Are you obsessed with Cilantro like I am? Are you tired of your cilantro going bad before you've used it all? Just by changing the way you store your cilantro you can drastically extend its life!

I love cilantro and it's bright, fresh flavor and honestly at this point I feel like I have substituted cilantro for lettuce in my diet! I really love using it in my cooking and after being frustrated about its short shelf life my girlfriend, Elizabeth, and I decided there must be a better way to store it. After some trial and error we started storing our cilantro in a jar with water. After that first bunch we knew we wouldn't be storing it any other way!

Some love it and some hate it, but let's take a look and see how we can extend the life of our Cilantro!

Step 1: First get rid of that produce bag you're storing your cilantro in! It's only trapping moisture and accelerating the molding process.

Now preparing this appetizer isn't difficult, but it does take a little bit of time and having the right utensils will take you a long way. You can find pig ears for sale in some local grocery stores, but I would recommend trying to find a butcher to source them from so you know they are as fresh as possible. Just like anything else you cook with! Also, make sure to season the water you stew the pig ears in with aromatics and don't be afraid to save that gelatinous leftover water for stock!

• INGREDIENTS -
• 2 pig's ears
• 1 onion, peeled and washed
• 2 carrots, chopped coarse
• 3 stems of celery, two chopped, one sliced on the bias for garnish
 • 1 cup dry white wine or vermouth
• A bouquet garni (thyme, parsley, marjoram, etc)
• Salt to taste, about 1 teaspoon
• 1/4 cup Flour
• Blue Cheese / Ranch
• Franks Red Hot Sauce

7. ENJOY!!!

Don't be afraid to find new uses for pig ears either! Toss the crispy bits in a pasta or garnish a salad with them! The possibilities are endless. Just make sure you share the results with me so I know I'm not missing out on anything! Keep in touch and tag me if you try these on your own!

Cheers,
Andrew

P.s. - Here are a few links that can help you with this recipe and round out your kitchen!

 

Skillet Style -


It’s a warm, sticky November afternoon in New Orleans, the type of muggy that makes you wonder if the locals who say it really does cool off here come fall have had one too many French 75s. At the entrance to St. Roch Cemetery, one of the city’s most cherished burial sites, Nathaniel Rateliff walks toward the chapel, trailed by Jules, his effervescent wife of seven years. St. Roch is said to have effected miraculous cures, and if there were one for a hangover, Rateliff would probably take it.

The night before, he and his band, the Night Sweats, took over the venerable club Tipitina’s, whipping the crowd into an ecstatic froth with their brand of primal, wall-shaking soul. Now he’s got a few hours to kill before filming a commercial for Apple Music. Barrel-chested and dressed in head-to-toe denim, shades of blue fading into black, he stops in front of a section of graves where tombs are stacked on top of each other, rather than given their own spot. “Are those the cheap ones?” he asks with a gravelly laugh, scorched by the previous night’s vessel-popping vocals and postshow whiskey. “We’ve had so many deaths in my family, at this point my mom just wants to be burned up when she goes.”

Rateliff, who is thirty-seven, grew up in a deeply religious household in Hermann, Missouri, but has struggled with his faith through the years. Inside the cemetery’s chapel is a side room filled with discarded prostheses and crutches, tokens of gratitude left by the devout. Rateliff looks inside, then shudders. “I don’t always take care of myself like I should,” he says. “But that’s”—he points to a plaster foot—“really weird.”

It’s a warm, sticky November afternoon in New Orleans, the type of muggy that makes you wonder if the locals who say it really does cool off here come fall have had one too many French 75s. At the entrance to St. Roch Cemetery, one of the city’s most cherished burial sites, Nathaniel Rateliff walks toward the chapel, trailed by Jules, his effervescent wife of seven years. St. Roch is said to have effected miraculous cures, and if there were one for a hangover, Rateliff would probably take it.

The night before, he and his band, the Night Sweats, took over the venerable club Tipitina’s, whipping the crowd into an ecstatic froth with their brand of primal, wall-shaking soul. Now he’s got a few hours to kill before filming a commercial for Apple Music. Barrel-chested and dressed in head-to-toe denim, shades of blue fading into black, he stops in front of a section of graves where tombs are stacked on top of each other, rather than given their own spot. “Are those the cheap ones?” he asks with a gravelly laugh, scorched by the previous night’s vessel-popping vocals and postshow whiskey. “We’ve had so many deaths in my family, at this point my mom just wants to be burned up when she goes.”

Rateliff, who is thirty-seven, grew up in a deeply religious household in Hermann, Missouri, but has struggled with his faith through the years. Inside the cemetery’s chapel is a side room filled with discarded prostheses and crutches, tokens of gratitude left by the devout. Rateliff looks inside, then shudders. “I don’t always take care of myself like I should,” he says. “But that’s”—he points to a plaster foot—“really weird.”

It’s a warm, sticky November afternoon in New Orleans, the type of muggy that makes you wonder if the locals who say it really does cool off here come fall have had one too many French 75s. At the entrance to St. Roch Cemetery, one of the city’s most cherished burial sites, Nathaniel Rateliff walks toward the chapel, trailed by Jules, his effervescent wife of seven years. St. Roch is said to have effected miraculous cures, and if there were one for a hangover, Rateliff would probably take it.

The night before, he and his band, the Night Sweats, took over the venerable club Tipitina’s, whipping the crowd into an ecstatic froth with their brand of primal, wall-shaking soul. Now he’s got a few hours to kill before filming a commercial for Apple Music. Barrel-chested and dressed in head-to-toe denim, shades of blue fading into black, he stops in front of a section of graves where tombs are stacked on top of each other, rather than given their own spot. “Are those the cheap ones?” he asks with a gravelly laugh, scorched by the previous night’s vessel-popping vocals and postshow whiskey. “We’ve had so many deaths in my family, at this point my mom just wants to be burned up when she goes.”

Rateliff, who is thirty-seven, grew up in a deeply religious household in Hermann, Missouri, but has struggled with his faith through the years. Inside the cemetery’s chapel is a side room filled with discarded prostheses and crutches, tokens of gratitude left by the devout. Rateliff looks inside, then shudders. “I don’t always take care of myself like I should,” he says. “But that’s”—he points to a plaster foot—“really weird.”

Bedroom Style



It’s a warm, sticky November afternoon in New Orleans, the type of muggy that makes you wonder if the locals who say it really does cool off here come fall have had one too many French 75s. At the entrance to St. Roch Cemetery, one of the city’s most cherished burial sites, Nathaniel Rateliff walks toward the chapel, trailed by Jules, his effervescent wife of seven years. St. Roch is said to have effected miraculous cures, and if there were one for a hangover, Rateliff would probably take it.

The night before, he and his band, the Night Sweats, took over the venerable club Tipitina’s, whipping the crowd into an ecstatic froth with their brand of primal, wall-shaking soul. Now he’s got a few hours to kill before filming a commercial for Apple Music. Barrel-chested and dressed in head-to-toe denim, shades of blue fading into black, he stops in front of a section of graves where tombs are stacked on top of each other, rather than given their own spot. “Are those the cheap ones?” he asks with a gravelly laugh, scorched by the previous night’s vessel-popping vocals and postshow whiskey. “We’ve had so many deaths in my family, at this point my mom just wants to be burned up when she goes.”

Rateliff, who is thirty-seven, grew up in a deeply religious household in Hermann, Missouri, but has struggled with his faith through the years. Inside the cemetery’s chapel is a side room filled with discarded prostheses and crutches, tokens of gratitude left by the devout. Rateliff looks inside, then shudders. “I don’t always take care of myself like I should,” he says. “But that’s”—he points to a plaster foot—“really weird.”