Tabasco Sauce in the Applejack

All but the most degenerate boozers reach for some drinks before others. Nothing wrong with having our favorites, although the punctilious zealotry of the martini and mint julep crowds can get overbearing. Throw all the juices, syrups, tinctures, spices, and whatnot at the modern bartender's command into the equation and folks can get downright obsessive about what works in their cups and what doesn't. "Any guy who'd put rye in a mint julep and crush the leaves," wrote opinionated Kentucky bullshitter Irvin S. Cobb, "would put scorpions in a baby's bed." Exaggeration. Probably. Who knows? Cobb lied like it was his job. Because it was his job. But scorpions, though? Best to keep that old corn guzzler away from babies and not chance it.

Hot sauce is where I usually put on the brakes when it comes to cocktails. All things being equal, a dose of cayenne, chipotle, or tabasco peppers in the glass will generally make me pass. The heat's no problem. In fact, we bust out homemade hot sauces for weekend breakfasts and weeknight dinners often.  On a hot day, a round or three of micheladas hits the spot. When the temptation to mix chiles and liquor occasionally does strike, it's liable to take the guise of a Snapper, that vastly superior Bloody Mary cousin that replaces vodka with gin. We've used Cholula to good effect in a Caesar-type concoction titrated with the barest volume of absinthe. A sangrita with blanco tequila is not the worst option for daytime drinking. The common element? Tomato. Paired with and tempered by tomato, hot sauce might — just might — bring a drink together, but otherwise in most drinks the stuff is just gimmicky, an exercise in machismo, in how much heat one can handle. 

Or it's a prank. 

Back in Philadelphia, cheesemonger friends collected the oily drippings from fifty- and hundred-pound aging provolone cheeses in eight-ounce plastic tubs. After weeks or even months, they'd label the cloudy, yellowish — and pungent — accumulation Prank Juice. At some point, some jackass who needed taking down a peg was going to swallow that nightmare fluid. 

Hot sauce in so many drinks is kin to that South Philly prank juice. And the joke is old, old, old. From 1904 to 1908, cartoonist H.C. Greening penned a comic that featured Uncle George Washington Bings, Esquire, a literary descendant of cannonball-riding Baron Münchhausen and forefather of 1960's blowhard Commander McBragg. In the strips, Bings was a small-town braggart, forever telling tall tales about his exploits around the world. The Los Angeles Herald ran a six panel strip in 1905 which Bings belittles a fire-eater to villagers sitting around a bar's pot-bellied stove. "Why," he claims, "I could make that bluff look like a December frost." As he warms up to some choice braggadocio, the mischievous bartender dashes hot sauce in his applejack.

His reaction? Just about what you'd expect from anyone who'd been given a well-deserved dose of prank juice.

Too small? Click it!

Goes well with:

• Allan Holtz's thumbnail on Greening and Uncle George Washington Bings in Stripper's Guide.
• Clam Squeezin's, Absinthe, and the Bloody Fairy Cocktail — that Cholula thing I mentioned.
• Applejack in the church lemonade? Sure, why not?
• More apples. I wrote a piece on American apple spirits (including applejack, cider royal/cider oil, apple-based absinthe, and more) for Distiller magazine last Summer. Here it is.
• More properly meant for mixing with pulled and chopped pork, the North Carolina barbecue sauce we make around here is not much more than vinegar and ground chiles. Nevertheless, it's great on eggs, red beans, and even the occasional gumbo. You're on your own if you put it in drinks. Here's the complete recipe. 
• Historically, saloonkeepers and bootleggers might add hot chiles to alcohol to give the liquids a kick or bite and mask the taste of poorly made or adulterated beverages such as the swipes of 19th century Hawaii.

Philadelphia Church to Hold Beer Service

Beer is big in Phildelphia. Has been for as long as I can recall. When I packed up to move to San Diego from Philly, I bequeathed my homebrew setup — the fermentation tub, carboys, bottle brushes, air locks, fillers, capper, all of it — to my buddy Zeke, a cheesemonger who shares my taste for beer. In addition to the homebrew gear, there were several cases of liquor. The deal was: no cherry picking. Take all of it or none of it. Zeke's no dummy; he took it all. The occasional fermentation updates from the City of Brotherly Love still make me smile.

Can't make it to Philly?
Relax. Don't worry. Have a homebrew.
And if you don't brew,
Sculpin now comes in cans.
It's delicious.

Zeke and I were far from the only ones who liked making beer in Philly. The city was crawling with other brewers, both professional and amateur. It is, in fact, the location of next week's 35th Annual National Homebrewers Conference. Wrapping up the conference is a service dedicated to all that hoppy, sudsy goodness at a Center City house of worship established in 1796.

On Sunday, June 30th, the First Unitarian Church (2125 Chestnut Street) is hosting a service that

[...] will explore the history and culture of one of mankind’s oldest beverages. Throughout history beer has not only been a sustaining beverage but it has also come to connote conviviality and equality among all people. The service will also look at an interesting message from the world of craft brewing – small is good! This service will mark the conclusion of the American Homebrewer’s Association’s National Homebrewers Conference being held in Philadelphia this year.

Choir member Dane Wells is one of several homebrewers in the congregations. In 1985, he received a certification as a Beer Judge from the American Homebrewer’s Association, and has since devoted considerable study to the history and culture of brewing.

Goes well with:

• The beer service details are here: Conviviality, Equality and Beer.
• Events for the homebrewers' conference are here.

A Mikey Wild Easter

An austere morning here at the Forge: hot tea, a single small biscuit, and catching up on the news of the world while the rest of the house slumbers. There will be no egg hunt, no chocolate bunnies, no jelly beans, no squeals of young children. It's perfect.

While reading the latest from Germany, I suddenly remembered (for this is how my parenthetical mind works) a box of drawings I have from Philadelphia's punk rock legend, Mikey Wild. When I wrote about his death almost a year ago, I wrote about his drawings in particular:

Almost childlike in their simplicity, Mikey's drawings could be also dark and revealed an impish sense of humor. He sold the drawings on paper for as little as a dollar each or as much as ten. I have a folder stuffed with them.

Turns out that I have not merely a folder stuffed with them. When moving to our new house, I discovered a box labeled Michel Sauvage. What the hell was this? On opening the box, I was faced with a drawing of Jesus drinking moonshine and realized, as I flipped through all the loose pages underneath, that I'd come across a forgotten trove of his drawings.

For this Easter morn, I offer two additional Mikey Wild drawings: The White Jesus Fighting the Black Jesus and The White Easter Bunny Fighting the White Easter Bunny. Hey, that's how Mikey titled them. I like that there may be multiple Easter bunnies duking it out for supremacy. Likewise, a multiplicity of pugilistic Jesuses opens entirely new vistas of possibility. And why are they fighting? No idea. Knowing Mikey, though, I wouldn't read any racist angles into it. I'd venture that black/white, good/bad, and, yes, even white/white are simple binary oppositions — why wouldn't they fight?

Goes well with:
Rabbit à l’Epicurienne, an Easter Treat— from last Easter, a Victorian bunny treat from Agnes B. Marshall. Who's Marshall? She's just the one who was writing about making and using ice cream cones almost two decades before their supposed invention at the 1904 St. Louis World’s Fair and who suggested using liquid oxygen at making ice cream at the table generations before anyone heard the term molecular gastronomy. 

Mikey Wild (1955-2011)

"How about Vincent Price?"

"Aw, Mikey, I've got lots of Vincent Prices. What else've you got?"

"I could draw...I know: Dick Cheney Shooting His Friend in the Face with a Shotgun. You'd like that!"

"I think I would. Let's do it."

Mikey Wild. You couldn't spend much in the Italian Market or on South Street in Philadelphia without knowing who he was. He seemed as much a part of the place as Independence Hall or the Liberty Bell. Short, perpetually unshaven, he smelled of cigarettes and coffee even at the earliest hours. His gravelly voice and slightly slurred speech set some on edge, but I didn't mind. I have speech problems of my own. He was forever walking the neighborhood, friendly to almost everyone. Often, he carried a satchel of colored markers and paper for making drawings of whatever sprung to his mind.

It was something of a shock to read in yesterday's news: Michael A. DeLuca, 56, a punk rocker, artist, and South Street institution known as "Mikey Wild," died of lung cancer Wednesday, May 25, at Penn Rittenhouse Hospice in Philadelphia.

Philadelphia sommelier Ben Robling had sent me a message letting me know the news. The formal obituary merely confirmed it.

Philadelphians across the city and the world must be pulling out their Mikey Wild drawings and paintings now and polishing their memories of him. Almost childlike in their simplicity, Mikey's drawings could be also dark and revealed an impish sense of humor. He sold the drawings on paper for as little as a dollar each or as much as ten. I have a folder stuffed with them.

One depicts Satan biting the head of the Easter Bunny. But there are others: the Good Easter Bunny and the Bad Easter Bunny Fighting. It hadn't occurred to me that there might even be a Bad Easter Bunny. There was also a bad Jesus boxing good Jesus. A ship crashing into an iceberg is labeled The Titnic, one "a" forever lost to the freezing waters. I cannot to this day see a reference to that doomed ship and not think of it with a smile as the Titnic.

On a green field in another, there I stand, a cup to my mouth. Matt Rowley Drinking Away the Profits of His New Book Moonshine is the title. I remain amused that the profits can be downed in a single cup. The Jersey Devil was a childhood fear of mine, so Mikey gladly — gleefully, even — drew his version of the Pine Barrens legend.


Mikey and I shared an admiration for Vincent Price, whose 100th birthday would have been today. The actor was a recurring meme in Mikey's work; if he pulled out a folder with 20 drawings, Price would be there. When Mikey brought around a large canvas one morning of his favorite actor with an enormous head, I paid him on the spot. $20.

It was worth every penny.

Happy birthday, Vincent. One of your biggest fans is on his way to meet you.

Honey Loquat and Elm Syrup to the Rescue

We're sick.

And by we, I mean everyone in the house except me.

There's coughing, sniffling, snoring, tossing, turning, couch-sleeping, daytime nap-taking, walking-in-a-room-and-forgetting-why, and slack-jawed 15-second stares at nothing. I'm keeping everyone at arm's length. Sympathetic, but cautious. Make them tea? Yes, of course. Cook dinner? Duh. Yes. Drive everyone to get pho? Pile in, boys.

I'm also dispensing doses of Pei Pa Koa, a sore throat syrup from Hong Kong. I learned of this honey loquat syrup years ago in Philadelphia from Ben Robling — the same erstwhile cheesemonger who provided inspiration for a Dumpster grappa recipe in my book Moonshine. Ben and I were shopping in an Asian market when he spied a display of red boxes and seized on them as the best cough syrup he'd ever known. He, in turn, had learned of the stuff from an opera singer who took a preventive spoonful before performances as a throat-soother.

What the hell? Why not try some? It was South Philly where colds in the winter were more common than parking spots and anyone with a cough was to be avoided as if she had the zombie plague.

It turned out to be one of the best the best cough syrups I've ever known. I've never seen any in a Wal-Mart, Duane Reade, or Walgreen's, but the decorative red boxes are commonplace in US Asian supermarkets. The dark, almost molasses-colored, syrup has a hint of amber if you hold it up to the light, and tastes strongly of honey. Peppermint jumps out with noticeable licorice and ginger notes. There's a longer list of esoteric ingredients that reads like a Jerry Thomas bitters recipe, but the one that excites herbalists is elm bark, widely regarded as a demulcent — that is, a throat soother. It means nothing more than a medicine that makes sore throats feel better.

I have no illusions that Nin Jiom Pei Pa Koa (Nin Jiom is the Hong Kong manufacturer) will actually cure the stricken in my house, but if it makes them feel even a tiny bit better, they will continue to have some.

Amazon sells 300ml bottles of the stuff for a little over $15. Sure, you could buy it online. Or you could venture into the nearest Asian market and find some yourself. The 300ml bottle I picked up yesterday was less than $6.

And — me being me — you know I'm eyeballing that bottle and mulling over drinks ideas. There is, after all, that whole list-of-esoteric-ingredients-that-reads-like-a-Jerry-Thomas-bitters-recipe feeling that's hard to shake.

Hot Cocoa for a Chilly Morning

Back when I was a cheesemonger in South Philadelphia, the walk to work in mornings was brutal in the depth of winter. Not "could be," not "sometimes." Was. The wind would find every little gap in my scarf and blow suddenly down my back. My thighs ached with the cold. Snow — invariably, there was snow — was frozen solid at 6:40am, no matter how much of it had melted the day before, and sidewalk salt and ice wormed into my boots and turned into clammy brine even before I made it the ten blocks to work.

En route, I stopped at a corner joint the cheesemongers called Chinese Coffee. I forget its real name. To us, it was, and always will be, Chinese Coffee. Most winter days I got hot tea to warm me the last few blocks to work. Occasionally, there was a donut. On the really horrible days — the days I had to walk backwards to keep out the worst of the howling wind — I got hot cocoa.

It was a reward to myself for merely existing in such weather. The biggest they had. 20 ounces. Just enough to get me to work and last through the initial setup. When one of the bakeries delivered fresh bread so hot it hurt to hold, we would break one open and savor the steam and aroma. The Italian guys would eat it plain or dip it into a bit of olive oil with sea salt.

Me? I'd pull off little chunks of hot bread and dip in my cocoa for that last little push of inspiration before we raised the blinds and let in the customers stamping their feet and rubbing their hands together, trying to find their own warm places.

San Diego mornings are nothing like that, but I keep a jar of cocoa mix in the pantry for those days when there's a definite bite in the air. Today was one of those days.

9th Street Hot Cocoa Mix

2 c/300g 10X (confectioner's) sugar
1 c/100g cocoa powder
2.5 c/300g full-fat powdered milk
1 tsp fine-grain salt
2 tsp cornstarch

Sift all of the ingredients into a bowl and whisk until thoroughly combined. Store in a cool, dark place.

To make a cup of hot cocoa, fill a mug 1/3 full with the mix, then top off with either boiling water or hot milk. Stir to combine. 

Goes well with:

• Chartreuse Hot Chocolate — I'd actually use a higher-grade, full-on chocolate for the spiked version, but it's one more way to get through a hard morning. Or night.

Gretchen Worden’s Fish House Punch (and a Funky Manger)

My first encounter with a bowl of punch — not the frat house version slopped together from whatever alcohol is cheap and plentiful, but a more stately Philadelphia Fish House Punch — left me positively besotted.

Gretchen Worden was a friend, but she was also director of the Mütter Museum. Housed in Philadelphia’s College of Physicians, the Mütter is a museum of medical history and pathological anatomy. I’d moved to Philadelphia as a young curator with a few freshly minted anthropology degrees for the opportunity to work with that collection.

Just before Christmas 1996, Gretchen hosted a gathering at her home for friends and employees. Our holiday chit-chat was less about Santa and his elves than disease and deformities. At this party in her home were two things I‘d never encountered. The first was a little manger scene that had grown over the years to spread over most of her fireplace mantle. In addition to the traditional stable, shepherds, wise men, and whatnot, it included toys ranging from a dollhouse refrigerator and microwave to Star Wars action figures. There were plastic fly larvae (“Gift of the Maggots,” she wryly quipped out of the side of her mouth. Leaning in closer, she placed her hand on my arm and confided: “They glow in the dark.”). Joseph was holding a camcorder, R2D2 had joined the shepherds’ flock and I think — though certain memories of the evening are less reliable — that the manger itself was occupied by either Yoda or one of the brown-frocked jawas.

The other thing I’d never seen before was a big bowl of Fish House Punch, a compounded drink that dates back to Philadelphia's colonial past. I didn’t realize anyone made it anymore, but it turned out that for years Gretchen had been whipping up and aging batches of it using an 1950’s recipe. The technique isn’t what you might see in high-end bars today, but the effect is no less potent. She advised serving it very cold so that one did not have to dilute it with ice. Wicked, wicked woman.

As an experienced homebrewer of beers and ales, the tiny punch cups (little more than demitasses, really) that accompanied the bowl seemed, well, stingy. Used to quaffing homemade beverages in great quantity, that’s exactly what I did. Frequent refilling required us to gather around the bowl. As a result, the conversation flowed like punch.

I do not recall how I got home.

I do not recall whether any Fish House Punch was left.

I do not recall whether I dreamed of baby Yoda or glow-in-the-dark Yule maggots.

I do not recall, most pointedly, wanting another drink for several days.

Gretchen’s recipe is not a wholly authentic recreation of 18th Century Fish House Punch, but it is sly and potent. The peach brandy I used to make it was sheer bootleg — and really good — but drinks writer David Wondrich has suggested elsewhere that a 3:1 blend of bonded applejack to “good, imported peach liqueur” might work as a substitute. You may try commercial examples from Peach Street Distillers or Kuchan Cellars.

From my 2007 book Moonshine!, here’s

Gretchen Worden’s Fish House Punch

1 quart lemon juice (about 4 dozen lemons, squeezed)
1 ½ lb sugar
1 pint curacao, tangerine brandy or orange flavored liquor
1 pint dark rum
1 pint Benedictine
1 quart peach brandy
1 gallon bourbon
1 pint strong cold tea.

In Gretchen’s precise words, “Put the above gut-rot in a three-gallon jug and shake the hell out of it. Place the jug in a cool place and shake it once a day for at least three weeks; two months is better. Do not cork it tightly and keep it cool or chilled or else the lemon juice will cause the whole thing to go off. Serve chilled, not over ice.”

I might add: serve it in small cups.

MxMo XLII: Dizzy Dairy and Rowley’s New Book

When I heard the theme for this month’s Mixology Monday—dairy cocktails—I gritted my teeth. In the last year I’ve had more milk and cream than at any time since my childhood. Why? Well, the rich history of, and modern innovation in, dairy cocktails is the topic of the book I’ve been working on.

Until I was ready to publish, I wasn’t eager to see public talk about them. No dice. MxMo host Chris Amirault over at eGullet has let the cow out of the barn with MxMo XLII: Dizzy Dairy. For one day, the majority of the world’s online cocktail writers will be blogging, tweeting, and posting Facebook updates on the very thing I’ve been keeping under wraps.

Ah, well. I know when to roll with new developments and, since this is hardly a secret topic anymore, let me tell you a little of what I’ve been up to and throw out a call for help.

As I’ve researched the book, I’ve sampled 1%, 2%, whole, raw, homogenized, and pasteurized milks from huge producers and small family farms. There’s been condensed, evaporated, caramelized, fermented, shelf-stable, and powdered samples decking the kitchen counters. I’ve looked into the dairy underground (where raw milk runners sometimes call their product “mooshine”), put archivists and librarians through their paces digging out manuscripts and old pamphlets, and ordered dairy cocktails in every city I visit. Some—like Ramos’ famous gin fizz—are classics. They can be as simple as Lebowski’s favorite White Russian or laced with fancy beurre noir and sage.

On a recent trip to Philadelphia, I dropped in Rum Bar to say hello to owner Adam Kanter. The milkiest drink on the menu? An orange batida. Long popular in Brazil, batidas often incorporate fruit and sweetened condensed milk (leite condensado) as well as cachaça, a hugely popular cane spirit gaining ground in the US. Bar manager Vena Edmonds kindly supplied the recipe. If you can't find Moleca, a three-year old wood-aged cachaça, consider substituting Leblon or Boca Loca brands. Not the same taste, but a little more funky than a lot of rums.

Orange Batida

1 oz Bacardi O
1 oz Moleca cachaça
1 barspoon of refined sugar (about a teaspoon)
1 oz sweetened condensed milk
½ oz orange juice

Shake hard with ice to fully mix the condensed milk and strain into an old fashioned glass with fresh ice. Garnish with an orange slice. You could also substitute simple syrup to taste for the sugar.

Of course, I was in Philly to hit libraries and archives, too. I’ve dug into the ethnographic, historic, culinary, and literary records from around the world for cultural and scientific information on the lactation of cows, goats, horses, buffalos, camels, and more. Want naturally rose-flavored milk? Grab your passport. The fermented Mongolian mare’s milk drink koumiss that used to be in all the bartenders’ manuals? Hard to find, but there’s an easy work-around. Beyond issues of palatability, I can tell you why we don’t milk pigs, why water buffalo cream is so thick, and how to break down milk punch into distinct families.

But I could use help. I’m looking for recipes to include—with attribution—in the book.

I’ve got more than enough historic American cocktail recipes. What would help are original dairy cocktails made by modern bartenders and cocktail enthusiasts—cocktails using milk, buttermilk, cream, butter (don’t look at me like that: you never heard of hot buttered rum?), or other dairy products. Innovative takes on older recipes and examples from outside the US are also good: Got experience with aged eggnogs, sloe gin fizzes, or pisco-spiked caramelized goat’s milk? I’d love to hear from you.

I can’t promise everyone’s recipe will make the final cut—my editor invariably cuts even my own recipes—but I can promise to talk with you about your cocktail(s), see if there’s room to include them, and give you all kinds of lavish credit if one or more of your recipes makes the final draft.

Email me at moonshinearchives [at] gmail [dot] com and let’s see what we can do.

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Rowley Talks Potka, Moonshine & Old Recipes on NPR

This week I’m in Philadelphia. The time is flying by faster than I thought possible. Naturally, there’re beverages and research involved—a little rum, a little whiskey, some white dog, some beer. Philly may nickle-and-dime you to death, but its beverages do not suck.

Yesterday, I also dropped by NPR station WHYY for an interview with Jim Coleman, host of the Sunday talk show A Chef’s Table. Coleman and I talked about moonshine, home distilling, and interpreting old liquor recipes. He caught me off-guard, however, when he asked about the most unusual homemade liquor I’d ever encountered.

Forget for a moment that homemade whiskey is, in and of itself, pretty damn unusual for millions of people. I could have mentioned the apple brandy made from heirloom fruit I found in Missouri, Texas bierschnapps, or sorghum skimmin’s. Nope. I had to go with something doubly illicit in most of the US: potka, a combination of vodka and cannabis.

I couldn’t see the producer or the sound engineer from where I sat, but I’m fairly sure there was some frantic sign-making to remind Coleman just how illegal that could be. Mea culpa, Chef—it’s just that I live in California where medical marijuana is legal and obtaining a prescription (they tell me) is simplicity itself. For those with a scrip, the simple version doesn't seem illegal. No prescription, of course, and you're just inviting trouble.

In both San Francisco and Texas, I found potka among home distillers and cordial-makers. Otherwise, it’s not terribly well known. In its simplest form, cannabis is macerated in 40-50% abv vodka or neutral grain spirits. Makers report that THC in the marijuana is extracted into the liquor and they end up with a beverage that combines attributes of the two.

More recently, I’ve begun to see distillers who made the same maceration, then add water, and redistill to yield a high-proof cannabis-laced spirit. Now, for me, pot's a bit like Scotch whisky: I don't mind if my friends indulge, but it just doesn't hold much appeal. Potka? Holds even less personal appeal, but I understand why some like it and as a curiosity it’s worth documenting.

It occurs to me, though, that potka may be dangerous. Not just from a legal point of view, though there's truth enough in that, but because it’s potentially lethal as well. Here’s why: Medical marijuana is legal some places because, among other effects, it reduces nausea. This is important for, say, cancer patients undergoing chemo treatment. Helps them keep down food.

Liquor, on the other hand is a toxin—a delicious, mellifluous beverage and perfectly acceptable in small doses—but a toxin nonetheless. When you drink too much, your body naturally ejects it. We’re talking about the Technicolor yawn here. Laughing at the carpet. Hailing a Buick, calling up your buddy Ralph, and invoking the name of Wyatt Earp. Protein spill on Aisle Three. Un-eating, tossing your cookies, and falling on your knees to worship the welcoming and detested porcelain god. Yeah, drink too much and you puke. Vomiting is one way your body gets rid of excess toxins and ameliorates the poisoning you just gave it.

Combine typically high-proof (50%+abv) homemade distillates with a nausea-reducing cannabis in the same glass and it seems to me there’s a potential danger of overdrinking without our natural defense of hurling to boot the excess alcohol. It’s not a stretch to imagine that the result could be some serious alcohol poisoning.

Obviously, I’m no doctor—but common sense suggests that potka is just a mistake in a bottle that needs to be treated carefully.

Of course, that segment may just get edited out. I'll tune in Sunday or head to Coleman's website later in the week to see how it all falls out.

[Edit: see Potka, Part II for a followup from a few days later, days in which I got flooded with information and emails about mixing pot and moonshine]
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Yo, Coombs, Your Bracciole is Showin'

In south Philadelphia, bracciole (spelled a variety of ways, but almost always pronounced brah-ZHOLE) has a few meanings, some more savory than others. In cooking, it’s a rolled piece of meat—often beef—stuffed with, well, nearly anything: sausage, cheese, greens, onions, red peppers, even hard-cooked eggs.

As with long, fat pieces of meat anywhere, the phallic connotations are self-evident, so offers from cheeky vendors in, say, the 9th Street Italian market to show you their braccioles should be countered with equally sincere offers to, oh, I don’t know, whip out a magnifying glass for better viewing or tweezers for more delicate handling. Extending the overstuffed concept, it can refer also to a full-figured young woman wearing clothes better suited to a significantly smaller frame.

We’ll leave aside the last two meanings—those are for someone else’s blog—in favor of the first.

I laid hands on two nice pork tenderloins recently and realized that I was craving a bit of South Philly. So I braccioled them and, lacking any broccoli raab, dished up a side of okra and tomatoes from the garden.


Spinach and Artichoke Bracciole

Filling
8-10 oz fresh goat cheese
3 cups fresh baby spinach, chopped
5-7 marinated artichoke hearts, chopped
3 garlic cloves, minced
Hot sauce

2 pork tenderloins, trimmed of silverskin
Salt
Pepper
Cayenne

Filling
Mix together the goat cheese, spinach, artichoke hearts, garlic, and a fat, juicy dollop of hot sauce (Crystal, Tabasco, Cholula, etc.). Season lightly with salt and pepper.

Butterfly each tenderloin by slicing down the center almost to the opposite side, but do not cut all the way through. The tenderloin will resemble, to the extent that it can, an open book. Then, starting at the center (the “spine”) and slicing toward the edge of the meat, butterfly each side longways again and open the new flaps so that, with a mere three cuts, the whole tenderloin lies flat in a long, pointed oval.













Line a 9”x13” baking dish with foil (not strictly necessary, but it makes cleaning up easier) and preheat the oven to 400°F.

Cut four or five pieces of kitchen twine (about 6” each—depends on the circumference and length of the meat) for each bracciole. Stuff each flattened tenderloin with half the mixture, tie with twine, and place in the baking dish. Drizzle/brush with olive oil then season with salt, pepper, and cayenne.

Roast for 30-40 minutes and serve with a side of some braised or sauteed vegetables.



[Edit: the audio post of the blog is posted here]

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