A Local, Vegan, Wacky Wedding

I spent this past weekend up in Maine at a wedding which revolved largely around food, as all festivities should. The bride is vegan, the groom vegetarian, and both are deeply committed to the local agricultural scene and to the DIY lifestyle in general. Which is why their cake was topped with shrinky dinks of themselves.



All of the bubbly, and there was a lot of it, was a ginger champagne brewed and bottled by the bridegroom and spray-paint stenciled by the groom's sister and brother-in-law.



Other menu items made by the couple included seitan (for 120), kimchee and sauerkraut made with local produce (I love the idea of Maine kimchee), a bowl of super garlicky hummus the size of a small child, and momos for all. For those who didn't want ginger champagne, they had also home brewed IPA, hefeweizen and ginger beer, which went into many a dark and stormy.



Also, all guests were required to wear fake mustaches like the one seen here on the groom's finger.

The wedding was a celebration of both love and local produce. Not only did they feed everyone with sustainably grown ingredients, but they did so creatively and colorfully. So I was struck by the contrast between that experience and this comment left on my last blog post:

"Good grief, your ideological crap about local produce has been debunked many times over and you are still on about it. Get a grip, retard."

Clearly, the anonymous author of the statement above has never been plied with locally made ginger champagne and kimchee. Also, they're stupid.

Miso Plus None

I've written before about the joys of miso + 1, an equation which clearly proves that miso paste is the most simple and versatile path to soup. Add any one (compatible) ingredient and you've got an elegant and easy bowlful with practically zero effort.

But in thinking about miso + 1, I overlooked the even more minimalist miso + none. Or rather, miso plus water. Yes, that alone is food.

If you have good miso, which is neither hard to find nor costly, you've got soup. What else can you say that about? Miso, in and of itself, has an even more complex flavor profile than a bloody brownie.

The only challenging step is finding the right miso. After years of experimentation with red and brown, I've finally settled on white. I now use Westbrae Natural's "organic mellow white miso" and I'm never going back. I had a mug of it just yesterday, and nothing could have better suited the cool yet sunny Spring weather. The only possible improvement would be if Westbrae came up with a Beck tribute miso called Mellow Gold. (I can just see him staring into a bowl, tripping out on those ever shifting clouds of soy.)

A satisfying -- not to mention probiotic -- bowl of soup that's as easy to make as stirring. I challenge anyone to come up with an faster, healthier, more delicious snack that could still be considered cooking.

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Recipe: Really, Really Simple Miso

1 tbsp miso paste per person
1 soup bowl's worth of water

1. Heat the water in a tea kettle, microwave, or under a magnifying glass.

2. Dissolve the miso in a small amount of the water, then add the rest.

Miso in the Morning

Continuing on the theme of savory breakfasts, this dish fits into my miso+1 theory. The variable in this instance was millet.

I very nearly OD'd on millet a few years back while suffering through a highly constrictive diet for health reasons. The way I ate in those days is why the thought of slightly steamed kale still makes me shudder, and the only way I can choke it down is cooked to death in soups with lots of sausage. But I just couldn't stay angry at millet. After all, there's nothing to be angry about.

Millet is a plain, inoffensive grain. There aren't many reasons to eat it, but there are even fewer not to. If nothing else, it will help you escape from the rice-is-the-only-grain-on-earth paradigm.

The first time I had millet was probably when I was kid, sampling birdseed. But now I like to pair it with miso for a breakfast that somehow feels both light and substantial. Simply boil millet as you would any grain, add a little miso slurry (this time I used red), and slurp. Millet can be nice and fluffy, but for some reason I'm liking it best when soupy.

Why? Why not?

Kimchee Pancake

In damp, cold, snowy weather, a hot, crusty, kimchee pancake seems like the perfect food. It also makes sense seasonally, since this is the time of year when fermented veggies are the only kind available, excluding root vegetables and Chilean green beans.

A pajeon is also a good way to use up kimchee if you've got more than you can handle. I've started buying mine at Little Pusan, our local Korean restaurant and home of the best food in town. When I realized that they sold their excellent homemade kimchee in bulk, I had the following conversation with the owner, a charmingly opinionated woman:

Me: What size does the kimchee come in?
Her: Eight-fifty, six dollar, twelve.
Me: I'll take an eight-fifty.
(She disappears into the kitchen, returning with a five pound jar.)
Me: Whoah, that's a lot of kimchee!
Her: Not a lot.
Me: How long will it last?
Her: (Huff!) Three month. Six month.

It lasted me about one month, which helps me structure my visits to the restaurant. I always want to eat there, but don't want to get to a place where I lose interest or take it for granted. But now when the jar runs out, I know that it's time to go back for a meal and a reload.

I'd include my recipe but it's not quite there yet. I basically mixed kimchee with an egg and enough flour to bind, then fried it in hot oil. That wasn't bad, but see Wandering Chopsticks for a little more precision.

A Complete Waste of Apples

One of the reasons I was excited to move to my current place of residence was the apple tree in the front yard. I can't pin down the variety, but it seems to fall somewhere in the red delicious family. They aren't the best eating apples, but they bake like nobody's business.

So you'd think I would have used them for baking. Nope! I decided on cider, despite the fact that I didn't have any of the necessary equipment or know-how. This was also right before I learned that good cider contains a carefully blended mix of different apples selected for complimentary flavors. Instead, I just took all the scraggly ones left at the end of the season, ran them through my neighbor's juicer, then used a piece of an old pair of pajama pants for a filter.

The flavor was all wrong, the texture somewhat chalky, and I lost a high percentage of the liquid due to the inadequacy of my filtering setup. What would have made loads of fantastic crisps, tarts and pies made less than one wine bottle's worth of cider.

"At least I'll have alcohol made entirely from my front yard," I thought. Wrong again. It went moldy. It was, as the title of this post suggests, a complete waste of apples.

That said, I did dump the cider/vinegar/mold onto the ground by the tree, figuring that it might at least be appetizing to the bacteria which colonize the dirt. In doing so, I performed a rather tradition wassail.

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RECIPE: Ruined Cider

Take lots of apples that would be great in something besides cider, and make cider from them.

Incorrectly ferment the cider, rendering it useless.

Not So Hard Cider

I'm glad to see that hard cider is catching on again, nowhere more so than in my kitchen. It's by far the easiest homebrew, requiring no special ingredients or equipment and almost no effort. And if you start with good cider, the end result will be just as delicious (and intoxicating) as the $12-a-bottle variety.

The only trick is finding a cider that doesn't have preservatives. If it's been pasteurized, it should still work, but if you can find one that has not been, all the better.

In the past I've let cider go pretty far, allowing most of the sugar to be consumed by the natural yeast to yield a strong, crisp, dry brew. But lately I've been much more into half-fermented cider. I drink it sooner, as a bubbly, tangy, naturally carbonated sort of apple soda. The above photo doesn't quite do it justice, because in real life the stuff has a head like beer.

Maybe it's those friendly, naturally occurring yeasts, but I swear it has a tonic effect in the old fashioned sense of the word. This is the kind of food prep where you "let" rather than "do."

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Recipe: Homemade Hard Cider

Acquire cider without preservatives, and ideally without pasteurization.

Pour it from its plastic container into something glass, like a large mason jar or empty wine bottle.

Cover the neck of the container with a piece of cloth and a rubber band. A snip from an old (clean) T-shirt makes a particularly fine barrier for dust and fruit flies.

Let sit until it has reached the desired level of fermentation. About a week for the tangy, natural apple soda, two to three for booze.

Dehydration Hesitation

Despite my recent rant against unnecessary kitchen gadgets, I've acquired what could be considered the ultimate in excessive, bulky appliances: a food dehydrator.

I've used it a few times with excellent results, but I'm unconvinced that the dehydrator is the way to go when it comes to preserving. On the plus side, sapping the moisture out of foods like peaches and peppers enables me to save locally grown produce from the time they're picked until the apocalypse.

The downside is that the thing needs to run for up to twelve hours to do so, which draws out not only moisture but also electricity. And as clean an energy source as electricity seems, remember that it's really just coal that comes out of your wall. People say that dehydrating doesn't use any more energy than a light bulb, but I don't leave those on for twelve hours either.

The strongest argument against the dehydrator is that it reminds me of the monolith from 2001: A Space Odyssey. The dehydrator is a substitute for knowledge, proof that we've lost touch with time tested methods of preservation like like sun drying and smoking. But the fact of the matter is that I don't yet possess all of that knowledge, I love Massachusetts peaches, and I want to eat them in the winter.

That said, it was sad to see them go from this...



To this:



Why not can? It seems criminal to add sugar to a peach, and anything canned "in water" is just pathetic.

Aren't hot peppers the poster child for air drying? Yes, but not necessarily in New England. For instance, when I got these peppers it was so damp that they began to rot and attract fruit flies. In the future I hope to do more air drying, sun drying, smoking, pickling, and fermenting, but for now I'll sit back and enjoy the low hum.

Also, when I dried the peaches it was particularly chilly out, and the dehydrator made a nice foot warmer.

Little Pusan in a Big Way

Any day in which I wake up in Arkansas and end up in Boston is bound to leave me in need of nourishment. After surviving all day on my standard travel fare, I was in desperate need by the time I came crawling into Little Pusan, the best restaurant by far in my new home town of Maynard. Lucky for me, it's also the best Korean food I've ever had.

No sooner had I ordered a hot sake than the obligatory and ever changing appetizer tray arrived. Besides the usual homemade fermented vegetables and black (soy?) beans I noticed a new and unfamiliar offering. When I asked the owner/hostess/server what it was, she said "First you eat. Then you tell me." I was thrilled to discover that it was a deep fried, slightly spicy pepper, served room temperature and drizzled with soy sauce.



The sake did much to ease my scratchy throat, which really took a beating between that awful recycled airplane air and having been maxed out performing for the entire freshman class of the University of Central Arkansas last night. I drowned my sorrows in item B-9, a hot, red bowl of clear noodles and shredded beef soup.

The owner often tells me in no uncertain terms what I should order, and as usual her recommendation was spot on. I left feeling completely myself again, full, and only slightly tipsy.

Mexican Pineapple Vinegar

The choice is yours: make your own homemade Mexican Pineapple Vinegar or just keep throwing away pineapple peels like a fool.

After butchering my mom's latest pineapple crop, shipped direct from her backyard in Delray Beach, FL, I recalled a use for pineapple peels in the counterculture foodie instant classic Wild Fermentation. Like all of the author's recipes, this is ridiculously simple, surprisingly productive, and yields a free, healthful, flavorful and homemade food almost out of thin air.



Looking back on all the pineapples whose rinds I've simply discarded, I now see lost opportunities for bottles and bottles of this miraculous liquid. All you do is soak cut up hunks of pineapple peel in sugar water, and wait. That's it. The result is a compelling yellow liquor with the flavor of the fruit and the bite of vinegar. Besides tasting I have yet to use it, but I'm thinking it will serve as a secret weapon in my next salsa, guacamole, or gazpacho. Other suggestions?

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Recipe: Pineapple Vinegar
From Wild Fermentation by Sandor Ellix Katz

1/4 cup sugar
Peel of 1 pineapple
water
cheesecloth (or old T-shirt)
glass jar

Note: Unless it's coming from your mom's backyard, you probably want to go organic here. You want pineapple vinegar, not pineapple-doused-in-poison-and-food-grade-petroleum vinegar.

1. In a jar or bowl, dissolve the sugar in 1 quart of water. Coarsely chop and add the pineapple peel. Cover with cheesecloth to keep flies out, and leave to ferment at room temperature.

2. When you notice the liquid darkening, after about 1 week, strain out the pineapple peels and discard. (compost!)

3. Ferment the liquid 2 to 3 weeks more, stirring or agitating periodically, and your pineapple vinegar is ready.

Another Note: I left the peels in for about three weeks and never "agitated" and it worked just fine.

Eat to Beat the Heat Part 2: Ferment and Sin No More

To beat the heat this time around, I decided to cut down the cooking time on some millet by giving it a preliminary soak. For those unfamiliar with this delicious and nutritious grain, you may know it as the little yellow balls in your birdseed.

As far as human consumption goes, it's an oldie and a goody, dating back to ancient China where it was prized for its ability to swell to five times its size once rehydrated. Having a warm bowl of it first thing in the morning makes you remember what "cereal" once meant.

But the heat had another plan for my millet. Thanks in part to the sultry temperature, the millet spontaneously fermented. When I checked to see if it had soaked through, I found it gently bubbling and issuing a pleasant, slightly sour smell. Once upon a time I would have thrown it out, but instead I reached for my copy of Wild Fermentation and quickly learned that a fermented millet porridge known as ogi (or ugi) is popular in various parts of Africa. Say no more.

Fermentation acts as a god given preservative, stretching the life of your food precisely when it needs help staying "fresh." It was hot, the heat sped up the fermentation process, and therefore the millet remained edible - and perhaps more healthful - for a longer period of time. Thanks, wild yeast colonies of Maynard, Massachusetts.

How was it? Great. Imagine the sauerkraut version of grain.

Yet Another Reason I Like to Make Kombucha

If you don't know by now, I like making kombucha as much as I like drinking it. Maybe more.

According to my local tea vendor, kombucha's origins date back to Chinese Taoist alchemists who were searching for an elixir for mortality. After centuries, that elixir is now available at your local Whole Foods in raspberry and guava flavor. But it's very satisfying to make at home, and if you're in the Boston area I'll even give you a mother to get it started.

In addition to providing an expensive, trendy food product basically for free, home brewed kombucha also makes me feel productive. No matter where I am or what I'm doing, I know that my big glass jar at home is quietly bubbling away, growing stronger.

One thing I realized on my last batch was that I love the sheer volume of the procedure. So much of modern home cooking is in tiny portions that you forget that old recipes call for ingredients by the gallon, or animal. I love making a stockpot of tea proportionally to the amount that I love to make a cup. Stirring my witches brew with a big wooden spoon, I can't help but feel a little alchemy in the air.

Comfort Me With Mackerel

The first time I heard the phrase "comfort food," I was ten years old. My family and I were having lunch at a trendy new South Florida restaurant that served kitschy diner food in metal TV trays. I was not comforted, and it was barely food.

Since then, I've learned what comfort food really means to me: mackerel. Specifically, smoked mackerel, on a bagel, with a schmear and a thin strata of onion. Granted, my photo above features toast and lettuce, as Jay has pointed out.

I would be eating smoked salmon instead except for what I call the "twice dyed" factor. First, farm raised Chilean Salmon are fed food pellets with beta carotene to improve the color of their flesh, which would otherwise be a dull gray. When that meat is then turned into lox, colors with numbers start showing up. Sure you can get the good stuff, but it'll cost you. And they might still be lying.

Conversely, I can get locally caught and smoked mackerel at Pemberton Farms for under four bucks. I've had a soft spot for this greasy little fish ever since one formative summer during college. Living on our own for the first time, mackerel was the only seafood we could afford besides crab with a "k." We ate it "fresh" from the local grocery store in Waltham, as sushi in Maryland, canned during a hike in West Virginia, and caught with a pink, children's fishing pole in Maine.

Historically, salmon isn't the be all and end all de rigueur smoked fish that we think it is anyway. In fact, you may remember that we didn't eat a whole lot of salmon until about eight years ago, when an explosion of information about it's health benefits made it the pomegranate of 2000. Conveniently, that's also when massive amounts of the farmed raised stuff started flooding in, and when I first became aware of twice dyed lox.

Sure, people have been eating smoked salmon for thousands of years, but it was a lot better than the stuff you're getting blended into your cream cheese. And while it's heavily associated with Jewish food, "my people" were just as likely to be smoking and eating whatever finned and scaled fish they could get their hands on while scattered around the world. And when I build my smoker, I'm going to do the same.

That's a bottle of home brewed kombucha in the background. It imparts that citric tang I crave when I eat bagels and fish, thanks to growing up with ample access to Florida orange juice. Also, it's kind of Russian.

Local Steak, Maine Potatoes, Homemade Kraut

At least here in Massachusetts, it's that time of the year for incongruous eating. The weather is warm, the trees are in bloom and the birds are singing, but we're stretching the last of our sad, winter squash. If you go by what's on display at Whole Foods, you'd think we're smack dab in the middle of corn and cubed, seedless watermelon season. But we're not, so don't eat like it.

I finagled this entirely local meal entirely from my wares. The River Rock Farm steak was frozen since Fall, the Maine (okay, local to New England) taters are the last hangers-on from my annual latke fest, and the kraut is of course homemade from FarMar cabbages from, say, October.

I seared the steak in Kate's Butter, then crumbled on a little Berkshire Blue. I browned the taters in more K.'s B., and added homemade stock wrung from the remains of a local bird. It cooked down into a nice demi glace. The kraut was served raw with nothing but the billions of tasty bacteria that colonize it.



The stock, butter, and demi glace were all inspirations from Anthony Bourdain. After finally getting around to reading Kitchen Confidential, I was left with two major impressions:

1. This guy is a jerk.
2. French cooking does sound good!

Bottling Kombucha

An ancient beverage thought to date back to the Qin Dynasty in 250 BC, Kombucha has only recently tipped here in the U.S. Perhaps that's because it was a well guarded Chinese health secret, but more likely it's because it's weird and slimy.

Making it at home is much more rewarding and infinitely more cost effective than buying it. And like many homemade products, it's also usually much worse.

Until now. For fifteen bucks I bought a bottle capper and caps at a local brewery supply shop, poured the brew into beer bottles, and capped them off. The capping alone won't stop fermentation, so I stuck them in the fridge, except for one, which I left out for a few more days. That one was as fizzy as a Coke.

To avoid confusion, I labeled each of the bottles, which formerly housed my roommate's Amstel Light, with a piece of masking tape marked "kombucha." I wouldn't want him to get healthy instead of drunk.

Hojicha Kombucha

Quite serendipitously, I ate five fermented foods yesterday: yogurt with breakfast, eerily green Japanese pickles and miso with dinner, and a mid-day nosh of the homemade pink kraut. But the finest by far was this home brewed hojicha kombucha. Besides assonance, consonance, and a nice rhyme, it also had fantastic flavor and fizz, that golden (beige?) fleece of the kombucha homebrewer.

To describe the taste of kombucha is to risk insulting it. Vinegar, beer, wine and rot come to mind, and yet the taste is pure and clean. This particular batch has a distinctive, toasty, caramel flavor thanks to the hojicha. I was given a bag of it by a good friend and decided to stretch out the last few portions by feeding it to my kombucha mother. Apparently she liked it as much as I do, and now I'm drinking her delicious babies.

Pink Kraut II

A boyhood wish has been fulfilled - I finally have all the sauerkraut I want!

About a month ago I chopped up the remaining good parts of the eleven heads of green and red cabbage I bought at the season's last FarMar.



Salt plus time plus magical wild yeast, and poof! Fresh, living, zingy pink kraut. This one doesn't have the same snappy, fruity flavor that my last batch did, but I think it's just because the cabbage was pretty pooped by the time I got around to it. It's still great and a thousand times better than any of that pallid shred you get from a can or jar. Plus, I've managed to stretch out locally grown veggies deep into a Massachusetts winter.

Kombucha Factory

Pu-er isn't the only fermented tea I keep around. I have a little Kombucha factory in the corner of my kitchen where 2 gallons are always in the works. It is a little exciting to know that there's a living thing in the corner of your kitchen, eating away at sugar and caffiene in order to reproduce. Also, if you wait long enough the kombucha gets fizzy. As you can see, I use tea bags for my Kombucha. This is the only reason I use them anymore: you just can't beat the convenience. The Kombucha flavor takes over anyway. (If you don't know what Kombucha is, click here.)

Homemade Hard Cider

Another simple trick from Wild Fermentation. Get some cider, ideally unpasteurized, though I've heard pasteurized without preservatives will still work. Let it sit with cloth over the neck of the vessel until it reaches the desired dryness and alcohol content, maybe two or three weeks. Cider wants to do this - just let it.