Finding Food For Five

The Connoisseur

2010-03-26T23:09:00.000-04:00

Michigan is a big apple producing state, so it’s a matter of pride for many of us living here. I’ll never forget a colleague who could tell an apple by taste. Kelly described the crunch and flavor qualities of more varieties than I could name, similar to the way a wine aficionado would blush about whites and reds. And this wasn’t a food snob, just a person who happened to really know her apples.

So when I went to the local supermarket (Michigan-owned, thank you) the other day I was glad to see a beautiful market-type display of large, shiny apples. 2009 was a good year; we’re still seeing them flowing out of cold storage even in March. At the end of this display was a woman offering tastings of two new varieties. They were interesting, with a tart acidity reminiscent of citrus. I asked a few questions and she let slip that they were straight from Washington. I walked on.

Behind the Washington apple display was another sizable display of apples. These were the Michigan varieties. They were bagged, so not as eye-catching as their cross-country competitor’s. But I grabbed a bunch of Empires without hesitation. Besides the full-bodied flavor of my favorites (Braeburn, Gala, Empire), I love these because they’re kid-sized: one Michigan apple is equal to the one-cup serving as outlined by the USDA nutritional guidelines. It might look small, but it’s perfect for little hands and young appetites. With the giant apples, half of the apple (and half of our money) lands in the garbage. We could slice one up and divide it between the kids, but I really don’t need one more thing to do.

So I'll stick with my Michigan apples. They're simply the best.

Birthday Feast

2010-03-17T16:28:00.002-04:00

My daughter turned 7 this month. Every kid with a birthday has to take a Birthday Treat to school, right? Hers was the third birthday in her classroom in a week, so maybe she was cupcaked out. But I was surprised when she requested strawberries for her treat. Not strawberry ice cream or strawberry cake or strawberry candy. Just strawberries. They are her favorite. But in March? In Michigan?

Imagine if I could have made something caky: eggs and milk and butter from Mr. Miller’s weekly delivery, sugar from Michigan beets. . . The only non-local thing would have been the flour and vanilla. But how can I argue with fresh fruit? I guess I could have suggested some Michigan apples instead, but that’s kind of ordinary for a birthday. So off to the store I go. I am lucky to find perfect berries from California at the store, and I spring for chocolate chips and some star fruit too. It was easy to prep, plus it went over big with the kids and the teacher.

Then we come to supper. For her birthday meal, my daughter wants salmon “with lemon and butter and thyme”. This is something we grill all through the summer, with fish caught fresh from that really really big lake at the end of our road. But again, salmon tend not to run in March, when the ice is still covering the bay. We have some smoked in the freezer, but I don’t think that’s what she had in mind. So off to the store we go again for salmon flown in from Norway. It was delicious.

We logged some major food miles that day, and it’s not something I’m comfortable with. Nothing against Norway or California, but I’d much rather give my money to the farmers in my backyard than to the distributors and transporters that are bringing food from all corners of the world.

It left me wondering: how far do we take this local thing? What should the picture look like when we’ve traveled to the end of this road we’re on toward a more healthy food system? Do we aim to rely completely locally sourced food? Or is it OK to have a mix?

You Fed Me Wha. . ?

2010-03-11T14:43:00.001-05:00

I’ve been really busy writing cover letters and job applications lately, so I haven’t been devoting much energy to writing beyond “I am very enthusiastic and believe my qualifications and experience are the perfect blah blah blah.”

But I had to tell you of Glenn’s food coup. He caters our church’s Wednesday lunch and dinner every week. Out of necessity it tends to be mainstream food from the nearest warehouse box store, which we're not crazy about but it pays the rent.

Last week, however, a church member (May Farm) spearheaded a local food dinner by donating meat and eggs. Creation Farm down the road also donated fresh greens. Glenn prepared chicken, quiche, salad, and crème brulee for dessert. Not much was said about the ingredients ahead of time, but everyone seemed to enjoy the meal.

After dinner the May's did a little schpiel about the food that was served. It was then they revealed the quiche contained chevon. Later, Glenn was cleaning up and our friend Stephanie poked her head in the kitchen. Stephanie is a Clean Person, very organized and tidy. She is the type that gets things done and I consider her a good friend. But she also likes her food sterilized, with no guts or skin, and doesn’t want it any other way.

Anyway, she asked Glenn “So, I ate goat, huh?” Glenn, a little sheepish, said yes and admitted his sneaking it in the meal. She replied “Huh. I actually liked it.”

Yes!

That's the whole point, right? To get people in front of Real Food that otherwise wouldn't think of it. To invite regular people that aren't obsessed with food to think about where it comes from. To show individuals the taste difference between something cooked from scratch and the processed food-like substances they're used to.

Because in my opinion the people who get it, get it already. If they aren't already on board because of all the important political reasons (environment, food safety, economy, community, and all the rest), then it's our responsibility to make it more personal. We need to meet people where they're at, whether it's at their home or their church or their food pantry or their school, and let them experience the joy of tasting Good Food. Because it's not only for their own good, it's for all of ours.

Road Trip!

2010-03-03T14:41:00.000-05:00

Traveling with children builds character.

We made the 4 hour drive to my parents’ last week. It was one of those rare times where there were no tantrums and, more importantly, no pit stops. Children ate, children slept, and I even got to doze for a bit while Glenn drove.

Then about halfway there, my husband says “I’ve been thinking about taboulleh all day.” I knew instantly what he was saying. The Pita House.

The Pita House is one of those things we’ve gained since going local. One perfect summer day last year we had the choice of either surrendering to the golden arches or risking misadventures of the unknown. We went for it, barreling down one of the most congested streets in the city until I spotted the generic-looking sign and said “Let’s try that!” This Mediterranean version of fast food was the result. And bonus, the kids love it: I will never forget watching in awe as the two pickiest eaters in the family chowed down on gyro meat. Now whenever we pass through the city we try to stop. It’s out of our way, but soooo worth it.

When my friend Marcey and her husband Jason, who is very Greek (his relatives are named Aristotle and Triton and Aphrodite. I’m not kidding.), visited last summer, they asked for a place to eat in the city. I recommended The Pita House, knowing it was authentic stuff made from scratch. They said it was the best Mediterranean food they’ve had. Besides his mother’s, of course.

So now as my husband described the menu in detail I am on board. Who cares if the kids are sleeping? Who cares if we have enough food in the car to last a week? Let’s go for it!

But when the kids are sleeping on a road trip, you stop for nothing. Not even The Pita House. We drew on our deep well of character and ate crackers the rest of the way. But I’m still thinking about taboulleh.

Freezer Burn

2010-02-18T21:41:00.002-05:00

The vegetable scene at my house is getting depressing. We're eating either not-so-fresh stuff from Mexico or frozen sterile niblets from the supermarket freezer aisle. Aren't we blessed to complain about this? But still, yuck.

The frozen green beans and sweet corn from my parents' garden are long gone, as are the dill pickles and jams in the pantry. Even though I doubled what I put up last summer, it seems to have gone just quickly as last year. All that's left are some pears, those neverending peaches, and some pickle relish (which we hardly ever eat since we don't do dogs). Hardly starving, and of course we can always go to the grocery store, but still. . . not the abundance I had in mind for the winter. It's only February!

Ah, the summer. Fresh greens, golden beets, all the ripe berries we could get, it was heaven. This is when seed catalogs get dangerous. I just might order one of everything if I'm not careful. And in spring I'll plant it all in my neighbor's empty field. I'll get the kids out there and we'll skip between the tenderly weeded rows as I teach them the beauty of nature. I'll explain our dependence on the insect world and the joy of harvesting our own food, all on the cheap. Then we'll carry our bounty home and complete the lesson in the kitchen as we put away food for the winter like good little soldier ants. Forget last summer's endless work and bored children. The future is limitless if you have a highly developed selective memory.

On second thought, I think I remember some sliced peaches in the deep freezer. Maybe I'll make a pie.

Tracking Back

2010-02-17T16:11:00.004-05:00

I put my first organic garden in several years ago. My plans were pretty ambitious, so my father agreed to help on groundbreaking day. He drove 120 miles from our family’s small dairy farm to bring the rototiller and bales of straw I needed. We spent the day working together.

We butted heads a little bit. He is firmly planted in the conventional farming world, with its nutrient rations and chemical controls. Now as Dad helped spread bone meal and greensand on the fresh soil in my yard, there was some grumbling going on. Where are you going to get your nitrogen without any N-P-K? Are you sure you don’t want to Roundup to get rid of weeds?

And with a new convert’s hubris I explained to him the reasoning and science behind going chemical-free. I was quite sure of myself, telling him that the way he had been doing things for 50 years was all wrong. After a while Dad quieted down.

As we were spreading the groundcover seed, he said thoughtfully, “My dad used to plant buckwheat,” and told me what he could remember of how my grandfather farmed when my father was a child. My heart jumped. His firsthand knowledge was a goldmine to me, and for a time we talked on common ground. This was my heritage being handed to me. But there was a bit of sadness to the conversation; a connection had been lost. Because the old ways had been abandoned as useless so long ago, Dad couldn’t recall enough details to help with my garden. It was simply a piece of our family history.

My grandfather, father, and two aunts circa 1945

Then I wondered, did the history just repeat itself? Was I scoffing at my father’s flawed methods the way he had walked away from his father’s unseen wisdom? In 50 years would I wish that I had remembered some of the science and reasoning behind the way my dad farmed? A glimpse of my arrogance was turned back to me. Even though I believe that sustainable, organic farming practices are the ideal, could there be some merit in what the other side has to say?

A breath of fresh air has renewed the nation’s farming outlook. With focus on a regionally distributed food system that draws from smaller farms, there will be a need for new farmers and new ideas. Though this is an exciting prospect, I hope that our generation is wise enough to keep existing farmers in the fold. We need to engage them in the conversation, encourage them to convert to sustainable methods, and to support them financially in doing so. And for those that choose to stay with what they know, I hope that we treat them with respect, even if their methods are wrong in our eyes. After all, we have not walked in their shoes, and their experience with the land is too rich to lose a second time.

My father is retired now and my brother has taken over the family farm. He has made his own changes, but stays largely on the same conventional path that was laid out before him. I spoke to Tom recently about why he does things the way he does: conventional vs. sustainable, local vs. co-op market pricing. “We do a lot of different things to try to stay alive,” he said. Some of it is considered sustainable, some of it not. “But the thing you have to remember”, he reminded me, “is that farming is a complex thing. There really isn’t one right way to do it. We’re just trying to hold on to what we have.”

A chicken experience

2010-02-13T22:59:00.002-05:00

I stopped at the farmer's market this morning and bought a fresh chicken. Grand total: $21.00 for one 6-lb. bird. Yowza! OK, so let me explain.

Local chicken is really good. Not in a foodie, “we-simply-must-have-the-best-of-everything” sort of way, it’s more like “huh, it doesn’t taste like salt dipped in chlorine”. When we ate our first organic chicken from the supermarket last summer, I kept commenting how chicken-y it tasted. I thought maybe there was a placebo effect going on, like I wanted to justify the expense through my taste buds or something.

Then the local farmer I had ordered from called to say our butchered chickens were ready. We took a family trip to the farm and let the kids chase, um, pet the animals (locabennies: free entertainment!) while we chatted with Diane and her amazingly friendly teenagers. After loading up a dozen birds in the cooler and coaxing our oldest away from the supercute pygmy goat, we went home and stocked the deep freezer. We were curious about this experiment: I had found the farmer through our Taste the Local Difference directory, but besides that had no connection to her. It was the food version of a blind date. I had talked to Diane over the phone a couple of times and understood where she was coming from, chemically speaking (she practices organically but isn’t certified, has used meds on her sheep once or twice when necessary. I’m OK with that.). It was a small, local homestead, but really the biggest plus for me was that I LIKED this person. She wasn’t pulling a fast one on anybody. Even so, would her chickens taste like tough old rooster?

We roasted the first bird. I have no time for Julia Child, so it was a minimalist affair. I just threw it in the pan, sprinkled some salt and pepper on the top, and baked it at 350 for an hour or so. We sat down to dinner.

Wow. It was delicious. Again, that chicken taste! Only this was way better than supermarket organic free range (whatever, marketing department, I know the truth) chicken. I am so used to having to doctor up my meat in order for it to taste good, but this didn’t need any help. It was fabulous all by itself. The kids devoured it. All while patting ourselves on the back about what do-gooders we were.

And there’s no going back. Since the switchover we’ve had to grab some cellophane chicken from the local grocery under some dire circumstance or other. It was palatable once you got beyond the chemical aftertaste. The kids didn’t complain. But it didn’t taste like chicken. It was more like a vehicle for salt, and I didn’t feel satisfied when I was done. Just thirsty and hungry for more.

That’s the thing about easy food. You don’t realize that it’s crap until you’ve been off it for a while. And then you’re doomed, some food junkie willing to shell out twenty bucks for a chicken even though you’re unemployed with no prospects.

But here’s the thing. This is a 6 pound chicken I bought today, worth two chickens I’d buy at the store. We’ll get three family meals out of it easy. I’ll roast it tomorrow for dinner. We’ll cook up some chicken stock from the bones. The meat will become enchiladas or soup or chicken salad or any number of quick dishes I’ve learned to whip up. So really that one chicken will feed about 20 individual meals, or $1 a pop. Not much more than your run-of-the-mill boneless chicken breast, eh?