a meal most satisfying & how to roast a butternut squash

and garlic butter naan

On Monday it rained all day. It was the first cool day in Charlotte that really felt like winter. It was kind of a bummer.

So Monday afternoon Abe roasted the butternut squash that we grew accidentally from a seed in our compost.

There are two ways to roast a butternut squash, and if you don't know about them, you should, because butternut squash is delicious and inexpensive (or free! Grow your own for next year by accident):

1. The Fancy Way, where you take the time to peel and chop the squash before you roast it, therefore producing beautiful, perfect bright orange cubes like they would serve you in an expensive restaurant, and 
2. My Lazy Messy Way, which involves cutting the squash once from top to bottom, rubbing it with a bit of oil inside and out and roasting it whole face-down in a pan. The squash cavity can also be a good place to roast a bit of garlic, but only if you have a good pan: otherwise the garlic will burn and your squash will taste foul. Oh, and don't forget to scoop out the seeds and stringy bits -- that would be after you cut, and before you oil.

I'm a lazy messy kind of girl (no sense denying it). I'm ashamed to admit how my arms ache after cutting up an entire butternut squash, and also because the skin does come off easily and nicely after it's roasted.

Anyway, on Monday Abe roasted the butternut squash The Fancy Way with olive oil, Herbes de Provence and love. When I got home, dinner was simple:  We caramelized an onion and sauteed garlic, then added the butternut squash, a pinch of marjoram and vegetable stock. A quick turn with the immersion blender, and we had the best butternut squash soup I've ever tasted.

Only by growing some food for yourself can you become acquainted with the beautiful energy cycle that revolves from soil to seed to flower to fruit to food to offal to decay, and around again. You will be fully responsible for any food that you grow for yourself, and you will know all about it. You will appreciate it fully, having known it all its life.

-Wendell Berry, "The Pleasures of Eating." Please read the whole essay here.

We're jammin'

I can neither confirm nor deny whether my glasses have been cleaned since this picture was taken.

Yesterday these figs became jam with a little sugar, a little honey bourbon, and a little orange cognac liqueur.

I don't can often enough to remember what needs to be done: most importantly, to calm down. Part of it's the heat (stirring ten boiling pints of fruit pulp next to a vat of boiling water), part of it's the uncertainty (Why Will It Not Thicken?!), part of it's the frustration that I never wrote down how I did it last year. All of it is taken out on Abe. Poor Abe.

So this year while I tore out my hair with one hand (um, not the same hand I was stirring with) and yelled at Abe to sterilize the jars, I scribbled some messy notes on how to make fig jam:

I Wanna Jam It With Figs

makes 10 pints

5 lb. 4 oz. of figs (cleaned, with stems removed)
1/2 c. Grand Marnier/La Belle Orange
1/3 c. honey bourbon (obviously)
3 c. sugar
1 lemon
Use a vegetable peeler to remove the yellow zest from the lemon in strips, then dice. Chop or smash the figs, then let them mascerate with all the other ingredients in a heavy-bottomed pot for at least an hour. Use this time to sterilize your jars and lids and sample the honey bourbon (if anyone asks, you're doing quality control). Bring the fig mixture to a boil, stirring frequently. Wait for it to thicken. (This takes forever, at least an hour, or possibly not - but I can say that because these are messy notes, not an official "recipe.") Once it thickens to a jammy consistency, it's ready to go into jars. I leave about 1/4" of head space before capping. I use a hot water bath canning method and leave the jars in for 10 minutes.

And I always freak out over the ones that don't instantly seal when they come out of the water. But unless you did it all wrong, they just need time (up to 24 hours), and if I've never managed to mess it all up, your jams will be okay too.

what to do with overripe fruit

Farmers are terribly sly, and I'm hopeless at picking fruit. The big box of peaches we brought home from Saturday's farmers market had at least half a dozen that were bruised, smashed, and overripe underneath a layer of perfectly delicious-looking peaches.

Only a few things are more disgusting than mushy fruit. I was mad until I juiced them, added a little plain yogurt, and shook it all up in a mason jar.  Yum: local peach drinkable yogurt! It's a treat with protein and without added sugar.

You old Strawberries, almost-rotten Apricots, Blackberries we forgot were in the fridge, and (coming soon!) past-your-prime Blueberries - come on in! The yogurt's fine.

If you don't have a juicer, you could get the same effect with a blender or food processor. Just remember to remove the pits.

How to cook rabbit better

My rabbit's been put to shame, y'all.  Also shameful: these awful pictures.  Abe and I splurged to install french doors in our dining room as our mutual Christmas gift, and Santa forgot to bring me the digital camera of my dreams this year.  I also forgot to know anything about photography.  So close your eyes if you have to, Ben Depp.

This rabbit was slow-braised with onion, garlic, carrots, mushrooms, fresh thyme, and of course lots of red wine by my friend Aubrey.  And when I say "slow-braised," I mean put it in the oven, wait til you're starved, wait til the hunger passes, and wait some more. (Or serve hors d'oeuvres. Thanks, Aubrey!) It will be very, very worth the wait.  Justin (my coworker at HMG & Aubrey's boyfriend) was responsible for the amazing roasted garlic of which I ate an entire glove like a greedy and starving person.

We feasted, and then had grown-up hot chocolate for dessert.  Meals like this are why we raise our own food.

How to cook rabbit

As I think I've previously mentioned, rabbit is delicious.  The only trouble I've found with eating rabbit is the part that comes first - not the cooking, which I can teach you to do here.  It's the killing.  Evidently in NYC, there are seminars for people who want to learn, but NYC is an awfully long way to travel to do something for which I have no interest (or stomach). 

So if you're squeamish as I am, find yourself a hardy partner to do the butchering.  If that partner happens to be running late for work, maybe you can convince a family member to do a little extra rinsing - no one likes a hairy rabbit stew, I mean.  (No one warns you about hairy rabbit ribs when they tell you to raise your own. They don't tell you that your chickens will lay their eggs in poop, either.  Both of these occasions bring out the sissy in me.)

Your rabbit pieces will be delicious and tender if you kill the rabbit 24 hours ahead and let the meat rest in the fridge. (And by "you," I mean you.)  The day of your Fête du Lapin, marinate the meat in white wine, white balsamic vinegar, oil, herbes de provence, rosemary, onion and garlic.

Around dinner time, sear the pieces on all sides in a pan with olive oil.  (Our bunny was super-sized - we had ample supper for four and three big pieces we didn't even cook.)  When the meat is lightly browned, add garlic, onion, and a few big scoops of the marinade.  Sprinkle in more rosemary, and let it cook with a lid on.  Let the marinade almost cook off, and add more white wine and stir.  Near the end, add a cup of broth.  You can test the rabbit for done-ness by cutting open the larger pieces.  When it's cooked, remove the meat from the pan, but don't remove the pan from the stove.  Add about 1 tsp of flour at a time, whisking, until you have a beautiful sauce.  Serve with crusty bread and roasted asparagus.

Best enjoyed with quality wine and company.