january

There’s a certain sense of the unheimlich—finding the unfamiliar in the familiar—in these now infrequent visits. It’s like thumbing through a flip book of our own biographies, snippets and still images that, stacked and cascading in rapid succession, reveal moments of transformation and evolution.

There’s a lot of pressure trying to think of what to say as we begin 2023. A new year full of opportunity and hope for all the possible triumphs that lie ahead. Like giving the big event pre-shift pep talk, trying to prepare ourselves as we reckon with the past by pushing forward to face the challenges of rectifying, fortifying, and achieving all the possible goals that remained elusive in 2022. 

I fell asleep Saturday night against the barrage of New Year’s fireworks pelting against Chicago’s purple midnight sky and awoke New Year’s morning in the middle of a dream. I dreamt that time was shapeless and anamorphic—the exact words I spoke in the dream, trying to describe a feeling to someone in a basketball gymnasium full of folding chairs—that meaning isn’t something that’s derived from a linear understanding of precedence or consequence, but rather by a greater contextual lens. That sometimes you have to move around a thing, whether through space or in time, to fully realize the thing’s intrinsic characteristics and how it functions in dynamic space-time and impacts our lives.

Coffee, I thought. 

I think what my dream-mind was trying to get a grasp on was the question of how do we know when a moment is changing our life. It’s something I wrote in a journal years ago, something my mind often returns to when considering what kind of gravity or importance we pin to particular moments in our continuous sun cycle. There are some moments, sure, that create a tectonic shift and will leave an indelible impact on our lives moving forward. But others, for the majority of the incalculable moments that comprise our lives, it seems futile to attempt to pre-determine each moment that will force the emergence of a crisis. Crisis, from the Greek krisis, “decision,” or krinein, “to decide.” (And of course the well-trod paradox of crisis is that it represents both a threat and an opportunity.) 

Ultimately, all we can do is take each moment as it comes, and as the aggregate of experience forms a mosaic whole, remember that even that, too, will continue to change and morph, as we change along with it. The bathroom book synopsis is this: take today today, and tomorrow tomorrow. A watered down version of the serenity prayer, I suppose, but a prayer all the same. 

I think of these simple and hackneyed little prayers like road signs: they’re everywhere; we know they’re there; we hardly look at them or consider their purpose; but every now and again, one of them will save our lives.

This year for Christmas, Liz and I went down to visit my family in south Georgia. A few years back, my parents moved out to my late grandparents’ farmhouse, so going home is like revisiting two pasts at once. A new home in an old familiar space, holding the past and present in simultaneity. 

There’s a certain sense of the unheimlich—finding the unfamiliar in the familiar—in these now infrequent visits. It’s like thumbing through a flip book of our own biographies, snippets and still images that, stacked and cascading in rapid succession, reveal moments of transformation and evolution. Becoming and stillness all in one. A vertical mosaic of being. Where my grandmother’s styrofoam Santa would’ve been; the lights twinkling across the dark mirror of the pond; the crackling of flint before the fire; the distant braying of a passing train, its dissonant whine like a dial tone trying to peel itself in two. These were comforts, inviting a strange form of nostalgia, like watching a movie you’ve seen a thousand times but can only remember each scene as soon as it happens, not a second before. 

When we became a couple, Liz and I decided we needed to set forth some new traditions and make them our own. One of these is making Khao Soi on Christmas Day. Khao Soi is a Chiang Mai-style yellow curry with buoyant egg noodles, a thick, sweet n spicy broth, crowned with sliced raw shallot, pickled mustard greens, a plump wedge of lime, and a nest of crispy fried noodles. The first year, it was just the two of us. Last year we prepared it for Liz’s family in Ohio. And this year we made this for my family while we bounced little silver pieces around the Monopoly game board, with an afternoon picking of kumquats from my granny’s tree. We bring these back every year to make kosho—fermented chilis and citrus, and kumquat vinegar, and whatever else we can with what’s left after snacking. Plopping a whole juicy kumquat right in the mouth is one of life’s great pleasures. If you haven’t tried it, you’re missing out. It’s especially great in January. Tart rinds and fresh starts. 

But speaking of fresh starts, I have to admit I’ve sort of always despised the idea of New Year Resolutions, with the (perhaps naive) thinking that if you want to do something, just do it. It doesn’t require a reset of the calendar. But this morning I saw an IG post by @joysullivanpoet that seemed half like a prayer, half like a resolution, and completely apropos, so I’ll leave you with this:

My mother says kissing a man without a mustache is like eating eggs without salt

Which is a better way of saying—take the scenic route. Say I love you when it’s true. Drive 12 hours just to touch. Buy kumquats because they’re called kumquats. Call someone you love a little kumquat. Write letters. Recite poems. Be verklempt. Rise early to hunt the moon. Eat pastries whose names you can’t pronounce. Astonish everyone. Haunt everything. Sing, even if poorly. Press the peel for zest. We’re nothing but brief bodies. Hearts, fragile as parakeets. Spit, lips, and longing. All we’ve got is this skin. This necessary salt. 

Yours, with gratitude,

dsp + liz

letherbee

For our December Supper Club, we set up shop inside the Letherbee Distillery. It was Letherbee who first invited us to make a public showing back when TXA TXA was unpronounceable (maybe it still is), and had little more than some tupperware and pink tape in our tool-kit. They were throwing a seasonal gin release, and we were asked to make the snacks. So snacks, we made, setting up a station in the Lula pastry kitchen with fried nori rice balls and crispy springroll-björned pickles, wooden skewers the size of Olympic vault poles, and paper boats like carnival fare. It was fair night indeed, with industry friends all cherry cheeked, flushed with the combustible combination of gin and wasabi aioli, and Letherbee has been a steadfast supporter ever since. And so it was a huge honor to host a Supper Club on their home turf.

For our welcome drink, we decided on a classic G&T. Letherbee’s flagship gin paired with our house tonic, imbued with the fragrant and floral notes of lemongrass and galangal. For those unfamiliar with galangal, it’s related to ginger, and has a similar knobby rhizomatic structure. It’s intensely fragrant, and smells to me a bit like—stripping away all euphemistic comparisons here—somewhere between bug spray and a bag of Snyder’s honey mustard and onion pretzels, but in the most delectable way. Collins glasses were spangled with a lime wedge—carcass in or carcass out, however you like it—with near-neon golden highballs glistening around the room. 

For the menu, we wanted to highlight some of the botanicals used in the Letherbee spirit portfolio, as well as incorporate the spirits themselves in a few of the dishes.

Since discovering Letherbee’s fernet when it first appeared on back bars, I’ve used the product rather religiously for summer cookouts, specifically for making vegan baked beans. Its strong chicory profile lends tremendous depth to one of summer’s most beloved molasses-y side dishes. So a riff on this seemed an appropriate way to start. But instead of a casserole dish of juicy bbq-esqe baked beans, we pureed the whole mess of legumes and dropped little scoops of them them in the wok fryer, giving us something of a cross between falafel and pillowy pomme dauphine. These were piled on communal platters over a blanket of smoked cabbage puree (think: tahini is to falafel as this creamy cabbage is to these fried bean balls), topped with an epazote chimichurri and some sweet n sour tamarind for acidity. We went with epazote because of the herb’s particularly bitter grassiness, which seemed to echo nicely the underpinning bitter mint-stem characteristics of the fernet. 

The first individually plated course of the night was a savory cashew panna cotta, christened with some khao khua or crushed dry-toasted rice, which has a bit of a bossy and acutely well-done popcorn flavor, bolstering the latent nuttiness of the cashew. It was then haloed in a golden vinaigrette made with Bësk, some plump and pulpy grapefruit, and a mound of herbs—tarragon, mint, dill, parsley. The overall effect was something like a giant gasp of tropical jungle air, barky and bitter and ripely herbaceous.

(I should note here that Bësk is Letherbee’s audacious yet venerable answer to Malört—to our non-Chicago readers, Malört is a wildly sinister, vicious and viscous, wormwoody rite of passage that Chicagoans live or die by. If you’ve never tried it, you’re probably better off keeping it that way.)

The next course was an homage to my MaMa’s (my maternal grandmother) Sunday kitchen, in which huge heaping bowls of lima beans and rice were a mainstay. We prepared a lima bean soup, but instead of nestling a smoky ham hock in the pot of beans, we topped the creamy gut-coating soup with a nest of grilled apple and a little kale gremolata—a slight nod to NYD collards—and some roasted chestnut. It was simple and cozy, and just-enough elegant that were my grandmother to taste it with her eyes closed, she’d feel right at home. We paired this with Letherbee’s seasonal release, an oak barrel-aged gin, whose toasty and vanilla undertones would harmonize with the apples’ grill ghost and buttery chestnuts. 

Our pink bowl course for the dinner was a compact stack of leeks, braised in a kombu and ginger dashi and served over a fennel soubise (with a splash of absinthe), a quick-fermented butternut squash vinegar, and crushed hazelnuts. The idea here was something like a classic leeks vinaigrette with brown butter. It was clean and vibrant, with the particularly homey feel that only alliums can bring to any dish. For those opting in for the pairings, we poured a whisper of absinthe for this course, fortifying the anise-y notes of the fennel and aiding in bridging the palate into the dessert course.

Late fall, Liz harvested geranium from the garden, strung it and hung it to air dry until a wafery brittleness. We used this to flavor a coconut anglaise for ice cream, scooped over a sticky terrain of salty white miso caramel, and bejeweled the ice cream with diced watermelon radish that was steeped in a vanilla and lemon peel syrup. Although we used another splash of absinthe in the ice cream base, we paired this final course with the fernet—a proper digestivo to bring the circle fully back to the dinner’s beginning. 

Letherbee’s very own Nathan Ozug was in house for the event, keeping things from getting too unruly—and instigating them when everyone was being too well behaved. There were new and familiar faces, some who’d been stranded after the previous week’s inclement storm, and we were extremely humbled by everyone’s coming out for the dinner.

Thank you all.

comin’ up

vol. 19

persimmon dinner

friday, january 27th

This month’s Supper Club dinner will be all about persimmons. We’ll do a deep dive into the persimmon fruit, the diospyrios, or “Zeus’ wheat,” with dishes like a cauliflower tartare with grilled fennel bearnaise; a crab tostada with kumquat and coconut; and a fried rice with hoshigaki and peanut. We’ll be hosted by A Very Serious Gallery, surrounded by a Winter Dreams exhibition and featuring a live session painting throughout the dinner. Tickets are SOLD OUT, but as life happens, we tend to have a couple of cancellations each month, so drop us a line to be put on the waitlist.

horseradish kitchen

Princeton, WI

saturday 01.14.23 6-9PM

This week we’re packing the Subaru and headed up to Princeton, WI, to join our friends at Horseradish Kitchen for a one-night kitchen takeover. Horseradish started as a food truck in 2015, when chef/owner Matt Trotter wanted to level up another dimension to his family’s eclectic retail shop. What began with slinging sandwiches and salads out of an old school bus quickly morphed into Princeton’s coolest low-key cafe and market. Just this year, Matt and his partner Greg opened up the chic and boutique Parlor Hotel, where dinner guests are invited to stay for their sojourn. We’re a bit starstruck and humbled at the opportunity, so we’ll be plating up a mix of TXA TXA favorites and brand new dishes for the affair. We’ll showcase our ‘orange chicken’—whipped chicken liver mousse with a Panda Express-inspired orange chili sauce and wafery rice crisp, a leek & chestnut soup with pickled rutabaga, and our beet-filled squid ink ravioli topped with a coconut-galangal foam.

We have a couple spots left, so if you’re looking for a quick escape from the mid-winter doldrums, there’s no better reason than some fresh fare and a swanky auberge.

R E C I P E S

DASHI-BRAISED LEEKS

Leeks Vinaigrette (poireaux vinaigrette) is a traditional bistro dish found partout across old world kitchens in France. Simple braised leeks, typically slathered in a luscious dijon and shallot vinaigrette. Tart, buttery, delicately sweet. There’s a reason it’s a classic.

This dish was our jumping off point for our dashi braised leeks. Without swerving too far off course from the classic, we wanted to boost some of the secondary umami frequencies by braising the leeks in a kombu seaweed dashi. We chose to omit the customary bonito flake in the dashi since this dinner was vegan, but feel free to add to bump the funk a bit.

We also wanted to utilize the full gamut of the Letherbee portfolio, so we leaned in toward the absinthe here, thinking that its sweet anisey notes would gel rather nicely with the buttery leeks, so we made a fennel soubise—a classic sauce in which slowly melted onions are mounted into a bechamel. We skipped the bechamel altogether and slowly cooked down the fennel and onions, sweating them then melting, keeping any and all color from being introduced during the cooking. (It’s astonishing, really, how incredible slow cooked onions can be. Whether melting, or caramelizing, just a little butter or oil, some salt, and onions will give you some super rich baritone flavors in whatever sauce you’re making.)

This dashi is a great all-purpose broth and can be used for anything from miso soup to chawanmushi (savory steamed custard), or even in a batter for okonomiyaki shrimp corn dogs, if you’re feeling frisky. 

Recipe

(serves 2-4) 

2-3 large leeks

2 cups dashi

1 cup fennel soubise

2 TBL sesame leaf oil

2 TBL squash vinegar

¼ cup toasted hazelnuts, skinned and crushed

FOR THE DASHI:

1oz (56g)  dried kombu 

1” piece fresh ginger, thinly sliced

2 ea. garlic cloves, gently smashed

4 qt h20

Combine kombu, ginger, garlic, and h20 in a sauce pot and bring to a boil. As soon as you’ve reached a boi, reduce heat and let simmer for 30 min. Strain. 

FOR THE SOUBISE:

1 large fennel bulb

1 large onion

1 tsp salt, plus more to taste

2 TBL olive oil, divided

1oz absinthe (optional)

Cut the green stalks from the fennel bulb and set aside. Trim the base of the bulb, and remove and discard any discolored outer petals. Slice in half from tip to base and, by inserting your knife tip at a 45-degree angle, remove the triangle core and discard. Thinly slice the remaining bulb. 

Halve the onion, remove the skin and outer layer, and julienne. Add about a tablespoon of olive oil to a cold soup pot or dutch oven. Something with an enamel base is preferred, since you don’t want any direct contact with intense heat here. Add julienned fennel and onion, and turn on heat to medium. Listen to your food. Once you hear them begin to whisper, or, sussurro (soo-SOORD-roh) in Italian, add remaining TBL of olive oil, and sprinkle w/ salt. If you’re adding the absinthe, add it now. Stir and cover. The idea is that they sweat and soften without getting any color from sauté. Keep them snow white and stir occasionally, letting cook until completely limp, about 30-40 min. You may have to bring your flame down to low. Soft heat, keep covered. 

Once they’re limp like an old thrift store t-shirt, transfer to a blender or Vitamix and whiz ‘em. You may need to add a splash more of olive oil, but they should be soft and have enough moisture to give you a smooth and luscious puree. Taste for salt. You can make this up to a few days in advance. Just reheat for service, gradually bringing up the heat, and stirring frequently.

FOR THE SQUASH VINEGAR:

1 cup butternut squash, diced

1 cup vinegar

¼ cup sugar

2-4 TBL olive oil

¼ tsp salt

There are myriad ways to make vinegar. Many are intentional, others are not. If you really want to go deep into vinegar and fermentation, check out the Noma book. I think the Tatine cookbook also has a lot of great stuff in there. Strictly speaking, vinegar is made when microorganisms called yeast feed on sugars and starch, converting them into carbon dioxide and alcohol. For our purposes, we’re taking already-made vinegar and infusing it with flavor. 

Dice about 1 cup of butternut squash (prep the rest for dinner). Add to a jar and add 1 cup of distilled white vinegar. Cover with a cheesecloth or paper towel (anything that will let air in and keep bugs out), and seal with a rubber band, leaving out at room temp for a couple days. After 2-7 days, take a couple TBL of the diced squash and ¼ cup of the vinegar and add to a small sauce pot. Add the sugar and cook over medium heat until sugar is dissolved and squash has softened. Transfer to blender and blitz, adding the salt and slowly streaming in the olive oil to make a vinaigrette. If it’s too thin and doesn’t properly emulsify, add about ¼ tsp of xanthan gum to help it hold. 

FOR THE SESAME LEAF & FENNEL OIL

¼ cup fennel fronds / tender stalks

8-10 sesame leaves

1 cup olive oil

¼ tsp salt

¼ tsp sugar

It’s occurring to me now that you’re going to need a good blender to make this dish. If you’ve read this far, either you aren’t planning on making this, or you’ve committed a cardinal sin for cooking with recipes, namely, starting the recipe without reading all the way through first. (No judgment; I do that all the time. It just usually costs me an extra hour or another trip to the store.)

Fill a small pot with 2 quarts of h2o and bring to a bowl. Meanwhile, prepare an ice bath (I tend to use a metal mixing bowl with a couple trays of ice cubes and a couple quarts of water. I also like to season both my blanching h2o and my ice bath h2o with a little salt.) Once rolling, blanch fronds and sesame leaves for about 30 seconds. What you’re doing here is arresting enzyme activity that would otherwise degrade the color and chlorophyll from the leaves. Ok, now plunge in the ice bath (this stops the cooking). Remove from h20 and wrap with a few paper towels, squeezing out as much water as possible. Put the tiny green wad of leavery, along with the sugar, salt, and olive oil in the blender (or Vita), and shoosh shoosh for about a minute. Double strain the oil through a cheesecloth, separating all the food particles from the oil. Now you have a beautiful, vibrant, verdant sesame leaf and fennel oil. It’ll be way more than you need, so find other fun uses in salads, plate styling, bruschetta, dealer’s choice here. 

AND NOW, FINALLY, FOR THE LEEKS:

Select leeks that are not too dry or firm. You can figure about 1.5-2 portions per leek, depending on size. Trim the root end from the leeks, and cut away the green parts, leaving a little of the pale green part intact. Remove the fibrous outer layers of the leeks and give them a good rub-a-dub-dub. Dirt likes to cling inside the crevices where the shoots split off from the stalk (where it turns from white to green). 

Pre-heat oven to 375 degrees.

Depending on the size of your leeks, you should now have leek rods that are about 6-9 inches in length. Slice leeks into segments that are about 3-4 inches, depending on what you have. Place in a quarter hotel pan or roasting dish, and add about 2 cups of dashi, or however much you need to cover the bottom of the pan but not more than halfway up the side of the leeks. Cover with foil so that it’s air-tight and roast for about an hour. Depending on your oven, you may want to check about the 40-minute mark. You want leeks that are tender and buttery but not mushy. Remove a little early if you’re planning to re-heat for service. Uncover leeks and let cool. Once cool enough to handle, slice leeks in half lengthwise, and return to pan face (cut side) down. 

For plating, spoon a couple tablespoons of the soubise in the center of the plate, with a diameter of about 3-4 inches. Place 3-4 leek halves cheekside down (ribs exposed) over the soubise. Dress with squash vinaigrette, sesame leaf oil, and top with crushed hazelnuts. Now do your best Julia Child impression and enjoy.