Saying goodbye

A fog hangs about Agassiz this morning. No mountains or hillsides or even sky for backdrop, just the yellow-dropping-leaved trees in the neighbour's yard. Other mornings have been the same, riding my bike to work by obscured moonlight, dew condensing on my cheeks and jacket and gloves. By noon the fog burns away and corn-stubbed fields, the damp hazelnut groves, the kaleidoscopic neon yellows, oranges and greens on the surrounding slopes, all fall in the sun's warm hold. 

Today I am in a wispy place. 

Last Saturday, I strode up soft, October-sun-obliterated drifts of snow, up loose, rusty-red rocks to the top of Mt. Cheam. I went up to say goodbye. I looked down the steep face of the mountain I look up to every day. I found the house I live in, the houses I had lived in, the houses my friends lived in, the roads we drove, the gravel we biked, the paths I ran. I picked out the place where I worked, the field where we grew, the cranberry bog down the way, the brown parcels that had been corn, the green swathes that had been hay. I saw the threads of the river, the shadows on the bridge, the sand we stuck our bare feet into, the rocks we skipped. I pinpointed the cemetery with the age-etched gravestones and steep steps and fallen leaves where we howled at the moon. I named the hillocks and the farms and the streets. The entire actuality of this last year laid out in front of me. There was mist creeping up the Fraser Valley, hiding everything past Sumas from view, but up there, I could see. 

Today that is harder. 

I had a dream once that I was blind. I had lost my eyesight and I was scared. My body fumbled into unknown edges, crashed into walls I was unaware of, hurt I hadn't anticipated. Then, slowly, I began to feel things. I slid my hand over crooks and curves, into cracks and corners. I felt edges and angles, and as I did this I saw what I was touching. I knew its shape and size and, what's more, I knew its colour! I moved with grace and ease, no longer afraid, feeling the vibrations around me, feeling the rainbow of colours. I couldn't see and still I could see. 

Now it is afternoon and snatches of sun are working away at the mist. 

It is hard to see what is behind me, or what is ahead, in this fog. In between one place and another; work to finish and work to come; paths I remember and ways I do not know. Still, I must move. I trust that I can see things my eyes cannot. 

*In one week, David and I will be in Pemberton, nestling into a new valley, looking at a new mountain range, a new river at our side, new fields to plant and harvest, a new house and farm to make our own!

Last sip of summer

It has been a fast and frenetic summer, the sort where if you blink you'll miss it. I can hardly believe that August is winding to a close. And I must say that I am particularly and inexplicably sad about Summer ending this year. Sure there are fine times ahead - the crackle of dry, brown leaves under my bike wheels; the pleasantly crisp mornings; russeted apples to eat with hunks of cheddar; dense, sweet orange squash; dusky purple grapes; the mists that will return to loll about the hillocks just so.  But still. I just haven't gotten my fill of Summer yet. I haven't jumped in enough lakes, or eaten enough drippy, sweet nectarines, or felt the sticky heat from a tent hit by the fiery blaze of a rising sun, and I definitely haven't climbed enough mountains.

So, I think I am dealing with this by escaping to a warmer place, to the sights and smells of Spain. I am dreaming of the steps I took in March and April of 2009, one thousand kilometres worth, on my way from Sevilla in the South to Santiago de Compostela in the Northwest, walking the Via de la Plata. I am remembering the fiery province of Andalusia with its white-washed villages; the wails and insistent clatters and claps of a flamenco dancer; jostling night crowds spilled out onto the warm, cobblestoned streets; oh the jamon, dangling, sweet and musky, leg after leg, from ceilings, everywhere from the supermarket to the local bar. The sparsely populated province of Extremadura with its parched earth; grey olive trees and gnarled grape vines; the red rust paprika of an insanely fresh, moist chorizo; countryside of Holm oak and stone walls and fat-bellied Ibérico pigs. 

I suppose all this surfaces for another reason too, as my boss is off to Spain to walk her own Camino, the Camino Frances. I am here, Spain is there, what to do? I dig out my cookbooks and take the last gifts of Summer - the twisted, thin-skinned peppers; sweet, sun-ripened tomatoes; fresh, pungent garlic. I find some stale bread and reach for my jar of sherry vinegar and use plenty of olive oil. I open a bottle of wine at lunchtime. I bring Spain to me.

Cold Tomato and Roasted Pepper Soup (Salmorejo)
From Mediterranean Harvest

Even though it was only March when I began my trek the days were intensely hot, easily climbing into the 30s. The land was dry, with nary a drop of rain, and villages were few and far between. It was a struggle to find and carry enough water. The best end to a sweltering day was definitely a bowl (or shot glass) of gazpacho - bright and cool and ever so refreshing. Every version I tried was different, from the consistency to the garnishes. This was one of my favourites though. 

You use more bread than most gazpachos but that gives it a thicker and, I think, more luscious texture. There is a sweet tang from the sherry vinegar, the bright pop of fresh garlic, and a hit of charred spice from the roasted pepper. In Spain this would be garnished with finely chopped hard-boiled egg and the absolutely amazing jamón ibérico de bellota . Nothing compares here, so I just leave it out.

2 1/2 pounds ripe tomatoes, peeled, seeded, and roughly chopped (uhhh, I may have only done the chopping here)
1 large green bell pepper, roasted, peeled, seeded, and chopped
5 ounces stale French bread, broken into small pieces
2 garlic cloves, minced
1 to 2 tbsp sherry vinegar
2 tbsp extra virgin olive oil
salt and freshly ground pepper
1 cup cold water
2 or 3 large eggs, hard-boiled
2 tbsp chopped fresh herbs, such as parsley, chives, tarragon, or basil, alone or in combination

In a large bowl, combine the tomatoes, bell pepper, bread, garlic, vinegar and olive oil. Salt and pepper generously, toss together, cover and refrigerate for about 2 hours. Add the water and about 1/2 tsp salt.

In batches, transfer the mixture to a blender and puree. If you wish, thin out with more cold water, but keep in mind this soup is meant to be thick. Taste and adjust seasonings. Refrigerate until ready to serve.

Cut the eggs into a tiny dice. Toss with the herbs and season with salt and pepper. Ladle the soup into bowls, sprinkle each serving with the chopped eggs and herbs, and serve.

Serves 4 to 6

Pickin' wild mountain berries

The blueberries are early this year. We picked up our order the other day - twenty-five pounds worth, nestled snug in their cardboard box for the ride home. Most went right into the freezer for smoothies upon smoothies to come. Some went into a rather delicious crumble, others into a frozen yogurt that's about to be sandwiched between oatmeal ginger cookies. I wish I had doused all of them in gin syrup though. 

Yes, gin syrup. You mix some sugar and water together, add a sprig of rosemary, some crushed juniper berries and bring it all to a boil. You pour it over your blueberries - hot, so they don't cook but soften, plumping up ever so sweetly. They turn from dusky to gleaming, glittering, starry-summer-night blue. And then you add gin. And then you wonder why you never realized that blueberries were made for this. Because now they taste like they grew on the mossy fringes of an alpine meadow, scented with sun-warmed pine and freshened by cool mountain breezes.

What to do with your jar of refreshing, woodsy-sweet berries in syrup? Take to them with a spoon! Pour into glasses, add soda water to taste and more gin if you like for the best drink of the whole summer. Imagine yourself in far-off, high mountain places. Maybe watch this video, too.

Blueberries in Gin Syrup

From Gourmet

1 cup water

3/4 cup sugar

15 juniper berries, crushed

1 (4 inch) sprig of rosemary

pinch of salt

1 1/2 lbs blueberries

1/4 cup gin (perhaps Victoria Spirits)

Combine water, sugar, juniper berries, rosemary and salt in a small saucepan, and bring to a boil, stirring until the sugar is dissolved. Simmer until reduced to 3/4 cup, about 10 to 12 minutes.

Place blueberries in a heatproof bowl and strain syrup through a sieve over the berries. Stir in gin. Macerate until completely cooled, about 30 minutes. Store in the fridge. 

A new style

And has Summer ever arrived - riding upon rays of sunshine, stretches of blue skies and solid smacks of sheer heat! As temperatures pushed awfully close to the 40s, I had the good fortune to have most of Canada Day off, and the even better fortune of jumping into mountain-icy-cold-lake water. A hike was attempted too, but that was abandoned not far up the de-commissioned forestry road. Hunky (our truck) was none too pleased about his rear end scraping gravel every time we went over a deep hump. And, judging by the hands covering my eyes and bouts of hyper-ventilation, I'm not sure if 4-by-4-ing is really for me. 

It's been so suffocatingly hot in our house that we had to drag our mattress down the stairs, into the minimally cooler living room, where it remains. It kinda feels like we're camping only better because there are no mosquitoes or strange, possibly-animal things brushing against the thin fabric of our tent and we don't need a flashlight to go to the bathroom. We still seem to get up at 4:30 in the morning though.

Life is busy. Busy and bountiful. We are doing two or three farmers' markets a week. David is out in the field every day, harvesting, weeding, watering. New things all the time - sweet, yellow-buttery potatoes, fragrant green and purple basil, tiny bunches of green onions. At work we're transitioning to a new, much-larger cheese vat with all its advantages and drawbacks. We still carve out time for marathon SYTYCD sessions, and suppers with friends, and glasses of wine.

Yes, with life all a-whirl, I found it very challenging to get into the kitchen and cook, at least consistently. We'd inevitably bring home some leftover produce from a market and I'd dutifully collect a selection to stash away in the fridge. It was hard to fit ten bunches of kale and a rag-tag assortment of herbs and fennel and mustards greens in there though. It was even harder to use before the next batch of leftovers arrived. Every week I'd clean out the fridge, compost the greens I still hadn't used, re-stock, and repeat. Until now.

I read a book called An Everlasting Meal: Cooking with Economy and Grace by Tamar Adler. As the title suggests, it is about cooking simply, and well. There are essays on making salad dressings and cooking beans and using the odds and ends of last night's supper for tonight's. In the first chapter Tamar explains what she does with her vegetables after a trip to the grocery store, or farmers' market or whatever. She puts a pot of water on to boil and then she cooks all her vegetables at once, in batches; chopping up bunches of greens while others simmer, to be followed by cabbage, or potatoes, or whatever it is she has found that day, then finally pasta, or grains, or beans. She might make a quick supper then, but most of the prepared vegetables she keeps in her fridge, to use in the meals to follow. 

I must admit I was a bit shocked, and also off-put. Boiling? Really? Not my preferred cooking method for fresh vegetables. And I always cooked my vegetables specifically for the dish I was making. But, as the unused bunches of kale continued to pile up, I decided to give her approach a try. I filled up my biggest pot with water, added lots of salt, and cranked the heat up. I tore off stems of Swiss chard and gave them a good rainbow-y chop and plop into the hot water. They cooked much faster than when I would saute them, and I didn't have to keep a watchful eye and splash of water handy. When they were done I tasted a piece, still dubious, and it was freakin' delicious. Still fresh and green-tasting but not toothsome in the least. About an hour of chopping and boiling and juicing left me with a large container of boiled kale, a smaller one of boiled Swiss chard (stems and leaves), a bunch of boiled potatoes, a jar of cilantro pesto and a small yet potent jar of bright green juice. It certainly took up less space in the fridge. 

The real magic happened the next day when I came home and, after 10 hours of work, made a tart! A Swiss chard, pine nut, olive and feta tart. I made the crust myself, trying out a new recipe which is now a firm favourite (and which I will share with you very shortly), and while that rested for half an hour in the fridge, I foraged for ingredients. While it baked, I relaxed and checked my e-mail. There were even leftovers for lunch the next day. And for supper that next night, again after 10 hours of work, I made another tart - this time maple sausage with kale.  And in the morning I had fried rice with kale and an egg for breakfast. Somehow, though I never believed it would make a difference, having my vegetables ready to go made it so much easier, and enticing to get into the kitchen. 

Cooking styles seem to evolve as our lives do, and right now, this one is working for me! Today, my prep work produced a container of roasted zucchini, one of roasted mushrooms, another of sauteed radicchio, some boiled collard greens, a jar of juice to add to my morning smoothies, and a bowl of kale chips for snacking on. Pizza? Pasta? Sandwich? Salad? It could go in any direction from here, depending on what I'm into that day. Dinner is that much closer to actually happening and, these days, that is a very good thing.

Now, here is a recipe:

Simple, Easy (and also Gluten-Free) Tart Crust
From Green Kitchen Stories

This isn't a flaky, butter-laden crust and that's fine. It is light and healthy but also delicious. And gluten-free. And slightly sweet thanks to oat and ground almond flours. I find that a nice balance to a tart that is chock-full of greens. I make both the oat and ground almond flours myself, using a coffee grinder dedicated to such culinary purposes. I simply measure 1/2 cup rolled oats and blitz away until I have a finely ground flour. Same goes for the almonds. Though it might not be completely accurate that 1/3 cup whole almonds equals 1/3 cup ground almond flour, it's good enough for me. You could use regular flour if you like, or something else - buckwheat might be nice. Other nuts are tasty as well. I used walnuts in the crust for my sausage and kale tart. The dough will seem a bit sticky at first but, no matter, just wrap it up and stick it in the fridge. There's also no need to roll it out, simply push it into a pan with your fingers, and away you go!

I haven't included a recipe for the filling, I'll leave that up to you and your imagination. You might want to check out the Green Kitchen Stories recipe though. I loosely followed it - mostly the egg/cheese proportions, which give you a tart that is mostly greens, and none of this thick, heavy quiche stuff. A tart as it should be, I think.  

1/2 cup (65g) oat flour
1/3 cup (45g) ground almond flour
2 tbsp cornstarch
1/2 tsp sea salt
3 tbsp organic butter or coconut oil
3 tbsp ice-cold water

Pre-heat your oven to 350 F. Combine the flours, cornstarch and salt in a medium bowl. Add the butter and cut into the flour with a pastry cutter, or your fingers, to make small, flour-coated, butter pebbles. Add the water and mix with a spatula until just combined. Gather into a ball, wrap with plastic, and refrigerate about 30 minutes. 

Press evenly into an 8" pie pan, prick the bottom with a fork and blind bake for about 10 minutes. Reduce the heat to 325 F, add your filling to the tart case, and bake about 30 minutes until set and/or done. Let cool somewhat before serving.

Makes enough for one 8" tart.

Better late than never

Do you ever get tired of reading this blog? I mean, do you ever wish you could simply listen, or maybe just watch rather than use precious brain power to decipher letters into words into sentences into paragraphs into sense? Well, you are in for a treat today!

You may recall how, last year, a string of guest bloggers waxed poetic about dates, and being vegetarian, and choosing the correct tool with which to spread peanut butter on Dispatches from the Dinner Table. There was another guest lined up, waiting in the wings, but his post didn't materialize. Until the other day, when (over a year later) it showed up in the form of a link to a video he had made. A 13-minute-long video just for Dispatches from the Dinner Table! I must admit I was quite impressed.

So, allow me to introduce you to my latest and greatest guest blogger Cameron: He's a schoolteacher and serious Canucks fan. He is very fun to banter with, can recount all sorts of movie trivia and is allergic to apples (among other fruit). He loves competition and Snifty Snakes (among other games). He likes beer, and sleeping, and also cats. He dislikes cilantro, cleaning (as you will soon see) and loud chewing. You can hear more of Cameron on What's the Deal, a podcast series in which Cameron and his friends Patrick and Chris discuss every single episode of Seinfeld. 

Now, prepare yourselves for cooking as you've never seen it before!

ACTION!

A sip of Spring

Out like a lion, these last few days of April. Nothing but bluff and bluster; the wind skimming across thigh-high grass, shaking loose the last of the magnolia flowers, knocking milk crates over into an untidy pile. A swirl of raindrops here, a streak of warm sun there, dark simmering blue sky in the mountaintop distance. 

Things are as lush and green and full as far as my eye can see. 

We open the window at night to let the cool breeze and chorus of a million frogs multiplying and rattle of the trains across the tracks in. 

Life has been a whirl lately. Transplanting. Sunburns. Baby goats (kids). Plenty of visitors. Fishing by the river. Cows leaping, let out to pasture. Our first market! Rhubarb.

Can I tell you about the flowers? There were snowdrops on cemetery hillsides, daffodils, acres of tulips and a succession of cherry blossoms. The apple trees are blooming, the lilacs deepening into purple and alongside every road stands an elderberry bush or two, flush with fragrant white flowers.

They are easy to gather, and with them you can make an elixir that captures the scent of these sweet, cool, hopeful days.

Elderflower Cordial

From Tender: Volume II

20 (about 225g) elderflower heads

1 kg sugar

1.25 L water

2 lemons, cut into quarters

2 limes, cut into quarters

Inspect the flowers for insects and dust. Shake or quickly rinse, but don't wash them. Remove the toughest stalks with scissors; they are likely to be bitter.

Warm the sugar and water together in a large saucepan til the sugar has dissolved, then remove from the heat. Dunk the flowers and the quartered fruit into the syrup and set aside to cool. When the liquid is cold, cover and refrigerate for at least 24 hours. Strain through a fine sieve and decant into sterilized bottles.

This is an excellent use for your elderflower cordial:

Elderflower Collins

If you don't have your own elderflower cordial, try using Belvoir Elderflower Pressé. It's already bubbly so you won't need any sparkling water.

1 measure elderflower liqueur (like St. Germain or Island Spirits Distillery's Holunderbluten)

1 measure gin (I am partial to Victoria Spirits' version)

elderflower cordial

sparkling or soda water

Mix elderflower liqueur and gin together, top with cordial and finish with a splash or two of sparkling or soda water.

Salads for all seasons

Today, I have salad on the brain. Never mind that there's not much green growing around here, except for the grass. Even in the dead of winter I believe it's possible to make delicious and seasonal salads. You know what I think the secret to that is? A well-stocked pantry. That means having a whole whack of oils, vinegars, dried fruits, nuts, seeds, grains and legumes right at your fingertips. Pick and choose from these staples as your mood or imagination or the weather dictates, add whatever is freshest, juiciest or ripest and you'll end up with an easy, satisfying and healthy meal.

In the Spring and Summer I tend to make salads that are light and refreshing whereas in the Fall and Winter I want something heartier and filling. Whatever the time of year, I follow roughly the same formula when making a salad. I start by making a dressing in the bottom of a big bowl that I'll serve the salad in or eat out of (if it's just me). The essential elements of a typical salad dressing are some sort of fat (any kind of oil, cream, buttermilk or yogurt) emulsified with an acid (vinegar and/or lemon juice)  combined with a bit of salt and a crack of freshly ground black pepper. There's talk about the ideal ratio between oil and vinegar for salad dressings - anywhere from 2:1 to 5:1.  It all comes down to personal preference. I like my dressings on the sharper side so I add less oil in proportion to vinegar. Experiment and discover what you like best! Other things I might add to a salad dressing include: mustard, honey, jam, jelly or preserves, any kind of citrus juice (orange, grapefruit, lime, etc.), maybe some chopped up garlic or ginger, occasionally a splash of pickle juice! Unusual ingredients inspired by a particular cuisine might include pomegranate or date molasses, tahini or rosewater (Middle Eastern); miso paste, soy or fish sauce (Asian). Whisk all the ingredients you've chosen for your dressing together and then taste it! At this point it should be much saltier/stronger/sharper/brighter than you'd expect the final salad to taste like. This is as it should be since the dressing will be tempered by the ingredients you have yet to add. At the same time, you want it to be balanced. If it's really sweet or rich you might need to add a bit of vinegar; conversely if it's too acidic, add some oil. When you're first starting to concoct your own salad dressings keep it simple. It's easier to adjust the taste of a salad dressing with only four ingredients than one with eight. One more thing: If you're planning on using raw onion in your salad you might want to add it at this point. If you slice it thinly and let it sit in the dressing while you prepare the rest of your ingredients you'll find that the acidity of the vinegar softens the onion and mellows its flavour.

Now that the dressing is made, it's time to get to the substance of the salad. In my opinion the heart of any salad is the fresh vegetables and fruit you put into it. These should be of an awesome quality because it's what's going to make your salad delicious and nutritious! Making a salad in the Spring (with so many fresh green things) or Summer (such abundance) is pretty easy. Doing so in Winter might be challenging but also rewarding. Winter squash, sweet potatoes or parsnips can be roasted. There's always onions and potatoes around. Brussels sprouts, cabbage, carrots, cauliflower, broccoli and beets can be used raw or cooked. There's kale and collard greens, Belgian and curly endive, radicchio. Don't forget crisp celery or fennel (and their leaves or fronds). Use avocados, sprouts, mushrooms. As Fall fades to Winter there are still persimmons and grapes, pears and apples. Oranges, grapefruit, pomegranates and kiwifruit are all at their best in Winter. I especially like contrasting textures in a Winter salad so I'll often roast some vegetables while leaving others raw. Anytime you roast or saute a vegetable you can add herbs or spices that will transport you to any corner of the globe - say cumin, coriander and sumac for a Middle Eastern experience or cardamom and curry leaves to channel India. (I think I'm going to have to talk about spices in another post. I am beyond wordy as it is). The way in which you prepare each vegetable for your salad makes a difference. You might shred carrots and beets and cabbage for a winter slaw. You might combine fat hunks of roasted squash with torn kale leaves for a rustic salad. You might finely slice beets or fennel using a mandoline if you're going for a refined look. You can slice your pear or cut it into fine cubes. Think about colour. Do you want to work with an all-green palette or would you like a vibrant mix of oranges, purples, whites and greens?

I really like to bulk out my Winter salads, adding almost anything and everything. Grains with a toothsome texture, like wheat, spelt or rye berries are particularly nice. I'll slice stale bread into fat croutons which I'll drizzle with olive oil, sprinkle with salt, maybe some pepper and toast to a rich brown. I love adding dried fruit to Winter salads; you get a punch of concentrated sweetness and sense of warmth. Throw smaller dried fruit (like raisins or cranberries) in whole and give larger fruits (such as dates, apricots or pears) a quick chop. I think the more kinds of nuts and seeds you use the merrier. I like to toast mine before I toss them in (though you could also get real fancy and candy 'em). If I have cheese around (which these days I often do) that goes in as well, maybe grated or sliced, or in chunks. If you want more protein you could add some leftover meat, or a hard-boiled egg, or some canned fish. Consider olives or capers or pickles. A friend of mine has been using a microplane to finely grate chocolate into her salads! People, it's hard to go wrong.

Think about everything in your salad - how you're going to pick it up with your fork, how it's going to feel in your mouth, how it's going to taste and look combined with everything else. You'll find it becomes easier and easier to imagine what kind of salad you want to create as you make more salads and eat more salads. You'll have a rummage through the fridge and cupboards and improvise from there. It'll be fun and rewarding. I think of us as artists. All the goodies we have in tins and jars and plastic bags are our paints and pencils and canvases. We use our creativity and a bit of inspiration (perhaps from a cookbook) to craft a beautiful dish, our version of a painting. Instead of hanging it on a wall we get to eat it!

Here's some of my sketches from Winter days past:

This is a simple yet classic winter salad. Slivers of raw fennel, grapefruit segments and avocado slices with salad greens.

I took some notes on this lovely, monochromatic salad after I made it: pear (juicy, crisp); cauliflower roasted with olive oil, salt and pepper and some fennel seeds (savour/crunch/slight liquorice notes); shaved raw cauliflower (variety of textures); toasted pine nuts (buttery, smooth richness); currants (a ball of sweetness); picked onions (acidic tang, silky texture); olives (briny/salty) and sheep's milk feta (rich but sharp, creamy and tangy). A beautiful salad to behold with lots of complex, interesting flavours going on.

Here's a hearty winter salad with roasted cauliflower and squash, shreds of raw radicchio and kale, pieces of persimmon, leftover sorghum and a combination of pecans, pumpkin and hemp seeds.

Finally, in this salad we have Israeli couscous cooked with garlic and celery, cooled, mixed with slivers of red onion soaked in sherry vinegar and orange juice, black pepper, olive oil, shreds of roasted red pepper, an assortment of olives (shrivelled black and pungent green), very sour dried cherries, peppery arugula, roasted cauliflower and carrots (sprinkled with dukkah), orange segments and crumbled sheep's feta.

I hope you find this post useful and are inspired to create some tremendous and tasty salads of your own!

The start of it

To see the shades of early Spring light, grey and oranged on bare branches, dazzling electric green on grasses. The leaves of last Fall have sunk into the soil and now smell of it - new dirt, fresh earth, soon to be planted, soon to sprout with seedlings sown. Seedlings to feed us, and those we know, and those we don't and may never will. Light lengthens upon light, stretching each day wider, till it shifts enough to be sensed, enough to name otherwise. Dormancy over, Spring has arrived.

This Spring is something different for David and I. The kernel of the idea we've shared - to work with our hands, growing and tending - has been watered and weeded and nurtured and, in short, experienced just the right conditions to finally break the surface of the soil. This year will be our first year farming! We don't have any land yet. We are borrowing, with the greatest gratitude, the two acres on which we will grow basil, beets, broccoli, Brussels sprouts, carrots, celeraic, cilantro, collards, cucumbers, dill, fennel, fava beans, green beans, kohlrabi, kale, leeks, mustard greens, parsley, parsnips, peppers, potatoes, radicchio, salad greens, scallions, sugar snap peas, sweet onions, Swiss chard, winter squash, zucchini and more! We are learning the ins-and-outs of GST returns, over-the-border brokerage, net worth statements, web design and the difference between vector and raster images. There is crop planning, soil analysis, the search for compost, ordering walk-behind tractors and hoes and harrows and seeds and salad spinners - every kind of tool we'll need for the intensive, organic kind of agriculture we aim to practice. Right now we're still in the theoretical realm - planning, scheming, dreaming.

But, the sun is starting to send out whispers of Spring. Soon, we'll be in the thick of it; plans put into action; our bodies, not just our heads, hard at work. I don't know what Spring will be like in Agassiz - if there will be cherry blossoms or daffodils. I don't know about Summer either. I expect it will be hot and humid and that the corn will reach sky-high and I hope there are a good deal less mosquitoes than in Alberta and I know that I'm looking forward to it, however it will be. 

Can I quote some Tom Petty?

There's somethin' lucky about this place
There's somethin' good comin'
For you and me
Somethin' good comin'
There has to be.

Hello again

(Silence).

Yes, I know. That's what it's been like around here as of late. I'm sorry.

To tell you the truth, there have been some changes around here. Big ones. 

In October, David and I loaded up our new truck, our new trailer, said sayonara to Alberta and hightailed it back to B.C. As we crossed the bridge, narrow and metal-framed, slanting upwards over the Fraser river, that delivers you to Agassiz my shoulders slumped in sheer relief to be back. I was here last Fall, doing a cheese-making internship that I wrote about very briefly. In fact, I was meaning to tell you more but somehow never did. Well, let me tell you this: every day that I was here felt like magic. I rode my bike to work past cornfields, donkeys, barking dogs (that chased me down the road), pumpkin patches, windrows of hay drying in the sun. The hillsides were freckled with yellow, with orange, with green. The mist moved over everything so that nothing ever looked the same. And when it wasn't there Mt. Cheam could be seen, rising stony and sometimes snow-flecked, so downright majestic I would always gasp. I trained with some of the strongest, funniest and wisest women I have ever met. There was another intern who happened to be my doppelgänger and is now one of my best friends. I lived with a family, everyone in it so entirely unique and great, that welcomed me into their fold. So, when an opportunity arose to come back, to all of this, and this time with David too, well, I said YES! Every time I cross that bridge into Agassiz I get giddy. My stomach butterflies, my lips curl upwards, my eyes probably shine. I can't believe I'm actually here. That, after ten years of different cities, basement suites, and roommates, after so many moves and travels, I finally, finally feel like I have landed. I am home.

I've got so much more to tell you. The silence is over!

Crumby

It's your last day of vacation and you're at the Penticton Farmers Market when you spy a loaf of bread so beautiful and rustic and sesame-crusted that it's bought before you've even finished browsing. So you also end up with a dark chocolate-stuffed baguette. It's not much of a contest when it comes to choosing which to have for supper that night. (Chocolate). The first loaf is forgotten the next day when you arrive at your parent's house where the bread basket overfloweth. When you finally get home the bread is substantially older and drier, but at least you are wiser. Better make some breadcrumbs.

You might think you should use a bread knife but the bread is so stale that you have to bite hunks off to spit into your coffee grinder, where they're whirled into fine breadcrumb oblivion. You toast them in a 350 F oven for about 10 minutes - maybe more, maybe less. You weren't really looking at the clock. It's wise to check on them often because one second you're thinking they need some sun, the next you're reaching for the aloe vera. Dump those babies into a bowl because you didn't pay five dollars, spend half an hour chewing and then nearly overheat your coffee grinder for nothin'. (They'll burn if they stay on the baking sheet). Toss them with some fine sea salt (to taste) and olive oil (about two tablespoons for each cup and a half of breadcrumbs). Feel free to use different types of oil too - a wee bit of hemp oil is rather scrumptious. 

You can sprinkle your breadcrumbs over grilled vegetables (try zucchini with pecorino), a sumptuous hash (with fresh shelling beans, tomatoes, corn, potatoes and zucchini as the major players), pasta or just leave the bowl on your kitchen table so you can eat a spoonful every time you walk by. There you have it - breadcrumbs!

Cooked as a cuke

You'd think it was the zucchini that was the trouble. The zucchini that was multiplying like mice on a farm or mosquitoes during a hot, muggy Alberta summer. Well, there's been a lot of it sure, but so far this year the star producer of our garden has been the cucumbers. If you're finding yourself in similar straits, I have two recipes to help you out. I know the saying goes "cool as a cuke" but here you're going to cook your cucumbers! 

Spiced Cucumbers and Coconut Milk

From Bon Appetit

This is totally delicious. The cooked cucumber reminded me somewhat of eggplant but maybe even better. In the interest of full disclosure I didn't peel my tomatoes (because life is too short for that), I used dried rather than fresh chiles (which may have made my version a little less spicy) and I used parsley leaves instead of cilantro (because that's what I had). It was suggested that you serve this with rice.

1 tbsp vegetable oil

2 cups of 1/4-inch-thick slices of peeled cucumber

salt and freshly ground black pepper

2 small tomatoes, seeded and coarsely chopped

4 scallions, thinly sliced

2 red Thai chiles (with seeds), thinly sliced

1 garlic clove, smashed

1/2 cup unsweetened coconut milk

1 1/2 tsp honey

1/4 cup fresh cilantro leaves

fresh lime juice

Heat oil in a medium saucepan over medium heat. Add cucumber. Saute until beginning to soften, about 1 minute. Season with salt and freshly ground black pepper.

Add tomatoes, scallions, chiles and garlic. Saute until vegetables are soft, 2-3 minutes.

Add coconut milk and honey; simmer until vegetables are cooked through, 2-3 minutes. Stir in the cilantro leaves and a squeeze of fresh lime juice. Season with salt and freshly ground black pepper.

Makes about 4 cups.

Sour Pickles

From Wild Fermentation

These are the genuine, real-deal pickles you've dreamed of. No vinegar, just straight-up lactic-acid fermented, brined cucumbers. Apparently the bane of pickle-makers is the cucumber's tendency to turn mushy rather than crispy. Adding grape, oak, cherry, or black currant leaves (which are rich in tannins) is said to help keep your pickles crunchy. I tried using red currant leaves and they seemed to work.

3 - 4 pounds unwaxed, small to medium cucumbers

3/8 cup sea salt

3 - 4 fresh flowering dill heads, or 3 - 4 tbsp of any form of dil (fresh or dried leaf or seeds)

2 - 3 heads of garlic, peeled

a handful of fresh grape, cherry, oak, black currant and/or horseradish leaves, washed (if available)

a pinch of black peppercorns

Rinse the cucumbers, taking care not to bruise them and making sure their blossoms are removed. Scrape off any remains of the blossom end. If you're using cucumbers that aren't fresh off the vine that day, soak them for a couple hours in very cold water to freshen them.

Dissolve the sea salt in 2L of water to create a brine solution. Stir until the salt is thoroughly dissolved.

Clean a ceramic crock or food-grade plastic bucket with a capacity of at least 4L. Place the dill, garlic, fresh leaves and black peppercorns at the bottom. Put the cucumbers on top. Pour the brine over the cucumbers, place a clean plate over them, then weigh it down with a jug filled with water or a boiled rack. If the brine doesn't cover the weighed-down plate, add more brine mixed at the same ratio of just under 1 tbsp of salt to each cup of water.

Cover the crock with a cloth to keep out dust and flies and store it in a cool place.

Check the crock every day. Skim any mold from the surface, but don't worry if you can't get it all. If there's mold, be sure to rinse the plate and weight. Taste the pickles after a few days. Eventually, after one to four weeks (depending on the temperature) the pickles will be fully sour and no longer white in the centre. Continue to enjoy them, moving them to the fridge to slow down fermentation.

Makes about 4L.

Birthday Balthazars (and what to do with the leftovers)

In the month of May, which now seems a million miles away, my sister and I threw a birthday party. See, she turned 24 on the 24th of May and, later, I turned 27 on the 27th of June - those are champagne birthdays! 

Around December, when we realized this was a milestone year for both of us, we decided that a big celebration was in order. As we tossed around ideas, like a pie-eating contest or bouncy castle, I declared that we needed a Nebuchadnezzar of champagne. Now, at the time, I didn't quite know how much was in a Nebuchadnezzar (that'd be 15L). All I knew was that after your typical 750ml bottle they had names and they started to get a little wacky - Magnum (1.5 L), Methuselah (6L), etc. So the search began.

At first I thought we'd special order a big bottle from one of the many excellent B.C. wineries making sparkling wine. No one did anything remotely close to that size. I trolled the internet looking for large bottles but my only leads came from the U.K. (with prohibitively expensive shipping costs) or the U.S. (with crazy border taxes). Finally, I was reminded that one of my cousins works for a big booze company. I fired off an e-mail and within 24 hours he'd found us a bottle! Unfortunately (or perhaps fortunately) we could only get a 12L bottle, a mere Balthazar. Well, it would have to do.

The day of the party dawned clear and chilly; sun sparkled on frosted wild strawberry blossoms outside the community hall near my grandparent's old farm. We shifted into last-minute party-planning gear with lots to do - lights to string, chairs to set up, outhouses to move.

Soon enough, our guests started to arrive - aunts and uncles, grandpas, high school friends, old co-workers who drove through the night to make it! Over 70 people dined on an entire spit-roasted pig with incredibly crispy, fatty skin and a gamut of potluck fixin's. They visited, lounged around the fire and played football. We blew out birthday candles on seven different kinds of cake - each with a different set of letters that, put together, spelled out HAPPY BIRTHDAY! And then we opened the champagne. It took a good while, but we opened it!

Once everyone had a glass of bubbly in hand we toasted to birthdays and started the evening festivities. We gathered around another campfire, this one in a clearing inside the woods on my Dad's nearby land. We roasted marshmallows and smokies, drank ApriKat beer and more champagne. We watched a fireworks extravaganza. We danced under Christmas lights and starlight in the middle of that clearing, in what seemed like the middle of nowhere, and it was good.

We didn't finish the champagne that night though. 

We didn't even finish it the next morning, mixed with orange juice, to wash down pancakes a la Steve (with real maple syrup) and rhubarb pie. We didn't finish it after the final clean-up when everyone in my family had a big glug as we posed for pictures.

David and I siphoned about 4L into an empty water jug and my sister took whatever was left in the bottle. We drained that a few weeks later, with the help of some grapefruit juice, at a post-funeral brunch. I shared some of mine with folks on the farm. I made a few cocktails. It was going nowhere but flat, fast. 

Then I found this recipe. It called for beer in the batter but I thought champagne would be a better match for blini. Having a glass of champagne in hand while you nibble on one topped with sour cream and caviar is practically a pre-requisite for this pancake of Russian origin. We ate ours with a smorgasbord of spring delights from the woods, our garden, and the farm (the grocery store too). There were radishes, butter, sea salt, asparagus, hard-boiled eggs, dill, nettle pesto, pecorino cheese spread, fresco mixed with some lemon zest, smashed peas with almond butter and bresaola. 

After I made a second batch the birthday champagne was finally laid to rest.

Champagne Blini

Adapted from The Yellow House

I made some changes to the recipe, using instant yeast instead of active dry because that's what I had on hand and it's what I prefer. I like that you don't have to proof it before you use it. All you do is whisk it in when you're combining your dry ingredients, add the wet ingredients and proceed. Super easy. I also used some buckwheat flour in a nod to the classic blini. The recipe calls for olive oil but you can use whatever kind of oil you like. I think I used canola with a bit of hemp oil (both from a terrific Alberta producer) the first time around. The second time I tried some of the camelina oil I'd just gotten as a birthday present. Oh, and finally, if you don't have 3 cups of champagne kicking around use half water, half champagne. The original recipe used half water, half beer but I was itching to get rid of as much champagne as I could!

2 tsp instant yeast

1 cup all-purpose flour

1 cup whole-wheat flour

1 cup buckwheat flour

good pinch of salt

2 eggs

3 tbsp olive oil

3 cups leftover champagne, warmed

butter, for cooking

Whisk together the yeast, flours and salt in a large mixing bowl. Crack the eggs into the mixture, add the oil and start whisking. Gradually add the champagne and continue whisking until smooth. Cover the bowl with a kitchen towel and set aside in a warm place for an hour, though more won't hurt. Once the mixture has risen visibly and is frothy you are ready to cook. 

Heat a cast-iron skillet over medium heat and film with a thin layer of butter. I like to use leftover butter wrappers for this purpose. Scoop heaping tablespoons or quarter-cups of batter (depending on whether you want tiny or large-ish blinis) onto the hot surface. When the edges look a bit dry, bubbles appear throughout the batter and the surface has fluffed up significantly (like making pancakes), flip. Cook on the other side until golden brown. 

Keep the blini in a pile on a plate in a low oven until you've cooked them all. Serve them warm with a smorgasbord of toppings to pick and choose from. Mix and match to your heart's content!

Makes a lot of appetizers or enough for about 4 as a meal, with plenty of toppings.

Bananas, boats and dreams

It is a fact that dispatches from this table have become few and far between. I could give all sorts of excuses - say sheep bit off my fingers, Columbian druglords held me hostage, gremlins stole my good ideas, I had a month-long nap. Yet, I suspect that none of these explanations would satisfy the likes of you, you hungry readers. And really, what are you hungry for? (Feel free to leave comments)!

Well, how about this: BANANA DREAMBOATS! I know, I know. It sounds more like some sexual connotations got mixed up with a male stripper than a recipe but, trust me, it is JUST what you need this summer. Some of you, most likely many of you (seeing as I wouldn't shut up about this during a certain period of my life), have heard of the banana dreamboat, some of you have been lucky enough to experience it. It is my mission to make sure everyone gets that chance.

So next time you're going camping - whether hiking a remote backcountry trail, pulling your RV into a mosquito-riden provincial park or even just throwing logs into the backyard fire pit, it doesn't matter - bring along some tin foil and prepare to drift away.

Banana Dreamboats

Modified from a similar campfire delicacy introduced to my sister by her friend Holly

Warning: The following pictures may depict graphic and/or stringy material. Viewer discretion is advised. Thank you to Steve, Pamela and Cody for their superb modelling.

Bananas 

Peanut butter (smooth, sweet Kraft is preferable here)

Chocolate (whatever floats your boat)

Marshmallows

Tin foil

The first and perhaps most important step is to peel one section of your banana peel back BUT not all the way. It must remain attached to the rest of the peel still surrounding the banana. The best way to do this is by grasping the stem and pulling forward so you peel a section from the inner curve of the banana peel.

Next, using a spoon, scoop out a layer of banana. How much you remove depends on how much you like peanut butter. Eat what you remove. But don't eat all of the banana.

Next, spread peanut butter over the remaining banana. Doesn't my last instruction make sense now?

Break your chocolate into rough chunks or crisp squares, whatever you prefer, and press into the peanut butter, single-file-style.

Tear marshmallows in half then squish the halves on top of your chocolate layer until the banana boat is full.

Take the peel you stripped but did not separate from remaining peel and put it back in place. If necessary, press down firmly to keep the contents inside. You have essentially just stuffed a banana with dreams. Wrap tightly in tin foil and place on the waning but still glowing embers of a campfire.

This is the trickiest part. It is hard to gauge how long your banana dreamboat will take to cook. If you leave it too long the banana will turn to a slimy mush and everything will coalesce into a rather unappetizing slop. If you don't leave it long enough the flavours won't mingle and meld into the heavenly concoction you desire. You want your chocolate melting, your marshmallows molten but perhaps still slightly toothsome in the centre, and your banana warmed through. Of course, you only have one shot to get this right. Once you unwrap, there's no going back. Here's my advice: use a not-too-hot fire (more coals than flames), and flip often. It usually only takes 3 or 4 minutes. Practice, practice, practice. In time you'll make the banana dreamboat of your, er, dreams. And remember, sometimes even professionals like me make duds. If at first you don't succeed, try again!

Alright, when you decide your dreamboat is ready remove it from the fire. (Ha! I guess this part can be tricky too). Open the tin foil package, preferably on a plate (this can get messy folks), and strip away the peel that holds it all in place. Eat with a spoon by the glow of an evening campfire. Seriously, make sure it's dark when you eat this. It may taste delicious but it looks awful. 

There you have it. Your life has just been enriched. Go forth, share the word, make this the summer of your banana dreamboat dreams.

I think you know you can make as many as you want or are prepared to make. I find one dreamboat per person per camping trip plenty though.