pig day

With nearly two months between me and pig day, it's hard for me to rewind my mind and put myself back in pre-pork days--live-pig days when our pink monstrosity was snorting around in our friends' backyard. Especially after the winner carnitas we ate tonight for dinner.

Our friends John and Bri cared for the three pigs we raised. And I say "we" loosely; the most I ever had to do with the pigs was on the slaughter and butcher days. The distance, my work schedule, and convenience meant I usually just said "hey" to the piggies when we happened to be over for dinner, and helped once or twice with moving their pen around the yard. So I suppose my experience was fairly one-sided; I know the pigs more as cuts of meat than as rather terrifyingly large (320-pound) animals.

I do know the pigs all had happy lives of rooting around in fresh soil and leaves for bugs, eating grain and cottage cheese and fresh-fruit-and-veggie slop from the grocery store, being scratched by Leila, and sleeping together in a pig pile under a truck canopy.

And they died quickly, and had their meat carefully prepared by a team of people who respected and thanked them for the bounty of food they provided--food that's now been shared over many cozy wintry meals and parties. Don't you think that's a good life?

Slaughter day, we met early at John and Bri's for breakfast and prep. We were all relative newbies, book learned but sans hands-on experience except for Tim, resident expert as this was his third pig slaughter. The crew included me, Tim, John, Bri, Rory, Liam, Brook, Dom, Hannah, and Stephanie.

I decided to designate myself the official photographer. Plucking chickens still makes me squeamish, so I wanted to experience slaughter day through sights and sounds only this first time--distanced by a lens--rather than plunging all-in.

Tools: A chain hoist, which Tim hooked to a large madrone leaning over the yard, lifted the pigs in and out of the 50-gallon barrel of 140-degree water.

Bell scrapers to scrape the hair off the scalded pigs.

Bone saws and buckets.

Tim and John played rock paper scissors to see whose pig would go first--John's, the black one. The moment before the shot was quiet--the late fall breeze crisp, sun starting to peek above the trees, everyone standing back and barely breathing. The actual shot popped, didn't bang. The pig bled out quickly, no drama.

Once it had bled out, down to business.

To preserve as much fat as possible--and use skin for stock-making--we decided to scrape the pigs. When you skin them, you lose all the skin and much of the fat (unless, maybe, you're an expert skinner?).The pig was hoisted up by the chain hoist and gambrel and dipped into the barrel of water. The water is supposed to loosen the hairs.

The scraping was not particularly easy. A combo, perhaps, of dull bell scrapers and a faulty thermometer?

But then it was hair-free and, surprisingly, not black any more.

We eviscerated the first pig on a clean pallet and plywood sheet, as we'd read that it's easier for beginners to do the job without gravity--which causes the innards to lean out precariously when you're maybe not ready for them.

The plywood sheet wasn't the easiest. Next pig, we went for the gravity assistance.

It was like dissection in biology class, a lesson in life and the hidden things that make mammals go. The lacy caul fat, delicate as spiderwebs; the massive sheets of lung, too simple-looking to be performers of tricks with O2 and CO2; the heart that shocked us with its mass--bigger than two fists--and the spindle-like chordae tendineae hidden inside.

Slaughter day is the day to prepare and eat the offal--the heart, liver, kidney, head cheese, etc. We'd planned to have an offal feast (okay, they'd planned to have an offal feast; I'd planned to avoid it) for lunch. But, pressed for time, we had to give this up (although John did make loafs of pate later)--and even give up lunch. No time! Next year, we'll divide everyone into teams: the slaughter team, the cooking team, and the childcare team.

Pig number two as the sun started to set. After the evisceration, the pig gets cut in half down the backbone and left to cool completely. Thank goodness for a sunny, chilly November day that slid into an icebox November night.

I traded my camera for a headlamp and flashlight as darkness fell--and became the official light holder for the second pig. Of course, after the trial-run experience of pig number one, the second one went much faster.

The next morning, we were up at dawn to transform our kitchen into a butcher shop. Our kitchen island plus a huge door--balanced on sawhorses, scrubbed down, and covered with two layers of butcher paper--became our butcher tables.

I became butcher woman for the day, so don't have many pictures. We broke each half of the two pigs down separately, start to finish. You first divide the half into four quarters--the shoulder, loin, belly, and ham--and then break each quarter down into the roasts you want. It's a creative process. Believe it or not, there are no lines inside telling you where to cut. So it all depends on what you want to do with the meat. A whole leg to hang for prosciutto? Large shoulder roasts to slow-cook into pulled pork? Slabs of belly to cure? Thick pork chops to pan-fry? Any to grind into sausage?

Luckily, Tim and I had spent quite a lot of time researching--reading and watching YouTube videos--so we knew what we wanted. Still, it was an exhausting process, and we didn't eat much lunch or dinner again. Just cut and trimmed and wrapped--in winding layers of plastic wrap and butcher paper to protect against freezer burn--and labeled and carted out to the walk-in fridge.

Is it possible that the pig grew as we broke it down? I had not spent much time visualizing what a whole pig would look like when packaged up. It is a lot of meat.

Leila helped out a bit with a dull butcher knife and some scraps.

A whole ham! We decided to do each half of our pig slightly differently. We wanted a few big roasts--like a large ham--along with plenty of dinner-sized roasts and chops. I wanted half of the back fat and all of the leaf fat to render (into snowy white lard--a jaw-dropping transformation), so we left half of the pork chops fat-and-skin-on, half without. We wanted some bones packaged separately for stock, so we de-boned some roasts--but not all, figuring we'd make stock as we ate each roast. We wanted most of the bacon for curing, although the "scraps" from squaring off the edges turned into about twenty pounds of fresh bacon for roasting. We wanted plenty of sausage, too, so added half of a shoulder to our bleached and iced buckets for meat and fat trimmings.

The day sped by. Our feet ached, our stomachs grumbled, but still there was work to be done. In the late evening, when it was just us and John, we roasted a skirt steak--dusted with chipotle powder and rolled with garlic--for a quick dinner. Scarfed with zingy mustard greens, it was pure deliciousness.

We mixed our sausage meat with the spices and let it sit in the fridge for a few hours before grinding. The grinder was a lot of work. We weighed the sausage into one- and two-pound packages for the freezer: sweet Italian, spicy Italian, chorizo, and plain.

 Finally, the pork was all wrapped and sharpie-labeled and filling our chest freezer to the brim--even after careful tetris packing.

But we became obsessive around midnight. How much meet had we gotten, really? We flew through a weighing session and scratched down all the stats into a notebook. End results? A total of 214 pounds of meat. I kept all the specific numbers--like pounds of fat, pounds of picnic roasts, pounds of Boston butt--but will spare you the details. The gist? We have quite enough pork in our freezer.

Reflections on this two-day marathon range from the practical to the philosophical. Practical: next time, we'll do it in three days, reserving the third day for sausage making, bacon curing, and offal feasting; and we'll have sharper knives and bell scrapers. Philosophical: dare I speak of the circle of life? I strongly believe--even more strongly now--that cutting out the slaughtering and butchering of animals from the meat-eating cycle is only harmful to us, to our minds, and to the meat industry our culture supports. The separation leads to a lack of knowledge and a lack of caring, and a waste of the myriad useful parts of an animal. The connection restores all of this--knowledge, care, full use.

More philosophical? The act of meat eating, after participating in the slaughtering and butchering process, feels whole-er to me now. I feel good about eating the meat in a way that I haven't felt before--mostly because I know it. I tend to be squeamish about eating meat; I get scared if I see bones or fat or skin. But somehow, because I participated, because saw every cut of meat as a whole, saw the bones connected to them, cut through the tendons, put the scraps of meat and fat into the sausage grinder myself, I am not so squeamish. I'm still not an eater of fat. But I feel confident, and that is enough.

Okay, philosophical thoughts over. My biggest reflection? This pork, to quote my favorite Seattle brunch place, is damn good food.

modern milkers

And yes, I'm posting this from the milking room.

cabbage kick

Knobby winter squash awaiting eating

The night after we butchered our pig, as we tetris-packed 160 pounds of meat into our chest freezer, I vowed to blog about every cut we cooked. One month and at least eight cuts later, I haven't blogged anything pork and all I can think of is cabbage.

A few years ago, the word I probably would have used to describe cabbage was slimy--likely because of those plastic cups of mayo-drenched coleslaw. But we've been eating cabbage all fall and I'm somewhat obsessed with it now, with shredding it into crunchy confetti, snacking on it raw like potato chips, and sautéing it just barely with a few sprinkles of salt and pepper. I'm obsessed with chopping it; the sound effect rivals the symphonic crackle (to quote Ratatouille) of a fresh baguette crust. I'm also obsessed with making sauerkraut, not the eating as much as the fountains of water that gush out of the leaves when you pack it into jars with salt.

I might even be starting to feel passionate about this leafy thing. Because seriously, why is the only cabbage our country knows slimed into mass-produced cole-slaw? Tonight at dinner, as we munched cabbage braised with spareribs, bay leaf, and hot peppers, we tried to understand it. It's no less transportable than broccoli, long lasting like carrots and onions, green (as in, basically a multivitamin), and actually delicious. But it's completely misunderstood.

Reasons we brainstormed:

We just read the other day in the epic The Art of Fermentation that lettuce kvass, once a celebrated drink in Eastern Europe, was nearly lost forever in the destruction and dispersement of the region's people groups in the twentieth century. One woman, who remembered her grandmother making it, was only able to find a handful of other people around the world who recalled this tradition. What uses of cabbage have vanished forever?

On a lighter side: Cabbage is not as easy to anthropomorphize as broccoli stems and carrot sticks. Have you ever seen a smiling, cartoony cabbage? A wrinkly, head-shaped blob is not easy to market to kids.

And that mythical slime, too, the sag of limp sauerkraut strands, the collapse of overcooked boiled cabbage on a plate into a puddle--there is nothing less appealing, but it doesn't have to be that way. (This sauerkraut is proof. Would you believe it's crunchy, soda-pop fizzy, and tastebud-prickling tangy all at the same time? I will dance around the kitchen when we get our own batch that tastes like that.)

To celebrate this powerhouse of crunch and nutrition, here are two cabbage recipes.

Sautéed Cabbage with Grapefruit and Red Pepper 
I didn't come up with this one--all the credit goes to my dad. It was a spur-of-the-moment brainstorm twenty minutes before dinner, and the kick of citrus and heat won the cabbage more oohs and aahs than all the rest of our planned dishes combined.

1 large grapefruit
1 tbs butter
1 medium head of cabbage, cored and diced
1/2 tsp red pepper flakes, ground
Salt and pepper to taste

Zest the grapefruit and reserve all of it. Peel the grapefruit with a sharp carving knife, and then divide it into segments, carefully slicing on either side of the tough inner skin. Cut each segment in thirds.

In a large frying pan, heat the butter over medium high heat. When it's melted and bubbling, add the cabbage. Cook, stirring frequently, until it brightens, about 2-3 minutes. Add the zest, red pepper flakes, and salt and pepper. Cook another two minutes until the cabbage softens and releases a little moisture--but doesn't collapse! no collapsing! Add the grapefruit. One minute more, and it's done. The cabbage should be slightly soft, but retaining some of the crunch is key. Serve it hot.

Apple-Date-Cabbage Salad 
At the end of Thanksgiving vacation, Tim and I cooked two meals for his parents. For one, squash soup, I wanted something cool, light, and crunchy to contrast. Rummaging through the cupboards and fridge, I found dates, mint, and almonds left over from a Moroccan stew Tim's mom made earlier in the week, and ta da--salad.

1/2 small head of cabbage
Juice of 1 lemon (and zest, optional)
1/2 cup slivered almonds
1 large apple
6 large Medjool dates
6-8 fresh mint leaves

Core the cabbage, then grate it using a box grater or food processor. Toss with the lemon juice and a little bit of zest too, if you'd like, and set aside.

Toast the almonds in a small frying pan over medium heat until they're just starting to brown. Set aside to cool. Slice the apple into skinny matchsticks, and then chop the matchsticks into green-pea-sized pieces. Remove the pits from the dates and dice into pea-sized chunks as well. Mince the mint.

Add the cooled almonds, apples, dates, and mint to the cabbage and toss until combined. Serve at room temperature.

This salad keeps really well, thanks to the magical properties of cabbage--unlike lettuce, it won't wilt to nothing after being stored with an acidic dressing. We ate leftovers for dinner the next evening.

fall projects

Canning season's over and summer's most definitely over too, no matter how hard it's tried to linger (evidenced in the bowl of cherry tomatoes we ate last night with dinner).

So it's time for our fall projects, and if you could see the stack of how-to library books on our table you might wonder if we're just a little too ambitious.

In two weeks, we will embark on a butchering and charcuterie adventure--our white pig, which has been growing fat since spring at our friends John and Bri's house, along with two other pigs, is almost bacon. (I think that's the nicest way to say it.) Our pork plans involve some simple charcuterie (curing bacon and dry-curing jowls), sausage-making, and lots of pork chops. I feel somewhat overwhelmed by the sheer poundage of pork descending on our freezer and the many ways to cure and cook it--but since we plan to raise many more pigs in the future, we're going to start simple.

Meanwhile, we've suddenly plunged into the world of cheesemaking (very novice and experimental cheesemaking). We're starting to learn how to milk a jersey cow named Jingle, owned by an amazing island couple, Ben and Kelsey, who plan to start a creamery here. Jingle's giving about nine gallons of milk a day--so once we learn how to operate the milking machine, we'll be milking her once a week in exchange for four gallons of raw milk.

My first experiment was butter--a fresh-cream butter that I started in the food processor (with the paddle attachment, not the blade) and finished with my shaking machine (a.k.a. Tim). When we opened the Mason jar--ta da!--lumps of bright yellow butter were swimming in buttermilk. A thrill.

Yesterday, my dad and I took Ben and Kelsey's cheesemaking class, a hands-on introduction to making cultured butter, feta, mozzarella, fromage blanc, and ricotta. And yes, we feasted too, on everything we made plus wine, salad greens, veggie frittatas, sourdough bread, and some of Kelsey's alpine-style aged cheese. Add to that Ben and Kelsey's knowledge and love of artisan cheesemaking that carried us through the day--well, it was pretty much amazing. So amazing, in fact, that I just spent an afternoon with my packet of notes and almost two gallons of raw milk. Results? Pillowy ricotta cooling on the counter, yogurt fermenting in the oven (warmed by the pilot light), and a soft cheese separating into curds and whey in a bowl.

I am full of schemes: this week, trying cultured butter, which tastes infinitely butterier than fresh-cream butter, and a true fromage blanc. (The soft cheese from today is kind of a cheater's version, I think, as I didn't culture the cream and just used white vinegar to create the curds and whey.) More yogurt! Creme fraiche! As soon as my rennet and lipase from the New England Cheesemaking Supply arrive, I'm going to attempt feta.

As I'm skimming off cream and consulting my newest library book, Casco the farm cat is dozing upstairs in a fresh-milk-induced coma. If anyone's addicted to this new abundance of milk, it's him. He used to show up on our windowsill every few evenings for some cuddles and a nap on the couch, but the last few days he's been making morning, evening, and afternoon appearances--quite demanding appearances accompanied by yowls (much louder than meows) and tail-twitches. We may have unwittingly adopted him.

fall colors

with thoughts of coming fall

fall leaves in London

Apparently this is a touchy subject, fall. The way our summer is lingering, everyone in Seattle seems to be in denial -- everyone right down to my fellow 118 riders who yelped "don't say it!" to the bus drivers standing around at the ferry dock gossiping about the inescapable change.

But the shifting of seasons is pretty hard to deny when you live on a farm. I've seen it coming for months, actually. For right at the pinnacle of summer, the height of the tomato harvest, the heat of canning season, autumn was right outside our front door: in the pumpkins swelling orange and fat in the patch along the driveway, and in the jungle of prickly winter squash leaves in the north field, and in the cover crop that started to creep across fields put to bed already for winter.

Weeks ago now we felt the weather switch -- like the snap of the farm cat's tail when he perches on our windowsill every evening, asking to be let in (a cold-weather habit). It's dark when I get up and barely dawn when I leave, and I need my biking jacket again. We used to leave our big barn door open until nine o'clock in the evening, but we close it around six now, the windows an hour later.

Okay, yes, the farmstand is still full of tomatoes and peppers and squash and cucumbers. But I happen to have heard a rumor that the tomato harvest this week was thirty percent of last week's. And this weekend we feasted on the first brussels sprouts.

Lest this sound too melancholy and chilly, I have to say I'm very much ready for fall. Fall typically symbolizes eras drawing to a close, and this is true: my era in-house at Mountaineers Books is nearly over. But to me, fall always symbolizes newness more than anything: new colors in the trees, new briskness in the weather, new classes and friends and things to learn, new vigor as the school year gets going. And this is true, too: I'm at the brink of so much newness as I pour my time, full time, into The Friendly Red Pen. These changes bring new vigor and creativity to my mind as I think and plan and imagine.

I'm also ready for the newness of rain and cooler weather -- something besides sun, however much I've liked it; for the coziness and -- yes, even this -- the drawing darkness that comes with the change. I'm also ready for root vegetables and a freezer full of pork. Just imagine: pork chops, brussels sprouts, squash, and potatoes for dinner. It makes us both drool.

summertime

This season, I keep thinking of that song summertime...and the livin' is easy. I'm not sure what the actual context of the song is, but I'm thinking it should be a farm. Because summertime on a farm--if you're not a farmer but a farmer's wife who loves to eat and cook--the livin' is easy. (I guess I should stress that part about not being a farmer but a farmer's wife...my farmer keeps dreaming of the easy living of winter, when the pantry's stocked with butternut squash and potatoes, and the chest freezer is full of pork, and the fields are sleeping.)*

However, I'm months into summer and still marveling about all the fresh food--and how easy it is to cook dinners that take zero effort and taste bright and rich. Like ratatouille! Not made the Pixar way, with Remy's mandolin-thin slices of veggies and showers of colorful herbs, but the peasant way (at least, I imagine), layered in a big dutch oven, covered with a lid, and simmered for forty minutes until stewy and soft. I made it last week, and between harvesting the eggplant, peppers, and tomatoes in the steamy tunnel, chopping all the vegetables, and picking some herbs, I was finished prepping (with the cutting board washed) in less than a half an hour...and reading my book on the couch while dinner bubbled away.

Summer produce is perfect for quick and forgiving meals like that, no recipe required, experimenting encouraged. But we've also delved into the deep waters of very unexperimental cooking this season: canning and pickling. And I just might have an addiction to it.

The whole process of canning is the opposite of my usual cooking style: you have to follow the recipe, no excuses; you can't make anything up; you have to measure precisely. Most unlike me, you have to lay everything out before starting and be organized. And prepared.

I find everything about it, from the timing to the boiling to the stirring to the gelling to the jar-filling to the dreaded water-bath processing, way too stressful. Most likely I'm just not used to it yet, but it seriously puts me in a sweat.

Somehow, though, every time I finish (read: collapse on the couch), I feel this giddy sense of satisfaction and self-sufficiency. The jars lined up on the counter are full of yummy preserves that will in turn fill our winter with the tastes of summer. The nectarine jam that might not have set will be delicious pancake syrup, and we will pretend that was the goal all along; the cardamom-plum jam will make winner PB&Js and probably even pair with caramelized onions to make chutney for pork-chops. The dilly beans and pickles will add crunch and tang to winter lunches.

And then I'm off dreaming about the next canning project, drama and stress forgotten. Today: turn four pounds of summer squash into hot cumin-spiced squash pickles (although whoever heard of a squash pickle?!). Next weekend: melt tomatillos into enchilada sauce. And the pinnacle: transform tomatoes into canned chopped tomatoes, tomato sauce, and tomato-basil jam.

Still, post-canning session, I always need a simple meal like ratatouille to restore my kitchen confidence.

Simple summer ratatouille

You can fool with ratatouille as much or as little as you want. The traditional French method, apparently, is to first brown each of the vegetables separately, then stew them together. Possibly I shouldn't mess with French tradition--they know a thing or two about food more than I do. But I find my cheater method irresistible. If you add the 1/3 cup water, you'll have a rich and filling vegetable broth to heat up the next day for a simple lunch best soaked up with a slice of bread. (Use a slotted spoon to dish up the ratatouille if you do this.) Whatever you do, be free, toss around your herbs like Remy, and hum along to some French music while you chop vegetables. Now one of our end-of-summer goals is to make ratatouille at least once a week while the veggies last.

1 tablespoon butter
1 large onion, diced
2 green peppers, stem and seeds removed, sliced thinly lengthwise
2 medium summer squash, cut into 1/2-inch rounds
2 medium eggplants, cut into 1/2-inch rounds
3 large heirloom tomatoes, roughly chopped
1/3 cup water (optional)
1 teaspoon minced fresh rosemary
1 teaspoon minced fresh oregano
2 tablespoons minced fresh basil, separated
Salt and pepper to taste

Heat the butter in a 6- to 8-quart cast-iron pot (or heavy-bottomed saucepan) over medium heat. When it's melted and hot, add the onions and cook for about 5 minutes, until the onions are glossy and soft--don't stir too much, as a little browning on the bottom of the pan is good for flavor.

Next, scatter the green peppers in a layer on top of the onions. Summer squash comes next in another rough layer, followed by the eggplant and then tomatoes. Pour in the 1/3 cup water. Sprinkle the rosemary, oregano, and half of the basil on top (or, if you're feeling like a particularly creative French rat/chef, you can get fancy with these spices and throw them around a little!); season with salt and pepper to taste; and cover.

Let stew for approximately 40 to 50 minutes, stirring only very occasionally (this is excellent book-reading time). The ratatouille is done when the veggies are soft, but still hold their shape.

Top with the remaining basil. Pair with pearl barley for a heartier meal, or with big hunks of rustic bread and butter for something simpler.

Notes: Like I said above, you can make this as simply or extravagantly as you'd like, and this doesn't just refer to cooking method. Focus on one herb instead of three if you'd rather; add some sherry or white wine if you want (although the flavor really doesn't need the boost); mince some garlic to add with the onions.


*I'll extra stress that point, since my farmer's response to reading the first sentence of this post was "the livin' is easy?!" But he did laugh about the pork part, because it is very true. 

chicken coop

One excessively rainy Saturday early this spring, Tim and I set off in muck boots and rain gear to move the chickens. The chickens cycle through the fields throughout the year, moving every few weeks to new pecking ground. Early this spring, the farm had two separate flocks. The youngest flock, about seventy chickens, lived in the Ski Coop, so called because it's mounted on skis for easy (ish) dragging around. The older flock, about twenty or so chickens, lived in the rustic gem to the left. It's been used on the farm for about a decade.

And, in this excessive downpour, I discovered that to move this coop, you have to take it all apart. Lift off the roof, cut the twine that ties the four sides together, move all the parts, and then tie them back together. Then move the racoon-proofing chicken wire and bricks. I was rather surprised that the farm has been doing this every few weeks for the last ten years--and quickly became even more excited that Tim has built a new one.

The framework takes shape on top of the boat trailer 

Meet the mobile coop!

The master builder, Tim! 

Tim was the master planner and builder behind it all and, because side projects like this always take second place to actual farming, it became our weekend pet. The coop is framed on top of an old boat trailer, so the tractor can haul it from field to field. Nesting boxes run all along one side, with little doors for easy egg access; there is enough roosting space for 120 hens, a narrow pathway down the middle for walking inside, and plenty of ventilation.

With siding, the coop looks like a little house! We were tempted to hook it up to Bertha and take off...

Tin roofing goes up

Most of the flooring is hardware cloth; this walkway is for ease of cleaning and inside access.

Matt and Steph, our star painters! 

I said "it must be red!" 

The final painted coop

My excitement is not purely selfish happiness that I never have to take apart that dreadful collapsable coop again (although that is some of it). No, most of my excitement has been watching it take shape from stacks of plywood and graph paper sketches and long, imaginative brainstorming sessions—through lengthening spring evenings of working with Tim after work to pound nails, measure chicken wire, draw up plans for nesting boxes, and battle with chicken staples—to grow into a coop. I'm honestly a little sad that it's finished, the building was so delightful.

But the chickens aren't sad: Now, about one month after its launch into the fields, the flock's egg production has reached record highs—an average of 65 eggs per day! The spike is partly due to summer, but also because the nesting space has gone from two nesting boxes to thirteen. And the farmstand still sells out!

The chickens made themselves at home right away...

The nesting box doors flip open for easy egg access; the chickens get their own door! 

The chicken palace in its first field

bounty

For most of the spring, we ate lettuce. I love farm lettuce—devoured right there in the field, crispy and sweet off the stock; or drizzled with a little olive oil and balsamic; or wilted with pasta. But we ate a lot of lettuce. 

Now that it's July, though, the farm is starting to kind of explode with a bounty that makes me feel a little frantic. Pick! Eat! Pickle! Experiment! The bounty also makes me feel deliciously happy and summery--the first night we strolled the farm in this new season of plenty (more than a few weeks ago now), I almost cried. We stumbled back to the farmhouse trying to juggle fennel, broccoli, turnips, peas, beets, and more lettuce, hungry for our veggie feast even after our cherry, raspberry, and blueberry appetizers out in the fields. We've roasted, sautéed, and pickled the beets and radishes; diced the fennel in salads; roasted the broccoli with just a sprinkle of salt and pepper; folded roast  turnips into enchiladas; and crunched peas plain. 

Our herb garden keeps on chugging along too; last weekend, I spiced some canned tomato sauce with fresh-chopped rosemary and oregano for a pizza that (topped with fresh chèvre that our new goat-dairy-owning friends gave Tim after he spent a day working with them) was fairly revolutionary.  

The bounty is ever-changing, and we're already saying goodbye to peas (although I really feel like I was just getting to know them, to enjoy the juicy bursts of shell peas in pasta, to savor the crunch of snap peas sautéed in butter and mint) and hello to summer squash. We celebrated the first zucchini last weekend shaved and smeared with an easy almond-parmesan pesto, and the first yellow summer squash today sliced thin and dressed up with chopped basil and mint. 

One of the interns just put up a CARROTS sign out on the road and I hear rumors that the first tomatoes will blaze onto the dinner (and lunch and breakfast) scene in two weeks. 

I think the richness of this season is compounded by the waiting of spring--the rain, the watching of things growing, the eating of kale and lettuce, the dreaming of summer. Remind me of this next winter! 

simple soup

We love to make soup. Most of the year, no other meal could be more satisfying—it's hot and hearty, simple, always adaptable. Our staple soup this spring has been lentil, which I love because it requires no grocery store trip or special planning: lentils, potatoes, onions, and cumin are always stocked in our cupboards and the farm always has some kind of greens to harvest and toss in at the last minute.

This week, we wanted inspiration for a new mix of flavors, which meant we reached for Best Recipe's Soups, Stews, and Chilis. An Asian soup sounded intriguing, and we picked the first one we saw—Japanese soba noodle soup—because it called for spinach and the farm has tons. 

A caveat first: we did not really follow the ingredients list. However, this not one of those recipe reviews that reads like, "Zero stars! I substituted dill for the cilantro and lemon for the lime, and it didn't taste Mexican at all!" No--all we did was simplify. (I love Best Recipe's philosophy to print only the best recipes, but sometimes I do not want the best; I want the easiest.) 

The original recipe calls for shiitake mushrooms, which you use to make your own mushroom broth. We didn't want to spend $12 per pound on mushrooms and our pantry is bursting with chicken stock, so we ditched the shiitake for white mushrooms (so much more attractive at $3 per pound) and used chicken broth. We made a few other minor adjustments (no mirin, which the recipe called for), and ended up with a rich, flavorful, and simple soup. Springlike, said Tim, because it's light and brothy. Fall-like, I said, because the mushrooms add a deep earthiness. Take your pick—either way, it's a repeat dish. 

Japanese Soba Noodle Soup 

{This recipe made 2 meals for us} 

8 cups chicken broth 

4 tablespoons soy sauce 

8 scallions, dark green parts and light green parts separated and roughly chopped
9 ounces soba noodles 

8 ounces white mushrooms, roughly sliced 

Spinach, washed and roughly chopped (we probably used 6+ ounces; the recipe calls for 3 ounces)

1 tablespoon toasted sesame seeds (optional; I accidentally blackened ours until they shone like tiny grains of obsidian, so we did not have any!) 

Combine the broth, soy sauce, and dark green, roughly chopped scallions in a stockpot over medium heat.

While the broth is warming up, fill another pot with 4 quarts of water and bring to a boil over high heat. Once the water is boiling, pour in the soba noodles and cook, stirring frequently, for 4 minutes. Test a noodle--it should be tender, but definitely not mushy. Drain, rinse with warm water (Best Recipe stresses this: warm, not hot or cold), and set aside.

Now the broth should be simmering. Add the sliced mushrooms and simmer until tender. Then stir in the spinach and let it wilt, but only just.

Portion the noodles into individual bowls, then ladle the soup over the top. Sprinkle with the rest of the scallions and the sesame seeds (if they survived your toasting), and enjoy.

Note: If you have leftovers, the noodles will be much mushier the next day unless you keep them separate in the fridge. We didn't bother to keep them separate and it was fine, although not the delicious al dente of the first day.

cooking

I am completely obsessed with cooking. It's partly Smitten Kitchen (we joke that Deb rules our kitchen—what she writes, we cook), partly farm bounty, partly just plain excitement experimenting with food.

Plus I'm reading all these food books—recently, The Butcher and the Vegeterian and Ratio. Ratio is particularly hunger-inducing and I find I can only read it in small bits, tackling the pie dough chapter one week, the custard chapter the next.

On top of it all, I bike a lot, and often my rides turn into extended cooking daydreams...my wheels spin the miles away and my mind spins plans to make a ginger–soy sauce glaze for salmon or toast a new combination of nuts, seeds, and oats into crunchy granola. 

My most elaborate bike-fueled meal plan became Mother's Day brunch. I cooked nearly nonstop that weekend, on Saturday a graham cracker crust and pastry cream and sliced strawberries to stash in the fridge for Sunday dessert, then homemade pizza all evening, a feast of herbed dough and fresh mozzarella. Sunday started with brunch prep before church, then a whole afternoon playing head chef and ordering around my soux-chef husband, dad, and sister as we baked, cooked, sautéed, chopped, and plated a spring feast. It was every bit as luscious as I'd dreamed while cycling to the water taxi.

And then—and then. I promised myself I would take Monday night off. But when I got home, I discovered a lonely hunk of the last week's no-knead bread on the counter, so dry I couldn't even hack at it with our new bread knife, and just had to rescue it. A la Ratio, a ridiculously simple custard base and some cinnamon and about 5 minutes of work became bread pudding. 

Tuesday, I promised myself another night off. But then there were turnips—perfectly round and golf-ball-like turnips out in the hoop house, basically bursting out of the soil and begging to be sautéed in butter and sherry (doesn't everything?) with some chive blossoms sprinkled on top. 

Finally, tonight—after another week of cooking frenzy, my biggest triumph fish tacos on the fly—I have been stopped in my tracks. We bought a whole chicken this weekend, so on the water taxi this afternoon I let hints of this article (http://www.nytimes.com/recipes/1016335/steak-mock-frites.html) inspire my dinner plans. Chicken, rosemary from right outside our door, butter, and mock fries. Seriously, what could be better? 

To be completely honest, when Tim replied to my butter! chicken! rosemary! text with I already have dinner cooking!, my first instinct was to call him and cry, "halt!" 

I am that addicted. 

And Tim knows it. His first reply was Sorry!!! 

But I am a smart wife. I might even go so far to say that it's a dreamy thing to have a husband who cooks too, who I have to race to the kitchen, who concocts feasts like lentil stews and chilis—without even consulting a recipe book or website—that are most often better than my attempts at the same things with recipes. 

For now, my mock-frites vision must wait. I must relax on the couch to the smell of slow-cooking chicken and piles of melting vegetables seeping out of our slow cooker and...dream up tomorrow night's dinner. 

the cilantro miracle

In March, on one of our first weekends at the farm, we cleared out a narrow bed along the fence right outside our house and planted the herb centerpieces from the rehearsal dinner. We also raided the farm's seed stores for past-date things and scatter-sowed the rest of the bed with huge handfuls of chard, mustard green, cilantro, and dill seeds. But watering and waiting brought only green weed sprouts, and after a few weeks of checking the bed we gave up. Too early, we said, and too cold for anything to make it; it wasn't even spring! And then my hoped-for house plants died. Isn't it sad, I thought, that I live on a farm and can't grow a thing? 

But this morning, as we were stretching post-run out in the grass, Tim said, "Hey look, chard!" I lunged my way slowly over to the bed—which I thought had been lost to weeds. But there was chard, about two inches tall. Tim pointed again. "And mustard!"

Now the hunt was on. And in seconds I discovered—it couldn't be—something vibrantly green with lacy-edged leaves; so small still, barely three inches tall, that I almost couldn't relate it to its gangly grocery store sibling. This was cause for shrieking, even at 7 in the morning. 

"Tim! Cilantro!" I yelped. We smashed a leaf between our fingers and sniffed (actually I did; Tim just popped one in his mouth). And voila, magic, surprise, it was cilantro, and now we could see it everywhere, up and down the bed, so much that I kind of felt stressed out. "Enchiladas! Tonight!" I cried. 

Now we were down on our knees in the wet grass, searching the bed for more. This spiky gray-green thing? That fuzzy purple-green thing? Tim pronounced them weeds. 

"What about this?" I pinched off a handful of something else green and feathery. 

Tim sniffed. "Dill!" 

I sniffed too. And yes, dill it was, smell-able even through the rich cilantro scent still sticking to my fingers, making an herby cocktail that nearly knocked me over. 

I'm pretty sure we planted other things, although now I can't remember what they were, that didn't come up. But long after we gave up hope—and completely forgot about it all—those hardy past-date seeds decided to sprout en mass! And yes, we are most definitely having enchiladas tonight with cilantro on top. 

(Update: fresh cilantro on enchiladas!)

fava beans

Last year, I discovered that fava beans are highly addictive (and highly difficult to shell, but totally worth it). 

This year, I discovered that their flowers smell sweet and sugary, like a light perfume. Their smell filled the tunnel the other night as I harvested radishes and turnips. 

recently

Every day it seems like there's something new blooming around the farm or along the highway. A few weeks ago, it was the apple trees in the orchard on the farm; today, it's purple lilacs! Spring is wildly green, especially on the farm, especially when I think back to February and March, when the trees were spidery and bare and the field out in front of the house was all dirt.

Now, the view out our kitchen window is a screen of about ten different greens; the fields out the west windows are lined with neat rows of peas and brassicas. The tomatoes, which I swear were an inch tall just a bit ago, are springing and leafing up--and the reject starts that we rescued to place on our windowsill are all bending energetically into the glass to catch the afternoon sun. (The bachelor's buttons and marigold and lemongrass seeds that I planted in pots, also on our windowsill, are doing less well . . . but I blame that on my forgetting to water them.)




Even the baby ducks. These guys are like four or five weeks old, and they're already giants--hilariously clumsy and quite afraid of humans. Just last night, as Tim and I were walking by, they all scrambled up from their naps on the ground and tried to rush away--but kept looking back at us while they ran, so one of them tumbled into the water dish and others fell on their faces. They are not used to their ducky feet yet.

Our dinners are more springy too--we have been devouring huge bowls full of fresh-picked lettuce, dressed with a bit of olive oil and balsamic, every night. And this week, radishes!

It is kind of wild, how all of this color and lushness and yummy food can sprout out of spindly winter trees and dark winter dirt. I don't think I've ever, well, had so much direct exposure to spring.

But with spring comes the end of winter. I'm mourning the last of the over-wintered leeks (which I've come to love sautéed in butter with a little orange zest and possibly some julienned asparagus)--they will be gone by this Sunday. And I'm not yet ready to say goodbye to this miraculous kale salad (we have discovered endless variations of it that are bowl-scrapers every time). But all the flowering kale plants have been tossed to the chickens.


When I was bemoaning, kind of dramatically, the end of the leeks the other day, Tim summarized it all very practically: I will feel this way about every vegetable.

So this is the trade-off of eating in season--I plan the last leek quiche with a heavy heart and wonder if that kale salad will be as good with lettuce instead, and at the same time I dream of a new salad with radishes, and a tart with pastry cream and rhubarb sauce, and pester Tim about what's next. And always, I dream of tomatoes.