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My little village’s farmer’s market runs every Saturday from May through November. It is the source of everything from tomato plants that go into my garden in Spring to the pumpkin that will grace my front steps come Fall. I have a year-round relationship with one of the vendors who makes the trek into the village every other week during the winter, keeping me supplied with farm fresh eggs and the bounty of their root cellar.
With Saturday morning obedience classes, I simply had not made the time to stroll through the market until this weekend. Yes, I had made a mad dash for eggs one Saturday, but did not take the time to enjoy the experience. I swooped past the table of baked goods and homemade jams and pickles. I completely ignored the handcrafts on display under one of the vendors’ tents. There was no chatting on that particular morning.
With an early start to the morning, and nothing more pressing than yard work, which, like the dinner dishes, will always be there when you get back, this Saturday I spent hours at the market.
I talked to a beekeeper about colony collapse and diet diversity. I taste tested honey and tried out what may be the best cuticle cream I have ever used.
I chatted with a pair of women selling jewelry and needle crafts, and left feeling inspired.
I talked to an actual goat farmer about chevre and the benefits of gender segregation. Apparently boys stink like…well… like goats, and the stink shows up in the milk if the whole herd shares the field.
The cheesemaker, himself, went on to talk about the cooperative effort of farms in his area. Raising his own goats, he relies on another farm down the road for cow’s milk. It is clear he not only knows, but respects the farm practices of his neighbor. Keeping the sustainability and cooperative nature going, he passes the whey from his cheesemaking process on to a pig farmers down the road, as well.
Even those folks without a business relationship with another farm, seem to share a common bond. Rather than holding competing interests, I found vendors sharing secrets; all in the effort to raise better crops, raise better herds and raise awareness of the value of real food. Each has a vested interest in building demand for locally grown products and in seeing small farms thrive.
I grabbed the business card of a poultry guy who bemoaned the rain-soaked fields and shared his expertise on coaxing free-range chickens out of the coop after the long winter. He wasn’t actually a vendor, but had come to help a friend. He was chatting, in actuality, with the cheese guy, while I was, shamelessly, eavesdropping. How else are you going to know how he really feels about his chicks???
Do I remember everything he said about this breed and that food source?
Nope.
It’s still amazing what you learn when you have a chance to stop and talk…
Several months ago, in Fractured Food, I referred you to a blog post in Food52.com in which former Times writer, Amanda Hesser, questioned the value of the search algorithms for Google’s recipe search.
In Tuesday’s NYTimes article, Can Recipe Search Engines Make You a Better Cook?, Julia Moskin broadened that line of questioning to a number of other search algorithms. Both authors ask a fundamental question; “How on earth do you figure out what is for dinner?”
Google will help us find recipes by keyword, nutritional value and cooking time, but it’s not as helpful when it comes to finding a recipe that actually tastes good. Nor will Google validate the information that the information on which it is screening is actually correct. Stew in one minute? No problem. Fat free lamb? Sure, I’ll buy that.
Both Google and Bing are biased toward big websites, leaving wonderful and sometimes better tested recipes and personal favorites to languish pages below the initial search offerings. According to Moskin, the search engines appear to bias against long recipes, too. I’m sure most of you don’t want to be in the kitchen all day long, but maybe the length of the recipe has more to do with providing detailed, foolproof instructions, or providing fabulous variations, or perhaps an amusing anecdote.
I don’t have anything against Bing or Google, in general. I use both frequently. I don’t use them to find out what is for dinner, though. When it comes to eating, I choose not to “crowd-source” my recommendations. I know that a fair number of the “crowd” is eating at McDonald’s or having Mac&Cheese from a box. My usual sources have been Epicurious.com, which provides online access to recipes from food mags like Gourmet and Bon Appetit, recommendations from cooks that I know, or the scraps of paper I have personally torn from magazines or copied from friends’ recipe files.
The article offered a couple new sources, as well. Among my new favorites is a site called Eat Your Books, which, oddly, doesn’t publish any recipes at all. It just helps you find the ones that are already on your shelves – the ones by the cooks or in the format that you like so much you already own the book. Alas, Eat Your Books charges a small fee. As cheap as I am I had to think about it before signing up – for a second or maybe two.
Another fabulous site I found referenced in Moskins’ article was Foodily. The genius of this website is the ability to find recipes that exclude specific foods. Entertaining gluten-free eaters? Vegetarians? Diabetics? This is the sight for you. I did a couple random searches. While the search for gluten-free potstickers (my holy grail) failed to come up with an option, my gluten-free dessert search produced options like Almond Praline Semifreddo with Grappa-Poached Apricots and Frangelico and Toasted Hazelnut Meringues.
Now that is what’s for dinner…er, I mean, dessert.
OK. I may not have anything worthwhile to write lately, but I do have dinner recommendations…
A brief confession first, though…I feel I must admit I am not very persnickety about expiration dates. I will eat most anything. I mean, sure, I smell the milk carton periodically and decide that maybe it’s past its prime. I have a strict rule to toss anything with fuzz on it…or slime. In general, I don’t mess with canned goods that have expanded under pressure. They go straight to the bin.
I am at an age, though, that I have come to realize a few things about food standards.
Firstly, reading the expiration dates requires that I now go find my cheaters, or call the ophthalmologist and get a prescription for bifocals. The latter simply isn’t going to happen. The former usually doesn’t happen either; at least not when it is just me.
Secondly, it hasn’t killed me so far. I have survived eating bugs and rocks in my early years. I have drunk unpasteurized milk and eaten street food in foreign countries. For a decade or more, my mayonnaise-laced sandwiches spent mornings in a brown paper bag in an un-refrigerated school locker. I am not dead yet.
I do have a few rules, though. One of them is that fish gets eaten or frozen on the day it is purchased.
Ack.
It’s been one of those days, though, where cooking dinner was looking like a “bridge too far”. I spent much of the afternoon out in the rain; trying to wear out the beast before a therapy dog visit. We had an exhausting, evening visit to a local nursing home. Then we got home just in time for me to drop my backpack, wash my hands and dial in to a conference call for work.
Dinner was very nearly yogurt, and Chees-Its, and jelly beans.
Alas, I had gone shopping today. Today, I bought fish…
…and it was fabulous!!
Now I am not knocking the yogurt/chees-it/jelly bean option (I consider it one of the perks of being a spinster), but if you happen to have a serving or two of cod, or any white fish, lying around and some fresh tomatoes, this (Roasted Cod with Bruschetta Sauce) is way better. And it is simple and healthy. Hard to beat.
(Editors Note: The author regrets that there are no photos. She was hungry.)
Though only 64 degrees today it is sunny and feels much warmer. With nearly 4 days without a downpour the back yard is no longer a mud pit, and as of yesterday was actually mowable…and mow I did; no mean feat when you consider the dog management that has to go into that.
The front yard must be mowed with both dogs outside in the back because Dash 2 won’t go inside without me, and is not so happy outside without at least the beast. The back yard must be mowed with the beast inside, as she is intensely curious about the mower and will attack it from every angle, and with Dash 2 outside for the same reason as before.
Beast management and the records rains of April have left little time for some of the other outside work I would like to have had completed by now. The vegetable garden has not been turned over and is nowhere near ready for planting. The zinnias that I have started inside, three times, have, yet again, sprouted to life, greened up and, without warning, wilted and fallen over. The patch of bramble in the side yard where two years ago I had a small thatch of mint has sprawled. The grass is overrun with minty spikes. With no time to fully contain them yesterday, I just mowed them down.
Delicious.
Quite possibly the best reward for pushing a lawn mower around a muddy, rutted, slightly weed-ridden postage stamp of a yard. It was also quite possibly the inspiration for the first of the season batch of ice tea; tea the way my mother used to make it.
It has become fashionable to brew summer teas gently. A jar perched precariously on the porch railing is slowly and mysically transformed into nectar by the summer sun. More and more folks are using herbal teas or exotic flavors; delicately sweetened with locally made honey. These are wonderful trends to which I politely say “pah!”
My mother’s secret was mint from the garden, combined with good old Lipton tea, lemon juice, granulated white sugar and water…boiled. It is the scent and the taste of summer to me, and right now there is a big old pot of it sitting on my stove.
Yes, I know it is Saturday, but parts of today, admittedly felt a bit like work; all good work, things that I enjoy, but it is nearly 8 p.m. and, but for lunch, I haven’t sat down since 8 this morning.
I started the morning at home with chores and playing with the beast, which, while delightful, is still a bit of a workout. Then left for obedience classes and a meeting with Veterans PetReach board members, where I did a spectacularly bad job of multi-tasking my way through both at the same time.
After a lovely lunch, I was on to the next round of errands including menu planning and grocery shopping for Easter dinner. Nothing like planning ahead….
I know…
I did it to myself.
Since returning home I have put together the tomato and bean salad, cooked the appetizer, chopped herbs for the lamb, made lemon curd, orange charlotte and whipped cream for the two desserts to be assembled tomorrow. Somewhere in there I even remembered to feed the beast; though it is unlikely she would let me forget.
Now, what can be done in advance is done.
In the process I have dirtied nearly every pot, bowl and utensil in my kitchen. I’ve dried and put away several rounds already and still my dish drainer is piled to overflowing.
But there is much left to be done tomorrow.
Even now as I sit, my mind is racing.
What else could I be doing?
Do I need to write out a timeline or at least a list of what I need to do next?
It seems a lot of work, for sure, but it is work that I enjoy. It is rare that I have someone to cook for. In the end the extra effort up front pays dividends in being able to relax a little more tomorrow.
I think…
I have never been much of a rebel.
An old friend long-ago dubbed me a “rule follower”. He calls periodically to “get a ruling” not so much as his conscious, but as the authority on obscure rules; whether it is etiquette, or spelling, or something more serious. When starting to prepare for my trip to Alaska, I started by downloading Iditarod Rules and Regulations. Even long-time volunteers in the phone room learned to cover their mouthpiece and ask me the “rules” questions rather than wasting time looking them up.
Nor am I quick to adopt new things.
I don’t follow the trends in fashion. Don’t own the newest technology; no iPhone, no GPS. I don’t pretend to know when new movies are opening. I still think home-made is better than store-bought.
I read this morning of an underground movement that has started in California, though, and I can’t wait for it to make its way to my hometown. This process will, of course, take years. My hometown, as is suited to my general outlook, is far from the cutting edge…of anything.
The movement is the emergence of food raves.
In the NYTimes, Patricia Leigh Brown wrote They Gather Secretly at Night, and Then They (Shhh!) Eat, covering food as the new drug of choice; not as in overeating, but as in using food as the unifying element in a new movement ranging from the not-so-underground, municipality-sanctioned Friday evening farmers markets to pop-up, members-only, outdoor restaurants and markets found in off-beat corners; an entirely new twist on street food.
Many of the new street food vendors are young chefs from the area; eager to make a name for themselves and gather a following, or perhaps merely anxious to spread the love of a favorite cuisine among a new group of epicurean apostles. Other vendors have small farms or unusual produce or a seasonal product. In their low volume business; vendor’s licenses, market membership, state inspection fees and renting a stall are cost prohibitive, so the underground movement provides them market access; access to a new generation of foodies.
Yup, the pop-up restaurants and market are unlicensed,, unsanctioned and uninspected by health officials. To find them you need access to the same technology that has fueled revolution in the Middle East…on Twitter.
They break the rules. They are using the latest in communication.
It’s all very un-me.
And I wanna go…
There are advantages to having a cupboard full of bizarre ingredients, and/or a corner market that has wonderful spices even though they don’t have a butcher.
I was having friends over for dinner the other night. As they come from out of town and we rarely get to see each other, we cared more about seeing each other than about what we ate. Because they come equipped with a toddler, though, I thought it would be easier to eat in rather than go out.
“Pasta and sauce from a jar is fine with us,” they declared, not wanting me to worry much about cooking.
But I love to cook, and it’s not often that I have anyone for whom to do it.
I just didn’t feel like shopping.
I had plenty of veggies. I had salad fixings. I had bisquick, yogurt, eggs, butter, sugar, chocolate and fresh fruit for making some kind of dessert, and an ice cream maker available should I decide to get really creative. My pantry always has rice and pasta. My spice rack can accommodate cooking in several cuisines. I had wine, beer, soda, milk, juice.
Where I was falling short was in a main course. My challenge then was how to provide dinner for four with just two chicken breasts or 3 eggs. I could have gone with rice and beans I suppose, but while filling, it hardly seems worthy of company. Waffles crossed my mind, but I was low on syrup. It didn’t quite seem like a chicken soup kind of day.
Determined not to have to get in my car and drive to Wegmans (much as I love our local grocery store), and while any number of pasta concoctions would have worked, I went to Asia instead.
The menu for the evening was Thai Red Curry and Coconut Soup, Steamed Dumplings, and Citrus Salad with Poppyseed Dressing.
Why am I telling you this???
I just added the soup and dumpling recipes to my Food, Wine and Other Necessities pages…
Some where along the way our relationship with food seems to have become fractured. We choose “diet” foods that are low in nutrition, forgetting that food is fuel for our body. Or we binge on foods that fuel our mood, but still do nothing to power our hearts and minds. In grocery stores today it is easy to become overwhelmed by the overabundance of over-processed foods. We choose “fast” over “food”.
I, too, am guilty as charged.
You would think that science would be leading the charge to a healthier lifestyle, but there are at least of few scientific efforts that seem to be more interested in creating an actual food replicator, a la Star Trek. I am forced to wonder how far we are from that very thing.
Yes, there has been a bit of a food renaissance in the United States. Over the last 40 years, the country has seen increased interest in haute cuisine, but over those 4 decades high concept food seems to outshine high nutrition. And while the celebrity chef has reached nearly everyone’s television screen, how much actual food has hit tables across the nation?
Increasingly, Americans are eating out. Once seen as a luxury, even in an economic downturn did the country skip a restaurant tab in favor of a cheaper, and probably more nutritious home cooked meal? The whole country may have been tightening their belts, but you didn’t see McDonald’s tightening theirs, did you?
A friend sent me an email this week that, while it was indeed a spoof, cut a little close to the bone. This is what I saw when I opened her missive:
(The following is presented with apologies to Michelangelo and thanks to the unknown photographer)
David Is To Be Returned To Italy.
A bit of cultural news for a welcome change
After a two year loan to the United States, Michelangelo’s David is being returned to Italy…
Today
Two Years Ago
I laughed.
The thing is; it really isn’t funny.
In reading Clotilde Dusoulier’s monthly Chocolate and Zucchini (C&Z) blog recap, I came across links to a couple related stories.
In one, there was news of Cornell University’s use of 3-D print technology to make “food” into any shape they want. A scallop-like paste was made into the shape of the space shuttle. Using this technology, a chicken-y substance could be formed into dinosaurs or pinwheels. If they get particularly creative maybe they could use a vegetable-based goo to form something in the shape of a vegetable – but why??? We all know that would never sell.
So instead of researching what can be done to improve nutrition or revive the drive for real food, they have taken real food and mixed it up into something else and then shaped it into the form of another thing altogether.
I don’t get it.
I another story, C&Z had a link to a story from www.food52.com about Google’s new and “improved” recipe search algorithms. Instead of chef comments, ratings or techniques, the new search sorts on ingredients, prep time and calories. While I think those are all part of the info I might want to know before starting, I’m not sure that the requirement to marinate something overnight should be held against a recipe for something delicious. I don’t bake well, and I don’t want to attempt an un-reviewed, maybe it will rise, maybe it won’t cake recipe. I don’t think that the recipe from an excellent home chef should be left out because that chef does not include the calorie count.
So what’s a body to do. We do, after all, need to eat.
I, for one, am trying to eat more greens and less processed food. I’m busting out the cookbooks that line my kitchen walls, and searching for recipes on sites for cooks. I am skipping the fast food joints, despite a lifelong love affair with french fries, and I am starting seeds for my garden.
Oh…and I am imposing a lifetime ban on space shuttle shaped food substances.
The other night my nephew was over for a visit when my phone rang.
The conversation that ensued was about eggs and kale and beets, so it is not so surprising that my nephew asked if that was my farmer on the line after I had hung up. I told him yes, although in the strictest sense that may not be quite accurate.
My little village hosts a Saturday morning farmers market from May through November. In the Winter months, one of the couples with a regular market stand, comes into the village every other Saturday morning and sells their produce out of their car. They usually call on the preceding Wednesday or Thursday to take orders.
I like the idea of buying locally grown food. I like knowing who my eggs come from. I don’t know the hens by name, but I have their home phone number, and I know who collected the eggs from their coop.
I am an imperfect locavore. It’s February, and I just had a salad for lunch; salad with lettuce and tomatoes, that is. Dinner last night, though, was squash and apple soup; two items that winter over pretty well.
I am trying, anyway, to eat seasonal, locally grown food; to support the local farmers. I am even trying to grow some of my own. Each year my side yard is whittled away as my side garden gets expanded. that said, my efforts are a mere drop in the bucket.
For a broader take on America’s eating, the NYTimes published Mark Bittman’s food manifesto in Wednesday’s paper. I, being a little behind in my reading, just glanced at it today. Among the recommendations:
Tax the marketing and sale of unhealthful foods. Another budget booster. This isn’t nanny-state paternalism but an accepted role of government: public health. If you support seat-belt, tobacco and alcohol laws, sewer systems and traffic lights, you should support legislation curbing the relentless marketing of soda and other foods that are hazardous to our health — including the sacred cheeseburger and fries.
You can read the whole article here.
I’m not sure I fully support each of Bittman’s initiatives but I did find it food for thought…
A number of years ago I was stationed in Washington, DC, a place where snow is rare and snowstorms in the forecast spawn near-panic. I lived on Capitol Hill, a wonderful neighborhood of the city and like most of that town, entirely walkable. Which is good. It is especially good when you have awakened and the flakes are already flying and the wind is picking up.
On one such morning, my friends and I got a late start on storm preparations. We would, at that point, have to walk to the store as streets were already a mess and snow was already accumulating at a rapid rate. Being displaced northerners we thought it would be no problem, but as my friend and I turned the corner we were struck.
In the face.
With a blinding snow.
The snow and wind were being funneled down the narrow street. Though we had gotten only fifty yards and had a half mile ahead of us, we turned back. Returning empty-handed we were greeted at the door by the third member of our party.
“We’re not going to make it,” we declared.
Being the gentleman that he was, he turned to the coat closet handed us both ski goggles, added three more things to the shopping list and shoved us back out the door. When we remarked that we would no longer be able to carry all that we were supposed to purchase he disappeared into the back hall…and came back with a sled.
You can say what you want about chivalry, the man has problem solving skills.
Once properly outfitted, we did make it to the local grocery store. We got there in time to see the mayhem a few flakes could create. The aisles were crowded. In some place shelves were bare. The people in line had carts filled to overflowing. What was most interesting, though, was the contents of those carts.
I looked at our own list.
I looked at the carts.
I looked outside and thought that I must be missing something.
The folks in line had emptied the shelves of bottled water. You couldn’t find a flashlight in stock. The battery aisle indeed looked like something had exploded leaving nothing but tattered shelving in its place. One passing cart had three, twelve-roll packs of toilet paper.
I looked back at our list again; balsamic vinegar, sweet onions, two heads of garlic, a pound of butter, goat cheese, heavy cream, fresh parmesan, broccoli, 3 red bell peppers, thyme, fresh basil, one lemon, 5 pounds of baby red potatoes, carrots, pork roast, ice cream, a dozen eggs, english muffins, hollandaise sauce mix, Canadian bacon, and popping corn.
Oh…and dental floss.
As is the case with so many other things I suppose, storm preparation is many things to many people.
I say this now because as I type, a snowstorm is crippling the mid-west. Forecasters here are telling us to expect a foot and a half before tomorrow evening. Given my car’s hideous performance in snow, I made one last trip out this afternoon before we too are hit by the storm.
I came home with two bottles of wine.
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