One True Ingredient: Bad Ass

Dad brought two roosters by tonight.

“They were free,” he said.

“I figured,” I replied. I eyed the two full-grown roosters, one red, one black, sizing them up.

“I thought I could trade ‘em for one of your roosters.”

I shrugged, thinking to myself that at least my roosters weren’t already fully formed assholes. They’re either young enough or cowed enough by the hens that so far they haven’t been overly aggressive. These two, even in the kennel, looked like fully blown assholes. But I decided to give them the benefit of the doubt.

“Sure,” I said.

My first mistake was dropping the roosters in amongst the hens. We have a chicken tractor rather than a coop, but one side has roosts for hens while the other side doesn’t. There’s chicken wire in between so they can’t hassle one another. The hens also have a door now so they can get out to roam in the afternoon. They have two roosters with them, but the Buff Orphington roosters are under eighteen weeks old and pretty mild for roosters.

We don’t have the term cocky for nothing, I tell you what.

Before long, the new roosters had the hens completely harassed. They piled up in corners and on top of the young roosters and were repeatedly pushed away from the food at one end and the water at the other. The new roosters, it seemed, lived up to my expectation of bully to glorious effect.

Now kicking myself with a fussy child and absent partner, once the Offspring nodded off to the land of sugarplums and puppydog tails, I marched out to the coop, climbed inside on hands and knees (as it’s very low) and proceeded to corner and catch the offending pair of cocks, dragging them out of the coop behind me. One attempted to reach around and peck me, whereupon I seized him around the neck and narrowly restrained myself from strangling him. And for the second time that day, these birds found themselves overpowered by a Barclay, only this second one was a pissed off, tired, overworked, no patience momma.

The only condoned rape on Barclay Farms from now on will now be between two consenting males. Mom has spoken.

My harried hens fluffed themselves and slowly, very slowly, began to move normally about their side of the coop once more. The offending roosters, I shoved into the opposing side and fastened the door.

As the roosters crow this morning, making me feel vaguely Amish, Dad’s suggestion of putting them in the cookpot has some appeal. The future ingredient to one of our meals was therefore the topic of this week’s episode of “One True Ingredient.” The other bonus ingredient this week I thought of while cornering and seizing both cocks around their necks, one in each hand and proceeding to drag them out by their feet at nine o’clock at night.

That ingredient? Be bad ass.

Keep choking your chicken.

One True Ingredient: Peas and Carrots

Not all meals are a success. To be honest, it was not the fault of the peas and carrots, it was mine. Just because the roast had been stewing in its own juices for eight hours in the crockpot did not mean that it was warm enough to both heat the cold brown rice through and thaw the peas and carrots. Note to self: next time always thaw the peas and carrots.

The STC spent the night at work, but the chuck roast I’d pulled out of the freezer on Sunday really needed cooked, so I used our new cookwear from GreenLife, available through Walmart, which worked to spectacular effect. I’m totally in love with these pans. Eggs don’t even stick. You fry an egg, flip it, and it slides right out on the plate, no need for oil. Whatever alchemy makes this possible has my devotion.

Anyway, I seared both sides of the chuck roast and threw it in the crockpot with three(ish) cups of water, some beef bouillon, marsala wine, salt, pepper, parsley, paprika, onion powder and two dried red peppers from the garden a couple years ago. Red peppers are always tricky, since they don’t always seem to have the same flavor, but I took a risk. Deglazed the pan with some red wine I had in the fridge (Mommy needs some liquid patience sometimes) and that’s it. Cooked the meat on high in the crockpot for three or four hours and then was heading to town for groceries (go MPerks) so turned it down to low for another four(ish) hours. Turned the meat out over leftover brown rice and the aforementioned doomed peas and carrots and that was where I went wrong.

I repeat, always thaw the frozen veggies first, no matter how hot you think the meat juices may be.

Until next week, and our next food story, eat well, stay healthy.

One True Ingredient: Busy

Half a leftover seared sirloin steak, one zucchini, a cup of leftover sweet potato succotash, a bell pepper, and a caramelized onion. Add some garlic powder, salt and pepper, cook on medium high with olive oil. A summery shandy beer or sweet wine goes pretty well with this, to unwind at the end of the day.

That's this week  food story from a part-time single mom. Doesn't take much to eat well, but holy shit is it hard some nights. Luckily, this wasn't one of them. Cheers.

One True Ingredient: Family

This week’s food story is a little old-fashioned.

Sunday dinners at my grandmother’s house have always been an important tradition in our family. We don’t make it every Sunday, but holidays and birthdays are usually a must, as are any random Sundays someone feels like making the effort to wrangle the troops and inform the others what they’re cooking. It’s a good way to connect at the end of the week, touch base with one another face to face, and have a meal together as a family.

Research has long promoted the benefits of family meals, even just once a week. They help reestablish bonds and help children feel more grounded, because mealtimes are storytimes. Our family is no different.

Some of my earliest memories are of eating at my grandma’s house, listening to my grandpa tell stories. He was a great story teller. I wish I could remember more of them. They were mostly family stories, something that happened to his dad or granddad, or farm stories, something the horse did that made him laugh or throw his hat on the ground and stomp on it in fury (the man had a temper but generally got over it quickly. And I wonder where my son gets it.) There was always a lot of laughing, a lot of food, and a couple bottles of beer. Living through the Depression made both of my grandparents appreciate a loaded table. They definitely passed that habit down to the rest of us. When my aunt and uncle visit there’s a running joke about that one time we almost ran out of something (this of course has never come close to happening).

Family dinner is supposed to be fun, a low-key time to relax with each other and spend time with each other. I didn’t appreciate the time when I was younger, before my grandpa died. I’m not sure any teenager can. No one ever forced me to go to supper, but somehow implicitly I knew that I would cause other people great hurt if I blew it off to go out with friends, or to stay in my room. Shame is a great motivator.

My favorite part has always been the stories. As we dish food onto our plates, my dad and grandpa were always the great storytellers. The act of sharing a meal, sharing a story, brings people together and reminds them that this is family, not all the bullshit that might go on away from the table, but right here, right now, the people you break bread with, share a scoop of food from the same pot with, these are the people who’ve got your back. And it reminds you, hey, I like this person, I’ve got their back too.

This concept of food sharing goes back to our ape roots. Primates use food sharing as a way to reinforce social bonds, between parent and offspring, between grooming partners, or even strangers. It’s a way of trading food for support, whatever kind of support that may be. And, science argues, that while giving away food shouldn’t help the individual survive, in the end it does because everybody needs support sometimes. Or more probably because they wanted to have sex with their dinner partner, but that’s another post.

Sunday dinner is also about history. It’s important to know where you came from. My STC and I both have a strong sense of family. When we named our twins, we looked to the archive of family names for inspiration. It was important our kids understand their history and be tied to it in a tangible way. And at Sunday dinner I’m sure the Offspring will have a chance to learn about the men he was named after. He probably won’t appreciate it at first; it’s easy to take family for granted. But when he gets older, and has those roots, and understands the kind of people he came from, my hope is that it’ll give him something to help ground him. My grandpa’s been gone fourteen years and gram, dad and I still think, well what would grandpa do? What decision would he want us to make? What would great-grandpa (who I never met but my dad spent extensive time with) think or say?

Having my grandmother right across the road has been a vital resource. She might be ninety, but she’s got more of her shit together than a person half her age. And though she’s slowing down, she can still babysit the Offspring for a couple hours her and there, and more importantly she’s there for support and to listen. With a new baby, a farm, a writing career, a job with USPS, and a STC in the military, there are a lot of challenges, and my grandmother has been around it all. So when I feel overwhelmed and sad she’s there to commiserate, empathize, and offer no wisdom, but a comforting “I been there, honey, it’ll work out.” Don’t ask me why that helps, but maybe it’s knowing how happy she and my grandpa were together and that they faced some of the same issues, jobs, a farm, babies, the military, loss. It wouldn’t be the same coming from someone closer to my age, but because gram is so far on the other side of it, it’s a comfort to have a visual that yes, this too shall pass.

That’s the importance of family dinner.

P.S.

You might be asking where the food is in this food story. And when I started, I fully had the intention of describing the vegetables, the grilled sirloin, and how my son is mad for anything green: asparagus, spinach dip, squash, and key lime pie, but realized that part of this food story isn’t about the food. The food is a means to the end. It sounds corny, but this food story is really all about family.

Click to enlarge

One True Ingredient

The meal started with rice. And I’m talking long grain brown rice, no white Minute Rice or Rice-A-Roni here, my friends. I’ll admit to keeping Rice-A-Roni around for emergencies, but there’s no monosodium glutamate or hydrolyzed corn gluten in this food story.

I let the rice cook while taking care of the baby in another room and almost burned my One True Ingredient before the food story really started. (Stir before fifteen minutes are up, and use low, not 2, for realsies. Just a warning.) Luckily, The Prince of Fuss (as my father has dubbed my dubious dairy low-tolerant offspring) and I made a quick save on the rice. I added more water and when it finished cooking, added some frozen peas, letting it sit covered on the cutting board to prevent further scorching. While that settled, I chopped onions to caramelize while taking out the trash and writing intermittently on a short story. (This really has nothing to do with the meal, I’m just using it to set the scene. Most days don’t go this well but His Majesty was content to chew on his giraffe and watch from his bouncy chair.)

The key to good caramelized onions is patience, low heat, a generous amount of salt, and a good talent for keeping a screaming baby occupied while flipping onions with the other hand.

The Prince soon tired of his chair-bondage and decided being a barnacle on mommy was much better. I like that my son is part of our kitchen experience, and usually also a part of our food story. I like that he puts his hand on the bottle of olive oil I use to sear asparagus. Since its hot and he’s naked except for his diaper, I should probably wrap him in Saran Wrap from toes to neck in order to keep him safe from getting splashed by hot oil or grabbing a hot pan.

I’m just not one of those kinds of mothers.

I believe in letting kids figure things out, do what you can to keep them safe, don’t get me wrong, but the sooner you realize the stove is hot, the electric fence is on, and no one is responsible for your attitude or happiness except you, the better off you’ll be in life. As anyone whose cooked bacon topless knows, (male or female, I don’t judge), cooking is pain. (Cooking here being a metaphor for life.) My trick is grabbing hot cast iron pans out of the oven either bare-handed (“How can that be hot? It’s a pan.”) or with a wet kitchen towel as a potholder. Some people never learn.

Cooking, I find, helps you find out what kind of parent you are.

I scraped my lovely, rich caramel-colored onions into a bowl and reheated the pan for asparagus, searing it lightly before turning the heat down to cook the veggies all the way through. In also goes salt, pepper, garlic and onion powder. This last is the key and why, I finally discovered, my Spousal-Type Creature’s seared asparagus trumps mine. But no longer!

I felt like drinking a beer for the first time since our First Family Stomach Virus Extravaganza some days earlier, and selected a smooth porter we’d used to baste a brisket on Mother’s Day. I deglazed the asparagus with a little of the porter, and when that cooked down, added it to the onions and rice with peas, letting it all cook together and harmonize for a couple minutes. I had enough for quite a generous dinner and more than enough to reheat and scramble eggs into after work the next morning. 

So while The Prince fussed, alternatively kicking me and showing me how he could now grab both of his feet (serious stuff), and the cow grazed in the backyard, I drank my beer and ate my supper.

How We Eat

Dear Barclay Farms,

You talk about farm food, grass-fed, and the importance of eating local, how does that actually look on the plate?

Signed,

Hypothetical Blog Reader

Dear Hypothetical Reader,

You ask how we eat. As Michael Pollen points out, every meal has a story. Here is one of ours.

I had too many guinea eggs. Like over three dozen. With more pilling up daily. Since (grievously) have to cull dairy from my diet (see Dairy Low-Tolerant Offspring), I try to eat a lot more eggs, hoping that one day my eggs turn into blueberry yogurt. (Sadly, thus far, this has not been the case.) 

Anyway, the challenge is Keeping Eggs Interesting. Because, let’s face it, grass-fed free range homegrown brown local natural wonderful or not, an egg’s a freakin’ egg.

I find that it’s easier (and safer with aforementioned Offspring going through a grabby stage) to bake rather than boil hard boiled eggs. (325 degrees for 30 minutes in a muffin tin or straight on the oven racks, 10 minutes in an ice water bath.) So I had two dozen hard baked guinea eggs and a recipe for Scotch eggs. I’ll spare you the sordid details, but this recipe, in terms of guinea eggs and proportions, requires some tweaking.

So we had eggs wrapped in ground beef and bread crumbs but decided our meal required more. While my Spousal-Type Creature took charge of the Dairy Low-Tolerant Offspring, I added a flannel shirt with sleeves rolled up to my tank top and capri pant ensemble, finishing off the look with chunky cowboy boots sans socks. Looking both ways for the fashion police, I crossed the road and went to the garden for spinach and asparagus.

It was a cool May evening of very pleasant temperature, and the wind was in my hair while I filled my basket with fresh spring veggies. The sky was a mix of blue, setting sun, and huge puffy pastel clouds that looked like rain in the distance. The air smelled of lilacs, with an undertone of grass cattle manure. I strolled back to the house where the STC balance an Offspring on one hip while caramelizing onions for the spinach.

I love a man who can multitask.

He sautéed sweet onions and spinach with a little balsamic vinegar, salt, pepper, garlic and onion powder, all in olive oil. He did the same with the fresh asparagus, leaving out the vinegar. He sautéed the spears first on nearly high, then turned it down to medium to cook through.

The meal was superb.

And thankfully, our beautiful little bundle of need waited until mommy and daddy were finished with their meal before he vomited, all over mommy and the chair.

But it really was a wonderful dinner.

Until next time, Gentle Reader, eat well and strive for one true ingredient.

Ax of Barclay Farms

P.S.

While I realize that it is not possible for everyone to create a meal in which 90% of the ingredients come from within two thousand feet of the stovetop, I encourage knowing where your food comes from. If there is a new cause to believe in in the 21^st century, its food. (And crop diversity, but that’s for another day.)

In 1776, Americans fought for freedom from tyranny. In 2013, the new tyranny is that of the Twinkie, so to speak. Processed, pre-prepared, preserved foods have become the norm. When your rice has more ingredients on the label than just rice, that might be considered a problem. What do these additives do to our bodies? To our kids? To our brains and health? Let’s take the fight from the battlefield and down to our plates. Demand to know what is going in your mouth as well as where it’s been, how it’s been handled, what it’s been treated with, and how it’s been prepared. Demand to make yourself informed. If we want better health, we have to work to make ourselves healthy. No one controls what goes into your mouth except you. If you want high quality, nutritious food, vote by what you buy. Don’t dump tea in the river, buy quality meats and eggs from a trusted local source. Pay the farmer not the trucker, the packer, the corporation, the grocery store, and the bank. Vote with your food choices. Eat well, eat local.

Vacating soapbox now. :)

On Crop Diversity