My neighbor's dad knows many good streams here along the continental divide. He catches trout. When their freezer is about overflowing, we get a call. With her birthday coming up, my wife informed me: “I need 12 smoked trout.” The next day, a slightly used smoker arrived on our porch. Mary paid $40 for it. When we cook outside, we use hardwood-block charcoal, but this called for something special. I went to Lowes to pick up hickory and cherry wood chips.
Mary rubbed the thawed fish with Redmond salt, local Front Range honey, and organic cayenne powder. I soaked the wood chips in water. When the oak charcoal was glowing, I spread it in the bottom pan of the smoker, then covered with soaked chips, and laid in the lower grill. We stacked three trout across, fins touching, and three on top of them crosswise. Most people de-fin before smoking, but whole fish look better on the table with heads and fins. Then a pan of water, into which we had scraped the remaining salt rub. Then the top rack and the remaining fish. As I put the cover on, I thought I must've put out the fire with the soaked chips -- and that spill from tipping the water pan into place.
But I waited, and minutes later plumes of fragrant white smoke curled from the top vent. A light rain started. We waited impatiently for the temperature gauge to budge, but it would not. She wanted to open it up, to see if the fish were OK. I said no. All those fish had to warm up before the lid-mounted gauge could render an opinion. We left to run errands.
Four hours later, the bottom three fish were slightly charred but looked and smelled delicious. The rest were plump and perfect. We wrapped them two at a time in parchment paper and stashed them back in the freezer in two large freezer bags.
On Friday, I spent the morning vacuuming floors and scrubbing toilets. Then I left to do the farm rounds. I packed some veggie boxes for CSA customers in Denver and Boulder. I had failed to place an order with Kilt Farm last week, but called Michael as I neared the farm. I mentioned that Mary was asking for bulbs of fennel with fronds. Minutes later, he appeared on a tractor, dismounted, and rustled up a few boxes of broccoli and cauliflower for me from his walk-ins -- and a box of fennel. This I ran home, before continuing on to Red Wagon Farm in Lafayette for winter squash, and then to our own farm, loading in the last bounty before this week’s frost: lettuce, arugula, peppers, tomatoes, eggplant, and carrots.
At the warehouse, we pack every Friday night for 3 markets on Saturday: Denver, Boulder, and now Fort Collins. It was almost 10pm when I got home, lugging a box of near-spoiled veggies, not fit for market. The street was full of cars and two women were leaving the house, brimming with joy. “The trout was amazing,” they offered. “And the plates and tables… so beautiful!” The house was full of be-decked and be-jeweled women. It was a dinner party and the Women’s Lodge was in effect. No men allowed. But they were welcoming to me, arriving as I did -- after the wine and deserts.
Mary brought me heaps of fish, crudité avec chèvre, and absolutely divine baked delicata squash stuffed with finely diced mushroom and fennel. The women watched with hilarity as I swallowed several plates of food. The trout was amazing.
