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I really don’t know how it got to be the end of January, or the beginning of February already, and I am only posting this now.

This is a collection of old and lingering thoughts that are probably best expunged from my laptop (or the front of my consciousness). They fit better here, as something archived, done. I learn a lot, typically, from old notes and incomplete thoughts that trigger reminiscence but I need them to move aside for awhile. New years are, after all, about looking forward, right? I will surely, someday, be “that person” on the block who forgets to take her twinkling, multi-colored Christmas lights down, or who waits to pull the fully trimmed and decorated tree to the curb, until the end of January. Yup.

Dan's labor intensive eggnog was no joke: worth the dozen plus eggs that made it beautiful and delicious!

A holiday visit back to New York involved wonderful food and drink frenzies, snow, and shared times, conversation, with some of the best people all the world over. I left bloated and hungover with cheer, grateful for the community and place I love and know well. In many ways, though, I was ready and excited to continue on my journey and exploration for a new place, projects, ideas and ways to communicate and share them.

Air travel can feel crazy. Here's a glimpse from the Newark Airport window.

I ate a bosc pear, crunchy and sweet, grown at Maynard Farms and purchased at the Troy Farmer’s Market, as I waited at Gate A18 in the center of Newark Liberty International Airport. The flight back to Seattle from New York is as long as the one to Nuuk, the capital of Greenland. I am traveling a world away despite the sea of words, accompanied by smells, that are embedded in our consciousness, working hard to persuade us across this country, and the world, to buy: McDonalds, Starbucks, TGIFridays, etc.. Does one look odd when not eating something wrapped in plastic, paper, from one of these multi-national institutions, at the airport? A Hudson Valley-grown pear becomes subversive, I thought.

The smells of chain-grown foods and beverages is embedded in the pleather seats and the paint chips on the walls. They permeate surfaces that seem impermeable: holding on to them with a vengeance that is consumer driven thanks to advertising dollars, mimicking the old question, “What comes first, the chicken or the egg?” (In this case, the consumer or the corporation?)

I wanted chickens and eggs in my backyard again.

So I came back to GreenMan Farm, on Vashon Island, and plan to stay here a little longer before going north to help dig up hops rhizomes, weed, add compost to soil, and work on trellising and mulching projects at Crannog Ales and Farm in mid-March. I am happy with my routine here, investing in new and dear friendships that are sure to be lasting, and uncovering more about, and connecting with, the underground Island food community (another post – an exciting one! – coming soon). Plus, the dormant lull of January can be comforting. I have a sweet place to live, a woodshed and studio turned home and cabin, that carries many connections with it. Like any good place to dwell, it offers shelter and repose (most of the time), and feels alive when I’m there.

My house was built by someone who has become my closest friend. Ours is a sweet story, one in process, to be told another time. The image credits belong to him, T.R.

Life moves and takes home with it. Examining honey bee hives after colonies leave profoundly resonates this: the wax, once supple and alive with activity, dries out, cracks, and dies when abandoned. When the form’s purpose changes this is reflected in all that it is.

Because home really is where the heart is, this photo, my parents' refrigerator memories, reminds me of that.

A wasp nest is usually constructed from chewed bark and dried timber mixed with saliva, appearing paper like and fragile, but serving as a safe and sturdy home for the colony for a year. Once a nest dies in the autumn the queen never uses it again the following year. She will always start a fresh nest the following season.

Scavenged Cabbage

The winter smells at GreenMan Farm remind me, like a punch in the stomach, that I am nowhere close to home.

Winter in Upstate New York lets things die and freeze and, if we’re lucky, all gets covered over with a blanket of quiet snow. The slate is cleared and there’s a solace in knowing that Spring, newness, celebration, all of it, is still a few months away. New York is a cold place, some would even say occupied by cold people (until you peel a few layers back, of course). The Pacific Northwest winter is throwing me for a loop. It turns things different colors, changes the shape of what’s here while letting it linger, soaking and submerged in days and days of water. Brassica rot is particularly grotesque: enough to make your eyes swell, stomach churn, and whole body need to avert from the melting, orange-pink moldy stalks that fall on top of themselves. It comes close to being too much to bear at times. The constant off-gassing is akin to one remembered from my youth: memories from evening antics of chasing, running, hiding, jumping on beds, with siblings and cousins, bellies full and struggling to digest golumpkis, or something else made from sausage, and failing at that struggle.

It has been nearly impossible to avoid the Cabbage Scene. The farm is small and we tend, this time of year, to all walk the same stretch of passageway between Hazel’s yard, the chicken coop, and the greenhouse. Winter on the farm can be as much about routine as an academic schedule, a data entry, 40 hour a week job, or anything else. I was, naively, surprised by this: thankful that cold weather had us all slowing down but sad that the opportunity for discovery, mischief, even creativity, felt stunted. Yesterday or so, Will the farmer proposed that that day, Tuesday the 19^th of January, was indeed the day to clear out the rotting brassicas and let the beds rest, anticipating a fresh start in the official springtime. Just like the idea of a New Year: clean up, move on, plan and prepare. It was gray outside but not raining, so that is what we did. I was ready.

peeled back a few layers of outside leaves and the cabbage looked great inside

To clear out a garden bed this time of year is to scavenge, hungry for what may remain under the decaying aftermath because that’s all, really all, that is possibly left until the next growing season. What is there may still be good despite what’s on the outside. Somewhat reminiscent of dumpster diving days when, as teenagers, we would pull day-old donuts from plastic garbage bags tossed into the big metal holding containers, behind the Dunkin Donuts in Troy, NY, in the middle of the night. There was camaraderie and joy in the act of salvaging, of sharing our finds, eating together (however poor the quality of donuts are for one’s health, it was a treat that we otherwise wouldn’t likely indulge in). Food Not Bombs has developed a beautiful model of what can be done from otherwise (mostly) discarded food in the US. And here, at this small organic farm in the middle of winter, the goal is to glean every last calorie of truly good nutrition from the land, in the middle of the day, together and shamelessly, of course, and because it needs to be done. Gleaning helps to put off the grocer’s bill for as long as I can but mostly I value the fact that, however bad seeming and smelly this cabbage may appear to be at first, there’s not a good reason to let it go to waste. Of course, if there was more of it, making kraut would be ideal.. but just cleaning it off, cooking it, eating it, sharing it, is an act of joyful resistance and independence. Whatever we can grow, either for market, to share with neighbors, the Food Bank, for our friends, families, ourselves, we should! To make a living farming feels like a scramble and, sometimes, like a losing battle. But to lose control of one’s collective, independent and safe food supply has impacts devastating for all aspects of every economy and culture: Haiti’s rice supply crash in 1980, mainly thanks to the World Bank and 3^rd World debt policies, seems particularly timely to (re)discover.

Once I sorted through my rotting cabbage, which turned out to be quite beautiful underneath a few flawed outer layers, I added shallots, leftover ‘seed’ from our fall planting, and kale, which is still growing in the ground, a little soy sauce and a ketchup packet plus a fried egg (over medium) and some leftover rice for a pretty beautiful stir-fry. A satisfying lunch in the middle of our hard day of work. I will do my best to always laud the power of winter vegetables, even the slimy-seeming ones.

This snapshot was taken at a café in San Cristobal, Chiapas, in March 2008. I saw, firsthand, some of the effects of NAFTA imposed agricultural policies in Mexico: what opening the market to tariff-less, US subsidized GMO corn had on traditional, organic, native and smaller Mexican family farms. Fires, clear cutting forests, burned alongside Dekalb and Monsanto billboards that promised a profitable life to anyone willing to plant these new seeds and maintain them with new pesticides.

Vashon Maury Community Food Bank

It says a lot about a town when you are encouraged by multiple residents to approach their food bank. With the word “community” embedded in the center of the food bank’s name, I was curious and in need enough to explore.

It’s the middle of winter and food production on the farm has really slowed down (I am harvesting chard and kale here and there but spending a lot of time picking through what is edible, finding most of it not) and what’s in storage is limited as the potato and winter squash supply lowers. Hazel, the cow, needed a break from major milk production for five days or so, so milk, cheese, and yogurt have been unavailable for the better part of the first week that I’ve been back on the island. {The chickens love drinking her milk for the time being and egg production, for this time of year, is unusually high: little loss in the big picture in exchange for her much needed rest period} Although I am working, for cash, on a few things this has been limited and things are tight. They are tight for many people and everywhere, as far as I can tell. They are not desperate entirely for me but tight, slow, and threatening only if they continue this way. Maybe they will, which would find me writing an entirely different sort of blog, but I don’t believe that sustained decline is where I’m headed just yet. That said, I do feel wise enough to know that if there is a service, like the food bank, available in one’s community one should feel secure enough to receive help during tough times. Then, at another time, it seems likely and hopeful that one could willingly and generously give back, remembering how valuable the service was for them at one point.

This exchange, this give and take, can beautifully strengthen the character of communities. It acknowledges and accepts diversity and honors the path that one is on, whether that path is the result of a choice, a circumstance, or bad luck. Despite my sincere belief in this philosophy it was, still, a cultural struggle for me to come to terms with going to the food bank. While I certainly fall within the federal guidelines of being “in need” I am also able-bodied, well-educated, and unemployed because I quit my full-time, decent-paying job six months ago. When reflecting on this, long and hard, I realized that I wake up every morning really happy, work hard on the farm, feel supported (by many of you reading this, in fact) and happy to offer support when possible, dream and plan and challenge myself and my place in the world, and I learn about new things. I am certain that this experience has some benefit on my immediate community, the larger community and world around me. I can’t sustain this practice forever, nor do I want to, but it is where I’m at.

At the Vashon Maury Community Food Bank I was greeted warmly at the door by one of the most lovely women I’ve met in a long time, her cheer and encouragement making me feel okay about filling out some basic paperwork. The ’shopping’ experience was straight forward, fun even, and, ultimately, I was sent home with two full bags of groceries. Not nasty, rotting, or exclusively government issued “food” items of the sort I remember coming from such places at friends’ house of my youth (powdered milk, orange cheese, unmarked and badly dented cans of food of the creamy or syrupy sort, hunks of hard-to-identify meat, etc.). These items, or an updated version of them, did seem to be available but there was also a lot of packaged, organic grocery items that were still well within their expiration date, maybe with slightly damaged exteriors but perfectly safe and healthy to eat. And day-old but otherwise beautiful breads, pasta, whole grains – I grabbed a bag of amaranth – and dried beans, all for the taking. There was a good amount of fresh, organic produce available, plus as many condoms as one wanted to take. For the most part, there were quantity limits on everything else that was available.

Tropical Paradise Bars are made from: Sugar, Butter, Water, Wheat Flour, Eggs, Coconut, Natural Sour Cream (Nonfat Milk, Cream, Corn Starch, Whey Protein Concentrate, Guar Gum, Carrageenan, Carob Bean Gum), Corn Syrup, Passionfruit Juice Concentrate, Coconut and Sodium Metabisulfate (Contains Sulfites), Egg Whites. Pectin, Cornstarch, Soybean Oil, Soy Lecithin, Vanilla Extract, Turmeric. Whew.

My food choices are pretty strict most of the time. Without health insurance I make a conscious effort to eat well with hopes of avoiding illness or any other preventable health malady. I give preference to whole, organic foods and avoid anything overly processed, genetically engineered, containing hydrogenated oils, and otherwise pesticide-laden food whenever possible. My splurge on this shopping trip (they make it too easy and tempting!) was a package, manufactured exclusively for Starbucks, of Tropical Paradise Bars: a bright yellow layer of sweet, gelatinous beauty on a buttery crust with shredded coconut pieces on top. To read the ingredients list makes this look a lot worse than it did at first. Like most artificial things, food or otherwise, the bars don’t taste nearly as delicious as something real, rich with time and made with love.  Always a good lesson to remember – at the grocery store, food bank, on the sidewalk, with your friends, wherever, everywhere.

Dark Days, Paper Whites

The sun sets in just the amount of time, past 4 pm, that it takes me to make a cup of tea. I know this because I slide into my cabin at 4, thinking of going outside again with tea in hand, then find that it’s dark, darkening, rapidly.. It’s not such a bad thing but it certainly slows me down, finds me sleepy and rethinking any ambitious plans. Until the winter solstice happens seconds of light will be shaved off each day until, at our darkest, when there’s a 7:55 a.m. sunrise and 4:20 p.m. sunset, the system, like clockwork, will begin to gradually reverse, toward light, longer, once again.

Paper whites, or narcissus tazetta, are hardy bulbs that are super easy to grow. Put them in water, over stones or beach glass, until they shoot roots. Move them to a sunny window - preferably one that's not too warm - just until the green stalk shoots up. Don't get the bulb too wet or it will rot.

Laying hens’ egg production drops to its lowest this time of year (the flock of 70 or so chickens at GreenMan Farm are laying around 21 eggs a day, possibly because their diet is supplemented with good, raw, milk? Most flocks of this size, this time of year, lay 3-5 eggs, max). Like magic or, rather, like Nature, once the solstice arrives their production spikes with the consistent increase of daylight. My body, more connected than I realize or am possibly ready to admit, feels this in a new, unfamiliar way. It is marvelous, indulgent, and indisputable. I cannot fight with whatever’s pulling me inside: for warmth, to take cover, to live out of sight, read, dream, and sleep.

At the start of this new pattern I felt guilty, preoccupied with thoughts of what I could do or accomplish if I just had more energy, more daylight to see by. It’s a revelatory notion to really live with the seasons, to let go and acknowledge that these are unique days and special times. The land

they grow really quickly and too much sun will make them leggy.. a little sunlight is okay, especially at the start

I work on and the sky I work under dictate my schedule rather than an alarm clock, a time clock, or deadlines. Of course, it’s hard to turn off responsibilities that are embedded in the way I’ve lived my life up til now, or to quiet inspiration that wants badly to drive some parts of me. But when I’m able submit to this I am also immobilizing fear and terror, and their paralyzing, choking ways. With a good freeze Winter knows exactly when, and how, to quell the ruckus so that we can start again, refreshed and rested.

after 10 days...

So I will take sleep, simple, slow, and plentiful, over these other modalities. For now.

I’m readying myself to fly back to New York, to celebrate Christmas with my family in Cropseyville and to visit with friends, regroup for a while. While I’ve successfully down sized many things in my life (and will do so further when I’m confronted by a wall of boxes in my parent’s garage this visit home), there are a few important pieces of paper that have stayed close to me, secure in the glove box of the car for easy access when I need them. Paper with words have helped me in ways I couldn’t have imagined.

From an excerpt of a letter from Alan McClintock, describing his experience hitch hiking across the States in the 1970’s:

“East of Skaneateles, New York, I got a ride from a weathered dairy farmer taking a holsten calf to auction. He drove a faded and worn old Dodge, its cab rear window broken out and the calf licked our necks as we rumbled along. The farmer, whose name I’ve forgotten, asked where I was headed. I replied that I was traveling west to sit by the Pacific. We spent almost an hour together and he shared that he hadn’t made time to travel since his children left home and he gave up a job (he called his “hard-time job”) selling milking machinery during some previous winter of economic hardship. Laughing, he said he now stayed home with his wife and cows.

When I asked what he missed most, he said Sunday dinners with the family and his children who had scattered like seeds on a late summer breeze and stories they would share about their week’s adventures.

Our ride together ended at some crossroads running into the four directions. Before departing, he asked that when I returned East would I make my way to his farm and share my adventure with him and his wife. One of my regrets is that I never stopped to tell my pilgrim’s tale.

Remember you are loved and that your family and friends travel with you. We await your return and the telling of your story.”

At home I will share my story and hug the people I’ve known for years, decades, a lifetime – a feeling so impossible to describe or fake or replicate – and be drunk on the love and familiarity and the smells and the memories, the sweetness and laughter and fun and new adventures (hopefully involving snow). Though the time there always goes by so fast, like time everywhere does, really, it will sustain me for what is still a long winter ahead.

I let my paper whites get a little too long for the containers they're in. To prevent this add a capful of rubbing alcohol to their water: it stunts their growth, making them more manageable or at less of a risk of flopping over.

the farmstand and my cabin - glowing - at GreenMan Farm

Pesto In December

YES – PESTO – DECEMBER – SEATTLE AREA!

This was really headline news for me. I am new here.

Obviously, the Pacific Northwest experiences a milder version of weather throes compared to what’s stirring in the Northeastern parts of the US this time of year. To clarify, and check myself: while we’re certainly not relaxing in Mediterranean sunshine with intermittent cool breezes the rains have held out for a week or so allowing me to explore the earth and what’s still growing with more detail and vigor than I have been motivated to during recent wet, wet days. Of course, there aren’t bushy basil plants in sight, their oily leaves begging to meet olive oil, garlic and Grana Padano to form one of summertime’s most cherished delights. But I am learning how to use what is here and there is a depth to that. It blows me away at times. And I am asking many questions along the way.

the rooster and chickens enjoy lamium, or spotted dead nettle, another plentiful weed growing throughout vegetable beds.

Chickweed is plentiful in the beds that have been cleared out, fully or mostly harvested, and are on their way to really resting for the winter season here on GreenMan Farm. These shallow rooted weeds hold the topsoil together, grow without maintenance and can even take over spaces. They are bright and glowing green, even now. As its name implies, this is a weed and chickens do, indeed, love eating it. It can live on or through the winter here although I imagine its leaves are bigger and more robust in the spring. Small white flowers that are nascent buds right now peak out in spring and summertime.

At a potluck dinner a week or so ago I learned that this stuff makes a decent pesto. Chandler, an impressive and dedicated farmer, and cook, who is co-operating Island Meadow Farm let me in on this. After a little internet research, I found that chickweed is full of Vitamin C, Calcium, Iron, and other trace minerals, too. I was skeptical about it tasting any good (Chandler warned that it is “weedy,” a good base for pesto complimented by nasturtium, known for its peppery undertones, or basil, of course). Without access to these other herbs I decided I would go out on a limb and harvest a bunch of chickweed, turn it into pesto without anxiety about disaster, and feed it to Sarah, Dan and Hank as a test. I was intent on not being too picky about separating the leaves from the stems and had the advantage of combining it with lots of other high quality ingredients (thanks, again, to Sar and Dan). Here’s the recipe I used. It is worth replicating!

A great feature about this pesto is that its edges don't turn brown in the same way basil pesto does. It is bright green - even after days!

Combine in a blender, or food processor, or with a mortar and pestle:

. Four packed cups of chickweed: leaves and stem, washed and patted dry

.  lots of garlic (at least four large cloves)

. 1 cup of good parmesan cheese, grated

. ¾ cup of olive oil – added slowly while combining

. 6 or so Tablespoons of pignoli, walnuts, or sunflower seeds

. ½ tsp. salt

dinner is served: sweet potato fries, roasted delicata squash, and rice with chickweed pesto

He likes it! Sarah does, too.

Dan is honest: about many things but my cooking, especially, at all the right times. I love him for that. So the chickweed pesto was a winning recipe in his opinion. I'm beginning to wonder if one can go wrong with loads of garlic in anything?

Someone asked Gunther why the celery was planted alongside the celeriac. He replied that it's a good exercise for one's eyes to make the distinction. Distinguishing and harvesting some weeds from others reminds our eyes, and minds, of this lesson on discrepancy, too.

From Here: Thanks+Giving

“I haven’t a clue how my story will end, but that’s all right. When you set out on a journey and night covers the road, that’s when you discover the stars.” ~Nancy Willard

Until about five days before Thanksgiving I was not clear about how, or with whom, I would share this holiday, meal, or other form of gathering that I hoped would take place. In years past plans were always a given, smack in front of me, from days leading up to, then following, the holiday, time filled with duties, shopping, sourcing, cooking lists, and fun. I knew what I’d bring to the table to share, I knew how to get where I was going, I knew who I’d be driving in a car with. I’d look forward to the walk up South Road with my Mom and sisters after the meal as much as I’d look forward to sharing the meal with our (often) big, and loud, family and guests.

This year, somehow, my lack of plans felt okay. Welcome, even. It’s an interesting time when things glow in the night, when I cajole myself to look up and take notice.

poignant memories from blurred glimpses

beverages and turkey: lots of both!

Thanksgiving is rich with ritual and food-centric wonders but also reflective as it marks days that are shorter, harvests slowing or even coming to an end. It seems to be a holiday when things can be laid back enough, without the hype that other holidays carry, to really, thoroughly, enjoy oneself and her surroundings.

Plans to share Thanksgiving dinner with a sweet friend from college, Sabina, and her family and friends, appeared and worked out seamlessly. I made something new – a Wild Rice and Winter Squash dish – and though it turned out a little watery and sort of bland I felt good about it in the end, taking my disadvantage of cooking with borrowed camping cookware on an electric hot plate into consideration. Of note is the fact that I was cooking hand-harvested wild rice from my abundant supply – a gift from Bob, in Devil’s Lake, Minnesota – and loaned camping gear (from Paulina and Chris), special lava salt (a gift from Cheng), and the use of a sailboat oven and enthusiastic cook mate to round vital aspects of this out. Many people, both new and old friends, are around.

And so I am thankful. Indeed, everyday.

Dr. Beth Netter once said that if you ask for what you need it will always appear. I’ve found that she turns out to be right — often and about many things, but certainly about this. We may not be able to get what we want but we are always provided with what we need, when we know how to simply ask and graciously receive.

……..

Months ago, I was sharing lunch with my cohorts at Food Farm in Wrenshall, Minnesota, when Catherine’s father, a Holstein Dairy expert and tradesman from Iowa, pulled out a small note card with explicit contact information for me: addresses and phone numbers of trusted people and places (plural!), for me to stay with in North Dakota. I was preparing to pass through on my way to Montana, had mentioned this to Catherine who thoughtfully sought her father’s trusted contacts. His gift meant so much to me: the thought behind it and what it offered. It is completely possible to get by and through with little money, safely, comfortably.. And at rare times this clarity is presented in neat handwriting with every detail outlined, plus other trade tips written in the margins for added moral support. I would have called the folks he recommended to me, would have loved the conversation if I stayed with them, I’m sure. But I drove right through the state, feeling high and dry and an urgency to move, arrive somewhere for a while. Until I made it to Billings, Montana.

From the hotel room in Billings, MT

The chain hotel room cost $80/night but was worth the cash: I stocked up on soap and shampoo and free breakfast in the morning, ran on the treadmill, swam in the pool, and sat alone in the hot tub feeling indulgent and quiet. I remember watching Saturday Night Live in this giant bed until I fell asleep with the TV on, thinking “how can New York comedians be Live in such a far away place as Billings, MT?” The TV remote and notebooks, maps, pens, papers shared the other half of the giant bed.

The photos that follow are for, and of, many people that I am thankful to know. They are people I’ve met this summer and fall and winter and have worked hard alongside, lived with, learned from, and people I look forward to seeing again. And some photos are just of people I love because they’ve also been with me, if not always present.

I am continuing here with a slowness that winter demands. I wish I had photos of many others I’ve met along the way. Someday I will.

a celebration!

my new friends and gracious hosts in Milwaukee

in the Wisconsin Dells, Michele and Ian could not have arrived at a more perfect time

sisters are sustenance

my Mom took this photo: I like it!

Pumpkin Pie: By and For The People

It’s romantic and it’s true.

Like any great place, there are special, small things that happen on this island that leave a daily, lasting impression.. adding up to lots of excitement, encouragement and joy.

Last Saturday was no exception. I was smart enough to stop by Vashon Island’s annual, radical pumpkin pie contest, held at the VIGA Saturday Farmer’s Market, before jumping on a ferry to Seattle to soak in some big city lights (really: to babysit my nephew and spend the night reading Sarah and Dan’s almost-week-old Sunday NY Times + Magazine).

Eating pie, or anything, on a real plate, with a real fork, feels so much better than contributing plastic and paper waste to an overflowing garbage can - a typical sight at almost every Farmer's Market. This system is pretty simple and, clearly, also efficient.

There are two contests, one table, real plates and forks to eat things off of, and at least 20 desserts: one winner reaches for a best traditional pumpkin pie award and another for best non-traditional pumpkin influenced dessert. Contestants are encouraged to use local ingredients, which weighs on how their pies are scored, from island grown pie pumpkin (Baby Boo, Musque de Provence, and Long Pie are a few of the varieties I saw available at farm stands), to your neighbor’s eggs, Hazel’s cream, and her butter, if you’re willing spend a little time to make it yourself (like this year’s winner). The result, resoundingly, was beautiful and tasty and different pumpkin pies – debatably an ideal breakfast food because pumpkin packs a fair amount of nutrition, honey, instead of sugar, makes a slightly less sweet option, and a whole wheat crust constitutes a serving of whole grains…right?

Hazel is the Jersey cow I’m feeding and learning how to milk everyday at GreenMan Farm. The routine is disciplined and not without trials but what results is amazing: raw milk, yogurt, fresh cheeses. Thanks to this fresh (and, for me at the moment, freely available) source I’ve come to crave and eat crispy cereal flakes with cold milk in a way I never have in my life. The milk is flavorful, transforming this humdrum, well known convenience meal into something other-worldy, exquisite even.

Hazel, the cow.

I find myself wanting to eat this for lunch and sometimes dinner, or in between meals, tired after shoveling and moving heavy manure. I’m sure it’s just a phase, but my point is this: if you have never had raw milk before, and if you can find a safe source to get some from (grass fed cows, organically cared for), I beg you to do it. Try it, tell me about it! It’s wildly different from pasteurized, homogenized milk – heat and pressure processes that most, if not all, states have made into laws mainly to protect consumers from unsanitary practices that are the result of running a large(r) dairy. Large dairies are typical since it became unreasonably expensive to own a single cow, or even a small herd, as the price of milk dropped decades ago and land use policy has changed dramatically in most parts of the US. If you know the dairy farmers you are sourcing your milk from, or can ask the buyer at your food co-op or grocery store to visit and check out the local dairies that they are purchasing from, and if they are confirmed as being meticulously sanitary, with clean processing facilities, treat their animals without hormones, antibiotics, feed them a balanced diet, etc., then choosing to drink raw milk is not only safe, it delivers many added health benefits, too. Which makes sense in the same way that nutrition is superior in all minimally processed foods.

To return to the contest, and the pie: when judging is officially over, winners named and an “award apron” passed on (Jasper won last year – here’s a link to her famous recipe and glory days!), the pie slices sell for $1 each. All proceeds from sales benefit a different charity or cause each year. This year that cause was the Chautauqua Elementary School’s Local Foods Program. A relatively new inception, student, parent and teacher-motivated and sustained, it replicates one of many school programs jumping on the national bandwagon trying to brilliantly, directly, and simply bring affordable, local & organically grown produce and other foods into school cafeterias. Chef Ann Cooper began, and fuels, a lunch room revolution focusing on this subject and I’ve pasted in a few more favorite links below.

I wonder if there is comfort in the fact that we still rely on baked sales to get things done? It would be great (and at some point should be necessary) if there were more national or state dollars to fund this kind of work, actions that strengthen communities in a variety of ways. Of course, it starts with changes being made through grassroots efforts, by and for the people who are affected by the process and its results. If buying 7 pieces of pie can play a small role in this, I’ll do it every Saturday.

…………………

Alice Waters’ Edible Schoolyard

Two Angry Moms – doc film about the nationwide movement to bring healthy food to every school

The Lunch Box – a project of Chef Ann Cooper’s

From Gleaned Potatoes, An Onion, Fresh Eggs

Putting a vegetable bed to rest for the winter can be a meditative task, calming in the repetition it demands, satisfying in the sense of near completion involved: as energy moves through me to soil by means of a hoe – a simple, vital thing, like all good tools are. The process that transpires, the work itself, takes and gives energy. What’s living within the cow manure (it has gone through five stages/weeks of decomposition and is mixed with other organic bio-mass along the way) joins with the dirt to make something new. Sometimes I stop and am amazed that I am a part of and witness to it all. I’m in a good spot.

But yesterday, in the midst of contemplation and work, the whole thing left me soaked to the bone. I think it has been raining for 47 hours straight. I should probably stop counting things like this. I’ve changed full sets of bottom inhabiting clothes – jeans, underwear, socks – twice already, and the work day is only half over. Wet hangs over every last surface in my normally cozy woodshed-turned-cabin (today, Jasper handed me rain pants: thanks!).

In all of this, little potato gifts appear – round, oblong, smooth and scabbed, from a planting season one, or more, back. They surface like air bubbles, signs of another life form that are happy to be discovered. I take care not to nip them with the hoe’s edge, collect them in a pile off to the side with intention and desire to cook them (mmm.. actually, just to eat them, but I know the drill). And, so, a classic potato recipe, perfect to make with gleaned potatoes, comes to mind. These hearty roots, able to survive years in the dirt without any fuss, only require one to cut around the nicks, blemished or rotted parts. What remains should be fine to use.

cleaning out the once potato beds is like an ongoing easter egg hunt: they just keep surfacing

Tortilla de potato is a recipe I’ve got down: one of few that is relatively new to committed memory and so conjures good-gone times, shared meals, old friendships. Making it was perfected in Albany, NY, under the careful instruction of a former neighbor and friend, Jesus, who is originally from Spain. Part of moving around so much means that as we leave places we also leave people, and then other people connected so tenuously (who could’ve known?), then more places.. Somehow the spiraling effects of loss can only be accepted as a natural extension of modern life. Though I can’t fathom how to control this I am grateful for wisdom that is shared and passed; recipes, stories, skills and traditions. This is the stuff connecting generations, lifetimes, and I’m thankful that they die harder than the weaker, human parts of us.

This Spanish tortilla, or omelet is a traditional picnic food but can also be brought to parties and celebrations. I’ve enjoyed it equally for breakfast, lunch and dinner. But never topped with salsa, hot sauce or the like, as tempting as that sounds. Jesus would say that’s sacrilegio. Just eat it as is.

So: Jesus’ explicit instructions, as I remember them, on making a tortilla de potato.

You will need a few medium sized russet potatoes, one medium sized white onion, a few eggs, good olive oil (very important), salt, pepper.

1. Slice as many russet potatoes as you want to use, thin. You can use Yukon Golds or whatever you have but Russets, being starchy and low moisture holding roots, really work best. Slice them in consistently sized and shaped pieces (I tend to make half moons out of them – seems easier).
2. Slice 1 medium sized onion, thin. Be consistent in the way you slice it so that the pieces cook at the same speed, temperature, etc.
3. In a well-seasoned cast iron pan sauté the onion in a high quality, preferably organic, olive oil with some salt and pepper. Do not use any other kind of cooking oil: the flavor of this dish is best with high quality olive oil.
4. Sauté the potato slices in a separate, well-seasoned cast iron pan in a lot of high quality olive oil, salt and pepper. Since the potatoes cook at a different speed than the onions it’s important to keep them separate at this stage (you combine them later). The oil should almost cover the potato slices because potatoes absorb a lot while they cook. Stir now and again, gently enough to avoid breaking the pieces apart. Cook them through: you should be able to stab them with a fork but they shouldn’t crumble, get soggy, or break too much.
5. Combine the cooked potatoes and onions in a bowl, let cool mostly but there’s no need to wait until they’re completely cool. Pour off any olive oil: you can reuse this in the next step.
   

   cooked potato and onion slices, cooled mostly, then combined with beat eggs, salt and pepper

6. Prepare the pan that you’ll cook the tortilla in while the potato/onion combo is cooling. To do this decide whether the cast iron pan you have is truly well-seasoned enough for things to not stick and burn to the bottom of it. If it is not, admit it and use a non-stick pan. I know we all hate them but most of us have one anyway.
7. Whether using a non-stick coated OR cast iron pan heat it to a low, consistent temperature and add enough olive oil so that it puddles in the bottom of the pan (again, use high quality oil and don’t skimp on quantity).
8. Break several fresh eggs into  a bowl – as many as you think will cover the potato/onion mixture, and beat them with a fork. Add salt and pepper.
9. Add the egg mixture to the potato and onion mixture, stir once or twice with a wooden spoon just to coat and combine everything. Immediately pour this in to the heated, olive-oiled pan.
10. Allow the tortilla to cook, covered. Check on it frequently and when the edges are browning and firm consider making your move:
11. This is the hard part: using a spatula, ease the omelet off of the bottom and sides of the pan. If it is cooked it will want to be released but, still, always seems to need a hand. Once it is free from the pan slide the omelet in one single motion, if possible, onto a dinner plate.
12. Prepare your pan to cook the second side of the tortilla: on a consistent and low/medium heat, olive oil supply replenished.
13. FLIP the tortilla, quickly and suavely, so that the uncooked side falls onto the pan. Cook this side until it is also brown, firm and done.
14. Move the whole thing onto a dinner plate and allow to cool. Actually, one has choices here: eat this right away, warm, or savor the smell and warmth it brings and enjoy it hours later, even the next day. I’d refrigerate it before going to bed or cover it if you’re just going out for a while.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Cooking this fills any kitchen with a sweet thickness, a lingering joy that is worth every moment of time it takes to make. Although there are a lot of steps to it there are only SIX ingredients, all of which you probably have at home, can source locally (predominately) most times of year in any growing zone, and once you’ve made it twice it’s just there: appears when you’re in need and doesn’t disappoint. As a dish it is lasting, simple, dense and decadent.. can even taste better the second day it’s enjoyed.  Jesus A.G. – thanks for showing us this recipe, ages ago, it seems. And thanks, too, for years of friendship.

…………

For an engaging, fictional read/contemporary commentary on industrial potato farming in the Midwest check out “The Potato Gleaners” in Sweet Land: New and Selected Stories, by Will Weaver

For a more bookish version of this recipe, and great food blog in general, see Smitten Kitchen

Oh, Chard

Here’s a joke told more than several times by my friend, Peter Alexanian.

PA: What’s a pirate’s favorite vegetable?

Me: What?

PA: Chaaaaaaaaaaaarrrrrrd, matey.

And a second version –

PA: What’s a gay pirate’s favorite vegetable?

Me: Uhh.. what?

PA: Rainbow Chaaaaaaaaaaaaarrrrrrd!

I’m not good at telling jokes, have even been criticized in the past for not laughing (hard enough) at them. This joke made me chuckle and smile the first time I heard it – a feat, of sorts, for someone who secretly fears not responding properly/under pressure. It’s clever, easy to get, and swiss chard is my favorite green vegetable. Thoughts of it make me smile. And pirates, the cute, nice ones, anyway, have long held a special place in my heart.

I could go on and on about swiss chard: its incredible nutritional profile, recipes that I love using it in, how hardy and easy to grow to it is, or how each plant gives and gives, the leaves only getting sweeter as it gets colder outside and the season goes on. Mostly I just want the chance to share some beautiful pictures. The sun was out for a long time today.

Once a friend told me that he was so dehydrated he had to take a shower. I suggested instead that he drink some water. He had already drank as much water as he could but knew that his body needed to be in it, submerged, in order for his thirst to go away. I always thought this was a little crazy until I had a similar experience with swiss chard. No joke.

I want to grow it, be around it, see it in bouquets on the table, in flower boxes on windowsills, or in those big planters that city beautification teams maintain. And, of course, I want to eat it in lots of different ways. Some examples include adding delicate baby leaves in with other salad greens, adding chopped, fresh leaves to the inside of an omelet with onions and cheese, or cut into chiffonade and lightly sautéed in olive oil or butter until it’s still bright green but wilted, then served right away with a squeeze of lemon, sea salt, maybe more olive oil. It’s a quintessential ingredient, really, in Greens and Beans and makes a great alternative burrito or taco shell (softer than the collards in this recipe).

My sister Katie and I grew so much of it one year in our community garden plot that I thought we’d tire of it (I think our respective partners at the time, less attached to this particular harvest, did). But in November, when it was one of the last things remaining in the garden, it was wonderfully appreciated by everyone at our table.

As you can see, there’s a sweet rainbow swiss chard explosion happening now at GreenMan Farm. And even signs of a nice pirate: I have a new friend who lives on a boat on the Puget Sound.

If someone had told me a year ago that I would be farming and thinking of sailing and living on an island the following November I would never have believed them. Not even for a minute. That I am is possibly one of the greatest things about being alive.

Peter - I know there is question about the joke inspiring this post being yours originally.. but you told it so well! Nice pic I thought - hanging out in the Spikenard Farm Cafe.

 

 

 

 

Harvesting Rain

Sometimes I wish that my cell phone auto-saved text messages for longer than it does. Or, I need to learn to write some of the best ones down when they come through, fleeting and complete with misspellings and funny grammar.

I received a classic message from my sister Sarah about 6 weeks ago when I was trying to figure out where to live for a few weeks between farm gigs. I had asked her, via text message, if it was really okay if I came to Seattle for a while. I was in the process of confirming plans to stay at GreenMan Farm on Vashon Island, just across the Puget Sound from Seattle, and would have a few weeks of time to spend somewhere before that commitment, which will last through December, started. I requested that she check in with Dan, her husband, about a long-term visit (their house is relatively small, they have a young son, etc). But Sarah texted me back immediately, something like: “Most def okay to stay! Rainy season starts then – don’t want you to hate seattle + leave – ruff”

I smiled, hoped that Dan might share a little bit of my sister’s unbridled enthusiasm and sincere concern, and then started to mentally pack up (real bags are still always already packed) and embrace this next step into the west coast. Honestly, I didn’t think twice about what a rainy season in the Pacific Northwest might entail..

Rain doesn't (entirely) keep shoppers away from the Vashon Island Grower's Association Farmer's Market

..until I arrived. And, then, I was just in it. Every day.

I’ve found myself impressed by the gamut of styles of rainfall here: from gutter shaking water bullets and wind wars that scare you even when you’re buried under the covers to consistent drips that twang against metal surfaces, soldierly like a snare drum beat that never quite crescendos. There’s sometimes light, sideways flying drops that cut through sunshine (and you smile because it doesn’t seem like it’s really happening – or maybe because the sun is just in the background), and sometimes just so much of it, washing everything away, you wonder how things stay put around here at all. I was less impressed when my camera got wet on the ferry ride over to the island and now doesn’t work.. but when it has dried out I’ll post pics of the sound and of island living – amazing.

I found it funny, then, when I arrived to live and work at this small plot of presently soggy, well-tended, bio-intense farm land, to find that I would not only be harvesting the last of the greenhouse tomatoes, and leeks, celeriac and beets, all of which will be plentiful through November and December, plus kale and chard – so sweet this time of year thanks to dipping temperatures. At GreenMan Farm we also harvest rainwater.

Goodbye til next year, tomatoes. To ripen the last of the green ones we'll place them in a dry place in a paper bag with an apple amongst them.

The farm grounds, farmhouse, food processing kitchen and guest house all share water sourced from a very shallow, 16 foot deep well. Typical island wells are dug 200-300 feet, about the same level that we sit from the sea.  While it seems like water is everywhere, surrounding us and falling from the sky on a daily basis this time of year, summers are hot and dry and there’s a real threat that the well could run dry. Japser and Will have a system set up to supplement the well water supply by collecting rainwater in 1,100 gallon black bins as well as an array of open containers on the property. To save even more water there’s a water-free toilet in my cabin. The refuse from this, after decomposing for 2+ years with other compostable materials, is used to fertilize ornamental plant beds.

There are three 1100 gallon black bins on the property that collect water from the rain gutters. Additional open bins are used to provide water for the cow and goat.

 

 

 

Here's the Humanure or Composting Toilet: a bucket with a seat structure over it, basically. There's a 50-50 peat moss and wood chip combo added to the bucket and used to cover everything. Guys have to pee in seperate containers, not in the bucket, because of territorial smell issues, I'm told.