Farm Bulletin: A Sense of the Organism

In the introduction of contributor Anthony Boutard's book on corn (link below), he remembers that "since childhood, I have enjoyed sweet corn from the garden. Eating fresh corn on the cob is a sensual pleasure that takes the sad edge off of the dwindling days of summer and, when I was a boy, the bittersweet start of school." Later, he and his wife, Carol, journeyed to Italy's Piedmont where they discovered what looked like Indian corn to their Western eyes, yet the Italians ground it into their famous polenta. It started them on their corn odyssey.

In 2009, we planted some corn seed given to us by someone who brought them back from Cuzco, Peru. As part of my research in writing Beautiful Corn, we planted a great many sorts that year with little regard to cross-pollination as they would not be used for seed production. The geneticist Barbara McClintock stressed the importance of developing the "sense of the organism” in her work with corn. It was sage advice. Sometimes we read a book on a crop and can’t help feeling the person lacks that sense—perhaps the information is delivered second-hand or third-hand. The Peruvian was planted in a block that included the first generation of what has become the Peace, No War flour corn; a single, chance ear of purple-colored corn in a block of blue corn that piqued our curiosity. We still have that ear with its missing kernels (top photo). We kept the chance ear planting upwind to avoid cross-pollination.

A massive branched ear.

The Peruvian plants were massive, some with a distinct purple zig-zagging stem. Multiple ears were born on long branches. Some we had to support them with fenceposts. The nodes above the ground produced aerial roots covered with a thick exudate. This August, a paper was published explaining how these exudates attract microbial communities that fix atmospheric nitrogen. They studied a variety from Oaxaca, but the gummy roots looked just like those we saw. This relationship may account for the corn's extravagance. Though for all of its vegetative drama, the Peruvian corn produced just a few ears with kernels. It was the only time we grew the Peruvian sort.

The "Esmé ear."

During that time, a friend brought Esmé Hennessy to the farm. Esmé is a botanical illustrator specializing in orchids who moved from South Africa to Portland where her son lived. She agreed to produce some illustrations for the book, so we delivered a box of ears to her house. Captivated by the odd Peruvian ear, she drew it first.

October 2018, nine years later in the Peace, No War planting, staff found a small ear strikingly similar to the ear Esmé drew. Some pollen from the Peruvian plants must have been caught in a contrarian zephyr or an eddy as the morning sun warmed the earth. Not the most elegant ear, nor as mature, but it shows how traits, such as the oddly colored kernels, can linger unexpressed in the genome. Bear in mind, we have been relentless in our quest for the darkest ear possible. We look for purple in the stem, foliage, cob, silk and kernel. At its extreme, the heavy pigmentation is a deleterious trait as the plant cannot photosynthesize adequately. As we have repeatedly said, Peace, No War is more art than agronomics. Despite the rigorous selection, the Peruvian kernel traits remained somewhere in the breeding population.

The "Esmé ear" returns.

Early on in our work with the chance ear population, just a couple dozen ears met our standards, now hundreds do. Nonetheless, off-types continue to appear because we emphasize two traits—early ripening and a high anthocyanin content. The reappearance of the traits in the peculiar ear that grabbed Esmé’s eye reminded us of other traits the Peruvian may have brought to the corn. As it happens, some other traits such as prop roots, zigzagging stalks, long ear stalks and other odds and ends may have come with those grains of pollen. Staff also brought in another variant we saw in the 2009 collection, flinty kernels with a bird’s egg mottling. That one had mature kernels so it may prompt the “Eggshell" art project, if we have space to tuck it in somewhere.

Aerial roots with exudates.

In all three lines of corn we currently maintain at the farm there is a genetic effervescence that makes them interesting. Sometimes the tassels have scattered kernels on them, sometimes the ears terminate with a small tassel. Some are so beautiful they would make a great ornamental. Geneticists apply the terms "dominant" and “recessive" to traits, though working with various crops we are happier thinking in terms of “loud” and “quiet.”

Reno Sweeney’s serenade to Billy Crocker, Public Enemy Number 13 starts “At words poetic, I’m so pathetic, that I have always found it best, instead of getting ' m off my chest, to let 'em rest unexpressed." Just as because a trait is unexpressed or quiet, as with Reno's sentiments, it does not mean it is absent; it is just silent at the moment. The intensely dark purple pigments of Peace, No War were unexpressed in the chance ear. Somewhere in next year's seed crop, some of the Peruvian traits may linger once more unexpressed. We will keep our eyes open. We see a similar quiet/loud expression in the other crops we grow for seed. Some a bit wilder, some a bit more demure.

All photos courtesy Anthony Boutard.

On-Farm Seed Production, Part Four: 'Peace, No War' Corn

When I would go to the farmers' market or the grocery store, I browsed the vegetables on offer to find the one that I deemed worthy to take home to my table. I never wondered how it got there—I assumed the farmer planted seeds from a previous crop (or a seed packet) and the vegetable would grow reliably as it had in previous seasons. It never occurred to me that what I was looking at was the result of deliberate choices on the part of the farmer (or seed breeder) over many years. The following is the final part of an article that contributor Anthony Boutard wrote for Acres USA magazine outlining that patient process. (Read the other posts in the series.)

We fielded many inquiries about blue corn so we decided to try it. Despite the expressed interest, it sold poorly. Blue cornmeal looks like concrete mix, which is off-putting to most people, ending our blue corn moment. Among the blue ears, however, we found a single purple ear. It intrigued us so we decided to plant some of its kernels. Fourteen years later, black flour corn is our art project that arose from that chance purple ear.

Package label designed and produced by Anthony Boutard.

The design brief materialized as we noticed the wide range of purples that resulted from the initial planting. Using millo corvo (crow millet), the black corn of northern Spain, as our inspiration, we decided to draw out ears with such intensely purple kernels that they appeared black. At its simplest, the purple coloration seen from the outside of the kernel results from a red pericarp and blue pigments in the aleurone layer of the endosperm. Ears with a combination of red and purple kernels were removed from the breeding population because the red kernels lacked the blue pigments.

In addition to red pigments, a wide range of purples will show up in the pericarp. These colors are regulated by a complex of genes that also lead to different pigments in the stalk, silk, cobs and leaves. These pigments are water soluble, staining the hands during harvest, and can be used as dyes. Many different shades appear and, in the extreme, some plants produce so much pigment that photosynthesis is severely reduced. The plants are beautiful, though stunted, and fail to produce any kernels.

Early ripening is an essential element of the brief. Flour type corn ripens later than the flints—some of the initial purple ears didn’t ripen until mid-November. Our goal was to have the ears ripen by early October.

Evaluating the ears.

The challenge with the flour corns is that the meal is not richly flavored compared to the flint and popcorn types, thus not great as polenta or grits. The high level of anthocyanins associated with the purple coloration also confers a slight bitterness to the meal. There is not much point in a beautiful cornmeal if it doesn’t sell. Fortunately, sweetened recipes bring out the best in the purple meal. Think of bittersweet chocolate. Cornmeal cookies and cornmeal poundcake are delicious and attractive on the plate. The water-soluble anthocyanins are also pH indicators. In Oaxaca, tamales made from purple corn are a traditional part of the “Day of the Dead” celebration, and in Ecuador the corn is used to prepare a drink for the same celebration.

As a flour corn, it is suitable for masa. However, the costs of growing flour corn in our climate, combined with hand harvesting, makes our pricing unattractive to local tortilla makers. This flour corn will remain a small fraction of our corn production and sales, which is fine. It pays for itself and is fun to grow.

When we started this project 12 years ago, the French descriptor pièce noir (black object) came to mind, but over time the homonym ‘Peace, No War’ took root. Why not have a punctuation mark in a variety name? Moreover, the initials are also those of the Pacific Northwest, the region where we farm.

Conclusion

We still use our old Citroën 2CV around the farm. The design brief developed in the 1930s remains useful. That said, we must carefully maintain it or it will fall apart. Crop varieties are no different. They are subject to genetic entropy, the inexorable natural process that moves a crop from a highly ordered state to a less ordered state unless energy is devoted to keeping the genetics well ordered. In the cases of melon and chicory varieties described in previous installments, we had to restore a variety that had started to fall apart, adding a few flourishes of our own. With the corn (above) and tomatoes, we continue to trick them out, adding pigment through selection and pushing them to go a bit faster.

The process of shepherding a variety tailored to your preferences, the region and ground where you grow, and your customers, is a satisfying creative effort. As the design brief develops and evolves, you gain an intimacy with the crop that can never be captured by simply reading a catalogue entry. That said, the gardener or farmer also gains a deeper respect and appreciation for the effort that goes into producing that good variety they purchase from the seed catalogue.

Note: Each crop has its own protocol for seed production and I have refrained from getting into the specifics. The following books are excellent references on seed production:

Ashworth, Susan. 2002. Seed to Seed: Seed saving and growing techniques for vegetable gardeners. Decorah, Iowa: Seed Savers Exchange

Deppe, Carol. 1993. Breed Your Own Vegetable Varieties: The Gardeners and Farmers Guide to Plant Breeding and Seed Saving. Boston: Little, Brown and Co.

Read the other posts in the series. All photos by Anthony Boutard.

More Borş: This Time a Risotto!

Okay, I may be needing an intervention over my current obsession with this fermented grain thing, but really, guys, it's pretty amazing stuff. And easy as pie—though, compared to what's involved in making pie, it's more like, I don't know, making a peanut butter sandwich. But that's not how the saying goes, so I hope you catch my drift.

I got a note recently from a reader who saw one of the previous posts about this fermented grain stock, and was moved to share this:

"I am Romanian—I actually came to the USA four years ago, but lived for 20 years in Austria—and my grandmother was doing her own borş and we used it for soups all the time! I still remember the taste, and the big jar that was always standing at our kitchen table. We do eat a lot of soups in Romania, which means I had lots of borş in my lifetime!" 

Stock made from Peace, No War corn is in upper left. So pink!

I've now made three kinds of stock, all from Ayers Creek Farm ground grains: one from yellow flint corn that went into a posole, and the second from Peace, No War purple corn that made a fabulous risotto chock full of sautéed Arch Cape chicory and onions. The third was a barley stock for a parched green wheat soup with carrots and kale and a bit of bacon. All the stocks were distinctive, rich and full-flavored, particularly the purple corn stock, which had an almost meaty quality. As a matter of fact, I used it instead of beef broth to make a beef stroganoff, and couldn't tell the difference in the finished dish.

And the Pepto-Bismol pink color of the stock made from his purple corn? Anthony Boutard (of Ayers Creek Farm) has this to say:

The color comes from the anthocyanins in the corn. It is my art project, selecting for an intense mix of these water soluble pigments. Some of the anthocyanins are pH indicators, including those in corn. You start with that dark blue at around pH 7 and, as the brine acidifies, reaches pH 3.7, it becomes that beautiful fuchsia color. Otherwise, there is no specific culinary reason for the effort on my part. 

As an aside, the plant genus Fuchsia is named in honor of the German botanist and doctor Leonhard Fuchs (1501-1566). His herbal was cited by successor herbal publications, including Gerard. Several species have him as their authority as indicated by L. Fuchs following the Latin binomial.

So if you're game to try it, check out the recipe. It takes four to five days to ferment on your counter (or, as mentioned above, on your table), but it's so worth it!

Chicory and Onion Risotto with Fermented Grain Stock
Inspired by the fabulous Linda Colwell

For the chicory:
2 Tbsp. olive oil
1 yellow onion, chopped in 1/2-inch dice
3 garlic cloves, chopped fine
12 oz. sturdy chicory (like Arch Cape, radicchio or treviso), roughly chopped

For the risotto:
2 Tbsp. butter
2 Tbsp. olive oil
2 c. arborio rice
1/2 c. dry white or rosé wine
4-5 c. fermented grain stock (I used fermented purple corn stock)
1 c. parmesan, grated fine

For the chicory, heat the oil in a skillet over medium-high heat until it shimmers, then add the chopped onion. Sauté until tender, then add the garlic and chicory and sauté until the chicory is wilted and tender but still has some crunch. Set aside.

For the risotto, heat the butter and olive oil over medium-high heat in a large pot or deep skillet until it melts, then add the rice. Stirring to prevent sticking, cook until it is hot and well-coated with oil, 2-3 minutes, then add the wine. Stir until the wine is absorbed and then add a ladle of stock, stirring until it's absorbed into the rice. Keep adding ladles of stock, letting each one absorb, until the rice is cooked but still has a nice resistance, then stir in the chicory and cheese. Serve with more parmesan at the table, if desired.

* * *

Addendum from Anthony:

After making and using the grain brines for more than a year and a half, their utter simplicity is their virtue. I have not tired of them. A jar or two sit in the refrigerator at all times. It is not an obsession, no more than using water or milk in dishes is an obsession. Just a fine and versatile ingredient that deserves greater recognition. For the life of me, I can’t understand why the grain brines remain unexplored.

Saturday, I made a clam chowder using brine with onions, potatoes and celery, and a bit of cream. The chowder bridged the realm between New England and Manhattan styles in absolute perfection. The New England richness offset by the brightness of the tomato-based Manhattan version. In seafood chowders as a general matter, nothing else satisfies, having used the brine. Last night we had bay shrimp in a white sauce made from half milk, half brine, and served over rice.

Tomorrow, it will be a beef brisket braised in some brine. For the last two Thanksgivings, we have made gravies using the brine in the place of stock. Likewise, perfect for braising lamb shanks. Soups featuring mushrooms and fungi also fare much better when brine is used instead of meat stock.

I like meat stocks and a turkey stock is what drives me to cook the otherwise just satisfactory fowl. A good beef, pork or chicken stock is wonderful, but they are too often added to dishes in a perfunctory manner where they flatten or detract from the flavor of the primary ingredient. The brines have just the opposite effect, brightening and accentuating the primary ingredient. Not always desirable, but a good starting point.

What intrigues me is the fact that so many Eastern Europeans describe these brines so vividly and with such fond memories, yet they seem to have abandoned them to nostalgia, or buy the stuff as a processed food in specialty stores. I think they have shrouded them with such mystery because no one bothered to make them simple and as easy as Sea-Monkeys.

I have packaged a coarsely ground barley for Josh at Barbur World Foods. I have an index card attached with simple instructions, and non-metric, Sea Monkeys-worthy measurements:

Grain brines are a nourishing and flavorful ingredient prepared from coarsely ground meal soured by lactic acid fermentation. Use the brines in place of meat stocks or where a recipe calls for wine. For example, in making a risotto, fish chowder, mushroom soup, white sauces, or braising meats. Excellent for vegan dishes.

 Use a very clean 2-quart mason jar. Add one cup of barley and three tablespoons of kosher salt. Fill the jar to the top with warm water and screw on the lid. Shake and leave on the counter at room temperature. Loosen the lid slightly while it is fermenting.

Read more of Anthony's writings in his Farm Bulletins. It's time well-spent.

Farm Bulletin: 3. Lento assai, cantate e tranquillo—Stately (very slow), singing and peaceful

In this first of of two essays, contributor Anthony Boutard of Ayers Creek Farm gives us an idea of what it takes to selectively breed a new type of corn. As you read it, note that when he says "sixth iteration," it's a farmer's shorthand for six years, since each crop takes a full year to reveal its characteristics. It starts with a "Hm, that's interesting" oddball variation on an ear of corn, kernels of which are planted out in the field the next year, more selections are made and planted the year after that, etc., etc. And that's not accounting for failures or other problems encountered on the way. Stately, slow (and at times frustrating) for sure.

We will approach this market* with a measured, restrained pace, tent assembled to provide shelter from the rain. Consistent with the notation in the title, the market's 10 a.m. opening will be ushered in with the Robert Gray Panache choir singing peaceful songs of the season.

We will bring our gift packs of preserves to this market and the next. This year, the $25 gift box includes raspberry, purple raspberry, loganberry and green gage. Always a good idea to hold a few boxes in reserve for those moments when a gracious reciprocation is needed.

Anthony evaluating an ear of corn.

This week we will have corn from the sixth iteration of the "Peace, No War" art project. Descended from a chance ear with purple kernels, we have been reselecting the corn for ever darker kernels, and some ears are so densely pigmented they approach a matt black. In the Spanish area of Meiro (Galicia), they grow a similar corn and it is called millo corvo. The key to a flavorful grain corn in Oregon is to move ripening time into September when we have the sun and heat to produce a quality kernel. The original ripened in late October, and did not have the quality we wanted. It is a matter of nudging the corn earlier, and now a substantial proportion is ripe just past mid September.

The beautiful purple-red stalks of Peace Not War.

The purple/black corn results from the layering of a deep blue aleurone under a red skin (pericarp). The dominant pigments are water soluble anthocyanins, and like the related pigments in red wine, they confer a slight astringency to the grain. Peace, No War is a flour corn, so it is much lower in protein than our other sorts, with a lighter texture as a result. Cornmeal cookies are a holiday favorite, and you can now have three different types. The purple flour corn produces the lightest version of the cookies. The anthocyanins in many plants, including our peaceful corn and the purple sweet potatoes, are pH indicators. With the acid in the lime juice and zest, as well as the use of baking powder, the color of these cookies is a lovely lavender-pink.

Ears are saved for further evaluation.

If the cornmeal is used with alkaline ingredients such as baking soda, the pigments turn a dark blue-black. You see it happen if you put a bit of purple cornmeal, moistened with water, in a bowl with some baking soda. Add some vinegar and the dark mix turns pink. A few years ago, our friend Vonda came to us quite perplexed. She made a sweet potato pancake recipe and they turned green. As it turned out, she used a mix of purple and yellow fleshed sweet potatoes, and the recipe used baking soda. At the proportions she used, the mix turned bright green. The yellow pigments are carotenoids and are unaffected by pH. With the right recipe, you could probably turn out a green cornmeal cookie or cornbread for St. Patrick's day using a mix of the Peace, No War and Roy's Calais Flint meal.

* Hillsdale Farmers' Market, Dec. 6, 2015