browned, remove it from the pan and deglaze the pan with the combined liquids, scraping up the brown bits with a wooden spatula.  Return the lamb to the pan along with the shallots, garlic, thyme, and hua jiao.  Add a couple good pinches of salt and a few coarse grinds of black pepper.

Bring to a simmer and place, partly covered, in a 350 oven.  Roast for 30 minutes, then turn the lamb over and cook another 30 minutes.  Remove the lid, add the turnips, and raise the heat to 425.  Continue to roast, turning and basting occasionally, for about another 45 minutes, until the turnips and lamb are both tender.

Remove the lamb from the pot and let it rest for 10 minutes before serving.  While the lamb rests, reduce the cooking liquid on the stovetop to your desired consistency—I like it fairly brothy, but with a bit of viscosity.  Swirl in a knob of butter at the end, if you like, taste for salt.  Serve over polenta, noodles, or rice.

Text and photos copyright 2012 by Brett Laidlaw

Chestnut Season

Just when you think the last of the seasonal delights has come and gone from the market stands, when the corn and tomatoes have gone by the bye, when even Brussels sprouts and celery root are seeming old hat, and the next new thing to anticipate are the pungent ramps of April, May's asparagus, many wintry months away: Along come the chestnuts.

I wasn’t at all expecting to see them as I made my way through the produce section at the Seward Co-op last week. I had a mess of other dishes on my mind, based on the plethora of squashes, the verdant bouquets of kale in my garden, the last few pickings of green beans, and my newly dug potatoes. But there they were, the first of the season, fresh up from Iowa (I’m not completely sure, but I think they must have come from the J & B Chestnut Farm in Winfield, Iowa), and I couldn’t resist them. They should be around for a while now, so I just bought a small sack full, and traipsed gaily to the checkout with glowing anticipation of many happy chestnut moments to come.

Yes, I’m a produce geek, I can’t deny it.

Chestnuts are by no means as common as squash or Brussels sprouts, of course. They’re a relatively new arrival in our market, as a few growers see their hybrid chestnut groves mature, bringing back a once-common tree that disappeared with the chestnut blight that swept the continent with a terrible swiftness in the early part of the 20th century. Chestnuts, indeed, are something of a rarity, certainly a delicacy, with a price tag to match, $10 a pound or more. The best ones are meaty and sweet, and they suggest nut, fruit, and vegetable all at once. They can go savory or sweet, main course to dessert, equally well, and they cross continents and oceans in their appeal--you’ll find chestnut recipes from France and Italy, and well as China and Japan.

Before the Real Bread hiatus, our chestnut bread was a seasonal favorite, inspiring fervid devotion among our customers. Indeed, there were people we didn’t hear from all year until chestnut bread time--generally early November, when the chestnut flour was ready--came around.

I’ve got a Sichuan chicken and chestnut recipe that I love, surprisingly mild considering its region of origin. This recipe is a simplification and Westernization of that dish, using hard apple cider where the Chinese version would use rice wine, increasing the amount of meat to make a single main dish. I really like the Chinese way of making a meal from several dishes of equal status, along with rice, but when I’ve got the season’s first chestnuts, I don’t want anything else stealing the spotlight.

We used our own hard cider from home-pressed apples. I realize that good hard cider can be hard to find, and if you can’t find one that you like, I suggest this ersatz: In place of the cup of hard cider called for below, use a ¾ of a cup of good sweet cider, 1 tablespoon of good apple cider vinegar, and top it off with a bit of water. That won’t be the same as the hard cider, but it won’t be bad, at all.



Chicken with Chestnuts and Cider
Serves two generously

16 chestnuts
4 chicken thighs (or thighs and wings, legs, whatever parts you like; we prefer thighs)
2 tsp canola oil
1 medium onion sliced
1 small carrot sliced
1 cup dry hard apple cider
1 cup chicken stock or water
Salt and pepper
3 sprigs fresh thyme

First you need to get the chestnuts out of the shell. With good, fresh chestnuts, this isn’t difficult. Begin by cutting an X into the flat side of the shell, just barely penetrating the shell without cutting into the meat. I like to take a small paring knife, and (CAREFULLY!!!) grasping nearly the entire blade in my fingers, draw the tip of the blade across the shell. Once the shells have been scored, you can roast them on the stove top (our woodstove, the Haggis, is perfect for this) in a heavy skillet (like cast iron), until the flaps of shell created by your Xs start to peel back; or place the nuts in a pan in a 400 degree oven for about 10 minutes. Peel the nuts as soon as they’re cool enough to handle. Carry on as below.

Salt and pepper the chicken pieces. Heat the canola oil in a high-sided skillet or dutch oven, and brown the chicken well on both sides, about 15 minutes total. Remove the chicken from the pan. Brown the chestnuts over medium low heat, watching carefully, turning frequently so they don’t burn. Remove and set aside. Pour off excess fat, leaving about 2 teaspoons. Add onions and carrot. Saute until the onions are wilted about 5 minutes. Add the cider, scraping up the brown bits with a wooden spatula. Add stock or water, the thyme, and a pinch of salt. Return the chicken to the pan. Bring to a simmer and cook partly covered for 30 minutes. Add the chestnuts and cook for another 30 minutes. By this time the liquid should be considerably reduced. If you want a thicker, sauce-like consistency, remove the chicken and chestnuts and reduce the sauce over high for a couple of minutes. Taste for salt, and add a little more pepper if you like.

Serve with buttered noodles, or just a piece of good grilled bread.

Variation: Finish the sauce with a quarter-cup of heavy cream, and you’ll have something that would be quite at home in a Normandy farmhouse.



Text and photos copyright 2010 by Brett Laidlaw

Cider-Braised Chicken with Cabbage and Bacon (Not Half Bad)

I've been having a hard time keeping up with all the great foods of this autumn which arrived about three weeks ago with a definitive gale. In one blustery weekend thoughts went from what to throw on the grill to what shall we put in the braising pot tonight? I made a chicken braised in cider and cream a few days ago, and I wanted to write about that, but I would have to make it again to have a real recipe to share. I'm doing this all the time, making up a dish at dinnertime, taking a few photos of it, thinking I'll remember what I did when I sit down to write about it a few days later, and inevitably, of course, I've forgotten important points because I didn't make detailed enough notes.

This dish, chicken in cider with cabbage and bacon, I threw together in the midst of making doughs and mixing up sourdough sponges for our market baking last night. And while making it I came up with a trick to help me remember what I was doing: I added most of the ingredients in "half" measures--half a leek, half an onion, half a cup cider, of stock, etc. I should be able to relate this in no more time than it took to make it, so here goes.

Preheat your oven to 275.

2 ounce chunk good slab bacon, cut into 1/2"-inch cubes
4 chicken thighs (skin on or off, according to taste)
salt and pepper

1/2 a small onion, sliced
1/2 a small carrot, cut in half the long way, then across into thin half-moons
1/2 a small leek, sliced into 1/4-inch rounds
1/2 a small cabbage, cut into four wedges

In a dutch oven or deep-sided sauté pan that can go in the oven, slowly cook the bacon over low heat until most of the fat has rendered and the bacon is brown. Remove the bacon from the pan, pour the fat into a small dish and reserve. Salt and pepper the chicken on both sides, then add it to the pan, bring the heat to medium high and brown the chicken well on both sides, about five minutes each side.

Remove the chicken from the pan, and drain off any fat. Return a teaspoon of bacon fat to the pan, add the onion, carrot, and leek, and cook for about five minutes, until the vegetables have softened and just begun to brown.

1/2 cup apple cider
1/2 cup chicken stock
1/2 cup water
1 sprig sage

Deglaze the pan with the apple cider, then add the stock and water, the sage, and return the chicken to the pan. Add a good pinch of salt and a few grinds of pepper. Bring it up to a boil, then cover the pan and place it in the oven. Cook for 40 minutes (check it after about 10 minutes to see that it's bubbling gently; if it's not, increase the heat to 300 and check again in another 10 minutes.)

After 40 minutes add the reserved bacon cubes to the pot and nestle the cabbage wedges in between the chicken pieces. Cook, covered, for 20 minutes.

Increase the oven heat to 375. Remove the cover from the pan, turn the cabbage wedges over, and cook for another 10 minutes, or until the cabbage is tender.

Serve the chicken and cabbage out into wide soup dishes. If the sauce seems thin, reduce it over high heat on your stovetop for a couple of minutes to desired thickness. Serve it forth. Taste for salt.

I was going to serve this with boiled potatoes, but Mary discovered some leftover spaetzle in the fridge, so we used that instead, briefly fried in a little butter. We drank an Austrian gruner veltliner, a crisp white with good body; an Alsatian riesling or pinot blanc would have been another good choice. Or a lighter red, a cabernet franc like a saumur, or a modest pinot noir. Or, indeed, a glass of honest hard cider.

Nothing hard about this dish, and by the time it has braised all that long while, the cider is completely integrated into the sauce--you'd be hard-pressed to tell there was cider in it, at all (I really didn't intend the pun, but I'll take it...).

Text and photos copyright 2009 by Brett Laidlaw