First of all, we were snowed in--literally.
The white stuff had a dense, almost creamy texture and it stuck to everything it hit. The shapes of the things in our yard softened as the snow blurred their edges; the chair sitting by the fire pit grew a foot of white shag pile before its seat finally disappeared. The party that was summer is totally over. This was the view from my front door:
Our half-mile-long driveway was impassable, so we were stuck here for 3 days. We knew it was coming so I stocked up on all the staples (butter, bread and beer chief among them), but nonetheless the dramatics of the storm launched a Little House on the Prairie fantasy, circa The Long Winter. This book, maybe the dreariest of series, chronicles the winter they moved from the Big Woods to some town (Lake Pepin, maybe?) to weather a relentless tirade of blizzards with their usual cheer. (It's a more brutal Little House. The props they use for toys are shabbier and sadder. And Laura bloodies up her little girl hands twisting straw into knots to feed into the fire, but her efforts do keep them from freezing.)
At some point I think that Pa walks through the door with icicles hanging from his eyebrows carrying a rabbit by its two feet. And this is the image that inspired our central dinner of the storm: braised rabbit, italian-stovetop-style, with soft polenta.
I bought a rabbit from a local farmer's market a few months ago and it sat in the freezer waiting for a special two- or three-person occasion. (A rabbit won't feed four, in my experience, although we did have leftovers.)
I removed the legs and frontquarters and then carved out the tenderloins and loins, too. I like to to cook the loins and kidneys very slowly in rosemary brown butter like we did at Danube: we cooked them over very low heat, rolled them around in the pan until they felt firm to the touch and picked up a soft coat of speckled butterfat.
I don't often like kidneys--they taste vaguely acidic, and the likeliest cause of that flavor isn't one I like to consider--but rabbit kidneys taste different: clean, a touch liverish but not much, and pleasantly salty.
I trimmed up the thin flaps of belly, almost as thin as I imagine rabbit ears to be. I seasoned them with salt and pepper, rolled the miniscule but not to be wasted strip of tenderloin inside it and secured it with a toothpick. I was pretty sure the tenderloin would overcook while the belly remained tough, but these two scraps fit together so nicely I gave it a go.
I braised the rabbit very slowly with 2 slices bacon, a handful of dried porcini, many cubes of carrot, onion and celery, a touch of tomato paste, a splash of marsala wine, a bay leaf or two, a branch of rosemary and clove of garlic--pantry odds and ends under an italian umbrella. I sat the pan on my diffuser to keep the heat low and after burbling for just one hour the rabbit tested tender. I covered it tightly and let the meat sit for 45 minutes to rest and reabsorb the flavors and moisture from the sauce. (A key step for cooking rabbit. I remember Bouley doing this, though he would rest his up to 2 hours and I didn't have the patience for that this time.)
(How funny--I'm cooking the most common creature in the woods, the animal that literally kept the pioneers alive, and my only references to it come from fine dining experience.)
I cooked the polenta in milk (with two whole cloves garlic and a bay leaf) and threw in a handful of cracked wheat in the beginning--for texture and nutrition, too. When it swelled as much as I thought possible, I grated in a chunk of aged cheddar and stirred in some olive oil and a hunk of butter.
The rabbit was terrific. Even Hank, Mr. Picky these days, shoveled it in with his spade of a spoon. But the rolled belly/tenderloin surprised me: both were totally tender and looked amazing to boot. (In the photo, the white sliced meat is the loin, the leg is tucked underneath, the belly roll is propped on the side, and the kidney is that mushroom-looking thing on the polenta.)
Some may have their assumptions, but I did not make Aaron pretend that he had bagged the rabbit. However, it did taste richer, and we dissembled it more slowly, because of the blizzard up against the door.
I braised the rabbit very slowly with 2 slices bacon, a handful of dried porcini, many cubes of carrot, onion and celery, a touch of tomato paste, a splash of marsala wine, a bay leaf or two, a branch of rosemary and clove of garlic--pantry odds and ends under an italian umbrella. I sat the pan on my diffuser to keep the heat low and after burbling for just one hour the rabbit tested tender. I covered it tightly and let the meat sit for 45 minutes to rest and reabsorb the flavors and moisture from the sauce. (A key step for cooking rabbit. I remember Bouley doing this, though he would rest his up to 2 hours and I didn't have the patience for that this time.)
(How funny--I'm cooking the most common creature in the woods, the animal that literally kept the pioneers alive, and my only references to it come from fine dining experience.)
I cooked the polenta in milk (with two whole cloves garlic and a bay leaf) and threw in a handful of cracked wheat in the beginning--for texture and nutrition, too. When it swelled as much as I thought possible, I grated in a chunk of aged cheddar and stirred in some olive oil and a hunk of butter.
The rabbit was terrific. Even Hank, Mr. Picky these days, shoveled it in with his spade of a spoon. But the rolled belly/tenderloin surprised me: both were totally tender and looked amazing to boot. (In the photo, the white sliced meat is the loin, the leg is tucked underneath, the belly roll is propped on the side, and the kidney is that mushroom-looking thing on the polenta.)
Some may have their assumptions, but I did not make Aaron pretend that he had bagged the rabbit. However, it did taste richer, and we dissembled it more slowly, because of the blizzard up against the door.
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