The Final Chapter: From Farmer's Market to Farmer

As the sporadic nature of my recent posts over the past few months might indicate, I have been on to other things. For this reason and many others, this will be the final post of Farmer's Market Forays. As ironic and backwards as it may be, I find that every summer I go to the market much more infrequently than I do the rest of the year. The primary reason for this is that I am trying to keep up with the produce flowing from my own backyard! It was, in fact, my love for gardening and all things farm related that led me out to Rice, Washington last week where I spent four nights and five amazing days living and working on a farm.The Quillisascut Farm School for the Domestic Arts is the official name of the program I, and 13 other students, participated in. Owned by Lora Lea and Rick Misterly, the farm is an amazing example of truly sustainable living. This buzz word, "sustainable", doesn't have much meaning when you hear it tossed around in an urban setting like Seattle. How can we truly "sustain" all of these homes, chemicals, and cars? But on the farm, the full implications of the word were apparent. On one hand, sustainable means that the people can sustain themselves by eating products procured nearly exclusively off of the farm. But it also means that the farm could continue to produce indefinitely because the land and the animals are treated with the utmost respect. Seeing this practice in place, this unique way of living and eating, is what had the biggest impact on me. But first, a few highlights from farm school.

Goats
Life at the farm seems to revolve around the goats. They provide us with milk, cheese, and meat, and, like everything at the farm, they are treated with the greatest respect. Our first morning schedule read "5:45 am: Butcher goat". Welcome to the farm, indeed. Rick had already killed the five month old billy goat, and we stood around in an eerie silence observing as he methodically and meticulously proceeded to take off its suit of skin and then remove all of the organs, etc. It was fascinating work, and not the least bit gory. After the butchered goat hung in the walk-in for a few days, we learned how to break it down into all of the various cuts of meat that you might find on your plate. Again, fascinating.

Milking was a challenge, to be sure. It's one of those things that you have to do over and over again before you get the feel of it. I was pretty disheartened at first when Lora Lea had two full buckets of milk in the time that it took me to get 1/4 of an inch at the bottom of my bucket, but I finally started to get the feel on my last goat.

Lora Lea taught us how to make four different kinds of cheese with the goats' milk: a "farmhouse" style (similar in texture to a feta), a soft chevre, ricotta, and fresh mozzarella. I absolutely loved the patience and magical science that is involved in turning milk into decadent cheese. We used the fresh mozzarella on our pizzas one night, and they also sent us home with two packages of the cheeses we had made.

Food
Life on the farm is all about food. 24-7, all of our energies are in some way going towards either the harvesting of or the production of food. And with 15 people working towards a common goal, you can be sure that we ate well! Always in use was their gorgeous stone oven. With an oven on one side and an open grill on the other side, this was used to bake bread, cook pizzas, and grill meats. The bread we baked was a true artisan type, with a pre-ferment the first night and a long slow rise the next day. Oh, for an oven like that in my backyard!

Our typical protein of chicken, goat, or lamb was always supplemented by the freshest of fresh vegetables and herbs from their garden (which we worked in on occasion). We also harvested huckleberries and learned all about the honeybees who lived in hives on their property. Citrus fruits would never grow at that latitude, so the acid of lemons was replaced by fresh verjus from their grape vines. All food preparation was led by the amazing chef Karen, who taught us endless ways to be creative with what you have in the kitchen. We were divided into "teams" and put in charge of the various meals. This kind of meal planning started with first looking into what was available, and then discussing what to do with it. This approach makes such perfect sense but is unfortunately in sharp contrast to the-start with a recipe then hunt for out of season ingredients- approach that us city dwellers often rely on. As an example of the food we ate on the farm, the lunch team that I was on put together a bread salad (to use up left over bread ends) with tomatoes, arugula, and other herbs, a fresh fava bean-white bean soup, and an apricot tart with fresh ricotta. I also ate some new things, including beef heart and goats kidney and I learned that eating on the farm is all about using everything. Speaking of, in addition to preserving food by canning (we made apricot jam), we also learned about making sausage and how to use the mysterious caul fat.

I truly felt that my experience at the Quillisascut Farm was all about getting back to "the way it used to be" or perhaps "the way it should be", depending on who you're talking to. Life is simple and unhurried on the farm. It forces you to slow down and appreciate what you already have, rather than always racing to get what you don't have. The products that come off of a farm like this are unbelievably good. So good, in fact, that it almost doesn't seem right to lump a Quillisascut chicken and a McDonald's hamburger both into the food category.

But farming and the farm life isn't for everyone. So lucky for us that those farmers are willing to travel great distances to share it with us at Farmer's Markets! And so I will continue to shop there frequently, and I will continue to harvest vegetables from my small urban plot, as I encourage you to do as well. And once I get an extra freezer, I will also be buying larger hunks of meat from farms like Quillisascut so that I don't have to rely on those silly shrink-wrapped things they sell at the grocery store. So for now, eat well, shop wisely, and enjoy what you already have. Thanks for your support!

Spring Garlic

Spring garlic, sometimes referred to as fresh garlic, is nothing more than the immature, baby garlic plant. Its stalk is extremely tall and lanky, its bulb small and tender. This bulb, if left in the ground, would eventually develop into individual, pungent cloves of garlic with a thick skin surrounding it all. But for a fleeting few weeks in the spring, the garlic plant is entirely edible, bulb, stalk, and all. For some reason, I've never noticed spring garlic before. In years past, we've thoroughly enjoyed garlic spears during this time of the year, but they are nowhere to be found this year. Magically replaced with spring garlic, instead!

We've had spring garlic a few times now, but the only way we've cooked it is on the grill. For those of you who have grilled any type of sweet salad onion before, the result is very similar. All they require is a sprinkle of salt and pepper and a quick rub of olive oil before grilling slow and low until thoroughly tender throughout. To eat, I just put the entire bulb end into my mouth, bite down and pull out all of the delicious garlic. They taste absolutely amazing! Even up into the green stalk, the soft, tender inside tastes like sweet, roasted garlic. It's the perfect partner to anything else you might be grilling, as it is not overwhelmingly garlicy at all. But spring is almost over, so go grab some while you can!

Knotweed

It is a beautiful time of year at the market right now. Brimming with tulips, voluptuous lettuces, and new growth of all kinds, it is a welcome change from our previous dark months. The excitement is palpable; summer is coming! On a recent trip there, I loaded up on some of the usuals like eggs, kale, and goat cheese before stumbling into this oddity, Knotweed at Foraged and Found Edibles. I was told that it was similar to celery, but hollow. At $4 a pound, how could I pass it up?Knotweed, more commonly known as Japanese knotweed, is literally a weed. It is in fact an invasive species in areas where it grows, and most of the literature about it has to do with how to get rid of it. It was the Japanese who decided to eat it to control its aggressive tendencies, but it is only worth eating for a few short weeks in the spring when it is short (6 inches tall or so) and tender. After that, it apparently more closely resembles bamboo, both in appearance and texture. Knotweed is hollow and has small nodes and leaves along the length of its shaft. The leaves are not edible and should be removed before eating. Knotweed is a member of the same family as sorrel, buckwheat and rhubarb.

It turns out that a pound was, well, too much knotweed. Yes, it is somewhat similar to celery but it is also incredibly tart, the kind of tart that makes your face get all knotted up. Maybe that's why it's called knotweed??! Imagine eating a stick of raw rhubarb as you would a piece of celery. That is knotweed. Well, with a bit more "weedy", dirty flavor. Knowing that rhubarb is great with a ton of sugar, I decided to treat it as I would rhubarb after our first use as a Bloody Mary stir stick proved to be too offensive for a Sunday morning. So I threw some into a pie with some strawberries and a bunch of sugar. The pie was delicious when eating the strawberries but the bites with knotweed just tasted like dirt. I'm sure the knotweed added to the overall texture and depth of flavor of the pie, but I guess there's a reason you don't find any knotweed pies at your local bakery; they would have to call it dirt-weed pie. Fortunately, it didn't ruin the rest of the fruit. I want to say that it would make a good chutney due to all of the acidity but I'm not willing to spend half of my Sunday making jars of something that may end up tasting like dirt.

Sunflower Greens

I have a new favorite food—sunflower greens. They are exactly what they sound like, the green, first-growth of the sunflower plant. To be even more specific, these greens are grown by first soaking the unhulled sunflower seeds in water before planting them in soil. After about eight days, and before the second set of leaves emerge, they are tall enough to harvest. That's it. It sounds simple, but the results are remarkable.

At first glance, the sunflower greens reminded me a little of Miner's lettuce or purslane, as both bear a slight resemblance to succulent plants. Both have thick (edible) stems which are light green in color, and darker green leaves on the top. But the differences ended there. The sunflower greens actually tasted thick; in fact, I could have measured the thickness of the leaves had a ruler been handy. They were remarkably toothsome and substantial for just some measly greens. They almost reminded me of crisp peanuts when I was chewing them, oddly enough. And their flavor? Sunflower oil and spinach. I definitely felt like I was eating something green and good for me, but without the heavy roughage texture that some "health food" contains.

It turns out that in addition to tasting wonderful, sunflower greens are extremely good for you. That green "spinach" flavor I tasted? Chlorophyll, which apparently does good things for humans as well as plants. They are also loaded with vitamins such as A, B-complex, D, E, and a slew of minerals. But the biggest surprise for me was the amount of protein that these greens contain. Sunflower greens have just slightly less protein than an equivalent amount of chicken meat. Vegans take note—eat your sunflower greens!

Gingered Carrot Leek Soup

An oversized bag of carrots from Nash's Organic Produce and these beautiful mini leeks were the inspiration for last night's dinner, Gingered Carrot Leek Soup. I'd had the carrots for a few weeks now and well, they needed to go. The leeks looked just like green onions, but their taste and smell revealed that they truly were leeks. I made sure to gently saute them in a little bit of butter and olive oil to soften and sweeten them without cooking away their springy, fresh flavor.

I must admit that since the days at my grandma's table long ago, I have never been a fan of cooked carrots. Is it their mushy texture or the completely different "cooked" taste they take on that resembles nothing whatsoever the flavor of a fresh, raw carrot? Afraid of revisiting these food memories, I tried to spice the soup up with some ginger. I added "ginger juice" by squeezing the pulp of grated ginger to extract its very essence. Spicy? no. But it sure added a wonderful element of flavor to what turned out to be an absolutely delicious soup. No "cooked carrot-ness" at all.

Gingered Carrot Leek Soup
2 bunches mini leeks, sliced thinly
1 Tbsp. butter
1 Tbsp. olive oil
1/2 cup white wine
4 cups vegetable (or chicken) stock
About 1 1/2 pounds carrots
1 large piece (about 4 ounces) fresh ginger
1 cup low-fat milk
1/4 cup cream

2 Tbsp. plain yogurt
1 Tbsp. grated ginger
salt and pepper to taste

Heat large stock pan over medium-low heat. Add olive oil and butter. Add sliced leeks and cover pan cover with a lid. Gently saute for about 10-15 minutes, stirring every 5 minutes or so, until the leeks soften and the edges begin to brown. Increase the heat to medium high and de-glaze the pan with about 1/4 cup of the wine, scraping until all brown bits come up. Add remaining wine, stock, carrots, and bring to a boil. Reduce heat and simmer until carrots are tender when poked with a fork, about 30-40 minutes.

For the ginger juice, peel the large piece of ginger and grate into a (double-thickness) piece of cheesecloth set over a small bowl. Gather all of the grated ginger together in the cheesecloth and squeeze until no liquid remains.

Remove pan from heat. Using a hand-blender, puree the carrots until smooth (alternatively, blend in batches in a blender). Return the pan to low heat and add the milk, cream, and ginger juice. Add more milk or water if too thick. Season to taste with salt and pepper.

For garnish, combine the yogurt, grated ginger, salt and pepper. Drape over the soup and serve!

River Valley Ranch Feta

This feta from River Valley Ranch Cheese was SO good, and so unlike the regular feta you get at the store. It actually tasted like it came from milk, with loads of flavor and lots of wonderful acidity and tang. I've bought their aged cheeses in the past, with their perfectly semi-soft interiors. But perhaps it was my desire for something young and fresh that drew me to the little tubs of fresh feta cheese. Well, that and I was looking for something to sprinkle on top of the freshly foraged Miner's lettuce from Foraged and Found Edibles! I was so excited to see this harbinger of spring and its tender green shoots. We've enjoyed its later season cousin purslane in summers past, but Miner's lettuce seems especially precious in this cold and nasty spring we are having so far. How anything can grow in this rain and snow, I don't know. But grow it does, with all of the vitamins and antioxidants that we are craving at this time of the year. And yes, the feta sprinkled on top was the icing on the cake.

So there are some signs of spring, from the sunny daffodils to the fresh feta and the green, green Miner's lettuce growing on forest floors. Cheers to that!

The Same Old Kale and Potatoes

I am so ready for spring and all of the color that has been lacking from the market for months now. Berries, lettuce, tomatoes, herbs — I could go on and on about the things that I am looking forward to. But instead it's March and there I was at the market last week with nothing but meat, cheese, and the same old kale and potatoes. The most exciting things I found were these Russian Banana fingerlings; exciting because of their name, but it turns out that they're not all that special after all. They are apparently easy to grow and quite prolific, making them a friend of the farmer. Their yellow skin and banana shape are undoubtedly where the "banana" part of their name comes from while the "Russian" connection is due to the fact that they originated in the Baltic area. They are said to be a waxy, moist potato, but we found them to be more on the starchy side. To prepare the Russian Banana fingerlings, I halved them lengthwise then browned them in duck fat on the stove top before roasting them in the oven. They were not as crispy as I had hoped, but still an excellent potato overall.

Winter sucks, but at least there's always kale and potatoes.

Geoduck

Without a doubt, the geoduck (pronounced gooey-duck) is the oddest looking creature I have ever eaten. It is essentially a giant clam, but its extremely long (and phallic) siphon makes it look more like something you would expect to see on B-rated horror movie than on your dinner plate. And the 2-pound specimen I bought from Taylor Shellfish Farms was not cheap either. At $12 a pound, you pay for its rarity. Taylor's Shellfish farms the geoduck, but according to him, most of his inventory is sold in Japan where it undoubtedly fetches an even higher price tag. I've seen the geoduck at his stand at the market a few times before, but I finally got up the nerve this weekend to tackle the task.

The most daunting part of eating a geoduck is preparing it. Following the directions of the expert I bought the geoduck from, here is what I did:


After blanching the entire clam in boiling water for about one minute, I ran it under cold water, then pulled off the outer membrane of the siphon.

The siphon was then ready to be cut off and sliced for sashimi.

To get to the meat inside of the clam, I first ran a small knife around the outside of the shell,

then pulled out the meat until the (quite obvious) innards came apart from the flesh.

To prepare the clam meat, I cut it into small hunks (after first making sure to rinse off any sand) and sauteed it quickly with green onions and oyster mushrooms. I was told not to overcook it, to be careful as you would with a scallop, so I put the geoduck in after the mushrooms were mostly done cooking and let it saute for only about 3 minutes or so. Not wanting to overwhelm its flavor in any way, I finished it off with a tablespoon of butter and a light sprinkling of salt and pepper. We served the geoduck, both cooked and sashimi, with some rice and baby bok choy from the market.

The concensus? Surprisingly good. Something about the exoticness of the geoduck made it seem like it was going to be difficult to stomach. I was just coming off of the flu when I prepared this, so granted, it probably wasn't the best timing to be trying something out of the ordinary. But, not only was it not scary to eat, it was actually quite delicious. My biggest complaint was with the sashimi-ed siphon, which I didn't cut nearly thin enough. In hindsight, I should have sliced it into paper-thin pieces instead of chunky rounds. Because of this, the sashimi was my least favorite part. It was very briny, like an overly briny oyster, and a bit too crunchy. A dip in soy sauce helped to mellow out the flavor, but unfortunately we were out of wasabi, which was sorely lacking. The cooked clam, on the other hand, was a delight. The meat was interesting, as some pieces were more like a chewy clam in texture and others were almost buttery-tender. Granted, my sickness-dulled taste buds couldn't detect much in the way of unique flavor, but it did almost seem to be a cross between chicken and clam. It was certainly more of a texture thing, with most of the flavor coming from the mushrooms and butter.

While I had success with the clam meat, I feel like I need to give the siphon another chance. That, and I'd like to have the benefit of all of my taste buds! So for those reasons, the geoduck is certainly something I will try again in the future.

Mangalitsa Fat

Remember last year when I paid a bunch of money to try the new and improved pork, mangalitsa? Well, knowing that the fat from the mangalitsa was the most prized part of this pig, I saved the copious amounts that cooked off of my roast by putting tablespoon-sized lumps of the chilled, solidified fat in the freezer. I've used the fat throughout the year, whenever I remember it mostly. But the other night my final tablespoon of mangalitsa fat transformed an ordinary chicken thigh into an extraordinary meal. I made sure that the chicken was very dry, then doused it liberally with salt and pepper. The fat was heated until it was almost smoking, then I browned the chicken on each side for about 5 minutes before tenting the pan with foil and putting it in the oven. I cooked it at 375° for about 15 minutes, flipping it once. I can't explain how the fat made the chicken taste so delicious, but it was just, well, extremely tasty. The fat had created a crispy and succulent crust on the outside (even despite the fact that it was skinless), while the meat inside was juicy, tender, and dripping with flavor. The chicken was just your average grocery store bird, so maybe all of their claims about this miraculous fat are right? Who would have thought that something we take for granted every day, simple fat, could be so significant and transformative. So save your fat!

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!