5 second rule

CSA

"Here."

"Oh my god," I said, surveying the goods.  Inside the bag were long, plump scallions, orange tomatoes, chiles by the dozen, deep green lettuces, perfect little strawberries, and a sheaf of purple basil.  Oh, and chard.

Oh hell almighty -- and turnips.

"Thanks, that's very generous of you," I told my friend A., as I took the bag inside.

My friends serve as the drop-off point for their local CSA, and as summer heaved its final sigh they found themselves endowed with extra shares of produce.  Seems some of the local subscribers never picked up their bins, so my friends bequeathed an overflowing bag of vegetation to me.

And I was excited.  Really excited.

But within moments, terror set in.  I'd eat the berries and tomatoes, plus the scallions and the chard.  (Easy.)  But the chiles?  What would I do with 20 Anaheim chiles?  And those turnips... say what?

Wasting no time, I grabbed the chard.  Manhandled it, really.  I chopped it and steamed it, then shmooshed it with leftover mashed potatoes from the fridge.  Salt, pepper, nutmeg, flour. 

I rolled it into a rope! Cut it into inch-long nubbins! Boiled them till they bobbed! 

I was on fire.  I was the QUEEN of chard gnocchi.  No one could touch my creative genius, my quick-thinking, my technical prowess.  Who'd ever even heard of chard gnocchi? I was an inVENtor!  A rogue, unparalleled, inimitable iconoclast!

"Boys, lunch!" I bellowed, sweat pooling under my arms, above my brow.

"Wow, those look good," they cooed.

And they were. 

But they didn't help me with the turnips. 

How do you CSA stalwarts do it? 

Peaches

Every year since I met David "Mas" Masumoto I've wanted to adopt one of his peach trees.  I don't mean take it home, stick it in a Baby Bjorn and have it gum my pinkie, though that might be nice, too.  I mean adopt a tree from his family's farm outside of Fresno, California.

It's not the $500 fee that scares me, because with 400 to 500 pounds of Elberta peaches on each tree I'm sure I can find several families to share the cost.  It's the planning, and the follow-through.  The adoption applications open in January, and by the time I remember about this program each year it's mid-August and I've missed the deadline by about 14 millennia.

So can someone please send me an email in January 2010?  I promise: if Masumoto deems me worthy of parenting one of his arboreal offspring, I'll make you a peach tart next summer.  And a peach pie.  And a peach crisp.

And this peach salad.

...
Recipe for Spinach Salad with Peaches, Pecans, and Saint Albray

Even if you haven't adopted a peach tree and snuggled it in a blankie, you can still make this 5-minute salad.  The quantities are completely unimportant and will vary with the number of mouths you're feeding.  I like the creamy, almost musty quality of the Saint Albray, but choose whatever semi-soft cheese you happen to have on hand.

Baby spinach leaves
Firm but ripe peaches, peel on, sliced
Saint Albray cheese, or cheese of your choice, cut in chunks
Fruity balsamic vinegar (I use a fig balsamic)
Extra virigin olive oil
Toasted chopped pecans
Coarse salt & freshly cracked pepper

In a salad bowl combine spinach, peach slices, and cheese.  Drizzle with vinegar and olive oil.  Sprinkle with pecans, salt and pepper.  Serve immediately.

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Cobbler

This is not a weekend project.  There's no bubbling of yeast, no crimping of edges, no piping of icing.  There's no cake-layer-splitting, no gelatin-blooming, no buttercream-beating. No latticework, no zesting, no fuss.  It's a summer dessert with a bit of fun thrown in -- assuming you can stamp out some shapes with a small cutter and chuck them atop a bowl of sliced fruit.  If you can't do that, or if you won't, you may just want to buy some sno-balls and call it a night.

This cobbler, this crazily haphazard but undeniably winsome dessert, is for those like me who are too lazy to follow a 2-page recipe after 5:00 o'clock at night.  I don't blame Nancy Baggett, I really don't, since her recipe for High Summer Cobbler with Buttermilk Biscuit Crust is what started me down this cobbler road to begin with.  But when I set out my ingredients and preheated my oven, I took a closer look at her recipe and said to myself, "Self, there has got to be an easier way."

Enter Mark Bittman. 

He saved me, this man, with his no-nonsense manner and unapologetic shortcuts.  His "patchwork bake" inspired me to streamline the entire cobbler-making process.  And so, by the power vested in me by the state of extreme lassitude, I married Baggett to Bittman and surrogated a stone fruit love child.

No gifts, please.  Just applause.

...

Recipe for Summer Fruit Cobbler with Buttermilk Cutouts

This recipe was inspired equally by Nancy Baggett's high-summer cobbler in The All-American Dessert Book (2005, Houghton Mifflin) and Mark Bittman's recent Stone Fruit Patchwork Bake recipe in the New York Times.  Cutting the dough into hearts, stars, spades, and clovers can be credited to my son Andrew, who managed to unearth my set of mini cookie cutters from my messiest kitchen drawer. 

Please feel free to use any stone fruit, or any berries (except strawberries, please) in the cobbler.  And use any small cutters you have on hand, or even just freehand the dough into little shapes.  One more thing: my fruit was ripe but firm, so I could peel it with a vegetable peeler.  Easy!

Serves 4, generously

1-1/3 cups all-purpose flour, plus 6 tablespoons for the filling

1/4 teaspoon baking soda

1/2 teaspoon salt

6 tablespoons butter, cut into chunks

1/3 cup cold buttermilk

1-1/2 cups raspberries

3 yellow peaches, peeled and sliced (2-1/2 cups slices)

2 to 4 plums or pluots, peeled, sliced (2 cups slices)

3/4 cup plus 2 tablespoons sugar

1 tablespoon lemon juice

In a food processor, combine the 1-1/3 cups flour, the baking soda, and the salt.  Pulse a few times, then add the butter chunks.  Process for about 15 seconds.  With the machine running, slowly stream in the buttermilk through the feed tube.  Process until the dough comes together.  Scrape onto a sheet of plastic wrap, flatten into a disk, and chill for a good 30 minutes. 

Preheat the oven to 400 degrees.

In a large bowl, combine all the fruit, the remaining 6 tablespoons of flour, the sugar, and the lemon juice.  Stir gently to combine.  Butter a 9x13-inch (glass, if possible) baking dish and scoop in fruit mixture.  Bake naked like this for 25 minutes.  Remove from oven but leave oven on.

Meanwhile, while fruit is baking, remove the dough from the fridge.  On a floured board using a floured pin, roll the dough roughly 1/8" thick.  Cut out as many little dough-shapes as you like (dip the cutters in flour if the dough sticks) and scatter them haphazardly over the fruit.  You want a little fruit peeking through -- there's no need to overlap the dough shapes, but if they touch, it's fine.  (You may have some dough left over.  Re-wrap and refrigerate or freeze for future use.)

Return dough-covered cobbler to the oven for an additional 22 to 25 minutes, or until filling bubbles and pastry is nicely browned.  Serve warm, at room temperature, or cold for breakfast with a little plain yogurt.  (Cool completely before refrigerating.)

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Letter

Dear Barack and Michelle,

How are you guys doing?  Busy, I bet.  Sorry we kept missing each other.  I know, it's weird, right?  A week before we went to London, you were there, and now a month after we leave Martha's Vineyard, you arrive for vacation.  Next year we'll have to coordinate so we can hang out.

Anyway, the real reason I'm writing is to pass along a dining tip.  I know you'll be staying at a $20 million farm in Chilmark, which is just a few miles from Aquinnah, the sleepy town where we rented a (less expensive) house.  Every Wednesday night, the Orange Peel Bakery in Aquinnah does this amazing thing: it hosts a community pizza night for anyone who wants to stop by.  All you do is bring some toppings to share (anything goes... we brought grilled corn and leftover lobster), put your $10 donation into a box, and stand in line at the little tables.  The bakery's employees stretch rounds of dough, cover them with sauce and cheese, and hand them over on a pizza peel where you can dress them as you like from the communal topping table.  My son Andrew put some pepperoni and a fresh cherry on his:

 

(I bet Malia and Sasha would like that one.  Andrew totally would have shared it with them, too.  )

Anyway, then Julie Vanderhoop, the bakery's owner, thrusts the pizzas into her wood-fired oven.  They emerge a few minutes later, blistered and crisp.  Everyone stands around chitchatting and shooting the breeze.  It's all very neighborly and casual. 

I never would have known about this little place, but I read about it in an article by Geraldine Brooks in Edible Vineyard, one of the Edible Communities publications.  Michelle, this magazine is completely up your alley.  You should seriously check it out given your interest in local foods.

Okay, I'll let you go.  Enjoy your trip, and don't forget about Wednesday nights.  Remember your toppings, too; you don't want to piss people off by showing up empty-handed.

~Cheryl

Thistles

I'm thinking of buying my grill a leotard and leg warmers cause it's getting such a workout.  In 4 weeks I've gone through a tank and a half of propane, burned the bejeezus out of my hand, and emitted enough carcinogens to kill a small country.  I should know better.  After all, I wrote an article about safe grilling  for EatingWell two years ago.  You should take a look. 

I should take a look, too.

Part of this grillapalooza stems from the appliance's new location; we moved it from way across the yard to right outside the kitchen's back door. So now it's basically as close as the oven. I'm grilling everything from apricots to chicken to artichokes. Maybe I'll throw spaghetti on there next.

Grilling gives the artichokes a subtle smokiness, though you do have to boil them first to soften them up.  You'll also need a bowl for the chewed up leaves, a towering wad of napkins, and, ideally, a bib.  The lemon vinaigrette clings to the thistles, but it also does a number on a cute white T.

What's your favorite vegetable to toss on the grill?  Enlighten me.
...
Recipe for Grilled Artichokes

Donna from my farmers' market knows everything about artichokes, and she hasn't steered me wrong yet.  This is a close variation on her recipe.  As with steamed or boiled artichokes, you eat the leaves by scraping the tender ends against your teeth and discarding the remains.  For this recipe, choose baby artichokes, or the smallest ones you can find.

1 whole lemon, halved
4 baby or small artichokes
3 tablespoons fresh lemon juice
6 tablespoons olive oil
Kosher salt and freshly ground black pepper

Serves 4

Bring a large pot of water to a boil and light the grill for direct medium-high heat.

Squeeze the juice from the lemon into a large bowl of cold water.  Cut off the stem from one artichoke.  Use a heavy knife to slice off the top 1/4 of the artichoke, then use a scissors to trim off any spiky points that remain.  Slice in half lengthwise and use a grapefruit spoon to scrape out any inner purplish leaves.  (You may scrape out the fuzzy choke now or after boiling.)  Toss the artichoke in the lemon water and repeat with remaining artichokes.

Boil the artichokes for about 10 minutes, then drain and pat dry.  (Remove the fuzzy choke if you haven't already done so.)  Whisk the olive oil, lemon juice, salt and pepper in a small bowl or measuring cup, and brush both sides of each artichoke with the vinaigrette.

Grill about 4 minutes per side, or until grill marks appear.  Drizzle artichokes with remaining vinaigrette.  May be served warm, cold, or at room temperature.  Don't forget to put out a bowl for the leaves.

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Earthbound

One of the best lunches I've ever had did not include prime rib, French cheese, or freshly-caught seafood.  No beautifully-appointed dining room.  No tuxedoed waiters. No candles.

No walls.

Last month, I dined al fresco at Earthbound Farm in Carmel Valley, California.  If you've ever bought organic salad greens at the grocery store, you've probably seen, probably even tasted, their lettuces and other produce.  This year, Earthbound celebrates its 25th anniversary.  What started as a tiny venture by two New York transplants selling organic raspberries on 2-1/2 acres in 1984 has since morphed into a 33,000 acre operation, with 150 growers farming between 5 to 680 acres a piece.

The lunch I attended included mixed radicchio, mizuna, frisee, and arugula; curried garbanzos; carrot and apple slaw; roasted beets; fennel, radish, and apple salad; French lentils with feta; wild rice with shiitakes; and more.  After heaping my plate with colorful vegetables, I had no room left for the sandwiches or tarts.  I did make room, however, for the strawberries with dulce de leche and the mini chocolate chip macaroons.

And the frozen yogurt.

And the chocolate espresso cookies.

I also saw the biggest iced tea pitcher I've ever seen in my life.

If distance or geography makes a visit to Earthbound Farm's little stand or market impractical for you (the spot I visited isn't where they grow most of their food), I suggest you seek out a copy of Myra Goodman's 2006 cookbook, Food to Live By (Workman Publishing).  For some extremely odd reason, Amazon.com is currently selling the $21.95 book for $5.99.

I've already got my eye on the sweet corn chowder on page 29.  It should just be a few more weeks before the guy at my farmers' market starts bellowing: "Fresh Brentwood corn!  Sweeter than my mother-in-law!"

Activism

What is an activist? 

I spent the past several days turning this question over in my mind after meeting hundreds of people at the Farm to Cafeteria conference in Portland.  Today, I have a very different image of what an activist looks like than I did a week ago. 

Admit it: you hear the word activist, and you picture a hippie on the fringe.  Someone shrill, carrying signs, in your face, complaining.  Someone unkempt, unreasonable, dissatisfied.  Someone with a bone to pick or an ax to grind.

Here's a portrait of the people I met: middle school students from New Orleans who convinced their superintendent to change his foodservice contract so they could have fresh, locally grown produce at least twice a month.  (They succeeded.)  High school students from Vermont who worked to get root vegetable "seconds" from local farms onto the lunch menus at their schools.  (They succeeded.)  And a group of college and university students across the country who have formed a vast network to bring "real" food to their cafeterias.  (They are currently succeeding, with much more work ahead of them.)

But I'm not done.  I met farmers, young ones, who care passionately about producing food but can't supply the schools in their own communities due to arcane government regulations and bureaucratic hurdles.  I met foodservice directors committed, emotionally and intellectually, to serving fresher fare but who literally do not have kitchens at their schools where they can wash, prep, and chop whole fruits and vegetables.  I met parents, and teachers, hospital administrators and nursing home workers, vegans and omnivores, growers and eaters, men, women, and children.  They came from Hawaii, Montana, New York City, small rural communities and large urban districts, and everywhere in between.  And they are all working tirelessly to connect small farmers to the nation's children, all of whom eat a midday meal in school cafeterias five days a week.

I gathered so much information that it's nearly impossible to share it all with you in a single post, and I won't try to.  (More links and concrete resources later in the week.)

But I will ask you this:

What, to you, is real food?  Not healthy food, not nutritious food, because the conversation has moved past these terms, but real food?  How inclusive is the definition?  And what does it leave out?  Try, if you can, to think past Michael Pollan's "food your grandparents ate" and probe a little deeper.

And one more question: if you could craft an ideal school lunch for children, that would both nourish and please them, what would be on the plate?

Farm-to-Cafeteria

 
I literally just spent the past hour switching back and forth between this picture, and a photo of the most decadent bar cookies I've ever tasted. 

I ultimately went with the broccoli today for a good reason: tomorrow I head to the 3-day Farm to Cafeteria conference in Portland.  The sessions and workshops will focus on developing school gardens, getting locally grown food from the fields into the lunchroom, and building coalitions among students, community leaders, food service workers, teachers, administrators, farmers, and environmentalists.  There will also be talk of the Farm Bill, healthy food in health care, university dining programs, the USDA's fresh fruit and vegetable program, and what impact existing farm-to-school programs have had in their districts.  

I wish I had an extra hard drive for my brain.

I hope these topics are of interest to you, because they certainly are to me, and you can expect to hear more about them over the next few weeks.

You'll get your decadent bar cookie recipe, too, but only if you eat your broccoli first. 

Seasonality

I felt like it was just yesterday that I had berries in every post.  Berries atop pancakes, berries tumbling out of crepes, berries dotting muffins, berries filling tarts.  Dressing up a dull dish to make it camera-ready was no problem at all.  Toss on a few berries, and there's your color, your drama, your wow-factor.

But like mornings at the beach or daily ice cream cones, the days of fresh berries came to an end.  And though they're still available, even at my farmers' market, I refuse to buy them while I'm wearing a jacket.

And you know what?  I do not miss them.  Not at all.  For the first time ever, I'm seriously cuckoo for winter fruit.  I nibble pomegranate arils by the fistful, having finally learned how to release them from captivity without looking like I've committed mass murder.  (The secret?  Quarter them, plunge them under cold water, and bend back the membranes while nudging out the seeds.)

And blood oranges!  Grab them now because they're so fleeting, so dramatic, and have so much attitude.  Out here they're the same price as navels, too.  The guy at the market gave me a good tip: the darker the blood orange peel (aim for a reddish tint, even if it's mottled), the deeper-hued the flesh inside.

And grapes?  Why would anyone choose a green grape when they could have a purple one?  Purple grapes right now are fantastically sweet.

As for kiwis, don't even get me started.  At my New Year's Day brunch, when I served piles of homemade croissants, Danishes, and scones, the big bowl of peeled, sliced kiwis disappeared before the pastries.  I didn't expect it, but next year I'm cutting up twice as many to satisfy the masses.

Berries?  I can wait.

Squash

 

I'm finding myself oddly attracted to squash.  Their round forms, their autumnal hues, their distinct striations and quirky bumps.

Problem is, I can't get myself to cook them. 

I daydream as I watch them relax on my kitchen counter, huddled together for warmth and companionship on this drab, gray, January day.

Is there any shame in keeping them on as pets?