Saturday, January 6, 2007

The 100-mile extreme

I was reading the other day about a couple near Vancouver, B.C, who decided that they would eat locally--truly locally--for one year. They drew a 100-mile radius circle around their home, and only ate food that came from within that circle. You can imagine them, reveling in fresh salmon and eating a lot of potatoes. (They've got a website where you can draw your own circle.)

The average vegetable or chunk of meat on the shelf at Safeway or Top Foods traveled over 1,500 miles to get there. I don't know about you, but I'm pretty worn out after a trip like that, and I'm still alive, still able to regenerate. That head of lettuce has been cut off from its roots. There are ample recitatives about the hidden costs, both in terms of damage to the environment and to ourselves and children of this type of food chain.

I hold that both of these scenarios are extremes, and I feel that there is entirely too much extremism in this world. Yes, the consequences of continuing blithely along, with no thought to where our food comes from are dire. But it is equally dire to cocoon ourselves in a local-only diet, never venturing out to understand how the rest of the world eats. But, you say, for hundreds of years that's just how people ate. Indeed they did. But they also died in what we now call middle age, and they never tasted chocolate. I call that extreme.

The answer is once again to find balance. My personal "circle" is about 150 miles, because that gets me some great grass-fed beef from the other side of the mountains. And it's a target I don't always hit--because wheat, which is nearly local, is off the menu, I'm eating a great deal of rice, which comes from California. I try to mitigate the petroleum impact by buying it in bulk at the local co-op.

A friend of mine attended a meeting this summer in New Orleans, where they dealt with sustainability of the food supply (along with other issues of sustainability--the whole report is fascinating reading, if you are so inclined). They chose the locale because it illustrated an important point. One of the most devastating blows to New Orleans was the pullout of the national food chains. Since these stores' supply chains were nationally-based and transport was difficult, they had no way to get food to their local stores, so they closed them. With no established supply chains for locally-produced foodstuffs, people were literally starving. Imagine a world without supermarkets, and you have post-Katrina New Orleans. But there is hope: The farmers markets that were niche markets before Katrina are now pivotal parts of making food accessible to residents who are slowly returning to the city. These markets, which one participant called "islands of possibility" are beacons in times of crisis that are serving to re-invent the region's food supply. If necessity is the mother of invention, residents of the Crescent City are learning to balance pragmatism and inspiration. It is now our turn to learn from them.

Friday, January 5, 2007

Everyday French

There is a certain mystique surrounding all things French. The food in particular has a reputation for being incredibly incredible. But, as anyone who's had the misfortune of eating a Lucky Luke burger can tell you, it's not all gourmet. There's a side to France that we just don't pay much mind to. It's the everyday life, just like we have, but French.

Remember how Julia Child made a huge splash with Mastering the Art of French Cooking, bringing trussed rabbits and timbales to Americans? We all bought into the mystique--myself included. The first year after I returned home from Europe, I decided that we would have our own galette des rois (they're not only showy, but incredibly tasty). I did what you would expect to make an authentic galette: I made everything from scratch. I even spent two days making my own puff pastry, making sure to use only unsalted butter (clearly this was before kids!). I spent an hour making my own crème patissiere, grinding the almonds that I had blanched and skinned to make the frangipane filling. It's a wonder I didn't fire up a kiln and make my own fève.

Now, don't get me wrong, I love almost everything about France (except the Post Office, the Post Office drives me nuts, but that's another story). But the stereotype falls apart in the face of everyday life. The average Parisienne never even gets out a rolling pin, but puts on her Audrey Hepburn pedal pushers and high-tails it down the street to her favorite patissier, and buys the thing ready-made. The baker even gives her the paper crown, and if she's lucky, she'll get a designer fève.

Even the average, non-glamorous French housewife and mère (my French equivalent) doesn't go to the same lengths as I did umpteen years ago. If she's in a hurry, she might buy one for her family at the supermarket bakery, but the fève will be a little plastic moon. If she's serving guests though, she would make it from scratch. But her scratch is still not Martha or Julia. While she's at the local supermarché, she'll pick up a package of frozen puff pastry and a packet of preparation pour crème frangipane. Yup, that's right, frangipane filling mix--just add water!
And that is just what I shall do this year. I picked up some puff pastry at the coop this morning, and still have one packet of the mix from my foray into the Cora in Molsheim last year. We shall have an authentic galette des rois for Epiphany tomorrow. Vive la France !

Thursday, January 4, 2007

The curry rut

When I was a kid, the only coconut was either in a tropical lifesaver or the bag of stale white flakes that Mom bought for baking some fancy cake. While fresh coconuts are still a rarity in our household, there is always at least one can of coconut milk in the larder.

But I seem to be burning through a huge amount of coconut milk these days. Clearly I'm making too much curry: our exchange student, only with us for six weeks, was subjected to my curry no less than three times during his stay (and he didn't always make it home for supper).

With a Verbot on stir fry from Number One Son, I must dig deeper to find hearty dishes for rice days. Every culture has some sort of stew served on a bed of something, often rice for many of them. Crawfish étouffée? Perhaps a koresh? Shrimp Newburg? Chicken à la king?
Must get out of the curry rut.

An empty spice rack

One of the admittedly minor annoyances of moving internationally is the seemingly arbitrary list from movers and customs agents about what you can and cannot bring out or in. The moving company (or removal firm, as our British Neighbor calls them), wouldn't let her bring any foodstuffs, including herbs and spices. The same applied to our friends moving back to England and Switzerland: the spices couldn't go with. The irony of course, is that these herbs and spices come from all over the globe.

But annoying it is: my cupboard is now bursting with the cast-off from friends leaving (I really don't need three bottles of dill). Translated into everyday life, it means that our new British neighbor often finds her ability to make a certain dish hampered by a missing but key flavoring. Sometimes you can fake it, but there are no good substitutions when making curry.
Since it's her birthday today, we thought it would be nice to help her refill her spice rack. I went to the local luxury supermarket and paced up and down the aisle before I made a random selection of herbs and spices. I'm pretty sure she's brought in salt and pepper and a few others, but I haven't the foggiest idea what she's missing and what she's already bought. So, I stood there, asking myself what she likes to cook and eat, and made choices based on what little of her taste I know, and what looked pretty and exotic. I hope we've provided her without too much overlap, and a few things to inspire her.

The punch line is that I always return to the US with my suitcase filled with herbs and spices gleaned from European supermarket shelves. So if she's still missing something from home, we'll make sure she gets it on our next foray over the pond.

Corn in the chowder

It seems it is the season for soup. Dear Friend (mother of Stand Partner) called yesterday, asking for advice about adapting a chowder recipe to their dietary restrictions. She's still working her way through the salmon that thawed too much during the power outage, as well as trying to use up the celery that fell victim to the Cuisinart mini-prep.

Since it was to be dairy and wheat free, we decided that the thickener should be cornstarch or kudzu, added in a slurry after the milk, rather than starting with a traditional flour-based roux. The milk was rice dream, though soy milk would do equally well (not the vanilla flavor!) She prefers margarine to sauté her onions, but I remain faithful to butter. She had some nice new crop potatoes and frozen corn for the veggie contingent, along with thyme and bay. The salmon was already cooked, so it went in last.

She stopped me in the parking lot at pickup today--her family had gobbled it up, even her son, a mostly-vegetarian.

Tuesday, January 2, 2007

Rain, rain

It is raining: gloomy grey skies, wet splatting rain soaking into my bones. I take a paper-covered onion from the basket, balance it on my cutting board, and revel in the familiar ritual: hone the knife, cut the onion in half, peel the paper back, cut almost to the root horizontally, then vertically. Slice off the small bits of aromatic gold. The nestled pots clank as they release one of their colleagues, and the burner clicks four times, then ignites. A few more minutes, and the back of my hand tells me it is hot enough for a stream of greenish olive oil and the onion. The first sizzles release the pungent odor, letting everyone know that warm food is coming.

The same knife helps me peel back the thick outer skin of the ham and cut it into spoonable chunks. They join the onion, by now golden and translucent. The spice cupboard door opens, revealing treasures from the spice islands: a bit of kosher salt, a grind of black pepper, a few rasps off the flat side of the chocolaty brown nutmeg, a dash of herbs and seaweed. My favorite wooden spoon stirs the mix as a stream of stock pours in.

I plunge my hand into the bag of lentils, elfin coins, the currency of winter dishes. I prefer handfuls to pouring just for the feeling of them slipping through my fingers into the simmering broth. One more stir, then I shall leave it to bubble and toil while I slice a crust of bread and gather a ladle, bowls and spoons.

Let the rain fall, we are warm inside.

Monday, January 1, 2007

Ham, ham, thank you ma'am

I was so enthusiastic about gathering with new (and old) neighbors that I realized I'd never hosted a brunch before. After much dithering, I decided to favor selection over quantity. I assembled a plate of pancakes (Pamela's baking and pancake mix gets an enthusiastic thumbs-up, behaving well even without the egg), a plate of bacon, breakfast sausage and Canadian bacon, and another plate with some sliced ham with a pot of mustard. For some reason, I thought that might not be enough, so I tried my hand at a quiche without wheat, dairy or eggs. Then I put together a fruit salad (a rainbow of seasonal citrus, mango and kiwi with coconut milk) and sliced up a loaf of Essential raisin-pecan bread to round things out. A tray of jams and butter, syrup and whipped cream allowed folks to dress up pancakes and bread as they pleased. DH ran the boys up to the office for a thermos of freshly-brewed Starbuck's coffee, and I made another thermos of cocoa. However, the champagne (a nice one from Domaine Ste. Michelle), both with and without orange juice, was the beverage of choice.

Of course, by the time invitees brought coffee cake, a platter of cookies and a plate of brownies, we were on total carb overload. (Note to self: don't bother to bake for these neighbors!)
The quiche was surprisingly edible, if not entirely too crumbly and frankly superfluous; the pancakes and bacons and sausage were devoured, and there's not a huge amount of fruit salad left. But the honey ham was a mistake. We will be eating ham for many days to come.

Our gracious neighbors offered to take our offspring inner tubing up at the pass, so we took it easy this afternoon, but they will come by for soup tonight. A pot of French lentil and ham soup is simmering on the stove.

I wonder how ham on raisin-pecan bread will taste in tomorrow's lunch?

Sunday, December 31, 2006

Karma

Writing this year's Christmas letter was a challenge, considering the multiple losses we endured. None was terribly earth-shattering, but when I added them up, it made me understand why I'd been having a rough time. Just before Christmas last year, my father passed away; shortly after the dust settled from that, two friends announced they were returning with their families to England and Switzerland respectively; other dear friends announced almost simultaneously that they were going to spend the next nine months living overseas. It seemed as if everyone was jumping ship!

We had also endured a year of grumpy renters and year of noisy, inept remodeling in the house next door. It's easy to underestimate the impact this kind of negativity has on your peace of mind. In the summer though, it looked like our patience would be rewarded when a delightful family from Oregon moved in. They were like-minded folks, and their kids and our kids immediately hit it off, spending hours peddling around the neighborhood, climbing trees and even going to summer camp together. (Aside: Their mom was finishing up a new edition of her cookbook, The Warehouse Gourmet. I find it amusing that her book is aimed at warehouse shoppers, but she did all the recipes with organic ingredients ordered in bulk from the co-op!). Things seemed to be going so well, and then...

...her husband got transferred back to Oregon in August. The week before school started, they were gone again, and the house was back up for sale/rent. And then another house down the street went up for sale too. My neighbor and I looked at each other, as if to ask, "are you going to jump ship too?"

And did I mention the cat died, too?

And so we began a new school year, hoping desperately to connect with new families, the kind you want to while away the hours with. There are a few folks that we have connected with briefly, but between their own busy-ness and distance (North Bend!?), we haven't got into any regular social habits.

Then one glorious September morning as I was taking out the mail, a car pulled up next door, and a smiling couple got out. We chatted, and I learned they had just moved here from London to work where DH works, had two children and were seriously considering renting next door. And they did! In just a few days, we had nice neighbors, who we quickly discover are always good for an after-the-kids-are-in-bed glass of wine and a nibble of something. (They were instrumental in taste trials to perfect my chocolate soup and nudder budder recipe, but that's another story altogether!) How handy to have folks to borrow a cup of flour from, or watch the kids for ten minutes while one of us runs to the store. The men folk even walk to work together.
And then, miracle of miracle, the day of the big storm, we noted that house at the other side had sold as well, this time to a delightful couple who just moved here from Dublin with their two small boys, to work for the same mega-employer.

It seems that the tide of loss has turned to one of gain, and we shall celebrate the New Year tomorrow with a cul-de-sac brunch. The menu at this point is undecided: one of the most important aspects of food is that it feeds our souls as much (or more) than our bodies. Clearly, Champagne is in order.