Category Archives: Canning

Fermentationem Appalacianos Officiales

Posted on April 8, 2012 | 5 Comments

I have fought with fermentation for years. I can’t make beer, no matter how hard I try and how many brewers I know. Amazing brewers, actually, the best in the country, arguably.

My sauerkraut is a crap shoot — the most success coming when I completely oversalt the batch and my friend Alice uses it to make runzas, adding no salt to her meat mixture.

Don’t get me wrong, I love runzas. They’re funza in the bunza for sure.

But I’d like, frankly, to conquer fermentation. And I am now determined that this is the year I will, finely, tame the wild.

To catch you up, I believe I have tried nearly everything — though not the beautiful German fermenting crocks that are so expensive I wouldn’t be able to afford even a cabbage if I bought one.

There are two essential problems to my fermentation: floaty vegetable bits and moldy ickiness I tend to not want to touch after forgetting to look at the crock for a few days.

But the real crux of my problem, sans the said fermentation crock loveliness (reizender topf, I think), is that my fermentation is always equipment-challenged. Right tool for the right job is great only when you can afford the tool.

Me? I am left cobbling together bits and ideas to make the project actually work for me instead of battle against me.

I know I could scour thrift stores for glass rounds (plates? vintage-y industrial somethings?) to act as weights. I’ve done a little thrifting but really, it is a whole job when it is done well. I have a job, and more than a few projects, that leave me little time to pop into Village Discount every day for a month until, EUREKA!

I know I could commission a starving artist at Lill Street to make me some weights to fit in my pickle crocks. That would take money, though, and ceramic chips frustratingly easily at the moments when you can’t afford it to, so the solution isn’t really long-term. And, frankly, I feel like every time I wash out a crock even they seem just a little more chipped.

Having been HAACP-certified in a past life, ceramic chips freak me out.

Which leads me to plastic. I am just not a big fan of the togetherness of plastic and food. I know, I know, what kind of crazy loonbag … but really, so much food-grade plastic has BPA and virtually everyone but the people who decide what can be in food-grade plastic agrees that BPA is super harmful. So — get your tin foil hat on, folks — sometimes I tend to wonder what the hell else is in the plastic.

And while I am all about freezing in vacuum seal bags and have a good supply of Ziplocks and so on and so forth, I just can’t seem to use plastic when I am asking it to undergo processes that would potentially compromise it’s physical integrity. So, no cooking with in or around plastic. No microwaving (no, folks, microwaving is not cooking though and even still, I don’t microwave much to begin with anyway). And no dunking a plastic bag full of salinated water into a fermenting crock.

And yet, I determined. Because I decided that this was the year I would learn more about using my jars of stuff because Paul Virant finally published his book,  The Preservation Kitchen. I write a bit about that on the “Yard Farm Year” half-aspirational/half-actually accomplished calendar but for the purpose of this blog post I will share that Paul’s book is the bible of how to use stuff you can. So, if you have a pantry full of jam made from every berry known to man, and you know I do, this is the book to get.

So, I got it. And I committed to making everything in it.

And boom, the project, because of the exact moment in time that is today, starts with fermentation.

You see, my secret ramp patch is ready for me today. And Paul’s book not only features pickled ramps (natch and no problem for me since I make ‘em every year) but also fermented ramps. Dammit.

Nothing I want to do less is decide to start a project and then, on the day I am supposed to start, face what feels like probable failure.

Totally not what I am about.

But I am determined. I will do this project.

So, here’s what I am doing: conquering the airlock/mason jar method. (AKA:  Fermentationem Appalacianos Officiales)

The airlock/mason jar method of my dreams employs a “brewer’s” airlock shoved into a large-size carboy gasket that is shoved into the top of a mason jar. For the technical out there, it is a size 13 rubber gasket with a hole drilled in the middle. The beauty — keeps air out, let’s bubbles out, keeps grody moldy bits to a minimum.

There are a lot of people on the internets epoxing an airlock onto plastic mason jar lids with holes drilled in them. But and as you can imagine, I am not really one for having epoxy that close to my food. (Sorry, can’t find link now, but that’s ok since you shouldn’t do this anyway so why do you want to look?)

You can also buy a set-up with special-size rings that keep the airlock tight. But it is pretty pricey, to be sure. (In comparison, five gasket & airlocks packages costs about $20.)

Not to mention the fact that both of those methods seem kinda one-purposing the tools to me. Airlocks and carboy gaskets can be used in beer (!), in soda (!), maybe even I dunno, making soap or something. (!!)

So this year, with this method, I will conquer a basic first step level of fermentation. Later in the season, I am having Nance Klehm over for a class in advanced fermentation with whey and suchlike. (Let me know if you wanna join, it will be six of us. I will be serving runzas, unfortunately and probably.)

Anyway and onward. For now. Ramp pickles and sauerkraut.

The project starts with collecting five nice-size rocks from the backyard and cleaning them really well. The rocks need to fit into the mouth of a small-mouth jar; they’ll sit on top of the ramp tops to keep them submerged. I use black river rock that I used to use as decorative garden elements now seem to be something Grant and I move around every year as we try to decide how to make the yard look somewhat backyardy even though it is rows and rows of vegetables.

The reason for the small-mouth jar is because that is what the number 13 gasket fits into. I don’t know the size that would fit in a wide-mouth and in fact it would be something that the brewer supply store wouldn’t naturally carry anyway. Additionally, the shoulders of the small-mouth jar will be advantagous as one can shove in things that would simultaneously keep the goods down and stop at the curve of the jar. An added layer of protection from floaty bits.  So, small-mouth it is.

Then, go ramping.

As I type this, I have decided that my new ramp tradition will be to gather ramps on Easter Sunday morning. From now on, every Easter, as you don your bonnet, I will grab my trowel and go ramping. I love making my own traditions and they always have something to do with the seasonality of food.

Some people are religious. I am foodigious. (Foo-Dig-You-Us, noting to slur the last two syllables)

This year has been kinda hard to live up to my food seasonality traditions. I mean, who wants to make corned beef for St. Patrick’s when it is 80 out — I was looking for a tomato to eat. Putting in seeds on Imbolc was also horked, since on that day it was 45 or so, not 20. And there was no snow.

It sucks, this year. Though my garden is exploding with food. So, also, it doesn’t suck. Such is the real conundrum of Global Climate Change when you live in a temperate climate.

Back to ramps and Easter. I have realized, actually, that the side benefit of making a ritual of an Easter morning ramping was the realization that Easter morning might be a good time to do something illegal since everyone else will be distracted.

On now, you go hush up.

I take good care of my ramp patch by not over-harvesting. And, I am pretty sure the somewhat ridiculous place where my ramps grow means that likely not too many people, if any, partake of the harvest.

So, yes, it is illegal. But there are gradations of illegal, right?

Most years, I pickle the ends and freeze the greens. The greens I save for creamed ramps and spinach which, in the last few years, has been a part of a Thanksgiving dinner I make for my friends.

Freezing ramp greens is as easy as lining them up on a paper towel and then rolling the paper towel up and shoving the whole thing in a vacuum seal bag. Then, just toss them in the water before the spinach when the time comes.

My pickling recipe varies depending on what I find on the internets. Mostly it is rather sweet. I think a sweet pickle brine is important in a pungent ramp.

This year, as I said, I am dipping into The Preservation Kitchen and following Paul’s recipes for pickling and making ramp sauerkraut and then using those preserved items for recipes in the book.

I am pretty excited (ramp martini and creamed ramps and morels!) but it also means I won’t be adding recipes. Because I think you should go buy the book. If you are a canner, you will most definitely find one of the best canning books around.

What I like about it is that it is useful not just for canning — including some unique recipes and ideas, but it is useful for how to use the item. It’s pretty unique, going far beyond the other great book of its time, Well Preserved. Though I note many canners complained (wrongly!) that Well Preserved had too few canning recipes and too many what to do with the canned goods recipes — yet really, canning is super fun but jars and jars of Italian Plums Aigre Doux can sometimes not be.

So, I am grateful for the book because I am pretty sure I will learn a thing or two about using my canned goods. And hope to at least attempt to share what I made and how I used it here. I’ll mark the posts, as I have done on this one.

So, until the morels are in season and I can cook up Paul’s Rainbow Trout with Creamed Ramps and Morels, I pass along a Happy Easter, Happy Passover and Happy Whatever Else.

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Posted in Canning, The Preservation Kitchen, Traditions

10,000 hours of peaches

Posted on September 11, 2011 | Leave a comment

Pretty sure I put in a whole 10,000 hours of peach putting up this weekend. I started vinegar with the bruised fruit, used a bunch that was a tad still hard in rum. There’s smoked peaches, a bit of whole lemon  and orange and some sugar in one crockpot, cooking down to a luscious “peach honey,” and in the other, a bourbon-peach jam.  All the while, a full set of trays are drying, as they will continue for about two days or so.

I made spiced peaches, though I wished I had spiced them more.

And I made brandied peaches, only with Madeira, because it seemed interesting in an 18th Century recipe meets 18th Century booze kinda way.  And then when I had more peaches and no more Madeira, I sub’ed in Chamboard. I guess that means that along with Madeira’ed peachs, I also made Chamboardied peaches.

Then, I got a little more serious peach-blueberry-vanilla jam with some fancy pants and insanely aromatic Tonga Island vanilla that lovely Rod of Rare Tea Cellar gave me from this year’s harvest.  I promised him some vanilla ice cream with it, but I can’t seem to collect enough eggs this year, so I thought the jam might be a bait ‘n switch he’ll rock.

If not, well, Grant and I are getting more chickens. I can only hope for enough eggs in one moment to make ice cream. In the meantime, I am shoving the vanilla in some expensive vodka just in case.

And yet — I still had more peaches. A half bushel, to be precise. And I had also eaten about 4,000, to be imprecise.

At which point I started trolling for ideas. When you have fruit, are looking to can it, and need ideas, the first stop is always Christine Ferber’s Mes Confitures. In it, I found a lovely White Peach with Lemon Verbena. Since I have an overgrown herb garden, that seemed like an awesome Christmas gift jam. A paltry four jars.

Then, on what must be the loveliest food blog out there, found a Peach Jam with Caramelize Onion and Bacon, which sounds good because I tend to have a surplus of bacon hanging about. Six jars.

And still, more peaches.

At which point I had one of those serendipity moments because I found a recipe for peach-chocolate fondue in a jar, using chocolate liquor. And, lo, I just so happen to have nearly a half gallon of homemade chocolate liquor.

Which I realize is a bit off. But makes sense if you you know the background.

See, a few months back, I had a craving for brandy Alexanders, which require chocolate liquor, which is, I discovered, just cocoa powder, vodka, and time.

I had cocoa powder, a lot, actually, since it is sold in a pound tin and mostly a recipe only needs a teaspoon or something. I had vodka, since I seem to need to feel I can make lemoncello at the drop of a hat. And I always have time to wait for stuff, since there is always other stuff I have started and been waiting on.

And so I dumped it all together and tucked the brown vodka at the back of the liquor.

Until today. Today, I tasted it. It rocked.

And so I made peach-chocolate fondue with homemade chocolate liquor. It had the benefit of using up a good portion of the liquor while concocting a delicious treat for the sure to be awful winter.

It will be awesome with vanilla ice cream, if I can ever get enough eggs at one moment to make some.

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Ode to the Strawberry

Posted on June 25, 2011 | 3 Comments

I have honored my strawberries.

Well, they weren’t mine in that I didn’t grow them. I bought them from lovely Seedling Pete, grower of amazing fruit in Southern Michigan. By the cuff of Michigan, his farm sits.

And his strawberries are ripe and delicious. They inspire.

Most recently, they inspired me to make a gigantic frozen daiquiri with a dollop of whip.

It was as delicious as it was declasse. Only, like a white bread tomato sandwich, a properly white trashy strawberry daiquiri is a right of Summer. And note, I wrote right and not rite.

Because I believe that if you eat unprocessed foods, you can eat whatever you want, as long as it isn’t the garbagey crap our Corporatacray serves up in florescent-lit grocery aisle across America.

So, the whipped cream-topped frozen Strawberry Daiquiri is right.

This is how you make it:
First, make bottled strawberries in syrup, raw-pack. You should know that the Canning Matrons don’t allow raw-pack strawberries. But strawberries, to be as delicious as possible, need to be dealt with carefully and processed minimally. So, I don’t heat process my strawberries prior to packing and I don’t process my jam after canning it.

One experience with heat is all my strawberries ever have to deal with.

And, lo, I am still alive. More importantly, my middle of winter Strawberry Daiquiries and Strawberry Shortcakes are a thing of great beauty. (yours?)

So, back to the drink. Raw-pack strawberries, just dump the half pint jar in the Vitamix (thanks Alice). Add a solid couple shots of rum and a shot of Grand Marnier. Add some lime juice, some lime zest if you aren’t too tired or hot, and a pack in pile of ice. Blend. Pour into glass. Top with some whipped cream.

Yes, damn it, enjoy the strawberry harvest fully and whip cream it up.

This is the thing: you’ve bottled strawberries and if you are like me, you bottled somewheres around 24 jars. That’s two strawberry daiquiries per month. Delicious, local, real, white trashy blended strawberry daiquiries with whipped cream. Two per month to last a year.

People who really love food — not foodies, who are eye-rollingly ridiculous —appreciate the simplest things in their purest forms. They aren’t embarrassed by a whipped cream-topped frozen strawberry daiquiries.

They realize that iconic recipes are something to rediscover. And they seek to discover them.

I bought two flats of strawberries. So, I’ll share that I started some strawberry wine, made jam, enjoyed a fresh strawberry milkshake and also ate a bunch out of hand.

My mom took home some strawberries, which made me happy since she eats a lot of scary Driscoll dreck. I don’t think their deliciousness will encourage her to stop buying out of season strawberries, though I can’t imagine why.

With the last of my strawberries, I made a new take on strawberry shortcake that was so good I started thinking I needed to get more strawberries.

Fresh strawberries, sliced and macerated in a little brown sugar atop a freshly baked biscuit with whipped sheep’s milk ricotta and a drizzle of Pepe Nero syrup. I tried a Whole Foods pre-made biscuit, on the advice of a friend. Surprise! It sucked! I am reconsidering that friendship. To honor the strawberry, make a biscuit fresh. Pepe Nero syrup is made by reducing Goose Island Pepe Nero and then stirring in a bunch of sugar while it is hot. Whipped sheep’s milk ricotta is whipped with some cream. Please if you make this, invite me over.

I can’t imagine I’ll get sick strawberries by the time the cherries start rolling in. Any day now.

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Peach Shrub — or a tale of forgotten frozen peaches

Posted on June 3, 2011 | Leave a comment

A better woman than I knows what is in her chest freezer.  Me, I mostly don’t, for a variety of reasons, including but not limited to:

  • My utter inability to follow the kind of dedicated labeling a chest freezer needs
  • The fact that I am forever shoving random bits of whatever in there, because I have an idea for later  — pureed asparagus butt ends because the world needs to know what to do with the butt ends of asparagus!
  • Although I can remember astonishing things that I need to remember, I tend to have a really bad memory for anything non-essential or look-upable or, apparently, findable by rummaging through the freezer.

And so it was this Spring that I found a random bag of about 10 or so peaches in the depths of the freezer.

It being nearly strawberry season, there is no reason for me to eat a frozen peach, although they were delicious last winter when braised in a brandy-brown sugar mix and served with pig candy and vanilla ice cream.  (Thank you Mikey Sheerin for that idea.)

What I did decide to do was make a shrub. According to the Slow Food website, Shrub was a colonial drink made from fruit, sugar and vinegar.  Its sweet and tart and if you mix a bit, say, a shot glass, with seltzer water, its pretty delicious.  If you dump in a jigger of dark rum, more so.

I found a few recipes for shrub on the interweb, including this one, this one and this one.  But they all involved cooking the mix and really, it seemed like it was going to be cleaner tasting without the cooking bit.  Here’s one I found that is uncooked, which seemed more up my alley.

Ultimately, what I did was mix together the frozen peaches, 2 cups sugar and 2 cups vinegar in a big jar.  I added a handful or so of black peppercorns and some star anise and a cinnamon stick.  When the peaches were defrosted, I pierced them pretty aggressively so they would macerate through and through. I covered the top with a couple layers of paper towel. And I let it sit on the counter for about three weeks.  Then I strained it and drank it pretty well diluted with seltzer.

It’s pretty damn refreshing. And, I am convinced, a health elixir, since apple cider vinegar is supposedly a miracle cure.

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The Year of the Radish

Posted on May 29, 2011 | Leave a comment

Twenty-Eleven will go down in history as the Year of the Radish.  We planted too much.  And so we were stuck with eating too many.  Believe it or not, you can begin to feel you ate too many radishes, like anything else you grow too enthusiastically in the garden.  Last year it was bitter spring greens. This year, radishes.

When the season started and the first little red and pink orbs started forming, I started with my go-to seasonal favorite radish dish: on crackers with butter.  I make my own butter, so this is pretty much a no-brainer of deliciousness.  I slice the radishes thinly and maybe, maybe, add a chive to the top if I am having a dreary day.  Then, I sprinkle sea salt on top and I always use Nabisco saltines. I don’t use any other brand.  Only Nabisco.  And only eat them the day I open the sleeve.  You can blow thru a good portion of the sleeve when you have a lot of radishes.  I did. Leftover make good bread crumbs or I feed ‘em to the chickens.

I don’t buy a lot of prepared products but there are a few times I feel you need something specific and nothing else will do. This spring snack is one.  Then there’s Hawaiian Punch when I am really strung out from helping too many people. Wonder Bread for garden tomato ‘n butter sandwiches is another. Don’t judge me until you’ve tried it and, in case you are gonna try it, you are welcome.

This year, the go-to salad for spring was shaved fennel and radish with spinach and honey vinegar dressing.  I bought the fennel, of course, but there’s enough spinach in the garden that I actually started eating this salad for breakfast, but only when I added aged ricotta.  Sometimes, too, dried tangelos on that breakfast salad.

For lunches, I mostly ate it plain, although once I tried preserved kumquats. They were a bit mushy so the texture combinations seemed weird to me.

Sometimes I ate that salad with my fingers. Sometimes with a fork.  I only used Madon sea salt and I occasionally added 1-inch long chives, which I can make without measuring because I worked for a dickhead French chef during a dark time in my life.  He’d throw out your chives if they weren’t an inch long.

He didn’t appreciate it when I asked him how he knew how long an inch was by site, since he grew up metric.

I made Spring Chow Chow. Grate one head cabbage and add in about 15 ramps, finally chopped, about 10 radishes, also finely chopped, and about 2 tablespoons of salt.  Let that drain for about 8 hours for a workday or overnight and then added in a pickle of equal parts apple cider vinegar and sugar, seasoned with dry mustard, dry ginger, dried lovage powder and some brown mustard seeds.  After you dissolve everything in the vinegar, add the drained vegetables and cook about 10 minutes.  Pour into hot canning jars and seal.  I. Don’t. Boil. The. Jars.

Heresy.

I added diced radish to chicken salad. I also made beef tacos so I could add them, slivered, to the tops of the tacos. Those two things were a bit of a bust, radish-wise, because I only used two radishes each. And I really sorta needed to use more.

So, I made some of Mary Klonowski’s Cancer-fighting Kale Salad.  The salad is basically a mix of slivered Tuscan Kale (you can use any Kale by why would you when Tuscan kale tastes so delicious), smashed raw garlic, red pepper flakes, olive oil and lemon juice.  It is ready in 15 minutes and can hold up for 3 days.  You can mix in all sorts of things then, parm and pine nuts, dried lemon chunks and walnuts,  preserved lemon and Marcona almonds, or … radishes!  I added a lot.

But using all these radishes meant that I had a lot of radish greens.

So, the next thing I made was beer- braised chicken thigh with whole radishes and radish greens. You can’t use overgrown radishes for this dish as they will come out tough. But basically you sear off a chicken thigh, at the end of cooking adding in diced garlic and onion so they get a little translucent.  When that is done, fill the pot with water, some dark beer, maybe at about a 1:4 ratio, and bring to a boil then reduce to a simmer.  I used Big John from Goose Island because I had a bottle open and I couldn’t finish it.  Let it cook until it is done.

I also made a quiche with sauteed radish greens subbing in for spinach and lots of gruyere cheese.

By Memorial Day weekend, with radishes growing since about mid-April, I was getting a bit strung out on radishes and it was then that I made  Straccetti di Manzo con la Radish Greens, only subbing in the radish greens for the arugula in this classic Roman dish. Basically, it is super thinly sliced beef sauteed in garlicky oil (I  used green garlic, since it was spring) with wilted arugula. Turns out, the bittery tang of the radish greens is a great foil for the steak.

Everything can be made in one pan, which is always a bonus, and you make it by basically adding one item following the next as you go. By which I mean saute steak, towards the end add a big handful of diced green garlic, saute a bit, add the radish greens, wilt. The radish greens have to saute a bit longer than arugula, so you may want to remove the steak before adding the greens. Finish with a splash of lemon-Bay leaf vinegar.

Homemade Butter:  Seriously, you just take a good quantity of cream that is getting oldish and let it sit out all day.  Then, whip the crap out of it. The liquid is buttermilk. Pour it off.  Then add cold water and whip. Drain. Repeat until the water drains out clear.  Add a little salt and whip that in. Voila.

Lemon-Bay Vinegar: bring lemon rind and Bay leaves to a boil in white vinegar.  Boil for about five minutes then pour it into a bottle and stick it in a dark place to macerate.

Honey vinegar:  Mixing together honey and water in a ratio of about 1:8 and then float a little raft of yeast on toast on the top of the mixture for about a week or two, until the fermenting happens.  You can then take off the toast and let it cure for about 6 months.  The vinegar will keep for about ever, but it doesn’t last that long, so I make it is huge batches of about 4 gallons.

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Wherein my Turnip Kraut Channels Madonna

Posted on April 22, 2011 | Leave a comment

I struggle with kraut of all kind. It goes moldy, it’s too salty, I forget to eat it for two years and it metamorphosizes into a glump, I accidently give all of it away and end up with none on the very day I am making choucroute.

So it is not surprising that I am currently krautless.

Which is why I ordered 15 pounds of the World’s Most Expensive Purple Top Turnips* from Spence Farm. Because I am determined to make enough kraut to last through the rest of my pig, Bessie. And I have a lot of pig left.

I discovered that my most often too salty cabbage kraut has a delightful home in the runzas of my friends A&TVH, so when I make a kraut for myself, I turn to turnips.

Turnip Kraut is pretty easy: top and tail, peel, shred in whatever shredder device you have, weigh, add 1/2 tablespoon of salt per pound and leave overnight.  Next day, pack into crock and push down.  The turnips should be covered by about 2 inches of briney water.  If not, add salty water to the tune of 1.5 teaspoons of salt per cup of water.  I also add some whey, about 1/4 cup, to kick off the lactic fermentation. Then cover mine with a double layer of muslin and weigh with a board and a large mason jar filled with water.

After about two weeks, it has krauted.  Which for me is just the start because I process my kraut in jars.

And I flavor it.

With all kinds of flavors.

In individual jars.

I am pretty sure this is against all kraut rules, but I really hate eating the same thing over and over again.**  But I am not a big processed food gal and I can’t make food from scratch every day and keep my sanity. So, I tend to make a base of something and then make variations I can pop on a pantry shelf for later.

So, my turnip kraut is going to get dressed up in all manner of guises when it goes into the canning jar. This year, I am making:

Spicy Kimchee-Inspired But Spanish Really Turnip Kraut
I make this with pimentón — and yes, it makes me feel so clever. Even if it makes you think I am culinarily insane. Basically I make a fire-y paste with the pimentón, homemade garlic powder and the kraut liquid, dump it into the jar with the fermented kraut and process it.  Totally not traditional, I know. You are supposed to add the heat as part of the fermenting! Kimchee is made with Napa cabbage! I know, I know. So, don’t get your underwear in a bunch and then don’t even think of then turning around and asking me for a recipe after you try it after bashing it.

This stuff, this is good for hangovers served along side some scrambled eggs. But you can’t have a hangover for at least a month or so because the flavors need to blend.  So, be careful there, my friend.

Boatloads of Fresh Bay Turnip Kraut
I happen to have a bunch of Bay that has been hanging around for a while and three trees for the garden on the way so I don’t need to dry it.  I love fresh Bay. I use too much of it in everything I can.  This can be an awesome way to complement a mild hot dog, if you make your own hot dogs or buy them from a reliable source.  If you don’t let me know where to send the flowers.

Caraway Turnip Kraut
You can mess with the cabbage-y part, sure, but don’t mess with the flavors of choucroute, Yo.  I put a bunch in the bottom of the jar before filling up with the kraut.  Seal and leave until choucroute time to marry the flavors.

Ode To Rob Levitt Fennel, Coriander and Chili Flake Turnip Kraut
As I continue to make the meaty things Rob tells me to make, it will be handy to have a complementing kraut on the shelf.  Rob is obsessed with the fennel-coriander-chili flake combo.  If this turns out, I’ll bring him some just to say thanks for being an awesome dude.

Ramp-y Turnip Kraut
Duh, it’s spring. Ramps. For this, I will actually be making a smallish batch of krauted ramps to add to the turnips at canning.  To make a smallish batch of basically any kind of kraut, pile vegetables into a quart canning jar, add 2 tablespoons each of whey and salt and fill with filtered water to the top (for all you “tap water is fine” folk, know that the chlorine messes with the fermentation).  Again, I cover with a cloth to keep everything submerged and then, using a used lid, screw on the cap and leave on the counter for a few days before moving to a cooler place to ferment.

Turnip Kraut is a spring thing, because the turnips are sweeter in Spring than in the Fall.  So, make some now or just come over in the fall and eat mine.

*The world would be a better place if every American who could afford it would find a farmer who is honestly committed to farming sustainably and support them in their efforts to make a living. I have a Make Your Own CSA with Spence Farm and often, the food  I get from this farmer is eye-poppingly expensive. To me, it isn’t about the cost of the food. It is about helping a family farm make a living and honoring myself with honest food grown with good intention.  You could do this too, if you stopped thinking about groceries as household line item and started thinking about it as a vehicle to living an honorable life.

**I am pretty sure this is why, not matter how much I try, I don’t eat leftovers. Which is awesome for chickens because they seem to relish them as though they are gifts from the Gods and so my leftovers no longer languish in the fridge, they get converted to yummy, colorful eggs.

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