Perseverance and Raspberry Hunting at Restoration Farm

After a two-week absence from Restoration Farm, the raspberries seem to be in scarce supply. It is a bit like a treasure hunt. I’m entitled to one quart over a fourteen-day period, but I must dip under thick clusters of leaves and weave my way through thorny bramble with the hope of finding a hidden gem.

As is often said, “seek and ye shall find.” The raspberries are small, and there are few but they are available. At first, it’s like dropping pennies in a bucket. But, I am determined that I will keep searching until I accumulate enough raspberries for a small tart – perhaps the only raspberry tart of the summer.

At times I consider giving up, but I push myself to look a little harder. There will be no tart without a little perseverance. Sometimes, I pass a section that I think I’ve picked clean and discover there is still another raspberry to pluck. Or, has another just now ripened in the heat of the morning sun?

Diligence is rewarded. It takes almost a full hour before I’ve gathered enough raspberries - slightly less than a quart, and just enough for one rustic tart.

These hard earned berries can’t be overdone. So I choose the simplest of tart recipes from Deborah Madison’s “Seasonal Fruit Desserts.” The recipe is called “Lindsey’s Austere Berry Tart” - nothing more than a jammy red raspberries and a buttery shortbread crust.

It probably took more time to pick the raspberries than it takes to eat the tart, but it is worth savoring – a delicious bite of the berry patch.

Meanwhile, the blackberry bushes at Restoration Farm have fruited, and are slowly working their way towards ripening.

©2011 T.W. Barritt All Rights Reserved

Into Each Life Some Garlic Must Grow

No doubt about it, garlic is pungent. Some might even say, “It stinks.”

I don’t think I truly understood the power of garlic until the first time I cooked up a batch of garlic soup. It was a recipe out of Bon Appetit and probably included 40 cloves of garlic. The soup was creamy, sharp, savory and slightly dangerous, and I’m not exaggerating when I say the memory of that soup stayed with me for days.

Then there was the time my colleague Splint McCullough and I dined on an entire menu of garlic inspired dishes – including garlic ice cream for dessert – at a restaurant in San Francisco. I was sure we’d be labeled as “flammable material” and banned from boarding our flights home.

Imagine if you will, the power of an entire field of garlic. This field has a history. Last autumn - as we closed out the 2010 growing season at Restoration Farm - the members of the CSA gathered to plant individual garlic cloves that would incubate throughout the winter. Now, in the heat of July, we enter the cycle again and return to the garlic field at the North end of the historic village to harvest hundreds of heads of the stinking rose.

The sky is blue and the morning heat is starting to blister. The browning stalks of garlic are as high as an elephant’s eye, as are the weeds. We wade into the green morass and start tugging. Sometimes the garlic is hard to find among the weeds, but perseverance pays off. Bulbs pop out of the field. The air smells of garlic, earth and sweat.

The action shifts to the growing fields at the South end of the village. Bulbs of garlic are piled on rustic wooden tables. Several dozen people sort the bulbs into bundles of eight, which are tied with twine. Garlic galore.

The bundles are counted, and transported by wheelbarrow to the Red Barn, now better referred to as the Garlic Barn. The bundles are hung in the rafters of the barn for curing.

It seems we all encounter a bit of garlic in life – events or people that are a bit pungent and overpowering. And then, there are also the weeds. Perhaps you’ve got to be patient, gather a group of friends and just get in there and tug when the time is right. Then, make a sauce and a little ziti. It’ll taste good and you’ll feel better.

©2011 T.W. Barritt All Rights Reserved

The First Pastured Chicken Comes Home to Roast

I’m not sure I have ever had quite this much information about something I am about to eat. It’s a new experience and I’m taking it day by day.

We get the word one evening via email, from Tricia, the assistant grower at Restoration Farm who is heading up the Hardscrabble Chicken Project. The chickens are ready! She writes:

“I am happy to report that we have not suffered any losses thus far and the chickens are healthy and plump! By the time they are processed they will have been moved daily on pasture for over a month and the pen will be ready for the second batch of birds currently occupying the brooder. So ready your recipes (and don't forget to make use of the herb garden and vegetables)! Thank you again for your support and I look forward to seeing you soon!”

Tricia has followed the principles for raising poultry used by Joel Salatin of Polyface Farm. The chickens are moved each day and dine on the fresh “salad bar” available in the pastures.

I happen to be at the farm shortly before the harvest. Usually, I approach the pen to say hello to “the girls.” From what I can see, they are looking very full-figured from their diet of foraged greens. But, this time I keep my distance. Is it guilt? Does this avoidance officially make me “chicken?” Probably. But, I’ve already decided I will leave the toughest part of the farm-to-table process to the professionals. My job is to cook and eat. (Another CSA member did make a visit to the farm on harvest day, which you can read about here.)

All of the birds are more than four pounds, and at least one tops the scales at six pounds. I’m several days behind schedule, so the remaining birds have been placed in the freezer. I’m a little disappointed that I can’t experience a fresh bird, but it’s still going to be a lot fresher than most. Here’s the scene when I visit Restoration Farm to pick up my share:

I am conflicted on how to best prepare this first taste of farm-raised chicken. At one point, I’ve got piles of cookbooks open as I pour over recipes and preparation techniques.

I become slightly alarmed when I read a passage from Julia Child advising against broiler chickens for certain recipes because they are too young. This makes them unsuitable for long cooking times because the flesh is too tender. I’ve had enough culinary failures lately. It’s been so bad I’m lucky nobody’s told me to pack up my knives and go home. I can’t afford to mess this one up. I consult some top culinary experts. They are unanimous in their opinion - roast that clucker until the skin is super-crispy.

I conclude that the best choice for the inaugural recipe is a tried-and-true basic roast bird, which will allow me to fully assess the flavor. High heat should give me crispy skin and moist, tender meat. I can play with other preparation methods throughout the summer.

The feast is scheduled for a leisurely Sunday afternoon, giving ample time for roasting and relishing of all those succulent “chickeny” aromas. With bird in hand, I stop in the herb garden at Restoration Farm to pluck handfuls of fresh thyme, lemon thyme, oregano and sage that I will use to stuff the cavity and perfume the roasting process.

My broiler chicken is #32, weighing in at 4.84 pounds.

I always get into a bit of a tangle when trussing. But I manage to stuff the cavity with a bouquet of herbs, a head of garlic and several slices of lemon, and even get those legs crossed nicely.

I’ve invited my friend Hal2011, a true epicurean, to join the feast. I tuck the bird into a hot oven and we head out to the deck for cocktails.

I’m using a recipe – or perhaps it’s the philosophy – of Alice Waters, who recommends generously seasoning the chicken with salt and pepper and then roasting 20 minutes breast side up, 20 minutes breast side down, and 20 minutes breast side up again. I add an additional five minutes to each rotation given the size of the bird.

After 25 minutes, I return to the kitchen to flip the bird. Not much action yet. By the second flip, the house is thick with the aroma of roasted chicken, and I hear a lively crackling in the oven. A shiny tint of copper is creeping across the breast. Another 25 minutes and it is time for the final check. The bird is piping hot, bronze and glossy. It is simply gorgeous.

There’s not an excess of juices or a lot of fat. It’s a big, lean bird (I stay lean when I eat salad, too). I use a little white wine to deglaze the pan juices, add some roasted potatoes and asparagus and we are set. I carve up the bird and plate the breasts. We could probably serve four with those breasts, but Hal2011 and I have worked up an appetite lifting cocktails on the deck.

And, what a feast it is – pristine white flesh, tender and buttery, with crackling good skin. It’s a young chicken. The taste is clean and subtle. It doesn’t hit you like a hurricane, but it is supremely satisfying and very, very tasty.

That is the story of my very first hometown chicken - locally grown, tended with care at Restoration Farm and ardently devoured. Simply divine from the farm to my table.

©2011 T.W. Barritt All Rights Reserved

Culinary Types is Five Years Old!

It’s hard to believe that Culinary Types celebrates its fifth birthday today. This milestone includes more than 450 posts, and more time than I spent in college. It has been an education of a different sort.

From the start, the concept was a simple one – stories about food can be delicious. I’ve learned a lot from hearing, writing and sharing stories over the years. Today I’d like to share five brief stories about food.

Stories about food are the main ingredient at every meal. We tell stories at the farm, at the market, at the stove and at the table. Look at these tomatoes! Remember Tante's Hazelnut Torte, Nana's Apple Cake and the marzipan cake Aunt Elizabeth would bring at Christmas? That first pastured chicken from the farm was worth waiting for! Weren't those fried deviled eggs awesome? The food narrative is part of our collective history and our community. It’s who we are.

Behind every story about food, there’s an individual. Whether it’s the person who plants, picks, cooks or eats the food, people and food are inseparable.

Stories about food bring people together. Lydia, Susan, John and Diane, Sam, Julia, Louise, Anne, Chef Candy, Veronica, Bruce, Dorie, Dan and Caroline, the community at Restoration Farm, Zany, Mad Me-Shell and more. For me, the list of people I’ve come to know is abundant and rich.

Stories about food can inspire new ideas and open doors. I can say without question that the act of writing Culinary Types has transformed my life, and continues to do so each day.

There’s always a new dish, a fresh ingredient that's in season, or another story around the corner and it’s bound to taste even better than the one before. Trust me. It will be delicious.

©2011 T.W. Barritt all Rights Reserved

The Berry Patch at Restoration Farm: A Field of Possibilities

The strawberries at Restoration Farm have gone through a rough patch. Maybe it’s the heavy rain. The plants look a bit trampled. But, I suppose everyone feels a bit downtrodden at times.

I can still remember last season’s pert and iridescent deep red berries. This year, the berries have been smaller and far more tart. Some are odd shapes. You really have to search to find them. I am reminded again that the farm is far from a still life, and every season is a new moment in time.

Head grower Caroline Fanning tells me it’s probably the last week for the strawberries. How did the time go so quickly? She suggests picking two quarts so the remaining berries don’t rot on the vine and loans me a second container. “You’ve really got to put in the time to find them, though,” she advises.

I stoop in a field that appears to have experienced some trauma. Some of the berries are soft, or even moldy from the rain. A woman who is picking nearby says it smells like strawberry wine. If you breathe deep, there is an intense sweet aroma, and here and there, you can still find a perfect gem. Despite the trauma, there is potential and many CSA members are in the field still searching for possibilities.

Glenn Aldridge, the caretaker of the strawberries, tells me to hunt in the heavier growth at the center of the field and I will be rewarded.

“But, I don’t want to trample the plants,” I tell him.

“Trample away,” he says. “In a week and a half, the whole field will be turned under. Next season we start fresh again.”

How many times do you get a free pass to stomp to your heart’s content? And, how often do you get a chance at a fresh start? I need to remember this when I leave the farm. My perseverance unearths nearly two quarts of strawberries.

Although the strawberries may be leaving us too quickly, all over the Sweet Field, there are signs of new possibilities, like deep pink blossoms signaling midsummer blackberries…

And, the first of the blueberries, with just a slight flush of purple visible.

A Gingered Strawberry-Rhubarb Pie (recipe found here) reminds me that while at times it may not be obvious, you can always uncover some sweet possibilities.

And, if the pie happens to crack in half if you’ve tried to move it before it’s sufficiently cooled, remember the lesson from the strawberry field of what’s possible, and turn it into a perfectly acceptable and very tasty strawberry-rhubarb crisp.

©2011 T.W. Barritt all Rights Reserved

Foodtrucking Gone to the Dogs?!

After I return from the porcine playground of Chicago, I receive this email from Zany. The subject matter is a first for Culinary Types and requires no commentary on my part, except to say that some of the images you are about to see may be highly disturbing to small pets.

T.W., I hope you’re sitting down for this one.

Let me start by saying that Chicago is on the cusp of summer, and on the day of this story it was a beautiful Friday afternoon. Luigi and I decided to cap the work week by taking The Boss for a leisurely walk to the dog park.

The sun was shining, The Boss was meeting new friends, and Luigi and I were having a light-hearted debate about what to do for dinner. And then it went off. Luigi’s voice was suddenly tuned out like Charlie Brown’s teacher as my radar went wild. The bright yellow truck was slowly making its way around our rectangle park. From a distance I could see writing and graphics on the truck’s side, but I couldn’t quite put my finger on the mysterious vehicle. It LOOKED like a food truck – had I slipped on my daily monitoring and missed that a new truck was in town?! Impossible – Mad would’ve had my head.

As the truck turned the corner, my focus remained on it and I stood up. “What is that?” I said to Luigi.

Luigi, who was still rambling about macaroni, turned and said with a little excitement, “Is that a food truck?!” (He’s starting to catch on!)

“Yes it is…for The Boss,” I replied in a small voice. It was a food truck for dogs.

The truck made another turn and the sign “Fido To Go” became very clear. The driver and I made eye contact as she sped along. With a big wave she shouted, “We’re going around the park. We’re going to stop at the coffee shop!”

The yellow truck rolled down the street to make another loop. My eyes continued to follow. “Luigi,” I said slowly. “Do you have your wallet?”

“Yeah,” he replied.

“And your iPhone that has the camera?”

“Yeah.”

“Let’s MOVE.”

The Boss was going to have to play with the Maltese later. Within 30 seconds he was leashed and rushed out of the dog park.

Luigi, who had never been on any type of food truck adventure before, started to break out in hysterics. “I wonder what they HAVE. You should call Mad…no, call T.W.!” he exclaimed as he marched toward the coffee shop, with The Boss’ leash stretched behind him. As far as The Boss knew, we cut his playtime short and he was not going to cooperate.

We finally made it to the parked truck as the side window propped up and the ladies inside were open for business. Before we could even think about looking at the menu, Luigi and I had many questions. What? How? Why? The truck’s co-owner beamed as she explained her partnership with a friend. They both have deep experience in the pet industry and a love for dogs – mixed with a booming food truck scene in Chicago and they had a business model!

I picked up The Boss to examine the snack options as Luigi looked over the menu.

Bones, treats shaped like squirrels, ice cream cones and much more, all in different flavors! The truck even designated one snack a “treat of the month” with proceeds going to a local shelter. And of course, there was doggy yogurt.

While The Boss wouldn’t have minded, I couldn’t exactly use the T.W. “one-of-everything-please” strategy for my 16 pound Chihuahua. So with a little help from the ladies, Luigi and I selected the “puppizza,” the (dog-friendly) chocolate covered squirrel, and a cup of the peanut butter banana yogurt.

We walked back inside the park and offered The Boss a taste of one treat. He pawed at the pizza first, so that’s what he got. He didn’t exactly follow the slow, savory approach to eating the treat, but he quickly turned up and looked for “MORE!”

As we walked back to the apartment, Luigi pulled out the insert in our Fido To Go shopping bag. “You can hire them for dog birthday parties, photo shoots and more. I guess the recession is over,” he cracked.

Later on in the evening, The Boss had samples of the squirrel and the yogurt, both of which also received favorable reviews. And while he couldn’t verbally express his satisfaction after a good food truck experience, I think this picture says it all.

©2011 T.W. Barritt All Rights Reserved

A Meating on the Streets of Chicago

I knew this reunion would come sooner or later.

I am standing just north of the Chicago River and I feel a bit like that silver-haired guy from “Mission Impossible.” My covert instructions arrived a day or so earlier via email. The note says: Meating Coordinates: 400 N. Michigan Avenue, just over the bridge. 4 p.m. sharp. Last one there is a vegetable.

So, I get there as early as I can. The girls already think I eat too many green beans during the summer months.

It is a stunning spring afternoon and Chicago is luminous. I look south and spy a lithe, slender figure in dark glasses approaching. It’s Zany! My heart leaps … or is it my stomach growling? It’s often hard to sort out these kinds of inclinations when she is around. We share a big hug.

“Did you fast all day?” she asks. “Because we’ve got big plans.”

Approaching us from the north is that high priestess of carnivores, Mad Me-Shell. The crowd parts as she cuts a path towards us. I haven’t dined with Mad since the dog days of summer 2010 in New York when we shared the notorious adventure of Mr. Pink and the Double Dog. These days, she makes Chicago her personal barbecue pit, and she’s been working diligently to cement her reputation as the Redneck Culinary Aficionado.

My all-time favorite New York food truck expats have spent days instant messaging and organizing our itinerary and have planned a sort of savory scavenger hunt. “Our first stop was suggested by one of your readers, The Food Blogga,” says Mad.

“You can see she spent hours on her research,” cracks Zany.

Mad ignores her and continues. “We’re going to the Purple Pig. It’s an entire pork theme and everything’s fried,” she says with a lusty look in her eyes.

Indeed, the Purple Pig’s catchy slogan is “Cheese, Swine and Wine.” We belly up to the outdoor terrace bar and brace for a porker of a good time.

Zany whips out a large refrigerator magnet depicting a smiling porcine pal. “This is our mascot for the day,” she tells us. “His name is Bacon.”

“Bacon” watches amiably as we proceed to – no pun intended – pig out. Our selection includes an excellent white Burgundy with which we celebrate our reunion.

The wine is paired with what the restaurant calls “a smear” - a lardo crostini, that is a generous serving of pure, luscious fat.

This is followed by a light helping of prosciutto bread balls.

As we eat, they tell me about all the strange and wonderful people they’ve met in the land of Chicago. “We’ve started to find some local watering holes,” says Zany.

“When I first moved to my neighborhood, I realized there were Brazilian barbecue places on practically every corner,” says Mad. “I said, This is my kind of city.”

While food trucks are few and far between, they have struck up a fast friendship with “The Jerky Queen.”

“She’s the latest entrepreneur of dried goods, explains Mad using air quotes.

Our tasting menu culminates with the Purple Pig’s specialty – Fried Deviled Eggs. We order three. Our server is a bit of a Debbie Downer when she hears the number. “They’re kind of rich,” she warns us, but jots down the amount anyway.

“I don’t like people telling me what I can’t eat,” mutters Mad after the server departs.

Needless to say, the Fried Deviled Eggs (which are served in a ceramic pig, as if we needed a reminder of the state of our table manners) are sheer barnyard bliss – the crispy fried coating concealing a perfectly seasoned, molten yolk. With one bite, I’m ready to abandon Manhattan forever.

Zany has selected our next stop, so we grab a cab on Michigan Avenue heading towards Old Town. In the cab, Mad slips into Chamber of Commerce mode. “You may have heard about our fine lake in Chicago, which you’ll see to your right.”

Our destination is the Twin Anchors Tavern and Restaurant. Zany has chosen a perfect fusion of food history, New York and Chicago lore, with a petite helping of barbecue on the side. Twin Anchors was Frank Sinatra’s favorite joint in Chicago in the 1950s. His legendary request was “Ribs, and keep ‘em coming!”

There is a warning posted at the doorway – “Positively No Dancing!” We are seated outside on the sun-drenched pavement. Have you noticed that we never seem to eat indoors? Yet, not a food truck in sight.

We start with a round of beers. Mad orders a can of Gossamer Half Acre, from a local Chicago brewery.

“That’s a lot classier that the brands Mad usually drinks,” says Zany.

Zany gives the menu a cursory glance. “I don’t give a #$*%! about the fish fry. We’re here for the ribs!”

Mad is a purist. She’s not totally sold on the Midwest barbecue style.

“We’re not in North Carolina,” replies Zany. “It’s time for you to embrace the culture.”

Drinks are followed by a sublime order of pulled pork sliders.

I am quickly reminded that there is a level of decorum that must be maintained when dining with Mad Me-Shell. I’m having a little trouble handling my slider.

“T.W., did you just use a fork with your pork slider?” asks Mad, aghast.

“I dropped some pulled pork on the plate,” I mumble sheepishly. “I didn’t want it to go to waste.”

Then, in the grand tradition of the Chairman of the Board, we order Twin Anchor’s slow cooked Baby Back Ribs, both the spicy barbecue version and a serving with the mild option. Zany wants to make sure we get our vegetables, so she includes an order of onion rings and a serving of spinach with pepper jack cheese. When Zany spots the waiter approaching with several plates the size of skateboards she gasps, “Oh my God!”

“God Bless America,” murmurs Mad Me-Shell.

We tackle the ribs as if they were our final meal. The barbecue sauce is a perfect blend of smoky and sweet, and the meat is like hot, melted butter. There is more conversation as we eat. Mad bemoans the current dating scene. “All the good carnivores are taken,” she complains.

Finally, Zany drops the last rib bone on top of our collection. There is a reverential moment of silence.

“You know what would really make this meal?” asks Mad. “Wet Naps!”

No sooner said than done:

We wisely decide to walk to our final destination for dessert. Along the way, Zany has an immediate fascination with one local establishment.

The Fudge Pot is the perfect coda to our gracious evening of gluttony.

We take our sweets to the street again, and sit at a sidewalk café table. Zany waxes philosophical. “Anything dipped in chocolate is just as good as anything fried.”

It is Mad Me-Shell who offers the benediction. She ticks off the evening’s menu items, sits back, and sighs with contentment and murmurs, “Well done.”

The banquet has lasted nearly four hours. The time has flown, but it is time to say goodbye.

“I hope you’re full,” are Zany’s final words to me.

I jump in the car that will return me to my hotel, and watch from the window as the sun sets and Mad and Zany vanish into the crowd of nighttime revelers. I feel just like “King for a Day.” Perhaps “Butcher for a Day” is more appropriate. The adventure – and the infusion of protein – will do much to fortify me in the days ahead.

Many thanks, my friends. Until we meat again.

©2011 T.W. Barrit All Rights Reserved