Blueberry and Nectarine Sonker

2 Nectarines

1/2pt Blueberries

1/4c Sugar

2tsp Cornstarch

Juice from 1/4^th Large Lemon

Salt

1/2c Flour

1/4c Cornmeal (I bet oats would be great too)

2tsp Baking Powder

Salt

1 Stick Butter, chilled and diced

A few globs of John Stamos Yogurt

I decided to make a cobbler with some blueberries and nectarines but all I could think about was how cobbler is a totally stupid name.  Apparently some people back in the day thought the dish resembled a cobblestone street so they named it after a guy who fixes shoes.  Makes sense.  During the course of my interwebs sleuthing on Wikipedia, I discovered that the Carolina hill people make a deep-dish single-fruit cobbler they call “sonker.”  Although my cobbler is of the shallow-dish multiple-fruit variety, I’m calling it sonker.  I like the word better so the definition of sonker is now whatever the fuck I want because fuck you.  And fuck cobbler.

Mix all the filling ingredients together.  Dump them in a shallow baking dish. 

Toss the dry ingredients of the topping into a food processor.  Blast that shit up.  Grind in the butter.  As I was out of sour cream I used that pretty boy yogurt to bind the topping.  If I didn’t have a suitable foodstuffs substitute I would have used a little water.  Spread the topping out in a thin layer over the filling.

Bake uncovered in the oven for 20 minutes at 325 degrees, crank the heat to 375 degrees, and bake for another 15 minutes.  This recipe can be doubled, tripled, or even octupled.  “My oven only goes to 500 degrees.  If I double the recipe how can I cook it at 650-725 degrees?”  Start a trash fire in your front yard.  “Good idea! Thanks!”  Eat it.          

Fried Chicken Casserole

Fuck all your fancy hipster southern food restaurants.  Waiting in line for an hour and then paying $25 for a plate of fried chicken and greens is like picking up a toothless tweeker whore and giving her $1,000 for a lackluster handjob.  For years I have been telling people the best fried chicken joint in town is a shitty dive bar nestled along a row of shady motels on Interstate Avenue and not some fancy pants SE restaurant’s pretentious reinvention of a traditionally poor man’s food. 

I first visited George’s when I moved into the neighborhood almost a decade ago.  I heard there was a shooting in the parking lot the night before and I wanted to check the place out.  I was perusing their menu for comedic material and came across the fried chicken.  Throwing caution into the wind, I ordered food from a place that was filled with transients playing video poker.  It took them eight gazillion light years to make the damn chicken, which I quickly came to realize is standard practice, but once it arrived I knew I had found a hidden gem.  And then the bartender kicked someone out for smoking crack in the bathroom. 

The other night I got an assload of chicken at George’s but was unable to finish it all.  Sure, I could eat the leftovers cold out of the fridge like a sucker.  Or, I could smash the JoJo potatoes into the bottom of a casserole dish, add some grated cheddar and chopped bacon, throw in the fried chicken, top it with 15 whisked eggs and bake it.  Move over inventor of the wheel guy, there’s a new idea sheriff in town.  Eat it.

Rack of Lamb with a Blueberry, Botrytis, and Balsamic Dipping Sauce

1c Blueberries

1/4c Botrytis (Noble Rot) Wine

1Tbl Pomegranate Balsamic Vinegar

1tsp Sugar

Salt, a sprinkle

1 Lamb Rack, Frenched

Sat & Pepper

“What did you use to cut the lamb? A goddamn hacksaw?”  Eat shit and die, motherfucker.  “Looks like you were trying to impress harder than a Brooklyn hipster at a warehouse art party.”  Take that back!  You are lucky I even decided to share this recipe after such a piss poor attempt at fancy plating.  “And why is that?”  Because it tastes like angelic sex juice, that’s fucking why. 

For the sauce, mix all the ingredients in a pot and simmer over medium-low heat until reduced.  Set aside.

Rub the lamb down with a libertarian amount of salt and pepper and quickly sear it in a hot ass pan to get a nice color.  Roast it at 425 degrees, fat side up, for an undetermined amount of time.  All cuts will be different weights and thickness so figure it the fuck out your damn self.  I like my lamb to still be baaa’ing for its mommy so I cook it to an internal temperature between 135 and 140 degrees.  If you are a pussy idiot you can go higher but anything over 150 will be a tragedy of epic proportions.  Let it sit for 10 minutes at room temperature before slicing in order to let the juices reabsorb.

To slice the rack, hold it so the bones point to the ceiling and slice down between each bone.  Hopefully you will do a better job than I.  “I think a fully amputated lobotomized monkey wearing a blindfold could do a better job than you.”  Fucking dick.  Eat it.