green showers

What I would like to iterate this morning after reading the Sunday New York Times on-line is the phenomenal gustatory satisfaction one might take in showers of flavorful little green leaves of herbs over almost any main dish; and how food just keeps happening when you give over a portion of your brain and time and activity to it. Which, I realize now is not just iteration but re-iteration, since that’s what I’m always talking about, isn’t it?

The latest and greatest finger-food at Saturday’s Farmers’ Market in Depot Park is barbecued chicken made by Sunset Farm’s Jeff & Cathy McMurry. I think Jeff’s in it for the new equipment – the big metal tow-behind barbecue, and now a lovely little battery-powered hot water gizmo. Cathy’s own BBQ sauce, neither sweet nor gloppy but with just the right combination of herbs and spiciness, that seems, when done, more likely to’ve been a dry rub than a sauce, is the perfect partner for the pastured chickens.

I shared half the half-chicken at the Market, then took the rest home and made a little two-person chicken salad for supper.  

For the salad: To the diced chicken, I added coarsely chopped black Moroccan oil-cured olives; a dice of preserved lemon (you may use fresh lemon zest and a bit of juice), French Breakfast radish (from Right Mind Farm), cornichon, and onion; chopped tarragon and lovage, with maybe some dill; then mixed it all up with olive oil and a little balsamic vinegar. After the flavors had time to mingle I served it over hot rice. But wait! That’s not all: Over all, I sprinkled chopped cilantro and lemon balm and rings of Egyptian onion. The heat of the rice woke up the many tastes in this little dinner so that every bite was a study in contrasts and comfort.

I’d been aware that an enormous chicken resided in my freezer. But, big surprise – as it thawed it turned into an enormous bag of chicken backs. Only then did I remember that Singing Cedars had given me them last fall, and I’d put them in the freezer. Anyway, I’d made a wonderful toothsome broth of them, just roasting them for the meat, then found they were skillfully cut and, really, just bones, which I then simmered in lots of water, plain, no onions or other stuff, until they made a really nice broth.

I’d seethed them, really, which I always took as simmering very slowly, as though in a warmer than warm marinade. Curiously, there are two definitions of the word – one is just that very slow simmer and the other is a very fast boil. Talk about oxymorons!

Anyway, to that finished, strained broth I added lemon grass, contemplated cascobel peppers, consulted Diana Kennedy on that matter and, while continuing to think about those peppers, went to the garden in a soaking mist for garlic, cilantro, and scallion. On my way back, I spied the young collard greens, almost walked past, thought, “perfect”, jerked to a startled stop, and brought some of them in, too. What a treasure it is to remember that you had planted those delicious greens and find they are ready to eat!
Black beans would be the other half of this dish. Maybe some rice?

And chopped or torn leaves of lemon balm over the top. I’ve grown lemon balm for years and NEVER used it in a dish. It was so delicious in last night’s chicken salad that it’s now become a decided component of my little herb salad garnishes, my green showers.

Back to those cascobel peppers: They are challenging, thin skinned little orbs that rattle when you shake them. Charring them eats the flesh and flavor. So I crushed them in half, emptied out most of the seeds and just simmered them in plain water, then tore them into bits into the broth. Their flavor is rich, deep, slightly chocolate, almost intoxicating.

Then I added ribbons of collard greens, and chopped garlic, and warmed up the refried black beans I had in the fridge.

I made a pool of hot broth and collard greens in a soup plate, plopped in refried beans, topped that with Lakes’ Edge Farm’s Pepper Chevre, which is just a very fresh goat cheese rolled in ground peppers – a wonderful summer cheese, sprinkled that with a handful of chopped salad of  lemon balm, Egyptian onion, and radish, drizzled that with garlicky olive oil and a sprinkle of lime juice, and served it up with tortilla chips.

Another evening, a spring (now summer) shower of dill, cilantro, tarragon and flat-leafed parsley went over Red Houses’s spicy lamb sausages and Radical Roots cauliflower. Delish. That cauliflower? Steamed it al dente, then into a clay baking dish, dotted with butter, cream, cheese, baked until golden and tender, then showered with that little salad.

Next night was cool and I had ground lamb from Red Houses, and wonderful German Butterball potatoes from Heleba’s, so I made a Shepherd’s Pie, with the herbs both cooked in the meat filling and sprinkled fresh on top of the finished pie.

You know how to do this – brown the meat with garlic and onion, the herbs (especially lovage), maybe a little broth at the end. Put that into a casserole, top with mashed potatoes, maybe a sprinkle of cheese, and bake.

Grow some herbs and make some green showers of your own. Lovage, cilantro, arugula, dill, tarragon, lemon balm, sorrel, basil, parsley, mint, thyme... the list never ends. Mix and match. They’re lovely.

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I know it seems impossible, but I erred when I called Erin at the Larson’s Farm stand at the Market the wrong last name. We can’t figure out how that happened, but when you stop by, please say hello to Erin Seward. My apologies.


A couple of other shout-outs to food ready-to-eat at the Saturday Market . The Domestic Diva doesn’t have a sign on her stand, but you will recognize her by the wide variety of lovely finger-foods. My favorite so far is the cupcake-sized fallen soufflé. It was delightful. I couldn’t share!
Other treats this last week were little tarts topped with thin slices of heirloom tomatoes, teensy profiteroles and cream puffs filled with savory and sweet substances, crispy, buttery puff-pastries, baklava, and pea-pods filled with creamy essences as well as peas.

Nancy, at Tweed-Valley Farm is now offering smoked quail, as well as quail eggs, peanut brittle, and shiitakes.

And Morgan Over is offering her home-made REAL bagels (boiled and double-cooked) with the honest-to-bagel taste and texture of real bagels, at a stand called Good Morgan Bagels. She’s going to start toasting them on the spot so you can get your real bagel & cream cheese fix as you do the rest of your shopping.

This lady sells a little bit of everything, delectable soaps, as well as these coconut rolls that come from her native Trinidad. I love coconut, and these are excellent!

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That’s it for now, Folks. Do plant some herbs. These little plants have flavors and textures that will enlighten your cuisine, whatever it is, with some perfectly refreshing green showers.

how sweet the green spring

How sweet it is, when you have not “had time to cook” in what seems like months, that you are nevertheless certain to make the time to walk into the Farmers’ Market and pick up a dozen eggs all speckled brown perfection in their carton, and some yellow-veined green chard fresh from the field and certainly some spinach; and when you exclaim, as you dig out your last change for a box of blue and yellow and orange carrots, “Oh, I need potatoes, too, but I’m cleaned out,” the farmer says “we have TONS of potatoes. I’m going to give you some” and she dumps a little peck of them in with the carrots. Because that’s just how sweet it is, you remind yourself, when you are among friends and good, earthy food!

And still sweet when you tear yourself away from the conversations and music at the Market and they follow you through the Co-op and out upon the sidewalk, and then you go home to a garden full of sorrel and Egyptian onions, and garlic sprouting greenly up, and nubbins of rhubarb looking like a jigsaw puzzle all brilliant red and black and green – all growing up out of the ground, and it is 82 degrees in Rutland on April third.

Well, that’s pretty sweet, and you must appreciate it NOW, because beautiful weather isn’t free, you know. You’re going to pay for it later...

That’s how I’ve been feeling lately – a life full of hit-the-ground-running mindset interspersed with moments of recognition of what’s really important, as well as the occasional opportunity to really enjoy it.
In that Saturday afternoon lull that I speak of, I decide to make a cup of tea. I open the dishwasher because there are no clean cups hanging under the cupboard. There in that malodorous machine the state of my life is made apparent. The upper level proliferates in dirty glasses and cups and grungy plastic containers and the lower one in forks and soup spoons, and all the tablespoons I own because I use them each day for my dog’s yogurt (he still gets HIS supper), and knives that we use for butter and peanut butter on morning toast. All that while the plate rack remains woefully empty. Not too many sit-down meals have gone on in this house for some time now. Quick short-order is about it.

So I decide to make a quiche. Because I have these lovely fresh ingredients, and because the tools involved in making and eating it will fill up the empty spaces in the dishwasher so it can be guiltlessly run.

But I chide myself for those thoughts – the making of a quiche is a pleasant enough thing in itself; and the eating of it no less so. Especially when you have not been cooking anything with any like degree of preparation time and planning in recent history.

In that recent history I have met many people who do not have time to cook for themselves, let alone their families, and very little inclination, anyway, because they don’t perhaps KNOW how to cook, at least something the thought of which whets their appetite. KFC anyone? Whenever I find myself in these circumstance I think of the young working families who have children at home, whose lives are hectic and short on time. What happens when they need a meal?

I count myself lucky that I can decide to make a quiche and then simply MAKE it, because I know how to do it without having to look up a recipe that calls for so much Swiss chard and so much this and that. I know to prepare the single crust from a cup of flour, some butter or lard, some salt, and enough ice water to bring it together. I know to shred the cheese and put half of it over the crust, prepare the chard and onions, and the formula for the custard. And to put it into a really HOT oven in order to cook the bottom crust and then to turn the heat down so that the custard doesn’t curdle. I wish I could teach the whole world to cook, to take advantage of real food.

Another blessed evening I am again lucky. I have the time and the garden that I can walk out into and pick a stem of lovage and some chives and take them in and drop them on some Trader Joe’s green beans steaming over a pot of simmering water. Whenever I find a TJs I stock up on olive oil and those great frozen green beans – they are small, like French green beans, les haricots vert, I believe, zydeco for short, and tender and flavorful.

And here is my yearly reminder that lovage is a plant that everyone should have in their garden. Its beauty is not in its appearance, which is large and raw and straggly, but in the flavors of tarragon and celery that it adds to soups and vegetables, even potato salad.

Along with the green beans, which will be dropped into a warm bowl and dressed with butter, salt and pepper before we eat them, I have chicken wings from the Farmers’ Market, that I’ve given a long, SLOW roast with garlic and jalapeno, and the first arugula from a booth at the Farmers’ Market – Singing Cedars, I think.
On the plate the arugula, green beans and chicken wings are all dressed with separate drops of a really good sherry vinegar and some shards of gorgonzola that has aged quite magnificently in the cheese drawer in my fridge for at least two months. What a plate full of different and entirely melodious tastes – a rare treat these days!

After supper I wander through the gardens, the yard, around the house on the corner lot that wants to be a farm, through all the plots, at least three times, noticing and planning, and gathering different specimens of the daffodils that grow there. I wonder what I am doing filling this spring up with so much unspringlike work, that hit-the-ground-running attitude, and then I take the daffs into the house and plop them into a little cream pitcher my grandmother gave me, and then I take a picture of them. One of them is prettier than the others, with a bright orange ruffling out of the center. Bah, I say, I’ll bet that beauty is not the best smelling one. I sniff each of them, from the plainest to the flashiest.

Hah. I was wrong. The prettiest DOES smell the sweetest.

From Blog how sweet the green spring

Sometimes that’s just the way it is!

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Slow-Roasted Chicken Wings

As some of you know, I buy locally grown, pastured meats, and that includes chicken. Until lately, when the McMurrys at Sunset Farm found a way to sell chicken parts, a meal of chicken wings was a thing of the past. These wings are large and meaty. Find Jeff or Cathy at the Rutland Farmers’ Market on Saturdays.

Preheat the oven to 425°

Smear a large shallow pan –a rimmed pizza pan works well – with butter. Take 3 pounds of chicken wings, dry them with paper towels if necessary, lock the wing tip over the drumstick, place each on the pan, sunny side up, grind salt and pepper over them, sprinkle with finely chopped jalapeno and garlic, drizzle with olive oil, and place in the oven for 45 minutes to an hour, or until golden and crispy.

it's all about the chicken

Chicken killing Wednesday on Polyface Farm in Swoope, Virginia, involves family and community, not least
Joel Salatin's grandson pickin' pinfeathers, standing on a five gallon bucket. Go here for more Polyface photos.

Where I come from, killing chickens – we did not call it anything but killing – was just a little something you learned in order to grow up knowing how to take care of yourself with your head screwed on right, akin to having a little mad money knotted into the corner of your handkerchief when you went out with a boy so as not to have to ‘depend’ upon him too much and get yourself locked into unwholesome ‘situations’ you didn’t want to be in.

The process is etched in my bones. Grandma, sorrowfully but matter-of-factly, would go into the chickenyard where they scratched and cooed in the fresh air and under the sun, catch the chickens one at a time, hold it, smooth its wings, while, with a faraway look in her eyes, she decided if this particular chicken’s time had come or not. She loved her chickens, while I did not.

Those who ran from her in their funny two-skinny-legged panic were caught with a chicken snicker – a wooden handle on a long stiff wire with a curve at the other end. It was snaked out to catch a chicken by the ankle and the surprised chicken swiftly pulled into Grandma’s arms. Those chosen were then hung by their feet from a twine loop strung on a line not used for clothes where Grandpa caught each by its downed head and snicked its throat with a razor. That chicken then began its death throes and the blood spattered widely around as it bled out and finally hung still. A big cast-iron cauldron of water had been heated in the chickenyard, and the chicken briefly was plunged into it to loosen the feathers before it was plucked.
That’s where my ‘help’ came in. Though I hated the smell of the hot wet feathers, and the feel of the feathers as they stuck to my hands and my clothing, and even felt as though they clung to my face and made me itch all over, still I did my little part.

Then Grandpa would cut off the head and, now that I think of it, probably enlarge the anus, and Grandma would pull out the innards and separate out the gizzard, the liver, and the heart from the odoriferous pile. Then, when they were all de-feathered and gutted and pretty clean, she’d take them into the kitchen and tip an iron burner on the wood range, shove a newspaper twist into the flames and flash-singe all the remaining pin-feathers on each corpse. That was about it, except of course she had to clean those gizzards by slicing them halfway through, turning them inside out and disposing of the stones and grains from the last meal they’d eaten. But that was worth it – the gizzard was Grandma’s favorite part, and since she shared it with me it became my favorite part, too. We’d also share the liver, and sometimes the heart. We shared in the kitchen, over the counter, before we sat down with the rest of them.

Usually the family would have at least one chicken dinner from the slaughter, while the rest – maybe 7 or 11, were packaged up for her chicken- and egg- customers.

We never had a platter of chicken wings, or chicken breasts. We had the whole chicken either roasted in its altogether or cut into back, wings, breast, neck, thighs and legs, then fried or stewed: chicken soup, chicken and dumplings, chicken and biscuits. Always gravy. Yummm.

Think about this – if you had to raise and kill the birds, yourself, and clean them, how many platters of chicken wings would you put away? Not too very darn many, I’d think, especially as there are only two on each chicken. Nor do you if you are a good boy or girl and buy your chickens pastured from a local farmer at the Farmers’ Market or down the street from you. For that matter, if you had to kill the chicken first you probably wouldn't eat too much chicken period!

Jeff McMurry raises his free-range chickens (selling them and their eggs at the Rutland Farmers' Market)
out in the country between Fort Ann and North Granville, New York.

Most pastured chickens do not come with the gizzards and liver packaged inside of them either, though Jeff and Cathy McMurry, who sell their Sunset Farm chickens and eggs (and rabbits and some beef, etc.) at the Rutland Farmers’ Market, package the livers, gizzards, and hearts and sell them separately to those who want them. Jeff's reasoning is that for those people who don’t want the offal it saves them a little bit of money, and for those who do – there they are. He also sells some chicken ‘parts’ such as breasts and legs separately.

Most of these farmers, if they do their own chicken killing, have invested in a chicken funnel – the chicken is thrust into it quickly so its head sticks out the bottom and its throat quickly snicked – instead of clothesline and twine; and a rolling barrel with rubber fingers which makes plucking easier. These do not make the process joyful, but ease the laboriousness quite a bit.

Last year Leo and I found ourselves in Virginia near the town of Swoope, where Joel Salatin lives -- he who was immortalized by Michael Pollan for his sustainable sun-to-grass-to-flesh Polyface Farm. As soon as we arrived and saw the Rube-Goldberg-like operation going on behind the house, I realized it was Wednesday – chicken killing day.

Joel was out and about on the farm, but his son, Daniel, was heading up the operation, and it was for all the world just like a strawberry packing operation that I’m more familiar with – everyone with their specific job on the ‘line’ all the way down to a small boy, Joel’s grandson, standing on a five gallon pail by his daddy at the end of the line, rather ineffectually picking pinfeathers out of the carcasses with his little fingers. This, of course, is how we meat-eaters are inoculated against the tragedy that human beings are carnivorous. And yes, there was a fiesta feeling in the air, lots of smiles and small talk – things were getting done, communally, that needed to be done.

So, thanks to Joel and Jeff and countless farmers who raise quality foods, we don’t have to kill our own chicken every time we want a chicken dinner, but it’s good to keep in mind that someone has to, and not to be too profligate about our demands for flesh, and to make good use of every bit of it.

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When I buy a chicken it’s usually whole, and it’s usually frozen. After it’s defrosted I either roast it and make a soup out of the leavings, or, and I think this works best, I cut it up into two breast portions, two legs, and two thighs, with the wings and the back, as well as all the other bones, used to make a stock and then soup.

If you do the cutting up when the chicken still is partially frozen it’s easier because the flesh is firm, and the parts you aren’t using immediately can go back in the freezer. In that case I would use the breast first. Which is what I did the other night when I got a hankering for chicken cutlets from a suggestion by a fellow food-blogger, for Grilled Chicken Paillard with Gremolata. As you probably know, Paillard is American chefspeak for chicken breast, and a gremolata is parsley, garlic, and lemon zest chopped together. And as you can see, I breaded the cutlets instead of grilling them, which I think helps enclose the juices and keeps them moist. Free-range chickens can get a little sinewy, and will benefit by this treatment.
The following yields 2 servings.

Breaded Lemon Chicken Cutlets

1 whole chicken breast (2 halves) boned but including the skin; Zest of 1 lemon (zest the lemon into a small bowl so that it catches the spurting oils as well as the zest); Juice of 1 lemon; 1 egg; Panko bread crumbs – about a cup; 1 clove garlic; several sprigs of parsley; Salt & Pepper.

Peel the skin from the chicken, using your fingers and a small, sharp knife, and lay it out right-side-up in a frying pan. Turn the heat to medium low and render until the skin is crisp and all the fat is liquid in the pan, turning it a couple of times and pressing it down.Turn the heat off, remove the crisp skins, salt them, and eat them. Mmmmm. Chef’s rights! Leave that chicken fat right in the pan.

In the meantime pound each chicken half-breast until not very thin but even – probably about 1/3 inch thick. Place them into a bowl or plastic bag and cover with the lemon juice and a liberal sprinkling of salt. Close the bag, sucking all the air out of it, squish it so the lemon juice covers all the meat, or, if using a bowl do your damnedest to make the same thing happen. Refrigerate for at least ½ hour.

When the skin is rendered and every last bit of it is enjoyed, and you’ve licked your fingers, break the egg into a flat bowl and whisk until not stringy. Pour the panko crumbs into another flat bowl. Drain the chicken cutlets and dredge in the egg and then in the bread crumbs. Set aside to dry a bit while you prepare the pan.

Heat the chicken fat with a bit of additional olive oil and even some butter, if you like. Over a medium high heat brown the cutlets until golden on each side. Salt and pepper to taste. Place the chicken (in the same pan if it is ovenproof) in a 400° oven for about 20 minutes.

In the meantime, make the gremolata – chop the garlic, parsley and lemon zest until fine, put back into the small zest bowl and stir to pick up the lemon oils.

When the cutlets are done, sprinkle with the gremolata and serve.

The first time I did this I added to the lemon juice marinade some salty lemons and juice left over from making a little jar of preserved lemons. Those were the best, so if you have some preserved lemons by all means use a pinch of them.
I served this with a butternut squash pan-sautéed with the usual – garlic, scallion, hot pepper flakes, salt and pepper. Delish!

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You can find my Best Chicken Liver Pâté here.

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and Edward Schneider's Confit of Gizzard here.

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The truth about industrialized food is becoming mainstream. Even Dear Abby counseled someone the other day that vegetarians were smart not to eat industrial meats, that pastured meats were healthy foods, but it all came down to choice. Which made me realize that truth goes through three steps: First, it is ridiculed; Second, it is violently opposed; Finally, it is accepted as self-evident. Perhaps we’re coming close to that final step!

and maybe we'll pick on piggies next.