"Head to Toe" -- Part Two (Pig's Head)

Well, hello there.

And hello to all of you who found your way over here from the Wall Street Journal. Boy, are you in for a treat.

It's time.

Time for me to tell you about what has been equally the most challenging and most rewarding experience of my life. Oh yes, kids. This is bigger than just making a braised, stuffed pig's head. There's a whole other layer to this story that I haven't really talked or written about publicly. But it's time, because it's pretty damn cool and I'm incredibly proud of it. Full disclaimer: I made this dish back in early March, and for reasons you'll see as the story unfolds, I haven't been able to post about it until now. But I think you'll be excited about the reasons why as well as the final result (at least I hope you will), because you guys have been so amazingly supportive up until this point, why quit now? Seriously though, I can't wait to share this with you... it's been killing me not to. So, here we go.

Me and my pig's head? We cut a demo for a TV show.

I KNOW! Cool, right?

Back in January, the head of development at JWM Productions got in touch with me to see if I might be interested in pursuing something with them. After calling a bunch of my friends to see which one of them was playing this practical joke, I realized he was the real deal. So, we got together over coffee and got to know one another. I have to admit I was hesitant at first, because as a media and PR consultant, it's always been my job to put my clients on camera while I stay in the background. I've done some on-camera work before, but nothing like this, so I wasn't 100% confident that I'd be any good at it. However, they were willing to move forward pitching a TV series with me, so I thought to myself, "they're the experts and if they didn't vomit when they saw me or think I'm a bumbling idiot, then I guess I should give it a shot."

A few weeks later, three handsome gentlemen from JWM -- Aziz (the head of development), Patrick and Neil (who ultimately became my production crew) -- came over to my house for a meeting to talk about what a demo might look like and what show ideas we might want to pitch to which networks. We ended up spending a fair amount of time in my attic (which seems bizarre, but actually made sense at the time) looking through the hundreds of vintage cookbooks I own, tossing ideas around and trying to figure out what we might want to do.

They wrote up a treatment for some pitch meetings they had the following week. There was interest in one of the ideas, so we worked on an outline for a demo. We went back and forth on what I should cook and what the story would be, and at one point, we all came to the same conclusion: it had to be the pigs' head. So, I outlined the process, they came up with a production schedule, and shooting began.

I got the pig's head from Forrest Pritchard, who runs Smith Meadows Farm. I've mentioned Smith Meadows before because they're my regular meat and egg vendor at the farmers' market in town. I called Forrest ahead of time to order the pig's head so he'd have it ready for us on the Sunday we began the shoot. And away we go......

Let's take another look at the pig's head to get everything started:



This is a dish in The French Laundry Cookbook that is written about in more narrative form, so I'm going to do my best to break it down into the steps the book provides (in the order it provides them, as well) and show you photos as we go, so if you want to try and do this dish, you can. These photos are stills pulled out of the video footage, so credit goes to JWM Productions. The italicized text below is from The French Laundry Cookbook; my commentary is in regular type.

1. Cut off ears and reserve. (Note: pigs' ears have hair on them, so it's best to shave off that hair before removing and then dicing the ears. Someone suggested burning the hair off, but I think that might actually smell worse than that freakin' tripe, so I stuck to shaving).


2. Split the skin and meat down the center of the head, beginning at the top and working around the snout and to the back of the head to split the skull down the middle. Then, beginning on one side of the head, run the knife along the contour of the head, following the bone structure, to remove the skin and the attached meat.

Here's where the fun really begins. Splitting a pig's skull? Wow. Really? There's also text in the book about how to make sure you get the cheek meat and the meat at the temple. This is the point at which I went back and consulted all the notes and research I'd done on this process (nerd alert!), as well as the people I'd talked to who'd done this dish (or a version of it) before. The consensus was that the best way for an amateur like me to be able to see where all the good bits are and be able to get the most meat off the face was to saw the entire head in half and cut the face off each side, one half at a time. So, that's what I did. (Note: If you're going to try this dish, your butcher will do the sawing-the-head-in-half part for you, and I highly recommend letting him This is not easy. Not at all. Especially when you have a crap saw and even your power tools couldn't really do the job neatly or easily.)


Because I deviated from the book's exact instructions at this point (and because I'd never done this dish before and was bound to make mistakes), I ended up with two large flaps of face meat and the cheek meat separately. I also removed the tongue (which was an unpleasant-sounding step) and set it aside to use in a little while. Let me take a moment here to bow down to anyone who has ever done this before, or who does this kind of butchering or boning-out on a regular basis. This was incredibly difficult, time-consuming, and honestly, really gross. the worst part was when... no, I can't tell you this.... can I? No..... wait..... yes, I have to. I was going to spare you this particularly gory detail, but I just can't: I had to reposition the pig's head at one point to get a better grasp on it while I was cutting the meat off the head, and accidentally jammed my thumb through one of the eye sockets. With the eye still in it. No, I wasn't wearing gloves. Yes, I'll wait while you run to the bathroom to throw up.

3. Lay out the piece of pig, skin side down ... Trim off the fat until you reach the meat. Run a knife along the skin and remove [it] from the meat ... (much as you would skin a fish fillet). I did this, and also trimmed away all the other bits and pieces that were not meat-like in any way, leaving only the thin layer of very white fat, which I then scored. I also trimmed the meat side of the face, scored that, and pounded it as flat as I could, then salt and peppered it.

I should note here that we're still on Day One of this little project -- we began filming around 9:30 a.m. at the Farmers' Market, and this pig prep continued well into the night. I think I finished around 1 a.m.

At this point, I also diced the pig's ear and put it, along with the face and cheek meat into the refrigerator.



Monday morning (on just 3 or 4 hours' sleep), I woke up extra early to get the pig's tongue braised so that we'd be ready to shoot the rest of the prep once it came out of the oven. So, before the sun rose or the newspaper hit the front porch, and while most decent people were still in bed, I put a pig's tongue in a Le Creuset pot along with some mirepoixed onions, carrots and leeks, as well as some garlic, thyme, kosher salt, chicken stock, water, and white wine vinegar. I brought it to a simmer on the stovetop, then braised it for four hours in a 300-degree oven.

When it was finished, I brought it out, scraped off the tastebuds and skin, and cut the tongue meat into small batons.

4. Arrange batons of cooked tongue, sweetbreads, and diced pig's ear over the meat. Roll the head in plastic wrap to shape it (as you would a torchon), then remove the piece, roll it, and tie it in cheesecloth.

I laid the two pieces of face meat on the cutting block and put the cheek meat, diced ear meat, and tongue meat onto it, rolled it tight using plastic wrap (which I removed once I had used it to help roll everything up), then wrapped the meat roll in some cheesecloth, which I bundled nice and tight.


I put the meat into the pot with chicken stock, water, carrots, onions, leeks, bay leaves, thyme and parsley, covered the pot with foil and put it in a 300-degree oven for 6 hours.

After six hours of braising, I removed it from the pot, unwrapped it, rewrapped it in fresh cheesecloth, and let it hang in the fridge for 24 hours.



The next day, Tuesday, I removed it from its hanging place in the fridge, and was supposed to unwrap it, slice it, bread it, and sauté it. Just before the guys got there to shoot this segment, I had a mild panic attack. What if it all fell apart? What if it crumbled or fell apart into chunks when I unwrapped it from the cheesecloth? What if it was a complete and total disaster, and all that work up until this point for was naught? Would I have to start all over from the beginning? Would we improvise and figure out another end result? Where the hell was I gonna find another pig's head on such short notice? Was I a total hack? Who let me do this? Who decided this was a good idea? Who do I think I am? AAAAAAUGHHHHHHHH!!!!

I made myself some coffee, ate breakfast, and talked myself off the ledge. The guys arrived, and we got to work. I held my breath as I cut the string that held it in place in the fridge, unwrappped it ever so slowly and gently, almost having an out-of-body experience as I drifted above myself and watched it all unfold on the cutting board below:

As you can see, it stayed intact after being unwrapped. But, would it stay together when I sliced it into medallions to bread and sauté?

WAAAAAAAAAAAA-HOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!!!

Listen, I know I'm a big dork and YOU know I'm a big dork, so it should come as no surprise when I tell you that I actually got a little choked up when this ACTUALLY WORKED. And, if you have The French Laundry Cookbook and can see the photo of this step in the book, you'll see that mine actually, kinda, sorta resembles the one in the book.

I brushed the medallions with Roland Dijon mustard (my favorite brand), dredged them in breadcrumbs, and sautéed them in a little canola oil:

I'd made the Sauce Gribiche earlier in the day -- shallots, capers, cornichons, Dijon mustard, sherry vinegar, olive oil, hard-boiled eggs, tarragon, parsley and chives (photos are mine, not production stills; the crappier quality should be a dead giveaway):



To plate the final dish, I put the meat on top of the sauce and brought it to the table. Here's a shot of my new friend, Katrina (you'll meet her in a minute), eating the dish:

This is one of the best things I've ever eaten. The pork was tender and delicious, and you could taste the subtle differences in texture of the different kinds of meat, but when it all came together it was amazing. It was almost creamy in its consistency, yet still had a meat-like texture. It was smooth and tender and the sauce complemented the dish like nothing I could have imagined. I'd make that sauce again even if I was just making pork tenderloin or a pork loin roast (or even just plain old pork chops, I suppose).

Knowing the amount of work that went into this whole pig head extravaganza, I had prepared myself not to be too disappointed in case it turned out to be a somewhat mediocre dish. But you know what? It was really, really good. The meat was cooked to perfection, the sauce was incredible, and I was so tired and giddy but completely honest when I said, "I can't believe I'm actually going to say this but I think I might actually do this again someday. It's THAT good."

I meant it then, and I mean it now. But someone else is going to have to debone the pig's head for me next time. That's one step of this process I have no interest in repeating.

Looking back, the thought of making the dish was scary enough, but adding the "hey, we don't care if you've never made this before -- let's shoot it as you go and show it to a bunch of programming executives who might ultimately have a major impact your future career path" made this all the more surreal. It was exhausting, grueling, labor-intensive, frustrating, stressful, exciting, hilarious, beyond challenging, and ultimately, something I'm incredibly proud of. I wish there was a bigger, more impactful word than proud, because that's how I feel about the final product. This dish was the best thing I've ever cooked, and the resulting footage told a great story and was an amazing learning experience.

Oh yeah, about that footage. You wanna see it? Good. 'Cause I want you to. Here's the four-minute demo JWM Productions put together. Unfortunately, they had to strip some of the music for it to be posted here; sorry 'bout that. Dang rights and clearance issues. Just whistle along during the quiet parts. Hope you like it!


In Over Her Head (Carol Blymire) from Carol Blymire on Vimeo.


I can't end this post without thanking Aziz, Patrick, Neil, Justin, Jess, Brian, and the rest of the JWM team for making this happen. And, a special thanks to Jason Williams and Bill Morgan, without whom there would be no JWM.

So, there you have it. A delicious braised, stuffed pig's head, and a humble, grateful writer thinking it actually might be kinda cool to make the leap from your laptop to the TV screen. Why? Well, doing this blog has pushed me in new directions I never thought possible and has deepened and intensified my passion for food and cooking far more than I ever could have hoped or imagined. So, if I can share the reward of pushing yourself beyond your comfort zone -- truly getting in over your head when trying new things -- and inspire even one person to challenge him- or herself in the kitchen, then it's all worth it to me.

So, stay tuned.... I'll keep you posted on where this all ends up, and who knows? Maybe someday you can set your TiVo to record me. Wouldn't that be awesome? Fingers crossed...

# # #

Up Next: French Laundry at Home Extra: Brioche

Resources:
Pig’s head from Smith Meadows Farm
Sauce Gribiche ingredients from Whole Foods

Music to Cook By: Perry Como; Magic Moments. This was the tune playing on the original video while I was prepping the pig's head. I find myself whistling this song quite a bit these days. Totally addictive.

Read My Previous Post: "Head to Toe" -- Part One (Pig's Feet)

"Head to Toe" -- Part One (Pig's Feet)

I don't think it's a big secret that I've been dreading this dish. When I first started this project, I had no idea I'd even make it this far, and now that I've survived deveining foie gras and cutting the faces off soft-shell crabs, and eaten an oyster without passing out in a pool of my own vomit, this dish was inevitable. I've been putting it off long enough. Time to face one of my biggest culinary fears head on ("apply directly to the forehead") and just do it. What's the worst that could happen?

Ooops, did I speak to soon?

Oh, just you wait and see.

"Head to Toe" is broken into two parts in The French Laundry Cookbook -- Braised Stuffed Pig's Head with Sauce Gribiche, and Pig's Feet with French Green Lentils. We're gonna start with the feet, and get to the head in a later post. Wow. I can't wait to see what freak-ass Google search lands someone on this page based on that last sentence. Yipes.

I've actually eaten pig's feet before -- the meat is really delicious, and I like a traditional French country preparation, as this one was intended to be. Notice how I used the word "intended" there? Yeah. Hoo-boy, here we go:

I picked up some trotters at Eastern Market, brought them home and cleaned them. I had the option of buying just the feet, or what I bought below, which is the feet with the shank attached. I decided to do this because you have to split and braise them, then use the skin to wrap the meat in during part of the cooking process, so I wanted to make sure I had some nice, long pieces of skin to work with:

I can hear some of you shuddering. It's okay. I understand. Completely. While I like the meat that a pig's foot produces, I have a bit of trouble with my gag reflex when I see a whole pig's foot. Why? It all stems from a hot, crowded concert hall in New Orleans a few years ago. It was a Sunday afternoon, and I was a little hungover (okay, a LOT hungover), and we were all packed into this hall like sardines (come to think of it, quite a few people actually smelled like sardines, but I digress). As the different bands and music groups took their turn on the stage, people moved around to get a better view. I ended up standing next to a couple who were probably in their late 50s/early 60s. The woman had a giant purse, out of which she took two ziploc bags -- one for her, one for him. Each one had something in it that I couldn't really make out until they each opened their bags and I smelled a pickled substance. Then, they inched out the food product little by little and began gnawing on it.

Lucky me, they each had brought a pickled pig's foot to chew on during the show in the 90-degree-heat-with-no-ventilation room. To top it off, they also dunked potato chips in the pickled pig's foot juice and ate them with reckless abandon. Had I not been hungover, it might not have been so gross. No wait, I take that back. It would have. I had to leave the room to get some water and some fresh air. To this day, I still remember what that smelled like. Oooof. (on a side note, when Katrina hit two weeks later that man and woman were the first people I thought of when I watched the footage of the flooding; I still think about them from time to time and hope they're okay.)

Back to the dish.....

As directed, I split the trotters lengthwise. That's where the fun began. Of course, I am lying. It was not fun. Not at all. It took forever and a day to do, I used every curse word I've ever learned in every language I've ever spoken, and I debated going to Lowe's to buy an industrial table saw. I gots no skillz, yo.

I placed the split-open trotters skin side down onto a bed of aromatics (carrots, onion, leek, bay leaf, thyme sprigs, parsley) and mirepoix (carrots, leeks, onions), then covered them with more vegetables. I added chicken stock and water to cover them, put the lid on the pot, and brought it to a simmer:


After I brought it up to a simmer, I put the pot in the oven at 300 degrees for what was going to be six hours. The book recommends the six-hour cooking time, but it also adds the caveat of "or until the meat is falling away from the bone." For me, that happened at about the 4.5-hour mark... and what also happened is that the skin completely disintegrated. Shredded. Melted. Went bye-bye. Bought the farm. Flipped me off. Rendered itself completely useless.

So, I took the feet out of the braise, deboned them (which was kind of gross), removed all the meat, shredded it, and put it in a little storage container next to the storage container of skin I was able to salvage.


I put the containers of meat and skin in the fridge and debated what to do next. The house still smelled pretty good -- the scent of braised pork in almost any form is a very nice thing, but even a fine-smelling, porky house does not make up for the fact that I knew I was sort of in the shitter on this one.

The next step in the book is creating the farce (or stuffing) for the skins, then stuffing them, wrapping them in caul fat, and cooking them before serving them on a bed of green lentils. However, I knew the pieces of skin were too small (the largest, most intact one was 2x3") so I knew I couldn't finish this dish the way I had planned to, so I had to improvise and figure out something else. I decided to just serve the pig feet meat (great name for a band by the way, "Ladies and gentlemen, I give you: Piiiiiiiiiiig Feeeeeeeeet Meeeeeeeeeeeaaaaaaaat!!!!!!!!!!") over lentils. I thought it would taste pretty good.

What I didn't think about is what it would look like. Note to self: THINK ABOUT THIS KIND OF THING, YOU DUMBASS.

I had thawed some veal stock for another dish I was working on, so I took a bit of that and mixed it with the meat from the feet and reheated it in a small saucepan on the stove.

I had already cleaned the lentils the day before, so I made those (with a little garlic, slab bacon, carrot and onion) and they looked great. The pig feet meat was all warmed up and ready to go, so it was just a matter of plating the dish.

But first:

"Aw, who is that precious child with the yarn-tied, lopsided pigtails looking all pensive as she contemplates which present to open first?" you may be asking yourself. Before I show you the final dish, I thought I'd insert a photo from my birthday party when I was four as a cheap ploy to garner some love and support because once you see this final dish, you will lose any and all respect for me and you will say, "Huh. I didn't know there was a recipe for Ken-L-Ration in The French Laundry Cookbook."



Sorry about that. Trust me when I tell you it actually looked WORSE in person. And in addition to its non-beauty, the meat smelled great while it was braising but when I warmed it up using a little veal stock, it made it smell like really bad b.o., which, you know, is great at meal time.

One of the most frequently asked questions I get is "how many times to you try these dishes before you finally post it?" And, my answer is "One." When I started this project, I debated whether or not to test some of these dishes before doing a final version for the site, and I decided that it would be much more interesting (and honest, and cost-effective) to employ and "one-and-done" strategy.

This dish is a prime example of that.

I had a few friends over to taste it, and they sat down at the table and didn't say a word as they stared at their plates waiting for the ghost of Allen Funt to appear (or Ashton Kutcher, for you young whippersnappers out there - now GET OUT OF MY YARD!). We each took a bite, chewed semi-politely, swallowed, pushed our plates away, and drank many, many glasses of water.

Not only did it look and smell pretty bad, it didn't taste all that great, either. Texturally, it was really stringy and weird, and the smell overpowered any positive taste aspect there might have been.

So, pig feet meat? Great band name. Not so great dinner.

Pig: 1 Carol: 0

Up Next: "Head to Toe," Part Two. The moment you've all been waiting for: The Pig's Head.

Resources:
Trotters from Union Meat Company; Eastern Market; Washington, D.C.
Produce from Whole Foods
Lentils from TPSS Co-op

Music to Cook By: Lisa Lisa & Cult Jam; Head to Toe. Are you surprised?

Read My Previous Post: French Laundry at Home Extra -- How (not) To Cook Tripe

Baby Lamb: Five Cuts Served with Provençal Vegetables, Braised Cipollini Onions, and Thyme Oil (Part 1)

I think it's safe to say -- and I hope you'll agree with me -- that in the past 20 months, I've grown by leaps and bounds as a home cook. I've learned so much (through failure as equally as success) and I've conquered some serious kitchen phobias. I've changed the way I cook on a day-to-day basis, and I've become even more fearless when it comes to trying new things. I've cut the faces off softshell crabs and lived to tell about it. I made a braised, stuffed pig's head. And more recently, I learned how to break down an animal, cook its various parts, and pull together a dish that I'm incredibly proud of. But, this time, I didn't do it alone.

If I may, I'd like to share some text from the instructions for making Baby Lamb dish -- on page 198 of The French Laundry Cookbook:

"I value this dish as a chef because it's a learning experience for my staff. It gives them an understanding of how to break down an entire four-legged animal and where the individual parts come from. These things are important for any chef to know." -- Thomas Keller

I couldn't agree more, but I'm not a chef. I'm a home cook who has had no formal or informal training, and who has never broken down an animal on her own (let alone with anyone else, and the frog in 7th-grade biology class doesn't count). So, I knew I was ill-prepared to do this dish on my own. And, for being what I think is the most complicated dish in the book for a home cook, the instructions are the most vague. Actually, vague isn't the right word because I don't mean that the instructions were unclear. They're not. They're quite clear. All the steps are there, the terminology is pretty self-explanatory, and the steps on how to prepare each part of the lamb are pretty straightforward.

I think it was more that I felt lost reading those instructions because this is such an elemental, fundamental thing any chef or cook should know how to, or at least understand, and I didn't. I had some leads on sourcing the lamb -- that wasn't the issue. And, when I was in Morocco nine years ago, I watched friends roast a whole lamb. So again, I didn't feel intimidated by having to cook an entire animal. It was in the mechanics of it all.

Bringing home a 25-pound lamb, hauling it out of the back of my car into the house, having the right tools and saws to work with, and expecting to know how to break it down, debone it, prep each section, and prepare each element of the dish in my little home kitchen was something I knew I needed help with to be able to do properly, and to be able to show the animal the respect it deserved.

So, I turned to my friend, Andy Little, at The Sheppard Mansion. Andy helms the kitchen at an historic inn not far from where I grew up, and even though our hometowns are minutes away from one another and we're close to the same age, we've gotten to know one another only over the past few months. You can read more about Andy on his blog and you can learn more about what he's cooking in the restaurant here. I asked if he wanted to help with this dish, and he so very graciously said he would. I couldn't have been more thrilled, and it made the whole thing so much less intimidating on the whole.

Andy invited me to come to Hanover, PA to work in his kitchen -- where there was lots of space, plenty of supplies and tools, and most importantly, an abundance of expertise. I immediately said, "YES!!!" and spent two days at the inn while we cooked and ate, and I got an intensive crash course on butchering and cooking like I'd never done before. The Sheppard Mansion's restaurant is only open Wednesday - Saturday, so we'd have all day Monday and Tuesday in the kitchen, then serve it for dinner to family and friends Tuesday night.

Before we get to the cooking, I want to spend a little bit of time on the lamb, because it's important to me that you know where it came from.

The baby lamb came from Whitmore Farm in Emmitsburg, Maryland, and I spent a Saturday morning at the farm not too long ago to meet owners Will Morrow and Kent Ozkum and see their operations. It's a really gorgeous property, but beyond that, it was really important for me to see how they raise their animals and learn more about what they do.

Let's do a quick tour of the farm. Here's the main house and barn:




Here are some of their chickens:



And turkeys:



Baby bunnies (!!!):

Kent (L) and Will (R) doing a morning feeding:



And, while I went to the farm the weekend after we'd already cooked the lamb, Will said the lamb we ate was just about the same size as this little brown guy giving me the stink eye:



They have an incredibly beautiful and well-maintained farm that produces the best-tasting lamb I've ever had. Will and Kent are so devoted to what they do, and they're fun to spend time with, to boot. If you live in the DC-Baltimore-Frederick-southern PA area, please check these guys out. You won't be disappointed. I spent the whole drive home that day running numbers and timetables in my head to figure out when and if I ever might be able to do what they're doing. It's remarkable, enviable, and I want to be them when I grow up.


* * * * *

So, now that you know where the lamb came from, it's time to talk about this dish. I'm going to split it into two separate posts (this one, and one to come in a few days) because I think if I put it all in one post your eyes might bleed from the length of it and I am not a fan of bleeding eyes, so YOU'RE WELCOME.

By the way, if you have questions as I go through this, please feel free to post them in the comments. I'll answer them, or I'll ask Andy to chime in if they're more up his alley.

Okay.... here we go!

* * * * *

I was visiting my parents, and brother and sis-in-law (and their new baby) for the weekend, and made my way over to Hanover that Sunday evening so that I could get a good night's sleep and be ready to start cooking first thing in the morning. Andy, his partner Karen (who runs front of house), and their boss (Sheppard Mansion owner, Kathy Sheppard Hoar) were gracious enough to let me stay at the inn while we made this dish, and it was so great to be able to wake up and just go downstairs to work in the kitchen that morning -- a revised, slightly more upscale and hospitable version of my "At Home" mission for the blog.

Monday morning, I woke up with a healthy amount of nervous energy. After a long shower and some time watching the news, I went downstairs, ate breakfast, and said hello to Andy. He then introduced me to his sous chef, Scott Robinson (who came in on his day off), and his friend, Rich Matosky, who played hooky from work and drove in from the Philly suburbs to lend a hand. Will delivered the lamb the day before, so after the round of handshakes and nice-to-meet-you pleasantries, I downed the last of my coffee and walked into the kitchen to find this waiting for me:

I will confess that I was surprised to see its head still attached, but I didn't vomit, nor did I flinch, nor reach for vodka. There may have been a wince. I may have said, "Oh... little guy" in my head. Or out loud. I'm not sure which.

There was very little chitchat at this point, and we got right down to business. Andy had already made a list of the exact cuts we needed, so he and Scott went to work breaking down the lamb while Rich and I watched and learned (and I took photos) as he explained each step of the process.

First, he cut off the head:



Then the legs:







Hello, kidneys:



Next, Andy and Scott (the one wearing the cap) began splitting the lamb down the middle:















See the clock above the sink and how it's only 9:25 a.m.? We started our morning at 9 a.m., and in less than 25 minutes, the lamb's head and legs were removed, and it had been split down the middle.

Do you know how this would've played out in my kitchen at home, had I started at 9 a.m.? By 9:25, I would have downed my second shot of bourbon as I peeked for the fourth time around the corner from my dining room into the kitchen and said, "Shit. That lamb is STILL THERE and he's dead but somehow STILL STARING AT ME and I don't know what to dooooooo" and lit my hair on fire and jumped off the roof of my house while singing the Barber of Seville.


Okay, so maybe I'm exaggerating. But still.


Next, Andy removed the silverskin from the loin and tenderloin:



Andy and Scott split the rack:



Then, they got to work deboning and butterflying the legs, trimming and cleaning up the breast, and generally preparing all the rest of the lamb parts:









While Andy and Scott were working on all this, Rich and I were on carrot, leek and onion duty for the braises and brunoise, and Andy had also gotten started on browning bones and making stock (although he was MORE than happy to take a break from that to school Rich on his carrot-peeling technique and the size of his carrot cuts for the brunoise, which then became the running joke for the next two days... oh, who'm I kidding -- we're STILL busting Rich's chops about it and probably will for a long, long time.):




I was happy to be on vegetable duty, because it's easy, I got it done quickly (faster than Rich with the world's slowest peeling of the carrots) and it allowed me to more closely watch Andy and Scott break down the lamb, clean and trim all the parts, and talk about what they were doing as they went along.... while still feeling like I was doing something to contribute to the process.

There were so many moving parts -- many of which needed to take place simultaneously -- and it was fun to be in a kitchen with people who knew their stuff, had a sense of humor about it, and could teach while also taking the piss out of one another. My kind of kitchen, indeed.

By this point, it was about 11:30 a.m. The lamb had been butchered into its respective parts, bones were browned and stock begun, sauces on the stove, brunoise done. Now it was time to figure out what had to happen next so that we could take a quick lunch break and come back and finish out the afternoon. The kitchen full of MEN decided they should work on the BREAST (shocker, I know... 12) before we took a break.

The French Laundry Cookbook instructs that the lamb breast is to be cooked like the veal breast in the Braised Breast of Veal with Yellow Corn Polenta Cakes, Glazed Vegetables, and Sweet Garlic.

Easy-peasy. That I can handle. So, I seasoned both pieces of lamb breast with salt and pepper, seared it on both sides, removed the meat, and drained the fat from the pan. Then, I added leeks, carrots, onions, garlic, bay leaf, thyme and parsley to the pots (the breast was in two pieces, so we did all this times two but at the same time [yay for multiple burners!]), caramelized them, returned the meat to the pan, added chicken and veal stock, covered with a parchment lid, brought the liquid to a simmer, then put them both in the oven for what ended up being a little over three hours.











While I worked on that, Andy decided he'd TRY and one-up my pig's head prowess by sawing the lamb's head in half to get the brain and eyes out -- he had some sort of cockamamie plan to get me to eat the brains in a ravioli or a doughnut or something, and he seriously thought maybe someone would want to eat the eyeballs. Fortunately, he ruptured one and abandoned that idea pretty quickly.

But here he is, sawing that lamb's head in half -- which, by the way, took him FOREVER to do. I mean, really. It shouldn't have been that hard, and if I can do a pig's head, why was he struggling with that lamb's head for so long?


Feel free to sing the Jeopardy theme song....



And now, key change into Verse Two of the Jeopardy theme song...



Look at the sweat on his brow. Psshttt. Amateur.

KIDDING.

Andy, put down the saw. Seriously, dude. I was kidding.

He put the brain in milk to soak overnight, because he really thought I was going to eat it, despite the fact that I told him to put down the crack pipe. He kept insisting that it tasted "just like oatmeal, only more like, oh I dunno, a meat-flavored oatmeal" at which point I just said, "FINE. If it will shut you up, I'll eat the damned brain tomorrow night at dinner!" (knowing full well I would hide it in my napkin and then dump it in one of the potted plants in the lobby, duh)


Dude. I would rather listen to the same Celine Dion song for 24 hours than eat that. Except for that song from Titanic. Now that's where the lamb brains just might have a fighting chance.

With the two pots of braising lamb breast in the oven, we put all the other meat into the cooler, cleaned up the kitchen, and headed out to "The Trop" for lunch. Short for Tropical Treat, The Trop is a local burger and shake shack we all love and went to as kids, so we headed on over there to sit outside in the shade, down some burgers, fries, and shakes, and swap stories. It wasn't until I actually sat down at the picnic table that I realized how badly I needed to sit. I wasn't necessarily tired.... just ready to not be standing for a little while.

Besides, I knew when we got back, not only were we going to work on the lamb for a few more hours, I also needed the strength to steel myself against the inevitable torture that would arise from Andy butchering and cleaning the turtles he'd caught that weekend:



I like turtle soup as much as the next guy, but ew. Thanks for the dry heaves, Andy. Thanks a lot.

And, it's at this point that I'm going to take a break. I'll be back later this week with the rest of the story. Stay tuned.

To be continued......

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