“Let’s get a goat,” I said one balmy, Ohio perfect summer afternoon. This was just after we had to put down one of our two horses, due to a leg injury that went south in a hurry. The other horse, Stasi – a retired police horse from rescue, was lonely (we thought) and needed a goat (C thought, he never mentioned it). B rolled her eyes, “Great – another animal for me to take care of ”, or more to the point, for Julie to take care of when we travel. True, I go to work all day while B works from home. So naturally, she does bear the brunt of the animal chores. But I had an ulterior motive – I wanted to make goat cheese. Still want to.
Having lived in the country for some time now, I’m feeling way more in tune with the fruits of each season than the average city dweller. I don’t have much time to actually WORK in the garden, but I constantly delight in the process of its growth and picking the byproducts is a joy well founded. But I couldn’t understand this desire to make everything from the earth (mind you – I am not going creepy organic green on you). Well – I kind of knew why. I have a sensitive stomach and my fresh food never made me sick– the more processed the food, the less my stomach liked it. I also have a professional job that requires me to sit in front of a computer all day so creating great meals from my own hand when I get home, is a good hobby (hence the “fantasy (Four Bad Dogs Café) restaurant” idea, the realized reality is not nearly so glamorous as one might think). But there was something more and I couldn’t quite grasp it.
I never cooked as a child. Not exactly encouraged – my teenaged sister (impatient age) was the type to grab everything out of my hands and I simply let her because I had bigger goals than being a housewife. And my mother with her Welsh background never learned the words “spice,” “flavor,” or “ethnic.” So as a child, I was essentially doomed in the world of food. Fortunately (it sounds strange), my father was diagnosed with Type II diabetes and he learned to cook – really fresh! I was sixteen and my food life changed from La Choy (are you old enough to remember their ads??) Chop Suey (yummm, canned limp bean sprouts!!) to planked grill salmon, from green bean casserole to fresh garden salads with goat cheese (are you seeing the trend?). As an adult, I embarked on learning how to cook and bake. I found a passion for food, not to mention flavor!
B and I first bonded over food – she would throw a party and I would jump right into the kitchen and help her (something her ex never did). I would bring a vat of cold borsch soup to feed a crowd of 30. She would throw together fresh bread, salads, and smoked meats. Although we couldn’t stop talking food, we had very different styles of cooking. As Ayun Halladay described two friends’ style of cooking, I was Gub Gub – everything precise and measured to the gram, and B was “Lisa” who flung when she cooked. Oh and the other difference – I hate cilantro and fish sauce – hence most Asian cuisines (Japanese excepted!) – and B loooooves it (i.e., Thai, Korean, Vietnamese ~ everything but CHINESE!). But we have one clear thing in common, we love our food unprocessed, fresh, and from the local land.
OK OK OK, we have complained about the lack of innovative cuisine in our area – what we have failed to mention is that there is absolutely NO lack of fresh food. It is the benefit of living in the country long term as a foodie. About a year ago, I had my first farm fresh eggs. Meth? (just kidding but you get the analogy) that addiction pales to experiencing the pure rich taste of farm fresh eggs. Much smaller, brown, and when opened, it reveals a beautiful golden perky yolk unlike the flat pale lifeless yolk from a store-bought egg. It is has a rich complex taste that I never experienced before. As “November has her nails dug in deep,” it is hard to get these eggs and the cravings are unbearable!
But it wasn’t only the eggs – thanks John. Fresh venison arrives by Bobbie who hunts on our property. Sweet corn that we twist right off the stalk from Angie’s uncle’s “backyard” (about 5 acres of corn planted in succession). Eating black sweet cherries from our tree after a warm summer rain, employing yogalike moves to wedge into the net that we put in place to thwart the birds just waiting for ripeness. Deep red raspberries swollen in late fall (their lesser crop is earlier summer, just a preview). Small but impossibly sweet strawberries in a raised bed in early June. Brussels sprouts harvested after the first frost, cut in half and quickly seared to still bright green in a hot cast-iron pan with a little butter, a little olive oil add salt and pepper (if you are daring, wrap a few with proschitto!) and celebrate! (thank you Chef Aaron! I hated bs as a child, my mum cooked them to grayness~ but as she reminds me, all veggies were cooked to death in the 70’s!).
Back to the list of Good Food….. Heirloom tomatoes, plants given to us by Roger – deep purple, zebra striped, yellow – bursting with flavor. Pears from Ray – golden sweet, never sprayed and we perfectly poached. A pig roast at Lindsey’s – her own that she raised. Tenderloin from Angie’s cow – a cow whose eyes we once looked into. And our latest – goose breast from Bobby, which we picked up and saw the recently shot goose lying lifeless on the ground, its majestic white feathers unmarred by blood, the breasts extracted with surgical precision.
Many people would shudder at the thought of meeting the tenderloin that they are about to eat or staring at the goose that was flying hours ago. I know, and I had to apologize to more than one person for ordering with glee the bunny tenderloin when we were last at Revolver in Findlay – but there is something about being at the heart of where food comes from. To understand that we live off the earth.
Which gets me back to the goats. Once again, I pleaded to B, “can we get a goat?” Yeah – I want one. I want to make the cheese that we eat. I want to drink the milk unpasteurized. Until recently, I couldn’t explain why…
But then I read (OK listened to it on CD) “Heat: An Amateur's Adventures as Kitchen Slave, Line Cook, Pasta-Maker, and Apprentice to a Dante-Quoting Butcher in Tuscany” by Bill Buford and I understood what I never understood before. I wish I could quote the book, but as I already returned it, I will paraphrase. Much like our wacky adventure through the culinary world, Buford embarked on his own – much more expansive, expensive – adventure. He worked in a kitchen in New York, he traveled to Italy to learn pasta making and butchering. In the end he realized this – food, like art, like all commodities – have been commercialized. We eat what the big box chains give us, whether it is eggs, TVs, music, cars – you name it. But when you experience that which the craftsperson provides, you experience something timeless. You experience the craft passed on from one generation to another (thanks Nick L.), you experience history passed on from muscles, you experience a timeless humanity. Appreciate it while you can, individual craftspeople are a dying breed. Whether it be the cheesemaker, the butcher, the glassblower, or the solo builder, AKA our Ray (ten years in a house built by a guy we still adore and highly recommend to others).
I desire that humanity and that is why I like to cook. There is a winding web in our community. “Do you know where I can get eggs now that it’s cold?” “I will trade you a loaf of bread for the goose breast.” “You put bacon in the ground venison burgers that you just delivered, AWESOME!” These are our daily conversations … And these conversations only make you crave more. Oh and I still want a goat. Happy Thanksgiving Friends.
Having lived in the country for some time now, I’m feeling way more in tune with the fruits of each season than the average city dweller. I don’t have much time to actually WORK in the garden, but I constantly delight in the process of its growth and picking the byproducts is a joy well founded. But I couldn’t understand this desire to make everything from the earth (mind you – I am not going creepy organic green on you). Well – I kind of knew why. I have a sensitive stomach and my fresh food never made me sick– the more processed the food, the less my stomach liked it. I also have a professional job that requires me to sit in front of a computer all day so creating great meals from my own hand when I get home, is a good hobby (hence the “fantasy (Four Bad Dogs Café) restaurant” idea, the realized reality is not nearly so glamorous as one might think). But there was something more and I couldn’t quite grasp it.
I never cooked as a child. Not exactly encouraged – my teenaged sister (impatient age) was the type to grab everything out of my hands and I simply let her because I had bigger goals than being a housewife. And my mother with her Welsh background never learned the words “spice,” “flavor,” or “ethnic.” So as a child, I was essentially doomed in the world of food. Fortunately (it sounds strange), my father was diagnosed with Type II diabetes and he learned to cook – really fresh! I was sixteen and my food life changed from La Choy (are you old enough to remember their ads??) Chop Suey (yummm, canned limp bean sprouts!!) to planked grill salmon, from green bean casserole to fresh garden salads with goat cheese (are you seeing the trend?). As an adult, I embarked on learning how to cook and bake. I found a passion for food, not to mention flavor!
B and I first bonded over food – she would throw a party and I would jump right into the kitchen and help her (something her ex never did). I would bring a vat of cold borsch soup to feed a crowd of 30. She would throw together fresh bread, salads, and smoked meats. Although we couldn’t stop talking food, we had very different styles of cooking. As Ayun Halladay described two friends’ style of cooking, I was Gub Gub – everything precise and measured to the gram, and B was “Lisa” who flung when she cooked. Oh and the other difference – I hate cilantro and fish sauce – hence most Asian cuisines (Japanese excepted!) – and B loooooves it (i.e., Thai, Korean, Vietnamese ~ everything but CHINESE!). But we have one clear thing in common, we love our food unprocessed, fresh, and from the local land.
OK OK OK, we have complained about the lack of innovative cuisine in our area – what we have failed to mention is that there is absolutely NO lack of fresh food. It is the benefit of living in the country long term as a foodie. About a year ago, I had my first farm fresh eggs. Meth? (just kidding but you get the analogy) that addiction pales to experiencing the pure rich taste of farm fresh eggs. Much smaller, brown, and when opened, it reveals a beautiful golden perky yolk unlike the flat pale lifeless yolk from a store-bought egg. It is has a rich complex taste that I never experienced before. As “November has her nails dug in deep,” it is hard to get these eggs and the cravings are unbearable!
But it wasn’t only the eggs – thanks John. Fresh venison arrives by Bobbie who hunts on our property. Sweet corn that we twist right off the stalk from Angie’s uncle’s “backyard” (about 5 acres of corn planted in succession). Eating black sweet cherries from our tree after a warm summer rain, employing yogalike moves to wedge into the net that we put in place to thwart the birds just waiting for ripeness. Deep red raspberries swollen in late fall (their lesser crop is earlier summer, just a preview). Small but impossibly sweet strawberries in a raised bed in early June. Brussels sprouts harvested after the first frost, cut in half and quickly seared to still bright green in a hot cast-iron pan with a little butter, a little olive oil add salt and pepper (if you are daring, wrap a few with proschitto!) and celebrate! (thank you Chef Aaron! I hated bs as a child, my mum cooked them to grayness~ but as she reminds me, all veggies were cooked to death in the 70’s!).
Back to the list of Good Food….. Heirloom tomatoes, plants given to us by Roger – deep purple, zebra striped, yellow – bursting with flavor. Pears from Ray – golden sweet, never sprayed and we perfectly poached. A pig roast at Lindsey’s – her own that she raised. Tenderloin from Angie’s cow – a cow whose eyes we once looked into. And our latest – goose breast from Bobby, which we picked up and saw the recently shot goose lying lifeless on the ground, its majestic white feathers unmarred by blood, the breasts extracted with surgical precision.
Many people would shudder at the thought of meeting the tenderloin that they are about to eat or staring at the goose that was flying hours ago. I know, and I had to apologize to more than one person for ordering with glee the bunny tenderloin when we were last at Revolver in Findlay – but there is something about being at the heart of where food comes from. To understand that we live off the earth.
Which gets me back to the goats. Once again, I pleaded to B, “can we get a goat?” Yeah – I want one. I want to make the cheese that we eat. I want to drink the milk unpasteurized. Until recently, I couldn’t explain why…
But then I read (OK listened to it on CD) “Heat: An Amateur's Adventures as Kitchen Slave, Line Cook, Pasta-Maker, and Apprentice to a Dante-Quoting Butcher in Tuscany” by Bill Buford and I understood what I never understood before. I wish I could quote the book, but as I already returned it, I will paraphrase. Much like our wacky adventure through the culinary world, Buford embarked on his own – much more expansive, expensive – adventure. He worked in a kitchen in New York, he traveled to Italy to learn pasta making and butchering. In the end he realized this – food, like art, like all commodities – have been commercialized. We eat what the big box chains give us, whether it is eggs, TVs, music, cars – you name it. But when you experience that which the craftsperson provides, you experience something timeless. You experience the craft passed on from one generation to another (thanks Nick L.), you experience history passed on from muscles, you experience a timeless humanity. Appreciate it while you can, individual craftspeople are a dying breed. Whether it be the cheesemaker, the butcher, the glassblower, or the solo builder, AKA our Ray (ten years in a house built by a guy we still adore and highly recommend to others).
I desire that humanity and that is why I like to cook. There is a winding web in our community. “Do you know where I can get eggs now that it’s cold?” “I will trade you a loaf of bread for the goose breast.” “You put bacon in the ground venison burgers that you just delivered, AWESOME!” These are our daily conversations … And these conversations only make you crave more. Oh and I still want a goat. Happy Thanksgiving Friends.
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