Then an old man, a keeper of an inn, said, "Speak to us of Eating and Drinking."
And he said: Would that you could live on the fragrance of the earth, and like an air plant be sustained by the light.
But since you must kill to eat, and rob the young of its mother's milk to quench your thirst, let it then be an act of worship,
And let your board stand an altar on which the pure and the innocent of forest and plain are sacrificed for that which is purer and still more innocent in many.
When you kill a beast say to him in your hear,
"By the same power that slays you, I to am slain; and I too shall be consumed. For the law that delivered you into my hand shall deliver me into a mightier hand.
Your blood and my blood is naught but the sap that feeds the tree of heaven."
And when you crush an apple with your teeth, say to it in your heart,
"Your seeds shall live in my body,
And the buds of your tomorrow shall blossom in my heart, And your fragrance shall be my breath,
And together we shall rejoice through all the seasons."
And in the autumn, when you gather the grapes of your vineyard for the winepress, say in you heart,
"I too am a vineyard, and my fruit shall be gathered for the winepress, and like new wine I shall be kept in eternal vessels."
And in winter, when you draw the wine, let there be in your heart a song for each cup;
And let there be in the song a remembrance for the autumn days, and for the vineyard, and for the winepress.
This weekend I ventured out of the city for a visit to the Hamptons. The weather was grand—surprisingly warm for October, and the warm, round autumn light fell in great big shafts across the landscape. It’s the kind of natural light that painters dream of. I spent the day breathing in fresh air—fresh air! I had forgotten what a little oxygen can do for the mind and spirit. The inviting, open terrain got me thinking about Windrose Farm. I knew I had been forgetting something…
My little outing gave me the same invigorating feeling that I experience each time I pay a visit to Barbara and Bill over at Windrose. A lot of it has to do with their diehard commitment to a progressive vision of community. The farm is a wonderful resource that has taught me a lot about the relationship between my social and physical environments. I love that Windrose welcomes everyone to the farm, and eagerly shares knowledge with anyone who is willing. Last February David and I stopped in for a late supper on our way to the Bay Area, and we brought some fresh seafood along with us. The snapper was perfectly complemented by that day's morning harvest. David put together a raw salad of fennel, cherry tomatoes, young garlic, and agretti—a crunchy, green vegetable that tastes both salty and bitter, and is technically a succulent shrub.
There was lots of rosé to go around, and the dinner conversation continued long after the last morsel of food had been eaten. I was delighted when Bill handed me the Windrose Farm Book List on my way out the door. At the very top it says:Books for those who wish to welcome the knowledge of others & engage in the future of man, here and everywhere. I felt like I needed to start reading immediately. It’s certainly an ambitious list, and I’m determined to work my way through it. Join me?
Windrose Farm Book List
A Short History of Nearly Everything by Bill Bryson
Blessed Unrest by Paul Hawken
Stolen Harvest by Vandana Shiva
Animal, Vegetable, Miracle by Barbara Kingsolver
Anything! by Wendell Berry
Bad Dirt—Wyoming Stories 2 by Annie Proulx
People with Dirty Hands by Robin Chotzinoff
Hope’s Edge by Frances Moor and Anna Lappé
Hot, Flat, & Crowded by Thomas L. Friedman
1491: New Revelations of the Americas before Columbus by Charles C. Mann
The Revenge of Gaia by James Lovelock
The World Without Us by Alan Weisman
Guns, Germs, and Steel by Jared Diamond
Collapse by Jared Diamond
Team of Rivals by Doris Kearns Goodwin
The Hummingbird’s Daughter by Luis Alberto Urrea
The Devil’s Highway by Luis Alberto Urrea
Across Realtime by Vernor Vinge
Plenty: One Man, One Woman, & a Raucous Year of Eating Local by Alisa Smith
Real Food by Nina Planck
The Last Farmer: An American Memoir by Howard Khon
The Rise and Fall of Alexandria Birthplace of the Modern World by Justin Pollard
The One-Straw Revolution by Masanobu Fukuoka
The Ethics of What We Eat by Peter Singer and Jim Mason
We have a lot of catching up to do. Oh goodness, where to begin? I’m in the Big Apple again, and am missing all of you so much. SummerWinter has been on a bit of a hiatus, but that doesn’t mean we’ve broken off our love affair with food. I don’t think we could ever do that. I’ve been reminded that there are always ways of coming around the table regardless of where you are and what you are eating. As long as you surround yourself with like-minded souls, the common act of sharing a meal will be a nourishing one.
And I have lots to share. I’ve been cooking more because Yella and David are not around to spoil me. Which means I’ve been familiarizing myself with the produce that the city has to offer. Sorry, New York, California’s impossible to beat in this department. Nevertheless, I’ve been delighting in reacquainting myself with New York’s seasons—real seasons, not make-believe ones—and of course, with its unending selection of delectable goodness. I’ve missed the restaurants—my favorite old haunts, the indispensable classics, and everything in between.
Two weeks ago I had the pleasure of hosting David for his first official visit to New York. We happily ate our way through the city. As most of you know, it’s impossible to squeeze everything in, but I did my best. We ate many spectacular things that I want to tell you about in a future post. But for now, I just want to remind you of the importance of coming together to share the earth’s bounty. Wherever you are, find a way!
May is already upon us but we’d like to reflect on last month’s gifts. Our April guest of honor, Corina, chef and owner of Canelé, offered her unmatched charm and insight about the farms SummerWinter has been involved with over the course of the past year. It was an absolute delight to finally get to feed her after relishing in so many exquisite meals at her cozy restaurant, hands down our favorite brunch in Los Angeles. The baked pancake with Meyer lemon custard is sweet breakfast perfection, a proud half-balloon that’s buttery, fluffy, and crispy on the edges. The creamy tanginess of the curd is a flawless accompaniment. We frequently make the trek to the east side just to experience Corina’s delightful, honest food and enjoy the view of her exposed kitchen which is always bustling.
There was also lots of hum about sushi at April’s supper. Mori Sushi. So far it’s been our favorite sushi destination in the area. From what we gather, Chef Morihiro Onadera has recently sold the place to his long-time protégé, and is currently working on another project. Mori accounts for every aspect of the meal he is serving, which is why dining with him has been so extraordinary. He personally supervises his own rice field in Sacramento, and polishes the grains daily. All of the serving dishes or Utsuwa in his restaurant are hand-crafted ceramics by Mori himself. He serves only fresh wasabi using the traditional Japanese method of grating with a sharkskin grater. He even brews his own soy sauce! Some memorable bites have been baby spring squid, his homemade tofu (so soft it melts away at the touch of your tongue), kohada (Japanese sardine), halibut fin, baby barracuda, abalone, and toro. His umeboshi roll makes me giddy, and the house black sesame ice cream hits those delicate and earthy notes just so. We’re not sure if the restaurant will remain the same without Mori, but we’ll definitely be keeping tabs.
Now, enough about restaurants! As for the meal we served, it was springtime at its best. Fresh peas—finally sweet, sweet, sweet! Grilled spring onions from Schaner Farm that dissolve tenderly in the mouth. Giant, and I mean huge, artichokes from Daisy at Life’s A Choke Farm that deliver – warm and deeply satisfying off the grill, nice and charred. An exciting pairing of fresh favas with Sir Francis Drake cheese, a Cowgirl Creamery cult favorite that is only occasionally produced when the culture stemming from their Mt. Tam staple gets a little funky. When this happens, the creamery will bathe the rind of their delightful mistake in a French fortified wine called Beaume de Venise, and top it off with macerated currants to create a once-in-a-blue-moon delicacy. It tastes like a little miracle—like the Pacific Ocean, then more like a marsh, then a burst of wildflowers.
Up next, please come join us for our one-year anniversary dinner at Windrose Farm in Paso Robles. There will be lots of talk, lots of bites, and lots of space to romp around. We’re going to make a night of it, so bring your tent and sleepover after dinner! Come out and play!
At the center of Windrose Farm in Paso Robles, California, you will find an enormous Oak. Every so often, an acorn will drop from the tree, requiring that any farmer or visitor perusing the property wear a sturdy, wide-brimmed hat for protection. If you aren’t wearing one, you will be inevitably struck, and Farmer Bill gets a kick out of it every time. He’s also quick to take it as an opportunity for an ecology lesson: “Now, where do you suppose those acorns come from?” David and I both erroneously assumed that the acorns fall from the tree branches as a means of reproduction, like any other tree would spread its seed. But that would be too obvious, and upon arriving at Windrose one realizes that there’s nothing obvious or ordinary about it.
Farmer Bill explains: “Those acorns are little bullets! The birds are hunting for worms! The woodpeckers make a hole in the trunk, stick an acorn inside, and when they come back later, they find worms munchin’ away on the acorn, which means worms for dinner! Now, that’s clever.” Bill smiles to himself and gazes up at the oak, taking true delight in the micro-ecosystem’s natural intelligence.
Last year SummerWinter arranged for Windrose Farm to raise a lamb for supper club with the intention of educating ourselves, as well as our guests, about the process of a lamb slaughter from start to finish. We wanted to learn everything about the animal leading up to the actual cooking—the land, farmers, and slaughtering itself. Once the lamb was air-cured for a week or so, David broke down the animal himself before preparing it several different ways for a supper club event back in October.
Barbara and Bill were incredibly hospitable. Upon our arrival, we were invited into their home and offered Bill’s Tractor Bread, the famous loaf he bakes himself. Every day Farmer Bill kneads his dough on an old butcher’s block that sits in the center of his modest kitchen, which is lined with countless treasured cookbooks. After our small morning snack, Bill showed us a Native American stone mortar and pestle he had found on the property. Up until 1930,Windrose Farm was inhabited by the Salinan Native Americans who hunted and gathered on the Central Californian land. They would break open the acorns with a small stone and place them in the sun to dry. Once dried, they were pounded in a stone mortar until a fine flour was obtained which could be used for acorn mush soup or bread. Clever and practical, just like those woodpeckers.
As opposed to the privileged choicewe are given to eat locally today, this kind of sustenance was not an optional course of action. It was simply the relationship shared by the Salinan people with the land based on locale. Wherever you are, eat what’s available, when available. This instills an intrinsic respect for the land, which Bill and Barbara have worked hard to maintain and establish as a founding principle of Windrose Farm. When it comes to farming, they subscribe to a biodynamic philosophy. In short, “that the farm should be seen as an ecosystem in its own right, and that our striving should be to move towards building and maintaining plant and animal communities, which are ecologically suited to its unique combination of soil, climate and place." Ultimately, they would like to create a self-sustaining farm that relies on no outside source materials. That’s the intention, and every day they get a little closer to this goal. Thank you, Barbara, Bill, and Windrose Farm!
We are hoping for a SummerWinter supper on the farm come SPRING. Stay tuned and jump on the wagon!
My second home has always been the pueblo Todos Santos at the very tip of México's Baja Peninsula. Every time my family visits, I feel as if I’ve been sucked into a vortex of time and space that resembles a tiny and timeless Macondo. One of our favorite restaurants in the world sits just off the plaza there, where I always, without fail, can expect Carlos to be. He is soft-spoken, impeccably dressed, and relates the menu's daily specials in his second language without notes or hesitation.
Fresh swordfish carpaccio. Lobster ravioli in sage butter sauce.
T-bone for two.
You can count on Carlos always wearing a white, freshly starched and pressed dress shirt, black jeans, cowboy boots, and a bolo tie. The perfect image of a gentlemen, he also sports the most well kept facial hair. When I think of the ideal table service, I think of Carlos. He is knowledgeable, attentive (but not overbearing), and knows just the moment to approach, clear, or withdraw from the table to make for an exceptional meal.
From time to time, Carlos will perch at the end of the table and gossip with me and my sister in Spanish. This usually occurs at that special moment when the noise-level reaches a new quality of boisterous clamor. Everyone is getting saucy and enjoying themselves, so he’ll allow himself to relax for a moment.
Last year, in a small book published about Todos Santos, we read that Carlos’ parents were cheesemakers. We love cheese, and could eat and talk about it all day long. Yella makes it, and has seriously considered dedicating her life to the craft of farmstead artisanal cheesemaking. David orders it for the restaurant, which has been an education in and of itself, as we often overhear him placing phone orders for unfamiliar cheeses - how exciting. Just last week we were pleasantly surprised by the luscious tang of a mold-ripened, cow's milk cheese from Zingerman's Creamery in Ann Arbor. Amazing what they can do with Michigan milk -- it was curiously akin to a rich Boucheron straight out of the Loire Valley in France.
So, you can imagine the thrill we felt when Carlos approached our side of the table and invited us to make cheese at his parents’ home early the next morning. A las siete, he said. We would be there, seven o’clock, sharp. After carrying in five buckets of fresh cow's milk, still steaming, we watched as Vicente, Carlos' father, meticulously carried out the various procedures he has ritually performed every day of the week for more than sixty years. That means Sundays, too.
In recent years, Vicente has developed Parkinson's, making the small movements required by the cheese-making process particularly onerous. Every so often, his dominant hand would shake wildly, and he would ogle at its unrecognizable movements. Carlos acted as his fail-safe assistant, passing the rennet, sieve, and cheesecloth to his father at just the right moment--never too soon, but before they had to be requested. It reminded me of the way he tended to his tables.
We spent hours there--long enough to allow for the cheese to develop curds. At a later state, it is set in a cinched cheesecloth, which has been christened queso corazón for its heart shape. We ate small, cool cubes of the firm cheese wrapped in warm flour tortillas for breakfast, and discussed the history of Todos Santos and his family. While marveling at a turn-of-the-century portrait of Carlos' Argentinean ancestors that hung on the wall, I was taken by the intense look of pride written across their faces.
We’re always on the prowl for new discoveries at farmers’ market. Last week, Peter Schaner of Schaner Family Farms offered David an emu egg.
Jackpot.
David, of course, couldn’t say no to the exotic, aquamarine beauty.Yella and I were in awe. Have you ever seen one? The egg has a prehistoric quality, as if plucked from the land before time. It resembles the size and weight of an ostrich egg, but its color is the most striking blue—the turquoise of deep, tropical waters. One emu egg is roughly equivalent to nine chicken eggs, or about seventy-five quail eggs. Needless to say, it’s a big sucker.
After marveling at our new, mystical booty, and debating the varying methods of entry at length, we decided to display it on the kitchen countertop until we were ready. It remained there for two days. On Friday morning, it was decided.
We would be having baby emu for lunch.
After a quick trip to the ninety-nine cent store for a turkey baster, we met Joe, our fellow food-adventurer, at our apartment. In exchange for lunch, Joe had happily agreed to provide all the necessary power tools the operation would require. In order to preserve the precious shell, David drilled a small hole into the bottom of the egg, and we all took turns sucking out the semifluid matter with the baster. When that wasn't enough, we madly shook the egg like hungry lunatics. The goop made all kinds of questionable sounds as it squished and gurgled its way out. It took a while, but we eventually had an empty shell, and a bowl of glop—or soon-to-be omelette du jour.
Now, the only cooking guidance given to David at market was that once whipped, this egg would be fluffy. Real fluffy. So we added a bit of cream, a pinch of salt, whipped it all together, and into the iron skillet it went. We anxiously waited for the eggs to set before sprinkling bits of thyme over the top, and browning it in the broiler for a nice, crusty finish. David turned out the omelette onto a plate, and served it up in slices, like pie. We ate it with braised greens and purple cabbage, topped with shavings of Beaufort—a hard, cow's milk cheese made in the Alps mountains of France.
It looked delicious.
But would the baby emu taste as good as it looked?
Or like dinosaur muck?
We all took a bite. The texture resembled something between a soufflé and quiche, like yellow velvet, scrambled egg pudding. It was smooth and ethereal, airier than your standard chicken egg omelette. I would even compare it to tortilla española, but more delicate, and no potatoes or onions—only emu. The flavor had a strange and mysterious sweetness to it that brought tamago to mind, a japanese omelette that is both sweet and savory at once. While delighting in the special lunchtime treat, we pondered other possible creations… Would an emu soufflé puff up to unimaginable heights? Could this be the perfect egg for soft, ballooning clouds of angel food cake? If we found an absurdly large skillet, we could fry the whole thing! Gigantic, jumbo, sunny-side up style.
Later, at work, someone asked me what I had for lunch.
