Terra Madre in Torino: Hookie Lunch featuring Wild Mushrooms and Wild Boar

Megan and I played hookie to squeeze in an extra meal – lunch in central Torino, at a seemingly nameless restaurant serving specialties of the Piemonte region.  In a small room we sat at the last open table, just inside the door, and had a front row seat as two waiters squeezed around a bar laden with wine bottles, platters of tiramisu, assorted cheese wedges and hand-grater, fresh loaves of breads, and even a stuffed badger, snarling at the door.

There seemed to be no telephone, no manager, and no bartender — the waiters disappeared through a very narrow doorway (which must have been the kitchen) but no sound emerged, no clanking dishes, no machinery.  As if by magic, the waiters would reappear, practically gliding, laden with course upon course of food and somehow serving all of the tables wine, fresh bread and grissini (thin breadsticks, like fresh baguette crust twisted into a stick), pastas and entrees from a hand-written daily menu, and dessert and coffee.

We chose to begin with a roasted garlic bagna cauda drizzled onto roasted red peppers – bagna cauda literally translates to warm bath, and is used to describe the warm savory sauce of garlic and anchovy that serves as a centerpiece for raw autumn vegetables.  Megan chose fresh pasta with wild mushroom sauce and a glass of the house white wine; fhe brilliant yellow noodles were tossed with soft, flavorful wild mushrooms, cooked to the point of complete tenderness but avoiding sliminess, and infusing the dish with the earthy flavors of the forest floor.  I selected Piemontese wild boar with polenta, and a glass of the house red wine. The polenta was also a vivid yellow (I can only surmise that the grains used for both pasta and polenta, corn and wheat respectively, are freshly ground and lovingly cultivated).  The wild boar yielded a thick, beefy gravy that was seasoned with juniper and plenty of black pepper, and the polenta below it slowly, slowly, slowly absorbed the moisture of the boar’s sauce; the last few bites were delightfully dry, like a perfectly cooked brisket.

While we both would have liked to have another glass of wine, and perhaps the cheese and meat plate, or dessert, we reined in our appetites and returned to the conference by way of an outdoor market.  Autumn squash, radicchio of several types, handcrafts of wool and organic cotton, handmade soaps, tinctures, tonics and teas, and even dried borlotti, canellini, black, and garbanzo beans.

Terra Madre in Torino: the International Buffet

 

The lunch buffet at the Terra Madre conference was clearly designed to appeal to multiple nationalities while showcasing some regional Italian specialties.  On each day, there were at least two vegetable and grain dishes (rice, and another); green salad, and both raw vegetables and cooked vegetables; fresh whole fruit (from bananas to ripe yellow plums, what a treat!) and fresh bread; sliced cooked meats and sliced salumi; large slabs of mortadella, studded with lard and pistachios, scored with criss-crossed cuts so that a toothpick served to extract a cube; large rich cheeses, presented in the same way – whole, loosened from the rind and partially cut into cubes, gently oozing as the temperature warmed from several thousand people talking and eating.

A co-delegate checked all of the buffet lines (4, I believe) to make certain she was not missing anything – but at that point we had been well-fed for days, perhaps even overfed, and I surprised myself by being content to sit and help the woman next to me by holding her baby while she fed her toddler girl.  The toddler is named in part Terra Madre as she had been in the womb when her mother delivered the welcome speech two years prior – I recognized her from a video clip I watched online.  I also met a baby named Pippin – his grandmother (in attendance with her two daughters, hailing from coastal Oregon) explained the provenance of his name, a reference to a seed-grown apple tree or, as she put it, ‘something good that sprouted by chance!’.  I admired the round-headed, smiling wonder hanging in front of his mother’s heart, and chatted with the women about their lives and business on the Oregon coast.

Coffee

Coffee turned out to be a culture shock to the Americans at the conference.  Italian styple espresso, of course, is brewed fresh every time, by its very nature a quick exchange, a sip, tidy up, and grazie.  It seems Italians don’t carry coffee with them; they enjoy a brief stop along the way, with a friend or co-worker, or alone, and really only sit for coffee after a meal, if even then.  But American coffee is a BIG cup, often bottomless in a restaurant (and just as often served in single-use Styrofoam – argh), or its something we carry with us in our adult sippy cups (reusable or single-use to-go mugs).  As much as I love espresso, I longed for a larger cup and a brimming Americano, espresso enlarged with hot water…but never did find one.

 

Terra Madre in Torino: Salone del Gusto

Imagine a convention center, filled with rows upon rows of Italian regional specialties and available for sample or purchase, abuzz with Italians (and a few other nationalities as well) eating, drinking, strolling, chatting, and ducking outside to smoke.  It is the Salone del Gusto, and it is a world of food ranging from sea salt, balsamic vinegar, gianduja (hazelnut chocolate), prosciutti, Parmigiano and all the famous cheeses.  When one thinks one has tasted all of Italy, one realizes that the Salone del Gusto is not just Italian regional specialties, but includes many other European countries, and indeed representative foods and drinks from around the globe.  One might need a quiet cup of mint tea.  Unable to find mint tea, instead I tasted a raw-milk provolone cheese, one version aged six months and one version aged two years.  The 24 month cheese changed the meaning of sharp Italian provolone for me; it sparkled and sang in my mouth, and its rustic shape and imbedded cord begged to be slung over a shoulder and carried away.

Overwhelmed, I noticed that some stalls featured the Slow Food Presidia emblem — these are items from around the world that have been identified as totally unique and culturally important, items in which the Slow Food Foundation has invested time and energy (and money) to preserve, document, and encourage continued production.  I toured these items, enjoying the native dress and languages of people from South America, India, Greece, Japan, Oceania.  Dazed, I happened upon an artisanal Italian brewing company called Birra Pasturana, and tasted their wares. In his halting English and my entirely food-based Italian, we ‘spoke’ of the importance of quality lupulo (hops, ironically Cascade, which is considered an American hop for its market-shifting role in Sierra Nevada Pale Ale) and he told me of resting a beer in a white-wine barrel for six months – they call that one ‘the Mummy’ because it rises from the tomb at the end of its aging.  I asked about their method for making a peach beer, and I’m not kidding, he began with ‘…we take the wagon into the peach orchard…’.  No food-grade flavorings there.  I felt refreshed.

Refreshed enough to buy some oysters from Brittany, France, pulled alive out of wooden crates and pried opened right in front of me.  Seasoned with lemon juice and aimed down my gullet, the pulsing oyster could only be described as More than a Mouthful – I had to chew to get it down, and while technically it was probably dead by then, it was still pulsing as I swallowed. I realize now that I prefer a smaller oyster; and perhaps I am not prepared to eat oysters standing right in front of the oystermen themselves, chewing and choking and trying to swallow.  Unfortunately the tequila bar was not handy.

Terra Madre in Torino: A Series

I was fortunate to be sent as a delegate from Slow Food USA to the Terra Madre conference in Torino, Italy at the end of October.  The conference included 4000 delegates representing 150 nations, along with tasting sessions, workshops, and work and educational sessions on a variety of food and stewardship topics.  I was awed by the scope of the Slow Food movement and its worldwide participants; I am proud to say that I count myself and my friends and colleagues here in Central Virginia as members of that movement, and feeling part of an international whole is a delightful feeling for a local foodie.

 

The following posts will describe parts of my experience, mostly from the food angle.  For more information about the conference itself, check out http://www.terramadre.org.

CSA Work Day at Appalachia Star Farm 5.22.10

For many years I have admired the CSA bags of Appalachia Star supporters.  Strawberries!  Asparagus!  Blueberries!  Perfect little zucchini!  When I heard the news that Roundabout Farm wouldn’t be continuing its CSA program this year, it gave me the opportunity to reevaluate the CSA model in our lives to see if it was still the investment that made sense.  We are avid market shoppers, hitting the City Market around 7:30 each Saturday we are in town; the Wednesday ‘Farmers in the Park’ market occurs just 2 blocks away from our home, so a midweek afternoon outing couldn’t be more convenient.  Also, last year we dug a 5 ft wide, 25 ft long garden in our side yard and had a pretty good time with greenbeans, tomatoes, basil, tomotillos, and ground cherries.  Without a CSA we wouldn’t starve, for sure — but the skill and the grace that Kathryn and Michael and their kids bring to the City Market and to their CSA production just seemed like something we wanted to get closer to.  I feel I could identify their kale in a line of anonymous greens (heirloom variety Red Russian, frilled edges, not overgrown nor bitter, happy to hail from hilly Nelson County).  Finally, now that we’re all living in town (including a former Country Mouse), we need distant destinations to satisfy our urge to drive out into the hills – especially on graduation weekend.

We loaded up the truck to go to the farm for a CSA work day on Saturday 5.22.10, bringing some cold tamales from the City Market and a couple of other odds and ends to nibble along the way.  We drove past Seaman’s strawberry fields, which are surrounded on all sides by misty blue mountains, swathed in fog on that drizzly day.  Several times I thought we had missed a turn, or turned wrong, even though the roads all looked familiar from a berry-picking expedition several weeks prior.  When we turned in to Appalachia Star, we saw Michael and a few other CSA members hoeing a potato field.  however, after greeting us Michael asked us to start harvesting asparagus.

Unlike most vegetables, asparagus are a perennial plant, taking 2 to 3 or more years for a patch to really get rolling.  The rhizomes gradually spread underground (I’ve been told they even naturalize in the sandy soils of the Tidewater), and the resulting asparagus become larger and larger each successive year (I think).  Michael asked us to harvest any shoot that was the requisite length – about 8 inches – and to snip out any teeny, tiny asparagus that just take energy that could be going elsewhere.  Michael showed us how to squat, feel downward along the stalk to find its intersection with the ground, and use the angled harvesting knife to slice it off clean and even.  The shoots were surprisingly difficult to see against a mottled backdrop of hay and other organic matter; I helped Geoff spot them, and held the bucket, while he squatted and sliced.  Lincoln rode on my back in the frame backpack, pretty content except with the brim of his hat, which was irking him.  Occasionally we found a black and yellow beetle that Michael had instructed us to squash with our fingers; more often I found its black eggs, which just wiped off with a little effort.  Some asparagus were only as thick as a single chive (those were dispatched as a waste of energy) and some were thicker than a thumb.  Some tall, some short, curved, straight, green trimmed with purple; the best way to see them would have been to lay on the ground at the bottom of the hill and look up to the mountains and the sky.  Michael told us that they harvest asparagus every day, sometimes twice a day, because they grow so quickly.

After completing the asparagus project (temporarily, at least) we moved down the hill and into the bottom of the potato field.  The potato plants were several inches high, rounded green leaves edged with purple, surrounded by weeds.  A job that looked like it was going to be very tough turned out to be quite gratifying because the ground was easy to penetrate with the stirrup hoe.  A stirrup hoe is a hinged metal ring on the end of a long handle; the ring drops into the soil and dislodges the weeds as the hoe is pulled back and forth in the dirt.  The only thing to be careful about was the baby potatoes underneath, or any late-sprouting taters that hadn’t poked their greens above the soil yet.  Michael asked us to mound up the soil around each potato, an activity that is said to help the potatoes grow a bit larger before breaking out of the ground.  Time to start thinking about potato salads, croquettes, roasted underneath whole chickens, gratins with cream, and as a garnish for a chilled nicoise salad.

I stepped away from the potato project before it was complete (diaper emergency) and Lincoln and I lingered by the truck as it started to drizzle, and then rain.  We were sheltered by several trees, and ate our lunch, and just looked around at the Bertoni’s home, complete with chickens, ducks, a guard dog, an elusive cat, soft-sided greenhouse full of seedlings, and several fields full of vegetables-to-be.  We listened to the birds and watched the rain roll in and obscure the mountains in front of us; the sounds of stirrup hoes and conversation floated up from the potato field, and I entertained the idea of walking around on my own, but didn’t really feel like pulling the backpack on again.  We had already planned to hit a brewery on the way back to town – either Devil’s Backbone, Blue Mountain, or our favorite Starr Hill – and in the end we would decide to drive up onto the Blue Ridge Parkway because Lincoln was asleep in the carseat.  Although the views were very limited (at some points, we couldn’t see ten feet in front of the car!) the drive was beautiful and mysterious – winding roads, green green trees and grass, and lots of falling-down buildings to wonder about.

What have we received in our CSA?  So far this year:  asparagus (!), radishes, kale, swiss chard, braising greens, beets, Napa cabbage, garlic scapes, head lettuce (several), dill…it has all been delicious.

Why I walk downtown on Wednesdays (Ascention of Tanginess)

On Wednesdays I saddle up the stroller and walk to the downtown mall; every Wednesday when I get home I am all charged up about life and food and walking in Charlottesville.

Firstly, Wednesday is donut day downtown.  That is, the Carpe Donut mobile is parked in the Wachovia parking lot for most of the day.  While I don’t always get a donut, it is always an option, and it is a sweet that I feel good about feeding to the big little guy Lincoln.  In terms of a small business with a big heart, Carpe Donut is my favorite (not to mention that Matt has been incredibly generous and encouraging when we have collaborated on food events).  In my opinion, this town could use more businesses like that one – committed to quality, flexible yet consistent, appropriate to any occasion.  All their hard work means that there is absolutely no guilt in eating a Carpe Donut!  In fact, I find the opposite to be true — I feel that we should all be eating more donuts, knowing the ingredients are conscientiously sourced and prepared by hand (and donut machine) and seeing such innovations such as composting, recycling, and biodiesel become part of the business model.  Thank you, Carpe Donut.

I’ll usually pop into the library while I’m downtown, get some books, and see someone I know – last week it was Natalie Russell, editor of Edible Blue Ridge magazine.  With two children and a magazine to edit, publish and distribute, she and husband Steve must feel the daily juggle even more keenly than I do.  I had been thinking of Natalie and her encouraging, understanding vibe as I have had to pass again and again on writing assignments of late; my plan to call her to thank her, and to deliver the news that we have child care two days a week (thank you, Angel and company!) was not necessary as I was able to deliver it in person, and hang out with the kids as well.  Thank you, Russell family.

Lunch while downtown is a no-brainer — last week I tried Cinema Taco and found it very satisfying.  Lincoln and I shared a burrito and met a nice person on the patio — suprise, his middle name is Lincoln.

On the way home I swing by the pickup spot for my raw milk share.  That share is through Silky Cow LLC run by Nathan Vergin (e-mail silkycowfarm @gmail.com for information).   We get a half gallon a week, which I consume essentially myself (actually, the cat and Lincoln both get some sips).  I have made yogurt (and one time an incredibly refreshing yogurt drink, accidentally of course), butter and buttermilk, and a fantastic cream cheese  that also yielded whey, which I have used to make lactofermented pickled grape leaves.  More importantly, I drink a small glass of milk when I am hungry, or thirsty, or tired, or if I can’t sleep — it just seems like a perfect food, nutritious and wholesome and without any downside to drinking it.  Prior to the raw milk, I wasn’t drinking any milk at all, not even in coffee.  Now I enjoy noticing the seasonal change in flavor as the herd’s feed changes from wintertime hay to sharp spring grass and, now, to mellower, more mature grasses that are on their way to drying out for the summertime. The milk also ages in my refrigerator over the course of a week, but it doesn’t sour like commercially pasteurized milk (that is, all at once, totally and repulsively); rather, it is a gradual loosening of its flavor and an ascention of tanginess that edges the milk closer to savory dairy products, like creme fraiche and sour cream.

While we’re strolling downhill, thinking about milk, Nathan and Amy and Amy’s brothers rumble by in a Suburban and stop to say hello.  They pull my milk out of one of four or five coolers in the back of the truck, pass it to me as we exchange greetings, and then they roll on up the street to drop the rest of the milk at the drop spot.  Thank you, Vergin family and Silky Cows.

I continue home along Meade Avenue, carrying the cold, cold gallon of yellowish milk and looking forward to my liquid snack.  A couple people honk, but that’s no surprise – the milk is really good looking.  When I get home I’ll shake the milk to distribute the cream and butterfat, then pour my portion into a large earthenware bowl with a spout on one side.  Gradually the butterfat will rise to the top so that I can skim it off to make butter and buttermilk in the food processor – this week I think I’ll add some garden chives, green onions and lemon zest to the butter, as well as some salt.  The cream will rise to the top of the milk, and I’ll skim that as best I can and label the jar in the refrigerator.  Wish I had an ice cream maker!  Maybe this week I’ll try straining the milk to get the butterfat — I’ve been rereading the ‘Little House on the Prarie’ series (seriously) and Ma always skims the new milk, then sets the pans aside.

As I pass Meade Park I notice that the vendors for Farmers in the Park are setting up already (it’s nearly 1:30, edging into naptime and Lincoln is nodding off), which reminds me that I should get out and stroll again this afternoon to check out the market.  Geoff and I have talked about making Wednesday night Taco Night – getting some seasoned taco meat, tortillas and salsa from the good taco people at the market, and adding perhaps a green salad from our garden, or some soured cream, to round out the meal.  Thank you, market vendors (and especially the taco people!).

So that’s why I walk downtown on Wednesdays.  I break a sweat on the way there, find some lunch and a donut, check out books and network with other foodies.  On the way home I admire gardens, pick mulberries and pick up milk, and get a sneak preview of the market.  Lincoln enjoys the vibrance of flowers, people, food and drink, streaming by him at a palatable pace.  All this, before afternoon nap.  Thank you, Charlottesville.

the Makings of a Meal: Spring Equinox at the Ivy Inn

At first glance the deer-fenced beds at Harvest Thyme Herb Farm outside of Staunton, VA seem just as barren as the rest of the landscape looks on this gray March day.  Sure, the Blue Ridge Mountains provide a regal backdrop to the rolling hills of the Shenandoah Valley, but the earth is still reeling from the 56 inches of snow that blitzed the area this winter.  As testament to the wild winter, a huge bed of rosemary still stands upright, but on closer inspection the stalks are brown and a bit curled at the end, and proprietor Dierdre Armstrong admits that when rosemary looks dead like that, it’s usually…dead.  A huge lavender bed is all elbows and broken arms, with plants hollowed and cracked in the middle and rough around the edges.  In this late winter landscape, what in the world will be for dinner?

Dierdre and Phil Armstrong are not dismayed; their porch and basement filled with fluorescent lights and adjustable seed-starting tables are jammed with life, and shelves of dried herbs and heirloom seeds hint at the off-season activities around here.  Among the treasures, beans from Wise County via the visionary chef Sean () in Charleston, SC; Italian heirloom seed varieties carefully labeled and stored in a rolling card catalog, and a green called () that Angelo has specifically asked them to grow for him.  Dierdre likens the () to tumbleweeds, and describes  how it dried up and rolled away the last time she grew it.

After offers of coffee and muffins, including a homemade Rosemary and Apple jam, Dierdre and Phil lead us outside to scout for food to serve on Saturday, March 20 at the Spring Equinox Farmer Dinner at the Ivy Inn (just a few days from now).  I’ve been invited along on this journey as a scribe and helper; I dutifully snap photos and make notes, wondering where it will all lead but knowing that proprietor and chef Angelo Vangelopolous and chef Mike Perry will work their magic and find some spring food among the last vestiges of winter.

First Dierdre digs for sunchokes (or Jerusalem artichokes), something they planted to hide their inherited compost pile from the neighbors:  Sunchokes are the tuber of a sunflower-like plant, and while their cultivation is as passive as food can possibly be, the flavor is remarkable enough to spark some excitement from the chefs.  We move up the hill to what will become the squash, bean and corn, or ‘deer candy’, beds.   Growing all around us are some resilient ‘weed’ cresses — creasy greens among them — that Dierdre identifies and we dutifully taste.  Marked with delicate white flowers (imagine, flowering at a time like this!) the cresses are added to Angelo’s list from which the final menu will be crafted.

We move on to the perennial herb bed, which is the first bed that they installed and already shows signs of life this year.  Green onions, chives, and wild arugula are bravely bursting into the early spring, and the existing thyme and sage plants also show signs of life.  Dierdre calls out quantities of each item that will likely be available, and Angelo just nods — he’s feeding 75 to 80 people, and will be using his skills to make these precious morsels stretch to include all his guests.  Fortunately, early spring greens have a lot of flavor.  The word we keep using is ‘assertive’.

The Armstrongs show us their Parsnip Palace, and the new neighboring Carrot Condiminium.  These root crops grow the best in loose soil (the opposite of red clay) and are often grown in barrels or in raised beds; the Armstrongs have the added challenge of several large Black Walnut trees, which essentially poison the soil around them and make in-ground cultivation impossible.  So they have raised their parsnip and carrot beds above the ground level, and hemmed them in to protect from deer.  When Dierdre digs her hands in the soil and pulls parsnips, Mike actually cheers.  What a treat to have this time of year!  Usually parsnips would only arrive later in the spring, but these have overwintered in the ground and are super super sweet.  Angelo makes a note of it with a smile on his face.

On the ride back to C-ville we go over the menu, and I hear the wheels turning and churning as the fellows work out what to serve, and how, and with what.  Sounds like the parsnips and sunchokes will be available in some quantity; creasy greens, chives, green garlic, thyme, flatleaf parsley, and perhaps some wild arugula will also bless us with their presence on Saturday.  Perhaps most importantly, both the growers and the chefs have resolidified their enthusiasm for working together again this season.  I feel like I have witnessed a seasonal resolution, renewing the commitment to fresh, beautiful food and to the creative preparations that showcase it.  It’s no small thing.

Homebound Adventures: Expecting a Ton of Tomatoes

While it hasn’t seemed very adventurous around here lately (other than the mystical yet physical act of growing, birthing and loving a new baby), someone suggested that I blog about the food happenings at 502 Meade Ave this summer.

But to speak of summer, we have to remember the seasons before it, because a single season cannot be examined on its own.  Last winter I pored over the catalog from Southern Exposure Seed Exchange (a ‘local’ business, being situated in Louisa) which specializes in heirloom seeds and contributes to a nationwide seed saving network.  With some help from my gardening guru (and handsome, papa-type partner) I arranged for potting trays, sterile soil mix, wooden labels – the Sharpie and the squirt bottle were already important parts of the homestead.

After much deliberation, I selected an array of perennial herb seeds, with an eye toward handsome, flowering plants that would also attract beneficial insects.  As a cook-gardener, herbs magically link gardening with cooking, and  over the years I have appreciated the presence of herbs more than anything else in my garden.  I use them whole to garnish professional plates, I dry them and scatter them in musty drawers to dispel spirits (or whatever), in particularly desperate cooking situations I put herbs in my hair to ‘lighten up’ and to crack up my co-workers, and throughout the year I crush fresh herbs and add them to nearly everything in the kitchen.  In addition to perennial herb seeds, I also ordered various vegetables and annual herbs, trying to balance enthusiasm with the certain knowledge that, come August, everyone has tomatoes.  So I only ordered six types?

I took the temperature of various rooms in the house, factoring in perches near and on radiators, in full sun, in part sun, and even scoping a closet for valerian seeds (which require darkness to germinate).  When the seeds arrived, I created a spreadsheet with all their attributes, their needs, and the dates of sowing, hardening off, and transplanting.  Each day I duly checked the seeds in the office, in the guest room, in the closet, rotating them, shoving my fingers in the soil to determine dampness, and elbowing the curious dogs away from the precarious trays.  As the weather warmed, I carried trays outdoors to take advantage of a very sunny yard (and to kick start the daily indigestion), then carried them in again in the evening so that I wouldn’t feel like a bad mommy (more indigestion).

I’ll save you most of the details, but suffice it to say that I was totally surprised at how predictable the results were.  Huh?  That is, some successes and some failures, and if I had it to do all over again I could get much better results.  Major victories were the tomatoes, which gamely sprouted and duly bore a lot of fruit in a first-year garden; I even gave some plants away, and people tell me that they thrived.  Other success stories:  Potomac greenbeans bore for nearly 8 weeks with excellent flavor and an admirable growth habit – they held up the tomatoes!  Our squash was sufficient, lettuces good, ‘Everona’ tomatillos are ripening now, and last year’s find of ground cherries have proved delightful (if smaller than those we bought at the market).  I’m told we’ll have ground cherries forever!

Failures — o, why didn’t I listen?  A Wise Woman (OK, Rachel Willis)  told me that perennial medicinal herbs are notoriously difficult to cultivate – as if they know they have all the time in the world, they don’t really try very hard the first year.  Hyssop, bee balm, valerian, lovage, rosemary from New Zealand…you limped along, I nursed you, and then when transplanted you…disappeared into the soil.  Perhaps you’ll come back next year?  In my hope that something would reappear, I grew a terrific pokeweed (!) and allowed a few volunteer sunflowers to mature – they were worth it – but I still don’t know what valerian looks like.  So, for 2010, I’ll sprout the same seeds in moderate numbers, and then I will transplant them to small pots, then larger pots, and maybe they’ll see the soil in the fall.  Or I’ll dig some up at a Wise Woman’s house…

On the bright side, we have eaten at home all summer, and into the fall, based largely on our CSA from Roundabout Farm but also delighting in our tomatoes, greenbeans, squash, lettuces, and basil.  I have a freezer full of pesto, so no worries there (although the basil plants melted into the soil as well – I augmented with $1 Genovese plants from Double H Farm, certainly the best buy going).  The herb garden looks better than it ever has, and I predict that trend continues next year.  Our first year garden, measuring 5 feet by 30 feet and carved out of the side yard in one day (I napped while Geoff took advantage of the sunny day) was surprisingly prolific, and I hope to treat it with some good ole horse manure this fall to give thanks for all the food.  In fact, I credit all this good food when I report that we welcomed a healthy baby boy on July 17th.  Announcing Lincoln Woodward Shaw, whose arrival coincided PRECISELY  with our first ripe tomatoes, just as I predicted.  Next year I’ll have a toddler to look after…but I won’t have indigestion, so I have high hopes.

Sayonara, strawberries…

The date was May 5 2009, and despite days and days and days of cloud cover interspersed with rain, strawberry season had come to Central Virginia.  A few days before, a friend in-the-know (Daniel Perry, of Jam According to Daniel) had his buddy ‘jump the season’ by picking berries in North Carolina and then dropping them off in Charlottesville so that he could begin jam production for the year.  By burning up the ‘U-Pick’ phone lines, working websites, and lots of personal inquiries he had discovered that ripe red strawberries could be picked at any number of local operations – if you didn’t mind wet weather and wet berries.

For our first foray, we selected Seaman’s Orchard (a division of Flippin-Seaman Orchards) in Nelson County, just down the road from Appalachia Star Farm and Saunders Brothers (which Daniel informed me is a great place to pick up peaches in the summertime – terrific quality, best prices, nice knowledge of fruit varieties and an attempt to forecast harvest dates).  We also passed a mythical spot known to me as ‘the Secret Thai Restaurant in Nelson’ but also known as Thai Siam – it was only 9 AM as we passed it on the way, but already we knew where we’d be getting lunch!  Daniel is great company (I recommend fruit picking with him if you ever have the chance) and we talked about food access, farming practices, favorite strawberry incarnations, and his jam-plans for the upcoming season.

When we arrived at Seaman’s there was just one woman already picking berries; during our stay, perhaps ten other folks came and went, for the most part just harvesting a pint or two and then leaving.  In contrast, we picked about 70 pounds (Daniel brought 40 pounds to the jam kitchen, then helped me with my 30 pounds).  That amounts to about 5 heaped ‘flat’ boxes, which maxed out the space in my little station wagon.  Piling strawberries more than a few inches high tends to squish the fruit, especially if it is ripe and watery, as were these – thus the wisdom of the pint-pack that is industry standard.  I had also made arrangements with Seaman’s to purchase picked berries for an event later that week catered by Harvest Moon Catering.  Volunteering to source local berries for Harvest Moon served my purposes as well as I was scheduled to speak on the topic ‘Keeping your Kitchen Green’ at the University of Virginia Women’s Club Spring Meeting later in the week; I figured that having a local strawberry shortcake on their plates as I spoke would sweeten and strengthen my message.  And it did.

Picking strawberries is easy, provided you don’t mind squatting.  Typically the rows are built up to a height of about 18 inches, then the row is covered with black plastic to warm the soil early in the spring, to discourage pests while the green plants are growing, and to further protect the hanging berries as they mature by keeping them off the ground and away from the slugs and ants.  One thing to know about strawberry picking – it will always appear that there are more berries in the next row over, but really the berries right around your flailing fingers are obscured from sight by their arching green leaf ‘umbrellas’.  These leaves also protect the berries from the sun as the season progresses, and probably protect from hungry birds as well.  As we learned that overcast, rainy day, strawberries ripen according to temperature rather than exposure to sunlight – it seemed as though they were ripening before our eyes.

Once the tab was paid and the car loaded, we headed down the curving road at the foot of the Blue Ridge Mountains and traded stories about Nelson County (moonshine, marijuana, VDACS stings, Appalachian Trail, etc.) and made for Thai Siam.  Their theme of contact-paper counters, open kitchen, mostly to-go food and a large, community table was at first slightly strange (especially in such a rural context) but the presence of a cheerful lunch crowd drinking hot tea and socializing affirmed that the restaurant is an important part of the community.  While we were encouraged to take our food to go, we ended up sitting outside at a picnic table and digging the deliciousness – I had a tofu, mushroom and coconut milk soup spiked with lemongrass, citrus and a bit of spiciness; Daniel had some noodle concoction that seemed to get yummier with each bite.  We each took a menu, hoping to pass that way again soon.

Our second strawberry foray was about a month later, also on a rainy, overcast day.  This time we went to Critzer’s, just off of 151 and close to Blue Mountain Brewery, a.m. fog, Veritas… While they didn’t have their sign out, and honestly seemed surprised that we were there to pick berries, Daniel, John and I donned our rain gear and got right out there.  The berries this time around were noticeably larger, but more watery because of the wet, wet month of May; I do think their flavor was a bit more developed by being ‘later season’ berries, which fit right into my plan for dehydrating some of them.  Perhaps I would even venture a dessert?!?  The water stood a few inches deep between the heaped, black plastic rows so we made quick work of our task, again picking upwards of 60 pounds and purchasing some berries that had already been picked the day before for my catering friends.  Daniel’s fame among the U-Pick community is growing, and now most folks recognize him and give him the ‘industry’ scuttlebutt – but no access to a bathroom.

Fast forward a few weeks, when I meet Daniel in the jam kitchen at his parents’ home and prepared to lend my labor to the Jam Cause.  He and his buddy John have been hard at work before I arrive, washing raspberries and macerating them with sugar prior to cooking them down.  Daniel suggests that I cut strawberries, ‘the last of the strawberries’ he says, which are small but very juicy and perhaps the best ones I have tasted yet.  He takes care of making the jam in a handled copper pot – really he is just cooking the fruit down and will make the jam later, but finds that if the cooked fruit sits at room temperature it builds flavor and consistency that makes better jam.  We tour the garden, we sample my first attempt at homemade yogurt mixed with cherry jam, cashews, and granola (Greek breakfast, I call it, and have two portions), we put stickers on jam jars, we talk more about food and access and City Market happenings.  I snip strawberries and drop them into a rectangular Cambro container; the table in front of me is covered with a protective layer of plastic, and piled high with other lidded Cambros that hold macerating raspberries.  Daniel has hoarded some strawberries in a large freezer that he will intermingle with other fruits throughout the year – peach + strawberry is a winner, he says, and I imagine other future flavors as the juice coats my palm and drips up my wrist and onto my apron.  I snip the berry tops into a compost box that is loaded with lemon peels, and the strawberry/lemon combination is so intense it seems that I can see the aroma all around us.  When I am ‘hired’ to sell jam at the Meade Market, I am able to tell the good folks about jam production – finding, picking and transporting fruit, cleaning and processing it, mixing flavors, getting it into labeled jars and to market – so I don’t feel like a poseur; mostly I just accept compliments on his behalf, and encourage people to visit the Saturday City Market so that they can experience Jam Daniel in person.

Sayonara strawberries…you’ll live on in jam and in dehydrated form in my cupboard, waiting for winter’s oatmeal to plump you back up.  But HELLO raspberries, cherries, blueberries, peaches, blackberries, plums, apples and persimmons…hope I can help rope you and bring you in to the table.

Kidding season at CaroMont – Feb 5 2009

or ‘Fifteen Degrees?  You MUST be Kidding’
(excerpted from ‘cut’ portions of “A Day on the Farm:  Making Cheese at CaroMont Farm” by Lisa Reeder, published in Edible Blue Ridge, Number 2 – Spring 2009)
Although the sky is still grayish black, the farm is unmistakably stirring to the smells of coffee and oatmeal with fresh Jersey butter and the sound of the televised weather forecast.  Last night the temperature fell to 15 degrees, and Gail is concerned about her flock of dairy goats. Sheathed in scarves, hats, thick coats and work coveralls, we move outside at a brisk pace as Gail explains the merits to living onsite. “In a farmstead tradition, the animals are here; part of cheesemaking is learning animal husbandry and getting them through that first phase so that they do produce…a large amount of milk so that you can make your cheeses from it.”  Our breath and Gail’s coffee bravely steam in the frigid air.  She also repeats a farming adage that goats (and sheep, and cattle) tend to have their babies in the most adverse weather, a theory which I am hoping will prove true as I have spent the night at CaroMont hoping to see the arrival of baby goats.

What follows is a flurry of activity leavened with apprehension; the night was cold enough that the very welfare of the goats and their brand new kids is in question.  Gail flicks on the lights and walks quickly around the Moo-tel, which is filled with straw, hay feeders, and her entire dairy herd. Gail circles the pen to assess any acute problems, and to formulate her plan to get through the morning with everyone intact.  One by one she checks the new babies, sorting who belongs with whom, drying them with towels from the house, calling out ‘it’s a doe!’ or, with less enthusiasm, ‘a little buck!’.   Gail encourages her girls, pats them and rubs their faces, all the while assessing their physical condition and keeping up a stream of lighthearted banter which cannot entirely hide her sharp concern for their welfare.  She gives the new mothers molasses dissolved in hot water to reward them for their labors.  “Molasses has a lot of calcium in it, and everyone deserves a good drink after they’ve had a baby,” she says with a smile, then moves on to the next one.

Meanwhile, I use my boot (and the frozen foot inside) to crack the ice on the top of the water trough (which has frozen two inches thick since yesterday at 5 PM).  The girls push forward to get a drink and nibble at my coat.  Despite the extreme cold and the presence of a stranger, their eyes are calm and their movements peaceful, even those whose flanks are ballooned out with their unborn kids.  According to my tally, it looks like Portia kidded with a buck and a doe, Charlotte with a buck and a doe, and Lizzie with two black and white la Manchas just like her.  She has rejected the buck, and the poor little guy just keeps bravely bumping into other does, hoping for a reassuring nuzzle or possibly an udder full of milk.  Brave Penelope birthed three yesterday afternoon, the first of which had to be pulled into this world through a breech presentation by Michelle Bessette.  This round of kids was sired by a ‘meat buck’ and is causing some problems with their larger frames and heavier birth weights.  “I won’t do that again,” says Gail, marveling at the unforeseen repercussions of a seemingly pragmatic  decision.  “That buck is for sale.”

As Gail cycles the new mothers through the milking parlor, I sit on a hay bale and feed the ‘older’ babies milk through plastic nipples on recycled water, beer and wine bottles.  The newest babies get colostrom soon after birth; the yellowish pre-milk fluid is imperative for immunity and immediate nourishment, and makes the kids skip and kick immediately.  Gail gives each one a thorough once-over, checking eyes, legs, and general health while she cleans them up and begins to love them. Each weighs less than a cat, although they are leggy and feisty from the first, wagging their bitty tails and nibbling on the fingers of my black leather gloves.  The bottles have been warmed in a milk pail filled with hot water; the little ones can feel the warmth and snuggle up against the pail, then fall asleep in a pile of hooves, ears and knees.

Old World Traditions vs. New World Regulations

We continue chatting about the famed cheeses and meats of Parma, Italy which have evolved together over time into una filiera integrata, or integrated row or thread: The pigs that are destined to become prosciutti are fed whey that is a by-product of the manufacture of Parmigiano-Reggiano, giving their meat a distinctive odor and flavor that has become famous the world over.

While European customs allow for this exchange and recycle of farm by-products, and in fact encourage filiera integrati as a means to establish and protect regional terroir, in the United States a more regulatory approach to food safety has been the rule.  For instance, it is unlawful for a farmer who produces pigs for resale (as opposed to personal consumption) to feed those pigs any by-product of the dairy industry, even nutrient-dense whey from Gail’s cheesemaking.  Recently, smaller farmers and food advocates have been critical of the parallel development of large-scale agricultural operations and the sprawling bureaucratic agencies charged with their regulation. They argue that legislation developed for large-scale producers places an undue financial and managerial burden on smaller food producers.