A Warming Answer to Nature's Freak Show

Fresh air is great. So are vegetables from the backyard garden. Watching the deer mill about under the apple trees is a very pleasant sight just after the sun rises. But the thing I love most about living in the country is the subtle day-to-day change of the seasons. You need to pay close attention to notice it, but every morning comes a bit later these days, every evening a bit earlier--and the colors of the leaves and the sun are in constant, gentle flux.

Then, last weekend, we had a freak-show blizzard that ruined everything. As of this writing, we still don't have electricity at the farm. What we do have is perfectly frostbitten kale that came a little early this year, thanks to that snowstorm.

Kale, along with other dark, leafy greens (collards, cabbage), is resistant to cold weather thanks to its thick, succulent, waxy leaves and stems, which is why it's prominent in cooler-weather cuisines (Eastern European food exalts the cabbage). But the plant also contains off-putting chemicals whose bitter taste makes some folks wince. It has to do with things called glucosinolates, and you can check out Harold McGee's On Food and Cooking to learn more about this sort of stuff than you probably want to know. The point is that the colder weather mellows those off-putting flavors and lets the sweetness of the leaves come through.That's good news for me because not-so-subtle cold snaps demand a warming reaction: soup!



Dinosaur Kale and White Bean Soup
4 servings

INGREDIENTS

1 cup dried navy beans, soaked overnight
1 bay leaf
1 sprig thyme
1/4 cup extra-virgin olive oil
1 large onion, chopped
3 garlic cloves, thinly sliced
Kosher salt
Freshly ground black pepper
1 large bunch dinosaur kale (also known as Tuscan kale, black kale, and Lacinato; but feel free to sub in any variety of kale you may have)
1/3 cup finely grated Parmesan

PREPARATION

Drain beans, then transfer to a medium saucepan and add cold water to cover by 2" (at least six cups). Add bay leaf and thyme. Bring to a boil and cook until beans are tender, about 45 minutes.

Heat oil in a large heavy skillet over medium-high heat. Add onion, garlic, 1 tsp. salt, and 3/4 tsp. pepper and saute until onion is soft and garlic begins to brown, about 6 minutes.

Add onion mixture to beans in saucepan. Tear kale leaves into large pieces, discarding stems, and add to soup. Boil soup until kale is tender, 8-10 minutes. Season with salt and pepper to taste. Serve soup sprinkled with cheese.

A Squirrel in Every Pot

This may surprise you, but I didn't eat my first squirrel until I was well into my adult years, and it wasn't at the farm, or even in this country: It was in jolly old England, where squirrel has been all the rage for a couple of years. (The Brits are either more enlightened or less so than we are, depending on your worldview.)

I was at St. John restaurant and the chef, Fergus Henderson, was running a squirrel special. Before the waiter had finished describing it, I was eagerly nodding yes. The dish was served with porcini mushrooms and a deeply porky sauce, and I have to say, it was really, really good. The meat was a little bit woodsy, a little bit rabbitlike but unique unto itself. There was no doubt that I was eating game.

I shot my first squirrel early one morning last winter. The little critter had moved into the attic of the farmhouse, and his predawn antics had been waking me. As I carried the carcass into the woods, I felt terrible, and that's when I decided to try my hand at cooking the furry rodent.

Since then, I've eaten and served squirrel many times, and any dinner guest who's had enough gumption to taste a bite has loved it. If you ever get the chance, you should try it, too. Of course, it's not the sort of protein that grocery stores carry, so there's the very practical matter of needing to shoot, skin, and gut a squirrel before cooking it--a chore no one especially wants. But it's not as hard as you might think. I would go into the process here, but this isn't Garden & Gun. Instead, let's stick to the cooking part.



Low and slow is the way to go with any rodent (groundhog, guinea pig, etc.). Because it's fall and I have a bounty of apples, I slow-cooked the meat in apple cider with a carrot, an onion, and herbs until the meat fell off the bone. Then I cooked down the sauce and used it as a glaze. The result was a high-end nod to the sort of game cooking our friends across the Atlantic are doing (and we should be doing here in the U.S.) Eating squirrel is a sustainable choice, and it's also a delicious one.


Squirrel, Cider-Braised and -Glazed

2 Tbsp. unsalted butter
1/2 medium onion, chopped
1 carrot, chopped
1 squirrel, skinned, cleaned
1 1/2 cups apple cider
1 Tbsp. Dijon mustard
1 sprig tarragon
1 bunch parsley
1 tsp. each kosher salt and freshly ground black pepper, divided
1 small shallot, finely chopped
1 Tbsp. extra-virgin olive oil
2 tsp. apple cider vinegar

Heat butter in a medium heavy pot over medium-high heat. Add onion and carrot and cook, stirring occasionally, until browned, about 6 minutes. Add squirrel, cider, Dijon mustard, tarragon, 2 parsley sprigs, and 1/2 tsp. each salt and pepper. Bring to a simmer and cover pot. Braise until meat is very tender, 2 1/2-3 hours. Let squirrel cool in braising liquid.

Once cool, remove squirrel from liquid and cut into serving pieces (hind legs, front legs, saddle). Strain braising liquid, reserving vegetables. Bring liquid to a boil and reduce, uncovered, stirring occasionally, until sauce measures 1/2 cup.

Preheat the broiler. Brush squirrel pieces with some of sauce. Broil until browned and heated through, 8-10 minutes.

Meanwhile, pick parsley leaves. Toss with shallot, oil, vinegar, and 1/2 tsp. each salt and pepper.

Serve squirrel with parsley salad, reserved vegetables, and remaining sauce.

Mulling Over Cider

We've been planting new fruit trees--apples, pears, etc.--annually for about six years, which is about how long it can take a new tree to fruit. We keep having to plant new trees because they don't all make it. Some die in the first year from harsh weather. Some die in the second year from attacks by bark-hungry deer or root-hungry groundhogs. Of the 10 trees we planted six years ago, just one survived to maturity. It was an Asian pear tree and would have fruited this year save for the fact that my father accidentally ran it over with the tractor.

But there are two ancient apple trees that keep bringing us fruit year after year. God only knows how many young trees had to be planted for these two to survive. I'd imagine the number to be in the dozens, if not the hundreds. As it is, we've got more apples than we could ever eat, so we press some of them into cider.

Left: Mak with the apple press

We have an old apple press that we keep tucked in a corner of the barn. It was probably made in the 1870s, just around the time the farmhouse was built, and like many things made during that era (like the farmhouse itself), it was built to last. Can you imagine your Jack LaLanne juicer lasting 140 years?

Last weekend, my cousins came to make cider, and Makaila (who has been featured in this column before), was a star presser. She meticulously washed any dirt from the fruit, then handed it to a grown-up, who cranked it through the grinder before pressing out the juice.

We stored much of the cider in fermentation carboys, where it will rot to about 6 percent alcohol hard cider over the winter. The rest we will drink fresh, cook with, or mull with spices and some whiskey into a comforting fall treat that perfectly pairs with the cool edge to the early fall air.



Whiskey-Mulled Cider
4-6 servings

INGREDIENTS
3 cups apple cider
1 Tbsp. dark brown sugar
3 whole cloves
2 cinnamon sticks
1/4 tsp. freshly ground nutmeg
1/2 cup whiskey, preferably Four Roses

PREPARATION
Stir together cider, sugar, cloves, cinnamon, and nutmeg in a medium saucepan. Simmer, covered, for 10 minutes. Let cider cool slightly, then stir in whiskey.

All-Weather Farming and The Best Arugula I've Ever Tasted

I spent last weekend in Maine for an Indian summer last hurrah. It was an unexpectedly balmy 84 degrees and I felt disappointed that I didn't get to wear the sweaters I'd packed, but I ate some incredible food.

My first meal was dinner at the venerable Fore Street in Portland, and my first bite of salad exploded with a rich, peppery heat. I had to put my fork down and look at the plate. It was an arugula salad; what was the big deal here?

The big deal, it turned out, was the farm where the arugula came from: Laughing Stock Farm in Freeport, about 20 miles north of Portland. I sent the farmer, Lisa Turner, an e-mail to arrange a visit.

I found her packing a shipment of fall veggies in her barn. Lisa is an all-season farmer in a part of the country where farming in all seasons is a practical impossibility, or so you would think. The ground is frozen rock-hard for four months. Temperatures dip below -20! There's a good reason no one wants to visit Maine anytime after November 1 (except to ski): It's God-awful cold.

Lisa Turner heads Laughing Stock Farms, where she grows some of the most delicious arugula I've ever tasted.

But while Lisa's farm consists of about 10 acres of land, it's also home to a small village of translucent greenhouses. And because of them, Lisa and her husband, Ralph, have been growing vegetables through the depths of harsh, unforgiving winters for the past 15 years. The couple harvest mesclun and mustard greens and that incredible arugula year-round for restaurants like Fore Street, Local Sprouts Cooperative, Street and Company, and many more, as well as their 140 CSA members.

As I walked into one of their greenhouses, I was hit with a wall of intense heat and moisture--even my camera fogged up. Each greenhouse is equipped with a tank of used restaurant fry oil that Lisa burns to keep her greens sprouting all winter. She harvests the arugula only once (instead of trimming the plant as it grows), and that technique, combined with its slow growing, must be the secret to its incredibly intense and fresh flavor.

There are other all-season farmers in Maine, too, and each has his own method. Eliot Coleman--who literally wrote the book on deep-winter farming--uses frost blankets (they're like comforters for lettuce) instead of bio-fuel, for instance.

But regardless of the technique, the lesson here is that with enough ingenuity and willpower, you can eat the freshest, local-est arugula all year long, no matter where you live.

I plan to build myself a mini greenhouse, inspired by Lisa's hearty-weather farming. With any luck, I'll be growing my own all-season greens in no time.





All-Season Arugula Salad
adapted from Fore Street Restaurant, Portland, ME
4 servings

INGREDIENTS
1 cup port
1/4 cup sugar
2 tsp. kosher salt, divided
3/4 tsp. freshly ground black pepper, divided
1 medium onion
1/3 cup apple cider vinegar
4 oz. goat cheese
2 Tbsp. heavy cream
1 Tbsp. balsamic vinegar
3 Tbsp. extra-virgin olive oil
5 oz. arugula
1/2 cup hazelnuts, toasted, skins removed
6 fresh figs, quartered

PREPARATION
Bring port, sugar, 1/2 tsp. salt, and 1/2 tsp. pepper to a boil in a small heavy skillet and cook until liquid is reduced to 1/2 cup. Remove from heat and set aside to let port reduction cool.

Cut onion in half, then cut each half into thin wedges. Bring apple cider vinegar, 1 tsp. salt, and 2/3 cup water to a simmer in a small saucepan. Remove from heat and stir in onion. Let sit at room temperature until ready to use.

In a small bowl, stir together goat cheese and cream with a fork until fluffy.

Whisk 1 Tbsp. port reduction, balsamic vinegar, and oil in a large bowl. Whisk in 1/2 tsp. each salt and pepper. Toss arugula with dressing, then plate with drained onions, hazelnuts, goat cheese, and figs. Drizzle with additional port reduction.

It's The Great Cheese Pumpkin, Charlie Brown

Nick Fauchald shooting (probably missing) a clay bird with a Mossberg 500 12-gauge shotgun. Adam Houghtaling is sitting on the thrower, the catapult-like contraption that hurls the clay disk into the air. Charlie, the dog waits for his turn.
Photograph by William Hereford

Last weekend we had a bit of a bro weekend at the farm. A clan of New York City food writers and photographers came down to the country for 24 hours of manliness. We drank whiskey and shot clay birds (in that order--your correspondent does not recommend you try this progression; nevertheless, it was fun). We rode the tractor and the motorcycles, chopped wood, played poker, and all in all had a respectable, testosterone-filled time.

The thing about hosting a houseful of dudes who write about food for a living is that at some point, they'll be hungry. And the food, well, it needs to be really good, but also not dainty. I was in charge of dinner and it was my task to make some top-notch fall-friendly guy food. Not as easy as you might think.

Photograph by Ian Knauer

I'll cut to the chase here and talk about the star of the dinner table: pumpkin. (But you should know that the black bear sauerbraten, while very flavorful and certainly manly, was a little tough. I've come to the conclusion that 24 hours in a vinegar marinade is too long for bear meat.)

Back to pumpkins. Now that we're fully into fall, they are everywhere (despite what you may have read about the great pumpkin shortage). They are cheap and make a majestic centerpiece for any dinner. My favorite pumpkin recipe (aside from pie) is a sort of fondue in which the squash itself acts as the cooking vessel for the cheese mixture. (There is a similar one in the October issue of BA by my friends at Canal House.)

After the seeds and pulp have been scooped out, the pumpkin is filled with layers of toasts, cheeses, and cream with broth. It's then baked until everything melts together and the squash is cooked. When you bring it to the table, there are always oohs and ahhs.


Photograph by William Hereford

Cheese-Stuffed Pumpkin

INGREDIENTS
1 15" length of baguette, cut into 1/2" slices (7 oz. total)
1 6-7-lb. orange pumpkin
1 3/4 tsp. kosher salt, divided
1 1/2 cups heavy cream
1 cup low-salt chicken or vegetable broth
1/2 tsp. freshly ground black pepper
1/4 tsp. cayenne pepper
8 oz. grated white cheddar
8 oz. grated Swiss cheese such as Emmenthal or Gruyere
1 Tbsp. vegetable oil plus more for pan

PREPARATION
Arrange a rack in lower third of oven and preheat to 450 degrees F.

Toast baguette slices in one layer on a baking sheet in oven until tops are browned. Set aside.

Using a sharp knife, cut a wide circle around pumpkin stem; remove top. Scrape out seeds and any loose fibers from inside pumpkin (reserve seeds for another use). Season pumpkin flesh with 3/4 tsp. salt.

Whisk together cream, broth, pepper, cayenne, and 1 tsp. salt in a medium bowl. Mix together cheeses in another bowl.

Put a layer of toasted baguette slices in bottom of pumpkin, then cover with about 1 cup cheese and about 1/2 cup cream mixture. Continue layering bread, cheese, and cream mixture, using all of cream mixture, until pumpkin is filled to within about 1/2" of opening.

Cover pumpkin with its top. Place pumpkin in a small oiled roasting pan. Brush outside of pumpkin all over with 1 Tbsp. vegetable oil. Bake until pumpkin is tender and filling is puffed, 1 1/4 - 1 1/2 hours. To serve, scoop out some of the flesh and cheesy pudding-like stuffing into each bowl.

The Secret to Making Great Hot Sauce Even Greater

Every gardener has a muse--the inspiration that compels him or her to break out the shovel. It could be a childhood memory of a cherry tomato, warm from the sun. Maybe it's the seedy pop of a deep-ruby strawberry, or the taste of a cucumber right off the vine. Whatever it is, it's enough to make him dig up his lawn, start saving kitchen scraps for compost, and spend all his free time bent over, pulling weeds.

My muse is the chile pepper.

I save pepper seeds all winter, like some sort of fanatical collector, in little wax envelopes. I have some that a friend smuggled back from Jamaica and some from a pepper that blew smoke out of my ears when I ate it on a dare. I have Chocolate Habaneros and Louisiana cayennes and Indian ghost chiles. They all sit patiently until early spring, when I plant them in starter containers and set them on the windowsill, where they stretch their first leaves out of the dirt. Then, for the next six to seven months, nothing much happens. The plants grow at a frustratingly slow pace. It's not until late September that the fiery fruits are ripe and ready.



Well, here we are in late September, and I am rolling in capsicum. The local farmers' market is erupting with chiles, too. There are too many to eat raw or even to cook. The chile's draw is also its force field. They're spicy little buggers. There's really only one way to use up mass quantities: hot sauce.

There's an unfathomable variety of recipes for hot sauce, and finding your favorite might take some doing. But the secret that I hope you'll take away from this post has to do with aging. The last time I made hot sauce, I put the jar in the back of the fridge and forgot about it. That turned out to be a very happy accident. The sauce mellows as it ages and becomes less spicy, letting the floral notes of the chiles come forward. This isn't new. Tabasco, possibly the world's most famous hot sauce company, crafts a Family Reserve sauce that it ages for up to eight years. I don't suggest that you need to wait that long for your hot sauce to mature. Feel free to use it right away--but if you keep it tucked at the back of your fridge for a couple of months, even a year, the results will be stunning.

Hot Sauce
Makes 1 scant quart

INGREDIENTS
12 oz. fresh hot chiles, stemmed and halved
1 head of garlic, roasted*
2 1/4 cups distilled white vinegar plus more if needed
2 Tbsp. brown sugar
2 Tbsp. kosher salt

PREPARATION
Pulse chiles and roasted garlic in a food processor until finely chopped. Combine vinegar, sugar, and salt in a small pan and bring to a simmer, stirring until sugar is dissolved. Remove from heat and let cool completely. Place chile mixture in a 1-qt. mason jar, then pour vinegar mixture over. Top off with additional vinegar, if necessary (chiles should be completely covered with liquid). Cover the jar and store in the refrigerator for at least 3 months and up to 1 year. If a more refined sauce is to your liking, strain the hot sauce through a fine-mesh sieve, discarding solids, then pour sauce into a jar and chill.

* Roasting garlic is so easy, it barely requires a recipe. Anytime your oven is heated to 350-425 degrees for an hour, you have a great opportunity to roast a couple of garlic heads. Simply cut off and discard the top 1/2" of one or more heads of garlic and place the remaining heads on a small piece of foil. Drizzle with a little oil and sprinkle with a pinch of salt. Wrap the garlic in the foil and place it in a corner of the oven for 45 minutes to an hour. You can use your roasted garlic right away, squeezed out of the bulb, or refrigerate it until you need it, for up to a month.

Zen And The Art of Beekeeping

I've been keeping bees since I was a teenager. That was 20-plus years ago, and still they amaze me. Of course the honey is great. I collect several gallons each September, enough to last all year. But it's the sounds the bees make that I find captivating. There's no guessing game with bees. If they are happy, you'll know. If they are upset, you'll know that, too. They are very good communicators.

In the beginning, before I learned to listen to the bees, I got stung a lot. Once, I almost died. I should have known better; I should have been listening. The bees "sing" to you or they "scream" at you, and when they scream they sound like banshees. The buzz of 80,000 angry bees' vigorously vibrating wings sounds, well, just like you'd think it would. Their pitch rises when they're upset. It sometimes gets to the point where all you can hear is bees, screaming with their wings. This pandemonium is dotted with tiny staccato pops, the punctuated landings of a thousand angry workers dive-bombing your beekeeper's veil. It can be scary. But it doesn't have to be.

If you've ever met any beekeepers, you've probably noticed how calm they tend to be. The bees pick up on a peaceful personality. If I am calm, so are they. Some of us are naturally placid. Not me. I had to learn it. It took years.

The first trick I tried was singing to the bees as you might to a baby, in a calm, soothing tone. I didn't sing an actual song, just gibberish, but it worked. The bees stayed calm and I didn't get stung.

I didn't know it at the time, but bees don't have ears so they don't "hear" in the sense that we do. My singing only calmed me, and the bees felt my tranquility. I still sing to them. I have not been stung in more than 15 years.

This week I collected honey from the hive, and to celebrate the harvest (and National Honey Month--woot! woot!) I made this simple honey cake. It was a busy day and I had to carve out enough time to bake. With flour all over the kitchen and deadlines looming, I was feeling somewhat stressed. Mixing the ingredients, I caught myself humming a little made-up tune, just to relax. It worked in the kitchen, just as it does at the beehive.


Honey Walnut Cake
8 servings

INGREDIENTS
3/4 cup (1 1/2 sticks) unsalted butter, room temperature, plus more for pan
2 1/2 cups all-purpose flour plus more for pan
1 1/2 tsp. baking soda
1/4 tsp. kosher salt
1/3 cup sugar
2 large eggs
3/4 cup honey
1/2 tsp. vanilla
1 cup whole milk
1/2 cup walnut halves or pieces
Creme fraiche and fresh fruit for serving


PREPARATION
Arrange a rack in center of oven and preheat oven to 350F. Butter and flour a 9x9x2" baking pan.

Whisk together flour, baking soda, and salt in a medium bowl; set aside.

Using an electric mixer, beat butter and sugar in a large bowl until pale and fluffy. Add eggs one at a time, beating well, then beat in honey and vanilla. Add flour mixture and milk in alternate batches, beginning and ending with flour mixture and mixing until just combined.

Pour batter into prepared pan and smooth the top, then sprinkle with walnuts. Bake until a tester inserted into center of cake comes out clean, 45-55 minutes. Cool cake in pan on a wire rack for 1 hour. Transfer cake to a cake plate. Serve with creme fraiche and fresh fruit.