A Girl Named Go

This was the meal that almost didn’t happen.

Our new EarthFare grocery opened about a week and a half ago, so I excitedly attended the opening day in anticipation of getting a few free gifts. A certain portion of the total sales from the first three days went to benefit the local community farm where I like to volunteer, so I was also interested in doing my part to chip in.

One of the things that is hard for me to find – amazingly – is good bread. I feel like a cheater for buying it and, since that’s what I’ve decided is best for me, I like to at least buy the real thing. I don’t want to see an ingredient list over about 6 items unless its chock full of goodies. There are a couple bakeries around that stock bread in other groceries, and some delis that make fresh breads, but – to put it frankly – I’m a bread snob. If I had it my way, every bread would be made with nothing but whole grain flours. I don’t want fluffy, spongy, country white. I want a heavy, hard as a brick loaf of good German artisan bread. Well, beggars can’t be choosers, so needless to say I was pretty excited to find that our new grocery stocks breads from a local bakery – among them: a sourdough whole wheat and whole wheat oat. Granted they’re not like the rock solid rye breads I was spoiled with in NY, but they’ll do.

Turns out, though, I’m not the only one with a soft spot for heavy bread. Nomad, my cat, apparently has a taste for flour – or maybe anything she can find. So far I’ve purchased three loaves of bread and, no matter where I’ve put them, she has found and stolen away with the bag, munching deep pits into the loaves in the secrecy of the night. On this particular morning, I had newly purchased a loaf of whole wheat and oat bread the afternoon before in anticipation of having French toast for breakfast. When I awoke, however, the scene that lay out before me was one of total bread annihilation: the bag had been dragged into the living room where it was wildly ripped open. A large amount of the bread had been eaten and little telltale crumbs lay scattered around the remainder of the loaf.

Luckily, I’ve learned that it takes me a while to eat a loaf of bread by myself so every new loaf gets cut in two; half stays out to be enjoyed fresh, the other half gets frozen. I pulled the second half of the bread from the freezer and, within a short amount of time, it had thawed enough to slice. I dredged the bread through a milk and egg dip (1 egg, 1/4cup milk for 2 slices of bread) to which I added a tad bit of sugar and cinnamon. I melted some butter in a pan, threw in the toast and voila an authentic French meal, so to speak. Along with the toast, I made a serving of vanilla yogurt (add about 1-2tsp sugar and 1-2tsp vanilla to a serving of your plain yogurt) and prepared some fresh berries. This is a great way to substitute local items for those tasty Vermont syrups.

Now, yogurt is one of my favorite things to make and, by default, one of my favorite things to have for breakfast. I always have a mason jar full in the fridge and can find ways to eat yogurt at pretty much any meal. My standard breakfast during the week is a bowl of fruit with yogurt and maple syrup. On the weekends, I like to be a little bit more lavish and use it to top my French toast or pancakes. For lunches, yogurt is great with hummus and falafel, and at dinner can be wonderful in soups and makes exquisite dips and dressings. Yes, yogurt is a multi-purpose tool around my house.

So, here’s how I make it:

Start with some really good, really fresh whole milk. It’s okay if it’s homogenized. It’s best if it isn’t ultra pasteurized, though (in fact, all milk is better if it isn’t ultra pasteurized. Heck, drink raw milk – it heals!). You’ll also need some good starter yogurt; you’ll want plain whole milk yogurt. I like Brown Cow brand. I buy the little single serving that comes with the cream on top.
Okay, measure your milk out in your quart jar and pour it into a pot. You’ll need a thermometer – I use a meat thermometer. Slowly heat the milk to 180F. This is just before the milk boils; if you whisk it around as the temp gets higher, it won’t form a skin. If it does, just stick a spoon in and pull it out, no big deal.
Transfer your piping hot milk back to your mason jar and cool it in a cold bath until the temp reaches 110-100F. I just fill the sink with water and ice and let the milk sit uncovered until it cools off. Just don’t get the water so cold that it cracks the hot glass (I’ve done this before, not pretty).
Once the milk cools, add in the whole single serving cup of your starter yogurt. Stir it up, cap it, and put it in a warm place to sit for 8-12 hours. I usually wrap the jar up in tea towels, heat the oven up to 100 (I turn it off once it reaches temp), and let the jar sit. It’s great to make it in the evening and let it sit overnight then throw it in the fridge when you get up.

That’s it! It’s not rocket science. Of course, there’s all sorts of fancy yogurt making contraptions that keep the temperature up for X number of hours but, maybe now you’ll se its not really that necessary.

Homemade yogurt is great. It has an entirely different taste and texture, and only one ingredient: milk. Of course, it’s also probiotic, so eat it up, your digestive system will thank you.

It’s officially summer now which, for me, means one thing: harvest time.

This last week we saw our first harvests of tomatoes, beans, cucumbers and zucchinis at the farm. It was a surprise to step into the fields and see the slender green beans hanging from the bush, and the plump squat little cucumbers tucked beneath leaves. Green tomatoes have been hanging on the vines for a month now and slowly, one by one, they are trading their dull, green appearance for a ruby red (or purple, or orange) sheen.

The beans and cucumbers are my heroes out of the bunch. I love having fresh beans for supper, making green bean salads, or pickling cucumbers.

I detest, however, the tomatoes. I’ve had mixed opinions about tomatoes since day one, and refused to touch them as a child. I always hear talk that our palates change as we age, and was told I’d some day appreciate tomatoes for the succulent, divine fruit they are.

Well, after four summers of growing tomatoes let me assure you – there is no way that will ever happen. I can appreciate a small bite of a fresh, ripe, juicy tomato. I enjoy tomato sauces and salsas, but it is highly unlikely that these soft-fleshed fruits will ever win my heart.

For one, I find them to be rather prissy, needy plants. Starting them in the greenhouse is easy enough, and as transplants they seem rather innocent. Their petite stature masks any subsequent feelings of doom as they offer the promise of warmth and sunlight. Within months, though, their cute, dwarfish appearance is transformed into that of a sprawling monster. The easy-going, laid back nature they once possessed becomes one of endless care and requirements.

First there is pruning, then trellising and harvesting. The plants do what they want, straying from their leads and vining in every direction as their heavy fruit pulls their limbs downward. They refuse to be contained. Even attempting to will them into submission, applying layer after layer of twine is futile. In our efforts, the branches crack, the fruit fall off. Our hands become encrusted with a sticky tomato residue; first a green sheen appears along our skin and the hairs of our arms. After hours of harvesting, searching for a ripened fruit in the depths of their leafy jungle, the green gives way to black as the layers of filth cake onto our fingertips.

As if this rebellious, aberrant growth isn’t enough to cause us great distress and displeasure, we are taunted with blemished, decayed treasures. We grasp for the shiny round orb, only to feel our fingers sink into the exposed flesh on the other side. In fact, I don’t see how it is possible for anybody to actually grow a decent tomato. There are so many diseases and competing insects that the possibilities for perfection significantly decrease with every passing second.

Of course, having successfully ridiculed us into the depths of depression, within weeks we suddenly find ourselves overwhelmed at harvest time. Every available bin is filled to overflowing. We spend hours stooped, searching, only to spend an equal amount of time weighing, sorting, grading.

With 950 plants this year, inside and out, I don’t think my opinion of tomatoes will be changing any time soon. But, I still grow tomatoes; still face the disappointments with growing levels of hatred year after year. Why? Because everybody else seems to love tomatoes. It is the red flag of summer time, the hot deal on the street. Folks line up at markets, buying them by the bushel. Nothing turns a profit like being the very first vendor to have a ripe, red tomato. For me, though they are unwanted and under-appreciated, that means they remain a godforsaken requirement to farm life.

This week’s local meal came quite by surprise!

Maxwell and I went to Hendersonville, in western NC, for the weekend to visit with family and hike in the beautiful Blue Ridge Mountains.
After last week’s hike, I was antsy to get Max back on the trail. We all met at our house on Saturday afternoon and headed out to Dupont State Forest together. The park boasts at least 5 waterfalls; we were able to view two on our hike. We had all been to the park before several years ago and when I realized we would be in the vicinity, I was very excited to see the falls again. Luckily this weekend the weather was a little more tame and a pleasant, enjoyable time was had by all. We managed about 2.5mi in total. Maxwell fearlessly blazed the trail, stopping for ear scratches from everybody we met. He even got to play in the water at the top of the falls for a bit and met a pair of horses, which he thought was a pretty bizarre sight to behold.
After our hike, my family and I went to Square One Bistro on main street. The restaurant focuses on fresh and local organic foods, supporting local agriculture and businesses as well as providing the best possible ingredients for their customers. On the back cover of the menu was a list of all the farms and families where the restaurant gets its produce, meats, dairy products, jams, etc. used in their dishes. This is the description given on their website:

About 90% of our produce is organic during the growing season, and 60% in the winter. Virtually nothing is frozen, canned, pre-cut, pre-cooked - pre-anything. We begin with food in its native state and do only that which improves it. “Native state” applies in another sense, because we stock our larder from our locale, state, and region. We take the “50-150-regional” approach, getting our produce from within 50 miles, our “small protein items” from within 150 miles, and our “big protein items” from within our region.

I ordered the garden platter, selecting 4 options from a list of sides: sautéed collard greens, cabbage (with a very smoky flavor), a delicious potato and leek au gratin and a side salad of arugula with goat cheese, apples, spiced walnuts and candied onions. It was all superbly delicious and, after eating our fill, we ambled our way up Main Street to Kilwin’s, a local ice creamery. There was a freshly finished batch of fudge in the window and display cases lined with candies and chocolate dipped goodies. I had the banana fudge ice cream and it was heaven - creamy and sweet with the thickness of a banana but not too rich.

It was a perfect evening for a fun day.

Next week I’m planning to participate in Food Independence Day by making a Fourth of July meal from entirely local ingredients. I’m thinking BBQ Chicken and deviled eggs. We’ll see how that goes!

Good news for me is that I will get to participate in One Local Summer this year, even though I missed the deadline and the first week of the challenge! OLS is a challenge for participants to create one meal each week consisting of entirely local ingredients. I’m excited for the chance to think creatively and devise new meal ideas instead of falling into ruts and bad habits.

I had to pull out my cookbooks to prepare this week’s local meal. The first I always reach for is Simply in Season: recipes that celebrate fresh, local foods in the spirit of More-with-less. It is a phenomenal cookbook that comes in hand when concocting simple, seasonal meals with ingredients readily on hand. The book is divided into four sections, one for each season. Each section lists ingredients harvested at that time of year and then provides a slew of recipes focusing on them.

The recipe I selected was a quiche using potatoes as a crust instead of a pastry dough. The eggs I already had. At the market on Friday I purchased potatoes, chard, a bunch of onions and a block of very special, flavored cheese. The cheese was a splurge for me as its a little out of my budget. Initially, it seemed a bit of a shame to cut of a chunk and grate into the quiche, as it is so flavorful in its own right and worthy of being sliced and eaten alone.

I liked the idea of using potatoes instead of flour for several reasons. One, it makes a lot of sense. Potatoes and eggs just go together; mixed together for potato pancakes or side-by-side for hashbrowns and scrambled eggs. It’s a breakfast institution. My second reason is because, as of yet, I don’t know of any local sources for grains. This small fact makes planning an entirely local meal very hard for me. As I don’t typically eat meat, grains make up a large portion of my diet either whole or milled for breads. Without being able to use grains, an entirely local meal looks something like chard and squash - not too satisfying, or filling for that matter.
The other beauty of this idea is that it made for a very simple, though not entirely quick, meal. I grated the potatoes, adding in a bit of chopped onion and melted butter and pressed them into a pie dish, baking it for 20 minutes at 450F before adding the contents of the quiche.
For the quiche, I used 2-3cups of chopped chard and parsley, basil, and chives from my patio garden. I grated one cup of my cheese and mixed it in with the greens, and laid these out on top of the potatoes. Luckily, I remembered my garlic scapes at the last minute and threw one of them in too. The egg mixture was one cup of whole milk and three eggs. Unfortunately, this didn’t make enough egg to cover the greens. I hadn’t followed the recipe in the book, which called for spinach, asparagus and bacon, but had approximated an appropriate amount of chard in place of the other ingredients. I was worried that the chard on top would burn. Luckily, it only dried out and became crunchy, falling back down onto the egg. The egg mixture fluffed up as it was setting and the cheese melted its way throughout the dish. The final outcome was incredibly pleasing; the cheese added an extra smoky flavor and the potatoes added a satisfying heartiness.

Maxwell lucked out too with some homemade cookies. They’re made from whole wheat flour and flavored with spearmint and parsley from the patio garden. He seems to think they’re pretty swell and I’ve got high hopes they’ll help him to smell as fresh and sweet as they do!

This is the story of an intrepid, gutsy hiker and her fearless, furry friend.

One of my hopes and goals when I began researching dogs I felt would fit my lifestyle was for a hiking buddy. I wanted a dog I could take on the trail, be it car camping, day hiking or overnight backpacking. This led me to Maxwell.

Since Max has been learning his words quickly and does well walking on the greenway and at the park now, it was time to get his feet wet. I picked out House Mountain State Park, which is located only 20 minutes or so NE of us. It seemed like a good first hike – short but strenuous, and close enough that its no big loss if it doesn’t work out. I checked the radar before we left at 2:00 this afternoon although the morning had been gorgeous. The sky was blue with few clouds in sight.
Max was exuberant when we hit the trail. He tugged and pulled, wanting to run up the mountain and chase the voices he could hear coming from high above us. He stopped to sniff every bush, every tree, and paused to try and catch every bug we passed. We eventually worked out a steady pace and I was able to coax him to keep walking.
The trail up the mountain was steep and rocky, comprised of a series of switchbacks. There were little streams and logs across the trail. Large rocks and boulders were stacked to create steps. Max found the nooks and crannies through every pass, and leaped over the logs like a pro.

It’s a different experience to hike with a dog. For one, you are only left with one hand free to use for balance, or to hang on to trees and rocks as you climb. Also, there is another force other than gravity and your own momentum pulling you up and down the mountain.

Along the way up, we had a little rain shower. It was light and stopped by the time we got to the crest trails. I decided to go to the Eastern lookout, assuming we might see some big hills in the distance. The view was glorious. Little farms and roads, patches of fields and forests, lay in a valley before us with a backdrop of the Smokies farther beyond them. From this distance, the mountains in the background looked like little more than anthills. In reality, they are at least 3,000 ft. higher than the point from which we viewed them.
Max had a snack and we both had a sip of water while taking a little break on the rocks to enjoy the view. There was a shower in the distance but judging by the light shower we had passed through on the way up, I decided we might as well take the opportunity to see the lookout to the west since we were already wet. It was 1.5mi from the eastern lookout, and we had already been about 2mi. Max was still full of enthusiasm, so we took off. We didn’t make it very far though before the weather we had spied earlier reached the mountain and we were greeted by not a small shower but a rather strong storm. There was thunder in the distance, the rain was coming down sideways in sheets and the wind was causing the tops of the trees to blow frantically about. After a few short minutes Max and I both were drenched and, with the wind, I was starting to get chilly. An outcropping on a mountain was the last place I wanted to be in a storm, and the view wouldn’t even be worth it, so we turned around.
The rain stopped when we met back up with the mountain trail. We carefully climbed back downward. I had to be very mindful of Max and be sure that he stayed on the trail and also that he wasn’t about to tug when I was climbing down some of the rocks. Max was excited to jump off the rocks and logs, but there were a few precarious steps that caused him to become wary. I grabbed him by the harness and carried him over; when I set him back down, he took off.
About halfway down the trail, we suddenly came upon a tree that had very recently fallen. It had been upright as we hiked up, and now it lay across the trail. I presume all the rain from the last months must have saturated the soil and the wind was strong enough to blow it over. It was a large tree. It stood on a hill just alongside the trail. The very base of the trunk lay across the trail and a tangle of roots stood in the air. The ground around the tree, where the trail had once been, was disturbed and unstable. The ground above the tree, where the tree had once been, was even more questionable.
As I was standing, contemplating our options, a pair of hikers came from the other direction heading up the trail. I yelled to them that the trail was out. They came up to inspect the tree, judging they didn’t want to chance crossing. “But what will you do?” one of them said with an inquisitive look on his face.
From their angle, they were able to help me better understand how I needed to cross the tree. I had been considering going above the tree, but the ground was far too unstable there. They were able to see that, if I could get halfway around, there was a bit of trail I could stand on. I gave the tree a good shove and judged it probably wouldn’t go anywhere. That makes good sense in retrospect – it was a big tree, presumably very heavy, and it was tightly wedged amongst other trees. I picked Max up, holding him tight in one hand, and grasped a root tightly in the other hand. We made it to the center. I shifted Max to the other hand, and passed him off to the first hiker, who gave him to his daughter. From there, he held my arm and helped me to cross the other half of the tree where the trail had given way.
We walked down the trail as a foursome. Max and I took up the rear. The sun was shining and the sky was blue. At the trailhead, we had a drink and Max ate his supper. We were both sopping wet and covered in mud. I laid out some towels in the car for the ride home; fortunately Max and I each have seat covers so the car didn’t get too dirty. From the highway, I could see the dark clouds in the distance. More were moving in, but for the moment it was sunny. In total, we hiked about 5mi. Max was sound asleep in the back seat and it felt good to be heading home.