As far as titles go, the above is probably about as enticing as ‘How to Par-tay the Mormon Way’ but bear with me on this one. Please.

Granted, taken in turn neither of the two words is particularly exciting and together they create some sort of force field that for many will result in the gag reflex kicking in with gusto. Admittedly even I approached this one with a small amount of trepidation.

Like a badly executed kiss, it started with a tongue. A great big flapping, fresh, wet, grey, spikey tongue. Curled up on the chopping board it resembled some sort of Mephistophelean re-imagining of an evil pet, like a prop from an early David Cronenberg film.

Its size, its weight, its appearance, its texture – everything conspired against it becoming a foodstuff were it not for the good reports I’d had regarding its utter brilliance when cooked.

Although technically offal, there is no reason why tongue should provoke such revulsion. It is muscle in the same way topside or fillet steak is muscle. However, due to the amount of work it does – daily tearing kilos of fresh grass from the earth – it needs some serious cooking. To stop it from drying out it also needs brining. I gave it 5 days but if you’re tempted to try this at home (please do) I’d let it spend at least a week in the brine bucket, possibly even ten days.

To stop it being overly salty it went into fresh water for 24 hours before being slung into the stock pot along with the usual suspects – carrot, celery, onion, garlic, peppercorns and a couple of bay leafs.

Four hours at the merest quivering simmer was enough to cook it through. I’d been reliably informed (thank you once again Fergus Henderson) that tongue is easier to peel (!) when still warm. Even so, a sharp knife was necessary and the process was more of a paring than a peeling. Although not a pleasant process by the time the tough barbed outer skin was removed what sat in front of me was recognisably meat that looked at least as good as a slab of tasty salt beef.

Which is exactly what it was.

Assuming that it would be best fresh from the cooking pot and still warm, it was thinly sliced and crammed into a bagel along with a generous slick of mayonnaise, a handful of rocket and some sliced pickles. The whole lot was topped, inevitably, with the lurid yellow mustard so reminiscent of New York’s finest culinary offerings.

By now any feelings of trepidation had long since evaporated and the first bite was an adventurously large one. It was delicious. It’s as simple as that. Perhaps made even more so by the timidity with which it approached. ‘Under promise and over deliver’ seems to be the mantra of marketing. If so, tongue is the marketer’s dream. Don’t be surprised if it joins cheeks, shanks and trotters in the ‘forgotten cuts’ section of supermarket. Now that will set tongues wagging.

Thanks Alex!

I know there is a general mistrust of tripe; interestingly enough, this dish has produced most tripe converts.  It does have a seductive nature of looking like summer on a plate, but it’s not just good looks that recommend it-it is delicious.

I had wanted to post this for Wednesday, but life got flipped-turned upside down. And I’d like to take a minute, just sit right there. I’ll tell you how a three year old kid ended up liking this dish.

First off, I gathered the required ingredients, which included Calvados.  I’d never tried, or for that matter even heard of Calvados before flipping to page 40 of “The Cookbook”.  Turns out that it’s a fancy apple brandy made in the French regions of Basse-Normandie and Lower Normandy.  Not wanting to skimp, I picked up a brand called La Captive, which features a fully grown apple in the bottle.

See?  Always wanted to own one of these, if only for the novelty.  I’m telling myself that because I’d rather not think about all the brandy that could be filling the space that the apple takes up.

Into the pot went a few pig trotters, heads of garlic, some thyme, bay leaves, two quarts(!) of apple cider and some of the aforementioned Calvados.  Up to a boil, then down to a simmer for a little over two hours.

At this point I added a whole bunch of honeycomb tripe that I had sat overnight in milk.  The soaking removes a bit of the “unique”… flavor that tripe inherently touts.  You can see that the flesh of the trotters had started to fall off the bone, and cider and brandy changed from transparent to opaque. I’m assuming the new cloudiness was due to all of the tasty fat and connective tissue incorporating itself into the liquid.

In past cooking sessions with tripe, I’ve had problems with managing to get it tender enough.  For some reason I never cook it long enough, and I wasn’t going to make that mistake this time.  Mr. Henderson states that one should be able to pinch through the flesh, so that’s what we were shooting for.  In the end the tripe cooked three hours longer than the recipe called for.

After the extended cooking time I was easily able to pinch through the squares of stomach.  For once, I was actually going to have tender tripe.  Hooray!

The recipe notified me that the tasty liquor left in the pot was in need of reduction for use later on, so everything was dumped into a colander over a bowl…

…with this being the result.  Lots of little bits of bone and other inedible things were left behind…

…so another strain was called for.  Back into the pot the liquor went for a gentle reduction.

In the meantime, I picked all–or so I thought–of the piggy bones out of the tripe/trotter flesh mixture.  Just a heads up if you try to make this recipe: triple check that all of the toe bones have been found.  I’ll explain why later on.

While I was playing the home version of Double Dare with pig bones on one side of the kitchen, at the other end I set up a pan with shallots, carrots, leeks and some garlic to sweat in duck fat until everything was nice and soft.

From there, a few canned plum tomatoes were crushed and added to the veggies.  Everything was left over heat for another 20 minutes to “sweeten the tomatoes.”  Soon after the tripe/trotter mix was incorporated along with a little of the reduced liquor and a copious amount of salt and pepper.  I fretted for about 15 minutes over the seasoning due to the fact this dish is served cold, and the flavors in turn are muted because of it.  The only fix is “over” seasoning, and I’ve not made the recipe enough to know the proper amounts of needed salt and pepper.  When all was said and done, I had used roughly twice the normal amount of both.

A loaf pan was covered with plastic wrap, and the tripe mixture was spooned in.  When the pan was full, I slowly drizzled the reduced liquid on top to fill in the empty spaces.  A quick slam against the counter ensured that all of the unwanted air was expelled.  Another sheet of plastic wrap was draped over the top of the pan and into the fridge it went over night.

The next day was pretty exciting, because I had been invited to take part in the first meeting of the Austin Adventure Eaters, hosted by the award winning and Energizer Bunny-like Jennie Chen and the Executive Chef of Kenichi in downtown Austin, Mark Strouhal.  While my new puppy sure made an impression on the attending folks, I welcomed the chance to talk to like-minded foodies and partake of their offerings.  Pig tongues preserved in bacon fat, deep fried pig ears, bacon filled pastries, and a wonderful deer heart and liver dish that defies description were just some of the dishes on hand.  I’d like to thank Jenni and John Knox for their hospitality and alcohol. I’d also like to thank Mark and another chef named Dre (I’m sorry I never caught your last name) who works at Zoot in Austin for all of the mind blowing conversation.  I could have listened for hours and hours.

Halfway through the event I started slicing the terrine for people to try.  I took a little piece myself to check the seasoning.  To my dismay, it was a little bland.  Even after doubling the seasoning and all my fretting, it wasn’t enough.  Thankfully everyone was kind in their criticisms.  Before I left, I ended up leaving huge hunks of the terrine for people to take home.  The best part?  I got a tweet from Amanda Joyner, one of the owners and chefs behind Retro Bizzaro Pastries here in Austin.  It said, “@nose2tailathome I got a croissant put the left overs I had from you on it with a little mixed greens. IT was so yummy” which prompted me to ask how the sandwich turned out.  Amanda responded with, “I loved it! The flavor was amazing not at all what I was expecting even our kids liked it :)”

Whoa.  Their kids liked it?!

I had to know more, so I asked Amanda to write a quick blurb about what happened.  She sent me this in return.  Thank you Amanda!

When you go to a dinner party and someone says “I brought some tripe!” You usually have the few people who turns and do the awkward “Oooh….How..Nice.”

I however am a firm believer in don’t knock it till you try it, my new years resolution.  After a few minutes of pushing food around on my plate I got up and grabbed myself a decent piece, closed my eyes, and…enjoyed it.

Growing up I always had this odd fear of tripe. Menudo being made was the warning bell to spend the night at someone’s house.  This however was nothing like what I was expecting.  The texture reminded me of a bread pudding, aldente even, a smooth softness with a hints of yummy goodness with a flavor I can’t even describe without saying one word…YUM.

The next day I decided to eat more of the tripe for lunch.  Toasting up a croissant, in bacon grease of course, I laid my new friend down with some spring greens and started munching away.

Now when I eat that means little warning bells go off in my sons mind and he comes to steal my lunch.  In my mind I saw him instantly disliking the sandwich and running away screaming to my husband I feed him something gross but instead…He ran off with it!  My son…likes tripe?!  Wanting to know what intrigued him so I sat down with him and asked why he liked it.  His reply ”I like jello….It’s meat jello right?”

Sure tripe’s not for everyone, but as I have found it’s not about the meat, but how it’s prepared.  Try it once and if you don’t like it….well just have water near by.

So, here’s the tripe dish that a three year old liked.  I think that pretty much sums up how successful this recipe is.

Now to tie up the loose thread about the pig bones.  After taking the above picture, I dug into the slice of terrine only to crunch down on a tiny yet very hard toe bone.  Had I bitten down any harder, a visit to the dentist would have been required.  So, again I implore you: triple check that ALL of the bones are removed before you add the tripe and trotter mixture into the sweated vegetables.  I ended up checking with as many people as I could from the event that took terrine slices home, and I was the only one affected, thankfully.  Next time, I’ll triple check, just to be sure.

One down, sixty to go.

Sadly, Alex couldn’t get past the rubbery texture of the tripe, but he’s inspired me to give the recipe a shot.  If you like tripe, give this a look!

If you watch Anthony Bourdain’s No Reservations and you are also a parent of young children (or a tragic hipster), then you recognized a reference he made in his Egypt show. While enjoying the local cuisine, he said “There’s a party in my tummy, so yummy, so yummy,” which is a line from a song about eating vegetables featured in the debut episode of Yo Gabba Gabba!

Click on the link for a video preview.  Mucho respect to Tony.

Secret Stash is committed to providing premium gourmet sea salts to accentuate your style of cooking. Our salts are made of hand-harvested sea salt, where only the top layer of fine, light crystals are collected from the surface of salt beds. They are rich in minerals and taste of the sea. This is a world apart from sea salts that are chemically-produced, and that merely contain sodium chloride

I recommend the Chorizo Salt…

… and the Truffle salt. Both are packed with great flavors, so you don’t have to use much for the desired effect. Try them out, and then thank me later.

Okay!  I think I’ve hit almost everything I wanted to.  It’s good to be back, and I’m excited that I’m going to be getting down to the last 50 recipes here soon.  Have a great day everyone, and I leave you with my new puppy playing in the snow.  Stay safe!

Before you embark on this, make sure you have a roasting pan large enough for one leg and whole shoulder of venison.  You can, if you need to, cut the leg at the joint, to make it fit.

Oh kalu kalay!  I’m actually back cooking again!  I had forgotten how incredibly calming and fulfilling it is to stand in front of the stove.  I missed all of this terribly.

A few months back I started sending feelers out in an attempt to find a front leg of venison to make this recipe.  Since we live in the state of Texas, where the deer are plentiful and the locals are good shots, I figured it wouldn’t be too long before someone would be kind enough to either sell or outright give me a whole front leg and shoulder of deer.  A few of the people I talked to were confused.  Why did I want that piece?  Didn’t I know that there isn’t much meat on the front leg?  Even after explaining that I was working my way through “The Cookbook” and that I needed it to be accurate, they scoffed at me.

Thankfully, my father knew some people who had a whole frozen leg of deer available, and were willing to part with it for nothing.  So I’d like to thank Debbie Herry for the front part of the leg, and Dan Juracek for the two gorgeous front shoulders.

Possibly the best part about making this recipe-aside from the eating-was that I got my first chance to remove the skin from an animal part.  I was intimidated as all get out, but the act itself was so much simpler than one could have ever imagined:

A quick slice down the back of the leg, and the skin peeled down like a furry stocking.

A  hack with my bone chopping cleaver and the hoof came right off at the joint.

Easy. Really, jaw-droppingly easy.  Who knew?

I wish I had taken a picture of the front part of the leg without the fur on, because I’d be able to show you a bone covered in pure white tendon.  That tendon is the reason Mr. Henderson asks for the whole front leg.  When braised, it’ll melt and infuse the dish with flavor and body.  One of the hunters I had talked to claimed that he always gave the front legs to his dogs.  Those are some lucky dogs!

But before I could start cooking with the venison, I needed to rehydrate some wild mushrooms.  Mr. Henderson calls for porcini mushrooms, which turned out to be the ingredient that NOBODY had on hand.  Three stores were visited, and each of them were completely out of stock.  So if you were running around Austin recently buying all of the dried porcini mushrooms, I’m shaking my fist in your general direction.  Thankfully I managed to find some dried wild Yuan mushrooms, which claimed on the package that they were grown in a forest.  Desperate for time, the substitution decision was made for me.  Two hours later in a hot bath, the dried mushrooms were brought back to life.

The fungi were drained, but this sexy looking mushroom stock was reserved for later use.

With my roasting pan straddled over two burners I added a big knob of duck fat, some homemade chunks of bacon-with the rind rolled up and tied-carrots, leeks, and onions.  The veggies were sweated until soften, then the re-hydrated mushrooms joined the party.  After a few more minutes it was time to add the front shoulder and leg of venison along with a handful of peeled garlic cloves, a bouquet garni, a whole bottle of red wine, a little chicken stock, and the aforementioned mushroom stock.  Some quick seasoning…

… a covering of aluminum foil and the pan was ready for a medium hot oven for over three hours.  Around the 2 hour mark, the house was filled with unbelievable perfume of venison cooking.  Working in the garage was a form of sanctuary for the last hour.

Eventually enough time had passed for me to return to the kitchen, and I was greeted with the above.  Oh mama, how good does that look?  You can see at the bottom of the leg where the meat has pulled back from the bone, meaning that the leg had cooked enough.  Oh, and that tendon that I was swooning over earlier?

No longer bone white, the tendon has started to melt away.  At the time I was debating whether or not to put the pan back in the oven for a bit longer so that more of it could rendered off.  I was so hungry at that point though that waiting just wasn’t an option any longer.

My fears were unfounded.  This recipe produced the most tender, succulent venison I’ve ever eaten in my life.  Mr. Henderson claims that it’s due to the cartilage and fat found only in this part of the animal.  Served with all of the duck fat infused root vegetables and meaty, musky mushrooms over mashed potatoes, my wife excitedly claimed that this recipe, “tasted like the forest” which I believe is the very best way to describe it.

One forest in a bowl for me, please!

One down, sixty one to go.

A cold slice of crispy, fresh garden lettuce, a chilled chalet of grassy, spicy IPA, a few miniature pickles thrown on the plate — all an accompaniment to the main event: meat and skin from pigs feet set in its own jelly.

It has many names – Brawn, Head Cheese, Farmhouse Brawn, or Fromage de Tête. I prefer the latter.

There are a number of reasons why I titled this post the way I did. For one thing, Fromage de Tête sounds – I don’t know . . . much classier than “Head Cheese.” Everything sounds nicer in French to begin with. Add to that, the words “Head” and “Cheese” seem downright loutish when put together.

The real reason, however, is that I failed a little in collecting all of my ingredients. The one key ingredient to the dish, the one thing that gives the dish its name (that would be the head) never made it home.

When I decided to make this dish, the first thing that I knew would present a challenge was acquiring the head of a pig. This isn’t something you just walk into a grocery store and buy. You have to go to the right place, and they’re rarely that easy to find. Add to that my preference to sourcing ingredients like this from someone I know, and it gets a little harder. I didn’t really know too many butchers who did the whole hog. That problem was solved by a simple phone call. My wife called her friend, whose uncle René owned a Carnicaria (Spanish for ‘meat market’), who had fresh pigs delivered each day that he butchers in the morning.

Problem solved, right? Yeah, not so much.

A call to her uncle René presented one unexpected problem – the heads on the pigs he’d received the previous day were (as he put it) humongous. Now, this guy butchers pigs on a daily basis. If he says the heads are humongous, they must be pretty big. But, having read a few recipes for Brawn, including the one that gave me this idea in the first place – Fergus Henderson’s “The Whole Beast” I noticed most called for the addition of pig’s feet. Why not try making this with the feet, and nothing but the feet?

When I arrived at René’s Carnicaria, I was swept into the butcher room in the back of the restaurant where he and his staff were butchering whole hogs. Nice operation, lots of split open whole pigs on stainless steel tables — these guys were butchering pigs back here. And yes those heads were massive. It was a good idea skipping on something I literally had no cooking vessel to prepare it in. René had cleaned and prepped four really nicely sized feet for me that I knew would be perfect.

So to start — 4 whole pigs feet. René was so thorough at what he does, he even split them for me. This would make it easier for the disassembly that came later.

Place the feet in a large pot, then cover with the following:

4 Shallots
1 large Leek, chunked
couple sprigs of fresh parsley
sprig of fresh rosemary
sprig of fresh thyme
10 Black peppercorns
2 Cloves fresh garlic
4 whole Cloves
1 tablespoon Salt
1 large Onion, chunked
2 Bay leaves
2 Carrots, chunked

Well, that was difficult. Here’s where it got tricky. I had to fill the pot with water, just to cover everything.

OK, maybe that wasn’t that hard after all. I turned on the heat, brought the whole thing to a boil, then reduced the heat to low and simmered for close to three hours until the skin and meat were literally falling off the bones. Every 15 minutes, I’d lift the cover off the pot and skim the protein scum off the top with a hand strainer. This step is important as it helps keep the stock as clear as possible.

I turned off the heat and allowed the pot to cool for a bit. This one lone pig’s foot floated to the surface. I took it as a sign that he was ready to leave the hot tub.

Now it was time to do some surgery. I removed the feet from the broth, being careful to leave any peppercorns and herbs behind.

Delicious. Am I right?

I removed the meat, skin and fat from the bones, separating as I went. I minced the meat and skin into very small pieces and placed them in a large bowl.

The bones ended up in another pile. They say a human foot has anywhere from 26 to 28 bones. I was hoping the pig’s foot wouldn’t be anywhere near this, but I wasn’t so lucky.

Now that’s a pile of bones.

Next, I strained the vegetables and herbs from the broth with a strainer.

Here’s a critical step. Taste your broth. Seriously, taste it. It should still be warm, so grab a spoon and give it a taste. How is it? It had better be seasoned well enough, because this is how the “head cheese” is going to taste. If you feel you need more salt at this point, it’s best to add it now.

Next, I lined the pan I was using for the mold with plastic wrap. I made sure to be liberal with the wrap, so there was plenty hanging over the edges. I wanted to ensure that the finished mold would be easy to remove from the pan after it had set.

Then, in went some of the broth, followed by a couple scoopfuls of the meat and skin, followed by more broth, followed by more meat and skin.

When the mold was full, I covered it with the over-lapping plastic wrap, slammed it against the counter a few times to knock loose any air bubbles, and slid it into the refrigerator.

I allowed it to set for a full 24 hours before pulling it out and slicing it. I was amazed at how gelatinized this was. These ingredients made their own aspic, their own gelatin. And it set up as firm as a meat loaf, making slicing it a breeze.

I served it on a lettuce leaf with a few cornichons on the side. Cornichons are mini French pickles, and they go well with sandwiches or on their own.

The “foot cheese” was just what I’d hoped it would be. The texture – fun, firm, easy to bite into. The flavor was that of pork, rich with the aromatics from the broth, and a slight hint of the cloves. In fact, had I not added them myself, I would have had to guess what that flavor was. It had a great balance of flavors, and I was really happy this turned out as well as it did. Very filling, however. So take note.

How much better would this taste had I actually picked up a pig’s head I could fit into a pot? Probably a lot porkier, richer in flavor, and perhaps even more gelatinized than it was. Some day, I’ll do it again and let you know how it turns out. For now, I’m content having made something this cool, this easy, and this fun.

I continue to be inspired by the magic and science behind cooking, and I’m happy to close another chapter in my life as a foodie.

Thank you Phil!