To Beet or Not to Beet

In very short order I can rattle off the names of a few vegetables that will elicit at least a small gag reflex even from the usual die hard vegetable lover... BEETS (Beta Vulgaris), PARSNIPS (Pastinaca sativa), TURNIPS (Brassica rapa) and RUTABAGAS (Brassica napus). As the mercury drops I find myself sniffing down into the earth with a hunger for these steady stores of nourishment. These root vegetables are seen as a homely lot, the ugly stepsisters to summer’s resplendent blessing. I stop briefly to consider this while loading my larder with these unpretentious bulbous beauties. To my mind, these subterranean citizens deserve a little attention and possess a subtle kind of charm. Their skins are rough with wear from the tumble and turn of soil, but they bespeak of an honest relationship with their humble surroundings. And much like an animal ready for hibernation, one can imagine their slow incremental gains in weight and flavor blanketed by the deep blind night.

My unlikely love for the beet came off the heels of my first job at Burger King. Admittedly with some satisfaction I still can recall my self appointed title of Salad Bar Queen. For me this meant impeccably maintaining the refrigerated stainless steel display of vegetable fixings with an eye towards creating appetizing order and beauty. I gravitated towards arranging containers of salad ingredients contrasting color and texture. I kept watchful surveillance on my bar while deftly handing out endless hot trays of hamburger-your-way and fries. Between orders I replenished vanishing slices of cucumber, fished out tired shreds of iceberg and captured rogue peas as they traveled to inappropriate locations. I fluffed up the ornamental kale placed around each crock to give the illusion of mounds of food upon a vast lawn of greenery and I even obsessively wiped up clumsy spills of dressing which threatened to uglify my little paradise. I was a premature food stylist and the vegetal oasis within this fast food joint was my high school pride and joy. Naturally I dipped from the garden of delight, this palette of pleasure when it was time for my work break, composing a salad of stellar heights. Skillfully balanced atop a shallow tan plastic bowl I placed a thin mat of lettuce with a few shreds of purple cabbage and carrot. On top of this- two cool cucumber slices, a small scoop of potato salad and a few magenta rounds of canned beets. I adorned this arrangement with three tomato wedges and finished the pile off with a glad shower of mushroom slivers, a handful of sunflower seeds, a tumble of peas, a scatter of cheese, a few croutons and then a shameless dousing of Ranch dressing. This gravity defying feat widened my vision to include the canned squat root which incidentally left its pink rivulet calling card upon the neighboring potato salad. I was fascinated and a little horrified by the audacity of this vegetable but nevertheless within the tinted glass confines of the local Burger King, at the bottom of my salad bowl, my full fledged allegiance for the beet began.

Still, I understand the scorn many people feel. Canned beets are pretty at best but they are watery and bland forming into an immediate sweet pink slush within the mouth. Fresh, these obstinate knobs are uninviting and hard like a rock. While the color of the flesh can be vibrantly hued from crimson to yellow, their thick outer skin tends to be a muddied down version, dull and cheerless. They are a beastly bunch to be sure, marking territory knowing no bounds whether shirt, cutting board or counter top with tell tale bloody stains. Beets are a risky business and I am immune to the work or the dirt involved with their preparation. They are a labor of love.

Generously one gets two vegetables for the price of one. After purchasing beets, the tops can be immediately chopped off to be consumed that night or the next. They are chard like, a bit bitter and take well to garlic, olive oil and a squeeze of lemon. Do be careful to clean the leaves thoroughly. There is usually quite a bit of dirt lurking within the greens and ribbed stems as well. Next, I leave about a ½” of stem above the bulb and slightly trim the tail. Since I try to curtail the mess, I cut the beet as little as possible. Instead encase the entire orbs within foil and allow the oven to do the transformative work. Once cooked, the dark coarse skin easily slips off to reveal a glistening jewel. Beets are diamonds in the rough. Their flavor and color are condensed intensity: slippery sanguine ruby red, scarlet with a faint aftertaste of dirt, the taste of pure pulsating vitality. Eating a beet is taking a juicy bite out of life. It is sweet, shockingly beautiful, vibrant, hard to crack, messy and a bit bitter. Plus it is chock full of fiber, folic acid, anti oxidants and assists to detoxify your liver to boot. To beet or not to beet, should it really be a question? Taking a cue from the color of the leaves that abound, I am moved by the russets, burnt umbers, and yellow tinged reds of autumn. Bone sticking Red Flannel Hash sounds appealing both visually and emotionally. Whether it is called hash, mash, resuscitated leftovers or hodgepodge jumble- this is essentially my way of doing food. First assess the root cellar and inspect the vegetables in question. We are looking for firm, weighty, even skinned subjects. Since this meal is guided completely by personal preference, do include as many roots as possible without causing the gag reflex mentioned earlier. I selected one large sweet potato, three smallish beets and two small-medium yellow finn potatoes. Scrub, remove any blemishes, quasi peel and chop into medium sized pieces. The beets I left larger and didn’t peel until later. Steam everything until not quite tender, keep in mind that there will be additional frying later. Next dice one onion ,one yellow pepper and stem, seed and dice a poblano chile. Chop up about a 1/3 of a can of Spam. Remember this is personalized so choose your meat wisely! Fry in a pan the onions, pepper, chile and spam until it is slightly caramelized, then mix in the pre-steamed root veggies. Mix gently and cook allowing the mixture to brown slightly and flavors to meld. Add salt and pepper to taste and a generous swirl of cream if desired. If you want that really browned look, you will need to make sure your pan is well seasoned (preferably with a good dose of bacon grease) and don’t stir the root celebratory jumble too much. Fry or poach an egg or two. Place a generous mound of the Red Flannel in a deep bowl and slide the egg/s on top and sprinkle with chopped parsley. I especially like a few coarse grains of finishing salt and a fat dollop of plain yogurt as well. Eat now, talk later.

First in Class

I received a drive by vegetable-love package a few weeks ago as I was getting ready to leave of all places, my physical therapist’s office. To my surprise and delight a largish Hefty Ziploc bag full of summer’s bountiful parsley, basil, tomatoes and delicata squash landed in my lap while Judy, gardener and all-around woman extraordinaire made the nimble pass and delivery. With good fortune I have been enjoying the final offerings of summer and the early fruits of fall. The fragrant herbs found instant home within a pesto fortified with creamy sweet ricotta and shavings of lemon zest. The green tomato discovered purpose and placement within a riotous stuffing for peppers. The sole delicata however demanded a different kind of consideration and being thicker skinned than the summer squash variety, waiting was an option which I gladly took advantage of.

The Delicata and Kabocha are two of my most favorite winter squash. They tend to be sweeter than their counterparts but texture is where they make their departure from each other. Kabocha (kah-BOH-cha) is somewhat dry and dense, a marriage between a sweet potato and chestnut. It is intensely sweet, honeyed with a deep vibrant orange color to the flesh. Delicata squash is moist and melting and somewhat creamy to the palate. It is much more finessed and delicate which is part of what calls out to me. Not only is the skin handsomely decorated with subtle mottling and striped grooves; it is thin enough to be eaten once cooked, making food preparation a cinch. I have struggled cutting through one too many thick rinds to definitely say that there is little grace in wrestling with a recalcitrant vegetable. Instead, the delicata or bohemian squash has slight weight to it, snug within the confines of a palm. It is a cheery lemon torpedo with British racing green striations running down the length of it. There is something earnest and endearing about it, a huge show of effort within a small figure like a young schoolchild ready to rise to the head of the class. It is sprightly and charming, infused with a winsome happy presence and now has the distinction of being the first show of autumn display within my kitchen. This squash is delicately proportioned adorning serving platters with a geometric display of scalloped rings and semi-circles. Not to mention that a hollowed and stuffed half, whether bowl or boat is elegantly diminutive without being too stingy. Contrast this with a stuffed acorn squash that would dominate a plate, leaving no room for balance or variety. When I come to think of it, in all the ways that I approach this favorite fall offering, it always comes up at the head of the class. Like most produce when in-season, there is very little that needs to be done with this squash. Being that this was the first of many that will be consumed this year; I decided to simply roast the delicata. To do this, slice of both ends and discard. Continue slicing the squash into ¼” thick rings. Once cut, pull out the seeds and stringy matter. Place in an oven proof pan and give everything a good splash of olive oil, salt and pepper, and toss. Bake in a preheated 350 degree oven until squash is tender and edges are somewhat caramelized. This dish can be embellished in many ways, but this way- straight up, sweet-n-salty, earthy and slightly chewy is so satisfying.

A Sweet Passage

Some changes happen so slowly that a collection of months can go by without any perceptive difference and then in a blink, there is movement. These past few weeks have ushered in cool damp weather signifying to me an early Fall. In the air I detect traces of a distinct odor that as a child reminded me of watermelon rinds green, full of brisk wetness. Perhaps slivers of rind have been left discarded after the pink fullness of a summer day picnic or there is a concentration of morning dew collecting under curled leaves scenting the shortening days. Both possibilities have its hidden story and I wonder into each and other.

In my hand I hold a generous sized tin of pure maple syrup. It comes from Sheila, clinical secretary over at Dartmouth-Hitchcock Hospital. Her professional title belies her warmth and significance to me. I remember so clearly calling her from my small room in Berkeley, feeling out to her sunny voice which carried from a different time zone. Her radiant kindness was a line that I held onto giving me reassurance and hopes for better medical care and in turn, a higher quality of life. The syrup is melted amber, inspissated store of carbohydrate turned sucrose. It takes approximately forty gallons of sugar maple sap, boil and toil to create one gallon of liquid gold. Tawny, bronzed and glassy with a touch of viscosity, sweet tinged with smoke, maple syrup is intimate kiss between sun and tree. It seems to be the quintessential by-product of New England generosity: a combination of simplicity, heartiness, hard work and charm. I set to work dreaming of ways to properly celebrate this food-of-the-tree, the giver and acknowledge the change in season as well. With a primal pull towards storing up energy for winter, I fall upon oil rich fruit-of-the-tree, the walnut.

There was a time when I snubbed pedestrian walnuts and peanuts in favor for the more exotic almond, cashew and pecan. It might have been that growing up, these nuts were always stockpiled within a pottery bowl on the coffee table posing as interior decoration as well as afternoon snack. For a short while, I was greatly impressed with how much the nut meat looked like a miniature brain insulated within its very own fitted traveling case. This interest quickly waned; I was repelled by the bitter acrid taste which filled my mouth. Fortunately a chance lunch with a college friend set me straight. E_ compiled a small plate which cradled a few slivers of apple with a scatter of walnuts encompassed by a puddle of golden honey. What I didn’t know then but years later realized, was that she had organized the tastes and elements of a traditional Passover charoset (symbolizing mortar, which represented the back breaking work of the Jewish slaves) upon her co-op dessert plate. I remember how newly delicious each taste was, one heightening the other, clear notes hung in space. Unbeknownst to me within this crowded public dining hall, we had just consumed a private sacrament. I reflect upon this some fifteen years later as I consider the invisible power within that afternoon. Foods are intimately linked to memory and story and harvest time makes visible the passage of time showing us the end-product of growth. It is a marker that allows us to examine where we have come from and where we are going. I draw upon the sweet story of friendship and experience and layer today onto the back of yesterday to compose a new beginning. This journey back East has been long in coming, a movement up a sometimes bumpy path. But there is nothing like a rich confection decorated with good company to make the passage undeniably sweet.

CANDIED WALNUT WEDGE adapted from Sunday Suppers at Lucques by Suzanne Goin
While flipping through Sunday Suppers at Lucques, I stopped fast in my tracks at Candied Walnut Wedge. The book raves that it tastes similar to the pried of chewy nut layer of a pecan pie. To my mind this is the perfect repository for NH’s finest tree syrup. A small note: this wedge did crumble a bit in parts. I suspect that the pieces of my coarsely chopped nut layer were too big. I also wonder if the maple syrup had as much adhesive properties as the corn syrup. For the most part, storage in the refridgerator helped the crumble. Also a further nod to New England and Passover- the wedge can be served with accompanying apple slices and dare I suggest a crumbly chunk of good sharp Cheddar or even Blue? May our hard times be made easier with Candied Walnut Wedge!

INGREDIENTS:

3 Tblsp. unsalted butter, plus more to butter pan

1 1/4 Cups coarsely chopped walnuts

1 1/2 Cups walnut halves

1/2 vanilla bean

3 Tblsp brown sugar

3 Tblsp sugar

2 Tblsp dark rum

6 Tblsp maple syrup (Goin uses light corn syrup)

1 extra-large egg yolk

1 extra-large egg

DIRECTION: Preheat oven to 375. Butter then line a 9 inch springform pan with parchment. Place the pan upon a large sheet of aluminum foil and fold up and around the sides of the pan to prevent leaks. Place upon a cookie sheet. Toast the chopped nuts and walnut halves separately until browned. Place butter in a small pan with the scraped pulp and seed of the split pod. Add the opened pod to the pan as well and cook over medium heat until browned. Discard the pod. In a mixer beat the sugars, syrup and rum at medium for 4-5 minutes. Add the brown butter and mix another 2-3 minutes. Finally add the egg and yolk and a pinch of salt and continue to mix for another minute or so. Place the chopped walnuts in an even layer into the prepared pan. Arrange the walnut halves on top in concentric circles. Pour the sugar mixture over this and bake for about 40 minutes until the filling is set. Cool for about 30 minutes, remove from pan and then serve in wedges.

Pound-Off

I remember its proud towering stature and thick golden mantle embedded with coarse sugar crystals. Moments before we sat in hushed silence as Rodney nudged and cajoled his family’s top secret pound cake slightly warm from the oven, successfully out of the Bundt pan and upright into distinguished position. I sat in combination awe and reverence; excitement tinged with yet named desire. Our small party of six had just polished off a dinner straight from the Silver Palate cookbook, some sort of chicken cordon bleu with an apple Calvados sauce. Newly graduated, this was the very first dinner gathering I attended in the fall of 91. Free from impoverished student life, I was easily impressed with the sophistication of a duplicated Pottery Barn interior. Following a recipe out of a gourmet cookbook seemed wildly urban and worldly. And then there was the pound cake. As I recall all of us kowtowed before Rodney’s baking achievement. Without yet tasting a crumb, we were seduced by its warm sultry perfume and craggy crunch crust that lifted away from the interior at various dramatic vistas. Rodney obviously pleased and playing up the attention for all its worth, cooed and fawned over the cake as much as the rest of us. Finally digging into a buttery yellow hunk, I had one of my big defining moments. I enjoyed pound cake, but all that I had previously encountered was commercially made and now dead to me. Upon partaking of that heavenly sweet-bread, my culinary standards and goals transcended to heights previously unknown.

My deep love of baking actually bloomed forth from the side of Rodney’s cake. Cookies and brownies seemed like no-brainers that I assumed could be easily mastered. A pie seemed hopelessly difficult. But the execution of a perfect homemade cake seemed difficult enough to be a skill worth honing, but not so formidable as to be absurd. Cake has gravitas; it is celebratory and can signify and magnify a party. Yet it is homey enough that it can comfort and mollify when needed. We were under cake seduction and I was powerless to step away from its spell. I knew henceforth that I would become a baker and for awhile I even dared to dream, a pastry chef. My usual curiosity turned on its edge becoming razor sharp attention. I was enraptured by definitive moist-itude, a moist crumb that commands respect and attention and contributes greatly to the overall balanced flavor. The contrast between the sugary crunch above and the dense velvety crumb within was complimented by a subtle combination of flavors. Rodney was onto me. He sensed the competitor within and suddenly his all-ease-to-answer became evasive and vague. With artless duplication at stake, he clung to his family recipe only parting with a few hints thrown my way. He led me on to believe that there was a trinity of extracts; vanilla, coconut and rum to commingle into one terrific taste. But without the actual map to this pleasure palace, I was on my own to find a worthy substitute.

For awhile I stumbled around in a land of castor sugar, pastry flour and butter, emboldened by my brief brush with greatness. With visions of grandeur I recklessly, naively attempted a complex Almond Génoise with Mocha Buttercream. I owned neither a mixer nor a whisk but instead was in possession of a trusty blender and fork. Somehow I had the belief that with enough will power and elbow grease I would be able to grind almonds into meal, aerate egg whites into meringue and manifest a billowy batter that would later become base for a feather light buttercream. The very same party of six from the dinner before would become unwitting witness to my cake-of-shame. Slavishly I brought forth two flattened discs slicked in a shabby coat of grey. This lump failed to elicit any festive feelings at all instead only receiving a hearty slap of ridicule. This temporary setback, this dose of dishonor helped steer me back on course and back to the basics.

Eventually I came to realize that I couldn’t expect to be a baker without the proper equipment and careful technique. Armed at last with a mixer, proper measuring cups and spoons and a copy of Rosie’s All Butter Fresh Cream Sugar Packed Baking Book, I set out to bake a dizzying number of cakes, pies, bars, tarts and fillings of all sorts. The recipes in my growing repertoire while fairly elementary still provided ample training in the art of baking and making. If I come to think of it now, it was this search to find the perfect pound cake, the miserable failure of the génoise, the determination to create wonderful baked goods, that launched me down the path of endless joy and sharing. Before the pound cake, I was an eater. I was an appreciator. I was an observer and a person who splashed about in the kitchen. But post pound cake I merged the sense and the passion, gained the skill and the confidence to turn out food which would nourish me and those that I love henceforth. As luck would have it, the good book also happened to have a pound cake recipe to rival the pound cake. It is now recognized as being my oldest recipe and probably the only one that I will ever scrupulously follow.

Cream Cheese Pound Cake from Rosie's All-Butter, Fresh Cream, Sugar Packed Baking Book

INGREDIENTS:
3 Cups cake flour
1 1/2 Cups unsalted butter at room temperature
1 8oz. package cream cheese at room temperature
3 Cups sugar
1 Tblsp vanilla
6 large eggs at room temperature

DIRECTIONS:
1. Preheat oven to 325. Lightly grease a 10 inch tube pan.
2. Sift the cake flour into a small bowl.
3. Cream the butter, cream cheese, sugar and vanilla with the mixer on medium-high speed for about 2 minutes until fluffy. Scrape the bowl with a rubber spatula.
4. Add the eggs one at a time and mix after each addition for about 10 seconds. Scrape the bowl each time. After the last egg mix 30 seconds more.
5. Add the flour and then mix on low for about 5 seconds. Scrape again and then blend another 10 seconds.
6. Pour the batter into the pan and bake the cake on the center oven rack until tester inserted in the center comes out dry, approximately 1 hour and 35 minutes.
7. Cool completely before unmolding and serving.

No Poblano...Mole please!

Sources of inspiration come in many shapes and sizes and from all directions. I try and stay awake to the fleeting moment when they pass through- and run, skip and tumble with each new trajectory I am steered in. This week’s creative prompting came in the form of pickled raisins and an invitation to take part in an al fresco summer celebration. Ivonne over at Cream Puffs in Venice and Lis at La Mia Cucina are hosting an event open to all food bloggers. The only rule of engagement is to post about a summer dish that showcases at least one fresh ingredient by September 5th. Now this is a kind of party that I can happily attend. After all, I am the sort of person that is most content when standing next to the buffet table deciding upon the best strategy for consuming the maximum amount of food with the most sustained enjoyment over time. It is a fine tuned equation which takes into account the ratio of the most appetizing dishes to that-which-is-available and the rather nebulous amount of filler that needs to be consumed before moving onto the most delicious (or anticipation turned to satisfaction ratio). If memory serves me correctly, the height of my party attending career was at sixteen when many friends were passing out invitations to their catered confirmation parties. Possessing minimal culinary standards and presented with a long table lined with chafing plates full of mediocre food was my adolescent idea of nirvana. Having finally graduated to a more worldly palate and now in the presence of a fine team of skilled food lovers, I’d say I am long overdo for a spread of summer delights. Although not typically a party attendee, I heartily count myself in.

Back to pickled raisins and a lingering theme of incongruity deluxe. This recipe jumped out at me some time ago whilst dreaming nostalgically about the California produce abundantly splashed upon the pages of Sunday Suppers at Lucques by Suzanne Goin. The short introduction to the unusual condiment described an obsessed man at the restaurant who would mill about the kitchen sticking this-n-that into vats of vinegar; even to my horror and delight, raisins. While once suspicious of raisins, I have grown to respect this past-due fruit. And do much better when thinking of this dried grape as some kind of essence of jam. My issues with this dehydrated fruit stem primarily from childhood unwanted boxes of wizened chewy bits in the bottom of my Halloween sack. Many times my heart would rise upon biting into a “chocolate chip” cookie only to plummet over unfortunate mistaken chip identity. In my little world, raisins equaled disappointment. Over the years, I have cross-trained these potent tidbits over to the savory department with great success. Now it has become one of my trademark tricks to add a bit of sweet complexity to dishes that need an extra boost of something. I don’t mind admitting that I am busy enfolding raisins, minced or whole into a plethora of things bubbling in my kitchen. Pickled raisins are to my way of thinking, distilled chutney free from distraction: sweet, fiery, bracing and brined. The dish that I am thinking about will be built around this assertive jumping point.

Enter in stage left, cool damp weather forecasting early fall. Without a hitch, I am passing over the bright sunny produce of summer, the bursting berries, the succulent melons, and the joyous rapture of romaine. Instead I’m eyeing the chile peppers, verdant ancient vegetable at the local grocery store. It seems obvious that earthy roasted chiles might be just the pairing alongside the sweet-sour condiment and just like that I have the cursory sketch for my dish. I have a taste for a little Scoville heat tossed in with the mosaic Southwest colors of flavor: chiles, pumpkin seeds, cilantro, corn, tomatoes and coriander. Considering what I would make if I had access to all things summer, I would draw to me a bouquet of Tang orange zucchini blossoms to fill with creamy goat cheese and ricotta. Without a petal in sight however, delicate flowers of the squash are swapped out for the emerald silk purses of Poblano and the fun begins.

Peter Piper picked a peck of pickled peppers;
A peck of pickled peppers Peter Piper picked;
If Peter Piper picked a peck of pickled peppers;
Where’s the peck of pickled peppers Peter Piper picked?

Peter Piper’s Stuffed Poblano Peppers with Pickled Raisin-Corn Salsa and Chile Mole Drizzle
This is essentially a kit of parts, each bit simple to execute. Much of the components can be done ahead in little pockets of time. I must confess that these amounts are approximations; I was eyeballing the amounts to taste. Also at the point the photo was taken, the salsa wasn’t made yet and the cocoa was never added to the drizzle. It sounds completely high falutin’ and pretentious I admit, but I couldn’t resist. It is not a crucial player for this dish, mainly eye candy. Speaking of which, if yours are especially keen you may notice that the coating on the chiles is intensely yellow and thick. I made a good guess to use cornmeal as a dry coat, but it was far too coarse and heavy. Good flavor but rather detracting from the overall composition.

Ingredients:
Stuffed Chiles
6 Poblano chiles, roasted, skinned and seeded
1 ½ C Ricotta cheese
8 oz Mild goat cheese
Good handful of roasted Pumpkin seeds, ground
Garlic Clove, chopped finely
3 Tblsp chopped Cilantro
Egg
Panko crumbs

Pickled Raisin-Corn Salsa
2 tsp Yellow mustard seeds
1 tsp Coriander seeds
½ C Sugar
3 Tblsp Apple cider vinegar
1 Chile de árbol, crumbled
1 Bay leaf
1/3 lb Golden raisins
1 tsp Thyme leaves
1 tsp Salt
2 C Corn kernels, cut from the cooked cob
¾ C Cherry tomatoes, halved
1 Shallot chopped finely
3 Tblsp chopped Cilantro

Chile Mole Drizzle
1 bag of Dried New Mexico Chiles (approx. 6)
1/2 tsp of Oregano
½ C Chicken stock
½ tsp Dagoba Xocolatl Unsweetened Cocoa
Salt
Lard

Directions: Roast your chiles over a low flame until blackened all over. Throw them into a paper bag and shut to allow the steam to facilitate peeling. When cool, remove slippery black skin, pull off stems and deseed trying hard not to split them. Put aside. For the pickled raisins, dry roast coriander seeds until fragrant. Lightly crush or grind your method of choice. Place into a non reactive pot with a cup of water. Dry roast the mustard seeds until they just begin to pop. Put them into the water along with the sugar, vinegar, chile, bay leaf, raisins, thyme and salt and bring to a boil. Once the mixture comes up to a boil, lower heat and simmer for about 7 minutes. Liquid will reduce to about half. Cool and put aside. To finish the salsa, in a medium bowl, mix corn, tomatoes, shallots, cilantro and about 2 heaping spoonfuls of the pickled raisins. Toss with about 1 tablespoon of the reserved pickled raisin juice, a splash of cider vinegar and a healthy drizzle of grape seed oil. Salt and pepper to taste and put salsa aside. Meanwhile place the dried chiles in a bowl. Cover with boiling water and allow them to soften, at least half an hour. Stem and deseed them and throw into a blender with some of the remaining water, oregano and salt. Keep blending adding the chicken stock and/or more water until you get a thin sauce. Blend in the cocoa, add more or less to taste. At this point, you can strain the entire mixture to catch all the slivers of chile skin and make a more refined sauce. Heat up a little lard into a large shallow pan on medium high flame, and pour the drizzle in to reduce and bring the flavors together. Pour the sauce into a bowl, cool and put aside. At this point, you are ready to make the stuffing. It is as simple as mixing the ricotta, goat cheese, ground pumpkin seeds, garlic, cilantro and salt to taste. I did add a bit of grated lemon zest as well, but was not so overwhelmingly impressed with it. Spoon a few spoonfuls of the cheese mixture into each Poblano, then lightly dredge each in flour, then dip into a lightly beaten egg, then roll onto a plate of Panko crumbs. Take a well seasoned shallow pan and heat up to medium high. Pour in some oil or lard if you happen to have it and then carefully place each chile inside. Fry until golden and then turn over to brown the other side. To present, splash the plate with the mole drizzle, place one stuffed chile on its best side and accompany with the salsa.