Braised Pork with Capers and Dijon-Style Mustard

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As I walked up Fillmore Street with Elinor nestled on my chest this afternoon, the wind curled up in my umbrella, turning it inside out.  Elinor looked up, squinted, and furrowed her delicate blonde brows.  The sky wet cement, the air expectant of a storm to come pressed me to quicken my step. We arrived home just as the rain began to tap on the windows.  I closed them, closing us in for the night ahead.  Though cherry blossoms and tulips tell me it is spring, this rogue storm rolled me straight back to January 4, more or less.  No, not the tender juiciness of the first month post-partum.  Winter, that is.  Winter means braises with wooly red wine to keep me belly-warm.  This winter’s braises, however, meant hearty stews to fuel my burgeoning breasts, stews that would allow me to get up only once during the night to sate my raging hunger.  Today I wanted something different than the standard, reliably fulfilling beef braises to which I typically turn.  Pork, I thought.  Lighter.  More sweet than minerally.  A perfect complement to the sugary white-blossomed trees that line Elinor and my cool morning walks these days.

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Braised Pork with Caper and Dijon-Style Mustard
Adapted from A Pig in Provence, Georgeanne Brennan

3 pounds of a rugged cut of pasture-raised pork, such as a shoulder or cheek (I bought mine at Bi-Rite Market)
2.25 teaspoons unrefined sea salt
1 or 2 tablespoons of lard from pasture-raised pork (available at Prather Ranch Meat Co.)
Medium onion, diced
2 medium leeks, diced
2 medium carrots, chopped in a few pieces each*
2 sprigs of fresh rosemary, minced and divided
2 tablespoons capers
1 heaping tablespoon of Dijon mustard
A glass of red wine

Serves 4 to 6.

* Signifies a lactogenic (breastmilk-supply enhancing) food

P R E P . Up to several days in advance, cube pork into consistent generous pieces, perhaps two-by-two inches, and press salt into it.  (For an excellent discussion of the merits of early salting, see The Zuni Café Cookbook, page 35.)  Dice the onion and leeks (first cut leeks lengthwise in half and rinse each layer thoroughly to remove dirt).  Chop the carrots.  Mince the rosemary; divide in half.  Soak the capers in water; change the water as you come in and out of the kitchen over the next few hours.  Make sure you have Dijon-style mustard and a glass of red wine (I used a Rhone opened the night before).

C O O K. Brown, sauté, and deglaze. Preheat the oven to 325F.  Heat the widest heavy-bottomed pan you own to medium-high.  Brown the pork for flavor (babywearers, you must put your little one down for this).  Do this by patting dry each piece of pork because wet meat won’t brown.  Add enough lard to just cover the bottom of the pan.  (Yes, lard.  It is like eggs—oops, they’re actually good for us.  Use pure lard rendered from pasture-raised pork.)  Once the lard has melted, place each piece of pork in the pan—kindly resist the urge nudge the pieces once laid down—and brown each side of the meat.  Leave plenty of space between pieces, or they will steam, not brown. Once you have finished browning, remove any charred portions and set aside the browned meat.  Next, cook the onions, leeks, and carrots until the onions and leeks just start to brown.  Add half of the rosemary, and cook until fragrant.  Pour in about 1/3 of a cup of the wine and scrape the bottom of the pan to lift any bits of goodness clinging to the bottom.

Put the braise in the oven. Combine the pork and vegetables in a pan that fits the meat and vegetables snugly, not leaving too much space, but also not crowding. Try a braising pan, Dutch oven, or large skillet with a lid.  The lid is key, though foil will work in a pinch.  Cover the pan opening completely with parchment paper, and drape the paper inside the pot so it just touches with the food. Put the lid on, and place in the oven.  Cook until the pork comes falls apart with no resistance when pressed with a spoon.  This took me about three hours.

Check in. After about one and two hours, check to make sure that the braise is cooking at no more than a simmer (if more, turn down the oven temperature by 25F and vice versa), and recover.  Also ensure that there is enough liquid so that there is no risk that the bottom of the pan with burn.  My pork rendered plenty of liquid, which rose about half way up the mass of pork and vegetables.

Finish. Remove the braise from the oven.  Drain the capers and stir them in with a heaping tablespoon of Dijon-style mustard or  more, to taste.  Note: Because the shoulder I used was rather fatty, next time I might pour the liquid into a small saucepan over medium heat, remove some of the fat, stir the capers and Dijon-style mustard into the remaining sauce, and pour back over the braise.

Remove the carrots just before serving, as they’ve surrendered their flavor to the braise.  That said, I ate them.  Their soft, savory goodness was a treat.

E A T  A N D  D R I N K . We ate the braise with a simple salad of raw dandelion greens, whose bitterness is a foil to the pork, and rustic whole-wheat bread for sopping up the juices.  Because of the dish’s richness, look for a demur red wine, something light- or medium-bodied.  Good acidity to stimulate the saliva and recharge the mouth before each sumptuous bite is key.  Seek wine that reminiscent of fruit not yet ripe, like a slightly green raspberry.

R E F I G U R E . This is an excellent meal to rework for the rest of the week.

• Shred the pork and gently reheat heat with some water or broth; reduce; top polenta with the resulting sugo.
• Make a rustic soup of the pork, cannellini or borlotti beans, and chard.
• For brunch, roast some cubed root vegetables and apples, top with the shredded pork, two poached eggs, and a dollop of Dijon-style-spiked crème fraîche.

L I T T L E  E A T S . Since Elinor is not eating solid foods yet, I have no direct evidence that these ideas would satisfy little mouths.  Even so, the carrots are tender and easily mashable.  I imagine you could mince or blend the super soft pork with some of the braising liquid or some stock.

Text and photo © Blue Egg Kitchen 2010

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