Save the Earth: Rip Up Your Lawn

The largest irrigated crop in America is lawn grass. There is three times as much acreage in lawn grass production as in corn -- and many lawn owners apply just as much fertilizer and pesticides to maintain their outdoor carpets as those big corporate farmers do to produce commodity corn. 

Where does that fertilizer go after you dump them on the lawn? Some gets taken up by the grass, of course, but much of it washes away, into our rivers and lakes causing excessive growth that uses up too much oxygen and ultimately chokes out the aquatic ecosystem. 

Think about the quantity of fresh, potable water nationwide used to water lawns. Think about the amount of air pollution sent into our lungs every week as millions of homeowners or their landscapers mow, leaf-blow, and power-rake. 

Food prices are rising, and most people go without fresh, locally-grown, organic produce because it's unavailable or too expensive. Yet America's suburban homeowners are sitting on the most valuable asset our nation has -- fertile land -- and using it for a home decoration. Instead of generating healthy food for themselves, their neighbors, and those without land, suburbanites waste this resource by using it as an expensive, chemical-laden hobby.  

While it's easy to point fingers at corporate agriculture as the root of food shortages and a loss of food quality, the millions of small landowners who inhabit suburbia have the power to make a significant impact on world food supplies and their own pocketbooks and health simply by ripping up their lawns.

Turning your lawn into gardens means you'll get economic value out of it instead of dumping money into it.  You'll get healthy produce for your own family, saving on the grocery bill, and can even produce enough to share with neighbors or the local food shelf. Check out the Facebook site for Grow Food, Not Lawns if you want to connect with like-minded individuals who can inspire you with stunning photos, plans, and information for transforming your expensive lawn crop into an environmentally-sound, economically-productive garden. 

Weeds and Thinnings: Greens and More Greens

Pigweed weeded out of the garden and onto the dinnerplate

Beet greens and kohlrabi leaves from thinnings

One of the best things about gardening is getting to eat the weeds and thinnings.






Pigweed, cress, purslane, young dandelion leaves, and many other garden weeds are delectable 'specialty greens' that commandeer high prices at upscale food markets. The young leaves of beets, kohlrabi, turnips, rutabegas, even carrots are delightful in salad, or mixed together and sauteed with the first garlic scapes, chives or new onions, a sprinkle of sugar, and a splash of hot sauce. Over brown rice topped with a fried egg, they make a perfect early summer meal that is economical and packed with nutrients.

Dryad's Saddles

Dryad's Saddles -- also known as the Pheasant's Back, or Polyporus squamosus -- is as easily identifiable mushroom for anyone looking to dip a toe in the great, complex and sometimes scary stream of wild mushroom foraging. I love mushrooms, but am a very tentative mushroomer, only slowly adding to my short list of species I am comfortable enough identifying to bring home to the dinner table.

Giant puffballs or breadloaf mushrooms are probably the first wild mushroom to try, as long as you pick them when they are at least softball sized to ensure that you haven't mixed them up with an emerging head of some other type.  None of the puffballs are poisonous and once they get to a decent size, there is nothing else that looks like them (unless you've inadvertently picked up an old soccer ball that has been sitting in the woods for years).

While there are many other shelf- or bracket-type fungus, Dryad's Saddles are simple to recognize. They have a short, thick angled stem, a curve downward to the stem, a feathery or almost shingle-like top, and most distinctively, a spongy underside of hollow tubes -- NOT gills, and NOT a hard flat bottom surface. The only other mushroom close to meeting this description would be the beefsteak mushroom, another bracket polypore, but it is pink to red, and fortunately is also edible so if you manage to confuse the two, you'll still be okay.

When Dryad's Saddles get older they get brown and dry, but then they are too tough to eat. Way too tough. So be sure to go for the light tan ones with brown feathery tops.

In May and June, look for these about two days after a rainstorm, on hardwood trees and stumps. They'll pop up literally overnight. Pick those that are flexible and have a light tan top like the ones pictured. Often they'll be about 4" across, in groups of 3 or 4. These two, growing right next to one another, had popped out to a full 8" across after we had a big downpour following several very dry weeks.

Sliced up and sauteed with butter and wild ramps, served with foraged fiddleheads or young turnip greens thinned from the early garden bed, they make a wonderful hearty spring meal, free and fresh from the wilds.

Pumpkin Pie

You have to love a dessert that counts as a vegetable...

It's the nice thing about pumpkin pie. True, one could count those apple and blueberry pies as a serving of fruit -- but you get to count pumpkin pie as a vegetable. And a tasty, nutritious vegetable at that, full of fiber and vitamins. 

But pumpkin also holds a certain spirit that satisfies the soul as well as the stomach and good health. Those orange orbs embody the sunshine of the whole growing season, the open sky and fresh air of the fields, those perfect autumn days. 


Deep in January, biting into a slice of pumpkin pie brings the wheel of the year firmly to mind, and thoughts roll back to last year's garden, and forward to looking at the prize-winning pumpkins at next year's fair. Pumpkins bring us continuity across the seasons, across the years. 

That continuity is strengthened by the bonds of generations when you use an old family recipe. There is something magical about cooking the same thing my grandmother did, an invocation of those who are gone from us. 

I start with a Long Island Cheese pumpkin -- a flattened, tan heirloom. It could be any other kind -- but then it wouldn't be MY pumpkin pie. But choose your own -- that's part of what makes is special. I quarter the cheese pumpkin, scrape out the seeds, and roast it on a cookie sheet with a little water in it at 350 degrees for... well, for as long as until it's done. Perhaps an hour, I just keep testing till a knife pokes through it easily. Then I let it cool a bit, scoop out the flesh and measure it, and bag it up in 2 cup measures  in small zipper-seal freezer bags (suck the air out, seal them, and lay them flat to freeze -- then you can 'file' them upright in a milk crate in the big freezer). My recipe calls for 1 and a half cups of puree -- but when using home-cooked pumpkin, I find freezing 2 cups works best as you'll lose some liquid and volume when it thaws.    

This is the only think I cook in which I use canned Carnation evaporated milk. I rarely use canned anything in my cooking, but this is an exception. You can use cream or whole milk or raw milk; since I want mine to taste like my grandmother's pie, I use the old-school kitchen staple for this.

Pick your favorite pie crust -- I use the basic shortening crust from my ancient, tattered edition of Betty Crocker's cookbook. But this recipe also works wonderfully as a pumpkin custard with no crust at all.

Pumpkin Pie: 

Preheat oven to 350 degrees. 

Line a pie plate with your chosen one-crust pie pastry. 

1 1/2 cups canned pumpkin, or a two-cup bag frozen home-cooked pumpkin puree
1 cup rich milk
1 cup sugar (not quite full)
1/4 tsp salt

1/4 tsp nutmeg
1/4 tsp cinnamon
pinch of cloves
 --you can add more of these spices to taste if you like

2 large eggs, slightly beaten
1 Tbsp melted butter
1/2 shot glass whiskey

Combine all ingredients and mix thoroughly. Pour into the pastry-lined pie pan -- I avoid sloshing by putting the pan on the oven rack first and pouring the filling in there.  Bake about 45 minutes or until an inserted knife comes out clean. Cool before cutting.

Top with maple whipped cream, and the coup de grace, a maple sugar candy leaf. 

Winter Crunch: Sauerkraut and More

Sauerkraut and Lacto-Fermented Carrots and Turnips

A forkful of crunch, tang, and summer garden flavor in the midst of winter, in old-school style: This is the joy of lacto-fermented vegetables. Much has been written about the new-found health benefits of lacto-fermentation, this food preservation technique is ancient -- and simple.

A great winter read to get you started is the little paperback by the Farmers and Gardeners of Terre Vivants, Preserving Food Without Canning or Freezing. It will give you some food for thought as you plan next summer's garden. But with cabbage available inexpensively through the winter at supermarkets and farmers' markets, it's a great time to try sauerkraut at home.

Slice, Salt, Pound

I had made sauerkraut a few times in the past, but Summer 2012 was a bumper year for cabbage in my garden, so it was time for a larger sauerkraut experience. I started with a crock -- but no need for one of these uber-expensive, water-sealed lacto-fermentation crocks that are en vogue in the seed and garden catalogs. I just found an old lidless one, about 3 gallons, that my mother had been using as a decorative objet d'art in the living room. Washed it well, then proceeded to production. Using about 5 pounds of cabbage, I quartered the heads and cut out the cores. Then I sliced thinly--about quarter inch to smaller-- with a big chopping knife while my husband layered the sliced cabbage in the crock, sprinkled with sea salt, and pounded it with a heavy piece of broken chair leg. A baseball bat end, wine bottle, or any non-pressure-treated and non-splintery heavy board would do, though again, they sell overpriced sauerkraut pounders if you feel compelled to drop lots of money on this operation.

Eventually all the cabbage is sliced, salted (I use about 3 Tablespoons total for 5 pounds of cabbage, but feel free to use a little less, though no less than 2 Tablespoons or the brine won't be the right chemical blend to spawn the right microscopic critter growth to produce the fermentation), and pounded down. At this point it should be swimming in its own brine; if not add a little spring water and perhaps a pinch more salt.

In lieu of those fancy expensive water-seal lids, I put one plastic food bag inside another so it's a big sturdier, fill it with water, and close with a wire twist-tie, then just to be sure, knot the bags over the twist tie to keep it from poking the bags. I put a small clean plate over the top of the cabbage to help weight them down evenly, then put the water-filled bag on top of this -- the bag spreads to fill the top of the crock to its edges, sealing out air but not so tightly as to prevent the bubbling fermentation gasses from escaping. Voila, a lacto-fermentation crock for cheap.

I set this in the garage in the late summer -- you are shooting for perhaps 60 degrees. Check it from time to time, and add some more spring water and sea salt if it seems to run dry, but unless you are in an extremely dry climate, it probably won't. Don't let it get too cold or freeze.

How long you leave it set is a matter of taste, preference and convenience. I really like my sauerkraut crunchy and tangy, so I like to leave it sit only two weeks. This year, with a large quantity at hand, I removed a quart mason jar's worth at two weeks and stuck that in the fridge to stop the fermentation, and left the remainder to ferment another several weeks, until it seemed to stop active bubbling and changing. Then I put that remainder in jars in the fridge, where it will keep for many long months.

Of course, I kept eating it right out of the crock daily through this entire time period, just because I could.

The two-week sauerkraut has a bite to it that I love, while the nearly two-month sauerkraut has a mellower, richer more complex flavor and a decidedly mushier texture. I have conducted numerous taste-tests amongst my friends, and find sentiments regarding preference between these two are nearly equally divided.

Beyond Cabbage

Meanwhile, inspired by the success of my sauerkraut efforts and the lovely advice of the Terre Vivant gardeners, I experimented with using the same technique -- minus the pounding -- for other  vegetables. I was producing small quantities of these, so I just used half-gallon mason jars instead of the crock to start. I made one batch of julienned carrots and turnips, and one batch of julienned turnips and snappy black radishes. I packed them in their respective jars, covered with a brine made of spring water and sea salt, and put on the two-piece screw-type canning jar lids, though screwed on just firmly enough to seal but still allow gasses to escape. Paranoid about the potential for exploding glass, I also just turned the lid open then closed again once every couple days to release pressure. I set these jars in a small metal tray on the counter and let them fester several weeks.

The result was delightful. The carrots and turnips are sweet yet tangy, with a nearly citrus-type flavor and delightful crunch. The turnips and radish have an almost horseradish-type condiment flavor. Both can work on their own as a little side dish, be served on salad greens, or brighten up a lowly hummus or turkey sandwich out of its winter doldrums.

Many cooks also add a variety of things to their cabbage sauerkraut. Fennel seed and/or onions are common variations, but I suspect there are dozens of possibilities.

Mason Jar Canning Safety and Lids

I've read several food bloggers getting quite dismayed over the use of the standard two-part canning-jar lid for lacto-fermentation in mason jars, on the theory that it lets outside air in. Some now strongly advocate the use of new special, expensive, one-way-valve lids for this purpose. I admit I don't have the scientific credentials to have the last word on this, but I have not been terribly concerned about it because if the jar is filled right to the top, and the lid lightly screwed on, the fermentation process creates pressure within the jar and is constantly pushing the air out. This is the same reason that the air escapes and then, on cooling, creates a vacuum when you boiling-water-bath can using these same lids. If air could get in under such circumstances, then air and water would get in when you were water-bath canning, wouldn't it? As long as you keep the jar filled to the rim by adding brine, the positive pressure (evidenced by the daily leakage into your metal tray) keeps the atmospheric air out of the jar, doesn't it? At least that is my opinion, and it has seemed to work just fine for me without costly special equipment, but I will leave it to each cook and consumer to use her own best judgement regarding her family's food safety. Just do be sure to use SOMETHING that can be vented if you lacto-ferment in mason jars, to prevent the glass from breaking.

Cold Day, Hot Soup

Slow cooker, old style -- cast iron on the woodstove

Black bean soup with what's-in-the-larder

It's snowing -- but it does that in Vermont in January, so all is right with the world. I had leftover sweet potatoes in the fridge from dinner two nights ago, so I set out to make black bean-sweet potato burritos.

Then I'd cooked more black beans than I needed (dry beans, cooked on the woodstove, are way cheaper than canned beans -- and no risk of whatever chemicals the can lining gives off, either, especially since they are local organic beans). So what to do with the rest?

Black bean soup.

Soup is the ultimate flexible dish. The recipe? Stock and whatever is in the larder. Here I even cheated on the stock. I kept the water the beans were cooked in, and added a couple jars of my canned tomato-vegetable juice. Then I grabbed a handful of carrots from the copious bin of them remaining from last summer's garden, a couple heads (yes heads) of garden garlic, and a couple locally grown onions. I was out of peppers and not driving out to the store in this snowstorm (mainly because I'm lazy and the woodstove feels too good) so I also drained and added a small jar of my canned jalepenos. Then the coup-de-grace, three peeled, chopped-up seedless oranges, as we weren't eating through the bag fast enough and they would no doubt have gone bad.

How to spice it? I tasted the onion-tomato-orange combo and decided exotic was the way to go. Some smoked sea salt, black pepper, some cinnamon, some ginger, a little Jamaican allspice, some dried parsley for added iron and vitamins, and just to finish it off, a dash -- more like a splash -- of my homemade hot sauce.

Now back on the woodstove it goes to simmer away and I'll taste-test it later. If it's too hot, I'll add some more tomato-veggie juice or some stock. Not zesty enough, more hot sauce.

Since we have the burritos for tonight, this can simmer along 'till tomorrow, adding some water or stock if it boils off too much. Then I'll make a nice crunchy cornbread to go with it (mine is always crunchy since we grind our own corn) and a green salad, and it will be the perfect hot meal for the predicted single-digit night.

Using up what you've got is the ultimate food security -- AND it can lead to the most creative and fresh dishes. Soup is a good chance to experiment; just chop whatever you have in the larder into roughly equal-sized pieces and throw them into stock or broth. Saute them first if you have a mind to, but it's not strictly necessary. Soup is also so incredibly healthful, usually low cal (unless perhaps it's something like a beer cheddar cream soup), high in fiber and nutrients, and filling.

What are YOUR favorite winter soups?

Winter Salad

Fresh Greens from the Garden--In Vermont in Mid-January!

 

 

In the coldest of seasons, in the darkest of days, life goes on, and hope--and salad greens--spring eternal.

It's January thaw -- that annual occurrence of a few days of balmy thirty or even forty degree weather that feels downright tropical after last week's minus 20 Fahrenheit (yes, that is not a type -- it was minus 20 a few evenings last week). Yesterday, dinner was roasted root vegetables, including the last kohlrabi and the last turnip of the year. In a separate pan, I also roasted the last of the beets, to put on salads through the week.

When temps rose above freezing this delightfully sunny morning, I took a stroll out to examine the yard. It had actually rained last night, and the two-foot snowcover was gone. My kale bed was bursting with new green and burgundy leaves. I pulled the soggy straw off the parsley and chard, and they too were sending forth new growth. I picked handsful of tiny new green leaves to start my salad bowl.

At the other end of the salad greens bed from the chard, a few blackened heads of raddichio had soldiered through the snow cover, without so much as a straw blanket to comfort their frozen heads. I pulled the largest, stripped back the outer leaves, and was rewarded with a nice 4 inch head of bright red raddichio to add to the dinner loot.

On to the cold frames. The small one held some bedraggled arugula; the little bed is really too small to provide much protection from the cold. The larger 4'X8' bed, however, looked like a jungle. Spinach, arugula, mache, and sweet little 2" long French breakfast radishes with their cheery ombre of fushia and white.

Washed, spun-dry and chopped, I had about two quarts of salad greens. Plenty for two big dinner salads and lunch packed for tomorrow. I added some of the roasted beets from last night, some chopped walnuts, and grated some pecorino romano cheese that I had in the fridge since, it being that time of the year, I was also too broke to go spring for some nice blue cheese which would have been the absolutely perfect thing. But the pecorino romano added a surprisingly nice touch, so it's just as well that necessity was the mother of invention for this salad!

It's true that there are salad greens for sale in the market this time of year, but even aside from the carbon footprint question of where those salads came from, the price is nigh on unreachable for those of us feeling the economic pinch. This salad of organic greens with zero carbon footprint cost me the twenty minutes or so of picking, washing and preparing -- and gave me the great joy, deep satisfaction, and yeah, okay, bragging rights, of having picked my dinner from my front yard in Vermont in the depths of winter.