Great Gifting: Not Dead Yet!

Obsolete. Finished. Doomed. All descriptors used when the subject of the future of print comes up. Not to mention much wringing of hands, rending of robes and tearing of hair. But if you're stuck for a last-minute present, not to mention one that will remind the recipient of you several times a year when they open their mailboxes, you can't beat a subscription to a magazine.

True confession? I've been on the way to a birthday party, stopped at the store, picked up a copy of a magazine, stuffed it into a gift bag with a card (remembering to tear out a subscription form) and given it to the birthday guy or gal. If I'm lucky I remember to send in the aforementioned form or go online to subscribe.

More embarrassing? I admit to actually giving a subscription to a magazine that I know the recipient would never subscribe to in a million years. Like buying a conservative relative (no names, please) a subscription to a lefty publication like Mother Jones or The Nation on the off-chance they actually look at it and find out there's more to an issue than Glenn Beck has been telling them. Or giving a non-cook a magazine that features healthy, easy recipes…I mean, if they only read a few articles or look at the pictures, that's OK, right?

So, to get to the point, I'm asking you to consider supporting a couple of excellent local publications that are trying hard to survive in the current new media maelstrom and who happen to occasionally carry stories that I write.

One, NW Palate Magazine, was originally a wine-centric magazine that has recently embraced a wider calling, one that truly reflects its name and celebrates the bounty that we find here in the Northwest: our farms, food, chefs and fisheries. The other is MIX, the sole survivor of the Oregonian's fleet of publications, a glossy, beautifully designed paean to Oregon's burgeoning food culture. Each gives you more than strung-together blurbs masquerading as articles, with longer "think pieces" from some terrific Northwest writers.

So whether you're desperate, seeking passive-aggressive satisfaction or just want the perfect gift for the food-centric on your list, these might be just the ticket. One more benefit? You can always ask for their back-issues!

Details: NW Palate Magazine, six issues per year, $18; two years (12 issues), $33. Subscriptions available online. MIX magazine, 10 issues per year; two years (20 issues), $28. Subscriptions available online.

Check out the other gift suggestions in this series: Book by Book, Classic Design, Class Acts and Giving From the Heart.

Farm Bulletin: "A Wolfish, Cussed Root"

This week, contributor Anthony Boutard of Ayers Creek Farm gives us an essay that turns on a historic canal, a chance meeting and an ugly root, Armoracia rusticana, or, as it is more commonly known, horseradish. One note: If you've never had freshly grated horseradish root, it has a much milder, earthy bite than the stuff you'll find on your grocer's shelf.

I've got a mule and her name is Sal,
Fifteen miles on the Erie Canal,
She's a good ol' worker and a good ol' pal.
Fifteen miles on the Erie Canal,
We've hauled some barges in our day,
Filled with lumber, coal and hay,
And we know ev'ry inch of the way,
From Albany to Buffalo.

In 1825, the Erie Canal opened, allowing the shipment of agricultural goods from Buffalo to Albany, and then down the Hudson to markets and ports of New York City. It was a stunning and audacious achievement for a young nation. This 363-mile self-contained and mostly artificial body of water had 36 locks that accommodated the 550-foot elevation difference between the two cities. Elegant aqueducts carried the canal, about 40 feet wide and a scant four feet deep, over rivers and ravines. Moving produce and freight by canal barge is slow but highly efficient, roughly twice as efficient as rail. Stretches of the original canal are still used to move freight.

The horseradish plant.

The opening of the canal had a huge impact on the hill towns of New England. Marginal farms were abandoned, their soils having been depleted after a century of use, and the farmers moved to the fertile soils of Western New York and Ohio. There was a shortage of timber in southern New England, so the houses and barns were disassembled and the wood used elsewhere. The first house the two of us owned was in New Haven, Connecticut. Built around 1830, most of the framing and planks were recycled from abandoned barns. Anomalous paint, dimensions, nail holes and notches betrayed their earlier use in a barn.

One of these abandoned farms was located on a hilltop in West Stockbridge, Massachusetts. All that remained of the homestead was a brick chimney and a caved-in stone foundation. The big locust trees still shaded these remnants. Unlike many of the abandoned farms, the meadow was used as summer pasture by a nearby farm, so the old fields remained open. Underneath the locusts, a horseradish patch still flourished about 150 years after its cultivators moved westward. Every autumn, after the tops died off, we dug a dozen or so roots. Gardening and cooking authors reflexively describe horseradish as an "invasive plant." Robust, expansive and persistent, certainly, but it it is not invasive. The horseradish roots we gathered in the autumn were from a root planted two centuries earlier, a life longer than Ghengis Khan or Alexander, and they yet remained just a small patch.

Grated horseradish.

A bit south of the horseradish plant, Ambrose Hunt was born in Hillsdale, New York, in 1803. He moved westward shortly after the canal was finished, settling in the Finger Lakes region. Old habits die hard, so he found another farm on a hill. Our daughter farms that land on Italy Hill in Branchport, New York with her husband, Jonathan Hunt. After an unsuccessful inquiry, the Hunts assumed the house in Hillsdale fell to the same fate as other abandoned homesteads. One day, Anthony's brother, a landscaper, brought a bottle of the Hunt's wine to a client of his in Hillsdale. Seeing the label, she exclaimed, "that's interesting, my house was once owned by a family called Hunt." In vino verum.

Horseradish is a wolfish, cussed root and as unyielding at harvest as the most stubborn canal mule. Few farms bother with it, especially in the heavy soils of the Willamette Valley. It grows on our farm because it reminds us of the beautiful pasture on Maple Hill, the Erie Canal and winter meals livened up with its evanescent bite. Horseradish is the Bohemian parmesan. Grated or shaved into soups or salads, on meat or fish, or on top of mashed potatoes, it brightens the winter table. One of the great wonders to us is why restaurants don't have a horseradish steward on the staff. "Would you like a bit of freshly grated horseradish on your vichyssoise?" A lot more stylish than the affected fetish with an oversized pepper grinder.

Don't let your opinion of horseradish be shaped by the prepared root in a jar. The vinegar and mustard oil in the processed condiment linger on the palate. The mustard oil is used the boost the heat of the horseradish, but the oil destroys that fleeting and refined pungency you find in the freshly grated version.

Crustacean Celebration: The Big Boys Weigh In

They were dubbed the three tenors of Portland chefs: Vitaly Paley, Philippe Boulot and Cory Schreiber. Think what you will of that moniker, but the dinner they orchestrated to celebrate the certification of Oregon's crab industry as sustainably managed by the Marine Stewardship Council (MSC) was a multi-layered symphony to our state crustacean. (OK, OK, enough with the musical metaphors.)

Crab and mushroom shepherd pie.

I received an invitation to the event the week before and couldn't say yes fast enough. It promised not only four courses reflecting the special place that the Dungeness crab, or Metacarcinus magister, holds in our state's food pantheon, but with wines to match from local wineries. See why I hit the reply button so quickly?

Like the certification received by the West Coast albacore fisheries earlier this year, which included tuna caught from California to British Columbia, the crab fishery as a whole, including crabbers and processors, was assessed against rigorous MSC standards. These included assessment of the stock, effect of the fishery on the ecosystem and the fishery management system. It's only one of five in the world to achieve this prestigious designation, and the only one of the five Dungeness fisheries on the west coast to be certified. Is that cool or what?

Ribeye with kale, black truffles and crab.

As for the dinner, it kicked off with a classic crab salad with plenty of shredded crab, grapefruit sections, lovely soft leaves of Oregon chicory and a sprinkling of pomegranate seeds (top photo). The wine was a stunning 2009 Pinot Blanc Estate from Bethel Heights, a spicy, full-bodied, lovely complement to the bright, sweet flavors of the salad, and to my mind the most memorable wine of the night.

The second course was a slightly disappointing crab and matsutake mushroom shepherd's pie, mostly because the crab and mushrooms were indistinguishable from the thick layer of mashed potatoes on top. A good idea, but the execution was lacking, and the Domaine Drouhin 2008 Chardonnay "Arthur" poured with it only confirmed my lack of excitement over the wines I've had from them.

Poached pear with pistachio panna cotta.

But the thick slice of medium rare Carman Ranch ribeye that came next, with a side of creamed kale and black truffle hollandaise and three intact hunks of crab leg on top, was to die for, especially paired with the Penner-Ash 2008 Willamette Valley Pinot Noir, a big-but-not-over-the-top, earthy mouthful. The fact that the crab wasn't the focus of the dish but was used as a garnish didn't bother me in the least and, to me, showed that Vitaly Paley has a sense of humor and isn't afraid to bend the rules. Good job!

Crab was noticeably absent but hardly missed in the dessert of poached seckel pear with a pistachio panna cotta perched on a salty, crunchy round of spice cookie, and the Adelsheim 2008 DeGlace of Pinot Noir was nice, but what I really craved was more of that pinot blanc from the first course. Though if at this point you're thinking, "Well, wah wah wah, Kathleen, too bad for you…" I wouldn't blame you, since over all this crab-filled performance piece deserved a standing O.

Check out this season's Crustacean Celebration series: Pasta with Crab and Radicchio, Deadly? I Think Not, and Let Them Eat Cakes. See also: last season's series starting with Hot Artichoke and Crab Dip (and links to other posts in the series).

Bloggin' the Nog

I meant to bring it, I really did. I'd read my friend Giovanna's post last December about the eggnog at Pearl Bakery and how next year she'd remember to bring a flask of bourbon. Inspired, I planned to dig out Dave's flask and fill it with some of Clear Creek Distillery's Oregon Brandy and head over for a glass of my own.

But about halfway there I realized the flask was sitting on the counter where I'd left it, locked and loaded, but since I'd arranged with Giovanna to meet there and guide me through the process, I charged on. And, sure enough, there she was, sitting at a nicely out-of-the-way table in a corner of the café, the better to tipple unnoticed.

When she admitted she'd neglected to bring her flask, too, I felt a little better, and we made our way to the counter and ordered our glasses. As noted in her post, traditional eggnog is made with softly beaten egg whites folded into an egg yolk-rich cream and milk mixture. She writes:

"Pearl's eggnog has none of these.  In order to avoid the raw egg situation, they make a cooked eggnog. And you know what a cooked eggnog is? It's nothing more than crème anglaise. One of my very favorite things. This one just happens to be nutmeg-flavored."

If you decide, like I did, that you absolutely have to try this lovely concoction, you'll have to hold the line when the young person behind the counter asks if you want it mixed with anything, and when you decline, asks if you're sure you want it plain, cold, in a glass. At that point, just nod and smile and let them think you must be a bit batty to drink something so lusciously rich all by itself.

Unless, of course, you remember to bring that flask.


Details: Pearl Bakery, 102 NW 9th Ave. 503-827-0910

Great Gifting: Giving From the Heart

In the spirit of not burdening our lives or those of our loved ones with more stuff that needs dusting or displaying, yet also lets them know how much we care, I can't think of a better gift than a donation to a cause that would speak to the giftee.

For instance, if one of your friends reminds you just a bit of Dr. Dolittle, a gift to a local pet shelter or emergency pet clinic in their name would be just the ticket. As a personal note in this category, please consider giving to Multnomah County Animal Services, a terribly underfunded agency that handles the bulk of abandoned and injured pets in the city and is working to build a new shelter with public donations.

If your friend is giving CNN a run for its money with continuous e-mail updates on global affairs, consider a donation to Mercy Corps, the Heifer Project or any of dozens of domestic or international aid organizations.

For those concerned about hunger and food issues, there are a myriad of organizations that help the hungry in our communities, starting with the Oregon Food Bank and its network of 947 hunger-relief agencies in Oregon and Clark County, Washington. Even the gardeners on your list can find fertile soil in groups like Growing Gardens (top photo) and Zenger Farm (right).

To that end, a list of ideas and links is below. Feel free to add your own suggestions in the comments section below this post!

Animals

• Multnomah County Animal Services
• Oregon Humane Society
• Dove Lewis Emergency Animal Hospital
• Cat Adoption Team
• Golden Bond Rescue of Golden Retrievers
• Pixie Project

Aid groups

• Mercy Corps
• Heifer Project
• Medical Teams International (formerly NW Medical Teams)
• Doctors Without Borders/Medicines Sans Frontieres

Hunger and Social Services

• Oregon Food Bank
• Friendly House
• Outside In
• Delta Society (provides pet therapy in hospitals and care centers)
• Farmworker Housing and Development Corp.

Gardens

• Growing Gardens
• Zenger Farm
• Adelante Mujeres 

Check out the other gift suggestions in the series: Book by Book, Classic Design, Not Dead Yet! (food magazines you'll love) and Class Acts.

The Tests of Winter

No, this isn't what you're thinking…there are no not grand musings about man v. the elements or figuring out how to crawl out of a crevasse or even how to dry flannel sheets so they don't turn into a wadded, crinkled mess (anyone else have this problem?). It's about what farmers do in winter, when the farmers' markets are few and far between, the crop selection trims to cold-tolerant species and the mud on their boots adds 10 pounds to each leg.

I was out at Ayers Creek Farm in Gaston on a recent Friday and Anthony and Carol were experimenting with a few new value-added products to add to their lineup of preserves, popcorn, polenta, frikeh and the like. This time it was hominy using their heirloom Roy's Calais Flint Corn and Amish Butter Corn varieties and a new preserve using jostaberries, a cross between a blackcurrant and a gooseberry that has an intense, tart flavor combined with a deep purple, almost black color.

First up was the hominy, which was first cooked in a mix of water and slaked lime—calcium hydroxide, also called cal in Mexico—then allowed to sit overnight where it would "bloom" in a process called nixtamalization (say that six times fast). After rinsing (right), some of each type of corn was put straight into canning jars, while another batch was cooked an extra hour before going into the jars to see which would have a better texture after pressure canning. As an added variation, half of each type had lemon juice added to the water to see how it might affect the color and flavor.

In a nod to caution, not to mention to avoid having the kitchen look like a battlefield with blood and glass and hominy littering the floor, the jars were only filled about three-quarters full (top photo), since no one was sure how much the hominy might expand in the pressure cooker. This turned out to be a wise move, since the corn ended up almost filling the jars.

Anthony decided to wait a week before opening them to test for flavor and texture, then refine the final product from there. Actual processing, should the venture turn out, will take place under the watchful (and certified) eyes of Paul and Judy Fuller at Sweet Creek Foods.

The jostaberry preserves were a much simpler operation, taking berries that had been macerating overnight in sugar and essentially cooking them down to concentrate their flavor and boil off any water. Anthony insisted on using a copper pot for the process, in this case a gorgeous hand-hammered beauty with a curved iron handle that they had picked up on a trip through Spain (left).

Before cooking the berries were run through a grinder attached to Anthony's trusty KitchenAid mixer to remove the bulk of the seeds and pulpy parts, leaving juice and some fleshy bits for the jam. The Boutards never use pectin or solidifying agents in their preserves, preferring to let the fruit speak for itself, so the jam was very loose as it was poured into the jars. But after sitting overnight in our refrigerator the natural pectin in the berries firmed up nicely and it was the perfect texture for spreading on Dave's toasted sourdough (right).

The flavor was a bowl-you-over rich, slightly tart mouthful of deliciousness, and I can't wait for it to start appearing (right, you guys?) at their stand at the Hillsdale market. It might just give their blackcap jam a run for the money as my favorite preserve ever. Though sadly, as I prepared to leave the science-lab-cum-farm-kitchen, I found that hammered copper bowl was a tad too large to sneak under my coat and home. Dang.

Around the Bend

My youth was ringed with the snowy peaks of the high Cascades, and I'd recite their names as I looked at them: the Three Sisters (Faith, Hope and Charity), Mts. Jefferson and Washington, Three-Fingered Jack and Broken Top. I spent summers playing in their dark lakes on family camping trips, breathing the air of the high desert scented with pine, juniper and sage. Red cinder colored the streets and bordered the highways, and black lava rock made good fences.

Closeup of the surface of the Painted Hills.

Bend was a big city to me then, so much more sophisticated than our little town. My mother, normally not one to put up with any excuse not to go to school ("Sniffles? Off with you!"), would sometimes keep me home from school to go to Bend to shop and then have lunch at the Pine Tavern. Still situated on the banks of the Deschutes River at one end of the grassy stretch of Drake Park, she'd request a table along the windows overlooking the placid waters. I'd order something exotic like chicken salad (green grapes! almonds!) or a club sandwich (multi-layered triangles with bacon!), admiring the live tree growing through the floor and up through the ceiling of the restaurant.

Recently I returned to Bend on an assignment to interview a bartender, Columbine Quillen (right), who forages native plants for the tinctures and bitters she uses in her cocktails. We would be going out to the Painted Hills (top photo), part of the John Day Fossil Beds National Monument, to gather ingredients and take photos, which meant I needed to arrive the night before. Accommodations had been arranged at the new Oxford Hotel downtown, a brand-new Euro-chic boutique hotel, and I'd been assigned a balcony room on the upper floors. Overlooking not only the quiet street below but with a gaspingly gorgeous view of the Sisters, it guaranteed that the TV wouldn't have a chance of being turned on.

The next morning I opted not to have breakfast in the hotel's darkly elegant restaurant, 10 Below, and instead popped across the street for coffee and a scone at a sweet little coffee and community-obsessed place called Thump (left). Sufficiently caffeinated to try to ask coherent questions, Columbine and I sat in the back seat while our photographer, the Oregonian's Tom Boyd, drove east through Prineville and out into the wilds of Crook County.

We saw the striated domes of the hills before we got to the park itself and decided to stop just outside its boundaries, since once you enter the park you can't wander off the marked trails. The other-worldly beauty that met us was stunning, the red, cracked, crumbly hills rising out of a flat, sagebrush and juniper-covered landscape.

Columbine Quillen foraging.

We gathered samples of sagebrush, juniper berries, small flowers and tiny ground-growing cacti, with some researching in store for the ones that hadn't been identified on previous trips. They all went into a big black plastic department-store shopping bag, so incongruous in this moonscape location.

Once back in town it was time to decide on dinner and, since Columbine had to work and Tom was on his way back to Portland, I would be dining solo. It would be an understatement to say I'm not accustomed to this situation, and I vacillated between going downstairs to the hotel's restaurant or checking out a place that Columbine had recommended. After lecturing myself sternly, I struck out for Ariana in Bend's Westside neighborhood.

Owned by parents Glenn and Susan Asti and their daughter and son-in-law Andres and Ariana Fernandez, it's located in a snug bungalow that gives a certain cozy quality to the dining room. There are linen-covered tables scattered around the main room, with a bar angled across one corner. I took a seat at that bar and asked for a glass of wine with the carpaccio (left) that Columbine had said was the best she'd ever had.

Made from pepper-crusted beef tenderloin drizzled with truffle oil, horseradish crème fraiche, parmesan and scallions, it's a beautiful plate and tastes terrific, even if the freshness of the raw beef is somewhat buried under the garnishes. My salad of roasted beets and arugula with a puff of chevre-infused pastry was simple and delightful, and was a delicious lead-in to my entrée, a perfectly prepared chanterelle risotto topped with microgreens (right). The service was attentive and kind to a solo diner, and I had fun chatting with Susan, who was working the bar the night I was there.

The next morning I'd taken the extremely indulgent step of scheduling an in-room massage, and the concierge at the hotel arranged for Patrick Kincart of Bend Bodyworks to come in and work me over. It was exactly what I needed, since I'm not a fan of those light massages that feel like the therapist could use some upper body work (on herself).

Refreshed and ravenous, I packed the car and on the way out of town stopped at Bend's first food cart, Soupçon, run by chef Steven Draheim (left). His stated mission is "to flood the city with soup," and to that end he's offering two daily soups as well as a couple of salad and sandwich offerings with "a sense of adventure."

And those mountains? Still there, and I could still name them all.

The "L" Word: Leftover Turkey in Posole

The first words out of Dave's mouth when I mention ordering the holiday turkey are, "Oboy! Turkey enchiladas!" That's because after we've reprised the meal the next day to use up the leftover gravy and mashed potatoes, as well as a couple of turkey sandwiches with cranberry sauce, there always seems to be enough for a batch of enchiladas.

I normally use my basic chile sauce, but I got to thinking that maybe a posole rojo would be a nice change, since I've always liked the way that chiles tend to mitigate the sometimes overbearing flavor that turkey can have. Plus the smokiness from the turkey meat (thanks to Dave's mad skills with the Weber) and the stock from the carcass would lend a woodsy, hearty flavor to the corn and chiles.

In the past I've made posole as a thick stew, but thanks to the incredible soup my friend Linda Colwell made with her verde version, I decided to try something like it with red chiles. It could also be made with chicken and chicken stock, but the turkey made it so much richer, and was so good we may just have to alternate it with the enchiladas from now on. Is that OK, honey?

Turkey Posole Rojo

12 oz. dried posole or hominy
6-8 dried ancho chiles
1 onion, roughly chopped
4 cloves garlic
1/2 tsp. oregano
Salt to taste
4 c. leftover turkey, shredded
8 c. turkey or chicken stock
Juice of 1 lime

Put dried posole into non-reactive bowl or Dutch oven and cover with water. Soak overnight. Drain posole and put back in Dutch oven in enough salted water to cover. Bring to boil and simmer for at least 2 hours until softened.

Remove seeds, ribs and stems from chiles and tear into large pieces. Place in heat-proof bowl and cover with boiling water. After half an hour, when chiles are soft and somewhat cooled, drain them, reserving the liquid. Put chiles, onion, oregano and garlic in bowl of food processor and process, adding reserved chile-soaking liquid to make it a thick sauce. Season to taste with salt.

Add meat, chile sauce and stock to cooked hominy in Dutch oven and stir to combine. Bring to a boil on the stove, lower heat and simmer, covered, for one hour. Add water if needed to thin to desired consistency. Stir in lime juice.

Photo of uncooked posole (hominy) from the James Beard Foundation.

Coming: The Best Garage Sale Ever!

Our weekends used to be spent in pursuit of the elusive perfect garage sale. Dave, who always gets up earlier than I do, would circle likely targets in the classifieds. Then when I'd managed to gulp down enough coffee to keep my eyes open, we'd head out, cruising by first to scout the location and parking if it looked like a good prospect.

He'd head for the basement or the garage looking for tools while I hit the kitchen looking for old Bauer ware, Pyrex dishes or state plates. This went on for a few years, then one day it dawned on us that (duh!) we really didn't need any more stuff. Plus the really good sales, the ones where the vintage treasures were plentiful and cheap, began to disappear.

But there's one garage sale I wouldn't miss for the world, where the items for sale will never need dusting or storing in the basement when you're tired of looking at them, and that is Jim Dixon's annual Olive Oil Garage Sale. It's a recreation of the of the rural food festivals called sagre in Italian, with the olive oil poured out of 50 liter stainless steel barrels called fustino (left) into whatever container you bring.

Usually held in his Northeast Portland garage (right), last year it was so cold that the olive oil wouldn't pour out of the fustini, so this year he's moving it to his warehouse indoors. He always makes up a pot of soup to share (free!), a bit of wine (free!) and, he says, "maybe some other surprises." On hand, as usual, will be:

• Freshly pressed “olio nuovo” from California (limited quantities)
• The last of the 2009 Italian extra virgin olive oil (bulk and already bottled)
• Everyday Extra Virgin from California
• Portuguese flor de sal
• Real balsamic vinegar from Modena
• Katz Orleans method vinegars
• Farro, brown rice, red beans and garbanzos

And, from personal experience, let me tell you that your foodie friends will thank you multiple times over to find a basket of Jim's goodies under their tree rather than the latest groovy wine opener or some geeky book (again, no dusting, no storage). You'll need to bring your own containers for the bulk olive oils (empty clean, dry wine bottles work great for this) and, also as usual, he'll only be accepting cash or checks. Christmas just doesn't get better than this.

Details: Jim Dixon's Olive Oil Garage Sale. Thurs.-Fri., 12/9-10; 11 am to 6 pm; cash or checks only please. At 833 SE Main (corner of SE 9th & Main), space 122 (On the NE corner of the building facing the parking lot. Look for the olive oil sign on the sidewalk out front.) Please park on the street since the other Activspace tenants need the lot during the day.

* * *

If you're a total olive oil 'ho (and I mean that in the best way possible), be sure to ask Jim about his Olive Oil CSA. As he said in his recent Real Good Food newsletter:

"The economics of importing require significant cash up front with a long payback. In the past I borrowed the money, then tried to pay it back as I sold the oil. This worked, sort of, but never quite as well as in theory. I didn’t want to keep adding to the debt, so I created the Olive Oil CSA.

"In community supported agriculture, customers pay the farmer a flat fee for a share, then receive their prepaid produce over the course of the growing season. The olive oil CSA works much the same way, except I use the money to purchase and ship extra virgin olive oil from Italy.

"Here’s how it will work. If you send me $100 now, you’ll get $120 worth of olive oil (or anything else I sell) after the shipment arrives from Italy. I’m contacting my producers in Italy now and setting up the orders, and I’ll need to start sending them cash soon. If you’re interested, send me an e-mail for more details."

Crustacean Celebration: And They're Off!

I can't believe how excited I was for crab season to start this year. After last year's marathon Crustacean Celebration, the countdown to the start of the season was excruciating. Because of dickering over prices that crabbers would receive and conflicting results of test for something called meat fill, it was possible that the season could be delayed for as long as two weeks.

But when I went to the northern Oregon coastal town of Seaside on Thursday and stopped in at the shrine to crabbiness that is the Bell Buoy (left), they had freshly caught crabs aplenty. My friend Michel and I whipped up a fresh crab salad with some romaine, slivered fennel and a lemon vinaigrette and dove in. Supplemented by a loaf of Dave's wonderful homebaked sourdough and a glass (or two) of rosé, its sweet, slightly salty meatiness was the perfect, simple start to a season of indulgence.

I came back home to the news that the crabs had organized themselves into a group called the Dungeness Crab Commission and, in a stroke of brilliance, got themselves certified by none other than the Marine Stewardship Council (MSC) as a sustainably managed fishery. Meaning that it's one of only three crab fisheries in the world to put the MSC label (right) on its products, and the only one of the five Dungeness fisheries (CA, OR, WA, B.C., AK) along the West Coast to be certified. Those are some crazy smart crabs!*

I'd purchased two more whole crabs on the way out of Seaside, determined to whip up an appropriately crabby dinner for the troops at home. Pulling out a recipe from last year and, hewing to the original intent (i.e. keeping it crabby), I made a few modifications and was rewarded with the oohs and aahs of satisfied diners.

If you have favorite crab dishes that you put together for your troops (or even just yourself), please share them in the comments below. It's looking like we're in for another banner year!

Pasta with Crab and Radicchio
Adapted from Tyler Florence, the Food Network

2 Dungeness crabs, approx. 1 lb. each
1/4 c. extra-virgin olive oil
1/4 c. finely chopped shallots
2 Tbsp. finely minced garlic
2 whole Mexican hot red chiles
1 c. rosé
1 lb. pasta
1 small head radicchio, thinly sliced into chiffonade
Juice of 1 lemon, straining out the pulp and seeds
Finely grated parmesan or, for a nice change, extra-sharp cheddar for sprinkling

Bring 6 quarts water to boil and add 2 tablespoons salt.

Pull carapace off of cooked crabs (the large red outer shell). Under running water, clean off all the gills until you're left with the hard shell of the body beneath. I normally rinse out the "tamale" or ochre-colored bits that some people consider a delicacy (you can have them cleaned by your fishmonger if this is all too real). Remove the meat from the cleaned crab and collect in medium-sized bowl.

In a large sauté pan, heat the oil until smoking. Add the shallots, garlic and chiles and sauté until golden brown, about 4 to 5 minutes. Add the wine, bring to a boil. Cook the pasta in pot of boiling water according to the package instructions, until just al dente, and drain.

Remove the whole chiles from the wine sauce. Add the drained pasta to the pan with the wine mixture and return pan to heat. Add crab and radicchio and toss briefly until radicchio is slightly wilted, about 1 minute. Pour the lemon juice over the top. Pour into a warm serving bowl, sprinkle with the cheese and serve.

* Seriously, the Dungeness Crab Commission is an industry-funded agency tasked with "enhancing" the Dungeness crab industry.

Check out this season's Crustacean Celebration series: The Big Boys Weigh In, Deadly? I Think Not, Let Them Eat Cakes, Parallel Universe and last season's series starting with Hot Artichoke and Crab Dip (and links to other posts in the series).

Farm Bulletin: Jam Session

The first time I tasted the preserves from Ayers Creek Farm, it was a jam made from the blackcap, a tiny blackish-blue berry whose shape is similar to a raspberry but with a shallower cup and much tinier drupelets. Spread on warm buttered toast it was a revelation, and I've since gone on to sample many more of their amazing preserves, each one the distilled essence of the fruit. This week contributor Anthony Boutard describes the process used in making them, and you can get some for yourself two Sundays a month through the winter at the Ayers Creek stand at the Hillsdale Farmers' Market.

In mid-November, we made our third run down to Elmira, a small town 105 miles south of Gaston. The sky was clear and Orion's belt twinkled low and clear in the early morning sky. We left 20 minutes early, hoping to arrive before our customary 9:06 arrival time. Bogged down in Corvallis, we arrived at 9:09. Upon entering the sparkling processing room at Sweet Creek Foods, it is clear that Paul has everything set up for the day's processing run. The deseeder is in the middle of the room. Stainless steel vats were filled with fruit that had been macerating in sugar for 36 hours. On the table stood a hand-cranked juicer, a case of organic lemons, a knife and cutting board.

Sweet Creek Foods is a small processing and bottling company operated by Paul and Judy Fuller. The facility is certified organic and the Fullers pack tuna, pickles, salsas and jams under their own label. They are also a co-packer; they allow farmers to bring in fruits and vegetables they have grown for canning. Paul is a refrigeration and food processing engineer, and runs the facility. The machinery has been assembled from auctions and demolitions as the valley's smaller canneries closed their doors. It is a classic steam operated cannery, the most gentle way to process food. The machinery clanks, hisses and wheezes just like the 'African Queen'. At the center of the facility is a bottling machine Paul purchased new from Italy. There are some machines, he notes, that must be purchased new, and a bottler is one of those.

In the summer of 2005, after our second winter season at Hillsdale, we decided to produce preserves from the fruit grown at Ayers Creek, and contacted Paul and Judy whom we had met a couple of years earlier. From test runs, we knew we wanted a simple preserve made from fruit, sugar and lemon juice, without additional pectin. Adding commercial pectin dulls the acids in the fruit, and you lose its spritely quality. We also learned to cook up the fruit in small, two-gallon lots and use freshly squeezed instead of frozen lemon juice. We harvest the earliest fruit for the preserves; they have the highest concentration of pectins and acids. It works for us because there is not enough fruit in those early harvests to justify a delivery run. Mixing the fruit and sugar a day or more in advance is called "maceration" and helps free the pectins in the fruit. These complex molecules give fruit its body and, when brought to 222°F, cause the fruit to set. After explaining with due diligence that this is not the way processors make preserves, Paul set about make it work for us. 

Every single variety of fruit cooks differently. Of the fruit we process, the most difficult are the raspberries. Red raspberry should be simple, but it is a delicate fruit and quick to take umbrage at careless handling. This year's run went without a hitch and is the very best we have ever made. Blackcap and purple raspberry have hard, sharp seeds, so deseeding is essential. For some mysterious reason they also take about three times as long to cook as the other berries or the plums. We have learned to cook purples and blackcaps on separate days, and always in the morning when our humor is fresh. The raspberry, boysenberry and loganberry are the most fragrant fruit to cook. The currants are explosive in the pot and exact their share of blisters. The plums have a rolling, sensuous boil due to their heavy skins.

Working with Paul and his staff is one of the great pleasures of the year. The Fullers are in a tough, competitive business, yet they retain a playfulness and enthusiasm that makes a five-to-nine day fun. They source fruits and vegetables locally, and buy our blackberries for the preserves. The tuna is purchased from a fisherman that Paul has known for years. The wall of Judy's office is decorated with jars from the many farms they have worked with over the years. Our preserves are possible because of their vision and business acumen. The two of us have strong opinions about making preserves, yet at the end of the day full credit goes to Paul and Judy for opening such a fine little factory to so many farmers.

December in Oregon?

The thing about the weather on Oregon's coast in winter is this: you just never know. Yesterday the drive over was drizzly, and that night the roof of the 90-plus-year-old house I stayed in was hammering with the rain from a big storm front. This morning I woke up to this. By noon the thermometer read 50° in the sun, though it was a few degrees chillier on the beach with the wind from the northeast. Did the dogs mind? Did I? Not at all!

Now That's Italian…Kind Of?

Once in awhile something just strikes me and I'm compelled to go for it. Like the first time I saw Dave. Or started this blog. Or saw that little black cuteness below.

When I perused this recipe on my brother's blog, I'd never heard of braciole before, but I suddenly saw big red blinking letters that flashed "DINNER!" "DINNER!" "DINNER!" over and over. A little research revealed the pronunciation (bruh-ZHOLE) and the fact that it's normally a thin cut of beef (though it can also be fish, chicken or pork) that's spread with a filling and rolled, then pan-fried in oil.

This recipe from chef Andrew Carmellini is, to put it mildly, a deconstructed version made with beef short ribs that are browned and then braised in a tomato sauce until they're fall-apart tender. He then serves them beneath a shower of herbs and hard-boiled eggs that might, just might, pass for the stuffing. If you don't think about it too hard. Or at all.

I'm sure Italian purists would be horrified but (toe-may-toe toe-mah-toe) dang it's tasty whatever you call it.

Short Ribs Braciole

Adapted from Andrew Carmellini's Urban Italian: Simple Recipes and True Stories from a Life in Food

For the ribs:
1/2 c. roughly diced pancetta or bacon (about 1/4 lb.)
4 boneless short ribs (about 2 lbs.), cut into thirds
1 heaping Tbsp. salt
1/2 tsp. pepper
1 yellow onion, diced
3 cloves garlic, chopped
1/8 tsp. red pepper flakes
2 28-oz. cans tomatoes, plus their juice

For the topping:
1/4 c. pine nuts, chopped roughly
1 Tbsp. olive oil
1/4 c. breadcrumbs or panko
2 tsp. dried oregano
2 Tbsp. chopped parsley
a pinch each of salt and coarse-ground black pepper
3 hard-boiled eggs, roughly chopped
2 Tbsp. grated Parmigiano-Reggiano

Preheat the oven to 375°.

Cook the pancetta in a large, dry, ovenproof saucepot over medium-high heat until the fat renders, about 2 minutes, stirring occasionally to keep from sticking. Season the short ribs on both sides with salt and pepper, add them to the pan, and brown the meat, about 5 minutes. Add the onion and cook until it softens, about 1 minute. Add the garlic and the red pepper flakes, mix well, and continue cooking. Crush the tomatoes over a bowl with your hands, then add them to the pot along with their juice. Bring the mixture up to a low boil. Remove the pot from the stove and place it in the oven. Check the ribs about every 15 minutes or so to make sure they're not boiling too hard. Cook until the meat is supertender and a fork can pass through it without sticking, about 2½ hours.

Toast the pine nuts in a dry sauté pan over low heat, shaking the pan occasionally to avoid burning or sticking, about 8 minutes. Add the olive oil and mix well. Add the breadcrumbs or panko and continue cooking over low heat, mixing occasionally, until everything is toasty brown, about 2 minutes. Cool and transfer the mixture to a medium-sized mixing bowl. Add the oregano, parsley and chopped eggs. Season with the salt and pepper. Stir in the Parmigiano-Reggiano.

Remove the pot of short ribs from the oven and immediately remove the ribs to a plate, using a pair of tongs. Use a ladle to remove some of the fat from the sauce, by pressing the chunky sauce away as you tip the pot so that the ladle fills only with the clear fat. (This is optional, but it definitely makes the sauce prettier-there's about 2 tablespoons' worth of fat there.) Add 1/2 cup of water to the sauce and stir to bring it together.

Place 4 to 5 pieces of meat on each plate. Pour the sauce from the pot directly over the short ribs and sprinkle the topping generously over each dish. Serve immediately.

Making Waves

Upside down.

Who'd have thought that a little 6-lb. nymphet of a kitten could turn our lives all topsy-turvy? Her name is Otter, she's a 7-month-old spitfire with decidedly laid-back tendencies, which bodes well as she matures, and she seems completely nonplussed by the other two furry ones in the household. (Not talking about the husband or son here.)

A friend found her and her sister living in the horse barn where my friend's daughter rides. They'd been dumped there to become "barn cats," but the two half-feral cats already in residence didn't take kindly to the interlopers. Plus the kittens kept running out into the driveway to greet anyone who drove up…hmmm…black kittens, dark morning…nothing could possibly go wrong, right?

And since I was starting to feel like we were ready to jump into the kitty pool again after losing our Chester a year ago, I went out to "take a look" and, you guessed it, fell hook, line and sinker. I'll keep you updated on occasion as our ship gradually rights itself again, but I think this new crew member will fit in just fine.