Strawberry dystopia

The way to eat the first strawberry is to put it into your cheek and then squeeze it slowly with the flat of your fist through your teeth. The berry is preferably hot from the sun; you would be, preferably, as innocent as a child, and it would become one of those memories that turn into the ribs and vertebrae of your future self. Of such memories are lives made.

Grandma had a job at Rudy Manufacturing in Dowagiac, Mom worked at Kaiser Fraser there, too, and Dad drove to Bendix in South Bend. It was just Grandpa and me and my little brother that summer, as well as the migrants who came up from Oklahoma or Texas or Arkansas to pick and pack strawberries in the field.

At noon Grandpa took us into the house and fed us lunch. The big brown plastic radio gave us reports of pork belly futures and Gabriel Heatter gave us news about Joseph McCarthy, the evil scourge who rolled through the country wrecking the lives of people he accused of being communists. “Pinko!” 

I prattled away until Grandpa sliced the air with his hand, his ear cocked to the news. “Sunnova...” he’d say.

What did we eat for those womanless lunches? Cole slaw and cold fried chicken? Perhaps we poured cream over cold, solidified, raisin-packed rice pudding? Maybe sandwiches of good white bread and leftover pot roast. Pickled beef tongue. Cold baked beans. I can’t remember a thing about those lunches except the mixture of radio politics and food. And maybe the slightly used look of the leftover pie. Rhubarb, mincemeat, cherry. Perhaps, in a fit of frivolity, Grandma would have made lemon meringue.

But I can feel the chill of those lunches, deprived of the energy and warmth of the feminine. Grandma backed down that deep driveway in the morning looking straight ahead. I waved from the sidelines, feeling small.

But everyone would be home for supper; and supper, when strawberries first came in, would be all about shortcake – big plates of hot baking powder biscuits, split, lavishly buttered, ladled with strawberries that had been sliced, not mashed, gritty with sugar, sweet thick cream ladled over all.

Now, what was the name of that  half-moon shaped, wooden-handled slicer?  I have it. I use it still! Of course – Mezzaluna! The berries are capped, tossed into a bowl, and then they’re sliced/chopped with that mezzaluna, sugar is added, and they macerate in their sugar/juices but keep some shape and texture. 

Whole families of “Okies” or “Arkies” would be present in the fields, the older sisters taking care of the babies in the shade of the tree-line. They’d come up to the pump in the dooryard to get a drink of cold water, one skinny hip stuck out with a baby on it. They’d take the tin ladle from the hook and hold it under the gush and drink from it, then offer it to me. I’d shake my head. No thanks.

“Ain’t got no germs,” they said.

“But I do,” I’d say. At night there’d be music faint in the distance where they were camping.

~~

I found this recipe in a profile of a Scotsman called Jeremy Lee in an article in the magazine Saveur from July of 2006. In spite of it’s persnicketyness it has become a favorite. You need to toast breadcrumbs before you start, and let them cool, and then you have to refrigerate the dough for 8 hours, but these little cracker/cakes are so good – delicate and interesting – that you might want to bite the bullet.

Use them for shortcake, or for scones.

Scots Shortcake

• 12 tablespoons butter, softened (That’s a stick and a half, OR 6 ounces, OR ¾ cup)
• 1⁄3 cup superfine sugar (I process regular granulated sugar in the food processor)
• Finely grated zest of one small orange (about 1 teaspoon)
• 1 cup flour
• 3⁄4 cup whole unblanched almonds, ground
• 2⁄3 cup toasted white bread crumbs

1. Put butter and 1⁄3 cup of the sugar into a large bowl and beat with an electric mixer until pale and well combined, about 1 1⁄2 minutes. Add orange zest and beat again until just combined, about 15 seconds. Add flour, almonds, and bread crumbs and beat again until a soft dough forms, about 1 minute.

2. Transfer dough to a piece of plastic wrap and roll up, twisting both ends tightly as if it were a piece of candy, to form a 3"-wide log. Refrigerate dough for 8 hours or overnight.

3. Preheat the oven to 300°. Line 2 baking sheets with parchment paper; set aside. Unroll dough, discarding plastic wrap, and cut log crosswise into sixteen 1⁄4"-thick slices. Arrange slices on baking sheets in a single layer, leaving them spaced at least 1" apart. Bake until just golden and slightly puffed, about 20 minutes. Transfer shortcakes to a wire rack and let cool.

Of course, mound with sweetened berries and whipped cream.

Or, go ahead and make James Beard’s utterly sumptuous (and simple)  Cream Biscuits.

~~

We have at least two vendors – Radical Roots and Evening Song – offering broccoli raab at the Rutland Farmers’ Market, for which I’m grateful. It’s one of my favorite vegges. This is the way I wrote about preparing it several times before:

And the way you achieve that flavor and texture is to toss the raab into boiling salted water and bring it just back to boiling, hold it there maybe a second more, then drain it. In the meantime you’ve warmed about a quarter of a cup of olive oil in a sauté pan with a finely chopped clove of garlic. When the raab is drained, and the garlic has had time to flavor the olive oil without turning a bit brown, turn the heat to high under the pan, and when the oil is hot (don’t let that garlic turn) throw in the raab and shake, rattle and roll until the raab is hot, has cooked a couple minutes more and is, my goodness, coated with the oil. Sprinkle with salt to taste, then a teaspoon or so of hot pepper flakes, and there we go! Serve it warm or even cold. Put it in a sandwich. Al Ducci’s makes a raab sandwich on their little flatbreads that are split in half, with Al Sheps’ fresh mozzarella and lots of that garlic olive oil. It is a treat!

~~

I do miss asparagus at the Farmers’ Market. Not ONE farmer offers it. Why? Well, I guess it’s labor intensive (weeding), and difficult to grow organically. But I think that organic asparagus must’ve been the norm before the second world war created a glut of nitrates to make chemical fertilizer. Since I shop mostly at the Co-op and Farmers’ Market I’m in danger of forgetting there IS an asparagus season. Help!

Update: After this column appeared in the Herald yesterday several people emailed to tell me that Williams' Farm just north of Rutland sells asparagus -- not organic, but delicious. Of course I knew that, I just seldom get north of town, and I prefer organic. Nevertheless, I drove out and scored a couple of pounds of beautiful asparagus. I grilled half of it last night and I'm eating the rest for breakfast.

From Blog Strawberry Dystopia 2009-06-14

~~

And finally, a suggestion for cheesemakers and sellers:  It seems to be the practice to fold the wrapping around the cheese and gather it in the center, then plop a label over the gathering. Which means that I have to destroy the label when I open the cheese to eat it. I don’t want to destroy that label. You’re proud of it yet you make me destroy it. There should be the top of the cheese – with the label – and the bottom of the cheese with the fastening. Thank you.

~~

It’s that fast-growing-green-grass time of year, when the perky and winter-weary little Jerseys are out there  under the sun eating it and turning it into good milk and cream. Chickens are scampering and scratching around in it for grubs and seeds to make good flesh and eggs. So if you’re a milk drinker or egg eater now’s the time those items are going to be the tastiest AND healthiest they get.  Get them while you can.

Oh, Strawberry Seasons!

Now that it is finally here we find ourselves racing through this season. The flowers click past – bloom, prime, soggy mess – and foods ripen, linger on the tongue, then become memories until next year.

Iris are outgoing, laid prone like dead things by the rain, or, if still upright, having turned soggy all the way down to the last silken cocoon that will not blossom anywhere near as stoutly as that first one that yelled, “I’m HEE errr” a week or so ago.

First peonies yesterday, and they will be even quicker, just at their glory, if all goes as usual, when rain and wind will mangle their pretty sweet carcasses. “Oh, Weep,” they go, drooping their draggled heads, forsaken even by the ants. But mourning is cut short as the loud orange poppies shout out their flamboyant birth. And they, too, will pass.

February hovers in the background, rubbing her hands together and croaking, “Dance, my pretties. Dance!” So. Might as well dance! Gorging ourselves on each sweet seasonal treat as it comes along.

Strawberries last Tuesday.

I was not expecting them, spied that berry sign, my heart quickened. Mmm, they are good. Oh. Juicy, speckled, just the slight crunch of the infinitesimal seeds on the outside. Are they the only fruits with seeds on the outside? Sweet, with a bite almost crisp, while your teeth force the juice down through the cellulars of it. Oh my goodness! They are more than taste, they are primordial season, they are eating exercise, they are experience.

Oh, Strawberry Seasons! Don’t get me started.

Long scorching rows, crouching, kneeling, silent pickers sliding carriers along between rows, knees stained crushed-crimson, islands of chatter under the blasting sun, an occasional guffaw almost lost in the hot infinity, weed patches, older children watching young ones in the shade of the tree line, hillbillies, we called them, migrants, packing shed romances, the check clutched at the end of the season, oh, new refrigerator that we’ve needed so long; oh, engagement ring – “Please be my strawberry partner?” But I told you... don’t let me get started!

But eating them. One by one they’re good, until the quart is gone, and I have to drive down past the farm again, and this time I stop and buy two quarts. I eat them plain, from the green cardboard basket, pinching the cap into a handle and nibbling all around it, berry after berry, all the way to Manchester. They are so clean, but with a fine grit once in awhile, so then I’m home again putting them in a large bowl in mucho cold water, roiling them gently and scooping them in double handfuls into a colander. A surprising amount of dirt stays behind in the bottom of the bowl, all of which would have no doubt done my digestive system a good deed.

Sometimes I dip a finger into roasted cumin seeds and a bit of salt to go with the strawberry bite. There is fantastic fresh chèvre, right now, because the goats are eating fast-growing green grass, and their milk is delicate and healthy, the cheese creamy and fresh as violets. And when you have sliced a strawberry not quite in half from the flower end toward the stem end and tucked a tiny sliver of goat cheese between two halves, with a bit of roasted cumin, and sea salt sprinkled there, too, and you have a plate of those, sprinkled with whole mint leaves, or basil, and maybe just a drop or two of balsamic vinegar or lemon juice, that is not too shabby a treat.

The last berries of that first basket were part of a perfect little scatter that served as dinner that night: First was sautéed a quantity of Swiss chard with lots of fresh green garlic from the garden, and that was mounded on some of Al Sheps’ multi-grain toasts, with his fresh mozzarella (never refrigerated) torn over the whole thing, and some weird little pasta balls called Sa Fregula Sarda boiled up and scattered there, too, and the quartered strawberries, and over all a drizzle of basil vinaigrette.

I seldom go to Manchester without stopping at Al Ducci’s to see Al and Nancy, and to pick up some fresh mozzarella that remains soft and layered and oozing creamy liquids until it’s refrigerated, after which it is used for pizza.

I’m on my fifth quart of berries @ $4.75 apiece, when I remember to ask if they’re organic. No, they are not! The owner would not dream of growing organic berries. They would be too expensive. My expression is downcast. I cannot think of words. I have gorged on these berries. These berries have been my sustenance for a week; their strawberriness must last me for the next year. I’ve even eaten the little bit of tasty dirt that dusted their shoulders. Chemical fertilizers? What is expensive?


Well, Woods Market Garden, in Brandon, is charging $5.50 per nicely rounded, mounded quarts of organically grown but not Certified Organic, strawberries. But when U pick U’r own they will be $2.75 per pound, which translates to about $3.45 per quart.

So, I ask, What’s expensive? New knees are expensive, and I may need some after crouching and kneeling. But, you only live once, right?

Now I’m thinking I should quit rhapsodizing and kvetching and give you a recipe, and the one that quickly springs to mind is a Strawberry and Spinach Salad that appears every year at Eldred and Lily’s 4th of July Pig Roast, and it is a battle to get a taste.

Spinach and Strawberry Salad
Caveat: I can’t remember who gave me this recipe, and for that I apologize to her. I give it here to you
only if you promise NOT to take it to Eldred and Lily’s 4th of July party!

Wash and dry about 1 ½ pounds of garden-fresh spinach. Clean, hull and slice 1 pint of strawberries. Toss them together with this dressing:

• ¼ cup sugar
• 2 tablespoons sesame seeds
• 1 tablespoons poppy seeds
• 1 ½ tablespoon minced onion
• ½ tsp Worcestershire sauce
• ¼ tsp paprika
• 1/3 cup olive oil
• ¼ cup cider vinegar

Shake or whisk all ingredients together and dress the salad.

And since now is the season for the most gorgeous lettuces and spinaches and other gorge-worthy foods, as well as basil and the other herbs, which are all so simple to prepare and arrange on nibbling plates like I described above, perhaps you would like a recipe for the dressing I mentioned, too.

Basil Dressing
From the Gourmet Magazine website

• 1 cup loosely packed fresh basil
• 1 ½ tablespoons chopped shallot
• 2 tablespoons balsamic vinegar
• ¾ teaspoons salt
• ¼ teaspoon black pepper
• 2 tablespoons mayonnaise
• 6 tablespoons extra virgin olive oil

Blend all ingredients in a blender until smooth.

Enjoy all this. Slow it down. Don’t let it go by without wringing out of it the most awareness possible. We are just now preserving enough food nostalgia to last us for the coming year.

Strawberries Lysander

Last year at this time I was waiting for Lysander, 1 ½ years old, to come and pick peas with me. I waxed eloquent about that baby and those peas in a column called Peas: Paean and Pleasures and when he got here he did what babies always do – he did what came naturally, but certainly not what I had envisioned. Oh, he loved the peas – as little balls. He marveled over them in his tiny pudgy palm, but he couldn’t imagine putting them in his mouth! Instead, he dropped them into the grass, bent over after them and tried to roll them on the ground, and then rolled over on top of them, unsteady on feet and bottom.

Well, Lysander’s been back, and what a difference a year makes! For one thing, the thrice-planted peas are about knee-high to him this year, with no little pea-balls yet and maybe never. Lysander is several inches taller, still loves balls and water – good thing since it rained the entire time he was here – and is beginning to get the concept of a garden.

He sat on the edge of the strawberry bed for ten minutes at a time straining water out of a plastic plant-flat with two left-over tomatoes in soaked peat pots in it. Don’t you just love the messy intensity of early childhood? What can the child be thinking, so patiently? His mother sat beside him, chatting with me, as patient as he. And then, having experienced the mystery of straining rainwater out of a cracked, clumsily oblong, plastic thing, he turned around and a whole new world met his eyes. Strawberries! And what were they doing scattered over the straw, under those green leaves? Let me tell you, we all scrambled then – he into the strawberry bed, his mother after him, me after her.

That night we had strawberry shortcake, which he liked, I think, but perhaps not quite as much as he liked the strawberries from the strawberry bed. This is behavior of which I approve – we’ll make a little forager out of him yet!

Next night it was late when we finished dinner out on the deck, and I realized that we had no dessert. There was a kind of expectant hush in the air – dinner without an exclamation point... But we did have berries left over from the night before, so I divvied them up between several tiny bowls and poured heavy cream over them – a kind of token dessert.

Well, Lysander finished up his mother’s bowl, and then his daddy’s, and then he cried, screamed – it was late; he was tired – “STRAWBERRY! I want STRAWBERRY!”

Lysander, I said, calmly, I think I have one more strawberry. Hold your horses.

I took the flashlight to the strawberry bed and picked two berries left over from his picking ravages earlier in the day.

I have two strawberries, I told him. He knows his numbers. He ate one and held out his hand. I gave him the second and he ate it, holding it by its little green cap. No tears when that was done. And for the boy who can count, who can curb his expectations to the possible, a lagniappe – the cream from my bowl. I held it up, he tipped back his head and drank that little bit of cream mixed with strawberry juice and savored each sip, like a little bird.

“All done,” he said, whisking his hands together.

Until next year, Lysander.

...the sophisticated strawberry...

Stanti Schonbachler of The Victorian Inn at Wallingford was seen sitting on the curb at the Market and seeming to wait a couple of weeks ago. When told this I knew he’d been waiting for the berry man, because he was making this STRAWBERRY & RHUBARB POT PIE WITH GINGER for the What’s Cookin’ Rutland television show on Monday night. He needed those local berries! You can catch Stanti intermittently on Channel 15, or you can download the show at www.pegtv.com Click on video on demand and scroll down to What’s Cookin’. Seating in the audience is available for each third Monday of the month by calling Chaffee Art Center at 775-0356. Brad Burns of the Lakehouse Pub and Grille will be the guest chef for the July 21 show.

This delectable dessert is a little more sophisticated than Lysander’s two strawberries from the patch, but simple enough for him to help make.

INGREDIENTS:

1 qt. strawberries cleaned of stems, cut in chunks

4 cups rhubarb peeled and cut in chunks

Simple sugar mix – 1-cup sugar to 1-cup water

2 inches ginger cut in pieces

½ cup cornstarch

Puff Pastry (in the freezer section)

Egg wash- egg with dash of water (or cream) whisked together

DIRECTIONS:

In a large pan simmer the simple syrup with the ginger for 15 minutes or until reduced by half. Remove the ginger. Add the rhubarb and cook for about 5 minutes. Add the strawberries and mix. Mix ½ cup of the cornstarch with ¼ cup of cold water. When completely dissolved add some slowly to the strawberry/rhubarb mixture over low heat until it has slightly thickened.

Spoon the fruit into individual ramekins. Let cool slightly.

Lay the puff pastry on a board and cut a circle at least an inch larger all around than the top of the ramekin. Brush the outside edge of the ramekin with the egg wash. Place a circle of pastry on top with the inch overlay and press the sides. Brush all with the egg wash. Sprinkle with sugar if desired.

Place on a baking sheet and bake 375 degrees for 15 to 20 minutes or until the crust is nicely browned.

We Are Tired of Our Huts

White smoke from neighbors’ chimneys plumes straight up into blue sky this morning when the dog and I go out for the paper; but there’s a softness to the air and busyness with the sound of birds. And there behind the old church across the street rises the bright shadow of Easter – not the bunny but the sun. Almost Spring Equinox.

It’s the best time of the year. The days have a long time to get longer now. Far off, in the high sun of mid-June we can allow ourselves the luxury of apprehension, for then the hemisphere begins to leak light, leading at least to November. But for now winter’s back is surely broken, and soon we’ll be allowed out of our huts!

CLEANING OUT THE LARDER

Now’s the time we clear out the cupboards and fridge, freezer and pantries of stuffs dried or frozen or otherwise preserved from an old season, free at last to use them up in frenetic anticipation of beginning the cycle anew, of preserving yet unknown things for yet another February. There’s a venison roast frozen since fall that needs to be considered before the young, copper-sheathed fiddleheads of ferns poke their curled heads out of the mud. Daytime temperatures will rise and tumble back down for night and though nothing yet visibly grows nevertheless saps and mycelium begin to flow and grow, and soon our first foraging season will begin – Sugaring! In the past, when stores had been depleted by this time, humans were known to subsist on new maple sugar for a month or so before green struck again. Religions, formed before refrigeration and on the shoulders of earlier pagan rites, actively encourage severe fasting at this time of year, culminating with feasting at the time when new young things do birth and grow.

Feasting rises the ladder of climates from south to north as the quarry rises from the earth, the waters, and the forests: Shad and its luscious roe. Bitter dandelion. Lovely wild leeks. The crenellated wild morel.

... of Cans and Bottles of Things

In this house the 2006 canned tomato sauce is gone but there’s one more bottle dated 2005: a classic example of over-hoarding – time gets away, too few mindful trips to the cellar. Perhaps, to do it justice, we’ll just drink it, with a little vodka or not. It was made from a favorite tomato called Enchantment, shaped like a paste tomato but not mealy, a little salt and basil leaves added just before the lid went on.

... of Garlic

I no longer hoard the bag of garlic that I bought from Dutchess Farm at the Market last fall, but use it like it’s going out of style, which it is, though it’s kept well upstairs in a little room we keep quite cold and dry. I used almost a whole head of garlic in last Sunday’s pot roast, while in November’s I would have been more sparing.

. . . of Strawberries

One Tuesday last summer, at the Rutland County Farmers’ Market, I bought two more quarts of those most marvelous strawberries everyone raved about. Greg Cox of Boardman Hill Farm sold them for Wood’s Market Garden in Brandon where they’d been raised under organic conditions even if not yet certified. They were huge, so sweet they needed little added sugar for shortcake. These last two quarts – I’d bought five on Saturday – were spread on a plate and frozen whole, then placed into freezer bags to eat like popsicles throughout the rest of the summer.

But so many good foods to eat all summer, and the natural instinct to hoard good things, rendered those strawberries mostly untouched by last month. Now that the next strawberry season is within imagination’s reach, I’ve begun indeed to “eat them like popsicles.” Since the texture of frozen strawberries leaves something to be desired, they’re not great on salads. Last night I made a dressing of them to go over a salad of grilled salmon and pear on fresh greens, garnished with warm goat cheese and toasted walnuts. It shed warmth (some of which was due to the rather too large pinch of chipotle pepper flakes I added) and a sense of summer on the whole meal.

The Strawberry Vinaigrette
Make this early enough for the flavors to meld.

Makes about 1 cup

6 large sweet strawberries, fresh or frozen
1 clove garlic,
½ cup cilantro
1 tablespoon shallot or onion
3 dried tomatoes

Zest and juice of ½ lime
½ teaspoon salt
½ teaspoon black or white pepper
1 tablespoon maple syrup

½ cup olive oil

In a small bowl, mush the fresh or defrosted strawberries with a potato masher.
Chop the garlic, cilantro, shallot, tomatoes, and lime zest until very fine and stir into the strawberries. Stir in the lime juice, salt and pepper, and maple syrup. Whisk in the olive oil in a very fine stream. Correct the seasonings.

Alternatively, place all of the ingredients except the olive oil in the bowl of a blender and blend until smooth, then add the olive oil in a thin stream while the blender is running. Correct the seasonings.

This would do well dipped up with tortilla chips, particularly if you did the minced version; or served in tiny cups as an amuse bouche at the beginning of a meal. In that case I would use the blender, and drizzle each tiny mouth-amuser with a little extra and very good olive oil.

... Really? Vinaigrette?

Okay, I may be playing somewhat loosely with that term. It’s certainly not a plain vinaigrette. But Larousse Gastronomique, in addition to specifying a 1:3 ratio of vinegar or other acid to oil or cream, allows other seasonings, such as herbs, garlic, or mustard, to be added. I must consult them about the addition of six large, flavorful strawberries. I never fail to realize something unexpected from the LG: Put a little salt in the bowl, they say, and then whisk in the vinegar, because salt doesn’t dissolve in oil.

EATING LOCALLY

But let’s face it, most of us don’t have larders. We might have a pantry, but what do we store in it? Cans and bags and boxes of food stuffs that overflow the kitchen cupboards, that’s what! I wonder how many people have a ham hanging in some cool dry room? (Let me know if you do!)

Nope, most of us rely on at least weekly visits to the supermarket; and don’t get me wrong, I do too, at least in the winter when most Farmers’ Markets are hibernating.

....Discovering The Co-Op, Rutland’s Natural Foods Market

One day last fall, meaning to stop at the supermarket for some serious grocery shopping on the way home from a Center Street lunch, I dropped by The Co-Op on Wales Street just to see what was up. To be honest, perhaps I just wondered what delicious offering Peter had cooked up – maybe his impossibly good Tortilla Espagnola or his signature cornbreads and salsa. I can’t remember now if it was one of Peter’s days or not, but it certainly turned out to be one of mine!

The place was colorful and warm and positively exuded good energy; the produce bright and fresh and well-stocked, much of it organically grown and locally produced. The clerks and volunteers were friendly and helpful as I chatted with them and with friends who had wandered in.

I picked up some bright yams, which I have been using for awhile instead of potatoes, and some glossy, deeply creased kale to steam and dress with Asian tastes, and to cut into strips and drop, for those last minutes, into soups; cilantro, mesclun, some cans of this and that – how about organic pineapple? I measured out some pearled barley and excellent coffee beans in bulk, chose a local cheese, an extraordinary yogurt, picked up a cleaning spray, and probably a dark-chocolate bar when I got up to the counter, where the final pleasant surprise whapped me up side the head – I’d spent far less than I would have at the supermarket.

...Consider the Yam

I think that what I’ve been buying is a garnet yam, which is really a sweet potato of the Morning Glory or Convolvulaceae family. Anyway, I grew up with them served mainly for holidays or Sunday dinners swimming in maple syrup and butter. But in recent years I’ve reconsidered them. Now, to bring out their nutty natural sweetness, I simply roast or grill them whole; or simmer them – unpeeled and cut into rounds – in salted water until tender. Quickly, I add butter or olive oil and finely chopped shallot, garlic, and parsley and mash them with a fork, not until smooth but until broken apart, chunky and mixed together with the oil and alliums which the heat of the yams will partially cook, then clap that cover back on the pan until ready to eat. They are delicious, low in calories and carbs, packed with good orange vitamins; great with grilled meats.

He who distinguishes the true savor of his food can never be a glutton;
he who does not cannot be otherwise...

This column was first published in the Rutland (Vermont) Herald in March of 2007