Blessing the Hands that Feed Us (25 page)

Garnish with the baby spinach leaves or arugula and serve. Other squash or pumpkins can be substituted, but be sure to roast them!

Patrick Boin at The Braeburn says:

As for a personal philosophy toward cooking and why I do what I do, I am a steward for the earth and all she provides. I have a responsibility to the planet, my community, the local farms and farmers who work them, and my coworkers to prepare this bounty with humility, respect, honor, and grace. I am a simple man making my way through the universe, and kitchen groovin' is my ride of choice.

Chanterelle and Cauliflower Mushroom–Stuffed Roasted Chicken Breast

Two 6-ounce boneless, skinless chicken breasts

2 tablespoons cold-pressed extra virgin olive oil

¹
/
₄
cup Romanesco cauliflower

1 teaspoon capers

1 tablespoon minced fresh garlic (2 cloves)

2 tablespoons diced red onion, small dice

1 ounce cooking sherry

1 ounce white wine

1 cup chanterelle mushrooms, cleaned and torn

1 cup cauliflower mushrooms, cleaned and torn

1 teaspoon finely chopped fresh rosemary

2 tablespoons finely chopped fresh parsley

1 teaspoon chopped fresh sage, fine chiffonade

1 teaspoon stemmed fresh thyme

¹
/
₄
cup Craisins

¹
/
₂
teaspoon sea salt

¹
/
₂
teaspoon freshly cracked black pepper

¹
/
₄
cup panko bread crumbs

¹
/
₄
cup water

1 ounce butter

Preheat the oven to 400°F and adjust a rack to the middle position.

Wash the chicken breasts, remove excess fat and tendons, pat them dry, and lay them flat. At the meaty part make an incision and split the chicken nearly in two, leaving a
¹
/
₄
-inch “spine” on the back side. Cover and set them aside in the refrigerator.

Heat the oil in a medium sauté pan just to the smoking point, then add the Romanesco cauliflower, capers, garlic, and onion. Turn the heat to medium.

Sauté over medium heat for 2 minutes, then add
¹
/
₂
ounce each of the sherry and the wine; continue to sauté for 2 minutes.

Bring the heat up to high, then add the mushrooms, rosemary, parsley, sage, thyme, and Craisins; continue to sauté for another 3 minutes, adding the remaining sherry and wine in the last minute.

Remove the mixture from the heat and place it in a small mixing bowl, add the salt, pepper, and panko, and incorporate with a light hand.

Remove the chicken breasts from the refrigerator, lay them flat, and open them so you have a “butterfly”; fill one side of each breast with half the stuffing, then cover with the opposite flap; gently pat any remaining filling on the top of the breasts.

Place the breasts in a small baking dish, add the water and butter, cover with a piece of foil, and bake in the preheated oven for 30 minutes.

Remove from the oven and check the temperature (the internal center reading should be 165°F).

Plate with a quinoa salad and life is sublime.

Notes

no sweatshop chicken

size matters—bigger takes longer

use mushrooms that inspire you; their earthiness will always shine through

be seasonal with your vegetables

adjustments may be necessary

most important . . . make this recipe yours; after all, it's for you—peace

Revelations of the Final Week

H
ome stretch! I could almost smell October 1 like a horse smells the stable. In Spanish they call it
querencia
—a wonderful word for that longing we feel, when stressed, for home or turf, stable or lair—for that place where we rest and gather strength. After a long ride,
querencia
fuels a last burst as the worn-out horse gallops to the barn.

In week four, my
querencia
was toast. With cheese. And certainly nuts.

I actually made a list of my sweet (and salty and oily) weak spots, the “eating-home” I yearned for:

•
chocolate-covered almonds

•
a handful of nuts a day

•
nonwheat bread

•
cheese—but really good cheese as a flavor, not a food

•
dried fruit—prunes, apricots, raisins, figs, peaches

•
Mr. Mobley's sauce (a Whidbey delicacy) and/or goddess salad dressing

•
almond butter

•
stevia! (my natural alternative to artificial sweeteners)

Once written, that list seemed too short. Surely I'd need avocados. And crackers, three types. And rice and oatmeal. And . . .

At the same time, the constraints of September had wrung some precious insights out of me, and I wasn't about to toss those out once I opened the door again to the Industrial Cornucopia. I occupied myself in this last week with long journal entries and blog posts on the big picture of my very little picture of local eating. For me, seeing patterns and systems is almost as yummy as toast with melted cheese, so I relished—so to speak—this chance to mull it all over.

As I reflected on what had changed, I saw three levels: the objective report, the practical changes, and the spiritual tempering.

We'll start with the facts. The tallies and measurements. I totaled it all up and posted the following:

Ladies and Gentlemen, the Tallies Are In

I know you are waiting with bated breath to get the results of this month of 10-mile eating. Here are some highlights:

Weight: I lost six pounds. My average calories a day were 1,600 so that accounts for some of it. I'll bet that without grains I lost water weight—no swelling in hands and feet.

Cholesterol: Tricia's part of the bargain was to feed me. My part of the bargain, beyond not cheating, was to get my blood work done before and after the 10-mile diet experiment. So here's the numbers:

Total cholesterol down 3

HDL (good) up 7

LDL (bad) down 9

Risk ratio from 4.2 (about average) to 3.7 (low range)

These are the kind of numbers in a month that the doc says, “Whatever you are doing, keep doing it.”

Calories: Fifty percent of the calories came from Tricia (supplemented by my garden and some extras from friends). That's good news, bad news.

Good news is: Wow! That's a lot of food grown by the one little industrious Tricia.

The bad news is that without the extra milk, meat, honey, oil, and a little cheese, I'd have been definitely underfed.

Ahh, but the good news is, ALL the food except for the oil, salt, caffeine, and 30 little limes came from my 10 miles. That is very, very hopeful in terms of our ability to feed ourselves.

Ahh, but the bad news is that everyone who wants to eat this way would need to grow a big kitchen garden with plenty of squash and potatoes, and (except vegans) would need to at least be part of a chicken and goat/cow coop OR form a relationship with a grower who can provide this. Our current CSA and agricultural production couldn't feed us all—all year. Yet.

The good news is that just beyond my 10 miles up on Ebey's Prairie, people are growing grains and beans, and if there were more demand for such, I'm sure more land would be put into those crops. We do not need to do without bread! Or beans in our winter soups.

The bad news is that demographically we are an aging population, and if we don't find a way to attract and retain young farmers we will not be able to feed ourselves into our dotage.

The overall news is that we are actually on our way to at least partial food self sufficiency on the island if we would eat what we can grow here—and not insist on what cannot grow here. And if we commit to support our producers by buying from them, especially during the transition as an integrated food system develops here. And if we are wise about what we need from 100 miles and 300 miles and 1000 miles—we actually can map our food system against our food needs—and begin to actually address the challenge Pam set before us and all eat more than one month a year.

Taking Stock

For the sake of the grand experiment, Tricia and I kept track of the food she gave me and the food I acquired within (and beyond) my ten miles. I ate nearly 50,000 calories that month. Sounds like a lot when you think in terms of days, but divided by 30 that's about 1,650 a day. A tenth of that total was milk! Half was meat and eggs. I drank three cups of oil for 3,500 calories, and two and a half cups of honey for 2,500.

All this is sobering on two accounts. One is that I eat a lot. I can start to see how I'll die having passed six tons of food through my alimentary canal. The other is that without my exotics and 10-mile extras, I would have consumed only 750 calories a day. You can see why it takes a complete food system to feed a village—not industrial monocrops, not just backyard vegetables. Later, in February, I would add grains and beans. With those I could have had adequate calories without any animal products, but even so, I saw the level of focus and intention it would take to feed the villages of Whidbey from the farms and ranches of Whidbey—and that much would need to change to make food a shared priority.

Then I assessed the changes I'd made and thought would last.

They say you create a new habit by faithfully doing it for twenty-one days. Indeed. The 10-mile diet had settled into a routine, and I was satisfied with it. In twenty-one days I'd turned my cooking and eating around. I had

•
restocked my kitchen with local foods.

•
learned to cook formerly overlooked foods, like turnips and kohlrabi.

•
pulled out my old pressure cooker and Foley food mill and put them to work.

•
learned what it takes to make flour and would forevermore bless the hands that grow, harvest, thresh, grind, and package what before seemed a lowly food, best consumed as sourdough toast.

•
learned to make zackers and zookies, though I was sure I'd revert to toast on October 1.

•
learned to make butter, which went from miracle in week one to standard practice by now.

•
developed not just a tolerance of but a real taste for raw milk and ultrafresh greens, and truly free-range chicken—worth every penny.

•
come to savor my food more because I knew what it took to grow it.

•
come to love my farmers, not just “know them,” as food activists suggest.

I had also rekindled my love of writing. At first the blog posts felt like a guilty pleasure. I had more important things to do. Every day, though, had been a revelation. Each insight made me hungry for the next, and for telling my readers what I'd learned. Readers? The blog had one follower at the beginning: Tricia. By the end of the month, though,
Yes!
magazine reposted the pick of the week's litter to their weekly distribution list. I was reading my food dictionary daily and watching TED talks and documentaries, all the while presuming that this was a trifling sideline. I was like a committed bachelorette who'd stumbled into a relationship with the milquetoast in the apartment next door. Hmmm. Milk toast. Another food from childhood.

Retox

Even so, I presumed it would be a romance, not a marriage. I had no pretentions of changing my diet for good, but I wondered what would stick. Might I need some new guidelines once I took off the 10-mile corset, promises to myself about behaviors that would anchor the transformations when the tides turned and the old foods flooded my life? Here's what I went on to write:

I suspect I will never lose sight of my food system, and will weigh the source of a product—and the possibility of local substitution—as I shop.

I suspect I will now invest more dollars in my local food system—as a shopper and as an investor and as a donor. I know I can get factory-farmed chicken for
1
/
3
what I pay a local grower (i.e. friend), but I'd rather buy meat from my neighbors if possible. There is a principle called subsidiarity: Meet needs as close to home/source as possible and only go further afield if the solution isn't at hand. Yes, I do want to eat local meat, and if I eat less because it costs more, that's approved behavior in a range of diets. If I can't get local, well, I'll get regional.

I suspect I will also buy fair-trade products that aren't grown anywhere near me. Tea and coffee. Chocolate. I want to support local whether it is mine or a coffee bean grower in Colombia or Kenya. Relational eating and fair eating mean supporting farmers everywhere in staying on their land. Which isn't easy for them, because subsistence and sustainable farming is very, very hard work.

I suspect I will grow a very different garden next year. I have been a hobby gardener. Put some seeds in the ground and shout hallelujah if anything but kale and zucchini flourishes. I think I can plan a rotation for my four beds to produce more substantial and plentiful food. More carrots and beans. More herbs (rosemary, basil and oregano in enough quantity to dry for winter). Fennel for flavor. Beets, turnips and rutabagas to store for the winter. Potatoes. Potatoes. Potatoes. I'll get the winter squash in earlier so I will hopefully get more than three of them. I'd like to try parsnips too. And Roma tomatoes that are good for sauce. As for fruit, I now know I want an apple tree and an Italian plum tree. We just must have sweet.

Of course for very good reason I'll have lots of kale and zucchini and patty pan squash. That reason being—if all else fails, I have something from the soil.

The Missing Ingredient

Yet something was still missing from my local formula. What was it? I smacked my lips together as if my tongue were tasting for the elusive flavor.

Aah! People. Where were the people around the table in this new ethic of relational eating. Like so many of us solo people in our culture, I'd gotten used to solitary dining.

Eating alone was the downside of living alone, a state I love after thirty-five years of living cheek by jowl with a bunch of other people. The quiet. The dominion over my choices. Being the mistress of my time. Taking in only the chatter I choose through e-mail, phone calls, and my trips down into Langley for food, mail, and conversation.

It turns out that I am not alone—so to speak. Solo living is an up-and-coming lifestyle. There are more than 32 million of us free to dine with a spoon in front of the fridge.

Families don't fare that much better. Less than 60 percent of families with teens manage even five sit-down dinners together a week. Research shows that family dinners do a world of good, positively affecting grades, reducing stress, improving nutrition, and cutting the risk of getting into drugs, smoking, or drinking. But even so, we can't seem to get ourselves on the same schedule.

Eric Klinenberg in his book
Going Solo
points out that in 1950, less than 10 percent of households were singles. Now 28 percent—and rising—of households are singles. In most cities, that goes up to nearly 40 percent. In New York City it's 50 percent. Apparently this is what happens in countries with rising incomes, a good social-safety net, and greater economic independence for women. Population experts have learned that the best way to drive down births is to give women economic independence. Now we're seeing that going to another level, with millions of women, like me, discovering they like to be quirky—and alone. My friends still reassure me, “Don't worry, you'll meet someone,” as if my solitude were a burden. Even when I've “met someone,” I never thought it would be fun to have them underfoot.

But come dinnertime I always feel odd. Where are the other people around the table? After thirty-five years in community with a family dinner at 6:30 every night, eating without savoring conversation is not as nourishing.

I wondered how this 10-mile diet might affect my solo eating—if I would now broaden out again to feeding others, to breaking bread. Why, besides living alone, did I not share meals with other?

Busy Day, Busy Day, No Time to Make a Friend

I—like the majority of my friends and many families, apparently—am busy, busy, busy. I don't even have time for inviting friends, it seems, much less preparing a meal for them. Unknown minions in kitchens and factories cook for us. Prepackaged meals and take-out meals allow us all to eat without cooking. Putting dinner on the table is as quick as calling for pizza or buying a preroasted chicken at the market. It's less of a social occasion. Is it also more of an overeating occasion? Certainly I tend to eat more when no one is watching. Do others? Is there any correlation between living alone and obesity?