sourdough monkey wrangler

whew!

2011-12-31T23:35:00.000-08:00

Did I make it? Can I squeeze in one last post to make it a grand total of 7 for the year?

Do I even have any time to talk about making a soufflé? Probably not, so I guess it doesn't matter if it had foraged chanterelles and a touch of bacon. Or that it was a month back and I'm just getting around to it now. Damn. I've been a bad blogger this year. Not that I'm gonna give you a new year's resolution to do more or anything (shit, with 7 posts it won't be hard to beat!), but whatever, I've got a feeling I'll pull it together someday and get back to more regularity. Anyway, I'll be starting a new full-time job come tuesday, so, some things are gonna change.....

Like from now on, I'm gonna stop putting hops in my beer and start putting roasted winter squash. You see, last year I had a brew at a place in portland that made me think a bit differently about pumpkin beer. Think golden and crisp and dry, not syrupy and spiced and you are on to my thinking here. This beer has stopped fermenting and is just waiting for some bottling to see what it turns into. My hopes are high, despite how weird it might look to some of you seeing so much delicata squash being dumped into a boiling kettle of beer. Guess I'll have to give a report in the new year.

Happy happy trip around the sun my friends!
D

creek where the hog resides

2011-10-07T18:51:00.000-07:00

The weekend before last was time for the "dads' fishing trip" of the year. A chance for me to regain a bit of sanity while being outdoors, hanging out with one of my best buddies, drinking beer, possibly taxing myself physically, and sleeping on the ground. Oh, and for fishing. Never one to catch many fish, or very big ones for that matter, I tend to rely on the other attributes of the trip to make for fine memories. But after hearing of "healthy looking" fish at our destination this year, I was hoping to eat something larger than the under-a-foot-crowd that dominate my last 10 years of backcountry fishing.

Arriving late Thursday afternoon, to the completely unmarked "launch area," we loaded the canoe and took off into the murky green waters. Paddling a few miles to our camp we witnessed various types of birds. Pelicans sat gathered or flew silently in formation. Ducks quacked their disapproval of us while audibly flapping away. Great Blue herons stood, waiting to see if we'd cross their invisible line of threat. Swallows danced and dove, snipping bugs on the wing. Geese honked. I think I even saw a Sandhill crane. Lots of birdies, all seemingly healthy and robust. We landed our canoe, huffed our stuff a few hundred yards to camp, and began a bit of on-foot exploration. A short three minutes walk away, crystal clear waters seemed to have at least a few 15+ inch trout. Sweet. The sun dipped a bit lower, we gave the cooler a thorough temp check by sampling some of the beer, and heated up some grub. Sitting around the fire after a long day of driving and a great afternoon paddling, things were right on track for a memorable time.

Friday morning, looking out toward the sea of high grass and shallow water beyond, I noticed a large bird coming our way. Solitary pelican? No wait, damn this thing is big, maybe a turkey vulture? Naw, too fat and flapping, flying along some 50 feet off the ground. Real dark though. As it passed overhead and the perspective changed, I saw a big white head and fat profiled body. Damn dude, Bald eagle! It flew North of camp about 100 yards and took hold of a large branch in a pine looming above a pond. Cool! Wonder if he's gonna fish for the same trout we saw in the pond the night before?

After a light breakfast, we took a short walk to start the fishing part of the trip. The wild rainbow trout that inhabit the spring-fed waters here were looking abundant. Trying our luck from the shore, with N on a fly rod and me throwing my tacklebox of lures at them, we managed to scare the fish rather nicely for a few hours. Eventually I hooked a teeny little guy, and nearly landed him. It was at least proof positive that something would bite.

We went back to camp, packed some snacks and water, boarded the canoe and pushed through the algal mat blocking the mouth of the creek. Paddling into the clear waters, we began seeing fish as they were "spooked" by our canoe, swimming everywhere it seemed. A few of the larger fish had obvious wounds on their bodies. One suffering from some nasty looking, multiple puncture wounds, and another with somewhat healed looking ones. Looked like one big gash on one side of the body, with punctures on the other, and a repeating pattern farther down the body. Injuries from fishing eagles, or ospreys? Trying our luck while exploring, proved that once again, middle of the day fishing usually sucks. But the beer is at least cold by then. We took shelter from the afternoon sun, resting in the glorious shade of a thick oak canopy. Checking out the scene again near twilight, expecting more activity from the still at least visible fish, we were baffled to not even get a bite. The surroundings were totally amazing though, and it was joy enough to just be there.

Morning number two came time to pump some water. While doing so, I kept witnessing the same two "torpedo" fish lazily chasing much smaller fish around the edges of a pond. I wondered if I should be using something light and fishy looking as a lure. Checking in with N, he had caught a few small ones but kept seeing the bigger stuff. I gave him my theory, knotted up something a bit more fishy, and walked around the pool beneath an outlet stream for the pond. Another pair of fatties circulated this little cove and my heart raced a bit. I tried casting just to the edge of the stream, hoping to ride the turbulent edge of water and retrieve my lure shallow and fast so it won't get hung up on the ubiquitous rocks. First cast, tempted a little nibble from something. I hadn't seen the two nice fish for a second and thought they must be on the other side of the pool. A quick cast landed right on target, and just as the lure was close enough to start seeing, an bright gold flash hit it. My meager little 2-lb test line tightened and did a quick whining. I loosened the drag, settled down to letting this beast tire itself out and realized I must have hooked one of those "torpedos." Dear god, please don't shake off.

With much coaching, I landed this beauty. Definitely the nicest freshwater hook-up of my life. I was eager to eat it, N pointed out that it was at least a 4 pound fish, if not 5 and that it would be lunch, AND possibly dinner. "Its a big fish dude, let's get a quick picture and get it back in the water, it will be alright." It sounded like sound advice from my fishing guru. I tried to pick up the fish and dropped it into the foot high grass. Too heavy and slippery to hold by the tail alone. I took a few handfuls of grass for traction, grasped the tail with my left hand and slid my right under the belly. Holy crap, this chunky fish had a fat roll! I checked out the "bacon" around the bottom, and handed it to N, knee deep in the water awaiting hand-off. Tenderly pushing the hog back and forth in the water for a few minutes, it woke up and took off.

We did some more fishing. Mainly N I think, and I believe he caught a few more fish, but I was simply in a trance. It took a while to hit me, but damn.....did I just catch that fish I've been day-dreaming about? Wow. Sure is pretty here, great weather, abundant wildlife, crystal clear water, HOLY CRAP THAT FISH WAS FRICKI'N HUGE! Wow, maybe I should eat something, I feel like I'm tripping or something, did that really just happen? Maybe a few beers and a nice long paddle driven exploration will help ground me. We walked back to camp, gathered some grub and went exploring again.

With nothing but a calm breeze at best, we headed East to explore the other two campgrounds, should we ever want to come back here in the future. (Hell yes!) Tracing our path from a few days before, we witnessed the same bird populations, adding a few more species to the list. (Loon, Cormorant and White egret perhaps, plus positively a few turkey vultures.) Eating lunch, out of the canoe, at the Easternmost campground, a wind suddenly kicked up, and out of the West. Seriously? We looked at the high clouds and thought back to the last weather report we'd seen. Cooler on Sunday. Well, late Saturday it is, and apparently the change is going to start right now. We got back in the boat and paddled hard as some mild white caps began to form in the shallow water. Fighting a headwind nearly the entire way, we got a good unplanned workout. We landed near camp finally, shoulders burning a bit. Nothing a few cold beers can't cure. Refreshed and still dreaming of big fish from the morning, we walked over to the clear pond and began our last evening of fishing.

Once again, not having much luck fishing the twilight times, we broke down and tried a few worms. A group of people materialized along the path nearby. "Hey, how's the fishing?" Well, not really anything tonight, but a few nice fish this morning. "Cool man!" Then something tugged at my line. As the party walked past, I reeled in another nice fish. Not as long as this morning, but of equal proportions. 15+ inches, likely toward 2 pounds. "Dude nice fish! Aw, I can't wait for the tomorrow!" Having swallowed the worm completely, this fish was being eaten for sure. I walked away from the pond and got down to gutting it and prepping it for dinner.

Small salmon anyone? Can you believe the color of this thing? I've had trout that was tinged pink before, but this looked like a King salmon for crying out loud! I hacked it in half, sprinkled it with salt and pepper, loaded the pan with a few garlic cloves and some oil and started frying it up. Rich and fatty, this sweet trout tasted like none I've ever had. Toothsome, bright, and quite able to stand up to the garlic, this "little one" made me wonder if the "big one" would have been similar. Likely. But, guess I'll have to come back sometime and hook into another hog to find out.

the dopo on adesso

2011-07-20T23:43:00.000-07:00

Dude. Version 3.0 of my wood fired oven. I finished it the previous week and gave it a test with some pizzas. Bottoms cooked up nice, but the oven wasn't hot enough. This time, I've hopefully learned a bit. The fire had been roaring for a few hours and my backyard was looking just right in the late afternoon light. Right for some more experiments with sourdough pizza topped with yard gatherings and local charcuterie, baked in a handmade brick oven.

Hmm? What was that about local charcuterie? Well let me tell you about something special. How about local hog and sun dried gypsy peppers (Riverdog Farms), with no added nitrates all tenderly crafted by the folks at Dopo Adesso. Try a "Zingaro" from the newest stand at the Saturday Berkeley Farmers' Market. Come on down and check them out. They had a crazy line-up of salami and paté, rillete and countless other derivations of porky goodness. Oh and get there early. On their first day at the market, they sold out.

Oh yeah, back to the wood fired pizza. Lets see. Two day fermented sourdough with a pesto sauce. Mozzarella and caramelized onions. Mushrooms, arugula and sliced zingaro. Holy flargin' cow I was drooling so hard in anticipation. If only I could cook these without burning the shit out of myself turning them in a 700 degree oven with a tiny handled spatula and gardening gloves. Well, see now, the homebrew is for a good reason I guess.

The first round of pizzas cooked up in about 4 minutes. I was pleased with the results and my sister and I horked down the first round of personal sized pies in about ten minutes. Noticing I still had homebrew left, and that the oven was still hot as be'jeebus, I thought I should take the opportunity to learn a bit more. I went back in, threw together two more pies and continued testing the bounds of my little brick and cob fire chamber.

Was I happy I continued baking pies. The next few took around 5 or 6 minutes to cook and baked up more evenly. They were crispy on the bottom, with fluffy crust and crisped toppings. I was so pleased with myself that I brought them inside, and despite feeling stuffed already, ate half of each, washing it down with that delicious and morally supportive homebrew.....

local salmon

2011-05-31T13:38:00.000-07:00

thank you salmon, for roaming the ocean free;

thank you salmon, for returning home;

thank you salmon, for giving your life to nourish my family.

thank you salmon, for your tasty pink flesh;

thank you salmon, for your strong flexible bones;

thank you salmon, for your ease of use.

thank you salmon, for your umami;

thank you salmon, for your texture;

thank you salmon, for your compatibility.

thank you salmon, for your flank;

thank you salmon, for your firmness;

thank you salmon, for your love of live fire.

thank yolu salmon, for your versatility;

thank you salmon, for your uniqueness;

thank you salmon, for being you......I love you salmon!

This fish was caught by Hudson Fish and purchased at the Berkeley Farmers' Market. If you are craving some local salmon like I've been, come see them Thursdays 3-7pm or Saturdays 10-3pm for a piece. If interested in a whole one, please contact Hudson directly to pre-order: 510-528-8686 www.hudsonfish.com

ferment change 4

2011-04-15T08:33:00.000-07:00

"On your mark, get set, go!"

For me, Ferment Change started with a doughnation. Year two, the party grew to a few hundred, workshops multiplied, and the Tour de Ferment was born. Year three, the party grew some more, the workshops continued to inspire yet more ferment in the community, and "le Tour" became even longer. This year, who knows? Bigger and better, that is for sure. But considering the nature of the beast, it is what you put into it.

So, feel like learning how to ferment some sauerkraut, kombucha, or brined vegetables? Come on down to the Ecology Center this Friday night (7-9pm) for a free workshop! Directions and more info can be found here.

Can't make the first one? Enjoy the workshop with Sandor Katz at the North Oakland Farmers' Market on Saturday May 14th. Check out more info here.

Feel like tasting a ton of different ferments, and/or perhaps sharing some of your home fermented items with other passionate fermented folk? Maybe you missed out on a workshop, or are hoping to have a little more one on one time with Sandor? Make sure to make it to the Humanist Hall on Sunday May 15th. Check out details here.

Love riding your bike on a nice afternoon while enjoying various styles of homebrew, and meeting a bunch of like-minded people? Join us on May 22nd for a tour of 8 different stops where you will enjoy beer, wine, mead, cider, whatever the hosts have brewed or hauled out of their archives. Check out info at the Ferment Change site or drop me a line at geodylan at comcast dot net to rsvp for the ride.

Oh, and I beat that rock.

orange eggs, no ham

2011-02-28T16:35:00.000-08:00

A few weekends ago we went and visited my in-laws. Arriving a bit before noon, Grandma G told the kids that her three young hens had recently begun laying eggs. The kids followed her outside to the hen's favored laying spots, didn't find any eggs immediately, then proceeded to play around the nesting sites until the eggs magically showed up. A few hours later, after much reminding that the hens didn't want to be bothered during their efforts, followed by some quiet time inside, the hens laid their gems. The kids got to collect their first farm fresh eggs, rushed inside like it was easter, then following instructions, wrote the date on them. The following day, about mid-morning (after not nearly so much reminding about disturbing the hens), they collected three more. "Mommy, feel this egg I just got. Its still warm!"

We were lucky enough to bring a few home. Quite possibly the tastiest damn eggs I have ever had, they had the darkest yolks I've ever seen. I had suspected as much cooking them up "on the farm" but when I fried them up at home in my orange handled skillet, it just begged a picture for comparison. And I am positive this was one of the paler ones!

I can't wait to eat a few more of these beauties. Until then, I'll be dreaming of my own little urben homested* chickens right here on oaktown.

*Apparently spelling this correctly will get you in trouble these days, as some folks have recently trademarked this term and a few others, and it is now no longer part of the modern, well-intentioned, ever-growing vernacular of the movement! Hell, maybe I'll get a reminder for even using a poor substitute.

the end of organic milk?

2011-01-26T16:01:00.000-08:00

If corporate giant Monsanto has their way, there will soon be GMO alfalfa available. Hearing this, you might be thinking "but I don't eat alfalfa, so what's the fuss?" The fuss is that nearly every cow you have ever enjoyed a milk product from eats alfalfa. If GMO alfalfa hits the market, it will spell the end of organic cow milk as we know it. Let this sink in: organic milk from cows will not be around much longer. I say this because GMO corn is entrenched in our lives now and it makes it nearly impossible to guarantee that the organic corn you strive to find and eat will continue to be. Same for soybeans. Please, please, PLEASE take a moment to consider that your voice is important on this matter. Then follow this link (click on the word "link" or cut and paste the whole thing down below) and send a message to our brilliant government about how they should not allow GMO alfalfa to be authorized for use. Do it now. Or start counting the days until organic milk is no longer an option.......

Sorry for the political rant, but I love my organic milk products. And I hope you do too!

TAKE ACTION!
NOW!

http://action.fooddemocracynow.org/sign/kiss_your_organics_goodbye/?akid=286.217084.QR293V&rd=1&t=5

better living through chemistry

2010-12-31T21:30:00.000-08:00

Is this really only my 15th post of the year? Holy crap I've been slacking. Wait, correct that. I've been slacking at posting anything this year, but slacking with the food projects? Hell no. For example, this picture is but a small bit of what 80 pounds of olives looks like when they are freshly harvested and temporarily residing on a sheet in my living room, awaiting sorting. Two short days later, it was time to start running some experiments. And after a few years of failed attempts with various methods (let's see: vinegar soaking, dry-brining, brine solutions, and fermenting them), it was now time to use the heavy chemicals. More specifically, sodium hydroxide.

Has anyone attempted to buy any lye lately? If you have, did you have any luck? You see, the stuff is rather hard to come by these days sitting on a shelf, as the regulations regarding the sale of it have changed. Rumor has it that quite a few meth-head chemists were purchasing the stuff for cooking up their product, which started to raise eyebrows to the folks selling the stuff, which suddenly made it harder for someone with a legal reason to have the stuff. All of which makes you seem suspect, trying to do so now. It took me about three days, and a jaunt to the next county over to get some. Luckily, it was even food grade, which was great since I had some instructions I was planning on following rather closely.

With an aforementioned large amount of olives to work with, six different experiments have been attempted, with five of them still in process. The fastest one to completion made it in time for a few x-mas gifts, and use at a few parties. So far the consensus is that it worked. They taste like real olives, have a nice texture and even still look decent. But most importantly, they fit on small fingers like real olives should. And that is no lye....

Happy New Year y'all!

(Give me a shout out to let me know you are still out there readers. You never know, it might make for one of them New Year's resolutions along the lines of me pulling it together and documenting more stuff. Which I'm planning on having more time to do so since I'm gonna start running again and I'll have to sit down for a rest eventually.)

insane in the membrane

2010-11-13T11:25:00.000-08:00

Quince. Marmelada. The source of the "original" marmelade. However you may or may not associate quince with the candy-like confection it can be turned into, it is an insane process to get from the picked fruit to the slightly orangish to red membranous end-product. (Then again, I am insane, so this kind of task suits me perfect.) Membrillo. It involves lots of peeling, hacking, de-pip-ing, and much checking over for any bit of pithy stuff from near the middle. Then you boil it, puree it, add an equivalent amount of sugar, then cook some more. Lots of stirring. Lots of floppy ploppy, slurpy glurpy sounds. Just half a day later, with you and your entire kitchen now splattered with what I think of as confectioners napalm, it is ready to cool. Maybe another hour after that, you taste it. Next thing you know it is the following year, you have nearly forgotten about all the work involved, and you are ready to give the whole labor intensive project another try.....

WTF?

2010-10-31T23:24:00.000-07:00

So there I was at the Tuesday market saying hi to Carl.
Whoa, WTF? That is one crazy squash!
"Yeah, everyone says that but no one is gonna buy it."
Serious?
"Yep."

An hour and a half later*, I'm finally leaving. I hear Carl say "hey, you have your car today?"
Yeah.
"Then either you're taking apples or that damn squash!"
I struggled back with two grocery sacks and at least a fifteen pound marina di chioggia, all while leaving a hand free for my three-year old to hold.

I had good intentions on making some gnocchi. Then halloween hit and I found myself looking at this cucurbita and thinking it looked like some big rumply brain. Dude, brain-o-lantern!

It was a bit tough for carving. The skin wasn't so bad to get through, but the flesh was hella-thick! I sawed away at it, then cut some from the inside too, and still needed to hack some more. I managed though, and I think it turned out pretty good. The kids liked it, saying something like "daddy's pumpkin is silly!"

Yep, silly indeed. But when else am I gonna have such a crazy squash at my disposal? Besides, tomorrow, if the slugs didn't get it in the night, I just might go "recover" some of the flesh from one of the thickest spots and look up a gnocchi recipe.

Because hey, like WTF?

* I've been known to linger at the market for hours, but today I was actually working on something.

yeasterday

2010-09-02T10:59:00.000-07:00

It was all about the wild yeast collection yesterday. Little dude and I went foraging for elderberries to start another mead like the one from last year. We couldn't get many, so I'm starting small with a little over a gallon. Then, fearing that my sourdough starter is trying to die, I mixed up a fresh biga. I picked some grapes from my backyard, mashed them up, added a bit of water and bread flour and whisked it like mad. I feel like an urban yeast farmer.

finger squash

2010-08-26T17:20:00.000-07:00

Any chance you read that last post and went: "Huh? does that say finger squash?" Well yes, it did......

I just love squash. I've grown a few different varieties in the past, my favorite being the small round zukes. But this Spring I got to try a new one, and now I have a new favorite. My friend Max gave me the finger. Now I'm giving it to you.

Giving me a start in a four inch pot, he called this crazy beast something like a "Yugoslavian finger squash" and said it's an heirloom variety. The handwritten tag said "Yugo finger." I put it in the coveted boxey space out front where there is a bunch of light and freshly amended soil. The plant took off. Climbing all around, little and fuzzy, they look delicate, but this plant seems hardy enough.

As soon as there were some for picking, I showed my sis.
Check this thing out!
"Hey, you're growing those? That's my new favorite squash!"
Yeah, my friend said they were really good and gave me one. I think it likes it here.
"What did he call it?"
Something like a finger squash.....I hunted for the tag and found it. Yup.

They are firm and what is that, "nutty?" Better flavor than most summer squash in my opinion. But the skin, oohhh the skin. Somehow robust yet thin, delicate and tough if it can be both, it squeeks fantastically. Squeaky squash. You hear a high-pitched little "errt-errt-errt" when you chew. The kids love it too:
"Daddy! Listen to my head when I chew the finger squash!"
And then my absolute favorite:
"Yeah, we're having finger squash again!"

But wait, they get even better, because unlike the two and a half foot long, seven to eight pound "medium" zucchini I came home to after a week of backpacking, these guys don't get outrageously huge. Sure, they're almost as big as the head of a three year-old, but still, I'd rather have a few of these than one of those truly huge zukes that we all know about and strive to either make something with (I made it through 2/3rds of the medium beast I came home to) or simply give away with a shrug.....

6 year old menu

2010-08-17T15:34:00.000-07:00

Big-girl was so impressed with the line-up that night, she documented it in a menu.......

About two weeks ago, I hauled out the deep fryer to remake some corn dog bites from a while back. Call it a re-relapse, if you will. Anyway, while the gallon of hot oil was in use, we raided the garden. We fried some zucchini and some finger squash. What didn't make the menu was the mozzarella filled squash blossoms. Hmm, come to think of it, maybe I accidentally ate all of those.

bfm summer farm tour

2010-07-07T17:46:00.000-07:00

Whoa, I knew I've been a slacker on posting, but damn, apparently, I've taken all of June off. Well, now I can comfortably tell you a bit about our 2010 BFM Summer Farm Tour:

So there we were, in the rain shadow of Mt. Diablo with Farmer Al out in his cherry orchard, talking about pheromone confusion tactics as a means of battling pests. Pointing out the cards in the trees, he explained how they emit female pheromones for several months time. (Sound expensive? Try $100 bucks an acre!) This means, that when the bad-boy bugs (literally) come in to mate, they home in on the female scent and before they know it whammo! find themselves spooning up next to this pretty white card. Maybe not exactly like described, but it must work here at Frog Hollow, because as their saying goes, it is home to legendary fruit.

I found myself oddly attracted to these white cards. I wanted to climb up into the tree and spoon up next to one, where I could hang out with the guys and gorge myself sick on cherries. Then I snapped out of my daydream and we had shifted gears, now talking how dwarf root stock was used. Prone to blowing over when mature, they thrive and produce a more reachable bumper crop. We moved on again, touring two "newer" varieties of early apricot (Apache and Kettleman) on our way back to command central.

Becky greeted us outside her magic kitchen. The fruit coming straight off the farm may be legendary, but it still takes an enormous amount of work to properly preserve the yummiliciousness of it all. Well, not all, as they sell the same varieties to the public. Still, certain varieties of favorites are immediately turned to jam. However, there is far too much fruit to make into jam at once, so a lot gets dipped into citric acid and frozen for a later date with this jamtastic cauldron. Have you tried their preserves? Wow! And the pastries? Oh my lord! Brilliant.

Lucero knows strawberries. Out here in the middle of the Central Valley, looking out at a second-year field of berries and listening to Ben, his quiet charm reminded me of yoda. He described past-pest problems and laughed. He mentioned that his favorite tractor, as old as he is, fires up right away. Then he turned the key for us and grinned. He pointed out how his berries still have their umbilicus. His partner Karen and son Curtis exhibited similar takes on the same light-heartedness and down-home kindness. Genuine. Hearing about their hopes of expanding, they pointed out the dire need for more available organic farmland. I wanted to somehow go get some and give it to these guys.

Walking through the oasis next to their home, they told of how depending on the time of year, you can meander through the bamboo and pick various fruit. Just at the bench here, you could reach up to a loquat, behind you to a pomegranate, take a few steps across the path to a fig. Our group wandered on, hearing something I surely missed, while I lingered another moment here, letting the serene scene pull me in. Calming indeed. Bound to help balance the work involved in nurturing, harvesting, and bringing such great produce to market.

At the first toes of the foothills, on the edge of the Central Valley, Jon and Cleizene Smit, much like their land, continue to evolve. After decades of being dairy farmers, they are now on their third decade of fruit farming. At a point in their lives where most folks are being taken care of by their own kids, these two are clearly still in charge of the family business. Having recently cleared a large plot with a ridiculously large bulldozer (a D-10 with 6 foot teeth for breaking up some of the hard-pan), we saw this little rig out digging holes. They grow a huge amount of apples here, yet they still have a need for more. And with their love and hard study, within 2 or 3 years, you'll see apples at the market from the trees that will fill these empty holes.

We made it over to the old milking parlor, and discovered it's modern usage. Converted to cold storage, and juice production, it now turns out a different liquid than milk. No animals involved, yet something is still getting squeezed inside. What you see here is a belt juicer. It "presses" apples by running them between two oppositely traveling belts. I'd love to see this baby run. Ever tried their cider? Mmmm. Fine stuff there. Treated correctly, it makes for some fine hard cider too.

We heard of trials with tree spacing, branch configuration and shape, trellising, and more of the miraculous dwarf root stock. And that was only apples. With cherries and grapes, pluots and who knows else up their sleeves, the Smits are a fine example of a couple who have divided the burden of work and knowledge evenly, and thrive. Sharp. I hope I'm half as spry and with it as these two when I reach their age. Wait, I'd be better off than now.

Leaving the farm, they offered up some paper bags and told us to go pick some cherries if we wanted. We loitered in the orchard awhile, gorging and picking. When someone mentioned they were beginning to feel greedy, we piled in the cars. The ride home went smoothly, and without delay we arrived a short pound and a half of cherries later.

Hope you enjoyed. For previous Berkeley Farmers' Market field trips, check out:
2009
2008
2007

a love of labor

2010-05-29T15:08:00.000-07:00

Fava beans. Do you love them or hate them? Maybe you love to eat them, but couldn't imagine ever putting in the labor beforehand to do so. This is where I stood just a few years ago. I liked the idea of them, but somehow when it came to boiling, then shelling, then skinning, then cooking again, I just couldn't manage. But things are different now. Funny as it sounds, I love the labor involved.

About a month ago, I bought my first sack of favas of the season. Bringing them home and performing all the labor, I was depressed thinking of the tiny amount of beanie yield in the end. So I put them into another dish that is a labor of love. It was my first rice torte with favas in it, and I immediately thought of my grandma. Did she make something like this? The flavors went together well; she must have.

Then, last week, I was at a friend's house picking up my empty beer keg from the Ferment Change party. "Hey, you want some favas?" I think he got to the F when I blurted out "hell yeah!" We went outside and stripped his plants, yielding a bag much larger than what I would pay for at the market. I brought them home, put them in the fridge and planned for some work time the next day.

With the majority of the labor complete, I tossed some bacon and onions in a pan and started cooking. I got the water boiling for noodles. With the onions a light caramel color, and the bacon getting a touch crispy, I chucked in the favas. A few minutes later, they were ready for some sauce. I put in some more butter, a touch of flour, stirred it quickly and thoroughly, then added a cup or so of milk. I cooked it until it was thickening, then added a cup or so of grated parm. It was pointing toward the best thing I've ever made with favas.

My lord it was good! I wolfed down a few bowls AND there were lots of leftovers. Definitely, the best yet.

Then, the next day, I was out in my garden, tending my favas. They are really late, still blooming, but showing promise of having a nice harvest. I had my head down in the plants when some Jehovah's Witnesses came walking by. I stood up to say hi, and attempt to graciously turn down their literature. I was met with a broad smile and few questions:
"Hey, you like the favas? Do you know what to do with the favas?" an elderly woman named Rosa was asking me in somewhat broken english.
"Sure," I said. "You lovingly think of your grandma as you prepare the beans, then fry them up in a pan with some pancetta and onions. Then eat it right there or add some parmesan and put it on some pasta."
"Oh, I see maybe you are Italian no?"
"Kinda."
"Sounds like enough to me. You have a good day."
"I promise," I said.
Then I went inside and had another bowl.

tour de ferment

2010-04-20T13:36:00.000-07:00

Hey, wanna help out? Then get on your bike because it's time to ride for our local urban-ag heros City Slicker Farms! (CSF).

This Sunday, our "Tour de Ferment" (but one event in a series of fermentation based fundraising called Ferment Change) will be taking a tasting tour of five homes in the North Oakland and South Berkeley area where the craft of home brewing is in full swing. Bring your own bike (uh, and helmet please), an unbreakable cup, stories of your own crazy ferments if you have them, and a small donation for CSF. Then take a beautiful ride on a (so far likely) gorgeous afternoon with friends and community members who enjoy helping out their hardworking friends by enjoying a few good brews.

How can you beat that?

give me a shout if this sounds like fun:
g e odylan
at that there
comcast
dot netty

pork noodle soup

2010-03-26T14:31:00.000-07:00

With a trip down memory lane, I stumbled across this soup. I had some hot italian pork sausage in the fridge, and was wondering what to do with it. A review of the pantry revealed a can of garbanzo beans and I had a thought about a spanish soup a friend gave me a recipe for near ten years ago. Way back when, I had just made chorizo for the first time, and as the soup called for chorizo and garbanzos (which I just adore), the dish came together splendidly. Now, this many years later, with some kind of hot porkyness and garbanzos on hand, they just had to go together.

I split the sausage casings, dumped the meat in a hot pan and started stirring. After a few secs I diced up a mediumish yellow onion and added it to the fat-releasing, big meaty crumbles that were starting to form. I rooted around in a bottom fridge drawer for some mushrooms to add, but came up with a wet bag and some dank slimey ones. Hmmmm. Maybe we have.........oh yes, what do we have here that was bartered for with homebrew? Porcini linguine to the rescue! So I added a few cups of water to the pan when the onions and meat were a golden brown. It became one potent broth in a quick hurry. I dumped in my beans and let this simmer together for about half an hour, then added my mushroom pasta. It may have looked more like an asian dish with the fat noodles and all, but the flavors spoke from a mediterranean side of things. Based in the past and inspired by the present, for me, this soup was an instant classic.

tastes like chicken

2010-03-15T22:03:00.000-07:00

Oh my.

It is a rare occasion in this world when you can out do a "best you ever had" moment in your life.

So there I was, with my second chicken from Riverdog Farms, stuffed ever so lovingly into my small cooler and transported home on my two-wheel truck. The first bird from them the week earlier was nearly the best chicken I've ever had, so my expectations were running high you might say. I prepped and baked #2 in a similar fashion, and as before the results were awesome. After carving it up and enjoying it with a side of rice and carrots, I put it in the fridge to think about later. We still had much leftovers, because running around 8 pounds, this small turkey was more like 3 meals. After something like a minute and a half, I wanted chicken salad.

The next day, I got to work. My salad was composed of diced meat, pesto (last fall I planned well and still have about 4 cups in deep freeze), chopped olives and celery, with just a dollop or three of mayo to get the right consistency. I looked around for bread, and luckily (because I have the best wife in the world) there just happened to be some biscuits laying around. I sliced one and gave it a light toasting. I heaped on some saladic green hunkiness. It looked good. I ingested it in about 4 bites. Then, with drool streaming from my face like some large breed of dog, I made another. Tilting my head a touch for the second first bite, a thought tumbled off a shelf somewhere deep in my head and came to rest in a legible spot. This is the most chickeny chicken I have ever had! If it could stand up to all that pesto and such, and still cry out roasted chicken, then it just had to be true.

The next day, chasing the spector of reliving a "best of" moment, I made another chicken in a biscuit sandwich. Granted, it wasn't as good as the first, or second, but really, because the only remaining biscuit was another day older, there wasn't the same volume of salad, and because somehow, getting closer to the subject in a photo is not always a good thing.

If you have access to the Berkeley Farmers' Markets, enjoy chicken, and don't mind hacking off the head of the tastiest bird you might ever eat, then do Trini and Tim a favor. Do our planet a favor. Support small farms and sustainability. Go buy yourself a Riverdog Farm chicken.

best quiche ever

2010-02-27T18:30:00.000-08:00

This is not meant to be a tease. Try to think of it as more a testament to how good it really was. You see, I meant to take a picture of this totally fantabulous quiche, but realized that none existed until the final crumbs. So here we are, looking at what might as well be a bit of scrambled eggs for all you care. Anyway, I present the last crusty remains of what is reportedly, the best savory, eggy-fluff heaven thingamagig ever made in my home: a crab, leek and crimini quiche.

(Now, I will go hide somewhere and drink a homebrew. And then I will hope and maybe even pray that someone out there will agree, that somehow, this was the best damn quiche ever.)

Oh, and remember, don't overdo it with the crab.........

crab leek crimini quiche:

5 large eggs
1 cup cream
1/2 cup milk
1/2 lb jack
3.12 ounces crab meat (dungeness around here)
1 biggish leek
6 medium crimini mushrooms
crust of your choice

crack, beat, pour, grate, pick, finely chop, saute, mix all together and then fill. bake at 400 for a bit, then 350. cool enough to not burn the shit out of your mouth. cut yourself a piece, enjoy.

and in case you need more crabby fun from the past, click here

sourdough trinity

2010-02-16T15:40:00.000-08:00

My daughter has been saying "oh my god!" about stuff lately. It came on suddenly, as though picked up from a friend. (My guess is that this happened somewhere between 9am and 3pm last Friday; the last day of school before I first remember hearing it.) The first few times I heard her say it, I busted up a bit, then had the inkling to somehow correct her. It made me think of growing up and having my grandparents correct me, saying "you mean: oh my gosh." Not being hung up on words involving a deity, I chose not to engage in any "correction" and went back to laughing. My partner mentioned having the same response to hearing this little phrase out of her. We were witnessing a sort-of birth of irreverence. Sweet. With it now being Fat Tuesday and all, and inspired by my daughter, I thought I'd indulge myself a bit and document a bit of my own irreverent behavior. So on with it.

Never before have I made english muffins, baked a loaf of bread AND brewed, all on the same day. Three creations from the same mother. It made me think of a triptych. Then I felt myself being pulled down an irreverent road. If it were the holy trinity, just who would be the father, son and holy something-or-other then, huh?. It should be more like mother, daughter and etherial spirit if you ask me.....Then I snapped back to and posed the yeastie offspring for a group photo. If only they looked more like panels, and had hinges connecting them together, maybe then I could claim triptych.

Then, satisfied with this, I went and had myself a beer in my favorite new glass. (Thanks once again sis) Irreverent as hell, it makes me laugh heartily. I especially enjoy it when I'm having a dark beer such as this one in it, and a different "reason" becomes revealed with each new glug. Yeah, that shit busts me up you might say.

Go tie one on, get schnockered, dance all night, run around naked, whatever. Eat lots of meat, fatty sugary things and indulge. Come tomorrow, depending on your culture, you just might have to pull your shit together.
And if not, remember, it is still a school night.

Where 'yat?

hey, it's fuyu!

2010-01-15T10:22:00.000-08:00

Tell me, what would you do if given a thousand pounds of ripe fuyus?
Inspired by last year's experiments with goo I took action.....

Take one box of the crazy-soft goo balls (between 24-36 fruit) and rip off and compost the stems and upper leaves. Toss the rest into an 8q pot and mash with a potato thingie. Chuck this into a big gauge colander and stir around with a spoon-like object. When most the pulp is through, remove most the skins and compost 'em. Pour the remaining mess into a clean 5 gallon bucket. Repeat this process 6 more times, adding a quart of orange blossom honey at the end. Stir thoroughly and you have something like this. I covered it with a nylon grain bag to keep the flies and monkeys out and took to stirring it every few hours.

By day two and a half, the froth had set in. It was getting on near that time to put this beast into a large vessel before it decides to go eat some sugar elsewhere. I got out a huge piece of glass for just such occasions, scrubbed it a bit and left it overnight to soak some more. The next morning I check on the yeastie beasties and they have shoved the nylon bag into a slight dome, stretching it some, causing it to hold tight to the bucket rim, thus keeping the foam from climbing out. I removed the bag at first sight and it released the cork a bit. A few quarts or so of foam blurbed on over the edge.

Safely behind glass, I could now judge the true character of these wild organisms. They were chewing up the persimmons pretty good, but the pulp still had the consistency of a runny flan. I added a gallon of tap water and swirled it around as well as one can when you find yourself agitating a 45 pound glass container with 5 gallons of orange snot in it. I gave it my best, then left it alone. Checking a few hours later, some separation had occurred and I finally felt like this experiment was leaning toward success.

Now, more than a week into it, I wonder if I should have made more. Maybe a lot more. Then I think, that's crazy! I couldn't post something about that, people would think I'm nuts!

Then my brew buddy gives me an update of the madness we have going in his backyard. He sends a link. So now, if you have any interest in what one might do with a mad amount of ripe persimmons........

Because, really, using seven boxes only puts a tiny dent in 170!

poached scramble with gifted speck

2010-01-02T12:41:00.000-08:00

It's been nearly two weeks since the last BFM. I'm going through severe withdrawal. Without fresh veggies, my skin turns ashen, the gray at the temples becomes more pronounced, and I want to sleep more. And it's not just me. The kids get cranky that the broccoli doesn't taste the same as usual. My partner points out that the store bought tofu tastes like the reason why people don't like tofu.

But then, I was rescued. I went to B's house to mix up 100 gallons of persimmon glop for the latest, crazy, fermentation based, hair-brained idea and came home with some wild collected fungus. We still had a few market eggs left over after all the holiday cookie making. Then G-dog came over with some Nueske's bacon yesterday morning and it all came together. It was a fantastic way to start the year.

Now, today, I get on my bike and ride to the market......YEAH!

Oh, and happy 2010!

silurian turkey

2009-11-30T13:26:00.000-08:00

Turkey day. I guess it just wouldn't be complete without turkey and ham, stuffing, sweet potatoes, mashed potatoes with gravy, cranberry sauce, green bean casserole, ratatouille and a bun. Now add to this a backdrop of some ancient Precambrian, Ordovician and Devonian marine beds, often overturned and interspersed with implied angular unconformities between, served with a side of Pleistocene volcanics and THEN I'm truly satisfied. Like this year. Our family spent the holiday taking in the stunning scenery with a full plate of thanksgiving fare while either eating calmly beside our lovely daughter and her six-dollar smile, or chasing our toddler around a series of gravelly paths hemmed with cactus. Not quite the "norm" for a turkey day celebration in most folks' heads, but with two of these desert middle-of-nowhere kind under our belts, one without kids about ten years ago and one with kids this year, I'm looking forward to more in the future.

But that was just the warm-up. There is more adventure involved, albeit not so gastronomically inclined. You can impress your pink-loving little girl and bring her to find canyons with rocks her favorite color. Then you can witness how nimble her limbs are, climbing about the dry falls and exhibiting her momma's sharp skills. Canyons are rather ubiquitous out here, and many contain areas requiring technical climbing skills. Don't go alone. Keep little ones safe and check out some park info for a nice place to start.

So remember, if you find yourself in the Death Valley region* during the turkey time of year, don't miss out on some bird, drop by Panamint Springs Resort for a nice plate! Then take your family to explore a few of the flash-flood carved water courses, within innumerable canyons, containing a whole palette of earthly colors imaginable. Whew! I really love Death Valley.

Where were you this turkey day?

* put on some geography goggles and you'll realize that this is something akin to saying "if you're ever in Connecticut..."

cabra delicata

2009-11-14T12:19:00.000-08:00

Fearing milk allergies and mucus production, my folks experimented with feeding me goat milk as a child. In rural Sonoma County back in the seventies, this was no way out of the norm. Although I don't remember much of the early diet shift (as it was pre-5 for me; my elder sister was the one who really had to deal with it) I have a long standing love/hate thing with goat products. Okay now, I'll back up just a touch and say overall, I like them, especially the meaty kind. However, pretty much straight across the board, nope on the milk form. Curdle it or age it though and like, wow. Some are simply divine. But cook the creamy products, and for me, all bets are off.

Funny how things happen. I got a package of goat cheese recently, brought it home and noticed it had a cut in the package, likely from a box cutter. The seal was broken. I was looking forward to this on crackers and olive bread but now I doubted serving it to my family. I thought: bring it back, or just cook it? Now, cook it with what? I had some delicata squash about to be cut and roasted in the oven. I started thinking about how dark caramel flavors from the roasted goodness would probably be strong enough to deal with a pound of goat cheese, if in the right form. Maybe add sugar and eggs for safe measure. Time for a cheesecake.

It turned out pretty and all, almost good enough to get into the colorful holiday cheesecake repertoire. Then I took a bite. It was nice and creamy, and the caramel squashiness was perfect. But the overtones of goat were just too damn much for me. I struggled through about half the cake before admitting defeat though. I mean, it was cheesecake after all. Reflecting on it now, I realize this is the second time I've attempted such a thing. Now with two strikes, I'll say with confidence that goaty cheesecake just ain't for me.

hood harvest

2009-10-28T22:07:00.000-07:00

Despite the lack of posting, activity around the monkey ranch has continued.

Back near the beginnings of September I went out and harvested some elderberries. Not wanting to repeat my recent bout with poison oak I opted to collect the berries along a well traveled paved road in the Oaktown Hills not far from my house. A gallon of them to be exact. They were easy pickings and just loaded with yeast. Mead was on my mind. I had near a gallon of local honey. Visualize mashing, mixing and much dissolving. Now, after a good month and a half of fermenting, it is reaching the teens in alcohol and tasting much like a big rich port. Patience, is a blessing.

My local hop obsession continues. This year's harvest sure looked good. Not quite as prolific as last year, but better quality and way less bugs. (Although, in this picture there is at least a noticeable spider web lower right, a ladybug lava mid level, and multiple small white fly-ish things near the top of the hop cones.) The cascade variety (pictured) made it from the plant to the kettle in less than an hour. Now in a bottle, carbonation is the operative word. Once again, this involves much patience.

I was riding my truck to the market. It had rained a few days earlier and the first true fall leaves had collected here and there. Brown and crisp, they went crunch under the tires. Paying attention to the road, I looked down and saw a bright green leaf. As my brain registered "not a leaf" I swerved. Keeping my eyes on a spot a few inches to the side, I missed the mantid. Circling back, I fished out a food container and put my friend in the safety of my keeping. Beat up ever so slightly by the monkeys until being let loose in the garden, he made it out there at least 10 days before "moving on." I look forward to "harvesting" more mantids in the future. With patience I'm sure.

Two years ago, I gave my neighbor a hop rhizome. Now, healthy and two stories tall, they required a big ladder and teamwork to pick. While harvesting, another neighbor a few doors further down walks buy and says "dude, you harvesting your hops, you gotta come pick mine." Less than half an hour later I had at least a few ounces. Not knowing what variety I was dealing with, I cracked open a homebrew for some inspiration on how to proceed. The unknowns were somewhat garlicky smelling with red vines. I brewed up a small batch of beer, keeping it firmly on the red side of things to stay with the color scheme and used the house yeast for keeping it local. The patience pays off now, as the carbonation is good. More importantly, the garlic smell is gone and the beer is good. It's all good. Apparently my neighbor four doors down was this year's hop angel.

After dealing with various harvestables, it was time for another kind of food collection. I'd been hearing much about a famed fried chicken sandwich here in the hood that causes folks to form a long line every day come lunchtime. Being a local with a flexible schedule, I made sure to be early. Little monkey and I snarfed down some pumpkin bread on the way and opened this bad boy at home. One glance and shit damn, was I happy. Two honking bigtastic deep fried chicken breasts served on a sweet roll with some screaming yummylicious slaw. People weren't kidding when they said it was good.

The harvest is not over. Squash are still coming in. The tomatillos are still giving fruit. More beers with more hops are on the way. It keeps me busy with all the harvesting and fermenting, but I just love it when the picking is easy.

pressing cider

2009-10-15T21:25:00.000-07:00

When these beauties hit the kitchen counter, the cider making season began. My neighbor Professor Evil gave me a grocery sack filled with apples. He called them "drops" from his boss who lives here in the east bay. Before I even saw what variety they were, my nose told me I was in familiar territory. I opened the bag and got hit with the smell of my childhood summers in Sebastopol: Gravensteins.

I immediately ate one. I whacked up a few and dehydrated them for snacks later. Then I gave the rest a pass through the juicer. With a yield near a quart and a half, I poured it into an empty glass milk jug. I added about 3/4 cup of blackberry blossom honey. Shaking vigorously to dissolve the bee love, I put it on the counter and began waiting for the magic to happen. The next day bubbles arrived.

With one little experiment up and running I began thinking about doing a bigger batch. It wasn't looking like Reedley was going to happen this year, so no free Granny Smiths to juice up. That's okay I thought, my friend P told me that "your apples" were looking good and ready any time I wanted to come over and pick.

At the next market my favorite peach farmer Carl asked me "hey, you have any use for hundreds of pounds of apples this year? Like for cider?"
Uhh, sure, like how many?
"Oh, at least 20 boxes, so about 400 pounds or so, but easily more if you think you could use them."
You talking like giving me the apples and I give you cider back?
"We could work it out that way......"
I was already considering renting a press. So, 34 boxes later, it looked like the best idea I'll have all year.

The press came apart somewhat and managed to fit into the back of my wagon. Over at B's (my pressing pal) house reassembled, it looked like something straight out of the middle ages but with an electrical cord at one end. Plug it in, start tossing the apples into the hopper on the upper right, and then keep them coming until the press basket below it is full of pulp. (Make sure to place the basket under it when actually performing this task.) Fold the mesh bag lining the basket over itself on top and insert the pressing plate (not easy to see but being used under the auger press on the left). Crank away and watch nearly a gallon per basket flow down and into your carefully positioned, non-breakable vessel.

The juice from this ancient technology was clear and pretty much pulp free. Five gallons into it and I was impressed. At 10 gallons I was considering a way to build one. Nearing 15 gallons and I wanted to go buy one. By 20 gallons I thought it the best invention since liquid soap. 25 gallons and I was convinced a genius designed it. 30 gallons and I was glad we ran out of glass carboys to fill before we ran out of apples.

Now, what did we do with 30 some odd gallons of cider? We decided to split up the fermenting task and each claimed responsibility for roughly half. Then we used different yeasts in different containers and let the microrganisms get to work. Three short weeks later and I have now completed the first racking of my portion. Rumor has it B is working on his. I bottled a sample of each of the three kinds I have going.

Now, I'd write more, but after sampling a touch while performing the aforementioned tasks, I'm feeling rather spent. Also, I'll have to wait a week or two and try the bottled samples before deciding on how to proceed. Still or sparkling? Blended or not? Only time can tell. I'll give a bottling update when it happens.

Go press some juice, would you?

picktober

2009-09-15T14:55:00.000-07:00

The month of September should be renamed Picktober. It is high season for harvesting and preserving. This year, I'm working on a new (to me) method though. With cucumbers hitting the market in force, I have turned into a pickling fool.

I started with the batch on the left. Straight forward, lacto-fermented pickles. They smelled so good after the first week that I went ahead and pickled some more stuff, starting with okra. Yep, okra. I'd had some about two years ago from a market vendor and they just floored me. With only the barest hint of slime, but crunchy and spiced oh so nice, I made a mental note: make these. So, here we are, one big half gallon of it later. Oh, and the last jar is what happens when you trade stuff, come home with various cucumber varieties and chuck them all together. I haven't sampled these yet, but I suspect they'll be just fine.

Now, where was I? Oh yes, the main body of the post, right. Time for tomatillo talk. Last year, I planted tomatillos, and as suspected many sprouts poked their heads out of the ground and reported for duty this year. Elder monkey watered them often early in the season, convinced she had planted them. They flourished. For comparison, I was given two tomatillo plants this year that when I transplanted, were much larger than the volunteers. They are puny compared to these robust creatures now.

Speaking of now, these plants are producing fruit like mad. Little dude and I went ouside and picked ourselves a nice bowl full. I was lacking any onions or peppers from the yard this year, so I was not thinking about sauce. Then it hit me: pickle them! Hell yeah, that's gotta be good right? I hit the bookshelf for a pickled tomatillo recipe for guidance. None. Damn. Not fazed by the lack of instruction, I consulted my own senses and went on.

The first batch of cucumber pickles were done and came out great. I used some of the leftover brine to start the tomatillos going. I added a few whole jalapeños, a few teeth of garlic and a sprig of epazote. While I was at it, in another bowl I hacked up some carrots and peeled more garlic, got out some more jalapeños, then collected some oregano twigs from the yard. The pickling sickness was really setting in about this point.

One short week later, everything was no longer bubbling and the brine was nice and cloudy. I tasted a few tillos and was stoked by their taste, but not really their texture. No worries though, as blending them up was now the plan. I drained everything and then dumped it in the food processor. Hitting blend for a while, it needed a tad more moisture so I gave it a splash or two of the brine. Getting nearer the consistency I was looking for, I gave it another little splish. Just by the fumes, my nose could tell it was going to be hot as hell.

Tangy from the ferment, not too salty, and indeed hot, but not unpleasantly so. Now, it goes on everything. I start my morning with a dash on the eggs. At lunch, leftover rice sure is nice. For dinner, anything. As long as it can go with some mind-bendingly easy to make, love that I ran this kind of experiment, pickled salsa verde.
(fade to the sound of a bag of chips being popped, mild diabolical laughter, then enthusiastic cookie monster-esque noshing......)

pick-up truck

2009-09-02T12:40:00.000-07:00

My pick-up truck. I can haul all sorts of stuff home on it. In particular, I enjoy pedaling home with the bartered bounty from the farmers' market. I bring various fermented goods (english muffins, beer, cider) and as was the case here (August '08), came home with not only food but also building materials. I was in need of bamboo (at least, in theory) for my garden projects. At first, I wasn't sure how I'd get the bundle of eight foot lengths on my truck, but some careful bungee work made for a solid haul. Not wanting to challenge other bikes to a jousting contest, I made my way slowly home among quieter streets. I was so proud arriving, I asked for a photo.

The following month, there was a clearance sale on soybeans. They were cheap! With a beer involved, I think they were a buck a plant. I brought ten home. It was not unlike lurking behind a hunting blind. (The perspective is bad here, but riding home at 5+ feet in width, I made sure to ride way out in the middle of the lanes.) Testing my camouflage, I took busier streets. It was a breezy day and the plant stems blew all this way and that. It brought back thoughts of having a sling-shot as a kid. It was so much fun, I took a picture when I got home.

The beginning of August this year found the farmers' market once again overflowing with fruit and veggies. Well, it was overflowing before that, but by August, the seems burst and if you are around when things close up at the end of the night, you might find yourself coming home with 20 pounds of tomatoes, 20 pounds of peaches, a cooler with a few pounds of tofu, cheese, leftover thai food, and a canvas bag of various veggies. Overall haul was near 80 pounds, including a backpack not pictured.

Then, this load. Damn. I think it took me twenty minutes just to get it strapped on my truck. Requiring no less than five bungee cords, two panniers, two plastic milk crates, and one small wooden crate. 60+ pounds at least, but fluffier than the last load. I made sure to check all the bolts on my racks before taking off. Making it home, safely, yet again, I took a moment to be thankful for my able-bodied-ness in regularly bringing such stuff to it's temporary home, where it will be ingested and recycled, turning into fuel to pump my legs back to the market.

I love my truck.

oak nuts

2009-08-30T22:08:00.000-07:00

Did I ever tell you about the time I went foraging for oak nuts?

No?

Well, this story gets a bit graphic, so cover your earballs, or pray, or whatever you need to. Maybe stop reading now. Alright?

Here goes:

There I was, on a familiar trail in a familiar east bay park, picking many types of sometimes edible berries. Aware of the rampant poison oak all about, I'm being very cautious about where I step and how I stretch my hands into the plants I'm inspecting immediately next to the trail. While reaching into a plant with small bell shaped, white berries, I notice a few somewhat similar shaped ones and inexplicably disengage my brain. I reach for these, and pluck two from the eight or ten in the cluster. My senses make a brief return back and I notice that these berries aren't soft at all, but have little papery husks over small hard seeds. As my brian returns to normal, I find myself rubbing the coverings off, backing away from the plant and smelling the little nuts in my left hand.

These aren't from THAT plant....

What kind of seeds are.......

Hey, that plant has a branch growing up through that other one....

Ooohhhhh, F@%* ME!!!!

I throw the seeds down, think about what I have touched and immediately head back home, touching nothing with my contaminated hand. I've had training concerning contaminated environmental work sites and how to work in them safely. Having done this professionally in the past, I knew that my number one mistake was not wearing any form of protection on my hands. A barrier between yourself and the contamination is key. Remember this grasshopper.

So, I get home, rush into the bathroom and start washing my hand with some real expensive solvent we have for just such occasions. I disrobe, and then take a nice thorough shower making sure to wash everything with copious amounts of lather and do it twice. Thinking that I have been diligent with my decontamination, I congratulate myself for having summoned formerly critical information when it was needed most. This was a sunday morning.

On monday all is well and I'm feeling even better about how I reacted to my poison oak encounter.

By tuesday morning: Is that a zit on my nose? WTF? By evening time: Oh shit, there are a few clear looking blisters...

Wednesday morning: Definite small blisters on the bottom between my nostrils, and creeping up the edge of the right one. Some swelling feeling on my top lip in the center. Seems to be spreading slowly. Sounds like sweating to death in hot summer weather is the last thing I should do today. I call my BIL and cancel the kayaking we had planned for the day. I get off the phone and want to cry, but then my nose will run and complicate things. On top of this, I'm feeling a bit stuffy. I call my doctor. If it gets any worse I can see someone tomorrow, if not, I wait until friday.

Thursday morning: Not significantly worse; doesn't seem to be spreading or fluffing up any more. Weeping from the rash is constant and profuse. Every time I move my nose a bit, which happens every time I talk, some dry crust splits and more leaking occurs. With two children running about, it is impossible to not talk. Constantly. In a matter of an hour or so, a stalactite of sorts forms. With regularity, chunks come off, but more weeping oozes out and dries and a new drip structure forms. (In this picture, about ten minutes earlier, I had accidently scraped everything off of my nose after blowing it and was experiencing the "building phase.") I think to myself: This sucks and quite bad.

Friday morning, bright and early, but certainly not feeling chipper, I see my doc. He takes one look at my nose and then writes a script for some heavy medication. Time for hormones and fast. I call a few pharmacies to find the shortest waiting time and then drag the kids on a bike ride. With the meds back home, I eat some lunch, take the first dose and read the literature. Phwew! No adverse interactions with alcohol, so I'll have to crack open a homebrew later.....

By saturday morning, my nose is looking better. The weeping has stopped and a touch of the redness is subsiding. I still don't want to have a nose on my face yet, but at least I've stopped fantasizing about plucking it off and using a prosthetic. The end of this experience is dimly on the horizon.

Sunday morning, things are waaaay better on my face and it doesn't itch anymore. The medication makes me feel a little funny, but by the third day the dosage is tapered enough that I'm feeling more or less normal. Good. Because after dinner, tonight, we're busily prepping lunch for the elder monkey's first day of kindergarten. Tomorrow!

My nose is still a touch red, but at least I can blow it and wipe it now without disturbing any drip structures. Which is good, because no matter how excited I am for my big girl and her big day, and my reduction in work load for a few hours each day, I'm bound to shed a few tears tomorrow. You know, even though I'm a man, being the mommy blogger type that I am.

Happy first day of school big girl! I am extremely proud of you!

new word: engmuffpusa

2009-08-18T15:46:00.000-07:00

Words are not enough. The ineffable rules. As a result, sometimes, you just gotta make shit up in order to make it "fit." With this in mind, I introduce a new food word: engmuffpusa.

It all started here. I get to the end of cutting out the muffins and contemplate the fate of the scraps or "negative." Usually, I gather this into a ball, give it a gentle squeeze and roll it out again, then cut a few more muffins. The second round of scrap has too much gluten development to properly be called an english muffin, so what to do? Pull a Biggles. Say "just add pork."

With some yummy smoked bits around the house, I diced up the end hunk. I fished around in the cheesey drawer for something smallish and came up with some swissy thing. Pressing these it into the dough ball, I folded it in on itself a few times and then gave it a cornmeal dusting. Griddling it up same as the others, it turns into one divine hunk of muffin love.

My two year old grabs one from the counter while still hot and says "dat engmuff (then pausing to correct himself) meat cupcake is HOT!" I bust up laughing then try to give him credit for calling it two things at once.
"It's kinda like an english muffin and a pupusa sweetie."
"ENG-MUFF-PUSA?" His little nose gets all in a crinkle. Then he breaks his face with a smile, and saunters off, stuffing the engmuffpusa into his face and repeating the word over and over.

Next time scraps were around, my mind drifted to the topic of universal dark matter. For one thing, without it, orbits would not be the same. Kitchen orbits. It got me thinking how the "negative" leftover from muffin cutting is a form of dark matter. Unwitnessed (for the most part), but certainly part of the overall accounting and trajectory of things. More importantly though, it is wasted food if not used. Luckily, sometimes, serendipitous use yields amazing results. Besides, adding chocolate chips to just about anything is superb, no? Well, that and the fact that they are another form of dark matter.

Breaking it open, it reminded me of having the best mom in the world. When my sis and I were kids, occasionally, ma would bust out with chocolate chip studded pancakes. Pure decadence to some; for others, addressing the ravenous sweet-tooth genes that were handed down. Fond, fond memories. I just know these thoughts were loitering around the synapses when this experiment fell out of my head.

Whether using up kitchen dark matter, or acting as receptacle for meat and cheese trimmings. Maybe serendipity or deep seated culinary memory, savory or sweet, the engmuffpusa is the bomb. Try one. Or six.

Now repeat after me:

ENGMUFFPUSA?

Engmuffpusa!

one hot perspective (BFM summer farm tour 2009)

2009-07-23T15:25:00.000-07:00

I live in such a mild climate, my home is completely devoid of insulation or air conditioning. When it hits the eighties we're feeling rather toasty. Nineties, oh my, where is that damned fog? One hundred plus? Are you kidding? That must be somewhere else. (Can you even breathe at those temps?) Well, a few weeks ago I had the fortune of surviving just such heat, while touring three of my favorite farms as part of the BFM Community Advisory Committee. The forecast high for the day was 109....

First stop: Full Belly (well into the nineties already)

Paul (one of four farm owners) greeted us and discussed many facets of keeping such a large organic farm operating. With over 200 acres in cultivation, this is an immense task that requires over fifty full-time, year-round employees. Diversity is the key here. It keeps pests in check, encourages native wildlife to thrive, enables a healthy population of natural pollinators (no hives are imported onto the farm) and means that there is never so much of a single crop that it has to be sold at a deep discount just to get rid of it before it rots. We began walking to see his words in action.

Passing the flower garden, we saw a youth group here for summer camp picking bouquets to take to market. Community involvement plays a large role on this farm and their CSA boxes reach a huge audience. Paul mentioned that a senior group comes and gets seconds from their storage. Then moving onto speaking about planning a fruit orchard, his words began drifting up and away from my ears with the heat. Sampling apricots, Paul pointed out that the day before was even hotter (about 115) and that some apricot pits get so hot that they scald the fruit. (Resulting in an internal bruise that is only witnessed by opening one up.) Stopping by a compost pile, discussing soil fertility and fauna, I was sure that my own pit was beginning to scald my cranial fruit. We made our way back to the shade, tanked up on water and headed down the road for a lunch date.

Second stop: Guru Ram Das Orchards (100+ at this point)

After turning down the wrong road, twice, we finally arrived at Didar's place. Collecting ourselves in his living room, enjoying the delicious air blowing from his swamp cooler, Didar told us about the early days of caring for his land. 20+ years ago he commuted from Reno every week to tend things, but nurturing was not how to describe it. He said it was more like just keeping things barely alive. But, despite the rough start and poor soils, his farm thrives. You see, orchards that have to struggle some, reward you with immense flavor and hardiness not ever seen otherwise. (As the finest grape growers in the world will tell you time and time again.) Should you then add copious quantities of love to the hardy, leafy creatures around you, you get fruit that is unparalleled.

After a delicious soup prepared for us, we took a brief tour before the promise of a dip in the pool. Didar pointed out that his orchard is designed on what has worked over the years and as older trees die or are damaged by wildlife (marauding deer wreak havoc on the nectarines as witnessed by this branch breakage) he often replaces them with a pomegranate that can withstand a few years of under watering. When it hits a few years old though, it shows off the hard earned deep roots and begins exuding health, fitting in nicely with the others. We ambled up and down a few more rows until it was obvious no one was concentrating on anything but getting in the pool. Walking the gentle hill back to the house, my brain felt as though it were beginning to melt it was so damn hot. Worried it might run out of my ear should I get in the pool, I opted to get supine in the shade beneath streamers of wingnuts. As what little breeze there was tickled my face, I heard laughs and hoots from the pool as folks took respite from the 105+ heat. The splashing water reminded me that I was getting dehydrated despite having consumed nearly a gallon of water already.

Third Stop: Riverdog (nearing 110?)

Using our puckered brains for guidance, we managed to find our final destination without getting lost. Trini greeted us with a smile and said she had to go get her dog. A fire had started up the valley a ways and as though Tim doesn't have enough to do already, he volunteers to contain and fight such things. He had the dog. A few minutes later, collected in the "cool" (mid 90's) packing area, we listened to future plans for a freezer on site and ventures into animal products. Getting to help scrub a few eggs with the new machine for such things, we learned about the chickens that rotate around the farm, adding pest control, fertilizer and about the yummiest eggs to be found. Seeing the mobile hen coups in a field of alfalfa, I was happy for these chickens, but convinced that the plume of smoke on the horizon was getting larger. Walking back to the shed, spontaneous combustion came to mind.

We piled into cars and drove down the road to go see one of Riverdog's newer ventures: pork. With shady pasture down by the creek amongst the oaks, these pigs have it good. (Well, until you kill them and eat them I suppose.) Seeing the veggie culls and seconds strewn around made me realize that these pigs eat the very same veggies I do. Literally. Add a diet rich in acorns and walnuts and these pigs are about as delectable as it gets. These "Riverhog" are showing up at local butcher shops with rave reviews. (Ask around or check out their Hog Blog.) This is some damn fine swine.

Somewhere before the pigs but after the melon field, my brain became so shriveled it fell out of my head. I managed to pick it up and put it in a zippered pocket though, and as we drove home (I should clarify, I was not driving) it began plumping up with fresh water and the cool air conditioning it would experience for the rest of the day. When we got back to Berkeley, it was at least 45 degrees cooler than our last stop. I could think better now.

With a new perspective on summer farming I wonder: How do they do it? Capay Valley farmers deal with extreme heat (bitter frosts as well) and having to get past the drunk gamblers attempting to pull into or stumblingly leaving the monstrosity on their way to market. These folks deserve our help.
Go.
Shop your local farmers' market.
Eat.
Repeat.......

For other years, check out:
BFM summer farm tour 2008
BFM summer farm tour 2007

damn, this schinken is good!

2009-07-02T16:32:00.000-07:00

Let me tell you: having German friends is good. Especially if you like pork products. Take this treat for example. Recently smuggled into the states, deep within checked baggage, it landed safely. (clearing throat) Ahem, uh, I mean my friends arrived safely with presents. Now, I share and enjoy my first true black forest ham.

It slices kinda like meaty butter that was left out near a camp fire. So, that doesn't exactly sound good, but it's the best I could come up with on the spot. Don't get me wrong here, this stuff is the bomb, the shit, the schinken. (Now, if I only had a speck of respect here.) This is about the best porky thing I have ever tasted. Really. Like, double-good oinktacular at least.

After eating who knows how many slices, I wound up putting it on some pizza for the family. I fired up the pseudo-version 2.0 cob oven that I've been working on recently. It has some big advantages over the last model, but so far the damn thing ain't drafting right, doesn't hold enough heat yet, and smokes out the neighbors. It still turned out a decent pie or two. Then again, with schinken this good on top, you could just about undercook it, drop it on the ground and accidently step on it, then serve it half frozen and folks would still think it about the best damn pizza they ever had. I much prefer mine hot though, with a touch of peach wood smoke, sourdough crust, fresh mozzarella, mushrooms, olives, and the all important smuggled pork.

Thanks G-man and K! You guys are the best.

pb and j

2009-06-19T16:18:00.000-07:00

"Can I make my own PB and J daddy?"
Sure.
"Okay." She runs off into the kitchen.
It takes me a minute (when I realize how quiet she is being) to really appreciate this request. Big girl can do it all by herself. I'm stricken with a Universal Parenting Moment (UPM for short).
When did my baby get so big?

I made this last year from incredibly ripe fruit, so, lacking in some pectin, and me failing to think of this, it is really more of a thick syrup than a jam. The monkey could care less. It is lip smacking good, and favorite pancake fare. This gets dolloped on first, then seeing me salivating the sticky spoon is offered to me.
Really?
"Mmm, hmm."

"Daddy, is this the hard peanut butter or the normal kind?"
The normal stuff sweetie.
"Good, 'cuz that other stuff is stupid and disgusting. It tears the bread, but this kind is smmoooooth!"
What's your real opinion on that honey?
"What daddy?"
You'll understand in a few more years hon. Just keep spreading the smooth stuff.

"Now we cut it! I can cut it all by myself, with a sharp knife and everything, because I know how to do it, like how to hold the handle, because I do the dishes and sometimes, you let me dry the knife, right daddy, right?
Uh, yeah. Ummm.......yes, correct, sorry, that took me a minute to digest sweetie.
"But we haven't even eaten it daddy, that's silly!"

I oversee the cutting, sharp knife and all. It presents another dilemma though. Do I strive to encourage proper ergonomics as well and have her stand on a foot stool where she doesn't have to cut with her hands up near her shoulders? But she could fall off of this while holding a sharp knife? Another UPM.

Fingers intact, there are sixteen pieces to reassemble. Granted, jigsaw puzzles are a fun thing at any age, but this reconstruction speaks volumes to me. Of me. It makes me think that the mapping gene, the need for constantly orienting oneself and having a general grip on your spatial relationships, runs strong in this one. Things like legos and tetris appeal to her. Time will only tell, but so far, this monkey has a knack for directions.

At the table, the sandwich went fast. Unbelievably, there was near silence while it was snarfed down. This is a rare thing around here. With her constant chatter and little dude's learning about sentences and practicing incessantly, it is oh so rare. I reflected on the quiet. Enjoying all minute and 23 seconds of it. Then I thought about how carefully the sandwich was prepared. How mindfully the sharp knife was used. How much the reconstruction spoke of her character. Then again, how big, my little girl is.

I laughed out loud.
How was your UPM sandwich honey?
"My what? This is a PBJ. You're silly daddy!"
Then cocking her head to the side and sporting a growing smirk she says "hey, maybe I can make one for you?"
Anytime, my darling. Anytime.
"How about now daddy? I can make one for you right now, because I just made one and ate it and it was really good. You should have one with this apricot jam daddy, it is ever so delicious. It's a bit runny but if you are a really good PBJ builder like I am then you can easily do it and, like no worries on cutting it because I can use a really sharp knife all by myself and cut it into as many pieces as you want, like eight or nine or ten or eleven or twelve or maybe even fifty...................

3-minute post

2009-05-30T10:26:00.000-07:00

Halfway through my eggs yesterday morning I thought why haven't I ever done a post about this? Now, it is true that chopped up runny eggs are not the most photogenic lot, but the point ain't how it looks. Taste, my friends, is the point with these eggs. Truly free-range, fried to gooey perfection, then tossed in with mangled hunks of toasted english muffin love. I eat this whenever possible, which if I bother to think, is about once a week.

Watering the yard after the scrum-diddle-dee-umptious breakfast, I looked up and saw this beauty. On top of it's charming looks, it's a volunteer that popped up a few months back. I just love volunteers. Their tough, easy to plant, and in this case, the purtiest damn thing in the whole yard.

Putting the yummy eggs and dandy flower experience together, it was one hell of a nice start to a friday morning. We finished watering, then came back inside and plugged the kids into their favorite video from the library. Then I did one of my favorite things, and started making red sauce.

Life, is good.

strawberry pie

2009-05-25T22:10:00.000-07:00

A comment on a post two years old reminded me of something; strawberry crack sauce season is upon us. Lo and behold, we've got a bunch of berries out front as the calendar predicts, so I whipped up a dough and chucked it in the fridge. Then I wrangled up the monkeys and put them to work. Giving them each an unbreakable container to collect with, we went out front and each chose a spot to start.

Asking the monkeys to show me what they picked revealed no big surprises. At 2 years, little dude is getting the hang of picking the ripe ones, yet still manages to eat the red ones first, while at 5.5 years big girl is just about an expert. Luckily for him, he seems to have an iron gut when it comes to eating well over a dozen strawberries. Red or not. For her, the years more experience means she has a touch of patience and a sense of delayed gratification. Or more simply put, she understands that just about any fruit is better with some sugar and dough wrapped around it.

I looked at the bounty, considered what I tasted while picking, and made a few mental notes. These don't seem as sweet as in the past, nor as big. I've heard that farmers plant fresh each year, since the young, new plants give the most robust, tastiest berries. Maybe, just maybe after 4 years or so, it is time to plant anew like the professionals do. I brought them inside, gave them a gentle wash and got out some in-gree-junts.

I tossed the berries with a touch of sugar and some runny rhubarb marmalade that I made sometime last year and canned. I rolled the dough out and put it in a tart pan. Plop goes the berry glop, then a little bakey-bake and voila! Nothing too fancy here, but damn satisfying. Yard fruit, 1/2 whole wheat crust, legal child labor and a new name. You see, when I put it on the rack to cool, little dude pulled at my leg and said "up peas." Then he took a look at the pie and said "peet-zuh." I laughed, gave him a little tickle and said it was some funny pizza then. He smiled, pointed at it, started nodding slowly and said "drawberry pizza Dada."

There you have it. Strawberry pizza. Well, technically, a strawberry tart with a touch of rhubarb and orange marmalade, but hey, who really cares. It tasted great, used an old canned good, and gave me a new food category.

Just think, dessert pizza!

stinging nettles 23, me 1

2009-05-11T16:38:00.000-07:00

Ha stinging nettles! It is time I begin to even the score. For years now you have brushed my bare legs while hiking, leaving me with a not so pleasant burning sensation. Well, your ass is mine now. I've implemented a plan to use some fermentation to put your poison to work.
For me.
Yeah, you heard it.

Going on a few years now, I've wanted to harvest nettles in the spring and make some pasta with it. They grow all over the place around here (if you look in the right places that is) and thanks to a yearly ritual of camping out for Mother's Day, I know where to find them. Finally, this year, I'm doing something with them. It ain't pasta though.
It's beer. (Is this really a surprise?)

I bought a book a while back called Sacred and Herbal Healing Beers. (With a title like that, what's not to like?) But really, I bought it to have some mead recipes and guidance for fermentation experimentation. Well, I was reading about nettles healing properties toward arthritic and rheumatic conditions and thinking about collecting them, when I ran across a few beer recipes. Sweet! Then I remembered that my wife has been having a bothersome hip that the doctor chalked up to "getting older." Hell, if at our age aches and pains don't just mean cure them anymore, but more like just deal with it, then sheeeeiiittt, it couldn't hurt putting a little hand gathered medicine into some beer and using it as a curative tonic now, could it?

Gathered and washed, they weren't so tough looking. More like fuzzy and maybe even working toward approachable. It took me a few versions of latex and gardening gloves in conjunction with some fresh burning and mild swearing before I figured out my technique, but, hey, I like learning things the hard way sometimes. With the ouchie part over, now I'll tend to the brew by keeping it in the "happy range" of yeastie beastie temperatures. Then I'll bottle it. Then I'll drink it. Whether it works for my sweetie's hip or not, only time will tell. What I know for sure is that the tide has turned for the nettles. I've scored my first point of my life against them. And when that first sip of the curative brew hits my lips, I'll give myself another point. Then I'll take another sip. Then I'll give myself another point and soon there after, probably forget all about any aches and pains.

Already, the stings don't seem so bad.........

Mid-June Update:

Oooooh, Maaah, Gaaaah, this stuff is nuts! And crazy. Crazy, but like, good. Part brown ale, part root beer, with a strong yeast profile, definite hoppy-ness and that vegetal something or other from the nettles, it somehow still manages to fall firmly within the beery camp. The first sip tried was loaded with anticipation, but we jumped the gun and tried a touch too early. It wasn't quite carbonated right and the flavors still seemed a bit separate. Kinda like chili the first day sometimes. Then a week later, while enjoying this deliciousness of super beefy burger on homemade buns with thyme sauteed summer squash, we tried it again. It was just right. All the crazy flavors working together.
Nettles, your days are numbered.
//-me

muffin memories

2009-04-30T15:39:00.000-07:00

I went to the market the other day, armed with a full wallet of my doughy dollars. I hit some of my usual vendors and scored asparagus, carrots and some greens. Getting some eggs, the vendor reached in for a few and then gave me tangerines in exchange. Sweet! I thought about some carne, but Ted was nowhere to be found. Then, thinking of creamy items I decided to try my hand at trading for some yogurt. I made my pitch and was offered a most fair bargain. As I was stuffing my ceramic cups into my bag, making a mental note that I should trade for more yogurt in the future I heard something most delightful: "Would you like to try a sample of some of the milk we use for the yogurt?"
Hell yes!
Uh, I mean, sure, I'd love to try some. (Geez, I hope they like the muffins.)

After getting home, I took a closer look at the jar. It had a nice ring of fat around the top. A touch yellow and chunky, it spoke of no homogenization and light pasteurization. It was past the kid's bedtime, so unless I'm making hot cocoa, it is not likely I'll be getting into it tonight. One more look at the cream and I tore the top off, getting splashed as the hunks of cream cannonballed into my glass. I enjoyed a mighty glug. Suddenly, I'm five again. Racing my elder sister to the front door to get to the milk first so that I can eat the creamy plug with a spoon. All by myself. (And yes, I did used to get milk deliveries to my front door as a kid. Not that I'm that old, just that 30+ years ago, I lived in rural Sonoma County.)

This, is that milk. Or rather, represents what today's could be. Grass fed, local, served from glass. Only problem, this was a sample. Now, in theory, it could be, like, in the realm of possibility that this could maybe, like someday be an item at the market.............until then, I'll be baking up batch after batch of muffins, bringing them to market every week, hoping and praying for the possibility to trade for some more of this milk.

wild beer at the track

2009-04-14T14:25:00.000-07:00

Like, duh, I almost forgot. I still gotta talk about the wild beer(s) that I started with the fruity dregs of the wild winter mead. First mentioning it there, then procrastinating more, without thinking or trying to tease, I mentioned it again as being the "other gallon" during the sourdough blonde post. Sheesh, with only a few bottles left, I better talk fast, so, here goes:

So, picture us transported back in time to the fruity dregs of the mead. I poured a gallon of cooled wort into my carboy containing still actively fermenting fruit and whatever remained of the mead. I added an airlock, gave it some shaking to aerate the whole thing and sat back. By the next day it was a foamy beast, happily breeding millions and millions more of my friends. On day two I siphoned out the liquid component into another fermenting vessel and put the top back on. When I saw no more activity, I bottled it. Then, as you can see here, I gave it a try along with some of my first sauerkraut. The beer was super fruity, but also crisp and dry, with only a hint of sour. I immediately wished I'd brewed far more. Next time. The kraut? Crunchy still, with great flavor, but a tad salty. Needs some washing with fresh water. Enough though, let us get back to the beer, or more importantly, the yeast that makes it happen.

My sourdough starter is at least three years old. Surely, this is domesticated, but, at what point did it become so? For that matter at what point does anything become domesticated? I would still call this post-mead, fruity tasting beer wild, but what about after I culture the yeast from it and add it to another batch? Because I did just that. Then I brewed a much bigger beer in every sense. More hops, more malt, darker color, bigger batch, just to push the limits and see what this yeast could do. I figured that if it could ferment a 10% alcohol mead, then it could do a "big beer" (9%). I'm this yeast's biggest fan and cheerleader, we just scored big AND we were playing at home, again, so, what the hell, huh?

The "big" beer started fermenting like a champ. There was vigorous convection in the carboy and things were proceeding along better than expected. When it gave the first signs of slowing down I took a gravity reading to figure out how close to done we were. It smelled dee-lish, but, the reading only came up half-way there. Crap. I covered up the carboy and left the room to go scratch my head somewhere else. It hurt with the beginnings of thinking that I might have introduce another yeast if I couldn't revive this one. The wild yeast cheerleader in me felt ashamed. I consulted my brew buddy and he recommended I go get a cold one from the fridge before I think about it anymore. Solid brewing advice from someone I can always count on.

After a few days of wondering what the hell happened, I broke down and went to the home brew shop. I got enough ingredients for a gallon and a half batch, and with sunken shoulders bought a "professional" yeast to do the job. I figured I could get this beer going and then add my half done beer to it. The beers were similar enough that the overall blend would be alright. But wouldn't you know, the half-done beer had a mind of it's own. As I was boiling up my new batch, I noticed a few bubbles that weren't in it a few hours ago. Huh? New activity? I finished brewing batch 2, pitched my yeast, and checked on the naughty little yeast in batch 1 again. Yep, a little jet lagged perhaps, but certainly back on the job after a week of time off.

Weird things happen, and sometimes you just have to accept that despite their seeming oddity to your own familiarity, really are firmly planted within the realm of normal. Like here at racetrack. If rocks blowing across a muddy lake bed are within the bounds of normal, then why can't a yeast wake up when it senses competition? (And talk about weird, click on the picture and notice how the track in the foreground aims toward the rock in the distance and seems to have made a correction to avoid a collision!)

Anyway, to finish the story, the yeast pulled it's shit together and finished the job, all on it's own accord and sense of time. Then I stepped in and dry hopped the hell out of the two gallons or so, managing to bottle it in time to enjoy hauling out to one of my favoristist places, here at the track. In perfect conditions, with the last light casting long shadows across the playa, bringing out the finest of textures (despite the poor photography and severe lack of mega-pixels), we chose a table to enjoy the brew.

Wow! Big and red, a touch sweet and yet totally hoptastic, this beer is crazy! After a long day of hiking in single digit humidity conditions, it was more than enough to warm the tummy and get the brain contemplating the bigger questions in life:
What am I here for?
How do the rocks really blow across the mud?
How does a single cell organism, sense competition and alter its behavior?

Who knows. But I'll think of this view whenever I think of this brew.

ferment change

2009-04-01T12:03:00.000-07:00

Ever wanted to know more about urban agriculture?

Do you like fermented food and drink?

Wanna help out the most amazing non-profit ever?

Well, tie it all together and race on down to the Humanist Hall this Friday the 3rd for an experience that will leave your mind full, your taste buds delighted, and your contact list swollen with folks who practice urban agriculture, advocate for food justice, and work with putting backyard gardens into homes in West Oakland. Or hey, if just wanna talk to someone who practices the ancient craft of fermentation, come on down. Oh, and if you bring a fermented food to share, you could win a prize. Last year's event was a hit, and this year's promises to be even bigger, with satellite events throughout April (Check for updates at the blog).

See you there!

(Talk to me at the event, tell me what the hell is going on in the photo above and receive a bread related prize!)

sourdough blonde

2009-03-10T09:10:00.000-07:00

(Note: Since we are in the month of Fermentuary, I thought I would keep blabbing on about some fermented drink experiments I've been up to. Now, you may be thinking: what about the bread? Well, read on.)

If I could write the sound of the most diabolical laugh you can imagine, it would go right here: ______

Then I would tell you that I made a beer with my sourdough starter. Yup, beer. Sourdough beer. Mind you, it doesn't taste sour, and there was no flour involved, but the yeast came from the starter. Sourdough can do anything.

A few months back I brewed a 1 and 1/2 gallon batch of beer and put about 1/3 of it into a sterilized glass milk bottle. (The rest of the beer went into the fruity dregs of the wild mead and became something else entirely, but I'll get there another day.) I added a few tablespoons of the clear hooch from the top of my starter. I'd read there should be plenty of yeast in this. I went for the clearest stuff, hoping to minimize adding any flour component and making it too cloudy. I shook everything rather crazily for a few minutes to aerate it, then put an airlock on the bottle and kept it in a warmish place. It bubbled gently for near a month or so, and when I finally saw no more activity, I bottled it, adding a pinch of sugar for carbonation. It was only 4 - 12 ounce bottles when all was done, of a beer that must be somewhere around 5% alcohol. It looked real promising and smelled even better.

The other day, I cracked one open. (Again, please, insert diabolical laugh here.) Oh my lord, this came from sourdough? It made me wonder. Why does this remind me of Anchor Steam? I took another sip. Not nearly as hoppy. In fact, definitely a different kind of hop. But still. I had used a pilsner base malt, in extract form, with no caramelized grains to give it that malty backbone. Basically, my recipe should not give me anything like Anchor. But still.

A few more sips later, it hit me. It was the yeast. In beer, yeast is king. Use a bad one, and it will taste like crap. (Okay, so this is a hugely subjective statement, but you get my drift.) Yeast imparts enormous flavor to a beer, and this one tastes a lot like a Cal Common should. Huh. Then I wondered. Is there a yeasty lineage between bay area sourdough and this local brewing yeast? Well, my beer tells me so. I know, not a huge stretch of the imagination there if you have ever heard about the relationship between breweries and bakeries that have existed for umpteen thousand years. But still. Could Anchor have a unique taste just like bay area sourdoughs do, and for the same reason?

Would you ever have guessed that you could brew a beer with the yeast from a sourdough starter? How about that it might actually taste good? Well, then help me out here. Got any friends with the means to start looking at individual strains of yeast? Let's talk.

Well, after I finish my beer.

wild winter mead

2009-02-28T15:29:00.000-08:00

I have a love/hate relationship with persimmons. You see, I want to love them, but they are so easy to hate. They are a fruit that I have purchased maybe twice in my life, but somehow I end up with a box or two of them every year. Not wanting to see them wasted, I've tried some different means of preparation these past couple of years. I started with a korma. Satisfying yes. Duplicated, no. Then came the sorbet. Tasty indeed, but once again, have I made it another time? No. Let's see, how about that winter soup? Nope. Okay, maybe I'll make the souffle again, but I'm not guaranteeing anything. Anyway, my point is, I've tried and tried to use persimmons in new and fun ways, but ultimately have only succeeded in getting them off the counter. I ate them, but haven't really looked forward to doing it again. This winter, that changed.

I'm not going to go into too much detail here, because like all ferments, it involves a bit of hocus pocus, and sometimes a little witchcraft, and describing it in words won't suffice. Lets say, it starts right here though, with gooey, slimey, do I have to really touch that? textured fruit. Notice the whitish stuff on the skin. That's yeast right there. Smelling and possibly tasting each piece of fruit you are using, goop up about eight of these bad boys and stir it into about half a gallon of honey. Add about one gallon of tap water, mix well and cover with cheesecloth. Don't cook anything. Well, maybe the water, but thats it. Stir somewhat frequently (whenever you remember, which for me was about every hour of so) until the cauldron you have it in begins to froth.

In this case, by day three we were rocking. I liked the idea of this being a winter fruit mead, so expanded on the theme and added the juice of a few tangerines and the arils of a few pomegranates, along with some more water into a three gallon carboy. To this I added the stockpot's contents of bubbling brew and put on an airlock valve. A few weeks of magic later, the arils were looking all bleached out, the fruit pulp was nice and separated into distinct horizons on the top and bottom and the liquid looked fairly clear. I siphoned this off into another carboy and put the airlock back on.

After another month more of spontaneous alcohol formation, it was ready to bottle. Clear, big on the fruit, yet nearly totally dry, with a slight tinge of pinky orange and well over 10 percent alcohol, this is some potent stuff, though I'm surprised how smooth it is already. It never fermented at anywhere over 70 degrees during the course of magic involved and this likely helped. Well that, and apparently, persimmons have good yeast on them. Now, finally, I have something to do with these freaky fruit that I'll look forward to duplicating next year.

Really, like, I can't wait! Because the story goes deeper, and involves two beers now, both fermented with the wild yeast that started it all. But, unfortunately, I'll have to get to blabbing about that one later. I've got some wild winter mead to sample.

for the love of purple

2009-02-10T16:11:00.000-08:00

My first purple cauliflower!

I was giving the plants a look see to determine my next course of action against recent, rampant aphid infestation. Apparently, during the previous week while all was sunny and warm the aphid wranglers (ants) were busily placing their minions all over the tenderest parts of just about anything I've planted. Despite the odds, staring up at me was this beauty. It seemed to pop up overnight.

Before any of the two legged garden pests could run off with my produce, I hacked it off with thoughts of my own dinner, but was beat to the table by a creature with far less neurons. I suppose we all gotta eat, and if I have tempting items in my front yard, critters are bound to notice. A plan was hatched. With the help of the eldest monkey, we placed it in a jar with some treats it apparently enjoys, and brought it inside in order to "protect it from predators daddy."

I checked my recent sauerkraut experiment, and admiring it's deep purple hue, decided that a purple beer would really "tie it all together." I mean, hey, it is sf beer week and all, so somehow cracking a blueberry hefeweizen seemed just the right thing. Maybe you had to be there. Or rather, here.

So, I sipped one ferment, tamped down the contents of another and contemplated our captives. That's right, two. Because little eagle eyes spotted another and made sure it made it into the jar too. Now, we feed our captives more brassica, protect them from predators, and hopefully watch 'em go through their own ferment of a sort and become something totally different.

the tao of food (part 2)

2009-01-27T11:53:00.000-08:00

Let your workings remain a mystery.
Just show people the results.

I'm not known for brevity, but that's it.

Really.

Really, really.

(Okay, if you want more, go check part 1)

Inaugbeeration

2009-01-20T08:38:00.000-08:00

Well, as the picture shows, things are aligned for history...........

Dear Mr. President,

Back in October, with hopes of your election victory in sight, I brewed a beer to enjoy on Inauguration Day. So, first off, thank you for giving me reason to brew. About a week after victory, I bottled it up. About turkey day I got into one, and like wow, it was good. I gave a few away, drank a few more, and now, mere minutes away from the big event, I find I only have a few left. Anyway, where was I? Oh yeah, congratulations Barack Obama! Welcome to the first day of the 2nd hardest job on earth.

Big hugs,
Monkey Wrangler

man stuff

2009-01-09T15:49:00.000-08:00

Winter is a time for man stuff.

Like eating animals.

Using power tools in the garden.

Accidently melting shit. Stuff like that.

Sometimes a post just has to document it straight up........

Eating animals is time for man food: Meat and potatoes!

So I was at the Jack London market last Sunday and met Norman from Mountain Ranch. His second week at the market, he offers organic meats. Nice to talk to, I asked a few questions. He's been on the same land for 42 years and counting. Beef and chicken were to be had, at nice prices for such thoughtfully tended beasts. Seeing the tape on his glasses made me think about how truthfully he was speaking of his animal husbandry methods. I got me some of the ground beef. Upon getting home my love suggested meatloaf and this meal came together. Onion, egg, corn meal, garlic and cilantro in the loaf. Bacon grease fried brussel sprouts. Nummy roasted taters, onions and squash. The loaf was damn beefy. But like, YEEEEAAAAOOWWW!!! tasty! Norman, I'll be back.

Tough gardening conditions? Be a man and use power tools! Drill holes and plug them with dowel spawn!

Years back (like pre kids at least) I went to a fungus fair and learned about inoculating wood with dowels that have been impregnated with mushroom mycelium. I've thought about it every year since and this past year when the fair came around I went and purchased some dowel spawn. With fruit wood on hand from the in laws, I drilled a test hole and pounded one in. I only have 24 more to go, but according to the directions I should soak the wood first. I've been watering some logs for a few days now.

Ever suffer from "man eyes?" Go ahead and carelessly melt something!

I had opened up the oven door, glanced inside a bit, saw nothing and turned on the oven to preheat it. Sixteen minutes later, with hardly a noticeable smell I open the oven intending to insert some apple tarts and found this. If only I had looked thoroughly, inside the whole oven, thus, not just using my "man eyes" (as some ladies in my maternal family would say) I just might still have an intact top for my food processor. It looked really cool all melted though. It was filled with tiny bubbles still trapped within the smooth surfaces now draped over the rods on the oven rack.

Yeah, man stuff. Tomorrow, I'll be drilling holes and plugging the rest of this pile. Then, afterward when I'm hungry, I'm gonna go eat some meat. And maybe later, if I'm real lucky and the kids aren't looking and it doesn't involve any noxious fumes, I just might melt something. I might be a stay at home parent, but I'm still a man.

biscotti making

2008-12-28T13:29:00.000-08:00

Every x-mas, I make biscotti. Like, for at least the past ten years. It is a holiday ritual involving a good two days of labor, but one that yields the most satisfying of results. Biscotti, anise cookies, the ultimate cookie, call them what you will, they are my favorite cookie. Maybe you have not had the cookie I'm thinking about. Or you think you have, but are really imagining one of those rock hard biscotti-shaped things that ruin folks experience of the real deal. These, are the real deal, and if you have the hand and forearm strength to give them a try, I implore you to do so. You will be most pleased.

Unless you have access to a professional kitchen with an industrial mixer, you'll be making these completely by hand. In order for the dough to be the right consistency it must be extremely tough to mix. Try it in a Kitchen Aid or similar home kitchen model and by the time you have all the ingredients together, the motor will come to an abrupt stop. Really. (I strongly advise against even trying it, so please trust me here.) Using a wooden spoon yields similar results and chances are you'll break it if you insist on using it. This recipe is so old school that you don't even need a bowl to mix it all in. Think: pasta making where you add the eggs to a well in the flour already on the bread board. When all is thoroughly mixed, toss it in the fridge. Then, ideally, forget about it for anywhere between two and five days.

When you remember, (or have achieved aged dough perfection, however you choose to view it) remove it from the ice box and split it into thirds. If it is your first time attempting these, shape only one piece into a loaf for the first baking so you can see how the dough behaves, looking for how much rising and spreading the loaf will do and keeping it from browning too much. After the first baking, make sure to cool it until room temp on a rack. Now cut it at a slight angle with a thickness ranging from between 21/64ths to 29/64ths of an inch. Don't worry too much about precision here, after a few sheets of varying thicknesses you'll figure out the fine balance between enough strength and too thick. Place these pieces side down on the sheet, filling it most of the way. Now here comes the art of this cookie: bake them about 6-7 minutes per side, flipping them each time and rotating cookies and multiple sheets if needed to compensate for inconsistencies in your oven. Compensate for inconsistencies in your brain too I suppose. (If you've ever baked cookies in a late 1920's Wedgewood, or tried baking while using my brain, you know what I'm talking about.) Anyway, pay close attention, because burning cookies that are baked twice is easily 200% easier to do.

Oh, and back to that hand and forearm thing. If you've never made these, one batch is tough. If you end up liking the recipe and think about making even more, doubling it is nearly out of the question unless you have the enormous hands of an NBA center to achieve mixing the resulting, huge-tastic doughball. I recommend making one batch a day for successive days. (I do anywhere from two to four of these each year.) Making two batches in one day can be done if needed, but will result in certain hand fatigue, noticed primarily the following day when you reach for a doorknob or squeeze something in your fist. Or reach for your 8th cookie of the morning. Because, like the picture shows, there are always a broken few that need immediate gastric recycling.

So make sure you are nice and fortified before you attempt making these biscotti. Maybe do some carbo loading the day before. Come to think of it, this year I ate several of these sandwiches the couple days before embarking on my workout plan. I guess after years of making the cookies, I just do this naturally. I'm pretty sure the deep dish pizza I made was full of carbs. Overall though, it was a nice balanced snack with the cream cheese and salmon placed in the middle, panini style. Ahhhh, the things you have to do to achieve hand and forearm fitness.......

ANISE BISCOTTI

measure and set aside:
2T anise seeds
1 & 1/3c chopped walnuts

4 large eggs (let come to room temperature)

sift together 3 times:
5c all-purpose flour
1 & 2/3c granulated sugar
2t baking powder
1/2t salt

in a measuring cup combine together:
2/3c melted butter
1/3c salad oil (like safflower, canola, etc.)
2t anise extract
2t vanilla extract

make a well in the dry ingredients and add the (slightly beaten) eggs. mix with your hands until the egg is well incorporated then add the measuring cup of the remaining wet ingredients and mix until you need to rest. now make it even more difficult and painful, by adding the anise seeds and walnuts and mixing until they are nicely distributed. put into a large bowl and cover, then place in the fridge, at the very least overnight. from one to five days later, remove from the fridge and cut into thirds. shape one portion into a log. mash down with your hands into a low profile loaf, about 2 1/2 inches wide and nearly and inch tall. this will likely stretch most of the way across your cookie sheet (unless you are using a larger pan like a standard 1/2 sheet.) bake this loaf at 350 degrees for 25-30 minutes until it has risen some and turned a light golden color. remove from the oven and cool on a cookie sheet until it has reached room temperature. slice on a diagonal about 3/8ths inch thick and lay on their sides back on the cookie sheet. bake at 350 again, about 6-7 minutes per side, flipping each time. by the second flip (nearing 15 minutes) they should be about done. cool on a rack and then start eating. dip in coffee, dip in wine, ice cream, chocolate, chili, whatever pleases you. and make sure to admire those strong hands and popeye-like forearms you just worked on and think: "I don't need no stinkin' mixer!"

fist of the buddha

2008-12-19T16:20:00.000-08:00

Ever cook with a citron? We'd had one on the counter for the past week and I've been having so much fun looking at it, I went out and got another. The next day I turned over the first and saw mold. Damn! I hacked it off and pondered what to do next. Well, I thought to myself, lemon is good to stuff into chicken, so citron ought to be nice. I had my first happy hen from Ted, and a more or less intact palm along with another few knuckles and a finger. The chicken has a big hole, something is going in it, the post writes itself.......

I smashed two garlic cloves and gave it a rub down, then put the chicky on a few spears of carrot to keep it off the pan a bit. I tossed some beet hunks in and splashed olive oil all over. Listening to and rubbing a dub, the beets gave the bird a rosie tint. Mouth was beginning to water. Shake a salt and pepper, 425 degree oven and we're rockin'. With an hour to go, we needed more roots, and veggies. The carrots are especially fabulous right about now, so I chucked 'em in with the usual 'taters, onions and mushrooms.

This bird had a nice crisp on the outside, and boy howdy was it tender. Ted wasn't kidding when he said it would be a real good bird. Like, damn, that is some good bird there, man. Roasting the veggies in the drippings is key to sublime tender hunks, and this time it was particularly true. Everything was infused with bird. Especially yummy bird. Oh yeah, and fist. Tasty buddha fist. Come on, you know you want to say it with me, nice and loud now: "Mmmmm, "fisted chicken," just like grandma used to make!"

Yep, just like that. Because, you know what? It's the holidays, the economy sucks, and hell, sometimes you just gotta be rude, crude and socially unattractive. Besides, I just wanted to say fisted chicken.

leftover week

2008-12-01T16:56:00.000-08:00

Did you know that you don't need the tryptophan-laden bird in order to get a serious case of food coma on Turkey day? I didn't, but now do.

This year we honored the beast and had some faux-chicken sausages with some of the usual side dishes: mashed potatoes, candied yams, stuffing, and brussel sprouts. Even without loading the plate up a second time, the food coma set in and we nearly didn't get to dessert. Somehow, we managed. Then, despite no carcass, as usual, we had tons of leftovers. I say we should officially call the week after Thanksgiving leftover week, since chances have it, that's mostly what you'll be eating. So here goes: a look into this year's leftovers.

I started feeding the monkeys leftovers as soon as possible. The little dude is moving into hyperdrive with the utensil usage and gave cheesecake and brussel sprouts a go at the same time. He ate most of the sprouts, but every last speck of his cheesecake. Without any mess. Wasting none happens when you really, really like something, so I'll take that as a compliment and testament to his wanting more cheesecake in the future.

Yeah, speaking of cheesecake. I'm a fiend for them in case you don't know. But more specifically, the sweet potato kind. The addiction started a while back, before the blog. Then two years ago I made an orange colored one while recounting the original. Then last year, I found the right variety and we had a purple one. This year's had garnet yams again, as the purple variety of sweet potatoes were nowhere near the vibrancy of last years after cooking them. Oh well, just coat them in butter and brown sugar and eat them anyway.....aren't candied yams one of your favorites anyway?

But what I really loved the most from this year's leftover fest is that homemade stuffing, heated up and served with a gooey-yolked fried egg atop it, is damn close to heaven in a bowl. Especially if it's made with bread made the day before and toasted the morning of. Luckily we had a disproportionate amount of stuffing leftover this year, and eggs o' plenty. So, not only have I had this four mornings in a row, but unless someone comes and swipes the rest outta my fridge, I'll have my last hella delicious bowl of it tomorrow. There are still some candied yams (gone tonight I'm sure), some brussel sprouts (ditto), and mashed taters (uh, scratch that as writing this piece took too long). The last piece of cheesecake (it was a frickin' huge one) just might hang in there until tomorrow though.

Ahhhhh, the leftovers nearly done with and we're on to the next portion of the holiday season. Some folks mark it with counting down the days until x-mas, so to honor the tradition, we went and bought a couple of "advil calendars" this morning. You might know them by their better known name: advent calendars. I guess the bigger of our little heathens knows more about advil than she does about the advent, and being as though it has been a whole year since the daily chocolate dispensation occurred, it only seems normal she'd go with the more familiar sounding name. Considering we just survived really only the beginning of the holidays, maybe an advil calendar isn't such a bad idea.

Anyway, stay warm, enjoy the festivities, and may a homebrew be coming your way soon..........Happy December!

free teapot

2008-11-05T12:35:00.000-08:00

This is definitely not a post about prop 8. Nor is it a post about how sad I am that prejudice is nearly law. This is not a post about the difficulties explaining to my daughter why suddenly some of the women she knows so well, who even helped guide her into this world, could now be criminals. Nope, this post is not about how ashamed you should be for voting for attempting to make your own bedroom policies the only ones allowed and same-sex marriage illegal. This is a post about my teapot.

What? I've never told you the story about my teapot? Oh, my, we need to remedy this immediately.

Here we have a photo of one of my favorite places. Death Valley. (I just had to show one of my favorite wildlife photos from there: the rare, north american gravel monkey seen in it's winter plumage.) Now, about 20 miles or so to the North is a high desert valley that contains one of life's enduring unwitnessed phenomena. The sliding stones of racetrack playa. It's way out there, like 30+ miles along a rutted gravel road that has the distinction of eating tires and undercarriages. It turns out that getting there you pass a place called teakettle junction. An intersection with the habit of having many teapots hanging from the sign erected there.

But remember, this is not a post about me crying, thinking about how if my partner and I would be criminals for having the family we do if we simply had the same genitalia. And it's most certainly not a post about how passing prop 8 would be taking a step backward in society. Let me be clear, this is a post about where to find a free source of teapots.

I'd read somewhere that the national park service has to remove the teapots periodically because they pile up so quickly. It's really an unlikely place for a trash-heap, being so far out and all, but folks just can't help themselves and like the romantic idea of their teapot rusting away out there. Well, according to the nps, littering is what its called when you leave stuff behind out in the wilderness. So a few years ago, I found myself there with the need of a new teapot and I saw a real beauty. No embossed message in memoriam of anyone, no conspicuous reason for having left it behind. I figured, hey, why not help out the rangers with a little clean up and take one home to, er.....uh, dispose of. Yeah, dispose of, like on my stove!

So please don't think this is a post about how narrow minded I think you are being if you voted for prop 8. And don't think I'm saying that maybe not today, but in the near future, we will look back at this and see how pathetic our society was being. And whatever you do, please don't think that I'm angry about this whole thing. Because I'm not. I'm fucking pissed. So focus, and read this post for what it is: a hint on where to get another teapot, should you need one.

Nice one, huh? Two years later and working good. So, since this wasn't a post about prop 8 at all, let me not say how heartbroken I am as a parent, failing to come up with a good answer for my kid's inquisitive mind. Nope, it wasn't a post about how while trying to explain that some people don't want families to be anything but a mommy and a daddy, I couldn't adequately answer her simple question:

"Why don't they like families?"

Really, it is that simple. Go ahead and hate your own family if you have to. But don't pass any legislation to make intolerance mandatory. And remember, as a desert hermit once said "everyone is entitled to their own opinion, even if it is wrong......."

cheater

2008-10-26T20:47:00.000-07:00

Yes, it is true. Sometimes, I use the dried stuff. There she is, my starter all hungry and cold, needing attention and a bite to eat. My familiar hand reaches past for the small balls in the jar on the next shelf up. Cold I tell you. I can't help but feel as though I am cheating.

Fidelity toward the sourdough aside, sometimes I want to taste a flour without even a hint of sour. Sure, you can do quick, warm fermentations and other things to lessen the development of the tang. This was not enough. I wanted fluffy, unhealthy tasting sandwich bread. We've had some nice flour coming our way in our grain CSA and it was time to play with some barley flour. I got to thinking along the lines of a barley wonderbread loaf. Turns out buttermilk barley bread satisfies the craving. It was so good, we did a repeat of this bread the following week, noshed through another and managed to stash a loaf in the freezer.

We have grains to go though, with part of the focus being learning new things about more stuff. (Nice technical ring to that one.) Along came kamut. Do you know it? Have you met? Well, if not, let me tell you it is deliciously nutty. I'd made a few Kamut baguettes the week before and they turned out nice and crunchy. I contemplated doing more. I thought maybe having a guest help me out would be nice, but then remembered how a few years ago the last guest swiped the bread and took His sweet time to leave me with a pathetic note to explain. Screw the guest thing. I figured if I pair kamut with cornmeal it would be all the more sweet and earthy. This screamed pizza dough. Or maybe, the monkeys were rowdy, I screamed and made pizza dough. Once again, I cheated and used the dried stuff.

It was time to work on the toppings and caramelizing onions are a great place to start. Being the Fall, and apple pears are on the counter next to the onions.....no really, I did do this on purpose. Not to say it didn't help that the size and shape was correct. I've had pizza with pear on it before and just figured that caramelizing it before tossing it on the pie would be nice. Being an apple pear, not all squishy, I hoped it would hold up. These doing a slow, simmery, release the juices thingy, I went and pulled out more ingredients.

Next it was pesto time. Tonight, I could give a rat's ass about how local it was. Dammit I was having pine nuts and parmesan. Okay, so it's not entirely true as the basil, lemon and oil are from the market, but whatever. The pine nuts came from either Korea, Russia or Vietnam and the cheese was from, uh, let's see here.......Parma! Not even close to close on those last two but sometimes you just have to say f*%$ it.

Ahhhh, all the ingredients assembled. My favorite time in the pizza making process. I can pretend I didn't just spend three hours prepping everything while tending to the monkeys. I close my eyes and imagine I just came in and feel like making some pizza. Hey, sheeit look, fixings for a pizza pie! Crank on that oven and make sure to get the pizza tile nice and hot.....wait, what was that, you did already? Sheesh, how thoughtful! Well, since you have everything else taken care of, maybe I'll go pour us some beer.

Version 1.0 had a pesto foundation, caramelized onion/pear and fresh mozzarella, with sweet Italian sausage on half and sliced black olives on the other. Both monkeys were digging this one. Sweet, with meat. Go figure. There were no leftovers of this version. Luckily we prepped version 2.0 while this was in the oven or we probably would have just made the same thing. Next time.

Nope. Turns out our creativity was compromised by the last ingredients and we managed to make the same pizza, only with a tomato sauce as the base. Even with this simple difference, the taste was hugely different. I'd have to say I prefer the pesto combo considering the sweet onions and sausage involved. Maybe it was the nutty crust, but the flavors just seemed to work better together.

So, yes, loyal readers. It is sad but true, sometimes I cheat and use the dried stuff to lift my loaf. Please don't hate me.

local apple cider

2008-10-23T16:17:00.000-07:00

Yapple-dy dapple-dy it's that time of year again! Time to get out the juicer or cider press and get mashin'. Time to preserve some apples. You can sauce them, bake them, boil them and such, but why? Juice them, add some yeast and let it do most of the work. In about two months time you will be drinking one of the most satisfying refreshments to ever touch your lips, because whether your friends drink it or not, you made it. And should it suck, chances have it that some time "cellaring" might take care of the offensive character. I've heard some take a year or more. Well, call it beginners luck but my experiments last year, overall, tasted good right away and only got better. Wish I'd made more.........

Step one: Find a source of apples that need picking. Get a ladder. Or better yet find a friend with a ladder and an apple tree. Bring boxes, bags and buckets. Start picking. I recommend starting with at least a target size of between a three and five gallon batch. Use the rough guestimate of 5lbs of apples equals 1 quart of juice and pick an appropriate amount. (Thanks Paul!) Stop picking when either you have enough or realize that no one has gotten hurt. Remember to put the ladder away and promise to give your friend some cider when the time comes.

Step two: Load all the apples into the ride home. Looking at this now, I think I could have gotten it home on my bike, but I didn't know how many pounds I would pick (about 60 it turns out) so I brought the car. Please make sure to keep all apples securely fastened while driving home for in the case of an accident, well over two hundred fist sized pieces will be flying about the inside of your vehicle. I don't speak from experience, but I do have an active imagination and a deep appreciation for simple physics.

Step three: Juice the apples to a pulp. Or rather, separate the pulp from the juice. Grind them, mash them, spin them amongst countless blades, whatever method you use make sure to extract as much juice as you can. In this case, I filled a container with everything that came out of the juicer and let bouyancy and time do the work. It is amazing what just sitting around can accomplish. Choose the yeast you need that will get the job done.

Step four: Siphon the juice into a large, sterilized glass vessel and pitch your yeast. Affix a one way valve to the top to allow exhaust only. Place a more or less sterile liquid like whiskey into the air lock (and yourself should you care) and then give the contents a mix. Make sure to keep the experiment near 70 degrees until you see some vigorous bubbling and sure signs of fermentation. Make sure to not let monkeys pull the valve off of the container. Should this happen, immediately clean the valve and perhaps monkey and place (valve not monkey) onto the carboy again. Put in a higher location.

Step five: Keep the foamy goodness from coming out the air-lock. Or be prepared to keep cleaning up a sticky mess. Maintain the carboy at nice ambient home temps of around 65. Watch and wonder. Well, especially wonder since this is a lager yeast and I've yet to hear of someone trying such. Last year I used English ale yeast, this year I'm giving a California Common yeast a try. So far, so good, but we'll have to wait about a month before we do some bottling and have a better idea.

Give me a shout if any of this interests you and you have the time!

BOTTLING UPDATE (11/27/08): So, on Turkey day we tasted some from a bit that I stashed in a bottle right before fermentation shut down completely, with the hopes of some completely natural carbonation. The suspense was high as I cracked the seal, but a fine foamy effervescence was what greeted us. Nice crisp apple, but supremely dry. It was a fitting libation to start the thanksgiving feast, a common homemade cider, that was truly from this years local harvest. Thanks once again Paul. We will share one soon.....

And for the few homebrewers who might be wondering:

Does a California common yeast work well for making apple cider? Answer: yes. Very well in fact. Makes for a nice dry product, much like using a dry english ale yeast like Danstar's Windsor or Nottingham. A starting gravity of 1.058 took a month (like the other yeasts) and finished at 0.998, packing an alcohol content of near 8%! Now that, is a merry x-mas.......

gringo verde

2008-10-13T10:15:00.000-07:00

This is my first year growing tomatillos. Being a relative of the tomato, they share many of the same attributes, but in what seems like a wilder form. I forget exactly how many we planted this year, but I think it was only four or so in the "box." Growing three to four feet tall, with an understory of lemon cucumbers, it became the green hedge we have out front. In July, they were a riot of blooms and paper bells, foretelling of a green salsa in my future.

I've been feeling a bit neglectful of my garden lately, and noticing tomatillos beginning to fall of the plants all on their own (I mean, it was mid-September by now) meant time for action. I brought the monkeys out front and we conducted a fruit raid.

Easily filling a gallon sized bowl, we brought the loot back in and took the skins off. I've learned that my elder monkey has a propensity for the tedium, and will gladly work on this task as I tend to the "lil' bruther." After a quick rinse to remove the remaining bits and pieces, and maybe, just maybe a bit of whatever the sticky, strange, not quite entirely oily feeling stuff on them is off, we tossed them in a roasting pan (whew, talk about a run-on!)

I haven't had much luck with growing peppers here in oaktown. I've tried, boy I have, sporadically, for like five years or so. I'm no Chilebrown. (Let me tell you, he's got such a peppery green thumb, that after the simple act of shaking hands with him, you better wash up before touching any sensitive membranes around your eyeballs.) Anyway, this year, once again I gave it a go. I forget which varieties they were, something compact, but mild for sure. Because of all this, I made sure to include the seeds in the salsa to extract any bit of heat they had.

I had a few onions from earlier in the year out in the back shed and I was hoping to use them. I had envisioned an all from the monkey ranch salsa. But no. They had started to rot on the inside after sprouting a bit. Damn. I used a big white onion on the counter and went from there. All mixed up and ready for roasting I had a laugh. I always enjoy the look of all the little green balls in a pan. It reminds me of those ball pits they have at amusement parks where you can "swim." Okay, maybe that comes from having a beer with this one, but, what the hell.

I gave the roasted mess a blend and then went and picked some cilantro to finish it off. After mincing and mixing in we chowed down on some chips. It was super tangy and puckery. Given that it was at least 3/4 tomatillos I wasn't too surprised. I made a mental note about growing these husky tomato relatives here: flavor is good despite small size of fruit. Combine this with the ease of growing them and we have a winner in my book.

I have a feeling, that after seeds get into the soil this year I'll be harvesting volunteers next year. Well, and the next, and so on and so forth. With any luck, all the way into the sweet with heat, chile verde sunset years of life.

nana's hands

2008-09-30T19:47:00.000-07:00

I don't remember my great grandmother's face nearly so much as her hands. I remember thinking they weren't much bigger than mine, but severely arthritic and bent. Somehow voluptuously so, with how her enormous knuckles joined by slim digits formed two hourglass shapes on each finger and one more on her thumbs. She passed away when I was in second grade, so my memory of nana is fading, not unlike looking at an old picture of her. One part is clear: her bony little fingers poking the surface of some focaccia over and over and over......

Nana's mother brought her to San Francisco from Genoa just after the turn of the century. Landing in the City at that time must have been a sight to behold. Her mother had helped bring babies into this world, no doubt having tough little hands full of tender loving. My nana learned through these hands, then taught her children, and so forth. Focaccia was but one of the foods handed down, but it holds the distinction as the only one I remember seeing nana make. Years later, seeing my grandma make focaccia reminded me how she poked the dough the same way and and how her mother must have taught her. I'd also notice how grandma's hands looked just like hers. Would I inherit these bony looking hands? I used to wonder.

Six years ago, my grandmother was not doing good. Being carried around everywhere by her husband was wearing on them both and she wasn't going to be around much longer. I had come for a visit to cook her some lunch and hopefully pick her brain about some recipes I could write down. I can't remember what I made, but afterwards I recall being on the back porch with afternoon light roasting me and just barely touching her, she was so thin. I asked her about crab cioppino and got a nice outline that was easy to transcribe. I asked about minestrone and got a similar rough outline. I looked at her gnarled fingers and then I asked about bread.
"It's easy."
"Yeah, like nana's focaccia?"
"Easy."
"So, how about ingredients grandma?"
"Eh, flour, water.........bread is easy dear, don't worry."
I looked down at my notebook

flour
water

"You'll figure it out."

I don't think nana or grandma used sourdough for their leavening. No matter, because somewhere back in that line of knowledge, someone did, and someone else converted over to dried yeast. Besides, grandma's recipe said flour, water.
And so that, is where I start.

hilgard branch rolls (high sierra sourdough loop part 3)

2008-09-20T15:38:00.000-07:00

So, it's now been over a month since this trip ended, but I just had to finish it up so bear with me.......

Before leaving Lake Italy and starting our trip downstream toward Bear Creek via the Hilgard Branch, I mixed up another dough to ferment in the pack. I tossed in the remainder of my dried herbs, so in essence I made the same dough as the day before, but carried it with slightly different intentions. Rolls this time, with a bit of grated cheese on top, and flipped once in the pan to brown both sides. I just love herbed rolls and was dreaming of a fish or three to go with them.

Our path skirted many beautiful wet meadow-ettes and I had my first real encounter with a wild sierra onion. My BIL dug one up for show and tell. Tough to remove and hardy as hell, like everything else up here, it was purple stemmed and rather fragrant. Mmmmm onion. Next time a few of these might find their way onto a pizza.

Winding our way through the forest and brief meadow encounters, we finally hit the last big meadow before joining the JMT. Looking for a well worn campsite was not tough. Despite the low traffic volume of this trail, years of repetitive use steered us toward a clutch of trees not too far from the creek.

The first cast into the creek brought in the first minnow of the evening. A beautiful little Golden it was but too small for eating standards. Hooked through only the outer lip, it was easy to release without harm. We worked the creek up and down for the few hundred yards lined by meadow. A few more hook ups resulted in more tiny fish. More than content to eat what was on the menu, we rambled back to camp. Not exactly triumphant, but happy to confirm the presence of the mythical golden minnow.

The sun was setting, beginning to make everything glow with warm colored alpine light. Even the piles of crap all over the meadow began to like nice with the sun glinting on them. Camp was eager to get eating so we concentrated on the task at hand, looking up now and then to get another glimpse of the mountains all around us. Not sure if I was sighting Hilgard Mountain or Mount Hilgard, I worked on the rolls as a compliment to tonight's final feast of the trip.

Getting absolutely feasted upon by mosquitos (they were actually trying my cuticles and fingertips!) we stayed as covered as possible. Happy to spend another night out in the majestic Sierras, we endured. It reminded me of a Northwest Indian tribe folk story about how mosquitos came to being. A monster was eating people. When someone figured out a way to trick the monster and toss him into a fire with the hopes of killing him, the ashes from his body floated up into the air and became mosquitos. Well, that must have been one huge monster because the mosquitos here were out of control. It was truly time for the mosquito netting.

The herbed rolls ended up as compliment to a delicious meal by my SIL. Curried chicken and black lentils with toasted cashews and coconut served on a bed of rice with some dahl. Wow. The herbed rolls were good but should have been flattened in retrospect; trail naan. Next time I guess. I cracked open a bottle of hooch to celebrate our having a good time and the tasty food we all packed.

The next day we hiked the rest of the way out, heading North, then East, while thunderheads started booming above. Just a few thumps and a flash or two nearby, we saw a line marching toward the crest off to our North. Good thing we'd be back at the car tonight. With a hot meal and a cold beer ahead, we marched on and with the kindness of a stranger, scored a free ride for the last two miles to the car.

We spent the next night in Reedley, home of my in laws and an enormous amount of fresh produce. With golden ketchup being a big hit last year, we made sure to come home with a few golden romas. Well, more like several hundred, as it seems that a 5-gallon bucket fits quite a few. Looking forward to some canning adventures, I got to work beginning with an ingredient list.

Turns out that five gallons makes a hell of a lot of tomato sauce. Doubling a ketchup recipe was all I could manage without thinking it was way too much, so I tried my hand at a golden hot sauce. The ketchup is a tad on the runny side, but continued thickening of the tomato sauce would have further caramelized the sugar in the recipe and made it too dark. Oh well, turns out the golden ketchup isn't a hit with the elder monkey this year. I like it though, and a few jars will make nice presents. I think the hot sauce came out nice too, so overall I'm pleased with the results. Even if I'm the only one eating it on my corndog.

Hope you enjoyed this years backpacking adventure! I sure did. With any luck, I'll squeeze in two next year.......

local hop harvest

2008-09-01T13:38:00.000-07:00

Here we are in the last week of August and the hops are looking good. I had started to tentatively pick a few, but being a newbie at this sort of thing, I wasn't exactly sure how to dry them and preserve their dank smelly goodness. I had plans for a "wet hopped" beer, but the overall haul would warrant some preservation. I needed guidance, someone to talk to about their experiences. I had dehydrated a sandwich bags worth and was itching to show them to someone else and find out what I need to know. I hatched a plan to bring them down to the Oak Barrel and rap with their attentive and informative staff. The monkeys and I were nearing our final lock down of the ranch before loading into the car when a hop angel came to our door.

"Hey, you the green thumb out front?"
"Uhhhh, I don't know about green, but, yeah, I'm an amateur gardener."
"Those are Cascade Hops, aren't they?"
"Yep, stretching over the garden, and Northern Brewer climbing the house."
"Well, I drive by all the time and finally decided to knock on your door to find out who's behind it and tell you they look great."
"Really? They do? Sweet! Uhhhh, wow, thanks!" then realizing that the information source I've been needing had arrived, "hey, can we head out front and I ask you some questions?"

The hop angel Jesse was more than kind with dispensing the knowledge I needed. I asked him a bunch of stuff and came away with some key info. First: start picking them, now. Second: dry them over a few days time where air circulates, and keep them in the shade. Second and a half: any bugginess or leaf mildew problem I see is within the range of normal for around here. Third: use them now, then in the spring trade rhizomes with others and help bring the knowledge of cultivating hops to the world.

That all sounded good. It was just what I needed to hear. I did a little happy dance and sent him home with a blueberry hefeweizen as a wet token of my appreciation. Then I started picking and drying.

The next day I was brewing up a batch of something big, red, extra malty, and ready to absorb a lot of hop character. I'm familiar with the taste of Cascade hops (think Sierra Nevada Pale Ale), so I wanted to use exclusively Northern Brewer for my first "all homegrown hops" brew. This way, I'd start acquainting myself with their flavor profile. All in the name of science of course.

With the wort chilling, waiting to come down to yeast pitching temps, I went out and harvested yet more hops. You see, I won't be the only one using my hops this week. I'm working on an art project that will use local produce from the city limits of Oakland, Berkeley and San Francisco. It turns out that the crazy twisted mess of hops in my yard are a wanted flavor. For the next exhibition, representing part of the beverage category, will be some beer by a local brewery. This will be "localized" even further by being dry hopped with a taste of oaktown. My little hip-hop neighborhood part. I am soooo excited to be part of this project and can't wait to see what the professionals can do with this years happy ending story from my garden.

So this past Thursday night, with 5 ounces of nefarious looking, homegrown dank green smelling hops, I went and paid a visit to the brewery. We bellied up to the bar and began talking to the bartender and asking for the brewer since we had some hops to drop off. He said we were expected and asked to see the hops. Pulling them from my bag, a distinctive aroma not unlike weed wafted up and around. As the two, nearly full gallon bags hit the bar, heads snapped up and started wondering about the produce being handed over. Now, feeling like some local street dealer (this is the corner of Haight and Masonic after all) and nervous as hell about handing over part of my first crop of hops (are they strong enough, too buggy, the right varieties) I had a few gulps of what sudsy goodness they have to offer and promptly settled down. After a tour downstairs to see where everything but the drinking happens, we came back up to have some delicious grub and another pint. Ending with a Dark Star Mild, I was feeling like I was somewhere in the drums/space combo before the start of the next set.

So, I'll know what the hops taste like in a little under two weeks. I'll be helping serve the beer at the art exhibit, and if this sounds like something you are interested in, check out the link above and make a point to drop on by.

Hope to see you there!

lake italy pizza (high sierra sourdough loop part 2)

2008-08-25T09:34:00.000-07:00

There is something very soothing about making dough up in the thin mountain air. Kneading, pulling, folding and breathing slowly and deeply all the while. Up here the cadence really fits the view.
Glacial.
Yeah, its gotta be the view.

Then again maybe it was starting off the day by catching my first fish of the trip, then losing it trying to take a picture.
My first pure Golden! What a beautiful fish, I gotta get a picture!
Then reaching for the camera, the fish starts flipping about and is gone........Nothing like a good hearty laugh at yourself before that morning cup of joe.

This is the view looking down at the ingredients and supplies. Plain indeed as far a scenery, but you know, mise en place counts for something at 10,800+ and it is imperative we start at the beginning. From left to right, starting at the top I have: active starter in my 2 quart plastic dough can, BFM olive oil resting on a bagged mix of 3 parts bread flour to 1 part whole wheat, my water bottle, and the screw-on top for my dough can. Then in the non-stick we have a container of salt, one with a mix of dried garden herbs, and a borrowed wooden spoon.

After putting a cup or so of water in with the starter I added a few handfuls of flour and mixed it with the wooden spoon until it started clumping up. I flopped this out onto the pan and kneaded it for about five minutes while enjoying the morning sun on my mosquito bitten face. I covered the pan, then let the dough rest while I went and pumped some water for our accent of the pass. Coming back to the dough I added a few teaspoons of salt and about a tablespoon of herbs and then continued kneading for another 2-3 minutes. I oiled up the dough can and placed my herbed lump in.

Well above Upper Mills creek lake I had a peek at the dough while grabbing some more jerky from my pack. It was looking good and smelling even better. Had there been more humidity in the air I might have noticed the salivating. We were nearing 12,000 feet and I had just finished a dumb traverse. I was too high up a talus slope and needed to drop a bit to meet the "trail." Some day-hikers coming down from the pass indicated that it was easy, just make sure to "stay in the gut and head right up" which sounded easy enough. I wound back down to the bottom of the canyon and plotted my course.

The bouldering in the bottom of the route to the pass was straight forward. From pebbles to house size blocks, it was a doable maze indeed; pretty straight, with occasional jogs to the sides to avoid climbing something on all fours. At what seemed like the last flat area before a final pitch to the pass, we took another breather. Another check of the dough confirmed it's happiness. It was poofy and in need of a beating down. Based on this, I was guessing it must have been around 70-ish in my pack. Combined with the lower barometric pressure at this altitude not pushing down as much, the dough was rising even faster than it would at home. I was overcome with joy and the prospect of fluffy pizza dough tonight. I wanted a high altitude portrait.

With everyone caught up and resting it was time to assess our final climb for the day. I took my first real look at what lay ahead. I remember thinking those guys also said it wasn't too bad going up the final bit, that it even had a nice marked path, and the other side of the pass was easy! Like, cheaaaww! Pfffst! Right!

You have got to be fucking kidding! kept running through my mind as we stared up. Then two brave souls forged ahead as I stood and stared some more. After a few minutes they yelled that there were some cairns and a worn trail. They even said it wasn't too steep. I took another look and stared again in disbelief. I fished out my camera and took this picture to look at again later. Like maybe when I wasn't contemplating my sanity. You know what? You see that little black speck in the middle? It is not a hunk of basalt in an otherwise granitic landscape, no way. Nor is it a blackened tree trunk somehow way above timberline. Nope. It is a person, of sound mind and body heading uphill. Taking another look now it still looks daunting. However, should you go this way yourself, in August or later when the snow is all gone, and you have any experience going cross-country at such altitudes, you do indeed have a tame final bit on the North side of Gabbot pass.

The top was very flat and spilled over to the South in the beginnings of a green carpet set amongst stones. This soft green mat seemed to run at least halfway downslope in the direction we were going and my heart went a flutter. We easily had over a mile and a half to go to camp but it looked like we'd be there within the hour. Going a bit fast for my wobbly legs and big pack I only nearly ate it once. Well, okay maybe twice but tht's why they make walking sticks right?

Safely on the level near the East end of Lake Italy we set up camp. I checked the dough one more time and gave it another punch, then started working on the toppings. Using my backpackers cheese grater I shredded some dry jack. We boiled some water and I rehydrated some peppers, onions, mushrooms and tomatoes that I dried for the trip. Remembering we didn't use all of our pesto tube from two nights ago, my SIL offered the rest. The pizza was starting to sound, well, Italian at the very least. Salt encrusted and getting chewed on by a few mosquitos, I started constructing our first of two pizzas.

I didn't expect it to last long so I got a pre-baked picture right before tossing it in the "oven." The first one was a touch soft on the top but considering the location, this is easily forgiven. I have used this set up several times now and am most pleased with the results. I liken the results to: at home this pizza would be considered not crispy enough, but out here, it tastes like the best pizza ever.

Want some?

It was getting dark by the time number two was done. It came out more fully baked. My BIL got out the high country version of the ove glove and started cutting. Finishing off the last pieces coincided with the mosquitos calming down and the bats coming out. It was time for bed. It was also time for some tunes as I had a horrible Christopher Cross song in my head, doing that endless annoying loop thing since coming down from the pass. I had purchased my first iPod thingy before the trip and right now I felt like the smartest man alive to have it with me.

Climbing into my bag I funked out for a while with 8-string master guitarist Charlie Hunter now in my head. Somewhere in the smooth jazzy sounds I could make out squeeky little clicks and ticks of the bats flitting about only inches above my tent. It sounded like I was listening to music on vinyl instead of pure digital. I had another good hearty laugh, turned off the tunes and promptly fell asleep.

A few audible rock falls and subsequent sliding talus sounds during the night called me from a deep slumber. Looking out I realized I was deep in the moon shadow of one mountain, while looking out on the moonlit peaks all around. I looked around for the pass the dough came over and then drifted back out, happy I came along for the ride.

high sierra sourdough loop (part 1)

2008-08-22T16:18:00.000-07:00

"The sourdough is the true adventurer.........I'm just along for the ride." - MW
August 12th, 2008 (Gabbot pass area at approximately 11,957 feet)

One of my sourdough starters was looking forward to a high country adventure.
One where the altitude would make it easier work.
One where the doubt of backcountry pizza being in the realm of possibility would be erased for some.
One where my butt would work overtime traversing steep terrain with a live dough in my pack to prove this point.

This year, the "ferry service" from the trailhead camping consists of a 16 foot bass boat that could fit 5 besides the pilot, plus backpacks. For ten bucks you get the seeming luxury of cutting off a few trail miles. This being a drought year it means you start by driving all the way down to damn near the bottom of the dam. After parking your car in what might be 40 feet of water some years, you drag your bag over to a small listing "dock" tied to some big rocks on the shore and get in line. The boat pulls up and instead of thinking ferry, I was thinking trolling. The body count ahead of us and some quick math determined it would only be another hour and a half until it was our turn. When that finally comes you toss your stuff in and then bounce your way across the lake some 3-ish miles. This year being special and all, since the lake is soooooo low (drought year remember) you get dumped off nearly a mile earlier than expected. After a warm and sandy slog we arrived at where Mono creek "spills" into the lake. After only 3 hours we came to the beginning of our hike.

After re-considering the sign we saw back at VVR (Don't complain about the level of the lake if you still water your lawn) we grabbed a snack and headed off East. Soon we were greeted by Volcanic Nob and signs of glaciation on the peaks around us. The canyon walls pulled in closer and rose a bit. The home made jerkey, dried figs and cherries were hitting the spot as we joined the PCT/JMT and made our first switchbacks of the trip. Greeted by our first pack train of the trip, I was suddenly hyper-aware of all the shit on the trail. Longing to get off after only a hundred yards of my heightened awareness to biting horse flies and such, my pace quickened and the next big valley to our South came into view: Second Recess. We were nearing our camp for the first night and I felt myself rejoicing with the idea of symbiosis; the sourdough starter needs me as I knead it. We agreed to share dinner duties so tonight someone else would cook for us all. I would cook on night three, meaning tomorrow the starter would get its first meal in a few days.

The following morning we broke camp. I fed the beast in my pack and then crossed Mono creek. With no water worthy shoes, I used a semi-treacherous log bridge, only to find we had to cross Mills creek to get back to the trail we needed to be on. With my right foot nicely moistened with clear cold creek water, I found the most obvious foot trail around and made my way uphill with the rest of our group. In less than 20 minutes the trail leveled out and began following a beautiful trout filled stream. Well, I imagined it being full with big old hogs, but spotted only minnows in the shallows. Could they be the state fish? We trekked on and I dreamt out loud of pan fried fish. My SIL and I began talking dinner hopes and the trail began to dissappear.

After bushwacking and bouldering, countless snags on small aspen and gooseberry bushes and much self-doubt, we determined that the faint use trails we were pursuing were either made by mountian legends or complete idiots. Being idiots ourselves, we sided with the latter group. After gaining a few hundred feet more than seemed necessary for where we needed to go, eventually we sat down for a snack and looked at the boulder field ahead. Mmmm, mmmm eating crow at 10,000+ sure is good! Determining (hoping, pretending even) that the worst was behind us for the day, we pushed on.

Arriving at our camp with the sun getting low, we set up quickly and scrubbed our dirty faces. The high peaks defining the pass and our path of travel was clear and high to the Southeast. Campers near us reported catching numerous "little guys" but having fun. I checked the starter. It was bubbly and hoochy smelling. I thought about making dough and letting it ferment overnight. Then I remembered that we covered only about four miles in twice as many hours for the day and so I lay down to catch a few meteorites before nodding off. The moon was in waxing gibbous mode so it made for poor conditions, but three good streakers revealed their paths before the chill got to me.

As I climbed into my itty-bitty tent and my head hit my "pillow" it dawned on me: we'll be having pizza at Lake Italy!
(in part 2 that is)

trail food

2008-08-19T09:08:00.000-07:00

Preparing and planning for food on a backpacking trip can be a daunting task, requiring more thought about your diet than you maybe believed possible. Especially since it is after all, vacation. When the initial task of menu planning is complete, you still have a few major obstacles. First, you have to want to carry it. Second, you have to overcome the preservation aspects of no refrigeration and minimal packaging. Third, if you are anywhere near the bear superhighway, space is at a premium, as it has to fit in the can. For me, this adds up to making at least one old standby I've loved my entire life. Maybe you know the one. It's that salty, beefy, last forever at ambient temps, source of partially dehydrated protein: jerky.

This years batch came out good. The rump roast was double David'd; raised and sliced just perfect. (Thanks dudes!)
Of course, I couldn't stop there. I ran an experiment with a pound of tuna and a full chicken breast that I treated in the same manner. It failed to make the picture because I smoked it the next day (sorry) but was bomb enough for mention. The process goes as such:
Marinate overnight in a brine/soy sauce combo that is jazzed up with fresh fruit, onions and garlic.
Smoke with some peach wood for a few hours. 'Bout 225 is nice.
Put on the dehydrator for a few more hours. Few like anywhere between 2-6 hours depending on, well, everything.
Cool back to ambient room temps, weigh out, bag up for the trip, and write who's is who's.

Remember: the process is not complete until you bring it somewhere. Here perhaps:

Next up, I'll give you a trip report including but not limited to the effects on hiking distances caused by folks in so-cal's real need for somewhat renewable electricity and perceived need for a green lawn, a so called second recess, a few mythical golden minnows, a pizza at lake Italy, hard cider at 9000+ feet, and crap all over a botanical wonderland.

And yes, really. Just you wait.

smokeapalooza 2008

2008-08-01T21:18:00.000-07:00

Kinda like that, but not. Perhaps the event was more like a smokathon. Anyway, the idea is that some endurance in withstanding smokey air was involved, but instead of fundraising, I blew some cash. Then I stayed home, raided the freezer for more food, cracked open a beer, and went out back and choked on smoldering embers for a long time.

A few weeks ago I fired up the bbq and did up anything I could. I figure if I'm going to commit some kind of carbon footprint no-no, then I should be more efficient and cook a bunch at once. Pork shoulder, beef bottom round, and some salmon fillets made it onto the grill. It was a huge load of food that I finally, just today, polished off the remaining leftovers. (Well, kind of, I put two of the fillets into the freezer.) I guess it's been a long couple of weeks steeped in wood smoked foodie goodness.

The pork shoulder was cooked too hot and didn't develop that fall-apart succulence I was looking for. No prob. Just "cook it again in something else" I always say. A trip to the chest freezer yielded roasted chile verde sauce. So, smoked pork with sautéed onion and mushroom enchiladas, topped with a verde sauce just screamed to be made. Served with desert pebble beans cooked with onion, garlic and a twig of epazote. Fresh white corn from Efren, likely picked that morning, and smeared in more butter than I care to admit, rounded the dish out. It was pure satisfaction and felt like the flavors were old school.

The smoked salmon from the smoke-fest had been nibbled away at for at least a week when I finally decided to make quiche. It was in the true spirit of the dish. I had no main course for dinner that night, but eggs, milk, cheese, big flavorful meat, and a want to practice making whole wheat pastry crusts were present in the house. It resulted in this. The salmon hunks sank a bit, but the crust was my flakiest to date. Overall, I think mom would have been proud, and for the most part, the family ate it. Well, the little one ate the filling and the big one ate the crust. If only I'd known ahead of time and just given them these respective portions.

The beef bottom round stayed almost entirely intact for darn near two weeks before I did something with it. I kept thinking of how cured meats hang around a deli for a few weeks and extended this to mean I had plenty of time to come up with a plan. It suffered the same initial toughness that the pork did and needed some more slow cooking "treatment." I began with sautéing a few poblano peppers, a bell, and the largest jalapeño you ever did see along with a hugenormous yellow onion. I cut the beef into disks of a sort, then hacked these in half and threw them into the pepper and onion combo. In the spirit of using leftovers I poured a home-canned jar of seasoned tomato sauce over the whole mess, and then cooked it for about two hours more on low heat. For the last half hour I uncovered it to thicken it some. Meanwhile a bag of masa from a few months back had been defrosting. I slapped some gobs of it around in my palms and laid this on top of the sauce and meaty goodness. I then put this in the oven for about 40 minutes.

It was like a smoke-bomb tamale pie. The high pepper count and tomato tang gave it one rocking jolt of flavor. The smoke from the meat stood up against it all and announced the dishes origins. I ate it for four days straight, but you know what? Right about now I could go for some more.

Well, this Sunday promises to be another smoke filled day. Once again, I'm preparing food for an upcoming backpacking trip that I volunteered to make some jerkey for. Since my experiment last year worked out so well, I'll be looking to duplicate it to some degree. I've got the peach wood and rump roast lined up, and the rest of the marinade in the works.

Now, if I only had a respirator........

trade?

2008-07-29T15:18:00.000-07:00

I don't know what I'm gonna do at today's market. I guess I'll have to spend some paper bills since I'm all out of money.

Last week I had the time and foresight to bake up some money and run the muffin money experiment again. With gas prices though the roof, and the economy hurting nearly everyone's pocketbook, I wanted to see if I could get by using just dough. This time I stuffed the wallet with two kinds: fluffy all white, and blue cornmeal bliss. About every other week, for over a year and a half now, I've showed up with some muffins, but more like 6-10 of them that I give to a few folks, or maybe trade a bit here and there. Last week though, with stuffed wallet, I rolled up to the market on my bike as usual, then unloaded before I got mugged by someone looking to take my hard griddled cash. Because, by stuffed, I mean somewhere around 30.

Good thing I brought so much because I gave away at least 8-10 of them before I got any shopping done. I needed tofu and cheese or there would be mutiny at home. I wanted some nice heirlooms for the salad greens we started harvesting, and I wanted another squash variety besides the patty pans in my yard. The torpedo onions are just downright fun, and as far as I'm concerned one of the best deals. I learned this year, if you let them get all sprouty on the kitchen counter, just chuck 'em outside and bury them a bit. Next thing you know you have your own growing outside your window. It's like buying veggies that will never spoil.

Well, gotta keep it short and ride over to the ATM on the way to the market this week!

(Hmmmm, in case the funds are low, maybe I should take a minute to feed the sourdough, so I'm not totally broke at the end of the week.........)

blog eat blog world

2008-07-25T14:52:00.000-07:00

Right now, I'm blushing, so thank you Mimi and Kat for causing this current affliction.

Luckily I have a beard and it will go unnoticed by the general public, but my kids know something's up. I went on and explained to them that I feel very happy when my friends in the blogosphere reach out and give me a cyber-hug. I told them how it makes me feel reassured (okay, I might have said "get the warm-fuzzies") when someone tells me that they appreciate me for just who I yam. For me, this jives right in with one of my lifelong lessons; meaning it's time to step up and say thanks.

Thank you dear readers, whoever you may be. I deeply appreciate that you take the time to drop by and have a peek. It encourages me to keep it up. I started this blog nearly two years ago to document the food that was occasionally good, the family life that is always getting better, and to force myself to sit down and write a little something. You see, I've never considered myself a good writer and so I've never taken the time to practice. Deep down, I'm probably one of those people who doesn't consider doing something unless I suspect I'll be good at. Maybe you are this way too. Well, so, with writing this means that way back in High School when a particular english teacher flat out told me that my writing was horrible, I believed her. So why ever practice? Well, it turns out that it is immensely gratifying. Even if you suck.

I can't wait to sit down and write most of the time, but with two kids at my feet it can be impossible to get around to downloading the noise in my head, let alone go ahead and hand the awards that my friends here have bestowed upon me, on to others. And honestly, I haven't been reading more than about 5 entries a week, so I wouldn't know where to start. Often, anything blog related has to wait, and lately this has seemed to be on the order of a week. My ideas stew, getting overcooked (as one might suspect if you tried to really cook a stew for 7 days or longer), leaving me with mushy, bland, oh man we should really experiment with a different voice, kind of post. Or so it can feel. Other times, an idea hits me and it gets uncorked within an hour, usually late at night when I should really be sleeping. But the effect is the same, being that a feeling, recipe, observation, or maybe all three get preserved for a later day and shared with whoever wants to drop by and check it out.

So, thank you, you. Please keep dropping by. If you get the chance and have a moment, say hi. It might take me a week to respond sometimes, but usually I get back to a comment eventually. If you go so far as to give me an award or something, I'll just have to maybe go out and get myself a beer as a little congratulations........(please?)

TTFN!

preserve-a-holic

2008-07-17T13:20:00.000-07:00

Ever gone and picked your own fruit at the farm? It can be an immensely rewarding experience. You see where the food comes from, get a discount per pound, and pick fruit riper than you will find anywhere.

Our first u-pick of the year was cherries. For me, cherries are one of those fruits that I just can't help myself with. Heaven with a pit. I can easily eat a pound a day without too much intestinal distress. Luckily the season is short or someday I'd go bankrupt because of this behavior, that I am sure of. However, this shortness of availability got us thinking about doing some preservation this year. So we started by hitting a farm in Brentwood where you go pick-'em yourself. There were 5 pickers and we hit 13 pounds in no time.

Our allotment was gorged on during the ride home and what was left we washed, pitted and began drying. Beginning with at least 1/400th of a ton, the resulting bag was puny and a bit depressing to behold. Hmmm, maybe next time we'll buy the dried cherries. Don't get me wrong, these are the tastiest dried cherries I think I've ever had, but the time involved in producing them is maddening. How much you ask? Go ahead and give it a try!

But there is a bright side. One of those hair-brained ideas hit me and it worked out for the better. You see, last year I ran a few brewing experiments with fruit in a porter. Blackberry and peach it was. Both turned out nice, but the blackberry was the winner. This year I thought hey, I can do a porter with cherries! Only, because I wasn't sure whether to do it with dried or wet cherries, I just had to get scientific about it, and do both. Mmmmm, beer and science. No wait, cherries, beer and science. Now we're talking! Man, I love experimenting with brewing alcohol! So when a batch of high gravity porter that was already under experimentation finished fermenting, I pulled some out of the big carboy and put a few gallons on fresh pitted cherries, and another gallon on dried pitted cherries. After a few weeks with the fruit re-fermenting, the whole lot was bottled and ready for conditioning.

When we finally sampled the porter it was a hit. Nice and roasty, malty indeed, belgian yeasty, and really dark. Then we tried the cherry versions........
Wow!
Kazam!
Why the hell aren't more people doing Belgian style cherry porters?
Beats me. I guess I'll be pondering that one as I empty each bottle.

The cherries added a nice red hue to an already almost black beer. It made me think trappist. The flavor is subtle, but there. It helps knowing what it is though. I think the dried version has a touch more fruit in the nose. This picture sucks, so please trust me, this was one pretty beer. And I tell you (h)what: this beer is good!

Oh, and did I ever mention I used to want to be a monk?

With all the cherry success, we moved onto blueberries. We didn't pick any though. Wanted to but didn't research a place. We didn't dry any, but many fresh handfuls and loads of jam came from the bounty. Then a friend, intuiting our need to pick berries told us about a place to pick your own olallieberries. Or as I like to spell them Ol'-la-la-berries.

We ventured down the San Mateo County coast to a farm on top of a bluff next to the beach. Acres and acres of berries awaited us. Like the cherries, if you picked ten pounds or more, the bulk rate was 2 bucks a pound. Good thing, because we brought willing fingers and hungry mouths. We even managed to not get eaten alive by all the spiders that were protecting the vines. Perhaps the froggy boots scared the helpful vine dwellers away. (I need to get me a pair of those.) The sun broke, we filled our box nearly half way and then made our way back to the scales. We hit near 12 pounds and called it a day.

Back at the monkey ranch we enlisted the help of the big momma jam queen. She busted out two batches, a pie, and had some left over to give a few away. In the name of science I had to try an olallieberry next to a blackberry. We have some blackberries out back so I went and collected a few from the rampant growth on our shed. Side by side, the raspberry component of the ol' la-la berry was very noticeable. I smiled thinking of how the jamming and baking occurred within twelve hours of the berries being picked, so to say we preserved our fruit at the peak of ripeness would be rather accurate. It was, however, bedtime when the pie was coming out of the oven. Since ol' la-la berry flavored napalm inside an all butter crust, right before hitting the sheets ain't our idea of a night cap, the pie sat out on the counter for a long cooling rest.

The next morning the pie stared up at me, looking all delicious. I got out a few bowls and started to savor the moment, thinking that this will be a highlight to remember, one representing a moment that will likely never be forgotten. One that you truly love being a parent for.
"Hey kids, guess what?"
"Are we going to the zoo daddy?"
"Well, no, uh......even better. I hope." (I murmur)
"We're going to Disneyland?"
"No, we're not going anywhere sweetie. I'm talking about breakfast. You see, this morning we are going to have pie for breakfast!"
"Pie?"
"Yup."
"Why?"
"Because Mommy made one last night, and it's not gonna get any better. That, and it's filled with fresh fruit that is good for you. In fact, it has berries that you picked in it!"
I look down at the monkeys and see dual looks of bewilderment. The older, her face a bit contorted with trying to think exactly what she is doing this very moment to deserve this occasion and therefore how she can possibly duplicate it in the future, while the younger is more primal, thinking with his belly and pointing to his chair, saying "ha-da, ha-da!" in anticipation of a bite of the pie on the counter that he can surely smell a thousand times better than I can.
I serve up and we scarf down.
This pie was killer.
Thank you honey. (Big momma jam queen.)
Did I say I wanted to be a monk once? Because, I have the best wife ever, so like, no way.

Preservation aside, this was at least inspired by it in a round about way. The day after the picked and purchased berry rush, I just had to make something with the remaining quark I had. Thinking of the blackberries in the yard I got down to work. The recipe was identical to a previous effort, except for the fruit. These were no farm berries, but with regard to ripe fruit and freshness preserved, I didn't have to drive anywhere, which is always good. At most, within 10 minutes these berries were mixed in the pan and being slid into an oven. Ol' la-la berries may be simply divine and preserved in jam to enjoy later, but blackberries are growing wild nearly everywhere and are free.

It's summer and the fruit is popping! Get out there and preserve something!

bittersweet tart

2008-07-07T14:18:00.000-07:00

Ahhhhhh.........this bittersweet thing we call life. How do you deal with it sometimes?

Like today, let's have a little look see into the life of a Monkey Wrangler, on what is turning into one of those classic days in the stay at home repertoire to remember for a long time........

Big girl was watching an early morning program and was being unresponsive to me asking her something. Meanwhile, little dude was downstairs mangling something of hers, making enough noise to make it obvious. When I threatened Big girl that I'd turn off the TV if I didn't get a response, it was met with an unresponse. I turned it off and suggested we do something else. There was absolutely no protest and she stayed put staring off into who knows what. Within about 43 seconds, she was up and walking about the house and starting to grunt and whine a bit. Within another minute she was saying "Daddy.............I don't want to throw up!" over and over, while pacing figure eights around the two tables downstairs again and again. "Daddy, now I have to go poop!" she mutters and I think, oh crap, here we go..........

We make it upstairs and I assist her. As well as hold her hair out of the bowl she is clutching on her lap, should she need to hurl. The little bro' unit comes crawling in, then gets into a squat position and stands up. He takes a few steps at us near the toilet. Usually big sis' would be having a major conniption fit about him being anywhere near the bathroom while she's in it. Today though, nothing. She stares through him. He is like a fly in the room. Besides our being in the bathroom under such conditions, I know she's sick when she pays no mind to what her brother is about to get into and/or destroy of hers.

Ahhhh, the bittersweetness of parenting. I'm holding onto one kid who is shivering uncontrollably and dry heaving while the other is showing his newfound skill and making day two of being an upright homo sapien. I laugh at myself for a second, being in the midst of all this.
Then it hits me.
Shit.
This is only Monday.

Well, at least yesterday I got something done. I got to use some lemon quark in a new way for me, in a dessert I've been imagining for well over a year now. And I had the immense fortune that it incorporated a few of Carl's peaches. Making it was bittersweet though. The peaches were the rarest I'll have this year, for on Saturday the 5th when I saw Carl and he had a few peaches, he said "yeah, these are the only ones for the year..........today." I gasped, I was so excited. I bought half a dozen. (I would have bought more, but I wanted others to have a chance at the few boxes he had.) Then I came home and nearly cried thinking of the bittersweetness of it all. How these would be my only fresh peach this year from my favorite king of peaches.

Then again, if that is one of my big worries for the year, then I surely have it really, really good. Dry heaves, shivers, giggling while walking and all.

But, like, jeez, I do wish it were Tuesday already..........if you are having a similar day, make yourself one of these:

BITTERSWEET PEACH AND CHEESE TART

1 cup whole wheat pastry flour
1 stick of damn good butter
1/4 cup powdered sugar

1/2 pint lemon quark
2 large eggs
3 of the rarest peaches you can find, preferably one you will not have for at least another year. This is essential.

cut the butter into the flour after you have mixed the sugar into it. like, duh. pat this into a 9x9 pan or something oval and smallish. bake it at 350 for about ten minutes. when this is just showing a hint of golden, pull it out and cool for a bit. meanwhile, put the leftover 4th of July booze down and crack a few eggs into a bowl. slop in the quark and mix thoroughly. skin your peaches and cut into slices. if they are clingstone, place the pit in your mouth and suck the stubborn, hard to get stuff off. do not put this part with the slices. pour the egg and quark mixture over the crusty thing and place slices of peaches all over the top. put it into the oven, still at 350 for another 25 of so minutes. well, maybe 18, maybe 33, who knows, learn to pay attention........eat the whole thing yourself and try not to cry.

BFM summer farm tour (2008)

2008-06-30T21:58:00.000-07:00

A few weeks ago I had the fortune of going on a summer farm tour with the Berkeley Ecology Center as part of their Farmers' Market Community Advisory Committee. We headed south to Hollister to see a few places, then over to Aromas and finally Corralitos. It was a full day, packed with home made mezcal, bovine escapee stories, a kiwi forest, free flowers and to top it all off, a scoop of delicious ice cream.

Our first stop was Catalán Farm in Hollister. María greeted us with agua fresca, mezcal, and about the warmest smile you can imagine. Her farm is a testament to the knowledge gained through a life of work in the fields. Like here, where after walking out to her corn, she goes on to explain why the chard is occupying the same space. You see, she planted her corn three times this year due to poor weather beating down the tender starts each time they tried to make a go of it. Making the best of two bad storms and a lack of water (this necessitating the renewed use of an old well) she figured, hey, if I plant my chard there too, then at least I'll be able to harvest something. María has the entire plan for the farm in her head and making adjustments like this are just part of how it goes if you are trying to squeeze in a crop despite mother nature's plans for it's demise.

Being there, I got the impression that I was walking with an encyclopedia of hard earned wisdom. Every few rows there was a different crop, often with several varieties growing together. Or as with the corn and chard combo, sometimes different crops all together. A patchwork of color, we strolled along and I imagined myself picking up the ingredients for a nice salad. Drop by her stall sometime at any of the Berkeley markets. Or read a bit more here about María Catalán, and then go buy something from her farm. You won't be disappointed in the produce or the service.

Moving lengths of metal irrigation piping over several acres is tough with a team of 4. Imagine yourself doing it alone. Like Efren. He must not know the word for sleep. He literally does nearly all of the work at the farm by himself. If there is a superhero of hard work, then he is the one man wonder of Avalos Farm. Fruits, veggies, rooty things........he is the man. I've always wondered why his stuff is so good and amongst the cheapest at the market, but I guess when you never sleep, you learn a lot about growing stuff because you never miss a thing.

Looking out at his land, at first it was hard to tell what was what. I'd see some crazy tall weeds and think it was a fallow area, only to realize that I was also looking at artichokes, tomatillos, carrots, beets and a few potatoes. The strawberries were clearly defined, or about as clear as anything was and this was what enchanted me the most about his farm. Efren grows a lot of weeds at his farm. I'm sure they are impossible to get to as a one person operation. But, they act as cover crop and as long as the rest ain't suffering, why bother. I'm sure he stays on top of invasive stuff, but I got to thinking and when you add them to the biomass of produce he brings to market, it helped me give a new definition to productivity of a single farmer.

A very practical man, anything growing will at least feed the few cows he has. He keeps them in certain areas to avoid eating his valuable produce. This is not how they started out though. Efren didn't intend to own a few cows and start ranching. You see, his neighbors cows got out through the fence and when Efren started work one morning, the entire herd was on his farm. Chowing down on some tasty stuff we were told. When it happened again, a deal was worked out and few never went back.

After Efren's place, we ventured over to San Juan Bautista and had some artichoke enchiladas in historic downtown. I wandered over to the Mission to look at the chapel where my great, great, great grandfather was baptized back in the 1830's when this was Mexico. It was easy to imagine the main street in town not having changed a whole lot since. Cars now, sure. But there are also still places you could tie up your horse and the building across from where we ate was dated 1799. This was one of the hearts of farming and cattle back in the beginning of professional agriculture in California, so it seemed very fitting for a rest stop while out touring modern day farms.

Have you ever seen a kiwi forest? I never had either and in full summer leaf with tiny little fruits on it was a veritable thicket of trees. Sure the trees are laid out in neat rows on a steep hillside, but with how kiwi climb and wind around stuff and get all contorted in the process, the thought "this is what they call a riot of growth" is what came to mind. Robin explained to us that kiwi need pollination, so there are 1 male for every ten females on the property. The flower and growth patterns set them apart visually until the fruit is bearing, but with the tangle of green and the beauty of the farm, I never quite got it straight.

One thing I did learn about kiwi however was that here watercress grows at the bases of their mature 30 year old stock. Planting crops that work well together is one reason Four Sisters Farm has been around for 30+ years. Based on their following at the markets, I'd say they've learned a thing or two. Stuff is packed into their hillside. What will be cut flowers were in rows between everything. This farm is a happy, hyper-productive place. It's easy to imagine four little girls growing up here. All grown up and gone from the nest these days, the nurturing is now full time in the garden.

Blue Heron Farm used to be on another property years back where their namesake would nest in the trees. Apparently some still occasionally do even though the property is different. Avian nesting continuity aside, the passion in the place is readily apparent. Order is the first thing that came to mind when we arrived and saw crops. It wasn't just weed abatement that gave the sense, it was the close planting and uniformity of individual species that impressed. Dennis talked of bio-intensive land use, cover crops, and his fortune of being so proximal to the coast. This means that much of what is harvested can be done early in the morning when it is nice and cool and doesn't need to go in the fridge to be shipped off the farm. That means sometimes much of what comes to market hasn't even seen anything much below 50.

Their small hoop houses used for starting seeds were just packed with little gems. Being cooler than most other farms, the start the plants get is a boon to production and allows the farm to keep rotating crops frequently, leaving very little down time except for the winter. Dennis had a tractor mounted planting frame, designed by experience and many splinters that allows them to efficiently get the starts into the earth. Well planned, orderly and efficient, it's no wonder places like Chez Panisse count on getting some of their produce here.

At the end of a long day, we were sent home with a fresh bouquet of flowers. It was nice to literally smell the farm all the way home. We pulled out back onto pavement and drove on through Santa Cruz, making sure to stop at Marianne's to sample one or two or five of the 70+ flavors made in right in town.

Damn, I sure love field trips!

local junk food: a deep fried relapse

2008-06-24T15:42:00.000-07:00

So what is this now, like, the third deep fried post? I don't even want to do a cholesterol test right now, but let's just say I've started running again. Anyway, as the title suggests, I've suffered a relapse and gone and made corn dogs. And jalapeño poppers. And artichoke hearts. Uhh, and, fried chicken. But that was another night and I intentionally didn't take any pictures, so there was no evidence. Well that and I didn't want to alert Biggles to my doings, which I guess I just blew by saying that. (Fried chicken is in your future buddy!) Anyway, it was a dream come true........

As I was cutting the skewers for the hot dogs, I was imagining a way to cook the dogs in a vertical position and hold them in place. With a plan hatched, I whacked the dogs into smaller two-bite portions. I gave the peppers a seeding, blanching and buttermilk bath before their stuffing and first coat of batter. Then they spent some time in the fridge getting nice and cold. I used buttermilk and eggs in the half cornmeal half whole wheat batter. No beer this time. Well, more like no beer for the batter.

I used an old MacGyver technique involving some sticks and a piece of gum. Had I an underwire bra at my disposal it would have been more, well, stable, but my device did the trick. It allowed me to suspend the dogs somewhat upright during the frying. They tended to float off to one side so I would correct this a bit with my hands during the cooking to keep them fully submerged. The poppers I simply tossed in and gave a flip after a minute. Being cold to start out, just about the time the cheese gets melty and begins squirting out, they're done.

The picture is fuzzy because it's an action shot taken while moving at high speed towards the table. This was a sample plate, including corn dogs and poppers. They were simply divine. After I ate around 13 or 14 dogs and 3 poppers (on my own) there was still a touch of batter left. So I tossed in a few artichoke hearts we had in the fridge. These cooked in a matter of about a minute and went down the throat even faster. As you can see, they didn't even make it onto the plate.

So, at this point, I'm not doing anymore lying. I love my deep fryer and you're just gonna have to pry it from my burnt-from-hot-oil-spattered paws if you want to use it!

oaktown hip hops

2008-06-19T09:26:00.000-07:00

Yo!
You heard the 411 on the hop crisis?
Well, whether you have or not, for us malt liquor lovers, it's like, damn! Fo' shoe-a.
Luckily, my abode here in Oaktown be in a middle latitude on dis' orb and gots a hella mild climate. Means you can grow'em yo'self my peeps.

So somehow seeing into the future and anticipating the shortage of some hops for craft brewers, about this time last year, I bought a few hop rhizomes and planted them out front. Really, I bought them down at the Oak Barrel because they had some, I love growing things, and a town named Hopland is under two hours away so I figured they'd do at least alright. Anyway, they were planted in half barrels containing crappy soil that needed much amending and aerating. No worries. I read they don't do much their first year. Sure nuff, they went up about four feet reeeel slowly and then all the greenery died about November during our first almost frost.

This year, I looked at our garden space more closely and hatched a plan for hop production. I transplanted them into a patch that I used an acidic conditioner on (sulfur bits). Apparently, the new environs and second year of growth have coincided nicely, for we now have a few plants climbing. Getting them to grow is one challenge. Directing their growth is another. So, to push the learning even further, I put strings I tied to tomato cages at ground level and to a few rusty screws near our roofline (placed so fortuitously by a former tenant) for the Northern Brewer to climb, while the Cascade are being directed to go out horizontal above the cold frame and toward the street.

Looking out the bathroom window now involves a leafy view, particularly downward. The bines grow clockwise around the strings and haul themselves up rather nicely. And if you like watching things grow, these are fun. On that hottest day a few weeks back here in the bay area, one of them seemed to grow about eight inches. I couldn't believe my eyes, but it corresponded with it coming up over the gutter and finally onto the roof so it was easy to see its progress over the course of the day. It was amazing.
I love plants.

On closer inspection a few days later, I noticed that what I thought might be the developing cones, must indeed be. From a distance, it looked like the plants had blurry spots on them. I hauled myself up for a closer look and there they were in open flowering mode, fuzzy and hoppy. I went back inside and did a little happy dance feeling totally stoked at the prospect of a future hop harvest. I thought to myself sheee-iiiit damn! DIY rules! (followed by whispering to myself) Just don't fuck it up now.........

The little ladies in the neighborhood have been diggin' on the hops too. I guess it it still technically spring for a few more days and they might as well make the best of it. I welcome any thing that pleases them for there have been no pests of any kind so far. By the looks of these critters, I can probably count on aphids at least being out of the picture. Or can I? A horrid thought crossed my mind: we had some enormous garden pests last year, chiefly in the form of the North American bastard corn swiper. They better not return and like hops too!

Well, I'm off to go make a few bamboo stake booby traps and maybe a slingshot or two. So, remember, whatever you may consider doing in my yard, make sure you have explicit permission!

hell (deep fried heaven part 2)

2008-06-09T14:09:00.000-07:00

Please Lord, grant me the strength to walk away from my deep fryer.

If I don't succeed in this endeavor please at least give me the strength to perhaps gift it to someone or put it out on a very lengthy visit to another kitchen.

Please Lord, there isn't much time.

Like, seriously, my brain is infected with the greasey goo. As the oil's carbon chain profile of the fats alter with each use, a powerful mind numbing chemical is released. It must be, I can feel the change. One that destroys your ability to reason.
You briefly ponder the question: can't I just fry everything? And the immediate response is OF COURSE!
That right there is trouble.

Really, I have to step away from the fryer. This time for sure. I had discovered beer batter and once that ball starts rolling there's no stopping it. With home brew fermenting and being enjoyed, and multiple flours about the place it is easy to get into gut busting, artery plugging, button popping, acne inducing, kitchens gonna be smelly for three days kind of trouble. Also, the children might start expecting all of their veggies to be fried.
And like, damn, that sure sucks.

Just when I thought I could step away on my own, I reasoned that tacos would be the appropriate fishy finish for the oil and then I could quit because I'd have to. Too smelly. I also justified the cholesterol intake by using my new 3-2-1 system of keeping in shape. It goes something like 3 people powered by 2 legs on 1 wheeled vehicle. I figured if I could haul the kids across town to the Thursday BFM market by pedal power for the fish, then I could eat about anything that night.

However this ain't just anything. It's eclectic, but delish, deep fried fish. Beer battered black rock fish topped with spicey kraut, goat cheddar and a few pickled jalapeños on a corn tortilla.
Deep fried bliss.
But hell.
Straight up addictive.

Please...........someone. Have mercy on my plugged artery soul.
Come take my deep fryer over to your house.

Please.
If you want more posts...........please save me!

deep fried heaven

2008-05-31T23:04:00.000-07:00

For the little dude's birthday we fired up our deep fryer. It had only been a year since I got the thing at my mom's neighbor's garage sale and finally I was brave enough to go buy a gallon of oil. That's right a gallon. We started with fries, but owing to it being a birthday party with guests and much food to bbq and consume, not many photos were happening of the final product. Oh well, well just fire up this artery plugger another time and take more photos later.......

What better way to do it, than with some tater tots? My dear loving wife thought to herself. She got a recipe out, poured in the gallon of yellow gold and turned on the heat. She got down to work with the two kids alone at home while I was doing my volunteering at the Farmers' Market thingy. I was damn impressed to come home to these. Mmmmm, nothing says lovin' like home made tater tots!

Well, except for maybe some doughnuts. Glazed raised ones to be exact. You see, my dear partner had really been dreaming of these the entire year the fryer was in the cabinet. Correction: dreaming of these for her whole life. But, that is another story entirely. What you need to know dear reader, is that at this point in our frying adventures, the next thing just had to be doughnuts. They were hot and now. Super yummy and delicious. We ate them by the half-dozen apiece.

I asked my wife "maybe you could do a guest post? You've got some pictures of killer fried items and I don't have shit for anything to write about."
She laughs. "When would I have the time?"
A few days later she makes another batch of doughnuts. I kid her about doing the guest post again. She says "If I did, it would start something like this:"

Put milk in pan to scald, start to measure the flour, put fussing baby in chair and slice banana, wash hands and resume measuring, holler out "hold on honey, I'm in the middle of something" then go see what she's hollering about, threaten her with no doughnuts if she doesn't get dressed, take burning and overflowing milk off the stove, read down the recipe again to see where I was, google "bulk yeast equivalent for 1 packet",
get the fussing baby some blueberries, start to measure yeast, pour cereal for big girl who got dressed, wash hands again, finish measuring yeast"... You get the picture.

So, now I'm off to go get some restful sleep before a really long walk tomorrow morning. Perhaps to work on some recent pudge around the love handles, or maybe just work on pulling it together and posting something else in the near future.......

out of focus

2008-05-20T13:13:00.000-07:00

Man, I've been dragging lately on this bloggy thingy. Whatever I have worked on this month just hasn't been finished. For one reason or another my last couple of posts have failed to get to the "publish" stage and right about now it's really driving me bonkers.

Take this dish for example. I was attempting to make a pink rice torte but it just wasn't working out. My working title was "pretty pink princess torte: the case of the missing betacyanin" but the nerdiness involved in explaining it was just all wrong.

It was a lovely color before going in the oven. I had diced my beets and steamed them. The water was a vivid hue that I wanted for my rice. I spooned some into my rice and milk and began cooking it, but ten minutes in all of the pink was gone and I still had brownish rice. I added some of the beet chunks and cooked it more, but this just resulted in pink horizons of rice around the chunks. Hmmm, what to do? I added more beets to the whole mess and stirred it all together and threw it in the oven. It looked great before, but based on the rice experience I had my doubts......

Doubts confirmed. The torte was yummy, but only had those damn pink spots and none throughout. It looked like princess torte with pink bits and was nowhere near what I had intended when I started off. Somehow the beet stain would cook away in each process except the steaming and I was left with a muted color. I had a Belgian ale and tried to forget about it but the question nagged me. Are the red colors in beets (hence the betacyanin reference) deactivated by cooking them?

I tried to forge ahead, even taking a few pictures along the way.

I've really been digging the grain products we started getting from Windborne farms a few months back. The flours are all super fresh, and the pancake mix absolutely superb, but the rye, well, I can't get enough of. I made some pretzels with it for a Berkeley Farmers' Market committee meeting with great results, so I bumped up the whole grain aspect and tried my hand at a sourdough whole wheat and rye baguette.

Sourdough: check
Whole wheat and rye: check
Fluffy: no check
Tasty: check
Flash for the dark conditions: no check
Use of brain: no check

Yep. Like I said before: out of focus. I stopped right there and haven't done shit for the blog since.........there you have it!

With some luck and better focus, maybe I'll get to another post before the month is out. I sure hope so, because the stone fruits are coming into the market and the first summer squashes are here. At the very least I can rant on and on about eating fruit and steaming something besides winter root veggies.

Later taters!

wood fired pizza or corn in my cob

2008-04-26T15:55:00.000-07:00

I've been dreaming of owning a wood fired oven for a long time. To me, it just seems like the ultimate marriage of simple technology and fantastic results. Besides, with all the home made bread we do around here, it seems inevitable that it would be high on my wish list. Over the past year I've done some reading on the subject to familiarize myself with the probability of building my own. I figure, I'm a do it yourselfer, right down to the doing it yourself part, so this past week I finally "got my ass in gear" and did something about it.

I started by making a willow frame to help shape my earthen oven. A few days previous, I trimmed the willow in the backyard, so I had ample material on hand. I stripped off a few switches and started weaving a basket of sorts. It reminded me of tying together sticks into an "x" way back in grade school and then weaving yarn around the sticks to give them strength. I repeated this procedure a few more times and added several sticks. When I was happy with the shape, I set it on the floor to let the kids have at it. I thought, if they don't destroy it after abusing it for an hour, then it just might be strong enough to support some mud on top of it.

When the willow was being trimmed, I also played with the various bricks we had in the backyard to envision a base for my oven. With the arrangement I felt would work best with the materials at hand (one of the biggest goals of the whole endeavor) I placed our willow basket on top. It appeared that the size would work nice. I scraped the nice topsoil from our garden and dug a hole in the nice clayey stuff at the bottom. Tossing the dirt into a wheel barrow along with a bucket of trimmed, leftover hay from last year, then adding some good old H20 and mixing thoroughly, we were ready for some construction.

The princess "Cobina" was on hand to bless the work. After mudding in the bottom bricks to keep them stable and in place I started working my way up. When the willow frame was reached, I covered it with some thick paper bags and newspaper and tried to tuck this in to keep it in place. The weight of the mud was pushing in and distorting the paper layer so I packed the void space with some small blocks of wood and a few bricks. I continued on my way up, and after reaching about two-thirds of the way to the top, began just slapping mud everywhere and concentrating on achieving a nice round shape.

After sitting overnight, I was anxious to see if it fared all right and had dried ever so slightly. All looked well, no slumping or distortion had occurred during the night, so I went ahead and cut access to the packing material and emptied it. I now had a pile of small blocks of peach wood that would be returned a few at a time to their former residence, though much, much hotter. After about 6 hours of flame, the outside of the oven was nearly completely dry to the touch. The inside was blistering hot, so I put a large tile over the entrance and went inside for an hour to see how it held heat.

When I came back out, there was still some heat, but not enough for baking some pizza. I tried one anyway, but the bottom was the only thing cooking rapidly. I took it out and re-lit a small fire on one side. After it was burning for about twenty minutes, I raked the coals over to the other side, swept up the ashes some and put in another pizza. This time, the bottom cooked nicely, but the side nearest the flame was getting burnt to a crisp. By pizza number three, I had the heat and rotation aspects worked out and started making some decent looking pies.

Well, there you have it: wood fired pizza from my cob oven. The sourdough cornmeal crust, carmelized onions, mushrooms and pesto were all locally sourced. The mud for the oven came from under my feet. Now that, is local.

So come on. If this looks intriguing to you, go do some reading and build one yourself. Really, they are quite easy. You play with sticks, dirt, water and bricks......how hard can it be? In fact, while making the cob part I was thinking how it was like the adobe bricks and tiles we made as school children back in 4th grade at the Sonoma Mission while on a field trip. Simple technology, simple building materials, just give 'em a little knowledge and watch 'em go!

So, if you doubt your own abilities, then ask yourself: have you graduated 4th grade? Do you have some dirt in your backyard? Love wood fired pizza? Then get to work and make yourself a cob oven. Do it!

stores well on counter

2008-04-19T11:02:00.000-07:00

Ever have a butternut squash on your counter for a month before using it?

How about two months?

Three?

Four maybe?

If the answer is four then you win because I was tired of the one on mine after a mere 3 months of taking up space and collecting flour and other dust. Besides, it finally had a slightly puckered look around the stem end, so I put the steel to a big knife and did something about it. First stop: vegan calzone.

Start with the secret ingredient for super-hella bomb big taste, every time. Can you say carmelized onions? They act like sauce AND filling at the same time when forgoing the cheese. Add some thinly sliced mushrooms, a pinch of garam masala and some old-ass winter squash and you're in business! (Please bake on a pre-heated stone and make sure the dough or mushrooms aren't as old as the squash and this will come out great.....)

And now for the onion segue to our second stop.....

Why is it we only buy the bulby round part of the onion plant? Why don't we use more? Probably because we are no longer growing them regularly in our own yards. You see, when onions are getting big and mature, like a lot of other plants they wanna bloom. Since you're typically only after eating the bulb part, the bloom stem or "scape" is of no use and is generally cut off and discarded. I've seen garlic scapes bundled together and sold at the BFM, so why not use onion ones? Since we have twenty or so torpedo onions out front currently 'scaped, I figured it was time for a little experimenting. We ventured out and I hacked off a few while my daughter snapped the picture. Now, actually cooking with them. Hmmm, let's see.........

How about adding freshly chopped onion greens to pan browned beef and then smothering in a nice tomatillo sauce? Yeah, when I first thought of it, it sounded good to me too. It just had to happen. Now we're getting somewhere! Let's get on to the Second stop: butternut verde.

I looked at the remaining two-thirds of the ancient, now decapitated looking gourd. Grown and harvested by my father in-law back in October, sitting with it's own kind and some larger pumpkins in his barn on a wooden pallet for a few months, then transferred to my counter for another three, only then, or more really two days since I cut the stemmy portion off and used it.....(gasping for air) it was time to finish off this winter squash from hell.

Big, somewhat dry chunks of butternut went in beside our last little harvest of potatoes from the yard, pulled the week before. It made me very happy to be using up the rest of these foodstuffs before they turned to compost on the counter. I tasted the concoction and it needed adjusting, so I tossed in a touch of sugar to cut the acid and bitterness from the green sauce and let it begin simmering until all was nice and tender. I got my rice going and contemplated making a hollandaise sauce.

Well, maybe no sauce for the spears (as we'd had with our second round of asparagus this season) but plated up, I still think it looked good. More importantly though, the beef chile verde with butternut and potatoes had enough kick to accompany the homebrew IPA rather nicely.

Oh, and the squash from hell lives no more.......

Welp, I guess that's it, so remember, like, Everyday is Earth Day man!

march 35th

2008-04-04T22:07:00.000-07:00

Some folks go wine tasting. I've done it before, and it can be fun and all, but this past weekend, my buddy N and myself decided to go beer tasting. It was to celebrate his b-day and for me, certainly serve as a mini daddy-needs-a-break-for-his-sanity trip. So last Saturday morning with bikes on the roof rack, we wandered on up to Anderson Valley and procured a camping spot in Philo to leave the car and gear behind at. At only about 5 miles away from the Anderson Valley Brewing Company (AVBC) in Boonville, and seeing the route while driving in, we were confident our plan would work. Taking only the essentials, we mounted our two-wheelers and rolled on over for a few pints before the tour. It was a splendid way to spend an afternoon.

The tour begins here, where the mashing of the malted barley and boiling of the wort happens. In this case, that means the big-ass, old-school, rescued from a defunct German Brewery, kind-of huge-normous copper kettles. Four in all. They gleamed. Rumor has it the head brewer came across these while on vacation. What a bitch to lug these babies through as a carry-on for the trip home huh? No, really though, it must have cost a fortune to dismantle and ship these babies from across an ocean and then a continent too, as well as reassemble them, but tasting the beer, I sure appreciate it. After this, it was all stainless steel tanks, frothing drums acting as blow-off valves, bottling equipment and quick-connect hoses. Pretty standard fare for a brewery these days. But the shiny copper was stunning and testament to a certain kind of commitment, and the folks running the show behind the bar were as kind and generous as it gets. This place is awesome.

Your ticket for the tour can be turned into cash toward merchandise at the gift shop. Since they have a disc-golf course on the property (30+ acre lot, not really typical of a micro-brewery) I applied mine toward a "putter." We grabbed a beer for the thirst we would work up walking through the calf-high grasses. The course was ours alone, the skies were mostly sunny, and maybe most importantly, I didn't lose my only disc. We made it to the tee for the 17th, when a small car appeared on the gravel road nearest us. It was the bartender.
"Oh, hey, I gotta lock up the front gate there fellas."
Thinking through the haze of a few beers, sunshine, and a full gut from the nice sandwiches we had earlier, it took a while to realize it was 6pm already and officially closing time.
"Sorry 'bout that one guys, but if you wanna come back tomorrow and finish up your round you can."
Like I said, kind and generous folk.
We walked the few hundred yards back to the front gate, and got back on our bikes, feeling quite refreshed from the physical activity and B-vitamin sports drinks. With our bearings figured out and sobriety check done, we pedaled our way back to camp for some further "tasting" of a few bottles from the cooler.

The following morning after catching a nice breakfast at a local cafe, we made our way down to Barney Flats. If you look at the map you'll see the area called Hendy Woods State Park. As witnessed here, there are at least a few trees that are really frickin' big. This tree ain't no Giant Sequoia from the Sierras, but it's probably a bit taller and still quite a specimen at some 12 feet in diameter. This place is worth checking out, as it is only part of a tiny bit of remaining virgin-growth coastal redwoods. It is but a taste of what probably filled most of the river banks around southern Mendocino County some 150 years ago. Tons and tons of thick, dark, spongy soiled redwood groves that just oozed clear water back into the goundwater table, supporting healthy salmon bearing streams, with big hogs for salmon.
Used to be, that is.
God damn, as a species we can really, really suck.

Wow.

Sorry 'bout that tangent there. Caught me off guard too.

Anyway, I arrived home to Lemon curd, Irish soda bread and english muffins on the way. When these were all done, seeing the muffins made me think of it as a full wallet; that I have to do some shopping with some more muffin money soon. Before the night was over, everything just had to be tasted.
Mmmmm......lemon curd on soda bread. Who the hell am I kidding? I had gobs of it.
Mmmmm.....muffins. And heaps of marmalade. I'll take three. Sweet!

I love coming home!

Oh, and the weekend beer spoils? How's a new beer glass for them Belgian kinds and a new growler filled with one zany good double IPA.
Mmmmmmm, and a growler. That there is a 1/2 gallon of beer.

So, like, seeing that it has taken me 5 extra days to post this (after what is now last weekend) it would appear that it takes 3 days to consume this much beer and another 2 to get much anything done. 'Tis a nice way to suffer I suppose.........

So this year, today, on my calendar, it is officially March 35th, 2008. So in advance for tomorrow, April Fools!