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.

My Wild Raspberry Adventures

I’m not sure how this happened, but I found myself assigned with the chore of picking raspberries yesterday for our CSA shareholders all by my lonesome. Matty had to work, so the task was left to me. Why do such gardening activities always happen on the hottest day of the year? I had to finish writing a chapter before going outside to pick. Yes, I know you really should pick stuff in the morning when it’s not so hot outside, but that sage advise didn’t really work out for me. I had to get my work done first. It’s all about priorities, you know. So, by the time I finished my chapter, it was 1:00 and the heat was on.

I’m not sure every area of the country fully appreciates the heavy, moisture-laden heat that comes often in the summer weather. It’s a heat that seems to lie on you like an unwelcome blanket. Midwesterners are very familiar with this type of heat. As soon as you step out the door, it hits you in the face and demands your notice. I wonder how many times a day during these scorchers the phrase “it’s hot out here” is uttered? I’m guessing millions of times. When it’s hideously hot outside like yesterday, you cannot help but utter the phrase out loud and repeatedly. I did.

Out I go to the edges of the far fields to collect the precious raspberries with my berry bucket. Our berries grow wild out here at the swamp farm, and they almost surround the perimeter of the back property, along with other thorny shrubberies, such as natural roses. Wild raspberries are smaller than the raspberries you find in the store or on commercial shrubs brought home from the nursery, but they’re just as good. I began at one end of the field and started picking. Thankfully, Matty had mowed a bit the day before and I was able to stand quite close to many of the thickets. It didn’t take long before I realized I was going to have to go deeper into the thickets to get the berries.

I don’t know about you, but whenever I go to one of those U-Pick farms, I try to have a goal in mind of how much I need. If I’m strawberry picking, for example, I try to decide ahead of time what I’m going to make and how much I need. Once I get picking, however, something snaps in me. Suddenly it becomes a competition, an feverish quest to pick as many as I can. I am somehow driven beyond my original plans. Like a pirate finding a hidden cave full of gold doubloons, I start grabbing every ripened fruit I can see, and try reaching desperately for those just beyond my arm length.

Unlike strawberry picking, however, you can do some serious damage to yourself in a raspberry thicket. Within moments I am covered in tiny scratches. Do you ever find yourself starting a project only to realize you don’t have the right equipment? This was one of those times for me. I was dressed for the heat, not for the wicked thorniness that comprises a raspberry patch. I thought for a moment about hiking all the way back to the house for a long sleeve shirt, my wellies (tall, rubber galoshes), and gloves. But it was so hot, I was sure I couldn’t bear wearing all those items. So I pressed on.

In hindsight, maybe I should have attired myself appropriately. I am now covered in welts and scratches from head to toe. I nearly had several mishaps trying to reach far beyond where my arms could go, and at the time, thought to myself how painful it would be to land full-on into the thicket with its millions of pointy, sharp thorns. If I did fall in, how long would it take before they found me? While I did not fall bodily, I did manage to get my legs caught, my shirt caught, my shorts caught, my arms caught, and my hair caught in the wayward branches. Each time I’d free myself and grimmace at the new scratch or prick. I had berry fever, though, and had to keep going. My plan was to give away a package of berries to each of our shareholders that evening as a bonus item in their harvest bags. The berries were small, so it was going to take some doing to accumulate enough, or so I thought.

Onward I went, picking, reaching, and swatting flies and mosquitoes all the way. As it turns out, I was not the only creature out there. There were other critters in the thickets with me. The birds were yelling at me and zipping in and out to find their own berry treasure booty. I was also competing with a small miniature dachshund who, oddly enough, also likes raspberries. She snuffled along the bottoms of the thickets gobbling up the fallen berries. A deer came by and snorted at me, also surprised to find competition in the berry-laden thickets. My main company, however, were the bugs.

I picked, and I picked, and I picked. I swatted and I sweated, but I kept going. I kept sticking my arms in farther and farther into the brambles. There was always a juicy berry just beyond my grasp. Or worse, I’d grab a big one only to drop it. No time to weep for lost berries, though, I had to keep going.

Boy, it was hot out there.

I must have been out there for a couple of hours, but I'm not really sure since I was suffering from berry-fever. Did I mention how hot it was? Boy, it was hot.

Despite all the hardships, there’s something very relaxing about picking wild raspberries. You get the opportunity to focus on a simple task and marvel at what a wonderful design the little raspberry is. It’s a brilliant idea, really, this raspberry design. God made them wonderfully tasty, yet difficult to obtain. To achieve the prize, you have to work for it, move patiently forward just like in life. Have you ever noticed how much nature mirrors the lessons we need to learn in our own lives? Like a raspberry thicket, sometimes we have to reach into something thorny to find something wonderful. Yes, you’ll have some scratches along the way, but as it turns out it’s worth it.

I discovered long ago that God has a lot of messages for us in his creation if we’d just open our eyes a bit. He’s there in a raspberry thicket waiting for you to find Him. Risk a little of yourself and reach in! You never know what sweet reward awaits you. 

At the end, I packaged up several packages of berries per customer, far more than the goal of one package each. I hope they enjoy them. Despite my thicket wounds, I enjoyed picking the berries for them. But mostly I enjoyed marveling at the amazing design that is the prickly raspberry patch. What a sweet reward, indeed.

(Wild roses intermingle with our raspberries, and they're blooming right now. I should have picked some of the roses, too, but I took a picture of them instead.)