Foodshed Celebration

"What's the occassion?" the cute guy asked. I'd prepared four different foods for the same meal and used the big plates reserved for company.

The night before there had been five different foods but he hadn't noticed as one of the foods was salsa which required I layer everything in a bowl to properly enjoy.

It was two days of unplanned celebration. In September I was confident that I would not be able to sustain local food meals through the winter. And stomp-my-foot sure that the summer foods I'd put up in the freezer would be gone by the end of the year. I pictured us withering away cold and hungry.

But I was happily wrong. The year round farmers' markets augmented with my freezer stash have completely kept me from the grocery store with the exception of one item stops for such necessities as baking powder, dish soap. Local Straus milk.

So I cooked. The big plate dinner was an egg and Santa Rosa cheese omelet. It paired beautifully with Marin Root Farm's mixed greens braised with leeks, along side roasted tiny potatoes (nearly too cute to eat). We had flat and ugly home baked bread with homemade butter that would make even a cereal box taste good.

The next night the salsa dinner started with a Sonoma County tortilla topped with leftover butternut squash, fried hamburger (it's been fifteen years since I could say that!) from a cow pastured on Grandma's old chicken farm.

The salsa was from my tomato and pepper freezer stash. And the final topping was inspired by another Dark Days Eat Local Challenge blogger, Green Bean. I mixed cilantro, shallots, ginger, olive oil and sea salt in the food processer. After inital pinched tastes we piled it on in great spoonfuls. Read - No Leftovers!

As much as I celebrate my foodshed I become ever more aware of the challenges facing our national and global food systems in terms of accessability, fair trade, enviromental sustainability, labor rights and our own national food security.

But change starts at home; Right?

Anemones

The first anemones on the market always remind me that spring is near.

I found these long stem anemones yesterday at the Ferry Building farmers' market. For $3. I wanted to whisper in the farmer's ear, "You should raise the price. These are really, I mean really, nice."

This is what I love about anemones. The best time to buy them is when they are still curled up, closed, playing ugly ducking to the swans they will become. They are hardly worth a second look.

But then, after a few hours, a day, depending on temperature and freshness, they begin to reveal themselves. And that, the slight opening tease, is the beginning of the pleasure. They curl back up at night.

And they perform this dance every day; opening a bit further as time goes on, showing off the colors and patterns previously hidden, closing up less in the evening until they drop their petals all together.

The dropping of the petals is its own enjoyment though. They do it slowly. The anemones loose their petals like a strip of silk stockings, their naked black middles remaining on the stem. No less beautiful in my eyes.

And it's a sin to remove even a petal before they have made their final bow. Which they will do when they are done.

I can't let a year go by without them.

Homemade Butter

I experienced a miracle.

The last year has been full of revelations; where our food comes from and it's staggering effects on the environment. All of which has led to my getting religion in the form of local foods.

Now the mysteries of food are actually unfolding to me.

Yesterday, and it was Sunday, the perfect day for a miraculous occurrence, I saw one of my favorite foods, butter, created from a bottle of cream. And I am here to spread the word.

"We are going to make butter," I told my aunt.

"We need a mixer," she said.

"I don't have one. We'll use a whisk."

"We'll have sore arms," she tried while I began whipping.

"Here." I handed her the bowl licking whipped cream off my fingers.

"We need paddles," she said.

"Keep whipping."

"It's spitting."

"It's spitting!? What do you mean it's spitting!?" I approached her tentatively. And the contents of the bowl spit on me too.

I took the bowl to the sink then and with a spoon and smaller bowl kept up the whisking stirring motion and that's when the miracle occurred.

"Come and look." I felt like I was giving birth. Well, not really but it was an omnipotent moment. The contents of the bowl completely separated. Think the parting of the red sea.

A clear liquid splashed in the bottom of the bowl and the butter separated from it, sticking together, sloshing around.

"It's butter!" I yelled. "It's butter!"

No Moses. Only a hell of a lot of whisking. And no sore arms which is the biggest miracle of all.

Banana Squash

Tonight I off loaded three quarters of the ten pound banana squash I've had in the pantry since September.

I remember the Saturday afternoon at the Petaluma market when I bought it. "I keep them in the barn all winter," the farmer told me. "Then I sell them to the market down the street. They cut them up and sell them by the pound."

I carried my apricot colored squash off then, proud to be a step ahead of the grocery. And I kept it in the pantry for four months and had to bully my friends, they are still my friends, to take a chunk home.

"I have two squash at home you already gave me," one complained.

"They aren't cut open. They'll last. Eat them for lunch." I commanded.

"I have one too," another tried.

"One is nothing," I countered. "Here."

They were more compliant than usual though as I'd invited them for dinner. "It's local," I said at one point.

"Duh," they responded in unison.

I was effusive of the mustard greens in the salad mixed with arugula and a hand full of my back deck baby greens. The salads were plated with Pt. Reyes blue cheese, rounds of pink lady apple, roasted pecans and drizzled with honey and olive oil.

"It has layers of flavor," my cook book friend complimented on the soup with Rancho Gordo tepary beans, summer stock, peppers and tomatoes from the freezer. I couldn't have hoped for higher praise.

The soup also had layers of story though. Other people have their summer vacation adventures to show and tell - I have soup. The buying, preparing and preserving of the summer harvests. It all went through my mind.

The best part though - sharing the meal. Even if it was merely a bribe to off load more squash.

Haiku Friday

California Street --
One hawk in the rain

preying on the wild rooftops

twenty stories high.

Packaged Garlic

A friend offered to teach me how to make squash raviolis. "Great," I told her. "I have plenty of squash." A complete understatement but she had no idea.

"I'll bring the rest of the ingredients," she volunteered.

She unpacked her bag of cheeses and noodley skins onto the counter. "What's that in the package?" I asked.

She held up a square of clear plastic the size of a condom wrapper. Sealed on either side, the package contained three cloves of garlic. "Isn't this cool?" she said. "They peel and package them in individual servings."

Now I know that packaging garlic into ticky tacky little packages is nothing in terms of the enviromental, social and health issues facing the world but in that moment I was ready to give up. But not without speaking my mind first. I felt my cheeks getting hot, my hair beginning to smolder.

After spouting off about Trader Joe's and garlic from China and where all the plastic in the world is going to end up, I regained my composure and offered garlic from Brentwood. In it's original skin. My friend graciously accepted and told me to peel it.

An hour later the squash raviolis were terrific. Candle lit table, laughter, seasonal salad and brussel sprouts.

I called my friend the next day to apologize - again. She admitted the garlic we used was really good. "It tasted," she hesitated. "Well, it tasted garlicy."

I nodded my head silently on the other end and allowed a small smile.

"But you've got to work on your delivery," she added.

Van Jones

Several months ago I had the privilege of seeing Van Jones speak to a large audience. The introduction he received told of an event where he had been on stage recently with Barack Obama. And that he was the brighter of the two stars. I was skeptical. Until I heard him speak.

Immediately I thought he is the next Martin Luther King. And today, the birthday of MLK, as I listen to the stories of MLK I continue to believe my first impression was accurate.

Here is a one minute video of Van Jones that restores or strengthens my hope each time I watch it. And I've watched it repeatedly.