Suzanne Cope is the Locavore in the City

Suzanne is a writer, teacher, and urban locavore. Here she shares stories, recipes, successes and challenges of a environmentally sustainable and community-focused life in the city. Her memoir Locavore in the City will be published in 2013 detailing a year foraging, gardening, cheese-making and fermenting. Stay tuned!

Compost for Brooklyn

I didn’t think I would find my community amid a once abandoned lot filled with rotting food scraps. I merely had gotten used to composting in my apartment in Somerville, composting my produce scraps in the city-sized anaerobic composter in my ample back stairwell in the winter months or walking a bucket full of scraps to the large compost pile at the community garden a few blocks away from spring to fall. It was an step or two than just tossing the extra cucumber peels or carrot tops into the trash, but it had become a part of my routine. One more thing to do, like bringing reusable bags to the supermarket or picking up my monthly meat CSA. In fact I had my locavore diet so perfectly calibrated that I had at least met the farmer who was directly responsible for about 90% of the food in my home. It was easy, I’d say to friends. I wrote a book about how, with a little planning, anyone could do it.

But then my husband and I began spending more time at a sublet in Brooklyn. Our vegetable scraps filled numerous plastic containers that we stacked waist-high; the farmer’s markets were a three hour endeavor, requiring two trains and six flights of stairs. The local meat CSA dropped off on a day we were often in Somerville for work. The sun coverage on my new front porch (which I had realized that I was lucky enough to have in the first place) was not quite enough to encourage a harvest of a late planting of lettuce and broccoli rabe. In the first few weeks in Brooklyn, I followed all of my best advice. It was true, I knew I would eventually find the same balance that we had in Somerville. Finding our go-to local farmers could happen slowly, I realized – we weren’t going to starve. But the compost situation began to get dire. I just could not imagine throwing out those apple cores and wilted lettuce leaves that I had been committed about returning to the earth for years, now. I could not even fathom the days of a stinky, liquid garbage, of two full baskets a week, of sending so many nutrients to the landfill instead of the soil.

My efforts at finding a community garden were coming up short, especially so late into the growing season, but finally I put the two simple words “compost” and “brooklyn” into my search engine. Lo and behold I saw that the spirit of composting was alive and well in Brooklyn; I found a once-neglected lot not more than a fifteen minute walk from our apartment that had been turned into one of the most dedicated compost gardens in the city. I visited during their next drop off hours the following say and offered to volunteer on the spot.

Now, five months later, I can easily say that I have found my community of people passionate about composting and dedicated to consuming a more local-centric and sustainable diet. We have shared food and wine, have gossiped and brainstormed. I have helped write a successful grant for the garden and met people from the neighborhood whom I never would have known if not for the act of compost. And, once a month, rain or shine or freezing cold, I now volunteer to help collect and chop the scraps we collect during open hours, which helps to divert hundreds of pounds of food waste from the garbage and back into the ground. It’s the least I could do to repay this dedicated group for the work they have done bringing a little more green space to my new crowded city.

I have since joined the local food coop and found a sunnier spot for my lettuce sprouts, come spring. And my new friends at Compost for Brooklyn have begun talks to make the garden a drop off point for a CSA in the coming season. I was one of the first on the list. The best thing is that I realized that it wasn’t hard to find a way to live a the sustainable life that I want to – even in a new city. I just had to find my community in Brooklyn. And to do that I had to follow my passion – even if that passion is decaying food.

Spices

A week before Christmas I was looking in my spice cupboard for some specific ingredients that I might need to make my annual homemade Christmas gifts. I hated to give the same thing year after year – after all, how much homemade jam can people use? – and I had decided that this would be the year of the spiced nuts. The annual activity, now nearly a decade long, was perhaps inspired by the delicious box of baked goods my pastry-chef step-sister would send along every year. I’m not much of a baker, but I started to can my meager harvest of strawberries and tomatoes and was proud enough to give a jar to each of my parents and my grandmother. I expanded to pickles the next year and then experimented with jelly: the least successful was wine-flavored (or perhaps I should say, the least versatile), the most sought after was my strawberry balsamic black pepper. This year, inspired by a recent trip to Morocco where a shop’s excellence might be measured in the depth of their ras al hanout and the entire country seemed to smell like the inside of an herboriste, I wanted to use spices, and lots of them.

I decided upon three versions of nuts – New England, Italian and Spicy – and started searching for the appropriate spices in my cupboard. The cupboard is in the corner, near the sink, which means that it goes back at least two feet – farther than I can reach without perching on the counter. I thought I had a pretty good mental inventory of what was in the cupboard, but was taken aback by some of what I found. Memories from past dishes and travels were defined through my spices, much as I had recently seen the history of the country of Morocco defined their food.

Digging around in the cupboard, while sitting next to the rack of drying dishes and row of olive oils and vinegars, I started pulling out jars. First there was the homemade pate spice, thoughtfully labeled as such, just one souvenir from my year-long charcuterie adventure. Next I pulled out a large jar, half-filled with dark orange spices, and smelling of heat and flavor. It had to be chili spice or something with cayenne and cumin and ground hot peppers, but I couldn’t for the life of me remember what it was. It had to be recent, judging by the shiny lid and location at the front of the shelf, and I swore to be better in the new year about labeling my concoctions. Behind the chili spice were a few jars of homemade spices purchased on a trip to Florida for a friend’s wedding: Florida fish rub, Thai seasoning and lemon pepper, all made from mostly locally grown (to the purveyor in Florida) ingredients. These brought back memories of how happy my friend was, nearly bounding down the aisle to meet her husband to be at the altar; of the afternoon on the beach when my husband first saw dolphins in the wild; of the morning before the wedding when we sought out our favorite tourist destination – a farmer’s market – to buy distinctly local delicacies that we could not find back in the northeast.

I set aside some rosemary and thyme, both picked from the raised bed in my tiny urban back yard, and dried in the dehydrator for my own use. Behind that I found the jar of ground hot peppers – truly the spiciest and most flavorful blend I have ever used – given to us by an old friend of my husband’s.

On the next shelf up I found a container with pink salt – clearly labeled as curing salt, not for normal consumption – an ingredient I had only recently discovered and learned to use. This reminded me of what I had learned in the past year as a cook and of the family and friends, virtual and in-person, who helped me with encouragement, stories of success, taste-testing and sous chef-ing. I found a jar of za’atar spice, a few years old now, that a friend gave us when she and her husband moved overseas. I thought of her and her little daughter, whom I had only met once, and thought to make a point to send her an email. I also found a jar of whole nutmeg, a gift from a high school friend’s mother for my wedding, now nearly four years old. She had sent us a box of spices after the wedding, and this was all that remained. I doubt she knew I was much of a cook – I wasn’t much use in the kitchen back when her daughter and I snuck rum from the liquor cabinet and blasted Pearl Jam in her bedroom – but her small gift was one of my favorites.

I gathered the spices I would be needing to make my homemade Christmas gifts, and put the rest back into the cupboard, trying to bring a few forward to encourage their use. I knew that spices lost their pungency, especially after a year or two, but I couldn’t bring myself to toss the za’atar – especially because I only recently was inspired to use spices from this part of the world – or a few others that reminded me of dishes I had attempted or friends with whom I had shared a kitchen or a meal.

I wondered what other shelf in my life contained such memories, such a ledger of times shared with others or skills learned. I vowed in the coming year to revisit this shelf more often, to try new dishes, label old spice mixes and toss those that lost their flavor. If I could do this on one little shelf in my life, I could only image the possibilities elsewhere.

Italian Spiced Nuts

Combine:

1 tablespoon thyme

1 tablespoon oregano

1 tablespoon onion powder

1 tablespoon salt

1 teaspoon garlic powder

1 teaspoon ground black pepper

In a separate bowl, whisk 1 egg white until frothy

Toss a pound of nuts (your choice – maybe mixed or all cashews or almonds) in the egg white until coated. Toss the nuts with the spice mixture and roast in a single layer in 325 degree oven (on a silpat, greased cookie sheet or parchment paper) until lightly brown, ten minutes or less.

Take out of oven and immediately toss with a half cup (or more!) or grated parmesan (or grated pecorino would also be delicious). Package up for gifts or just serve at room temp.

The Brooklyn Cure

In the past few months, this locavore has been splitting her time between two cities. My husband and I travel between Somerville, Massachusetts and Brooklyn, New York on a weekly basis. This was precipitated, in part, by my songwriter-husband’s need to be closer to the music, film and television industry where he has been working to sell his music. But I must admit, I also saw it as an adventure. In more than one publication, Brooklyn was noted as being ground zero for urban locavore efforts; from the outside, it seemed like you couldn’t throw a borough-raised egg without hitting a farm-to-table restaurant, community garden or artisanal food start-up. Plus, I thought, what better way to test out the tenets of the book I was writing than to have to start building my locavore network from scratch. I was up for the challenge. We found an incredibly lucky sublet, were able to rearrange our schedules to be able to spend four days a week in Brooklyn, and started our bi-urban adventure in early August.

 

Luckily, the first few weeks were easy, before my teaching schedule kicked in. I had plenty of time to research the numerous farmer’s markets around the 5 boroughs (ok, just Brooklyn and Manhattan – getting to the Bronx or Queens can take as long as a drive from our Somerville home to New Hampshire) and plan my day accordingly. I was still a tourist in my new part-time city, so a walk through Prospect Park, about a mile or so from my new apartment, ended at Grand Army Plaza’s large green market. I loaded up my canvas bags and navigated the subway home. A search for composting in Brooklyn led to a compost garden less than a ten minute walk away – and they hosted various open hours during the week where anyone could drop off composting for the community volunteers to do the dirty work, as it were.

But, I soon realized, that our cheap sublet came with a price: it was in a relatively isolated neighborhood – close to the train, but not really walking distance from the local markets that I wanted to frequent. If I wanted a certain cut of meat for dinner, I generally had to plan ahead and pick it up during my forays into Manhattan or the more, for lack of a better descriptor, yuppie Brooklyn neighborhoods. There were plenty of nearby bodegas, but even if we could navigate the language barrier, I was fairly certain there were no organic produce offerings and the meat I did spy on my few ventures into these stores seemed more “discount” than locally sourced. But a benefit to our frequent trips back and forth to Somerville was that we could buy meat and veggies from our favorite local market on the weeks we drove ourselves, and import them to South Brooklyn. This involved a lot of forethought, however, and was not exactly in spirit of being a locavore in my new city.

Then the latest charcuterie challenge was upon me and, at the same time, a few curve balls had been thrown my way. I had to make an unexpected trip to my hometown mid-week, throwing our otherwise well-choreographed schedule into turmoil. Then varying meetings and gigs meant that Steve and I would be commuting to Brooklyn separately by bus, rather than driving together. For the first time since we moved, I would have to find my ingredients in Brooklyn.

Admittedly, it wasn’t as if I suddenly had to learn how to shop in a remote small town or a foreign country. I was in New York City after all; if I couldn’t find dextrose here, then I couldn’t find it anywhere (or however the song goes). But I soon found that it wasn’t so easy. Luckily, I had salt-packed hog casings left over from previous sausage efforts, all the necessary spices in my cupboard and found everything else I needed with relative ease… except the meat.

I had decided to go with pepperoni for this challenge, partly because I loved the idea of elevating what is often viewed as the most ubiquitous and plebian of all fermented meat (although it might be less so if pepperoni was billed as such at the pizza parlor) – but also because of the location of our sublet: we lived among the largest ultra-orthodox Jewish population in the world, outside of Israel. If I did plan on hanging the meat in my new basement, I thought it might be more polite if it weren’t pork.

I started my quest for quality, sustainably-produced lean stew beef at the Flatbush Co-op, a fifteen minute walk away. Their offerings were a reality check – the cheapest beef was $15.99 a pound. I couldn’t stomach fifty-dollar pepperoni, so I wracked my brain for an alternative that didn’t involve graying packages in the back of dimly lit corner store. I recalled a newly opened butcher halfway home.

It was dark and nearing closing time when I walked into the shop. The small storefront was clean and spare; the Grand Opening banner was still hanging from the sign above, indicating that their meat was Kosher. I had done some research into Kosher laws for meat – basically a Kosher distinction should ensure that the animal experienced as little pain as possible during slaughter, the blood was drained thoroughly, certain safety and sanitary conditions were observed, and the meat was immediately washed, rinsed and salted, among other rules. In the depths of my memory, I recalled an expose on some Kosher meat, where a rabbi was present at an industrial slaughter-house as egregious as any profiled in Food, Inc. or Fast Food Nation, but I decided to go with my gut. Here was a proprietor who cared enough about his craft to open a butcher shop in a neighborhood where cheap meat was available on every corner. His shop was spotless, and the large beef shoulder in the refrigerated case looked deep red, slightly marbled and lovely. I could see into the back room where he had been recently grinding. So recent, that perhaps he wouldn’t mind grinding my shoulder for me, saving me quite a bit of time and mess. I decided not to ask where the meat was from, not to even hint at questioning the goods of a neighbor who so clearly appeared to care about cleanliness and quality of his product. Wasn’t buying from this gentleman – a seeming expert, who quickly sliced me off a perfect three pound hunk of beef shoulder, and then ground it and mixed it by hand for me for a full three minutes, all for less than six dollars a pound – the very epitome of buying local? Despite his limited communicating capacities in English, his warning that the meat was Kosher, washed and salted, did I mind?, we both seemed to understand that this was not a one-time transaction, but perhaps the first of many.

I brought the meat home, added the spices, curing salt and the live fermenting cultures and stuffed it into my hog casings all in less than an hour. While I worked, I silently thanked the butcher for the five minutes he took to grind and work the meat that saved me perhaps another hour in hand-grinding and clean-up. And I also thought about how my search for meat in my new neighborhood was in some ways symbolic of the converging identities of Brooklyn that I was only now starting to see. In my immediate neighborhood were Brooklynites who had lived there for generations; they had their own culture – food and otherwise – and I was, in many ways, and interloper.

And then there was the Coop that we had joined immediately upon moving. This was, to us at the time, what Brooklyn was: the mecca of organic and local and sustainably foods situated across from a Mexican restaurant, and catty corner from the bakery that had been on the same block for fifty years. But I had realized, by the time our permanent membership cards – emblazoned with our photos and names, ensuring us a 3% discount – had arrived in the mail that it was a great place for some items like bulk grains and a selection of dairy products from the Hudson Valley, it was also overpriced ($5 peanut butter?!) and, at a full fifteen minutes away (if walking briskly), a bit far. I was glad the Coop existed, but I soon recognized it wouldn’t be the only – or even primary – place I shopped.

It was only when I proudly wound my coil of pepperoni, and began looking around my new home for a place – semi-humid and around 60 degrees – where it might hang and not upset the neighbors, did I consider where I now fit in amid the tapestry of Brooklyn. Sure, I hoped to support local products and urban homesteading efforts – I had already found and begun volunteering at a nearby compost garden and had imported a few tomato plants and herbs for the front porch – but I also wanted to learn from and honor the great diversity of food and culture around me. But I realized, with my coils of Italian peperone looking to be hung in an orthodox Jewish neighborhood, that I could add as much as I learned. I vowed, despite the occassional language challenges, despite the downcast eyes I received from many neighbors, that I would be myself here in Brooklyn. I was as much Brooklyn as they were, and maybe, just maybe, we could learn from each other.

 

 

 

CSA Resources

With the first snowfall already behind us (or at least slowly melting on the sidewalk out front here in the northeast), it is hard to believe that it might be time to think about your deep winter or next summer CSA (or Community Supported Agriculture, which basically means buying an advance “subscription” to a meat or produce farm for a season). But, having been relegated to the wait list more than once, I believe that it is best to be on top of reserving your space for the next season as soon as the farm allows. In the upcoming book Locavore in the City (more details to come by the end of the year!) I will include tips on choosing the best CSA for you. But, with online resources emerging and changing all the time, I want to help create a living resource list here on the web site. In the comment section, please leave the location and website for your favorite CSA sites – whether for individual farms or regional or national lists of participating farms – and I will periodically organize and update this master list to ensure that the sites are active and appropriate, although I can’t guarantee the business activities of the posted links. (Alternately, email me with links or corrections at locavoreinthecity (at) gmail (dot) com.) Here are a few links to get us started. I look forward to hearing about all of your favorite farms!

National and General CSA Resources

www.Localharvest.org

www.Rodaleinstitute.org

www.Biodynamics.com/csa

www.Eatwellguide.org

www.locavorenetwork.com

New England CSAs

Boston-area, Produce

Granby, MA http://www.redfirefarm.com/

Waltham, MA http://communityfarms.org/

Boston-area, Meat

Hardwick, MA http://www.chestnutfarms.org/

Duck Confit

 

For, perhaps, the first time in this year of charcuterie, I did not know what to expect. I was sure I had confit at one point or another in my culinary life. I spent seven years (albeit all during my naive twenties) with an expense account, after all, have traveled internationally, have written about food. But for the first time I approached a recipe truly not being able to picture the end result. I had pork confit once – the chef claimed to have spent all afternoon making it and was very proud. But I found it unremarkable; just room temperature fatty shredded meat to spread, awkwardly, on toast.

But still, I read and re-read the recipes. I plotted my path to obtain the ingredients (this being my first charcuterie effort as a part-time resident of the city of New York). I did a little research.

Hmmm…. did you know that confit is simply a term that means immersing meat or produce in a substance for preservation or flavor. Fruit can be confit-ed by cooking in sugar or honey, vinegar and water, similar to a jam. I have unknowingly confit-ed roasted peppers and tomatoes in olive oil to preserve them for a bit longer than their brief shelf life in raw form. And now, I can say, I have confit-ed duck.

It was so easy. And tasty.

 

I figured that the most time intensive part of this effort – which simply involved mostly passive cooking – would be finding the ingredients. I hoped to source my protein from the Union Square Farmer’s Market but figured that I might have to venture further afield for the fat. In the spirit of confit, I planned to buy whatever meat looked good – and was not extravagantly expensive. However, that I would be making duck confit was decided as soon as I walked into the square and met Matthew from Hudson Valley Duck Farm. I told him of my confit aspirations and asked his advice. It was easy he said, just cook the legs low and slow in the smallest pot in which they would fit in a single layer.

“I don’t need extra fat?” I asked.

“You’ll end up with more than enough when you are done cooking these legs,” he assured. He also added that I could salt and season them at least overnight – but if I wanted to let them sit in the fridge for up to a week, tightly wrapped in plastic, the flavor would only improve.

In the end I seasoned the two legs I purchased from Matthew with about a tablespoon each of salt and herbes de provence and wrapped them in plastic for three days.

On day three I washed and patted the legs dry, and then arranged them skin side down in a smallish oven-proof sauce pan. I baked them for about three hours at 200 degrees, and then took the top off and finished it off for another twenty minutes or so. The fat was beautiful, golden-tinged and clear while the meat was beginning to roast, but was still tender. The fat was not completely covering the meat, as I imagined it might by the recipe instructions. Was this still confit, I wondered?

I poured the fat into a half quart canning jar, and then, when the legs were cool enough to handle, I separated them and added them to the fat. They meat fell apart in my hands and I couldn’t resist taking a taste. It was fatty and unctuous, perfectly roasted and tender. The two legs, including the rendered fat, but after discarding the rest of the skin, perfectly filled one canning jar. I made sure the meat was covered in fat and then let it sit on the counter for the next two hours before dinner.

 

For dinner, I picked up a strong semi-soft cheese that I thought would go well with the confit, and a loaf of fig bread from a local artisanal bakery. At home, I had perfectly ripe tomatoes from a previous farmer’s market excursion that needed to be eaten, and made a salad of them with basil from my front patio. My husband, Steve, opened a bottle of a bordeaux-style red wine. And we ate.

It was just meat in a mug of fat, as Steve pointed out, but it was delicate and flavorful. The confit held up well to strong cheese and wine, but on its own with just the fig bread, the meat’s sweetness shone. We ate not quite half of the jar, and I capped it and placed the rest in the refrigerator, despite my (relative) comfort that it was shelf-stable. I marveled at the simplicity of preserved meat in a jar, whose roots can be traced to the time of the Renaissance in rustic southern France. I may not have been able to picture confit before that afternoon, but I know to which standard I will hold all others.

 

On Personal Efforts Towards Sustainability: Inspired by the 40th Anniversary of the Publication of Diet For a Small Planet

I was sitting in the same auditorium in Cooper Union where presidents had spoken and the NAACP had been founded, listening to Anna Lappe introduce her mother Francis Moore Lappe and activist Vandana Shiva on the occasion of the 40^th anniversary of the publication of Frankie Lappe’s Diet For A Small Planet. To great applause Anna asked the audience who had bought vegetables from a farmer’s market in the last month. Many hands were raised. Who was part of a CSA? Again, most hands in the audience went up. She asked who knew what a kohlrabi was – once again, most in the audience raised their hands. She then asked, jokingly, who knew how to cook kohlrabi. I briefly thought back to the first time I saw a kohlrabi – in my adulthood, just a few years prior during one of the first pick-ups after joining my CSA. It looked alien, with few qualities to indicate what kind of vegetable it might be: spherical, but not grown underground or on a vine; purple skin, too tough at the size I received to be edible. I took it home, peeled it and roasted it: my solution to all of the more familiar vegetables with which I was becoming reacquainted that first CSA season. I wonder how many of my fellow audience members had a similar experience.

Then Anna asked who had grown up, like she and her brother had, with Diet For A Small Planet as their parent’s guidebook. While many people around me raised their hands, again laughing, knowingly, I kept mine down for the first time amidst the half-dozen questions meant to build community among the large crowd. The truth is, despite my CSA membership and compost bucket and urban gardening cred, I am relatively new to the politics of growing my own food. Sure, I keep up with the latest news in GMO regulations and can spout statistics about both urban and rural food deserts, but I came to local eating via taste and cost and nostalgia. Maybe a decade ago now, I had a locally-grown vine-ripe tomato for perhaps the first time in my adulthood, realized its vast superiority and knew I needed access to what had instantly become my favorite food. I also found that cooking dishes from my childhood – food my Italian Nani had cooked until her early death that I wanted to explore as a means to get to know her – required fresh herbs. And fresh herbs were expensive. So I started to grow my own. And then, once I became addicted to the fresh flavors of seasonal produce, I saw an advertisement for a local CSA. I did the math: it would be cheaper and easier to pay my farmer up front for a (hopefully) steady weekly pick-up of organic local, seasonal fruits and vegetables. So I joined, and slowly learned more about the politics surrounding my decision. But, while I knew a great deal about the national and global issues surrounding the fight for environmentally and physically healthy sustainable food sources, I had still thought about my choices through a very personal lens. I was choosing a way of life, and I believed that others should as well. Sure, sometimes it was hard, I preached, but it was worth it in the end.

Throughout the evening’s addresses by Francis Moore Lappe and Vandana Shiva, I was welcomed to an important, more global view. I know the evils of Monsanto and genetically manipulated seeds, but I began to see them through a new lens. Large agri-business has long said that they are working to create better seeds to help feed the world’s growing population; the existing structure, they argue, can’t work on its own. But Frankie and Vandana assert that the world has always been able to feed itself; that the altered seeds and increased cost and monoculture is harming the soil, stressing the farmers and creating super-weeds and –pests that cause more damage than what they were trying to breed out. Further, Monsanto’s manipulation of the system to disallow the saving of seeds (read work by Vandana Shiva and Francis Moore Lappe, watch Food, Inc. or otherwise search a myriad of sources to learn more) has made farming on difficult or prohibitive for many people across the world. “Seeds should be free,” Vandana Shiva said more than once. “They are the first link in the food chain, and if seeds are not free then people cannot be free.”

And it was in that moment when everything the two women were saying began to make sense. I wasn’t hearing anything new, per se, but I was understanding it differently. People are flocking to urban farming (some assert that it is a trend that will fade as quickly as it took root, pardon the pun, however I – and many others – believe it is a lasting social change) because that is the most basic way that they can protest the increasing corporatization of daily life. By linking themselves to the very first action needed to sustain life, they are taking control of their own. My act of farming was more than a search for flavor, but a search for control over my options. I didn’t like what my local grocery store was offering, or at what prices, so I decided to change it at a personal level. And when dozens and hundreds and thousands of people decide to do the same thing, small stores that support sustainable practices are built and organic farms are tilled and heritage plants are grown. I was – am – a part of a revolution.

But then, as soon as I felt a vital part of something bigger, I just as quickly worried that I wasn’t doing enough. All three women who shared the stage were working on systemic change – global change. It seemed almost quaint that I touted canning and freezing and composting in my tiny urban kitchen. Maybe I was just one more of the million thirty-something hipsters who decided that it would be cool to spend hours making fancy pickles for holiday gifts. I was musing this while I walked the ten blocks to meet a friend for dinner afterwards, quickly forgetting my dilemma when he bought us a bottle of French wine to go with the house-made bread and butter. Later I thought: wasn’t this meal symbolic of my lukewarm commitment to the cause that I was so fired up about just hours earlier?

Since the event, I have come to see that the reality is somewhere in the middle. I love that Frankie and Anna Lappe and Vandana Shiva inspired me to become more involved in the larger fight for sustainable food. As activists, that is their job and they have done it well. I am in awe of their incredible work around the world and will continued to look to their writing for guidance and inspiration. And when I have kids they will likely be raised with the same consciousness that so many of the folks in the audience of their talk were.

But I also have come to realize that any effort is valuable – and that my personal efforts are still commendable. I can always do better; we all can. But in the end I grow or buy locally more than 90% of the produce, meat and dairy that I consume. Further, I add green space to the world, and inspire people to do the same. I’ve had friends say that they thought composting or canning was hard and inaccessible to them until I explained it in person or in writing, a compliment that makes me very proud. And I have worked long hours on a book, coming within a year, with which I hope to inspire even more people to do the same. I am proud of my efforts and also energized to do more. But like the single person planting a single seed, all systematic changes must start with the personal. Not everyone can be on the front lines of policy-making and activism; some of us must work in the garden and make a difference seedling by seedling. Thus, I will remember that I am changing the world with every planted seed.

Pate de Campagne or Country Pate

 

I feel there is a reason pate is sold in such small slices. Organ meat – even a small amount – is a powerful thing. And somehow the French (or maybe Americans’ perception of French cuisine) have helped associate that strong flavor with luxury, despite pate’s humble origins. Pate began as a way to utilize all parts of France’s beloved pig – adding strong flavors like herbs and wine to enhance (or mask?) those of liver or other organ meat. The pate I have most often eaten is smooth or almost creamy – ground or processed into something associated with glasses of earthy wine and slivers of stinky cheese. When I think pate, I think fancy picnic or holiday cocktail party.

But I know these associations are very… American. And not at all in the spirit of why pate was created and eaten in the first place. So when I was choosing a recipe for this month’s Charcutepalooza challenge, I decided to go with a version of the original French country-style pate, or Pate de Campagne.

 

 

 

 

 

If Pate de Campagne had originated in the United States (and I would venture to guess that some version has been, or is, quite popular in certain regional cultures) it would be called meatloaf. For country-style pate is basically ground or rough chopped pork butt with a bit of liver, flavored with onion, garlic, herbs and wine. My “American” version of this is pretty similar, albeit sans liver, and makes a great Tuesday night dinner.

I consulted a few recipes, and decided to chop and then process about two pounds of fatty pork butt and a half pound of pork liver with homemade pate seasoning, an onion and a few garlic cloves. Instead of tossing in a few eggs and breadcrumbs a la Betty Crocker, I made a panade of eggs, heavy cream and red wine and then mixed the two together until I had a wet consistency that reminded me of some of my sausage-making efforts of the past few months. I lined a loaf pan with plastic wrap and poured in the meat, covered it with foil and then cooked in a water bath (or bain marie) for an hour and a half.

Of the recipes I consulted, one had called for chilling for a day before baking, another for weighting and chilling for a day afterward. A third, from this episode by Jacques and Julia, mention neither. In fact these two venerable chefs start with ground pork and add whole pieces of liver, ham and veal – which seems to be an even easier approach. And pate is supposed to be about ease, right? And rustic preparation? And simplicity?

After baking, I decided to just let my pate cool for a few hours, and then served it along with oil-packed tomatoes, saute-ed mushrooms, dark bread and a glass of cabernet. It was good and quite rich, despite the low liver-to-pork butt ratio. And it crumbled apart a bit – perhaps a finer grind of meat, chilling and/or weighting would have improved the presentation. But in the end I had created a gourmet-feeling meal… on a Tuesday.

Over the next week we picked at it and brought it to a friend’s house for dinner where a few people had a bite or two. “This is great!” everyone exclaimed. And, despite the lack-luster presentation, it was pretty tasty. But what the French have long known and I found out, two and a half pounds of pate is a lot. If this were a an American-style meatloaf it would be gone in days – a quarter pound or more eaten for lunch and dinner until it disappeared. The meat’s flavor – most likely beef and not pork – enhanced, or shall I say overtaken, by ketchup or salt or cheese. Is this version preferable to my French country-style pate sitting half uneaten in the fridge as I type?

In the end I might say that this was my greatest disappointment yet in my Year of Magical Meating, if measured by how quickly my dish was devoured or the likeliness that I might make it again. But in some ways my country pate has taught me the most: charcuterie is meant to be created with patience and skill – a day of chilling, or taking the time to grind the meat finer, might have made a significance difference in its texture and presentation. And perhaps these strong-flavored dishes are best enjoyed from the French approach of moderation, savoring the strong and earthy flavors of high quality ingredients while sharing with community, whether in jeans on a Tuesday or a cocktail dress on a Saturday. I realized that there are no rules for enjoying pate or any charcuterie – but that it is best done with others. From this perspective, perhaps this has been my greatest success.

Small Town Farmer’s Market & Freezing Peaches

I was visiting my hometown of Fredonia, New York for a few days that finally, for the first time, coincided with the new local farmer’s market. That this farmer’s market is only two summers old is worth noting, as Fredonia is home of the first Grange in the United States (location, about three blocks from the shot above). Sure, this area has always been known for its agriculture, and road-side farm stands have long been offering local produce (and sometimes, produce from far away as well, but that’s another story), but the local farmer’s market represents, I believe, a shift in the way that my hometown neighbors think about where their food is from.

When I was young we often frequented the road-side stands during the summer and fall (I most vividly remember choosing ears of sweet, perfectly ripe corn) in addition to the tomatoes, zucchini, raspberries and other surplus items Nani or Grandma handed off when we visited. The farm stands were easy -  we passed a half dozen on the road that led from my childhood home to the closest town center – and the produce was at the peak of ripeness. OF COURSE we would buy from the local farmer who had harvested that morning rather than buying corn from the supermarket, with its browning silk and dry husks.

When and why did this mentality change? I wonder. Because about the same time I moved out as an adult, first for college and then to a big city eight hours away, my grandmother’s garden began to shrink and the supermarkets grew. Lives got busier. There were fewer mouths to feed. The big grocery stores just made shopping so convenient.

I see now that my urban gardening efforts were influenced by my small-town agrarian upbringing: the idea that we only ate corn in the summer because that was the only time it was available (other than in cans). I started growing things to recapture those flavors; my appreciation for the environmental, economic and health benefits came later. And I would like to think that my efforts helped to inspire my parents to both, separately, re-incorporate local and seasonal produce and products into their diets.

Not that I can take all of the credit. My efforts were followed by a societal (re)surgence of farmer’s markets, organic growing practices and general thoughtfulness about where one’s food came from. I saw more local (to my hometown) farms go organic and stores open – despite the tough economy – that offered locally grown, processed and produced food items. And, perhaps most telling, the new Saturday farmer’s market in the town square was crowded (I’ve been told) from June to October.

I went for the first time this past weekend. My mom and I walked, thinking we would just pick up some corn and maybe some fruit. My aunt had more zucchini than she could ever eat and had recently given my mother several large ones. Her neighbor also uses part of her land to garden and regularly offers up eggplant, peppers and tomatoes. But when we saw these large, fragrant and perfectly ripe peaches my mother insisted we get them.

“Do I have to can them?” she asked. Neither of us relished a few hours in a steamy kitchen during the particularly humid weekend. I told her that I froze my peaches in zip-top bags and would break off pieces for smoothies.

“Perfect. That’s what we’ll do.”

 

We brought home an overflowing eight-quart basket and washed and peeled the fruit. The ripest we sliced and ate right away. My mother made a peach crisp with others and we doused some fresh ones in lime juice (for flavor and preservation purposes) and served them for breakfast the next day. The rest we put into bags that we just barely topped with local apple cider that we had bought at the farmer’s market as well to add acidity to improve the preservation of color and texture. Apple juice would have been preferable, but the spicing of this cider was pretty mild and wouldn’t affect the peach flavor much.

 

We sealed them, squeezing as much of the air out as possible and then laid them flat to freeze. Perhaps, for the first time ever, my mother won’t have to buy a peach from the grocery store all winter long.

 

 

Seafood Terrine

I am writing this having just driven (ok, my husband drove most of it) from Vermont straight through the night to Brooklyn, where we will be spending half of our time in the coming year. The first half of this month has been an adjustment as we figure out what will stay in our Somerville apartment and what we should bring to our new Brooklyn life. Unsurprisingly, the kitchen items are the most contentious. Will I be dehydrating more in New England or the Big Apple? Where should I keep my counter top composter? My canning pot? As I pack and repack and unpack, I am left thinking about how important food is to my life. It is, in part, my vocation – I have been writing primarily about food for the past year and what it means to me, my culture and my ideals. It is also, I have come to realize through the past seven months of charcutepalooza, through our half-move and through my other gardening, cooking and writing projects, one of the main ways that I connect with others. So, quite literally, where I keep my Cuisinart and All-Clad is where my home is.

I was thinking of all this as I strove to plan ahead for this month’s charcuterie challenge a few weeks ago. I kept bringing my cookbook back and forth to Brooklyn, trying to decide when I could find a few days in one place to finish a terrine, let alone a group of friends with whom I could share it. In truth, it was more about the latter than the former. I could Macgyver a terrine in almost any kitchen, but to me it wouldn’t be worth it if it sat in either of my, now mostly bare, refrigerators. If there was one thing charcutepalooza taught me, it is that connecting with others through the food I make is as important as executing the challenges themselves.

Luckily, my husband was asked to play with a few bands at a music festival in Vermont. Many of our Boston-area friends would be there, camping in quarters even tighter than our tiny lots in Somerville, for three days. We would need a lot of food. We would need a terrine.

So, two days before we were to leave (from Boston, my food processor and heart-shaped molds luckily still at apartment #1), inspired by Michael Ruhlman’s scallop and crab terrine recipe, I bought 3/4 pounds of white fish (cod), 3/4 pounds scallops and a half pound crab. In a food processor I combined the fish and scallops with saffron-infused cream and egg whites and then folded that now-creamy mixture together with flaked crab and fresh chives and then poured that into plastic-wrap-lined molds.

I put foil over the molds and then cooked them in a water bath until their temperature reached 130 degrees. Next I cooled and weighted them in the fridge overnight.

The following day I packed them in our ice-filled cooler and made a quick cucumber and dill salsa to serve alongside.

By the time we made it to Vermont, our tent packed alongside boxes of books and shoes that would be heading to Brooklyn the following week, the sunlight was already starting to wane, and it felt as it summer itself was not long behind. But instead of focusing on what was behind me, or what lay ahead, I decided instead to sit still and enjoy where I was at that moment: a perfect summer evening, surrounded by friends with whom I could share food that, in some small way, expressed exactly that.