Chicken in the Bread Pan Picking Out Dough

Or Rooster for Dinner

It’s a cool blustery fall day, one of those days that makes you hunger for a nice dinner of comfort food, so I decided chicken and noodles were in order. Sherry Darl’n has a womanizing, red rooster in the flock that she thought would make a fine companion to the silky, light as cloud homemade noodles that I like to make from scratch using two farm fresh eggs from her young hens. Mind you, these farm fresh eggs have yolks that rise tall above the whites and are the color of the sun that has just risen above the horizon, not the anemic-looking, yellow, flat puddles that pass as yolks in mass-produced, store-bought eggs.

I sat about the business of gathering fresh baby beets small and sweet, fresh from the garden soil. These scrumptious veggies are to be boiled, skinned, and put into a quick pickle liquid so as to be ready for dinner. Many people I know don’t think they like beets, but if given the chance to try a fresh young beet that has been roasted or is still warm from being boiled might change their opinion. I would encourage them to give it one more try without bias. I think they would find a friendlier mouthful than those hideous beets they were forced to eat as a child, straight from a can.

Lots of foods fall into this scenario, actually. One that comes to mind for me is asparagus. I thought I hated the stuff, and it turns out that I do if it is served to me from a can. But I love it fresh and cooked on the grill with olive oil and garlic. I even like it steamed, if it’s fresh. Fresh is the key. It’s the same with the beets and spinach.

Next for the dinner menu--green beans. I got so bored after I picked about four beans that I decided we didn’t need green beans on the menu after all. That’s all I have to say about that.

Next task—potatoes. Tuff and I dug up some very nice Yukon Gold potatoes to mash with cream and butter. Turns out Tuff, our 15-year-old, loves to dig potatoes; he likens it to an Easter egg hunt and I have to say, I agree.

In conclusion, dinner was a success and we are down to one less rooster in the barnyard. You can’t imagine how satifying it is to harvest everything for our dinner from our own yard, from the chicken to the vegetables. It’s an amazing feeling to be connected to your land the way I did with this dinner. There’s something to be said about the benefits the entire process brings to a person’s soul and stomach.

Farmers Market News

The Farmers Market was different this past Saturday. Sherry Darl’n wasn’t feeling well and it was threatening rain so she stayed home and got some much needed rest.

Tuff, my son, was my helper for the day and he did a great job of making change and keeping me entertained. It was a real joy and his first time at the Farmers Market as a vendor. He was paid handsomely for his help and spent it all on pork sandwiches, fancy coffee, and a nice bag of Empire apples. He also argued incessantly--typical teenage modus operandi.

Can someone tell me how teenagers get so smart in the few short years that they have danced on this earth? They can argue about everything! I showed up fifty years ago and am still struggling to understand the complexities of life, but they have it figured out already. Bless their hearts, they do make us think though…. think about how little they really know!

It seemed like the attendance was down at the market and we didn’t sell too much. We didn’t take much of a variety of items and this could have been the reason for the slow sales. I think that we have entered fall festival season so people have other things to do on Saturdays.

Falling into Fall

As for the garden itself, it grows smaller by the day, with the exception of the new Bok Choy and Carrots and Daikon Radish. Other than that, there is not much new growth. First frost will be here soon, like an assassin it will arrive in the night and take the life of all but the hardiest of the plants.

The sounds, and the smells of the farm are changing now, the long shadows cast from a lowering sun all tell of the impending struggle against the weather for man, beast, and plant alike. We will hang on and get through with the thought of distant spring always on our minds. And when it does arrive we will start this roller coaster ride we call farming all over again.

Well I’m done talk’n, --Matt

Dry, Dry, Dry

Man, Is It Ever Dry!

It’s been awhile since I have blogged and to whom (if anyone) this disappoints, I am sorry. For those that may be thankful, you’re welcome.

We have been very busy around here with the CSA and adding the Saturday Farmers Market to the list of things to do has made it seem busier than ever. It seems there is little time to do much of anything else, least of all blogging. However, we’ve had a serious game delay do to the lack of rain here in the last couple of weeks, and this has given me a second to finally blog.

Produce Update

So here’s the latest news from the produce section of the farm…the plants, already tired from a long season of growth and production, are really starting to show the effects of this mini drought. The tomatoes are all but done, with the late blight having been very bad this year. The blight has had quite an effect on the longevity of the tomato plants. Normally we would have tomatoes up until frost. Not so now.

The summer squash have all but given up. Whatever disease they got coupled with the lack of moisture did them all in. The corn, what there was of it, is nothing but a memory. The last of the watermelons will be sent out tomorrow and the peppers are also singing their swan song.

All is not bad news if we could just get some rain. There could be some late rallying of some old plants if some moisture came our way. There are some young plants that have been in a bit of a holding pattern waiting for rain since being planted a month ago. Carrots, beets, baby bok choy, diakon, okra, kale, gia lan, lettuce and turnips all would jump to life with a good, slow, soaking rain of about 2 days.

Poultry Update

Meanwhile, over in the poultry division… the quail are doing fine. The raccoon situation has been brought under control, at least for the time being. My guess is they’re out there regrouping somewhere, cleaning and pressing their little bandit masks in preparation for another raid on the quail hotel. But paranoia can be crippling, so I try not to think about it.

We hatched out thirty-eight quail chicks last week and I just put another load into the incubator, another 109 eggs. This should take us through the winter unless I get an order for adult birds from one of the culinary schools.

The baby chickens we hatched last spring are starting to mature now and have been laying about three eggs a day. This is very “eggciting” for us here at the farm with Sherry being darn near euphoric. I do so hope that three is not the standing record for a days worth of effort from our flock of nearly forty biddies, that would be mighty disappointing, I must say.

The electrified wire netting fence that we have around the chicken’s barnyard is doing a wonderful job so far of controlling land-based varmints from noshing on the resident poultry. I would highly recommend this product to anyone that is having depredation problems (or maybe even a teenage daughter) or has given up on (like I had) the idea of having small livestock due to high losses from outside sources. Turns out this electric wire fence is not just for chickens, but can be used for goats, sheep, wombats, whatever suits you. One of the best things about this fence is that it’s portable; so you can keep the critter of your choice on fresh pasture all of the time. It’s brilliant.

Well, the sun has risen to signal the start of a new day here at the funny farm, so I shall go out and meet it’s challenges head on, fueled by the scripture “This is the day the Lord has made and I will rejoice in it.”

I’m done talk’n, --Matt

Canning and Pondering

Can-Do Canning

The clock has struck 11:00 pm as I write this and it is truly the first time that we have stopped all day… and I have just been told I still have a clog in a downstairs sink to deal with--hooray!

I can’t really put a finger on the moment that we lost control of our life here at the swamp farm, but I still have whiplash from being propelled from 0 to 6000 in no time at all! It has been this crazy for so long I can’t remember when it wasn’t. I suppose it started in the early spring? Or was it after the monsoons of the late part of April and May? Or wait, could it have been when the first chicken eggs hatched or perhaps the quail? I just don’t remember and this frenzied pace has become so much a part of my life now that it seems freakishly normal.

We canned green beans today. We didn’t get near as many done as we would have liked but I did get a real cool burn on my arm and that will surely leave a scar, and that is a very manly thing. When it comes to guy-cool, give me a well-placed scar over having a tattoo any day. Scars just say “I am reckless, that’s right, I reach for the farthest rung on the monkey bars, my car had 5-spoke Cragar wheels and Cherry Bomb mufflers, and I don’t wait no danged 30 minutes after I eat to go swimming.” Scars always indicate a tough man. Or at least a foolish man who hopefully knows better next time?

So back to the beans… Sherry and our intrepid helper Tracy picked, tipped, tailed and snapped what I would guess amounts to 2 bushels of long, straight, thick and tender new-growth Jade-variety green beans. Bless their little hearts! They worked like dogs to the end.

As they worked and talked together at the kitchen table with beans flying right and left, it felt good to me as I readied the pressure cookers. Somehow our farm-life canning activity made me feel like we still have a foot dangling, albeit precariously, in old-fashioned tradition while the rest of us is caught up in the modern world. We as a country are dangerously close to forgetting about the value of doing old-fashioned work together, such as putting food by, tilling the earth, tending some chickens or maybe a pig or two. I fear we will be caught some day with no one left to pass on the skills needed to thrive if ever the power grid goes black. Oh, we could adjust, but it would take awhile and we simply are not set up with the raw ingredients or tools to thrive in the case of a long-term blackout, or worse, a food and water shortage.

We could probably figure out how to make a candle, but what about wicks or the wax? How about a making crock pickles? Could you make corn meal or flour? Even if you grow the wheat and corn, could you grind it? And more importantly, where would you get the seed to even start?

I’m just saying that for me to see those girls keeping a tradition alive, and at this point not a cost effective one, makes me feel our grandparents would say, “Well done kids, you make us proud.”

It also makes me feel unbridled from the mega-marts, big corporations, and to some degree, the government. All of these are, to some extent, enabling us as a nation to be nothing but consumers--not innovators, not producers, not self-sufficient self-reliant citizens. For a brief moment this afternoon I felt unshackled from relying on other resources; I was making my own.

I don’t want to be broke, bridled, and branded; I’m a wild Cayuse and have the burn on my arm to prove it.

Now, where did those monkey bars go? I’m feeling dangerous right now and I’m done talk’n, --Matt

Farmers Market Day and How They Regulate My Hamburger

(Bolting cilantro pictured above)

Our 1^st Farmers Market Day This Season

Last Saturday was our first time this year to set up and offer our wonderfully fresh home-grown produce to the patrons of the Minnetrista Farmers Market over in Muncie, Indiana. There’s so much work getting ready for the event, starting early Friday thru Saturday at noon, it’s like your hair is on fire and you are trying to put it out with a fly swatter. After it is over, though, we always look back and say how much fun it was.

I loved seeing and visiting with customers that we had the good fortune to make friends with last year, and to make some new friends, one of which was Daniel and his lovely family. Food friends are wonderful.

Wondering what we took to market? We offered, for the customer’s consideration, Quail eggs, three types of green beans, baby pattypan squash, Swiss chard, Thai basil, cilantro in two styles; mature with roots and young leafy bunches, tomatoes (cherry and standard red), and some beautiful cut flowers. The cilantro sales always surprise me. I’m taken by how much of it we sell. I think we are the only farmers that sell it at the market! Thankfully, the quantity we grow allows us to pick over an extended period of time.

Cilantro is a bit of a rascally herb to grow. Oh, it starts out simple enough. Just till the earth, throw in some seed and wait impatiently for growth. Normally, growth is a good in the garden, but in cilantro’s case, it’s a bit too precocious about it. It matures, flowers and sets seed way too quickly—in other words, it bolts. Most of the time if a leafy green bolts, like a lettuce, it’s finished, done for, kaput, and cilantro in our part of the world is no exception. You can try to stop it from reaching this stage by pinching it back, but like pimples on a pubescent teen, that thick stalk is returning in no time. This is not a problem in Pan Asian cooking because they often time prefer to use a more mature plant, including the stem, root and all, referring to the herb as coriander. (See, you learn something in our blog!)

If the soil around cilantro’s roots gets to 70 degrees and stays awhile, the plant is going to bolt. If you read this and are not familiar with Indiana summers, let me just clarify that they’re hot, hotter than 70 degrees. Short of air conditioning the soil, I don’t have a clue as how to keep cilantro from bolting, so you have to plant in succession to have young growth all the time.

Anyway, we had a great time at the Farmers Market, and our good friend and CSA helper, Tracy, got to tag along and see exactly how inept we are. It's always a joy to share your fallibility's with others. Thankfully for us, she likes cilantro.

I Just Want a Nice Burger

After the Farmers market on Saturday, we head out for lunch to sit and rest awhile. This time we chose to eat at Scotty's Brewhouse, a restaurant not too far from the market. In general, I have enjoyed all the meals I have had there and this one was no exception. Scotty’s is not a five-star restaurant; you can kind of know that just by their name. Brewhouse, to me, conjures up pub food, not a French Michelin-starred restaurant. The restaurant is clean and the wait staff this day was excellent. I ordered the make-your-own-burger entrée, choosing to partner the half-pound of ground chuck with Jalapinos, onion, BBQ sauce, and mozzarella cheese. I also wanted and could not get a fried egg added on top. (Yes, I said a fried egg. Don't knock it till you've tried it--it's a bit of sunshine on top of your burger!)

Now this is where I could easily start to rant royally, but I shall not. I will spare you in today's blog. But I cannot understand the reasoning behind the answer I was given upon asking my waiter who was so gracious in trying to accommodate my special request. To fry an egg on the same grill as the other food, I was told, is a matter of health regulation, some blather about the transference of salmonella to the food that would follow behind the 1000-degree scorching that this hen egg would have endured. Please correct me if I am wrong, but wouldn’t this heat kill any trace of Sal’s Manilla anyway? And isn’t raw ground beef one the biggest carriers of this and about ten other deadly or at least make-you-wish-you-were-dead bacteria? It must be because I was also told of some other health regulation that I wasn’t allowed to order my fried cow carcass any less done than medium.

So let me get this straight. You can join the military service and let bad guys shoot at you and through you, you can run into burning buildings as a career as everone else is running out, you can make a traffic stop all by yourself out in the middle of nowhere in the silence of the night, but it would be way too foolhardy to let you eat a piece of meat cooked to your preference of medium rare on the same grill after having, horror upon horror, a egg fried at the same temperature as that of a Dwarf Star?

In all fairness, I don’t know whose regulations these are, but I really did enjoy my burger and our server was great and a good sport. But these regulations to protect us from ourselves have got to stop! Enough already. Some folks are going to get sick, some are even going to die, but that’s the thing about life--no one gets out alive. Can the bureaucrats just get out of our way so we can get on with living the way we see fit for ourselves? To say one is “living” but is afraid to put this or that food cooked this or that way in their mouth, well, to me that ain’t living. 

And while we're at it, stop hindering the small farmer with bizarre regulations that are insurmountable for a small scale operation and favor the big corporate operations that produce 100 percent of the food-bourne problems that in turn cause the implementation of all these crazy regulations to begin with! Okay, maybe I did rant a little bit again.

Well I’m done talk’n. Remember, play with your food. --Matt

 

A Rooster Harvest

A Rooster Harvest

Well, more a reckoning, really. Nobody likes a surly rooster, or a surly person for that matter. But for now, until the law changes, here at the Gunter farm it’s only the roosters that pay a heavy price for their I-will-do-whatever-I-want-and-to-whomever-I-want-to attitude. If there was a way for you to smell the aroma emanating from the pot on my stove at this very moment you would not have to be told what that price was!

“Just doing what’s natural” my eye. Let’s see any one of those wannabe Romeos gather 45 hens up in the wild and keep them in a 150 by 50 foot area just for their entertainment. It can’t be done, especially while keeping an eye out for critters that like to eat chickens more than I love a hot dog, all the while trying to scratch out food to keep themselves alive. There’s no free lunch in the wild. And here at the farm, there’s no pinning down and dragging your fellow detainees around the barnyard just cause you can. I learned this the hard way here at the swamp, soon after my marriage to Sherry Darl’n, that this rule is enforced with a heavy hand. The point is--you can’t always act like an ogre just because it seems natural; I’m still writing this on the chalkboard 5000 times.

What started out as one rooster acting out of hand quickly spread to three as it seemed to be a timed event among the boy’s to see which one could tick off the farmer and his bride the quickest. With all seeming equally good at it, I saw no reason they couldn’t all be crowned king, or should I say de-crowned? Had it not been so hot and late in the day we wouldn’t have any singing Casanovas left at all in the barnyard as they are all past due for their date with the freezer for a long winters nap. As it was, only the most troublesome three were dispatched this day.

Moments from writing this, we will be enjoying our first young chicken with noodles and freshly dug Yukon Gold potatoes, mashed and covered with real sweet cream butter. These will be joined with garden fresh Roma green beans freshly picked, tipped, tailed, and broken into bight size pieces, cooked with some baby Cipollini onions and fried bacon pieces and maybe a little lard for good measure, served piping hot with about five squares of butter melted over the top. Six ears of Indiana sun drenched sweet corn should do a nice job of rounding out the plate with a generous slathering of butter, and a pinch of salt and pepper for me, each corn kernel dripping sunshine. Of course we will have to have a plate of vine ripened Indiana tomatoes sliced thick and anointed with salt and pepper. Sliced white bread or maybe biscuits hot out of the oven topped with blackberry jelly will finish things off. Isn't it amazing how one unruly chicken can make such a lovely dinner?

So there you have it, try to be nice to everyone you meet or someone may have you over for dinner, if you know what I mean.

I’m done talk’n, Matt  

Who Cut the Cheese?

(picture from their website)

First, the Rant

We had the opportunity on Thursday to be in the Carmel area and to be more specific, visit the Whole Foods grocery store. Whole Foods is one of the stores with which I have a love/hate relationship. I am, admittedly, kind of creeped out by the whole hippie-vibe thing, the whole “I’m cool, you’re cool, dress however you want at work, if you find your dad’s tackle box open and you see something in there that’s shiny just stick it in your lip or ear or some other excruciatingly painful place” thing.  Under the whole hippie-vibe attitude, it’s team this, team that--no real boss names, just team leaders and assistant team leaders. There are no workers at Whole Foods, just “team members.”

Okay, I get it and I know that some of you are saying “Matt, you are kind of a non-conformist/activist yourself at fifty years of age with kind of long hair, goatee, flip-flops and seeking self-reliance on that little organic farm out there in your swamp.”  I agree. Heck, I came perilously close to getting a very masculine “MOM” tattooed on my arm while serving in the Marine Corps, “Ooh-Rah,” but I can’t stand the look of pain on my face, so I drew the tat on with a Bic and called it a day… that and MOM said I couldn’t get one.

But, here’s the rub for me--why does Whole Foods have to be so danged expensive? You know they’re paying these poor young “I’m just expressing myself,” Mohawk-wearing folks better than minimum wage, but not much. I did some checking and it looks like salaries range from around nine dollars an hour to twenty five dollars, with most falling in the lower ranges.

Someone’s getting rich and it’s not the environmentally-organic-friendly kids who work there. And I think that’s great that someone’s making money, I really, really do. I support capitalism. But it’s not the farmer making money in this grocery store gimmick, and it’s not the young people working there.

Whole Foods has packaged themselves as this earth-shoe-wearing-just-want-to-make-enough-to-get-by, but I’m-glad-to-do-it-cause-I-care-about-the-earth-and-the-people-that-live-in-it organization. To this I say, hogwash--not at the prices they charge. $4.99 a pound for hot peppers? I can’t get by charging a dollar a pound for my peppers. I should be able to get a dollar a pound or more for my peppers because I’m doing true organic growing which does cost more to produce, but I can’t take advantage of people for it, not like Whole Foods can. With real organic gardening you can’t spray for weeds and must spend hours hand pulling them, and you rack up a lot of loss to bugs and others pests and problems. It’s a lot of work. Organic gardening costs more, I get that, but it doesn't mean you can take advantage of people just because of the "organic" label.

Listen, it’s not sour grapes for me. I am a full-blooded-make-all-you-can-capitalist myself. I want to be rich, also. But I don’t want to take advantage of people to do it.

Make no mistake; the people behind Whole Foods are capitalists, too, just like me except I don’t soft-sell it. It’s the same reason I don’t care for Steven Segal action movies. I’m sure Mr. Segal is a wonderful fellow and as tough as a hogs nose, but come on--it questions my intelligence (or is that entalagance?). I have never gotten a gun to shoot 47 times with a 9 round clip. How do you get 47 shots with 9 bullets? And this is just a guess on my part, but if you fought six guys and they all had guns, wouldn’t one of them shoot you rather than go through all the physical activity of kung-fu fighting?

My point is it’s misleading! I hate that, and I don’t think real hippies like it any better than I do. If you’re an expensive organic chain store just say so. If you’re Wal-Mart with a twist, own it.

After having exercised my bottled- up rant by saying all this, I must also confess that I find a lot to love about Whole Foods. Their stores are bright and inviting. The product is stacked and displayed in a very inviting fashion. They have really cool stuff, stuff you can’t really get any place else. And I really dig the bulk bins of grains and cereals. I also like that they employ a lot of people and they pay a lot of taxes. Not that I like taxes, I hate taxes, but if you are going to attack corporate greed, you have to remember how much they contribute to the federal budget in taxes.

On To the Cheese

Now to get to my topic, Who Cut The Cheese. Sherry and I did. Sherry Darl’n and I found ourselves at the cheese counter of the Whole Foods in Carmel, Indiana. Man, what a great place for a foodie! Cheese, cheese and more cheese, and they will let you sample a lot of it. Sample we did, and we bought more than we could afford seeing as how my ship is evidently floundering at sea and hasn’t come in yet. We bought about five very small pieces of different exotic imported cheeses. This group included the following: Asiago Fresco Italian (11.99 a pound, we bought 3 bucks worth), Roth Kase Private Reserve Raw Milk Cheese (10.99 a pound, our cut about 4 bucks), Pecorino Toscano Fresco Sheep’s milk cheese (17.99 a pound, we snagged a chunk at $2.70), Ewephoria sheep’s milk cheese from Holland (17.99, our piece totalled $4.14), and Parrano Uniekaas Dutch Cheese (10.99 a pound, we bought about 4 dollars’ worth).

The next day, we had a little blind taste-test of our pressed and aged curds. We liked them all, loved a couple and wouldn’t you know our favorite was my all-time favorite cheese, the Parrano. Keep in mind this was a blind tasting. Sherry also voted it number one. Parrano has a very buttery, somewhat sharp taste. It dances on your tongue and makes your taste buds sing. If you ever stumble across it, give it a try.

Our second favorite was the Ewephoria. It was not as sharp as the Parrano, but it’s no wimp ether; nice and creamy.

The others were good too, but I don’t think I would buy them again, especially not at that price.

Well, I’m done rant’n and talk’n for now. President Obama, if you’re reading this blog, could I please get some bailout or stimulus money? I made a bad business decision and shopped at Whole Foods, and now I’m broke.  I ate all the cheese, too.

--Best regards, Matt

From Itchin' to Kitchen

Back to the Briar Patch

Mom only raised one fool in my family, so on this trip into hells fury I outfitted myself with armor suited for an encounter with such a capable adversary like this herbaceous hydra—the blackberry patch. I looked like I was ready for Thunder Dome and had the confidence to go with it. Today I would match wits with my multi headed nemesis, the blackberries!

Oh, in my mind I would ride up to the field of battle on a steed of great strength, about 19 hands tall. He would be the color of the sun, with muscles bulging beneath his sinewy skin and nostrils flared out like the ram air hood scoop on a 1972 Ford Gran Torino, and his feet as big as platters. He’s a mount fitting of the noblest of gentry.

I would announce to all in the field, “surrender, your fate has already been cast, nothing but doom for all who resist.” As the trumpets cried their last note, I would take the bounty of the land. Ballads would be sung and legends of the battle would be passed on for generations.

All of this would have to wait, of course, until I had a nap. It was nearly noon after all.

Truth be told, I was goaded into the horrible picking process again by my delicate flower, my wife Sherry. Oh, there was no malice on her part. She just mentioned she was going to pick berries and she did. I was taken without a shot being fired; guilt is my kryptonite when it comes to her. I would never want her to think I didn’t support her, so I soon found myself head high in the bramble patch.

She and I did capture a sizeable amount of berries, seven pounds to be exact. They shall be enjoyed throughout the winter in some form of jam, cobbler or pie.

This Week’s Garden News

In this week’s CSA harvest bag was a curious little item called a Mexican sour gherkin, also known as a cucumber. I snapped a picture of them so you could see what these cucumbers look like. These little cuties taste a bit sour with a hint of lemon. They are no bigger than an elongated grape and have the very appealing look of a teeny tiny striped watermelon. I’m sure they would be great pickled but I like to just pop them straight into my mouth.

Sherry also included, as a gift for our members, a beautiful bouquet of fresh cut flowers from her flower garden in this week's harvest bags. The flowers are not a normal part of the weekly share, just a gift from us to them. We sure appreciate their support.

Favorite Kitchen Things

I also want to share with you three of my favorite kitchen things. These are things that I have found to work as advertised. There is so much cheap stuff being made today and being hocked by such skilled pitchman that it isn’t always easy to get the real scoop on something that really works and works well.

So here are three of my favorite kitchen items in no particular order:

Number 1-- My 20+ year old, fire engine red, KitchenAid, orbital, stand mixer. No, not because it’s fire engine red, although that is way cool. It’s because it works, and has worked without fail for 20 some years. It will mix cookie dough like a regular mixer handles eggs. It’s like an Atlas Ready Mix cement truck, mixing a four bag mix. It’ll get it done. So, you’re gonna need one of those. And don’t go for any that are smaller than 300 watts.

Number 2-- A Forschner, Fibrox 10 inch chef’s knife made by the Victorinox Company, Model Number 40521. The Victorinox folks make the Swiss army knife. You can pay a lot more for a knife but you will be hard pressed to find a better one. Cooks Illustrated magazine consistently rates it a best buy. It still sells for a bit less than 30 bucks. Oh, don’t give me that, “you spend more than that at the movie, and that’s just for snacks!” Buy it--you’ll like it. Besides, it will last you a lifetime and wouldn’t you like cut yourself with a good knife for once?

Number 3-- is a cookbook, “50 Chowders, One Pot Meals-Clam, Corn and Beyond.” The author is the famous chef, Jasper White. I know it’s kind of a one trick pony with chowder, the specialty, but what a great collection of make-you-want-to-hug-yourself-it-feels-so-good comfort food. Man, if you don’t like a nice thick chowder on a cold gray winter’s day, your bobber don’t go all the way down. The New England clam chowder with its inclusion of cumin powder is to die for, in my opinion.

Along with great recipes in the first 57 pages, Jasper White teaches you chowder history, about broths and ingredients, and it’s packed full of chef’s notes and tips that help you understand the process. You will be a better all-around cook for it.

Have you ever heard of pilot crackers? Me either. I found some once after Jasper mentioned them in this cookbook. They are really fun! They’re a big, thick cracker about the length and width of a football field. Just kidding, they’re really about the size of Graham cracker except real thick.

I have cooked many of the soups and haven’t found a stinker among them. If I could afford to buy a gift for all of my family and friends, this book would be one of those things, and I would be grinin’ like a Cheshire cat knowing how good it is and how much love will be given and taken from it.

Well I’m done talk’n, --Matt

Blackberries and Pickled Quail Eggs

This Week’s Happenings at Gunter’s Gourmet Garden

Berries

Blackberries are wicked little berries that do not want to be found and harvested. When found, they will fight with the tenacity of a world heavyweight champ that has the benefit of a thousand switchblade knives trying to keep from being taken alive. I don’t know if this holds true with cultivated varieties as I have only been violated by the wild variety. As I write this, I am cut from top to bottom. I even have scratches on the bottom of my feet.

Sherry and I ventured into a thicket at the farm this week and had we not maintained constant verbal contact, which consisted mostly of “ouch” and “wow that hurts,” one of us surely would have been lost to the berry thicket monster. Little shop of horrors had nothing on these plants.

We did manage a respectful 8 pounds of berries before our assault was turned back. We will soon turn our hard-fought plunder into a sweet jam that will grace the tops of warm buttermilk biscuits with sweet cream butter.

Quail

The quail have certainly been a learning experience, most of it fun and some of it definitely not expected. Who knew that when the male Coturnix quail matures in a very rapid 6 weeks he becomes very amorous, even to his own ilk? It is disturbing. On the flip side, the female also matures at light speed and are already providing us with a steady supply of the dandiest little eggs you have ever seen.

Now there is another thing I wasn’t aware of… quail eggs have a very thin shell but have a thick membrane. This makes the old, whack-the-egg-on-the-side-of-the-skillet-and-empty-the-contents technique a practice best left to chicken eggs. The quail shell just shatters into a thousand small fragments that I find offensive in my sunny side up’s.

You have to adjust your strategy for opening quail eggs to include a small knife or a particular instrument built for just such a task that looks like a cross between a cigar cutter and a scissor.

I really enjoyed my first plate of fried quail eggs and toast just the other day. They taste, to my palate anyway, just like a chicken egg. I used a ratio of 3 quail eggs to one small chicken egg for my breaking of the fast (breakfast).

I also made pickled eggs using the quail eggs. To do this, you boil a bunch of eggs for a mere three minutes and cool quickly with cold water. Now the tricky part is next… remember the thin shell, thick membrane spoken of earler? Well here’s how you deal with that issue. You place the now cooled boiled eggs in a pan of vinegar covering the eggs to one inch above them. This next part is really cool, those eggs will start rolling and shaking and rocking like they are possessed and in no time the brown spots on the eggs will roll off like a decal for a model car. That’s cool yes, but in about 4 to 12 hours the shell will dissolve all together and leave that thick membrane rubbery and easy to get a hold of that makes pealing it off much easier, leaving you with a bite size hardboiled egg.

If you can refrain from popping all of these little quail fruits into your mouth, you can use your favorite chicken egg pickling recipe to make a jar of gourmet pickled quail eggs.

Well I need to go and dress my wounds now. I’m done talk’n, Matt.

I Love Hot Dogs

My Name is Matt and I Love Hot Dogs  

I ate a hot dog that we had fixed earlier in the day. It had been in the fridge for several hours so, as one might guess, it was now cold and that’s how I ate it. It struck me odd, though, after I had eaten the cold hot dog that a cold dog is still referred to as a HOT DOG. Shouldn’t it be called a COLD DOG?

There are a lot of things like that in our language that puzzles me. Toothbrush for instance… I brush all of my teeth with the same brush not just one tooth, or one brush per tooth. Shouldn’t it be called a teethbrush? Or what about jumbo shrimp? Doesn’t shrimp indicate small to begin with? Who hasn’t heard something like “hey shrimp, you’re too little to play, beat it,” when you wanted to play with the bigger kids?

So, back to the hot dog. I cannot tell you how or where my affinity for this bun-wrapped wonder of gastric perfection came to be, but it definitely be. The worst hot dog I ever had was great. I love all styles. Mustard and onion always being my go-to dog, but anything suits me if it’s between having and having not. I do dearly love a good Chicago style hot dog with its nuclear-accident, green-colored relish and that happy little poppy seed bun.

Verily I tell you, I cannot walk by a vendor selling hot dogs on a street corner, little league ball field, or a Sam’s club without a sampling. I don’t care; I would eat one even if I had just finished eating a Volkswagen made out of meat. I can’t help it… I have a real problem. I should be pitied not chastised, if only there were help for such a thing. Maybe a twelve step program for the hot dog obsessed.

This week I caught a quail- and chicken-eating, cage-destroying, plant-digging, garden-decimating predator with a live trap. You’ll never guess what I used as bait. Okay, given the topic of this blog, maybe you can. The bait I used was an old, cooked hot dog. Even as I baited the trap with this delectable treat, I briefly thought about falling for the trap myself, but I couldn’t get my shoulders through the opening of the trap before I was stopped. Naturally, Sherry scolded me for even trying. She, however, is sympathetic of my plight and shows mercy.

As it turns out with this particular obsession of mine, Sherry darl’n is an enabler, often times bringing home a new package of wienies she thinks I haven’t had the opportunity to try. I’ve been on this journey of enlightenment for a long time so I have tried, I think, just about every brand out there. I look at every store in every new town that we visit for their version of hot dogs. I am obsessed by this little link of encased mystery meat. I hope I haven’t found them all yet.

Don’t try to dissuade me from the delight of this wonderful food with the old saw “I had a cousin who worked in a place that made hot dogs and he said that if people knew what went into hot dogs they would never eat them.” Hogwash, I say! I had 4 years of seniority at the Emge Packing Company. I know firsthand what goes into making wienies. People are eating way worse than that on a daily basis and don’t even know it. I can still see those racks at Emge loaded with ream after ream of steaming, glistening, freshly-packed casings, cooling on the shipping floor before being taken back down into the wienie room where their casings would be removed then packaged and sent out to their admiring fans. My oh my, it was nirvana, not a shop of horrors.

Speaking of casings, I believe that there are a great many people from my area (Anderson, Indiana) and surrounding communities that are unaware of the toothsome beauty of hot dogs that are in a natural casing. This is a problem and one I would like to rectify now.

A hot dog is transformed from a tub of ground meat and spices into a hot dog shape by being stuffed into a casing. A casing is a sleeve that at some point has wrapped the meat and gives it that long, cylindrical shape. Now here’s the rub, some of these casings are synthetic and not intended for consumption, really only serving to form the hot dog shape. After the wiener is cooled and firm, the casing has to be removed by being run through a machine built for just such an occasion. The other type of casing is all-natural and is left on the hot dog. This casing is meant to be eaten and provides a wonderful texture with a snap or crack at every bite.

I understand that everyone is not of the same school of thought when it comes to this casing matter and that’s okay with me because I love them both. But I have to admit, I am a bit of a hot dog snob and I really love the natural skin hot dogs. However, skinless hot dogs are the norm in this area of the country. In fact, skin-on, are nearly impossible to buy locally, with the national brands Khans, Oscar Mayer, Eckrich, and Ball Park making up the selection in our stores. Sadly, as far as I know, none offer anything but skinless. We do have a couple of others, Hebrew National, and Nathans, for example, and I know for sure Nathans is made with and without skin-on. As luck would have it, only the skinless variety are sold here. I will happily eat our local offering, but would prefer several others, with Boars Head and Nathans being right up at the top of my favorites list. If you can find the natural casing in your area and haven’t already tried them, go for it, you might really like them.

Now here comes my weekly rant… there is an organization that has purchased a billboard in the St.Louis area. This billboard is part of a campaign to persuade baseball commissioner Bud Selig to put a "dietary disaster" warning label on hot dogs served at Busch Stadium. I will not help this organization by giving them any more press from this writer than I already have out of necessity for this project. But this sort of thing really toasts my buns and has got to stop. These mambie pambie, I-think-I’m-better-than-you-and-know-what’s-best-for-you people can have my hot dog only when they pry my cold, dead fingers from around it. I am not one to encourage violence, but we may have to take up arms, or at least mustard bottles and maybe some chopped onions. This situation has me shook clear to my ancestors that came across the hot dog waters to this country to find freedom from this sort of tyranny. What’s next, mom and apple pie, for crying out loud? So, come on, get off of the couch and grab your wieners, we’ve got to stop this insanity. 

Remember—boiled, broiled, grilled, fried, on a stick over a campfire, in beans, or in a bready blanket—eat your hot dogs and enjoy their savory goodness. And tip your hats to great American hero Joey Chestnut, winner of Nathan’s hot dog eating contest for the third straight year—viva la’ hot dog!

I’m plumb worn out from climbing on this soapbox. I’m done talk’n. --Matty G.

P.S. If you know of a good hot dog spot or a brand, let me know. I'd love to hear about it.

When Roosters Crow

Keep Quiet So You Don't Lose Your Head 

  I was out in the main field the other day and heard a frightening sound coming from the chicken barn. Fearing there was an attack in progress, I dropped my hoe and sprinted across the field in my baby blue crocs, the ones that Sherry got for me on sale last year for seven dollars. As fast as I could, I ran over to the barn (you know the one). I arrived out of breath with crock-laden feet complaining loudly, and quickly scanned the area with my predator eyes. It takes a predator to see another predator, you know. I slowly scanned and listened. I seem to have thwarted the attack. This surprises me a little given the stealth of my run over to the barn (you know which one), and my wheezing seems barely audible. How could the predator know I was here? Okay, everything is fine… wait, there it is again, that sound. Quick, it’s in the barn (you know, the little one made out of oak)! I jump to the door as quickly as light, and there it is, I’m face to face with it. There on a straw bale is a young, white Leghorn rooster attempting his first concerto of cocka-doodle-do for all his female admirers. For the hens and me, all is well.

I have since found out there are at least 4 more fellow crooners and they shall fare no better than the little Leghorn. In fact, the other guys may fare worse faster than him since they’re bigger and heavier.

I tell you all of this for a couple of reasons. First, it’s a food blog--the roosters are food and were meant to be such. People need to understand that all food starts out some place other than on a styrofoam tray wrapped in plastic and being sold at the megamart. Our animals have been raised in a wonderfully clean, healthy, caring way. This is ultimately their fate.

Secondly, and this is the big reason--sometimes it’s best to keep your mouth shut! Or in the case of roosters, beaks shut! Have you ever heard the saying--if people think you a fool, do not open your mouth and relieve all doubt? 

It’s good to be still at times, and even the Bible tells us not to be boastful. It also says to “be still and know that I am God.”  Listen and talk little, as the wise men do. The Leghorn’s lifespan would be ultimately different if he had not opened his mouth/beak.

I know I am a good one to talk about not talking, but even I have taken my own advice from time to time. Being quiet saved my life once. I was a very young firefighter full of what young men are full of. At about 1:30 AM a run came in for my engine. I was assigned to engine 1 at the time. The run was a dumpster fire behind a dive bar in downtown Anderson. We arrived and put out the fire. During our cleanup, other fire trucks started to arrive, and in those days we didn’t have a walkie-talkie for everyone, so none of us knew what was going on. We’d soon find out that this was just the beginning of a long night.

There was an arsonist in the area and the dumpster was just a warm up for him. He set some small fires in the building’s hallway just across the street from our fire. As we got our gear back into order and helped the others on their fire, we noticed heavy smoke ensuing from the top of a highrise building across the intersection from our location. The arsonist was setting fires throughout the building getting more brazen as he went along. He did manage to get a couple of apartments going good before being caught by some of our fellows.

  The night had turned to very early day and we were all exhausted. I was trying to get a little air when a battalion chief told me to tank back up and go down into the basement. It was starting to burn and he had only me and a veteran who had just arrived to send down. I threw on my air bottle and followed John through the access that was in through a basement doorway set into the sidewalk. Straight down we went into complete, total smoke-filled darkness, the kind that eats the light from your flashlight like a black hole eats matter. I was to be relieved from my position on the advancing hose line as soon as fresh manpower arrived.

Manpower did arrive and none too soon. We had been working this thing for over five hours, in the middle of the summer the heat can get to you. I was exhausted. I had been relieved to take a break.

I started to exit and in my haste I thought for sure I knew how to get out through that still-thickening smoke. I made a mistake. I let go of the hose line that would be my guide out. You get disoriented very quickly in that type of environment. I was lost and we didn’t have PASS devices and walkie-talkies back then, so no one knew I was missing and I knew they didn’t know. I was running out of air and I had gotten turned around in this huge, hot, smoke-filled basement. I was going to die! No one would know until it was time to clean up and they realized I wasn’t to be found.

I was panicked! Do I move forward to where I think the opening out is or do I try to find the hose line that we brought in and follow it back? Both of these options could lead me further in if I failed, and farther away from anyone likely to stumble across me.

“If I could just see,” I thought to myself, " Take this stupid mask off, It’s covered over with soot and that’s why I can’t see. You idiot, get that mask back on your face, you’re going to die inhaling that thick, acrid smoke.” My lungs are burning; it feels like needles being pushed through them. It hurts and I am truly scared.

Suddenly my dad’s words come to me, “No matter what, do not panic. Panicking is what kills people.” Bless his heart, little did he know he had the kind of kid that was going to need that advice someday. I stopped, leaned against the wall of my tomb, and I became still, quiet, and relaxed. I tried to slow my breathing. My air supply was very short. I prayed to my heavenly father for peace.

  In my silence I thought I heard something. I moved a little towards it. Yes, that is familiar, it’s the sound of a 1969 Howe fire truck with an international gas engine and straight exhaust pipes wailing out its wonderful God-sent sound to my ears, pumping water with all its might. I miss the sound of those old trucks loud and boisterous. I am glad that my fathers, here and in heaven, taught me to be silent and still and to listen. I followed that old truck’s growl to the point that the day’s new sunshine would just barely break through the vial of smoke and down into that basement shaft so I could see to get free of its confines. I guess you know I made it. I believe I am a better firefighter and man for it. 

Sometimes even I know not to crow. It could save your life.

Thanks for reading this. I’m through talk’n. -- Matt

My Farmers Market Rant

Do's and Don't of Farmers Markets

    Farmers markets, a.k.a. green markets, are a wonderful resource for the farmer (me) and the consumer (you) to get together. I love the farmers market as a vendor and as a consumer. Some markets are quite large and lively with an almost carnival-like atmosphere. Others are quiet and small. Some have entertainment, maybe a strolling musician or a quartet, cooking demonstrations, or civic projects.  Some will allow all types of things to be sold, almost like a flea market, and services and products vary wildly. Prices also vary from one market to the next and from vendor to vendor. I'm crazy about all of these farmers markets, the big ones and the small ones.

  Let me share a definition of what a farmers market is. This definition is copied from About.com:

   Definition: A farmers market (a.k.a. greenmarket) is a place where farmers sell their products directly to consumers. Ultra-fresh produce, pastured meat and eggs, artisan cheeses, hand-harvested honey, and other fresh, small-batch foodstuffs are the hallmark (and benchmark) of the best farmers markets. They serve not just as a place for farmers to get the best price and consumers to get the best products, but as venues for producers and consumers of food to come together, forge relationships, and exchange information.

Note: Some "farmers markets" have vendors that sell produce they bought from wholesalers and then re-sell to consumers. Are there bananas at your farmers market in Minnesota? Be suspicious. That produce is the same that is available in supermarkets, which is fine, but then why go to the trouble of visiting a farmers market?

  The first sentence in the definition is what I believe and why I always like to shop at the farmers market. I believe this is the understanding of most patrons of the markets as well. ”A farmers market (a.k.a. greenmarket) is a place where farmers sell their products directly to consumers” -- directly is the key word here for me. It doesn’t say from a farmer to a guy who then turns around and brings the stuff to sell at the market. That’s a grocery store. There’s a middleman involved in the grocery store scenario.

So this brings me to my rant today. Well friends, we’ve got trouble right here in River City and it isn’t billiards. Don’t worry; I will be your guide, your shaman. I will get you through it. You see, just like all things that are green and lying on the ground of the rodeo arena is not money, nor are all things at the farmers market being sold fresh, local, organic or grown by the person or persons selling said produce, and there’s the rub for me. It’s my feeling that most people believe by going to the farmers market this is just what they’re getting, and in most cases, it is, but you’re going to have to ask some questions of the vendor if you desire these things of them. If you don’t care that’s its not really local, organic, or produced by the person representing it, then you don’t need to worry about my rant today. Perhaps the market is a social gathering for you, instead, and you may like other aspects of the experience. Then that’s great, too. But please don’t assume that just because you’re at a farmers market that the guy in front of you is the guy that grew the produce on his farm with his blood, sweat, and tears. If this is what you thought, you may be getting duped.

Many people at the farmers market are brokers. In other words, they buy from another source, usually a wholesaler. That wholesaler could be thousands of miles away. So they buy it from some guy and turn around and sell it to you, just like the grocery store. Even if it’s from a semi-local source, it could be from a local commercial greenhouse. That still leaves you and the vendor not knowing whom, how, and where your food was grown, period. That’s what led us to the problem we are having with these food safety issues in the first place these days. Remember peanut butter, tomatoes, peppers, and spinach? And that’s just the ones I remember.

Don’t get me wrong, I am more than willing to buy from the mega mart when I have no choice and I am thankful for the lower prices they can afford. But I am not willing to go to the farmers market for the same thing they have at the grocery. Why waste your time and pay more for it?

So what do we do about this? Here are a few suggestions:

• Do--ask the vendor if he or she grew the products. Don’t be embarrassed to walk away if he says no. He or she may get defensive about the question, which is a pretty good indicator they did not grow it themselves. Even if they say “no,” but say a friend or guy they know grew it, I think chances are high that they might be a broker. Bottom line--if the person selling it grew it, then he will be proud to let you know he grew it. If they didn’t grow it, and this matters to you, move to the next vendor. Don’t let them bully you. On the other hand, if the produce itself is not in season, that’s another great indicator that they didn’t grow it. However, if the price on the out of season item is too good to pass up, and you were going to buy it out of the store anyhow, by all means do it. But ask so you can make an informed decision.
  
• Do--ask about the variety of bean, tomato, etc. That’s a good indicator of their knowledge of their product, plus if you like it you will know what to ask for when you shop next time. In all fairness though, sometimes I cannot tell you exactly what variety I have at the time because I grow several varieties, say of beans, and it gets confusing as to what’s what.
  
• Do--ask if their produce is organic if you are concerned about organics. If you are not concerned, you may still want to ask what their farming practices are. They could be trying to be organic by growing naturally, but not being certified by the U.S.D.A. as “certified organic.” It’s very expensive to become certified, and a big hassle to boot. If someone says they are organic, ask them if they are certified organic. If you are concerned, they should have certification if they sell more than five thousand dollars worth of product a year. They might not use herbicides but can’t control bugs without a little help from pesticides, maybe you’re all right with that. Maybe you’re not a stickler, you just want it as clean as possible. We are not certified organic ourselves, but we do have organic, all-natural farming practices here at the swamp farm. If, however, I was going to lose a whole tomato crop because of horn worm, I would have to think about using Sevins dust on them. It’s been around for years and until recently was labeled for fleas on dogs. I would certainly tell you that if you asked me if I was strictly organic so you could make an informed decision.
  
• Do--ask the vendor if they are local and how local, and don’t be afraid to ask exactly where their farm is located. It is a legitimate question and one that people ask me all the time as a vendor. Be a locavore, someone who tries to eat food produced locally. Local, I have found out means lots of different things to a lot of people. You may be a hundred mile locavore, maybe a thousand miles is okay, or it might be ten miles for you. Ask so you can make an informed decision.
  

My point to all this ranting is this--ask questions so you can make an informed choice as to what suits you. Don’t assume anything just because it’s being sold at the farmers market. And don’t pick up anything green on the floor of the rodeo arena... unless you need organic fertilizer for your garden.

I’m through talk’n, --Matt

 

 

 

This Week's Harvest News

Raspberries, Kohlrabi, and Chigger Bites

Our CSA members will be glad to find they are only getting two of the three of these treats in their harvest bags this week. Sherry, on the other hand, has gotten all three. Wild raspberries don’t really want to be captured;  the thorns themselves should let you know this. The problem oft times is not the thorns, though they are sharp and hurty, but it’s those hidden warriors that are the real guardians. Poison ivy, mosquitoes, chiggers, snakes, and heat stroke are all real and present dangers.

I myself don’t seem to be prone to chigger attack, but Sherry, my precious wife, seems to be irresistible not only to me but to these parasitic creatures. When she goes afield she is most assuredly coming back with chiggers. I didn’t even know we had chiggers here in East Central Indiana until she arrived here at the swamp.

Sherry risked life and limb Wednesday to snatch a few pounds of these heavily guarded morsels—the raspberries, not the chiggers—for our members. She returned from the field punctured, mosquito bitten, hot and chigger plagued.

Be sure to read Sherry’s post about her raspberry picking adventure.

Kohlrabi

Another item in this week’s harvest is kohlrabi. Kohlrabi, German for cabbage (kohl) and turnip (rabi), is a funny looking vegetable for sure and surely delicious. All of the plant is delicious but it is the swollen base of the stem that is typically the prize. The leaves can be cooked and eaten as greens or with greens, like collards. Try some cut up and in your salad. The bulb grows above ground and has the stem of the leaf circling the orb top to bottom. You can eat the bulb raw or cooked in the way you might cook turnips or Brussel sprouts.

I will include a recipe at the end of this post, in case you're interested in trying this vegetable the next time you see it in the store.

  Well that’s all I have for now and I’m done talk’n,  --Matty G

Recipe Spot

Matty’s Roasted Kohlrabi

Ingredients:

• 4 kohlrabi bulbs, peeled and cubed
  
• 3 cloves garlic, minced
  
• 2 Tablespoons olive oil
  
• ½ teaspoon salt
  
• 1/3 teaspoon pepper
  
• ¼ teaspoon lemon juice
  

Directions: Mix all the ingredients in a bowl. Pour onto baking sheet. Roast at 450 for about 15 minutes, turning cubes every 5 minutes or so. Makes 2 servings.