Refrigerator Cucumbers - Missouri Childhood in a Jar

Racing my bike through the streets of my small hometown was an integral part of my childhood; always en route to morning swim team practice with a towel wrapped tight around the center handle bars, the city park to roam and play, the fair grounds that connected a series of bike trails in the dense woods on the edge of town, the Wednesday matinee where I first held a girl's popcorn buttery hand, and at least one stop a day at either one of my grandparent's homes to raid their always fully stocked refrigerator.  I could count on very specific foodstuffs, depending on my destination that day; my father's parents always had cold sliced cantaloupe, bologna, RC Cola, and frozen ice cream drumsticks covered in chopped nuts; while my mother's folks maintained a fridge chock full of cranberry juice, leftover bacon from breakfast, fresh peaches from the family orchard, fried okra and onions, pork rinds, the original Chips Ahoy chocolate chip cookies, and a large Tupperware container filled with ice cold cucumbers and onions in white vinegar.

The refrigerator cucumbers were my favorite - fresh, cold, puckering tart, and utterly refreshing in the middle of those sweltering, humid Missouri summer days.  I stood with the heavy door opened, propped against my skinny, tan legs - holding the cold Tupperware against my belly (yes, there was a time when I wore a half shirt in the early 80s) while I clamped thumb and index finger around the floating coins to plop into my mouth, one after the other.  When I had my fill, I raced back into my care-free childhood, screen door banging loudly behind.

As complicated as cooking could be for the recipes and meals devised by the women in my family, these quick pickles were surprisingly simple and easy to prepare.  Usually, the cucumbers were harvested from  the garden, layered with sliced red or yellow onion, then covered with vinegar that had been embellished with a whisper of salt, sugar, and pepper.  And that was it... 

As much as things have changed, they've also stayed the same in many ways.  I still stand mesmerized in front of an open fridge eating leftovers, drinking milk, or sometimes a cold beer in the middle of the night - but my favorite refrigerator ritual still involves standing in the glow of the intermittent light, munching with eyes rolled back on the nostalgic, tart, ice cold cucumbers from my childhood, albeit sans the half shirt, but now that I think about it, probably sans a shirt at all.    

Refrigerator Cucumbers

1 English Cucumber

2 Cups White Vinegar

1/4 Cup Salt

2 Turns Cracked Black Pepper

Technique - Slice the cucumber into thin coins - place in jar or Tupperware container - cover completely with vinegar, add salt and pepper - chill for at least two hours - then devour.

I am the GIZZARD King, I can FRY anything!

I have a deep affinity for fried chicken gizzards - a nostalgic foodstuff that hails from  the Low Midwest of my childhood; rarely if ever prepared at home, but always an important ritual when dining at one of the three or four fried chicken restaurants close to my hometown of Lamar, Missouri.  My father and I still love them, even ordering a basket a few weeks ago at Barto's Ide Hour in Frontenac, Kansas after a day of piddling and foraging for morels at the family farm.  If you're from that neck of the woods, you know the farm, the one near Bluff Cemetery donning the signs, made by my father and me over thirty years ago, that read:

"NO TRESPASSING

VILATORS WILL BE PROSECUTED"

Dighero Family Farm near Bluff Cemetery

The deep fried gizzards and livers were on the table before we ordered our entrees, boasting a crunchy, salty exterior given way to dark, chewy muscle that seemed to squeak when bitten.  Liver, although tender and buttery, is exponentially more metallic, abrasive then it's gizzard counterpart.  I hated liver when I was boy, disgusted when I would pop one mistakenly into my mouth when thinking it was a gizzard; though these days I crave both, albeit for entirely different reasons.

Just a few days after my hometown visit, some friends introduced me to a new restaurant in Kansas City called Black Dirt, an earthy, elevated eatery boasting a special Fried Gizzard special that was nothing short of extraordinary; delicate, soft, and creamy like liver, sans the harsh copper smack in the face.  After inquiring, the chef reported back that the gizzards had been brined in buttermilk for nearly a week, breaking down the muscle into a wobbly, tender meat. 

Someone inquired, "what the hell is a gizzard anyway?" I quickly responded that it was the gall bladder; which may be only partially correct.  It's reported to be the muscle tissue in certain animals like duck, chicken, and even crustaceans near the upper part of the digestive tract, just above the stomach, that helps to grind the food to smaller bits and pieces.  I suspect the gall bladder of any animal would be dense, tough - but considering the hard feed and pebbles chickens consume, their variety is as rough and tough as any other.  Still, it's a delicacy in many parts of the world, including Africa and different parts of central America - and most definitely, and importantly,  near my hometown. 

Chicken Gizzards in Buttermilk

Following my excursions to Frontenac and Kansas City, I was inspired to create my fried gizzard recipe, borrowing technique, recipes from these two seemingly opposing restaurants.  I started by ordering fresh gizzards from our neighborhood butcher, Richard's Meat Market; they were clean, pink, and surprisingly plump.  After washing thoroughly, I soaked them in buttermilk for five days, changing the milk every other day to ensure freshness.  

If you're impatient, you can also braise the gizzards in chicken stock and mira poix for about an hour and half; then rinse and chill before frying.  I prefer the buttermilk technique, but the braised variety is quick, delicious. 

From this point I simply prepared them the way I would fried chicken; dipping each rinsed and dried muscle into seasoned (salt, pepper, paprika) flour, then egg and milk mixture, then back into the flour before dropping slowly into 375 degree oil in cast iron.  Fry until golden brown, around 5 to 7 minutes.   

Flour Dredge

Crunchy exterior, tender interior texture with umami flavor profile yielding culinary nirvana - this cheap, throw away organ meat, when given a little extra time and care, is transformed into something quite extraordinary.  They were particularly delicious the next day as a chilled High South Po' Boy when stratified between day old French bread, coarse grain mustard, and fresh green onions, next to an ice cold can of Ozark American Pale Ale.   

Fried Gizzards

I'm amazed that so many people have such an aversion to fried chicken gizzards, and frankly, that more chefs and gourmets aren't using them in their cooking or on their menus.  So, like most things, we'll continue our routines, day to day practices of doing what gives us solace and joy - prosecuting one VILATOR, and frying one beautiful CHICKEN GALL BLADDER at a time - thump thump!

Who's the Sauce? Carolina Versus Memphis

Divorces filed; wars waged; families divided - all because of BBQ sauce.  I'll be rallying the troops of BOTH sides this Sunday, May 6th in the Coca-Cola Kitchen @ the Bentonville Film Festival from 11am to 3pm - refereeing, treading the line between Carolina's mustard, vinegar based sauce and the iconic smoky, sweet Memphis variety - please come vote - but don't start a fire, a riot, or food fight - just bite, sip a Coke, and pick your favorite diplomatically - thump thump!

Carolina BBQ Sauce

Ingredients

• 1 1/2 cup prepared yellow mustard

• 2/3 cup brown sugar

• 5 tbsp ketchup

• 3 tbsp Worcestershire Sauce

• 2 tbsp apple cider vinegar

• 2 tsp white vinegar

• 1 tsp Frank's Red Hot Sauce

• 2 tsp garlic powder

• 1/2 tsp black pepper

Technique

Combine all ingredients and mix well. Use immediately or refrigerate several hours or overnight to allow flavors to blend better. 

VERSUS

 

Memphis BBQ Sauce

Ingredients

• 1/4 cup firmly packed brown sugar

• 1 tablespoon chili powder

• 1 teaspoon black pepper

• 1/2 tablespoon onion powder

• 1 teaspoon garlic powder

• 1/2 teaspoon celery seed

• 1 teaspoon seasoned salt

• 1 teaspoon smoked paprika

• 1 cups ketchup

• 1/4 cup mustard

• 2 tablespoons apple cider vinegar

• 1-1/2 tablespoons Worcestershire sauce

• 1 tablespoon canola oil

Technique

1. In a medium saucepan, stir together all the ingredients except the oil. Bring to a boil, then reduce the heat and simmer for 25 minutes.

2. Add 1 tablespoon canola oil and whisk until well blended

Home Is Where the Art's Place Is

We all need a place to call home; a proverbial hearth that simultaneous garners sanctuary, familiarity, and inspiration alongside the people we love and cherish.  Home is not simply a place, but rather a state of mind and, at times, even of taste, touch, and smell.  The fragrance of fresh brewed coffee, frying bacon, and cigarette smoke transcends me to my childhood and the home kitchen of my grandma Dighero as she poetically maneuvers through her standard, grease laden daily breakfast.  No matter when:  childhood, adolescence, adulthood….I could count on those three intermingled perfumes to make me feel safe, and perpetually hopeful. 

These days I search heard for a surrogate to that important, ghost of a sanctuary; and sometimes, just sometimes I catch a whisper, hint, tiny taste and smell of those beautiful days…sometimes in the strangest, and most inexplicable of places. 

I’m asked on a weekly basis:  where’s your favorite restaurant, who makes the best burger, what’s your favorite beer, where do you go for a drink?  I typically derive answers based on the party questioning, and my answers to the independent questions alter day to day, depending on my mood.  However, the sum of all of those inquiries together lead me to one, undeniable location in Fayetteville:  Arts Place Bar and Grill.  {Notice, there is no “E” at the end of grill}

Dark, brooding, smoky, embellished with sounds of pool balls “clacking” intermittently beneath laughter, “rhubarb rhubarb rhubarb” muttering, and the unmistakable “sizzle” of burgers on a flat top grill.  Ahhh, this is home…this is where I come to make business deals, to celebrate the lives of contemporaries, to mourn the loss of important family, to be alone, to be part of a crowd, to break-up, to fall in love, and to, most importantly of all, drink a beer and devour the best cheeseburger on the planet.

There’s really nothing stylized about the Art’s Place burger; it’s an archetype of perfection, but one should never expect something groundbreaking or cutting edge.  The beef patty is fried in front of you, behind the bar on a flat top grill that has been seasoned with whiskey, bar brawls, and a million lonely hearts, then stratified with mayo, sliced tomato, cold iceberg lettuce, and thick sliced white onions…be sure to ask for extra crispy fries; and don’t be offended if the pretty girl sitting next you at the bar pays you little mind, because she is, well, you’ll just have to see for yourself.

Art’s Place is a lot of things to a lot of people, myself included; but at the very least it’s an important part of the edible culture of Fayetteville, Arkansas.  It may not be your idea of home, sanctuary, inspiration…but I guarantee it’ll be the best burger you’ve had in a very, long time.