Celeriac

While living in France as a sixteen year-old exchange student, I quickly grew to crave all of the fresh vegetables I had come to take for granted as a part of my California upbringing. Fresh leafy greens, silky avocados, the crunch of a raw carrot—these are good, fresh foods, right? France has good food of course, but where were the vegetables? The closest thing I ever got to a green vegetable on my plate was the knobby, ugly, celeriac. By the time it made it to the dinner table, the celeriac had been cooked to near oblivion, so that it in no way resembled a vegetable. It probably was boiled and then mashed before being served on my plate alongside the usual slab of beef. I have since come to appreciate celeriac and I was excited to try my hand at preparing it when I saw it at them market last week.

Celeriac is the gnarly base of a plant that is specifically cultivated for its root. Thus, try as they might, the green tops of the celeriac plant would never grow up to be the celery stalks we are used to. I’m not sure why, but this underground cousin of the traditional “American” celery has never caught on here. Once you trim off the tops and cut away its thick skin, the flesh is creamy white. Its flavor is less assertive than green celery stalks, with just a slight celery-parsley flavor.

Celeriac can be eaten raw or cooked. To eat it raw, the trimmed root should be grated or sliced thinly before being tossed in a salad, for example. Cooked, celeriac can be boiled, roasted, braised, sautéed, or puréed. I found a great recipe idea for roasting celeriac with apples to go alongside a roasted chicken in Aliza Green’s book Starting with Ingredients. The combination of the sweet apples and spicy celeriac, complimented by the delicious apple-cider reduction sauce, was fantastic. The following is an adaptation of her recipe.

Roasted Chicken, Celeriac and Apples with Apple Cider Glaze
Serves 6

2 cups apple cider
2 cups chicken stock
2 sprigs thyme
½ cup chopped onion
2 bay leaves
1 tsp. peppercorns
1 tsp. coriander seeds
1 tsp. fennel seeds

Combine all ingredients in a small sauce-pan and bring to a boil. Reduce heat to medium low and simmer gently for about 15 minutes, or until the liquid is slightly syrupy and reduced to about 2 cups. Strain and reserve.

1 large celeriac, trimmed, peeled and cut into wedges
2 large Fuji apples, peeled, cored and cut into wedges
juice of 1 lemon
2 small shallots, thinly sliced

Cook celery root for 2 minutes in boiling, salted water. Drain and reserve. Toss apple wedges with lemon juice then add the blanched celeriac and shallots.

Preheat oven to 425°. Rinse and pat dry a whole chicken. Cut in half and place in a large roasting dish. Season to taste with salt, pepper, and fresh, chopped rosemary. Top with about 2 tablespoons of olive oil then rub it into the chicken. Scatter the apple-celeriac mixture on top of the chicken and roast for about 45-60 minutes, turning once. Served on top of polenta/ potatoes/rice with the warmed sauce drizzled on top.

Goat Sausage

I've heard of sausage made from pork, beef, or chicken, but goat? What an ingenious idea! The creative folks at Toboton Creek Ranch have done just that, turned their healthy goat meat into a most delicious sausage. Since grilling the sausages wan't an option, I instead browned them on the stove top, then finished the cooking in the oven. We were very impressed with the flavor of the sausage. Definitely distinct and unlike any other meat in flavor. The sausages were also juicy, tender and redolent with spice.

It was a full-on farmer's market meal. To go along with the sausage, we had roasted spud nuts from Olsen Farms and sauteed red kale from Nash's Organic Produce. The final result wasn't very photogenic, but it sure was delicious!

One Great Meal and One I'd Like to Forget

While we've certainly had more than one great meal since I last wrote (which I do apologize for not keeping up to date lately!) one market-inspired dinner in particular stands out. It featured almost exclusively products from Olsen Farms (save for the lovely bunch of kale from my new favorite $1 kale lady)–one giant bone-in leg of lamb and some beautiful "red fingerling" potatoes. I seared the lamb, carmelized a bunch of onions and garlic, then covered it all with some wine and stock and left it to braise in a low (300°) oven for several hours. The fingerlings were sliced horizontally in half (they had a gorgeous pinkish flesh) then tossed with some garlic, rosemary, salt, pepper, and olive oil. I roasted them at 400° for about 30 minutes, then added the kale which had been blanched and sliced. The lamb cooking liquid was cooked down to create a succulent sauce for both the potatoes and the meat. Talk about a hearty and satisfying meal! The lamb was tender and packed with flavor, while the texture of the fingerlings was unlike any potato I'd ever had; firm yet tender, neither waxy nor mushy. Truly a memorable meal, thanks to such quality ingredients.

Now for the awful experience. Despite being previously unimpressed with Washington Black Truffles, I was nonetheless lured into buying some recently from Foraged and Found Edibles. I bought two of the little black nuggets, one of which I shaved over some fresh pasta for dinner one night. It was fine, but nothing stellar. Mostly, it just tasted like dirt without any of the truffle flavor that I love about the European ones. The second truffle I shaved over the leftover pasta to have for lunch later in the week.

So it was a day or two later when my husband and I both heated up our respective pastas while at work. When I pulled mine out of the microwave, I immediately noticed that something didn't smell right. Not only that, but the pasta had turned nearly black in color. Thinking that was quite odd, I took a bite, albeit with some trepidation. The taste was way off, more like something from the sewer than the yummy pasta I was looking forward to. But it was all I had to eat, it'll be fine, right? So I took another bite. This time my mouth started to feel a bit tingly, so I wisely put down my fork after about the third bite and just threw the rest of it away. Within five minutes I knew I was going to be sick. It was that fast. I felt awful, and the worst thing was that the nasty smell of my nasty lunch kept lingering, making me feel even worse. I made it home before becoming horribly sick for the rest of the evening. My husband had nearly the exact same experience, except for the fact that he had to leave work early because he was so sick. Unfortunately, we both ate lunch around the same time, so neither one of us could have warned the other.

I love Foraged and Found Edibles, and I so appreciate that I can buy wild things that most people may never even try. Growing up with a father who foragered mushrooms, I also understand the risks involved in eating wild things. After doing tons of online research and trying to talk to the owner of Foraged and Found Edibles (who was predictably quite defensive), I have come up with a possible theory on what made us so sick. I don't think it was the mushroom itself that was "bad" or poisonous, but perhaps there was some bacteria on the outside that remained after I brushed it off. Maybe it was growing in some dirt that was harboring bacteria? Who knows. What I do know is that while I will continue to buy wild and foraged things, I am done with Washington Black Truffles.

Sea Breeze Farm Chicken

What a rough week. Not only was I sick with no time to be sick, but even worse, we had bad chicken. I had picked up the bird from the lovely folks at Sea Breeze Farms (whose raw milk I have really enjoyed in the past). Since I last wrote about them, they have upgraded to an enormous refrigerator case with a glass front at their stand. It is brimming with all sorts of meats, milks, and eggs. Having never tried any of their poultry, I wasn't sure what to expect in terms of price. I anticipated it would be more than a grocery store chicken, but not that much more! My scrawny little bird, which couldn't have weighed more than a few pounds, came to $23! Okay, I was thinking, you've got to try everything once, right? And, I was convinced that I was taking home a truly special bird. Sure it may be small, but a chicken raised in a completely organic, free-range, old-fashioned sort of way must taste phenomenal, like the "truly chickeny" chicken that Julia Child always raved about, right?

My mistake I guess. I chose a very French style treatment for my bird, with lots of herbs, butter, and lemon. I roasted it until it was just barely pink next to the bone, then let it sit under some foil to allow the juices to set. It smelled delicious, but on first bite I could tell it wasn't what I was hoping for. The flavor was just like your average chicken. The meat itself was a far cry from the tender and juicy bird I had been anticipating; it was tough and chewy, with some pieces being downright inedible. What went wrong? Did I just get a particularly ornery, hardy bird? Was it too old (although the farmer did tell me that it was only eight weeks old)? Is it that free-range style chickens are too lean? I don't have the answer, but at the same time I certainly don't want to discourage anyone from supporting our local farmers. I guess every now and then, you're bound to get burned. Too bad this experiment left us with so many dirty dishes.

Bluebird Grain Farms

There are many reasons to go to the farmer's market, chief among them the beautiful produce you find there grown by local farmers. Add to that the products that you can't normally buy at most stores, and I'm there. Bluebird Grain Farms falls into this latter category; while you can find their flour and grain products at local PCC stores, they are not readily available elsewhere. Apparently the rest of the world has yet to catch onto the incredible versatility, flavor, and nutrition benefits of these wheat alternatives. Although Bluebird Grain Farms does sell some common grain products such as wheat and rye, I know them more for their Emmer flour.

I used to refer to this grain as farro, but I learned recently from the helpful staff at the Bluebird Grain Farms stand that the word farro actually means "grain". Emmer is a type of grain or farro. That being said, many places use the terms Emmer and farro interchangeably, most notably in Italy where it is quite common, and with good reason. It is really good — more substantial than your standard white flour (and undoubtedly significantly better for you) without any of that dry or "healthy" taste sometimes associated with whole wheat baked goods. I have used it in cookies, quick breads, and this time, crepes.

I would highly recommend making these crepes. They are super simple and fast, and can be filled with anything you want, savory or sweet. Our apple-leek filling worked perfectly with the slight nuttiness of the Emmer in the crepes (and it paired extraordinarily well with a chilled Prosecco!). So find yourself some grains and get cooking!

Emmer Crepes — Combine 3 eggs, 2/3 cup Emmer flour, 1 cup whole milk, and 1/4 tsp. salt in a blender. Whirl until all ingredients are combined. If time allows, let sit for 30 minutes or an hour at room temperature, then whirl again in the blender before using.

To make crepes, heat an 8-inch skillet over medium high heat. Add about 1/2 Tablespoon of butter and swirl until melted. Use one hand to tip the pan while pouring about 1/4 cup of batter into the pan with the other hand, swirling constantly until the batter is evenly distributed. Cook for about 1-2 minutes, flip with a spatula, then put your choice of filling along the center of the crepe while it is still in the pan. Fold the sides in onto the middle, then slide the ready crepe out of the pan and onto a plate.

Cranberry Beans

I am a huge fan of beans of any variety, so when I see fresh ones, I am sold instantly. In this case I was drawn towards these fresh cranberry beans largely because of their beautiful coloring. The pod and beans both have this incredible marbled look that is quite striking. Unfortunately, the beans don't maintain their color when cooked; I'm still trying to work on that one.

Cranberry beans are a variety of shell beans, meaning that they must be shelled before being cooked. Even though this can be a bit tedious, I thoroughly enjoy the process of shelling beans. Find a sunny spot, put a cocktail beside you, and this otherwise monotonous task becomes a relaxing meditation. Once shelled, the beans must be boiled in water. Mine took about 20 minutes until they were tender when poked with a fork. The beans should be strained when done, then they are ready to use in anyway and in anything you wish. Since we still had a plethora of tomatoes and basil, I combined the above ingredients with the cooked cranberry beans, added some salt, pepper, garlic, and our best olive oil to make a delicious side dish.

The fresh cranberry beans had a wonderful flavor, almost nutty. They were a bit on the dry side however. I'm not sure if this is typical of cranberry beans or if it was caused by another factor (older beans? over or under cooked?). Regardless, they were a fun new way to get our daily dose of fiber.

Artichokes

You know that there was someone who was the first person ever to eat an artichoke. In the history of humankind, in the stats of the universe, who is first on the list? Who would have thought that that prickly and hostile plant was actually edible, not to mention tender and delicious when prepared properly? Whoever it was, they lived a long time ago because people have been eating this relative of the thistle forever now. There is some work required to get to the part that is actually worth eating, however. The first time I tried to prepare small, whole artichokes in their entirety (as opposed to pulling off individual leaves like you might with the larger globe artichokes), I ignorantly thought I could just cook the whole thing and end up with something good. Instead, I ended up with a mouthful of fibrous prickles.

So, if you want to avoid the whole fibrous prickle thing in your mouth, the following steps might be of help to you if you are in the market for eating, and enjoying, artichokes.

1. Select several small (about 3-4 inches tall, including stem) artichokes. Prepare a large bowl of cold acidulated water by adding the juice of one lemon or 2 Tablespoons of white vinegar into the bowl.
2. With a sharp knife, cut off the top 1/2 inch or so of the artichoke "flower". Next, use your fingers to snap off the outer leaves. Continue turning the artichoke and snapping off leaves until you get down to the very light green-yellow leaves. You will also notice that they are much more tender.
3. Use a peeler to peel off the rough ends where the leaves used to be attached to the stem, peeling off the skin of the upper 1/2 inch of the stem as well. Cut off the stem below this peeled area.
4. You should be left with a significantly smaller product than your original artichoke. Place it immediately into the acidulated water to prevent it from browning. Keep it submerged in the water until you are ready to cook it.

At this point, the artichoke should be ready to use in any number of ways. I decided to boil them first (for about 10 minutes, or until tender), then I drained them and sliced them in half. At this point you will also need to use a spoon or a small knife to scrape out the somewhat hairy fibers from the middle. Next, I heated some olive oil and butter (about 1 Tablespoon of each) in a skillet and let it heat until most of the milk solids from the butter (that foamy white stuff) had disappeared. When that was hot enough I gently placed the artichoke halves in flat side down and let them cook undisturbed for about 5 minutes. When they were beginning to brown nicely on that side, I added a bunch of thinly sliced garlic, then flipped the artichokes and cooked it a few minutes more, adding white wine at the end to deglaze.

We had also carmelized a big onion on the grill, so I chopped that up and served it with the artichoke over the wonderful cedar plank cooked Loki salmon. There were just a few bites of the artichoke that were still a little tough, but mostly it was tender and full of sweet, acidic flavor. Yes, it was work getting to the good part but it's the kind of work I happen to like.

Chilies

Needless to say, these beauties came from the east side of the mountains, Royal City, Washington, to be exact, where it has not been soggy and sunless for the past few weeks. The Tonnemakers Farm booth was brimming with hot weather crops recently, including peaches, nectarines, and impressive mounds of chilies. Not only did they have most of them categorized into mild, sweet, or hot, but many of the signs even included their often creative monikers.

From top to bottom, you are looking at two "mild" Mariatchi chilies, two"sweet" Godfathers chilies, and the small ones on the end came from the "Very Hot" bin. Should I be worried?

My favorite way of enjoying most chilies requires roasting them first. If the grill is going, we will char them over the coals. But in light of our recent sorry-excuse-for-August weather, these chilies went into the oven, under the broiler. I put them directly on the oven rack, fairly close to the broiler element. I also left the oven door ajar just a tad so that the heat would stay on continually. When charring chilies this way, the smell of burning chili flesh will usually remind you that they are in the oven. Don't panic; they're supposed to burn. I prefer to use tongs to turn them until they are nicely blackened on all sides, then slide them into a plastic bag where they will "sweat". The longer they can cool down in this bag, the better. But it probably takes at least 15 minutes of sweating before the skins will just slide right off.

After they were out of their skins we set up a taste test. Here are the results.

Left: "Sweet" Godfathers--fruity, good medium spice
These would be great stuffed or even used for chile rellenos.

Middle: "Mild" Mariatchi--no spice, grassy, and a bit fibrous
Good for salads, soups, or in a quesadilla.

Right: "Very Hot"--fruity (citrus flavors?), smokey, definitely hot
Good for anything you want to add spice to.

I then proceeded to cut off the ends, scrape out the seeds, and chop all of the chilies up to create a salsa for our grilled flank steak. The thing I loved the most about this salsa? The chilies retained so much flavor even though they had spice. The spice was certainly there, but it didn't overwhelm any of the food. I could taste the grassy, fruity nuances that we picked up on in the taste test and I enjoyed every bite!

Blackberry Jam

I'm not sure which epitomizes summer more for me, blackberries or peaches. Both fruits are treats I look forward to all year long, so I suppose it's fitting that in my recent dive into the world of canning foods, I first canned peaches, then blackberry jam.

My first-hand experience with blackberries came at an early age, when I annually harvested bowls and bowls full of the succulent fruit in Northern California where I lived. There, and in every other place I've ever lived, these aggressive Himalayan blackberries grow wild anywhere there is dirt. When freshly harvested and sun-warm, these berries are incredibly sweet and intensely flavorful. I do have a few meager bushes I like to pick from in August in Seattle, but they hardly produce enough to make anything substantial out of. Sure, I could do some more intensive and deliberate urban foraging, but why not just forage at my local farmer's market?

So it was that I bought a half-flat of blackberries (technically marionberries, a type of blackberry) from a farmer last week. They were on their way out as far as ripeness goes (some beginning to mold) and as a result they were on sale for $12.00. I knew I wanted to make jam, so on my way home I went to the store and bought this very old-fashioned looking thickening agent which is made exclusively from citrus extract. It contained two packets, one powder to create a calcium water which activates the other packet of pectin powder. I followed the simple directions that came with the pectin and ended up with an amazing product. The consistency was perfect, cloying without being too thick, and the flavor was intensely summer blackberry. Here's what I did:

Blackberry Jam
Yields just over 4, 1-pint jars of jam

Wash 5, 1-pint Mason jars and their lids and rings. Sterilize in boiling water and keep warm in the water. Wash well a half-flat of blackberries. Put berries into a large pan and add 1/4 cup lemon juice and 2 teaspoons calcium water. In a separate bowl, combine 1 cup sugar and 2 teaspoons pectin powder. Bring berries to a boil, then whisk in the sugar mixture, stirring constantly for about 1-2 minutes until the all sugar and powder is dissolved. Remove from heat.

Fill jars to 1/4 inch from the top. Carefully wipe the rims with a damp towel, then screw on the lids and put the jars in a large pan. Cover with water and bring to a boil; boil for 10 minutes. Remove the jars from water and allow to cool on a towel. Make sure the jars are sealed by checking the lids which should be sucked down and not give at all. The extra jam (my batch made about 4 and a half jars) we put in the fridge to eat now.

Goat Cheese

I have become addicted to this goat cheese. It is from Port Madison Farms on Bainbridge Island and their many varieties of fresh chevre seem to disappear within hours after arriving at home. We have tried their chevre coated in truffle-salt, crusted with peppercorns, and most recently, infused with herbes de Provence. All are delicious. At $6 a log, the Port Madison stand is one of the first I go to every week at the market now.

Most weeks, we enjoy this cheese in its simplest preparation, smeared on a piece of crusty bread. Every now and then I have enough left over to add to an omelette on Sunday morning which, I might add, is superb. But I decided to actually cook with it this week, to find some way to take advantage of its rich flavor and bright acidity. I immediately thought of a recipe for Goat Cheese Naan that I've had for years now. I can't remember where I first found it, but it is a baking powder dough that is quite simple to make. In addition to goat cheese, it also calls for plain yogurt. If I had really been thinking, I would also have bought the goat cheese yogurt from Port Madison, since I continually hear good things about that. So, I guess you'll have to learn from my mistakes and load up on both cheese and yogurt next time you go to the market. You won't regret it.

Goat Cheese Naan
Makes 4 naan

1 1/2 cups all-purpose flour
1/2 tsp. baking powder
1/2 tsp. salt
1/2 cup plus 2 Tbsp. plain yogurt
1/4 cup goat cheese

Sift first 3 ingredients into a bowl. Mix in yogurt and cheese. Knead until smooth and elastic, about 5-10 minutes. Form into a ball and return to the bowl; cover with a clean kitchen towel.
Let the dough rest for about 2 hours (the dough will not rise).

Turn dough out onto a lightly floured surface and divide into four equal parts. Alow the dough to rest for a few minutes more, then roll or pat each ball into a 6-8 inch round.

Heat a skillet over medium-high heat. Add about 1 tablespoon of olive oil, then one round of bread. Cook about 3-5 minutes per side, or until browned. Remove to a packet of tin foil to keep warm and sprinkle with salt if desired. Repeat with remaining bread.

Cabbage

I decided recently that the humble cabbage is too often overlooked. After one bite of a traditional American coleslaw in which the poor cabbage is drowned in a sugary, mayonnaisey concoction, it's little wonder that most Americans don't think too highly of this member of the Brassicaceae family. Yet in many other cultures, raw cabbage is allowed to shine in its own right with maybe just a light dressing to highlight its characteristic crunch. This type of treatment is exactly what came to mind when I saw these adorable baby cabbages at the market. An Asian slaw, perhaps?

Seeing as how we actually had some hot, hot weather yesterday, an Asian slaw was exactly what sounded good for dinner to go along with our Thai grilled chicken and sticky rice. To make the dressing for the slaw, I put the juice of one lime, 3 tablespoons of nam pla, 2 cloves of chopped garlic, 3 finely chopped serrano peppers, and about 2 tablespoons of finely grated ginger into a large bowl. After washing the outside of the cabbage heads well, I sliced them as thinly as I possibly could, then added this to the bowl and tossed it very well with the dressing in the bowl. I let that sit for about 30 minutes, then added some chopped, fresh basil, mint, and cilantro before serving. Delicious! So please, give cabbage a second chance!

Drunken Woman Lettuce

Can you believe the size of this lettuce? Yes, it really is just one head of lettuce. One head of beautiful, voluptuous, Drunken Woman lettuce that was so large it could barely fit into the bag. It came from Let Us Farm, a farm (with no web-site that I can find) in Oakville, WA specializing mostly in unique and interesting lettuce varieties. I have to admit that I was first drawn in by the name, but upon closer inspection I started noticing the perfect crispness of the leaves and the impressive symmetry of the way each leaf seemed to unfurl in a continuous circle. The two dollars I spent on this head of lettuce yielded the equivalent of about four "regular" heads that you might find at the grocery store. This steal of a deal gave further evidence to support some interesting stats I read recently about how it is actually less expensive to shop at farmer's markets than at a grocery store. (Open up the pdf at this link to get the full scoop.)

So, we have a lot of salads to eat this week. Last night we tried the Drunken Woman with some Romesco vinaigrette and a bit of blue cheese and toasted hazelnuts sprinkled on top. When torn apart, the leaves of the Drunken Woman appeared to look similar to a common red leaf lettuce, but there was no mistaking its superiority once I took a bite. It had much more substance and crispness, the perfect vehicle for any number of vinaigrettes or toppings. Who knew lettuce could be so inspiring?

Squash Blossoms

We first ate the delicate flor de calabaza, or squash blossoms, years ago in Mexico where they were tucked between two tortillas in the ubiquitous quesadilla. While they have been an integral part of many "ethnic" cuisines for years now, squash blossoms are only fairly recently becoming quite trendy in the states. I would like to think that this is due to the rise in farmer's markets and the increasing availability of a previously uncommon product. Or, perhaps it's because farmers finally got tired of having so much zucchini come August! Whatever the reason, I was delighted to find a basket brimming with squash blossoms while at the market this past weekend. They offered both the plain flowers (the "males") as well as the flowers with the baby squash still attached (the "females"). (It turns out that only the female flowers have "babies". The male fruit of the squash plant flowers and then fades away after its pollinating job is done.) I eagerly filled up my bag with some of each, and headed home to consult my recipes.

In Mexican cooking, the squash flower is used in a myriad of ways. Besides being thinly sliced and used as a vegetable in soups or quesadillas among other things, the blossoms are often stuffed with some sort of filling and either baked or fried. It Italy where they are also quite prolific, the squash blossom is stuffed and then usually battered and deep-fried. In fact, most of the recipes I found were for stuffing and frying. Not only do I not have the equipment or the desire to deep-fry in my kitchen, but my whole goal here was to actually taste this delicate flower, not cover it up with a bunch of cheese and deep-fried flavor. So frying was out, but stuffing was definitely in. Being in the Mexican frame of mind, I continued down that path and decided on stuffing them with a mixture of masa (corn flour) and goat cheese before baking them in the oven.

While many recipes use a cheese-only filling, my hope was that the masa would thicken the filling enough (while still remaining soft) so that it could stand up to the longer baking time required to cook the baby squash completely. So rather than being the star, the goat cheese (also from the market) was instead there to lend a bit of richness and bright acidity to the filling. I also added some toasted and very coarsely crushed pine nuts, chopped oregano, and a splash of cream. As the flowers themselves are extremely fragile, I used a pastry bag to pipe the filling into the center of each one before coating the outsides in olive oil, salt and pepper and then baking them. The results? Even better than expected! The subtle flavor of the corn from the masa really seemed to compliment the earthiness of the squash, and the filling was gentle enough not to overwhelm the flowers. Although the blossoms themselves didn't have a very distinct flavor, their crispy tips and soft and silky texture certainly did stand out. And, it was a very fun meal to cook and eat. I guess next year I ought to plant more zucchini in my garden, if only to harvest their lovely flowers!

Masa-Goat Cheese Stuffed Squash Blossoms
This recipe makes enough filling to stuff approximately ten flowers.

Gently clean squash blossoms by rinsing off any of the baby squash under water. Do not get the flowers wet, but instead brush off any dirt and open them carefully to remove the pistil inside.
Preheat oven to 400 degrees.

For the filling, saute one small, minced shallot for about a minute in olive oil. Add 1/2 cup of beer and let come to a boil. Stir it for about one minute while the beer foams and the alcohol cooks off, then add 1/2 cup of water. Once it boils again, whisk in 1/4 cup masa harina. Cook over low heat while stirring constantly for another few minutes or until all of the lumps are gone and the mixture is thick. Add more water to thin if it becomes too thick. Remove from the heat and add several tablespoons of goat cheese, then stir to melt slightly. Add 2 tbsp. each of toasted and coarsely crushed pine nuts, chopped oregano (or other herb) and cream. The filling should be close to the consistency of cookie dough.

Use a small spoon or a pastry bag to scoop or pipe the filling evenly into each prepared flower. Place flowers on a baking pan, sprinkle with olive oil, salt and pepper, then toss carefully to coat. Bake for approximately 30-40 minutes or until the squash is tender when poked with a fork.

Tsoi Tsim

One of many "mystery" greens I've discovered lately, Tsoi Tsim is apparently a Vietnamese name for this Asian green. I can't find any information about it, nor does the farmer know anything other than the very basics. Tsoi Tsim is only about six inches tall, stems and all, and the small, oval leaves are tender and sweet. The texture of the leaves reminds me slightly of arugula or baby spinach, the main difference being that Tsoi Tsim produces much better results when exposed to heat; when either blanched, sauteed, or steamed, it maintains its beautiful, bright green color and hardly wilts at all in comparison to other similar greens. The stems also are very tender and completely edible. I chopped off only about two inches from the bottom before wahing the greens thoroughly and then coarsely chopping the rest.

My first attempt with Tsoi Tsim was a stir-fry. Quickly sauteed like this they were the perfect addition to the mushrooms, tofu, and other Asian-inspired ingredients that made their way into my pan. My curiosity still not sated, I hunted down another bunch at the market the following week. Whether it's because I know it's an Asian green or because it truly does lend itself well to that cuisine I'll never know, but the Asian meal that I made this time was a simple soup, my take on pho, I suppose. After bringing some homemade chicken stock to a boil, I added some frozen gyoza, a few shrimp and the washed and chopped Tsoi Tsim. While the soup simmered for a few minutes, I flavored it with oyster sauce and nam pla. We of course self-applied hot sauce at the table. The soup was amazingly delicious, especially considering that the whole thing took about ten minutes. The greens floated delicately on top and their flavor and texture was subtle but distinct. Tsoi Tsim is a sweet, tender, and undoubtedly very healthy green that is not slimy, bitter, or fibrous in any way. I would whole-heartedly recommend adding to your repetoire, should you be so lucky to come across it!

Celery-Potato Salad

Wow. It's been a rough month. An awful illness knocked out our household for a few weeks, then BAM! We were shocked out of the cold drizzle by this crazy-intense heat wave that rocked the west coast. Saturday was way too hot for Seattle in May. But no matter, I was more than happy to be at the market, outside, soaking it all up. My heat therapy, I call it. The summer weather also got me in the mood for gardening, so while at the market I bought four different varieties of tomato starts for the garden, plus two kinds of basil and a purple-leafed plant called chiso (apparently with an allspice/clove flavor that goes well in salads--who knew?).

As far as local produce goes, it's kind of a weird time right now in the Pacific Northwest. The summer plants are still too young to be producing, and we're all sick of the winter staples. The only thing that really called out to me was the beautiful young stalks of celery. They called them "celeriac", but that was most certainly a misnomer. Celeriac is the root of the celery plant, and these were quite obviously the tops of the young celery plant. In fact, they were mostly leaves with a few young, tender stems tying them all together. So don't ask why, but after my celery purchase I somehow jumped to potato salad! Yes, to go with the grilled ribs and mint juleps! What better way to eat our way through a 90 degree day? So I found some beautiful red potatoes (which also had a purplish-hued flesh) and turned everything into a potato salad. I even made my own mayonnaise from scratch for the very first time. I've always been afraid of it (is there really that much oil in it?), but Julia coached me through. It was extremely easy, with the aid of my Cuisinart, and oh so worth it. The olive oil that I used was the star, and it complimented the subtle potatoes and crunchy celery perfectly. A satisfying end to a beautiful day.

Cabbage Tops

While hardly a catchy or romantic name, "cabbage tops" seems to be the best descriptor of this leafy green vegetable that I can find. "Cabbage tops" is what the farmer was marketing them as, but I have since also seen them referred to as "cabbage rapini". The problem is that I can't find any reference to any form of this usage of the cabbage plant. Rapini is usually associated with broccoli, and broccoli raab/rabe/rapini are known for having tall, slender stalks with dark leaves and scattered clusters of tiny buds or flowers. The entire plant--stems, leaves, and flowers--can be eaten. My "cabbage tops" looked very similar to broccoli rapini. It turns out that cabbage and broccoli are both members of the Brassica oleracea family, so the similarity would make sense. I am still confused, however, about whether these "cabbage tops" are really tops of a cabbage plant or a separate thing altogether, as the broccoli rapini plant is. I guess I have something to talk to the farmer about next week!

Just like broccoli rapini, the farmer told me to eat every part of the plant, stems, flowers, and all. The particular bunch I bought was from a red cabbage variety, thus their beautiful dark purple hue. After washing them thoroughly, I trimmed the stems and chopped up the whole bunch to put into an Asian noodle dish, along with some red bell peppers and mushrooms. The flavor of the cabbage tops was obscured somewhat by the intensity of the soy sauce and other sauce ingredients, but I could detect a slight bitterness that helped to add depth to the noodles. The texture also was very appealing, with the crispness of the stems contrasting nicely with the leafy greens. Turns out that the mysterious "cabbage tops" are worth looking into!

Cabbage-Top Noodles

In a small bowl, combine together 1/4 cup rice vinegar, 1/4 cup low-sodium soy sauce, 1 tsp. sugar, 2 Tbsp. lime juice, 2 Tbsp. nam pla, 1 clove minced garlic, and as many minced thai chilies as you can handle (we recommend 4)!

Cook your choice of Asian noodles according to package directions (I used Marco Polo Chinese Style Noodles, a wheat noodle variety).

Heat a large skillet over medium high heat and add 2 Tbsp. of peanut oil. When hot, add 1 bunch of green onions, white parts only (finely chop some of the green tops for garnish). Saute until soft and beginning to brown, then add 2 thinly sliced portabella tops (or other mushrooms of your choosing). Once mushrooms begin to brown and have lost most of their moisture, add chopped cabbage tops and one thinly sliced red bell pepper. Cook for about 5 minutes, stirring frequently. Add 1/4 cup rice wine to the pan, then quickly cover with a lid. Allow to steam for about 5 minutes or until vegetables are cooked thoroughly.

Toss cooked noodles together with the sauce and the vegetables. Garnish with green onions.

Verpa

I have been eagerly anticipating the arrival of morels at the market this spring. As they are one of my favorite mushrooms, I was quite excited when I rounded the corner and saw a big basket of what I thought were these early spring delicacies at Foraged and Found Edibles.
"Morels!" I exclaimed.
"No, those are verpa" the guy said.
"They look just like morels" I replied.
"Not to me they don't. To me it's like the difference between broccoli and cauliflower."
As I began to pick through the basket and gather up a small stash of these mystery morel-wanna-be's, a woman came up and I overheard nearly the exact conversation that I had just had with the mushroom expert only moments ago. So, at least I wasn't the only one; it's always more comforting to know that your ignorance is shared with someone else.

Upon closer inspection at home, I could tell the difference between the verpa bohemica (also known as Early Morel) and a true morel. Right off it was apparent that the verpa had a much higher water content as they appeared more moist and fungus-y looking than the usually dry morel. This was also confirmed by the mushroom expert who had told me to cook them for a long time in order to cook off all of the water. Another difference was that the stem, while being hollow just like a morel stem, was totally separate from the pine cone like cap. It attached at the very top and came out quite easily when pulled apart. I realize that my observations are hardly scientific or precise, but it's interesting to note how two things which appear to be so similar at first glance can really be quite different upon further inspection. A good reason to leave things such as this up to the experts.

After consulting my mushroom "bible" All That the Rain Promises and More... by David Arora (check out the awesome cover) I found yet another reason to let someone else pick mushrooms for me. Not only does Mr. Arora say that verpa are not recommended to eat, he also says that they can be poisonous if eaten in large amounts! While some might see this as a reason not to eat these mushrooms at all, I on the other hand, was excited that I could try something that I would never otherwise have tried on my own. Having faith in your mushroom expert is a very good thing.

As with nearly all mushrooms, I find that the simplest preparation is the best. I first cleaned the verpa very well, discarding the stems, and then chopped them coarsely. I heated a little butter in a pan, then sauteed the mushrooms until the water had evaporated and it looked like they had dried out a bit. After flavoring them with salt, pepper, and fresh thyme, they made the perfect filling for an omelette. I am glad to report, as you might have guessed, that we were not poisoned. In fact, they were quite lovely. Not moist or slimy at all, just simple and earthy. A good replacement to hold me over until the true morels are truly ready.

Fiddlehead Ferns

While perhaps not as scary or threatening as the stinging nettles reported on a few weeks ago, Fiddlehead ferns are certainly not your average vegetable. They really do come from ferns, copious amounts of which blanket the forests and parks here in the Pacific Northwest. The fiddlehead part refers to the tightly wound coil of the young fern shoots. There is about a two week window in the spring where this new growth is tender enough to eat, just before it unfurls into the common fern frond. It is at this point when the Fiddlehead ferns can be harvested for consumption (by professionals, of course), as they were by one of my favorite purveyors, Foraged and Found Edibles.

Wanting the ferns to maintain their crisp texture, I knew that cooking them for a long period of time was certainly out of the question. We first started by rinsing them thoroughly and then trimming off the bottom of the stem ends. As we already had the grill fired up, I decided to give them the simple treatment of olive oil, salt and pepper before putting them into a "grilling skillet" (just a pan with holes in it so that you can grill small things without losing them). Once they were mostly tender when poked with a fork, we pulled them and served them alongside a delicious pork chop and some grilled bread.

At first bite, this unusual vegetable struck me as tasting very similar to asparagus, or perhaps a cross between an asparagus and a green bean. But then the bitterness came. I don't think I cooked them long enough. They still tasted mostly raw, and their texture was closer to celery than that of a perfectly cooked asparagus. So I will attribute the bitter aftertaste to user error, not an inherent flaw of the fiddlehead. Next time I try them, I'll perhaps blanch them for a minute or two before grilling or sauteeing them. So if you're ever in the market for a whimsical-looking side dish, hopefully you can learn from my mistakes and try your own hand at the Fiddlehead ferns!

"Real" Milk

Since my trip to France when I was 16, I haven’t been much of a milk drinker. Prior to that trip, I loved milk and would guzzle it down by the glassful with any meal. But in France, the milk was, well, different—warm, thick, a bit off-tasting. I guess it kind of tempered my enthusiasm for the drink, especially when served “straight up." But even though I now prefer a glass of red wine with my dinner and soy in my coffee, there sure is nothing that quite beats a glass of cold milk with something gooey and chocolatey. Mmmm… brownies.

So, the raw milk that I bought at the market from Sea Breeze Farms turned out to be a perfect excuse to make rich, decadent, brownies! Raw milk is something I’ve been curious about for awhile now, but my knowledge about it was fairly limited. I knew that it was unpasteurized milk and that consequently the health risks were much greater than with pasteurized milk. But when I recently read an article in Seattle Magazine about a local producer of raw milk, it suddenly made so much sense to me to drink “real” milk. Like all other things American, our government has spent the past several decades trying to protect us from our own stupidity, our own carelessness. People drank milk straight from cows for centuries, and suffered no ills. But suddenly dairy farms got big, farmers got sloppy, and people got sick.

However, smart dairy farming is back. Some farmers are now taking better care of their cows and more precautions with their processing methods. As a result, many small dairy operations, such as Sea Breeze Farms, are now selling "real" milk once again. Raw milk costs quite a bit more than its pasteurized counterpart because the licensing requirements are apparently extremely rigid and require lots of expensive equipment for cooling and cleaning. But if you're someone like me who only drinks milk in their coffee or with the occasional brownie, the overall cost is nominal. With that in mind however, the flavor and quality of the milk did not blow me away. I guess I expected it to taste different from the normal grocery store variety, somehow thicker and richer. It wasn't. The consistency was the same and I could only detect a slight richness in the flavor when I really looked for it, and what uniqueness there was certainly didn't stand up to the chocolate. However, despite the similarities in taste, I know that by buying "real" milk I am supporting not only one farmer, but also an entire philosophy of raising animals. For that reason, I will continue to buy my one small carton of raw milk every so often. Well, that and it goes well with brownies.

Cherry-Chunk Fudge Brownies

1/2 cup (1 stick) plus 2 Tbsp. unsalted butter
5 oz. bittersweet chocolate, coarsely chopped
2/3 cup flour
1 1/2 Tbsp. cocoa powder
1/4 tsp. salt
1 cup sugar
1/3 cup packed light brown sugar
3 large eggs
2 1/2 tsp. vanilla extract
1/3 cup semisweet chocolate chips
1/3 cup dried cherries

Preheat oven to 350 degrees. Grease an 8-inch square baking pan.
Melt the chocolate and butter together over a double boiler or in the microwave, using low heat and stirring frequently. Set aside to cool.

In a small bowl, stir together the flour, cocoa powder, and salt. Mix both sugars into the melted chocolate mixture. Whisk in the eggs, then add the vanilla. Add the flour mixture to the chocolate and stir until just combined; add the chocolate chips and cherries, then turn out the batter into the prepared pan.

Bake for about 30-35 minutes, or until the center feels firm and a toothpick inserted into the sides comes out clean (the center should still be moist). Allow to cool completely before serving.

(This recipe is adapted from Nancy Baggett's book The All-American Cookie Book.)

Stinging Nettles

Do you see them? Do you see the little hairs that sting you with their acid? I first encountered these little buggers when we had recently moved to the Northwest. Playing disc golf one day, I ignorantly waltzed into the dense shrubbery in my shorts to find my Frisbee. Suddenly I felt like there were biting ants attacking me, burning up and down my legs. They didn't have these nasty plants in California where I had grown up! Old folklore says to rub the fronds of a neighboring fern on the nettle "bites" to quiet the burn, but whatever it was, the sting eventually faded away. I learned my lesson about nettles that day, but you can imagine my surprise when, not too long after my "nettle incident," I opened up my menu all those years ago at the local establishment Le Gourmand to find Nettle Soup as a specialty!

After the chef's reassurance that the stinging part of the nettles disappeared with cooking, we tried the soup and were pleasantly surprised by its subtle grassy flavor, not to mention its completely sting-free texture. With that soup in mind, I procured a bag of nettles from Foraged and Found Edibles last weekend (after first getting over my excitement that one of my favorite vendors had returned to the market!). The nettle plants grow wild all over the Northwest and other temperate climates, and their fresh, young leaves are best early in the spring. As you can imagine, washing them creates quite a dilemma. The small leaves, all tightly bunched into a plastic bag, are just waiting to get you, reaching out with their hairy antennae. For once feeling slightly afraid of my food, I turned the plastic bag inside out and used it as a glove to wash them in a bucket of water. Although they did have some rather thick and fibrous-looking stems, I wasn't about to pick through them. Rather, I just dumped the whole lot into an already boiling pot of stock with some shallots and garlic in it. I then boiled the leaves for about 15 minutes, blended it all up and then strained it. Much of the green roughage didn't make it through the strainer, so the resulting soup was significantly paler in color than its original ingredients. No matter, though. A splash of cream, a little salt and pepper, and the nettle soup was perfect. Uniquely grassy and herbaceous in flavor, I can now say that nettles are my friend.

Naughty Nellie

A blog devoted to cheese is more than overdue. Yes, I've mentioned it in the past, but cheese also deserves to be in the limelight every now and again, right? It just so happens that I've been eye-balling the stand at River Valley Ranch for several weeks now. Their goat cheeses look beautiful, and part of me is always envious of someone who can milk their own goats one morning and have a lovely log of cheese to show for it the next. Needless to say, their fresh cheeses are very fresh. However, I was tempted by the cheeses that had been given a bit more time to develop; the cow cheeses. The Tipsy Cow was the first one that got my attention, perhaps because of its name but more likely because of the gorgeous texture throughout and the slightly purple hue of the rind which apparently comes from soaking in red wine. But knowing what a big beer fan Gibson is, I finally settled on the Naughty Nellie, the rind of which is washed with Pike Place Brewery's beer of the same name.

Eager to give it a try that evening, I left it out for several hours so that it could come to room temperature, thereby allowing us to fully appreciate all the subtle nuances of this lovely cheese. The texture was exactly what I like in a cheese; soft but not runny, yet at the same time hard enough to slice thinly with a cheese slicer. Quite like butter, actually. But the flavor was a bit, well, unfortunate. It seemed like it had potential, but either we got a bad batch or the Naughty Nellie beer is just too much for a simple cow's milk cheese. It was very acidic and tangy, to the extreme. A bite of it kind of made me pucker, actually. But although unique in its flavor, I love a cheese that makes you stop and think. Nellie was a bit too naughty for my tastes, but that doesn't mean I won't try River Valley Ranch cheeses again.

Jerusalem Artichokes

Neither an artichoke nor from Jerusalem, this tuber from the sunflower family is one of those rare produce items that is most happy when everything else withers from the cold. Although it is in season from October through March, this past week was the first time that I have picked it up at the market. Perhaps it's because it's so brown, plain and unassuming looking. Who knows. But there it was, tucked in among the kale and cabbage. A good alternative to potatoes, I thought.

Before I could cook with it, however, I had to refresh my memory on its misnomer of a name. It turns out that the Jerusalem part was really a mispronunciation of the Italian word for sunflower, girasole. And since its brown exterior has more resemblance to ginger root than an artichoke, I'm not sure where that name came from. In an effort to clear up the confusion, many produce vendors are now calling it a sunchoke, although I still see it most frequently labeled by the name Jerusalem Artichoke. I also had to do a bit of research on how to cook it since it had been awhile. Even though its white flesh looks somewhat like a potato, it certainly doesn't cook like a potato would. In my opinion, it is somewhere between a cross of a potato and a jicama, with a seemingly much higher water content than a potato. Because of this, you can eat them raw, although I wouldn't really recommend it. I thought they might be good as a thin, crisp, galette-style side dish. After first peeling them, I sliced the little chokes thinly, then heated up some fat in a large saute pan and spread them out in a shallow layer. After letting the bottom layer brown undisturbed for awhile, I beat one egg and about a quarter cup of milk together then poured that over the top. Finally, I put a thin layer of my favorite new find from Trader Joe's on top, beer cheese. Yum. Then the whole pan went under the broiler until it was puffy and bubbly.

It's hard to go wrong with anything with melted beer cheese on top of it, but after my first bite I was quickly reminded why I hadn't cooked with Jerusalem Artichokes in such a long time. They're really not that good. They're certainly not bad, but just not exciting in the least bit. No flavor of their own to speak of, and a weird, watery crunch where there doesn't seem like there should be one. Interesting, but not great.

Kale Cakes & Pork Chops

What follows is a time-line of our dinner last night, from the raw ingredients to their finished form.



Beautiful, beautiful kale!
The purpley-one is Red Kale and the long, skinny dark-green one is Lacinato Kale.








These funny looking parsnips are actually from my garden. I finally got around to digging them up and it's apparent that I should have done a better job of thinning them out. Many were too small to use, but there were also plenty that were a decent size. (On a side note, I learned earlier that parsnips require a freeze to convert their starches to sugars. I tried one in the fall and it was horrible--chalky and dry. But now they are sweet and tender!)







I turned all of this into Parsnip-Potato Kale Cakes (recipe follows).






We ate our Kale Cakes with the most delicious pork chops from Samish Bay Cheese. They are a farm up near Bellingham that raises beef and pork in addition to making cheese. They call their pork Whey Tastier because they also feed their pork the residual whey from their cheese-making process. I am more than happy to participate in that kind of recycling!
To keep the pork chops from drying out during cooking, I first brined them for about two hours in a solution that was 1/4 cup kosher salt, 1/8 cup sugar and about 3 cups water. Before cooking I rinsed them, patted them dry in paper towels and then sprinkled with pepper (no salt!). To cook, I seared both sides of the meat in olive oil over medium-high heat and then put the pan into a 350 degree oven for about 5-7 minutes. While the meat was resting, I deglazed the pan with about 1 cup of ruby port. I let it reduce until it was slightly thick and glazey, then combined it with the juices from the resting meat.

Everything was "whey" tasty. The meat was tender and juicy, and the Kale Cakes were crisp on the outside and warm and comforting throughout. The only negative was that the cakes soaked up all of the delicious pan juices too quickly. Not only did this create a soggy cake by the end, but we also ran out of juice to dip the pork into. I can think of worse problems for a Monday night.

Parsnip-Potato Kale Cakes
Serves 4

2 bunches kale
1/2 pound parsnips, peeled and cut into 1 inch pieces
1/2 pound potatoes, peeled and cut into 1 inch pieces
4 cloves garlic, peeled and minced
1 tsp. red pepper flakes (optional)
1/4 cup grated parmesan
1/4 tsp. ground nutmeg, preferably freshly grated
2 eggs
1 cup breadcrumbs or Panko
About 3 Tbsp. olive oil
2 Tbsp. butter
salt and pepper

Bring a large pot of salted water to a boil. Add the potato pieces and boil for about 10 minutes. Add the parsnip pieces to the potatoes and boil another 5-10 minutes or until both are soft when poked with a fork. Fish out the potato and parsnip pieces with a strainer and allow the water to return to a boil.

Separate the stems from the kale leaves and wash the leaves thoroughly. Add the kale leaves to the boiling water and let boil for about 5 minutes, until slightly wilted. Drain and transfer immediately to a bowl of ice water. Allow to cool. When the kale is cool enough to touch, grab fist-fulls of it and squeeze out as much water as possible. Lay it out on paper towels and press firmly to dry. Bring the kale together into a tight bunch on a cutting board then chop finely.

Heat 1 Tbsp. of olive oil in large saute pan over medium heat. Add 3 cloves of the garlic and the pepper flakes; saute briefly, 30 seconds or so, then add the chopped kale. Cook, stirring frequently, until the garlic is cooked and any moisture has been evaporated, about 5 minutes. Remove from the heat.

Meanwhile, beat 1 egg in a large bowl. Using a potato ricer, squeeze the cooked parsnips and potatoes into the bowl with the egg (or alternatively, mash the parsnips and potatoes in a separate bowl and then add to the egg). Add the kale, remaining garlic, grated parmesan, and grated nutmeg. Season to taste with salt and pepper. Mix thoroughly—hands work best for this!

Beat the other egg in a small bowl and place the breadcrumbs in another bowl.
Divide the potato/kale mixture into four even balls. Working one at a time, press one ball into a flattened disc in the palm of your hand, about 4 inches in diameter. Dip it into the egg, then roll it in the breadcrumbs to cover. Set on a piece of waxed paper and repeat with the remaining kale cakes.

Heat 1 Tbsp. olive oil and 1 Tbsp. of butter in a large saute pan over medium-high heat. When oil is hot (just beginning to smoke), add two kale cakes to the pan, pressing lightly with the back of a spatula to make them a bit thinner. Fry about 3 minutes a side. Remove to a plate, then heat remaining oil/butter and fry remaining two cakes.

"Low-Key" Salmon

So now that we all know how to pronounce the word, there are a few things that need to be known about the locally run Loki Fish Co. For starters, their fish is freakin' awesome. So fresh and delicious, even for Seattle standards. At the market it comes either frozen, smoked, or canned. I've tried all three and any form it comes in is delicious. I've really enjoyed the canned salmon in the past; its pastel-pink flesh packed in oil is light and flaky with that indescribable "umami" flavor. This time, however, I went with a frozen piece from one of their coolers.

But what really makes Loki Fish stand out is their approach to fishing. The owner Pete Knutson, who runs the business with his sons, fishes along the coast of Southeast Alaska and the Puget Sound. Because it is such a small organization, the fish are apparently handled with the care never seen on those giant fishing vessels. After being caught, they are immediately processed, frozen, then flown to Seattle within 48 hours after arriving at harbor. So while technically their fish is sold "frozen" rather than "fresh", it is probably much "fresher" than most fish you might buy from a larger operation. They claim that they can have their fish on ice within 45 minutes of being caught, while a large-scale fishing boat might take 2 to 3 days to do that! Gross! But another benefit of running a smaller fishing business is that it can be done in a sustainable way. They are able to fish year after year in the same places because they are fishing respectfully rather than greedily--taking only what is needed instead of depleting the source entirely. For that reason, we can all breath easy knowing that we are eating salmon to help save the environment!

I didn't want to do too much with my hunk of salmon because I know how fragile and subtle it can be. I made a little "pouch" out of tin foil, topped it with some olive oil, salt, pepper, and chopped chives, then baked the whole thing at 325 degrees for about 20 minutes. The results were amazing. So moist and tender with not the least hint of fishiness. But the best news is that Loki fish is available not only at local Farmer's Markets, but also at restaurants and some grocery stores like PCC. So whether you want to save the world or just enjoy some good fish, find Loki fish if you can.

Goat

Part of the reason I love going to the Farmer's Market so much is because of the things I find there that are unheard of elsewhere--truffles, purslane, sea beans, mangalitsa, to name a few. But I'm beginning to feel a bit guilty (and carnivorous!) when I realize that nearly all of my new finds in recent expeditions have been meat. After all, isn't it kind of ironic to be buying big hunks of meat at a traditional mecca of vegetarians? Well, whatever. I am loading up on lots of veggies (mostly lettuce and kale this time of year), but the products that have really stood out lately are meat. This time it was goat.For some reason, goat has never caught on here in the U.S. I've enjoyed it in Mexico in the form of the soul-warming stew birria and at a local Caribbean restaurant as a spice-laden curry. But have you ever seen it at your local grocery store or on the menu at a non-ethnic restaurant? I can't think of a time when I have, but after my experience with the goat meat I bought from the owners of Toboton Gourmet Goat Meat, I'm beginning to wonder what's wrong with U.S. consumers. The leg roast that I bought was excellent; succulent, tender, and very juicy. It was somewhat similar to pork (just trying to compare it to something familiar), but with a much firmer texture and less fat throughout. It is also remarkably good for you. The information leaflet that came with my purchase boasts that goat is the healthiest of all meats, even besting chicken in the low fat and cholesterol race. All the more reason not to feel guilty, right?

Unlike my mangalitsa experience, this purveyor provided me with lots of great ideas on how to cook the goat meat. I followed her suggestion to coat the outside with a spice rub (some chile powder, cumin, sugar, salt and pepper) and wrap the entire roast in foil as a way to lock in the moisture. I placed the roast in a 275 degree oven and let is roast for about two and a half hours. Trying to go with the sort of Southwest theme from the spice rub, I served the thinly sliced meat atop these corn "cakes" that I tried to make-up. They were totally uninspiring (much drier than I had hoped for), but the meat was delicious. And by using the remainder of the roast in sandwiches or burritos for lunches the rest of the week, the $20 I spent on the roast seems like quite a deal.