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.

Corn Salad: Distillation of Late Summer

It was going to be a perfect summer evening, I just knew it. There was an invitation from friends for a dinner on their patio, along with a demonstration after the meal of their newly installed gas fire pit. Grilled pork loin with a guajillo chile sauce was the focus, and when I asked what we could contribute, our host requested a vegetable side dish.

Sweet corn has been on my mind lately, and I pondered the possibilities. A corn pudding, perhaps? But a quinoa salad was already on the menu, so no. But a corn salad? Now there was something to chew on. Recently my brother had a made a salad to go with a grilled paella—albacore, raw corn sliced fresh off the cob and lettuce dressed with light vinaigrette—that had entranced me. And so many of the Mexican dishes that caught my eye while browsing my collection of Diana Kennedy's cookbooks had combinations of right-from-the-field vegetables caught at their peak of ripeness.

So I hit the market and bought whatever seemed to be almost jumping off the tables and into my basket, begging me to bring them home. Again, a simple spritz of lime juice, a splash of olive oil and a showering of salt was all they needed to shine, plus a super-simple avocado crema to serve alongside adding a certain sumptuousness, and my vegetable side was good to go.

Despite a last-minute (but welcome) rain shower just before we arrived, the evening was perfection. And the fire pit? Worked like a charm as we sipped our dessert wine and watched Jupiter transit the twilight sky over the Coast Range.

Corn Salad with Avocado Crema

For the corn salad:
1 15-1/2 oz. can black beans, drained and rinsed
4 ears corn, kernels sliced fresh off the cob
1/2 red onion, halved lengthwise and slivered crosswise
1/2 large cucumber, seeded and diced, or two small Persian cucumbers, chopped
1 large ripe tomato, chopped (about 2 c.)
1 Tbsp. fresh-squeezed lime juice
1 Tbsp. olive oil
Salt to taste

For the avocado crema:
1 c. milk
1 clove garlic
2 avocados
2 Tbsp. lime juice
1 c. sour cream
Salt to taste

In a large mixing bowl combine the black beans, corn kernels, onion, cucumber and tomato. Pour in the lime juice and olive oil and stir gently to mix.

In the bowl of a food processor pour in the milk and add the garlic, avocados and lime juice. Process until completely smooth, scraping down the sides as necessary to incorporate all the ingredients. Add sour cream and pulse until just mixed, then add salt to taste.

The crema makes almost four cups, which is more than enough to serve a small amount alongside the salad, but it is also spectacular as a dip for chips or in tacos or burritos. It'll keep for at least a week stored in the fridge, so don't be afraid to make the whole batch. (It can also be halved if you don't want to make the whole amount.)

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.

In Season NW: Cherry, Corn & Poblano Salsa

Ripe, round, luscious Northwest cherries. An ear of sweet corn. A melon at the peak of ripeness. Add a little heat from a roasted chile and the zing from citrus, and you've got one of the great bites of summer.

My friend Michel put these brilliant ingredients together a few years ago, and it's become one of our go-to summer salsas with backyard grilled salmon. It just so happened that I stopped by Providore on Sandy, and Lyf Gildersleeve of Flying Fish was featuring bright orange Kenai salmon filets. Then I noticed Josh Alsberg of Rubinette Produce had just brought in some juicy dark cherries from Baird Orchards, so dinner was basically planned for me.

I might just have to stop by the farmers' market this weekend and get the makings for another batch!

Cherry, Corn and Poblano Salsa

1 c. corn kernels (about 1 ear)
1 pt. cherries, pitted and halved
1 mango, melon or ripe pear, cut in small dice
1 roasted poblano or ancho chile, chopped
1 serrano chile, seeded and chopped
2 green onions, chopped
Juice of 1 lime
2 Tbsp. chopped cilantro
Salt to taste

Combine ingredients and serve. Amounts and ingredients can be varied depending on what you have on hand.

For more super summer recipes, check out my recipe for Pulled Pork with Cherries and Apricots or this Grilled Corn Salad with Cherry Tomatoes.

Farm Bulletin: Growing a Better Popcorn

I had always assumed that farmers either bought seed from seed companies or saved seed from their own crops, simply replanting them every year. It never occurred to me that farmers could actually develop their own crops by selecting for various characteristics like flavor and the ability to thrive in the field in winter. This essay by contributor Anthony Boutard of Ayers Creek Farm outlines his journey with one variety of corn to achieve a particular result—a perfect popcorn.

It came to us as "Pennsylvania Dutch Butter Flavored Popcorn," a dry mouthful by any measure, and one of numerous popcorn varieties we tried early in the corn project. We have found when seed house descriptions lovingly linger of the color of the kernel and its diminutive proportions, just around the corner disappointment also lingers. That is a certainty. A few years ago, Glass Gem corn was released with great fanfare. Rhapsodic descriptions of its immense and ancient beauty spilled forth. Our mailbox filled with forwarded links to the breathless description. Not a whisper about its flavor, though, and since then the hype has faded. The best we have heard is that it is not really bad. In contrast, the descriptions of the Pennsylvania Dutch Butter Flavored Popcorn made note of the buttery flavor, going so far as to assert that butter was wasted on it. That hooked us.

This year's harvest…that's alotta popcorn!

The first year we planted Pennsylvania Dutch Butter Flavored Popcorn we were immediately struck by what a mess it was, not just a plain, off-white kernel, but the ears were runty and malformed, a substantial proportion of kernels prone to silk cut, a defect which means they don't pop. The plants lodged—fell over—at the merest zephyr. Then there was the insanely long name. Linda Colwell helped us many a gloomy afternoon as we salvaged the early crops. The challenge posed by the litany of flaws could not distract us from the lovely flavor. Reminiscent of Osgood Fielding III* as he patiently hears out Daphne's long list flaws, no corn is perfect.

Amish Butter polenta, great with lamb (recipe).

With time, we have managed to eliminate most of the flaws in Pennsylvania Dutch Butter Flavored Popcorn. The geneticist Barbara McClintock describes the process as getting "a sense of the organism." Previously, we have described the process as developing a design brief. Once smitten, your focus shifts to teasing out certain qualities. The grower uncovers the genetic map walking down the row and observing each plant, cataloging the variation. One of the first flaws was easily eliminated by renaming it the not-quite-synonymous but much shorter "Amish Butter." From 38 letters down to an efficient eleven. Likewise, silk cut went rapidly from 38% to 11%, and now it is just a fraction of a percent. Slowly, other growers have followed suit on the name, some keeping the "flavored popcorn" as though it would clarify something.

Linda Colwell's Sibley squash tamales.

Early on, we also discovered is its fine quality as ground corn. Popcorn has the highest protein content of the corn types, and it makes perfect sense that this variety that happens to pop would make a good cornmeal for cooking up as polenta. The white polenta works well with fungi, cheese, lamb and seafood. It also makes a lovely hominy, superb in a seafood pozole. After the New Year, Linda came over with a selection of her expertly prepared Amish Butter tamales. Just as we have developed a sense of the organism, Linda has developed a keen sense of the ingredient. This is why we must leave out popcorn from its name, unless we are selling kernels for that purpose. No corn is perfect, but Amish Butter is damn close. Come to think of it, Jack Lemmon was pretty close to perfect as well.

* Osgood Fielding III (Character)
from Some Like It Hot (1959)

Osgood Fielding III (l, played by Joe E. Brown) and Daphne (played by Jack Lemmon)

Jerry: Oh no you don't! Osgood, I'm gonna level with you. We can't get married at all.
Osgood: Why not?
Jerry: Well, in the first place, I'm not a natural blonde.
Osgood: Doesn't matter.
Jerry: I smoke! I smoke all the time!
Osgood: I don't care.
Jerry: Well, I have a terrible past. For three years now, I've been living with a saxophone player.
Osgood: I forgive you.
Jerry: [tragically] I can never have children!
Osgood: We can adopt some.
Jerry: But you don't understand, Osgood! Ohh...
[Jerry finally gives up and pulls off his wig]
Jerry: [normal voice] I'm a man!
Osgood: [shrugs] Well, nobody's perfect!
[Jerry looks on with disbelief as Osgood continues smiling with indifference. Fade out]

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

The Pleasures of Summer: Grilled Corn Salad

Everyone who knows me knows that I love my freezer. Small but mighty, our little upright can hold the butchered meat from a half pig and a whole lamb, a five-gallon bucket of blackberries, a dozen jars of freezer jam and the zip-locked bags (and bags and bags…) of roasted tomatoes that will see us through the winter.

The tomatoes that I thaw for sauces and braising this winter will conjure memories of the heat of summer, when I stood in the kitchen, knife in hand, chopping the big, heart-shaped astiana tomatoes into chunks to roast over a smoky fire. The berries, baked into cobblers and crisps on cold, rainy nights, will remind me of the taste of those same berries, popped fresh from the canes into my mouth, bursting with warm juice.

But, delicious as they are, they're still just stand-ins for the genuine articles that are flooding into local farmers' markets even as you read this. (Seriously, there are 60 farmers' markets in the metro area going on seven days a week during harvest season!) So I can only encourage you to go out and stuff yourself with tomatoes, corn, tomatillos, berries and melons to cement their height-of-the-season flavor in your mind, the better to reminisce over their flavors this winter, and look forward to their coming again next summer.

Grilled Corn Salad

6 ears of corn
1/2 red onion, chopped fine
2 dozen or so cherry tomatoes, halved
1/4 c. olive oil
Juice of 1 lime
1-2 cloves garlic, pressed through garlic press (1-2 tsp.)
1/2 c. finely chopped cilantro
Salt to taste

Optional add-ins:
Cooked, crumbled bacon
One cucumber, peeled, seeded and chopped into 1/4" cubes
One red bell pepper, chopped fine
Red pepper flakes

Build a fire in your grill. Shuck the corn, remove silks and break off end stalks. Place corn over a hot bed of coals, turning when the side facing the coals turns dark brown. (You can also boil the corn if you want.) When corn is done, cool slightly and stand ear upright, thick end down, on cutting board. Run sharp knife from the top to the bottom of the ear, cutting off the kernels. (Save the shaved cobs for making stock.)

In large salad bowl, combine all salad ingredients and toss. The salad will be better if allowed to stand at room temperature for an hour or so to allow the flavors to combine, so it's great to make ahead if you're grilling steaks or meats…just grill the corn first and make the salad.

Find more corn and tomato salad recipes, one from Jim Dixon and one from Mark Bittman.

Farm Bulletin: Purity That's Above Reproach

Seeds are the kernels from which farm families derive their livelihoods, a vital resource fostered and selected over many seasons for flavor, hardiness and quality. Contributor Anthony Boutard of Ayers Creek Farm was recently asked to submit some of his hard-won flint corn seed for testing, and reluctantly gave some up for that purpose, not out of fear of what might be found out, but because each one is a precious commodity, the end point of years of work.

We produce our own seed for many of the vegetables, legumes and grains we grow, reselecting each year for better traits and quality. This summer, Brian Campbell and Crystine Goldberg of Uprising Seeds asked if they could include some of our varieties in their 2015 seed catalogue. We agreed and the next thing you know, they need to check our corn seed for genetic contamination.

Is it good enough?

It was with a heavy heart that we posted seed to them knowing that those beautiful kernels would be completely destroyed and then probed for any violation of their purity. The reason we grow food is knowing the pleasure it gives the people who eat it, not to have it suspiciously handled by an uncaring and unloving lab technician.

We have recovered, but it took a psychic toll. For what it is worth, the purity of our Amish Butter and Roy's Calais Flint is unchallenged, free of any corrupting genes. We knew this intuitively from working with the corn so intimately, but the cold, clinical diagnosis provides additional validation of our effort. Ultimately, though, it is not the negative—non-GMO—that we are striving for, it is the lovely, rich flavor those two varieties of corn bring to the table. We are glad that we are of a mind with Brian and Crystine on this substantive point.

Corn Salsa

Fresh corn pretty much nails it on all of my sensual fronts. Taste? Sweet and light. Texture? First the pop of the kernel, then the creaminess inside. Smell? Earthy and ethereal all at the same time. Sight? That beautiful yellow, the shine on the kernels, the juice oozing out. The sound might be a stretch, but I guess you could listen to the scrunching as you bite into the cob, or the popping of the kernels when you chomp down.

And don't forget to use those stripped cobs, yes, even the whole ones that have been served to your family, to make a corn stock to make soups and risottos. Throwing them into the compost without first boiling off the juices is now, for me, akin to throwing out a fish carcass without roasting it for the meat left on the bones. And while it's terrific fresh, I've always got a few bags of frozen kernels stashed away in the freezer from this most fleeting of summer pleasures.

The following recipe for corn salsa is almost a salad by itself, but is also great with tacos and Mexican-inflected dishes. I think it would be fabulous with grilled fish, too.

Corn Salsa

2 ears of corn, kernels removed
1/4 red onion, chopped fine
1/2 red bell pepper, chopped fine
1 small avocado, ripe but still firm, diced
1 serrano chile, seeded and membranes removed, minced
2 Tbsp. cilantro, chopped fine
Juice of 1/2 lime
2 Tbsp. olive oil
Salt to taste

Place ingredients in medium mixing bowl and gently combine.

Shelling Corn the Old-Fashioned Way

There's the easy way and then there's the slow way. In describing how Anthony and Carol Boutard process the Roy's Calais Flint corn they grow at Ayers Creek Farm, I said that Carol used a hand-cranked, cast iron corn sheller to take the dried kernels off the corncobs.

Roy's Calais Flint corn…beautiful!

Yesterday it was my turn to learn how that part of the process works by helping Anthony shell and clean 10 large bags of corn, ending up with 175 pounds of shelled corn kernels.

Why don't they just buy an automated machine that would do the same job faster and easier? Anthony said that at a cost of more than $20,000 and at their scale of production it doesn't make economic sense. That means the old hand-cranked sheller is assured of many more seasons of work.

The "L" Word: Salmon Two Ways

I went a little crazy buying fish this past year, but my excuse is that the stores were offering such darn great prices. I mean, two whole albacore tunas and two gigantic salmon, both filleted on the spot with the bones and heads bagged and ready to go in the stock pot for half (or less) of what they normally go for? It was a deal I obviously couldn't resist.

Beautiful Northwest salmon. Wow.

All this is to introduce a dilemma, albeit a delicious one, that I faced last week: a friend from New York was visiting his family over the Thanksgiving holiday and we'd cajoled him into stopping by before he flew out of town. A freelance writer and playwright, his first produced play will be opening in January in the Big Apple, a pretty darn momentous event that deserved to be celebrated.

Contestant #1: Salmon mac'n'cheese.

My thoughts immediately swam to one of those amazing salmon fillets waiting patiently in the freezer, envisioning it glistening from the heat and smoke of the grill, served with a risotto of wild chanterelles and an oh-so-Northwest kale salad. So that took care of dinner. For four people. Which meant that there was a huge amount, probably at least two pounds, of gorgeously smoky cooked salmon left over.

Contestant #2: Salmon and corn chowder.

What to do? Well, two ideas came to mind, one a completely over-the-top, possibly much-too-much, macaroni and cheese casserole with chunked salmon folded in at the last minute. The other was a more sedate, but totally delicious, salmon chowder with corn and bacon.

I made both (on separate nights) and put them to a family vote. Which did they like better?

To my surprise, the mac'n'cheese (top photo) was the winner, selected because, well, it's a darn good recipe for that cheesy classic and the smoky salmon was perfectly complemented, but not overwhelmed by, the sharp cheddar. Though the voters said that any time I wanted to make the salmon chowder again, they'd be willing to help make it disappear. So nice!

Decadent Macaroni and Cheese with Salmon

1 lb. dried pasta
4 Tbsp. butter*
4 Tbsp. flour
2 c. milk*
3/4 lb. extra-sharp cheddar cheese, grated
8 oz. cream cheese*
1/2 tsp. hot pepper sauce
Salt and pepper to taste
2-3 c. cooked salmon, chunked into bite-sized pieces
Smoked Spanish paprika (pimenton), optional

Boil large pot of water. While water is heating, melt butter in medium-sized saucepan. Remove from burner and add flour, stirring to combine. Place back on burner and cook on low heat for 1 minute, stirring constantly. Add milk gradually, stirring/whisking until it thickened, then add cheese in handfuls until melted. Add cream cheese and stir until sauce is thick and creamy, then add hot sauce with salt and pepper to taste.

Add pasta to boiling water and cook till al dente. Drain and put back in pasta pot, add salmon and cheese sauce and stir gently to combine. Transfer to baking dish. Sprinkle with smoked paprika, if desired. Bake in 350 degree oven 30 minutes.

* For Dave, who is lactose intolerant, I use margarine instead of butter, substitute lactose-free whole milk for the regular milk and Tofutti cream cheese for the cream cheese. It works great…even the lactose-loving will rave.

* * *

Salmon Chowder with Corn and Bacon

3 slices bacon, cut in 1/4" pieces
2 Tbsp. butter*
1 onion, chopped fine
2 cloves garlic, minced
3 potatoes, chopped into 1/2" dice
2 c. fresh or frozen corn kernels
2 c. chicken stock, fish stock or corn stock
4 c. milk
2-3 c. cooked salmon, flaked
Salt and pepper to taste

Cook bacon pieces in a large soup pot over medium-high heat until the fat is rendered and the bacon is cooked but not crispy. Add the onion and garlic and sauté till translucent, then add the butter and allow it to melt. Add potatoes and sauté till slightly tender. Add corn and stir to bring up to temperature, then pour in stock and milk. Add salt and pepper to taste. Bring to simmer and cook until potatoes are completely tender. Adjust salt and pepper to taste. Add the salmon to the pot and stir gently until it's just warmed (a minute or so).

* As in the mac'n'cheese recipe above, margarine was used in place of butter and whole lactose-free milk was substituted for the regular milk.

In Season NW: Summer Means Corn

Contributor Jim Dixon of RealGoodFood is a griller extraordinaire, and cooks on little else other than his Weber during the summer. I can tell already that this version of grilled corn is going to be appearing regularly on our summer table.

The summer’s heat means fresh corn, and it is a beautiful thing. Most of the corn grown for eating (as opposed to processing) is super sweet, not just a superlative description but a class of cultivars that have a lot more sugar than the older, plain old sweet varieties. It might not taste as “corny” as the sweet, but it doesn’t become starchy so quickly, a tradeoff I can live with since it’s no longer necessary to get the corn cooked immediately after picking.

I like fresh corn almost any way, but of course these days I’m cooking it over fire. I shuck the ears and put them right over the coals so those sugars can caramelize. I’ll even admit that most of the time I eat it with butter (sometimes olive oil, but corn on the cob seems made for butter), but I like to mix it up, too, by adding this very simple spice rub.

Grilled Corn with Za’atar & Aleppo Pepper

If you don’t have any za’atar in the cupboard, make a batch by toasting some sesame seeds, then mixing with ground sumac, dried thyme and Pantellerian oregano (I mix roughly equal parts, but some folks like more herbs than sesame and sumac). You may also need to drive to Barbur World Foods for a jar of the mildly spicy Aleppo pepper*, or substitute a mild chile powder (not as good, but okay).

Mix a couple of big spoonfuls of za’atar with half as much Aleppo pepper, add a little good salt (the Sicilian fine sea salt I have is perfect) and stir in enough extra virgin olive oil to make a thin paste.

Grill some corn, slather with the za’atar mix and eat.

* Aleppo pepper is also available at Penzey's and other stores that carry a wide range of specialty spices.

Rice Two Ways

The reasons I love contributor Jim Dixon's recipes are that they're invariably easy, they use seasonal (and even leftover) ingredients and he's not dogmatic in his approach. In this post he takes on that most seventies of grains, brown rice. And, as he mentions, you should feel free to substitute good quality brown rice for the Kokuho.

I love the brown rice I get from Koda Farms. I never really liked brown rice before I started eating Koda’s Kokuho Rose heirloom varietal, but to be fair, that other stuff was probably cooked poorly. The Koda rice requires some effort (soak, cook, rest, fluff, rest; I use a rice cooker, and the whole process takes more than an hour) to taste good, and maybe if all that brown rice I didn’t like had been given the same attention it would’ve been better.


I don’t mind taking the time to make the Koda rice, but lately I’ve tried using the Italian approach: cook it like pasta. Add the rice (without soaking) to a pot of well-salted boiling water, keep it boiling for 30 minutes, drain, return to the pot and let it sit, covered, for 15 minutes. The rice emerges fluffy and a little less sticky than the rice cooker version.

Sometimes I want that, like when I’m serving the rice alongside something hot and savory. But the Italian method gives me the perfect rice for a composed salad like this.

Brown Rice, Corn, & Mint Salad

The “composition” of most of the salads I make depends on what kind of leftovers I have. In this case, a few ears of roasted corn from a few nights earlier. I sliced the kernels off the cob while a chopped onion soaked in a bowl of Katz Late Harvest Zinfandel vinegar. I combined all that with a handful of mint from the garden, chopped roughly, and a generous pour of extra virgin olive oil. A good sprinkle of flor de sal and it was ready.

You don’t need leftover corn to make rice salad. Just take a look in the refrigerator, add something from the garden or market, and use plenty of good olive oil and vinegar. But have some rice ready to go, too.

Crustacean Celebration: DIY Crab & Corn Chowder

Like many city folk, I've left lots of my life's tasks to the more able hands of others. Vehicle maintenance, sewing my own clothing and remodeling the house among them. I delved into butchering meat with Roger the pig. But I'd always delegated cleaning crabs to the person behind the fish counter at the store because it was easier and, frankly, because I didn't want to deal with the "yuck" factor of the gooey bits.

Pulling off the back (called the "plate").

Then more adventurous friends started buying live crabs, boiling them in a big pot and cleaning them, all the while insisting that it wasn't that bad and was simple to boot. So one day I decided to bite the bullet, and when the clerk asked if I'd like it cleaned, I said, "No, thanks. I'll do it myself." Her look of surprise and respect was totally worth it even if it turned into a fiasco once I got the buggers home.

Plate off, about to get cleaned.

Luckily, our West Coast Dungeness crabs are relatively big and easy to handle. So since it was already cooked, all it took was holding the crab over the sink with the rear of it toward me. I put my thumbs on either side of the body and popped the back plate off. Then I pulled off the feathery white lungs and discarded them and, since I don't use the greenish-yellow stuff called the "tomalley" (it's actually the crab's liver and some people love it), I just ran it briefly under cold water to wash it out. There are usually some bony bits at the front that I tear off, too.

See? That wasn't so bad!

With the crab essentially cleaned at that point, I broke off the legs and cracked the central body in half to make it easier to get the meat out. My friend Hank Shaw wrote and illustrated step-by-step instructions on how to pick the crab meat, so if you need help on that front check out his guide.

Parted out and ready to pick.

With the macho work done, I decided to kick off the Crustacean Celebration this year with a warm and comforting chowder. The weather had been pretty rainy and cold, and I'd seen several recipes that paired corn and crab. So a creamy soup using those two ingredients seemed like a natural fit.

If you do decide to impress your local fishmonger, not to mention your friends and family, with your courage and perspicacity by cleaning your own, you'll have something delicious to show for it when you tell your tale of derring-do.

Corn and Crab Chowder

2 Tbsp. butter or margarine
1 onion, chopped fine
2 cloves garlic, minced
3 potatoes, chopped into 1/2" dice
2 c. fresh or frozen corn kernels
4 c. fish stock or corn stock
2 c. milk
Meat from 1 large crab, about 1/2-1 lb.
Salt and pepper to taste

Melt butter or margarine in soup pot over medium heat. Add onion and garlic and sauté till translucent, then add potatoes and sauté till potatoes are nearly tender. Add corn and stir to bring up to temperature, then pour in stock and milk. Add salt and pepper to taste. Bring to simmer and cook until potatoes are completely tender and flavors have melded together. Adjust salt and pepper to taste. At this point you can add the crab to the pot until it's just warmed (a minute or less), or divide the crab meat between serving bowls and pour the hot chowder over the top. (The point is to keep the crab as succulent as possible…by the time you get it to the table the crab in the bowls will be warm.)

This year's Crustacean Celebration also features a fabulous Beach Cioppino and Crab Niçoise. Read last season's series starting with And They're Off!, and the previous year's series kicking off with a Hot Artichoke and Crab Dip (with links to other posts in the series).

Summer Salad Smackdown: Celebrate the Sun!

It's the peak of the harvest at farms and markets in Oregon, and it's all the sweeter for the waiting. Contributor Jim Dixon of RealGoodFood gives us one way to make the best of it.

As a lifelong resident of western Oregon, I can truly say that this summer sucked when it came to weather. The last few days acquitted the year a bit, but they really couldn’t make up for the cold and wet of spring, July and almost all of August (June is always rainy, so I’m willing to let that month go).

Whatever you might believe about global climate, what’s making our seasonal lives, if not really miserable, at least less pleasant than we’d like, is La Niña. I’m not going to even try to explain it—just go here. Very helpful charts and data, but the bottom line is that it’s coming back next year. And that’s your good news for the week.

On a brighter note, the hot weather makes corn taste great. I got some amazing corn from Sauvie Island at New Seasons, and I made this.

Pan-Roasted Corn and Tomato Salad

Cut the kernels from a few ears of corn. It's messy no matter how you do it; I like to shuck the ears, break them in half, and put the relatively flat broken end on the cutting board, then slice the kernels off with sharp knife. Cook them in extra virgin olive oil over medium high until they brown just a bit, maybe 5-8 minutes.

Slice a sweet onion thinly (or a shallot, regular onion, or another allium); mix with a healthy splash of good vinegar (one of the Katz late harvest vinegars, with their slightly sweet flavor, work really well) and let sit for a few minutes.

Slice a bunch of cherry tomatoes in half (or cut some full-sized ones into small pieces). Pick the leaves from a few stems of fresh oregano (other herbs may be substituted). Soak a couple of tablespoons of salt-packed capers, chop coarsely and combine with everything else. Drizzle with good oil, sprinkle with flor de sal, eat at room temperature.

Farm Bulletin: Wheat Fruits

If you're like me and have been confused about wheat, corn and whether to soak beans or just cook them and get it over with, contributor Anthony Boutard of Ayers Creek Farm has the answer for you. So stick with this one, read it all the way through, and all will be revealed.

Not too many years ago, the term "wheat berry" slipped into the culinary lexicon, probably from the purveyors of sugary breakfast material. We know it is a lost cause, but as berry and wheat growers, it still sticks in our craw. Not only is there nary a trace of resemblance between a kernel of wheat and a berry, but it has also displaced two very good words to describe the food: wheat kernels and wheat grains. They are part of our language. We talk about a "grain of truth" or a "kernel of truth," never a "berry of truth." Ah, but as so often happens, there is grain of truth in the term, even though it obviously seeped out of some sort of crude marketing scheme now lost to memory. Both berries and wheat kernels are types of fruit.

A flint corn kernel split the same way as the wheat at top, with the embryo at the bottom. The lighter band of cells just under the skin is the aleurone layer.

The wheat kernel (top, with the relatively small embryo at the left) is a fruit characteristic of the grasses. Kernels of corn, millet, barley and wheat, and the seed you sow to grow a lawn, are all a fruit called a caryopsis. But, you aver, fruits are seeds surrounded by pulpy flesh, often sweet and delectable, and wheat looks just like a seed. Actually, a fruit is the ovary tissue that remains with the seed after it detaches from the mother plant, whether it is fleshy, pulpy or dry. The outer part of the wheat kernel, called the bran, or the pericarp among botanists, is actually the remains of the plant's ovary tissue that has dried, forming a hard protective coat. Inside the thin pericarp lies the seed itself. If you look very closely, the fruit of wheat has a characteristic shock of white bristles at the top of kernel.

If you soak a kernel of any grain for a day or so and, when it is soft, slice it lengthwise with a razor, you can easily see the various parts of the caryopsis with a hand lens or a microscope. I have found the macro setting on a digital camera with good resolution is a very useful microscope. As noted, the pericarp forms the outer skin. Inside, there a single layer of relatively large cells that looks almost as if someone drew a thin line just inside the pericarp. Called the aleurone, it is the outermost layer of the endosperm tissue. The kernel has a vault of food contained within the endosperm, and the aleurone layer provides the enzymes, the keys, needed to unlock the food. Inside of the aleurone is the starchy part of the endosperm. It is mostly starch with some protein and oils in the mix. This part of the endosperm contains the food necessary to grow a root in order to provide water and minerals to the growing plant, and a leaf to start the process of making sugars from the sun. Just add water, and life hastens again. Even when it is dormant, a seed is living and respiring, and this why seeds gradually loose their viability. Some after a year, some after a decade or more.

At the base of kernel lies the embryo, or germ as it is known to millers. This fatty bit of tissue is a fully assembled plant ready to grow roots and leaves. The first leaf is fully grown. Called the scutellum, and this leaf remains pressed against the endosperm, never to see the light of day. The scutellum is unique to the grasses, and its primary role is to absorb the nutrients released from the endosperm as rapidly as possible, and transfer them to the growing roots and leaves. Most of the fats in the kernel are in the scutellum. All plants except orchids produce endosperm cells. In most plants, the endosperm is absorbed by the embryo and stored in the seed leaves cotyledons. The two halves of the chickpeas are the seed leaves that absorbed the endosperm.

When cooking mature grains and pulses, such as wheat or beans, we always recommend soaking them overnight. Yes, this requires a modicum of planning and foresight. Some people resist and just cook them, or haul out the heavy metal in the form of a pressure cooker. True, if the grains or beans are fresh, you can soften them and render an edible food. But this impatience and lack of finesse means a less flavorful bean or grain in our experience.

Why is that, you might ask? Allowing the plant's own enzymes to work on the starches and proteins for a day or so, and starting the process of breaking down the starches and proteins naturally, makes for a more tender and sweeter grain or bean. Moreover, in many of the seeds, complex compounds are released into the surrounding soil during germination that are not always good to eat. The compounds may be protective in function, or serve as attractants to root fungi. You can smell and taste these compounds in the soaking water, and decide whether they will enrich your life. The only beans we cook in the soaking water are black turtles. One silly notion often floated out there is that soaking leaches out the minerals. This idea that nutrients pour out of a germinating seed willy nilly makes no sense at all, but is repeated endlessly. As noted, some of the compounds actively released by the seed are best poured down the sink.

Sweet Summer Memories

The gift of a few ears of homegrown corn (above) from my sweet neighbor Susana sent me into a summer reverie.

It must have been when I was around four years old. My family lived in a forties-style ranch on a one block-long street of similar houses in Tigard, an early patch of development in what would become the suburban sprawl that quickly surrounded Portland in the 1960s and 70s.

At the back of the house, the edge of our neatly mowed, fenced green lawn bordered on a field of wildflowers where I'd wander and pick bouquets to bring to my mother. It would eventually become a parking lot for a giant strip mall, but to my four-year-old self it was a vast prairie, a place for catching and studying the birds and bugs that lived there or spending hours laying down the grass looking up at the clouds passing overhead.

Across the street in front of our house was another row of houses identical to ours, beyond which stretched another field, this one planted with row upon row of corn. All the kids on our street would play hide-and-seek in that field, losing each other in the sameness of the shadowy stalks that stretched into the sky, their tassels glowing in the evening light. During the late summer I'd often wander off into the field on my own and pick an ear or two, peeling back the green husk and nibbling the sweet raw corn that always tasted better than anything boiled and buttered, and only emerge when I heard my mother calling from the front porch to come in for dinner.

So when it's corn season and there's no field across the street to wander off into, I'll husk a few ears, scrape off the kernels and cook up a batch of corn stock from the cobs for a corn risotto that brings back, if only for a few moments, that sweet memory from my childhood.

Sweet Corn Risotto

1 Tbsp. olive oil
1 Tbsp. butter or margarine
1/2 yellow onion, chopped fine
2 cloves garlic, minced
2 c. arborio rice
2 c. corn kernels
5 c. corn stock
1/2 c. parmesan
Salt and pepper, to taste

To make corn stock, cut kernels off of five corn cobs. Put kernels in a bowl and set aside. Place cobs in large saucepan and cover with 5 cups water. Bring to a boil, then reduce heat to simmer for 15 to 20 minutes. Remove cobs and strain stock through wire mesh sieve to remove any debris.

Melt butter and oil in 2 1/2-3 qt. heavy-bottomed sauce pan. Add onion and garlic and sauté over medium heat till translucent. Add rice and stir for about 30 seconds till grains are hot and coated with butter mixture. Add corn and combine. Stirring frequently, add stock one ladle-full at a time, allowing rice to absorb it before adding more. When rice is tender but still slightly al dente, stir in cheese. Add salt and pepper, adjusting to taste.

Summer's Worth of Grilling

It's all a matter of perspective. I just got back from a terrific camping trip along the Imnaha River in the Wallowa mountains (more on that later), glad to have missed the searing temperatures here in Portland. Though contributor Jim Dixon of RealGoodFood found those same readings virtually balmy compared to what he experienced in Washington, D.C., recently. So with the rest of July and August still to come, Jim has done us the favor of providing recipes for the rest of our outdoor cooking needs. Thanks, Jim!

Since the mercury topped 100 for a couple of the days we were in Washington, DC, coming home to the upper 90s with fairly low humidity was actually pleasant. But I still didn’t want to cook anything inside. For last week’s heat wave I cooked everything on the Weber, which one night included salmon, grilled eggplant and corn on the cob.

Grilled Sockeye with Balsamico

The short Bristol Bay sockeye season is here. My favorite species, sockeye is second only to Chinook in fat content, and the smaller fish yield perfectly sized fillets. I cook them skin side down using indirect heat (I build my fire on one side of the Weber and put the filet on the other). The rich fish is perfect with the sweet, acidic tang of true balsamic vinear, so drizzle the salmon with Profumi Estensi balsamico at the table. (The Bristol Bay fishery is threatened by mining; see details here.)

Grilled Eggplant with Romesco

While the salmon cooks on the indirect heat side, I grilled slices of eggplant over the coals. I never salt eggplant, and I’ve never understood the claims that the vegetable is bitter. The process, to me, is a waste of time. Slice the eggplant about a half inch thick, then brush lightly with olive oil. Grill over a hot fire until nicely browned on both sides. We ate with our fingers, rolled around a dollop of romesco.

For the romesco, roast 3-4 red bell peppers (I had some already roasted and peeled in the freezer, but you can blacken them on the grill before you cook anything else).

An aside: My very first published food article more than 30 years ago was about roasting red peppers, and at the time I used the propane torch I also used for waxing my cross country skiis. Since then I’ve roasted hundreds of peppers using that torch, the burners on my old Wedgewood gas stove, and a hot fire in the Weber, but I think the easiest way is to put the peppers in a hot oven for about 45 minutes. They don’t really need to be completely blackened for the skins to come off, and the step of “sweating” the cooked peppers in a plastic bag can be skipped, too. I often do this step a few days in advance, storing the roasted peppers, skins still on, in a bowl in the refrigerator.

Peel the peppers, and discard the seed core and as many of seeds as you care to pick out. Put them into the food processor with 2-3 roughly chopped cloves of garlic, about a cup of almonds (I use blanched and slivered almonds, but whole almonds or even walnuts or filberts are okay), a half cup or more of extra virgin olive oil, a quarter cup or so of Katz Gravenstein apple cider vinegar (sherry vinegar is traditional, but the Katz vinegars have more flavor than industrial vinegars), a little salt, and about a half teaspoon of pimenton (smoked Spanish paprika). A half cup or so of breadcrumbs is optional, but makes the sauce a little thicker. Process into a chunky paste, adding more olive oil if necessary.

Grilled Corn

You can leave some of the outer husk attached, remove the rest and the silk, then wrap the ears with the husks before grilling. Even easier, husk corn and put right over the coals. Some kernels get a nice char, and the corn is sweet and smoky.