First, the bad news: not only is my post coming late to you this week, I don’t have a recipe either. Thing is, Mars is in Libra, and this means that my dedication to this bean project is being, um, balanced by other compelling things. That’s my story and I’m not changing it. I do apologize, but, like the proverbial double moon, I guess it happens. I won’t make a habit of it.

But, readers, I do have food for you. Or provisional truths about it, anyway. See, I’ve been busy crafting a syllabus, curriculum and sundry handouts for the college-level writing class I’m going to be teaching starting next week. I’ve put together a begin-at-the-beginning sort of thing for my students, a collection of miscellaneous admonitions on many points about writing.

Amazingly enough, most of them apply (with some kneading) to food as well.

1. Everything is food
The crab apples, the grass, the microbes in the soil. It’s all sustenance for something. Even the #2 PET bottles littering our landscape will eventually succumb to the law of entropy, and become broken down bits of broken down bits, food for something else. The trees drop their plums and the fleshy meat breaks down into basic minerals and elements, feeding the seed contained inside it. The trees drop their leaves to feed their very roots. Or, as Barbara Kingsolver eloquently phrased it, “this forest feeds itself and lives forever”. Nothing in this world is ever wasted.

2. Just because everything is food doesn’t mean you necessarily want to eat it
See again the landscape cluttered with Coca-cola bottles that have long lost their red slash. ‘Nuff said.

3. It’s okay to start anywhere
This one is a little harder to swing as a food rule, but there’s some merit to it. True, when you’re crafting a Red Velvet Cake with Black Raspberries, there’s little use for the raspberries in that formula if you haven’t constructed the cake. On the other hand, culinary art is like any other art, and this means that you must make the process your own and grab it at the end that inspires you.

In a practical kitchen, it makes sense to whip together an icing while the cake is in the oven. In the artistic kitchen, if it’s the icing that engages you, then by all means, make the icing first.

Likewise, it’s okay to start small. If the idea of soufflé overwhelms you, try frittata in a ramekin.

4. Sample often.
But then, I don’t need to tell you this. The experience of eating is what draws us to the kitchen in the first place, right? Still, I’m often asked by would-be writers if it’s really necessary to read so much. The only possible answer is yes. Likewise, if you want to cook, know that the way to learn about food is to experience it. Taste it, savor it, reverse-engineer it. This is the only road to understanding it. Eating makes you a better cook.

If you didn’t love food, why would you want to make more?

5. Adverbs and adjectives are mostly superfluous
Here I’m being metaphorical, since you wouldn’t really stir parts of speech into your soup.

What I’m getting at is simplicity: food that speaks for itself is the aim. Too much salt, sugar, colored sprinkles, clashing herbs, domineering spices - they are distracting and redundant at best, and quite possibly offensive. The most common mistake made by inexperienced cooks is using too many herbs and spices. For example, a touch of vinegar can lift certain flavors, like potato and tomato, out of the background, but just a splash too much can easily overwhelm your dish. In chili and soup, it’s tempting to throw in a pinch of each of those pretty herbs drying in your window, but blindly seasoning will mask the lovely fresh flavors of your base ingredients. Some combinations are more detrimental than others. Did you know, for example, that tarragon and basil are too similar in their licorice-like flavor to be combined successfully, and instead add bitter notes when used together?

This is the biggest mistake that inexperienced cooks make, thinking that more is better.

The way to ensure success is to begin with the freshest, most direct ingredients you can get your hands on. Farm stands in August — there just is not any bad food right now. This food is all action: it shines and sparkles and melts, it explodes with flavor and it lingers on the palate. Visit a local market today. and I promise you, things can only get good from there.

(Extra points if you noticed that mostly superfluous is an adverb-adjective lineup. And minus some points to me for not being able to help pointing this out…).

6. You don’t always have to hit it out of the ballpark
Give yourself permission to cook badly. It’s not a loss - you’ll only add black pepper to your coffee once. And you just may be surprised at how beautifully things come out.

7. Getting the ingredients in the pot is only half the job
Revision is the essence of cooking. What would chili be without the stir- sniff-taste-and-amend routine?

How you cook it is just as important as the ingredients you bring together. You can’t rush something through the oven. Pull it out too early and it’s raw. Kick up the heat and you end up with an unintentionally blackened tuna steak that remains cold inside. Let it breathe. Things need to be stirred, seasoned, indulged. Cooking takes time.

And then there’s the part of the process that you can’t touch. At a certain point you have to stand back and trust the outcome. Bread will rise until it’s finished rising. Certain ingredients, like mustard, magically emulsify oil and vinegar, or marry flavors like salty and sweet. What is the gestalt that occurs in those moments in-between, when the fortified wine is no longer Port and is not yet a reduction sauce? The sweet, tart, caramel outcome can’t be predicted from what you have in the bottle.

8. Break all the rules
It’s true that in cooking, as in writing poetry, you must know the classic structure before you can veer away from it. When you become a confident cook, though, you’ll start to bend the basic cooking principles. Eventually you might disregard them all together. Each time you cook a dish, you’ll add something of your own, or take something away, a sculpture forever in transition.

I dare you to regard a recipe as merely a template. You might add cinnamon to savory dishes. You might add coffee to casseroles to deepen the flavor. Would you rather use blue potatoes and leave the skins on when you’re mashing them? Do you hate pecans? The world is full of nuts to use instead.

This is one of the most thrilling parts of cooking, the satisfaction that comes from creating something entirely your own.

So, dear readers, revel in the mystery and trust that it will lead you where you need to go. It’s a never ending process, not just the dish you end up with, but the learning itself.

Get out there and over-salt, undercook, dare to burn. Get out there and learn. Go to your pantry, grab some odds and ends that were never meant to meet, and stir with confidence and a pinch of cockiness. Shake well, just to see what happens. Then come back here and share what you’ve learned.

I’ll be back with a recipe next week. Talk to you then!

(And a side of Edamame)

(pescetarian, gluten-free)

In Praise (Mostly) of Surprises

The other morning, I shook a healthy dose of fresh ground black pepper into my fair-trade organic Peruvian roast. Let me just say that the prize dolt at the coffee shop who put the opaque pepper shaker next to the identical cinnamon and cocoa shakers needs to be fired. Or at least similarly deprived of java for a day. I was on the road again before I realized my gaffe. Tempted as I was (the elongated monologue persisted through the rest of my commute), I just could not drink the coffee. But it got me to thinking.

I spent the rest of the morning, in fact, brainstorming secret ingredients. You know, those unexpected recipe additions that are not directly tasted, but whose presence would be missed. Or the pairings that seem star-crossed but turn out to be revolutionary. Like salt on chocolate. Have you ever experienced the way that cilantro, basil and mint, when combined, form a new flavor that is unlike any of its parts? Or the way that curry powder and chili powder, which share many base spices, are utterly distinct? Then there’s what a scoop of vanilla does to bubbly sassafras.

Who knew my pre-caffeinated brain could fire in so many directions?

It’s possible that I started a trend that morning at the coffee shop. Some woman who had just gotten her own cup of joe was smiling really big at me while I whisked the pepper with the stir stick. I just thought she was oddly friendly, or happy about having her first injection of java in sight. And we are in an urban area. There was also the guy sitting on the wall outside the shop, waving and hooting at passing traffic. I thought maybe they were together.

In retrospect, I have to assume she could only have been laughing at me.

Then again, maybe she was only puzzling over it, wondering if she were the one who was missing something. Perhaps she’ll even try it herself. Pepper and Peruvian, freshly ground, could turn out to be the next thing, like chipotle in chocolate. But if the trend comes to your coffee house, skip it. This coming from the girl who started it all…

My garden has been a pirate’s chest of unplanned-for flavors this year. This pretty Alma Paprika is an example of that. A Hungarian horticultural immigrant to these parts, the heirloom is supposed to be sweet and mildly hot. Last year it was, too. This year though my garden is turning out Alma Paprikas with a decidedly bigger row of teeth. This year, it’s a pepper that bites you back.

Also, what I thought were going to be more cucumbers seem to be shaping up like some sort of melon. A volunteer, I guess, rising from the compost that was worked into the soil last fall. And let’s not forget that Chinese Red Meat.

I found another surprise this week - two bushes of edamame. True, I had planted them, but they were easily lost among the riot of other beans - you see what I mean?

I found this prize when I was mucking around in the foliage for another renegade zucchini.

The word edamame is Japanese for “beans on branches”, which is exactly how they grow. Edamame are soybeans that are eaten immature, when the beans are still green inside the pods.

These stowaways in my garden are of the Shirofumi variety. The seeds came from Seed Saver’s Exchange, and like all edamame, they are something of a circus sideshow, half-bean, half-cat with their fine, white or light brown hairs sprouting all along the pods. They look a bit charged with static electricity.

Cooking Edamame: At just about 40% protein, they are a valuable snack. They also pack a healthy dose of calcium, iron, and vitamins A, B1, B12 and C. You sushi addicts out there (like me) are well familiar, but for those uninitiated, they’re a real treat, simply boiled and salted. To cook a pound of fresh edamame, bring a kettle of water to a boil. Add the edamame, let the water return to a roiling boil and then cook for about 7 minutes, testing a bean now and then for doneness. Drain, place beans in a bowl and salt them. They are best served hot but can also be chilled.

And with such a simple preparation, they don’t count as a recipe. With all these thoughts of culinary experimentation, inadvertent as it sometimes is, I worked out a recipe with fish and peaches and Asian lime dressing to go over it.

This week’s peach is a Glow Haven. They’re similar to the Red Havens I wrote about last week, except that it’s a free stone fruit, meaning that the seeds come easily loose. I found them less sweet than the Red Havens have been, so I thought I’d caramelize them a bit on the grill to bring forth their flavor.

The salad also combines mint, basil and cilantro, which I mentioned above as constituting a flavor unto itself. The dressing contains lime juice and lime zest, which rounds and brightens all the flavors in this dish.

The recipe is half sweet, half savory. See what you think. And while you’re at it, I’d love to know what strange bedfellows you throw together in the kitchen, and what the result is.

Grilled Peaches and Prawns with Lime Dressing and Basil, Mint and Cilantro

Dressing:
4 tablespoons fresh lime juice
2 teaspoons finely grated lime peel
¼ teaspoon sharp paprika, or for more heat, cayenne
3 tablespoons extra-virgin olive oil
Sea salt

Salad:
1 pound of prawns, deveined
4 ripe peaches, quartered
Olive oil, for brushing
1/3 cup fresh mint leaves, minced
1/3 cup fresh cilantro leaves, chopped 24 grape or cherry tomatoes, halved
½ cup fresh basil leaves, thinly sliced
Sea salt

To make the dressing, combine lime juice, lime peel, and paprika or cayenne in a jar. Place lid on the jar and shake well. Add the olive oil and sea salt, replace lid and shake contents again until thoroughly mixed.

Prepare barbecue grill so that you have a medium-high heat. Brush peaches with olive oil and sprinkle with salt. Grill them until they are warmed and slightly charred, about 3 minutes per side. Brush prawns with oil and sprinkle with salt and grill until they have turned pink and are slightly charred, about 2 minutes per side.

Transfer peaches and prawns to a bowl, or arrange them on a plate. Chop the cilantro, mint and basil as instructed above, and combine . Sprinkle the fresh herbs over peaches/prawns. Drizzle the arrangement with lime dressing, then scatter a pinch of sea salt on top. Enjoy!

(Vegetarian, vegan, gluten-free)

What is it about food?

I have bronchitis. For a week now, my lungs have been incapable of collecting enough oxygen for comfort. Going up a flight of steps makes me feel like I’ve got somebody’s rusty old fender lodged in my rib cage. I spend more of the wee hours awake and tossing than I do sleeping. I’ve been counting goats to no avail. And so, when the sun rises and I’m supposed to be awake, I don’t much feel like it.

I don’t feel like doing anything. Not gardening. Not talking. Funny movies are dangerous, since inevitably laughter catapults me into a spiraling and painful cough. Certainly I’ll do nothing as brain-intensive as reading a book. I not thinking in complete sentences. I don’t, dear reader, feel like writing either (which is why, you’ll see, I’m letting my photos do much of the talking today).

But the kitchen draws me.

Though my sense of taste is intact, the energy required to metabolize food has rendered eating unappealing. But I don’t stay out of the kitchen. Aimlessly, almost, I keep wandering in. Over the last week I made warm vegetable broth, as much out an ache for something to do as it was out of necessity. I’ve made beet risotto, lovely chloro-full and antioxidant rich, algae-green salads, and a harissa paste meant to sear any germs out of my system.

But why? Why, when I can muster the determination to do little else, do I linger in my kitchen?

It’s something to do with the reassuring feel of things in my hands, I think. When I feel as if my body is somewhere far from the rest of me, and the air I need to breathe is just out of reach, it’s very grounding to feel the floor beneath my feet and a firm, heavy tomato cradled in my palms. Or to trace a finger over the gentle fuzz of a Red Haven peach, to catch its honeyed scent. Or to be jolted by the sharp aroma of fresh rosemary, the sting of it somehow instantly healing. My kitchen marks my place in the world.

It’s trite to make a statement like, “it’s the simple things that matter.” But I can’t deny that being ill (and I use that word tentatively, because in the scope of things this temporary setback is nearly meaningless, and I am fortunate) simplifies things. When there is no energy left, only the things that matter can remain. Apparently, for me, cooking matters.

And it’s the simple foods that matter now, those living things that house the power to restore me to my normal, healthy state. The basic building blocks of my kitchen are also the barest components of my bones and tissues.

On Eating

Inevitably, when my mother learns that I have a cold or a flu, she will ask me if I’m taking my vitamin C. I’m not, Mom.

There’s no need. Instead, I’ve been reveling in the things I’ve collected from the local markets. Did you know that one serving of Persian muskmelon contains 112.5% of my daily Vitamin C needs? Or that blackberries, with their inky purple stain, rank way up there for stress-fighting antioxidants? And the peaches! Plentiful at the local market right now, full of nectar-sweet juice and held in by firm, blushing skins, there’s not a mushy, mealy, grainy Red Haven among them. A mouthful of their bright flesh makes me feel vibrant and alive. Then there are cherries. Crimson and intense, they shore me up with a dose of the magic C, as well as potassium, iron and fiber.

Just looking at all these fresh things makes my breathing come easier. And how does one account for the impact of joy?

A Recipe

Purple is the powerhouse of the vegetable world, nutritionally speaking. Purple produce contains 50% more antioxidants than their non-purple counterparts. Perhaps it’s no surprise then that I naturally gravitated to the Chinese Red Beans dangling in my garden. The natural wisdom of the body doesn’t falter.

I grew these beans the first time last year, from seeds gotten at Baker Creek Heirloom Seeds, and they were truly yard-long. This year they came in a bit shorter, but I think that’s because my garden is a riot of beans elbowing one another for space this summer. Like last year they appeared nearly overnight, one day barely there, the next, their bright pods shocking me from my kitchen window.

 

 

 

I made a thrilling discovery with them: if I steam them, they keep their purple shade. Do they retain more nutrients post-cooking, then? I don’t know but I’m willing to bet so.

With this dish I was aiming for an antioxidant one-two. I wanted to be kick-boxed into health, so I went on a purple scavenger hunt. The onion is a Spanish heirloom called Tropea, and it bears a small, mild, reddish-mauve elongated bulb. The garlic is Inchelium red, which I got from Seed Saver’s Exchange last year. Here’s a PSA: reserve your Inchelium red now for next year — but not before I’ve had a chance to order some. This spicy, blushing soft-neck variety, one of my all-time favorites, is sold out for this year already. Guess I’ll have to sacrifice a bulb or two to the garden to ensure that another generation here.

For contrast, I threw in some chard. I’ve been getting a lot of mileage out of a Giant Fordhook Swiss chard plant - these seeds, too, came from SSE. The plant is sturdy, heat tolerant, and continues to sprout new leaves. And for herbs, I choose parsley (for the vitamin K) and marjoram.

Chinese Red Beans with Chard: a Palliative on a Plate
1/2 pound Chinese Red Beans (or other fresh beans)
2 tablespoons raw sliced almonds
1 clove garlic
3 tablespoons chopped red onion, about 2 spring bulbs worth
2 tablespoons finely chopped fresh parsley leaves
1 tablespoon fresh marjoram, sliced
1 cup chard or spinach, chopped
4 teaspoons olive oil
1 teaspoon red wine vinegar
1 teaspoon Dijon mustard
Salt and pepper

In a dry skillet, toast the almonds over medium heat until they are brown and fragrant, about 3 minutes. Shake pan occasionally to prevent burning.

Remove almonds from skillet. Add 2 teaspoons of the olive oil. On medium heat, sauté the onion and garlic until transluscent, about five minutes. Add the chopped parsley and marjoram and stir for about 1 minute, until heated through. Remove from heat.

In a bowl, combine 2 teaspoons olive oil, the red wine vinegar and the Dijon. Stir in the garlic, onion, parsley and marjoram. Whisk well, then set aside.

Bring a large pot of water with a steamer basket to a boil, add green beans and steam for about 3 minutes. Add chard or spinach and steam 1-2 minutes more (spinach needs less time than chard).

Transfer beans and chard to a bowl. Stir the vinegar-mustard mixture over the beans, then sprinkle with the toasted almonds. Add salt and pepper to taste.

Feel better yet? I do!

From Chinese Red Beans to Spanish Tropea Onions — Never Miss a Journey! Subscribe now to Becky and the Beanstock.

(Vegetarian)

We can’t claim that no one warned us.

We were in bed, Simon and I. I was lying in the humid darkness, chagrined to realize just how much of an urban girl I am. Simon was out cold.

We were in the cabin on the Seed Saver’s Exchange farm (see photos from last week). The pretty little bungalow, built in the 1870s, had been lovingly restored at some point. Still, it felt very much like the outdoors was coming right on in, and I laid there listening to each buzz and scrape and flutter of wings.

Then there was the odd humming noise. “I hear something!” I hissed, shaking Simon awake.

“We’re in a cabin in the middle of nowhere, you’re going to hear some things. Go to sleep.”

We repeated this routine a couple of times, Simon growing more exasperated with each go round. And exhaustion, that sticky intoxication that can’t be walked off, was pressing harder against me. I had finally given in and slipped into an uneasy unconsciousness when it rustled against me. Rapid, way too large, brushing against my shoulder.

“I feel something!” I shrieked, and flung the covers off. We both leapt out of the bed, landing hard on the floor. It was only after I had dashed across the room and hopped a little, unsure of where to go, that it occurred to me that I was running on my broken foot. (My orthopedic doctor doesn’t read this, I’m pretty sure, which is why I share this part).

When the lamp light washed over the room, it revealed a tiny bat, lying on the floor at the head of the bed. We had been warned about this. The cabin’s chimney has a tiny opening, through which bats have been known to enter.

I had apparently flung the bat against the wall when I tossed off the covers. My heart sank. Brown, unmoving, its wings mostly folded in again, I might have mistaken it for a small clump of earth. Looking at it, I felt a tenderness and sorrow that took my breath away.

It felt wrong, to think of moving it. “We’ll take it outside in the morning,” Simon said.

But in the morning, the bat was gone. I was jubilant at its resurrection, and giddy with the realization that I hadn’t killed it at all. Of course, this meant that on night two it woke from sleep and echolocated around the room again. On the second night we had help. Janisse Ray, one of my favorite nature writers and a woman who slam-brakes for frogs, was staying with us. When the bat emerged from its sleeping spot sometime past moon-up, the three of us (Janisse and Simon, mostly - I am on crutches still) managed to herd it into a trash can and set it loose under the sky. If its protestation was any indication of its lifeforce, that bat is tearing up Decorah as I type.

This story, of course, has nothing to do with recipes or food. That’s coming. But first I want to share a bit more about the Seed Saver’s Exchange convention.

I mentioned last week in passing that I’d spent some time talking with Lynne Rosetto Kasper. She was the keynote speaker for the convention, and told us how it was only through her travels across Italy that she was able to appreciate the food she had grown up with. It was these experiences of eating and writing and living in a foreign land that set her on the road to the locavore she is today.

We also befriended Leslie Allen, who is one of the bloggers on Lynne’s Locavore Nation website. Along with 14 others throughout the U.S., Leslie has committed to a year of consuming 80% of her diet in locally grown (100-mile radius) foods. Leslie lives in Reno though and gets to count Napa…

I spent some time talking with Deborah Madison as well. She has a quiet presence which belies the astonishing transformation she has effected on food and cooking over the last 20 years. Deborah was one of the first to celebrate the simplicity and diversity of market-fresh food. She is also that rare breed, a woman of the written word who can, nevertheless, stand up in front of a crowd and talk in a way that seems effortlessly engaging and entertaining.

I met Dave Cavagnaro, who is credited with taking many of the original photos for the Seed Savers Exchange catalogs. Dave grows almost all of what he and his family eats. When the temperatures start to dip, as they are inclined to do in his part of Iowa, he digs up his veggie-laden plants and hauls them into a root cellar. The just-above freezing temperatures arrest the plant growth and preserve the perfectly ripe fruits just so, blessing his family with fresh, local produce when blizzards rage outside. Dave also keeps dwarf citrus trees and enjoys year-round limes, lemons and kumquats.

I could go on and on about the inspired and inspiring, dedicated and energetic people I met. The fact that there are this many people tells me something important: the locavore movement is about to become more than a movement.

I’m convinced, in fact, that it’s about to become the way we eat. Lately the New York Times has taken to framing the eat-local mentality as elitist and passing. I think this is wrong. I suspect that “local” will soon become “necessary”, perhaps “only”, as energy costs soar higher than indeterminate tomatoes in July, and as the dollar exchange rate slumps in the dirt. And, environmentally speaking, it just makes sense.

If we are discovering sustainability out of necessity, I think we’ll be surprised to discover the joy, diversity and freedom that this shift will bring us as well.

(Scroll past the recipe for more photos from the Seed Saver’s Exchange farm and convention).

The recipe
In the name of eating local then, here’s a recipe that is about 87% local. The tomatoes, heirloom sungolds whose seeds were saved from a pint we bought last summer from Brett Palmier of Biver Creek Farms, and the beans came from our backyard. The bread, a sourdough, was made by Viviano’s, a local, independent Italian grocer (I can’t promise that the wheat itself was local). The cheese, I have to admit, came from France.

The cheese, Brie, was sent to me by Ile de France, an American importer of French cheese. I talk more about this soft-ripened cheese on the products review page, but for the purposes of this recipe, let me say that the creaminess of this Brie works beautifully with the acidity of the tomatoes. Like a good Brie, this one gets softy and nearly liquid at room temperature; put it in the oven and it bubbles and browns without changing its flavor too much.

I’m very excited about the beans. They’re the first of my 12 or so varieties to present themselves as ready to eat. Grown to be eaten fresh, the vivacious Royalty Purple Pod is hard to ignore when it’s mature. In just 56 days, this heirloom’s jewel-toned pods contrast brightly against the green garden foliage.

I tried roasting them on high heat for just 8 minutes, in the hopes that they’d keep this lovely hue. Alas, they faded to green, but just-cooked like this, they are crispy and fresh and only mildly starchy.

This is a simple, unadorned dish. You could toss on some tarragon, if you have it, but I wanted to taste the individual flavors of each ingredient, so I seasoned only with olive oil and salt.

Roasted tomatoes royalty purple podded beans and Brie on Italian bread
Large handful of Royalty Purple Podded beans (can use fresh green beans)
20 Sungold cherry tomatoes (can use red cherry tomatoes)
2 teaspoons olive oil
Coarse salt for seasoning
1 loaf crusty Italian bread, cut into ½ inch thick rounds
1 tablespoon butter or margarine
5 ounces Brie, or you can use a local goat cheese, thinly sliced

Get everything ready before you begin so that the oven is on for the shortest amount of time possible. If done efficiently, the oven can do its work in 12 minutes.

Wash fresh beans and snap off the woody stems. In a bowl, mix the beans and tomatoes with the olive oil. Toss well to coat them with oil, then sprinkle with the coarse salt. Arrnage on a jelly roll baking sheet lined with aluminum foil.

Butter one side of each of the bread rounds. Place, buttered side up, on another baking tray.

Heat oven to 400 degrees. Place beans and tomatoes on top rack and bread rounds on lower rack. Let cook for 8 minutes, until beans are roasted and tomatoes have burst.

Remove tomatoes and beans from oven. Also remove bread rounds. Turn bread rounds, buttered side down. On the unbuttered side, place one slice of Brie, one tomato and one bean. Add tarragon if desired.

Slide toasts back into the oven and cook just until Brie has begun to bubble, about 4 minutes. Serve immediately.

And now for a few more photos from the Seed Saver’s Exchange convention. Here we have the SSE Visitor’s Center, where they keep a dizzying array of books and seeds. Then there’s another view of the edible landscape that sits between the visitor’s center and the barn; a photo of the two old trees that frame — and predate — the 1870s cabin on the hill. And one more of the cabin, just because it’s so pretty.