Pimientos de Padrón

Part of the fun of having a garden is growing stuff you don't normally find at the grocery store.  And that certainly extends to Pimientos de Padrón.  Never heard of 'em?  Neither had I, before traveling to Spain.  They can be found in many tapas bars along the winding cobblestone streets of Barcelona, and they're worth seeking out.

They range anywhere from an inch to two inches long, and almost all of them are sweet and not at all similar to the jalapenos that most Americans know.  Folklore has it that one in ten peppers are truly hot, but I think it has more to do with the size of the pepper -- we let our first batch grow too large and some of them were downright face-melting meteoric, and my family doesn't fear a little heat.

Most satisfying is that we grew these peppers ourselves, from seed no less -- provided to me by the inimitable NotHemingway, no slouch when it comes to good Spanish grub.  It was touch-and-go for awhile... out of sixteen seeds, about eight germinated into spindly, sad-looking sprouts.  Of those, only two survived and are bearing fruit.  But they're prolific enough that we expect at least a few more servings of these spicy treats.

Preparation is simple... fry them in a liberal amount of olive oil until their skins just start to wrinkle, sprinkle them with sea salt, and enjoy.  Enjoyed with a glass or two of Manzanilla sherry, manchego cheese, some garden-fresh gazpacho, and a basil tortilla española -- we were transported to the ancient Plaça Sant Josep Oriol.

It Was the Best of Tapas, It Was the Worst of Tapas.

Sunday night at Casa Scampwalker was Spanish tapas night. I'm the first to concede that while I haven't mastered this cuisine by any stretch, the sublime flavors of Spanish small plates is really refreshing on a lazy summer evening.

This meal was actually planned for over a week. Last weekend, I was thawing some sharptail grouse for a sausage, and got the wild idea to attempt converting a couple of breasts into prosciutto. The recipe is easy enough -- cover the breast fillets in kosher salt for 24 hours, wrap in cheesecloth, and refrigerate in 50-ish degree temps for a week. Our basement wasn't that cool this time of year, and our fridge was too cold. That meant a weekend trek to my personal office fridge was in order.

As we pulled into the office parking lot with two mummified grouse breasts, I opted to NOT check my kids in through security -- after all, we'd only be there long enough to deposit the charcuterie and be on our way. I told the kids that if security stopped us somewhere along the way, we'd do the right thing and just tell them what we were up to.

"Dad, how do you explain to a security guard that you're just putting two sharptail grouse breasts wrapped in cheesecloth into a fridge??" my fourth-grade son asked incredulously. Good point, that boy.

Luckily, the rent-a-cops never showed, and I brought the bounty home for our Sunday dinner. I'd already determined I'd slice it paper-thin and serve it with melon, the traditional pairing. Before plating, I sampled a piece. Horrible. Maybe I just got a funky slice. I tried again. Rank! I've eaten a lot of gamey food in my life, and a mild gameyness I don't mind. But this was atrocious. Not spoiled, but terrible. The recipe I used was based on duck, and I figured a sharpie couldn't be that different. Boy was I wrong. I'll try it again someday with a milder (less red) meat, but for now, I'll admit defeat.

Anyhow, the rest of the meal turned out wonderfully. We served gazpacho and tortilla both prepared with recipes from Jose Andres' Made in Spain. Dynamite, especially when combined with Mrs. Scampwalker's fresh-baked baguettes, some manchego and creamy goat cheese, farm-fresh cantaloupe, and a plate of olives. But what I wouldn't give for some Jamon Iberico de Bellota...