Queen Honeybea

Perfect Hot Chocolate

2012-01-26T20:31:00.002-05:00

Two posts in one day, I know. But I really felt like I wanted to quickly share this little recipe I just whipped up for a single cup of hot chocolate.

Tiffany has been hard at work on her biology lab homework for the past three hours. This comes on top of the entire day she spent yesterday in her pajamas, laptop planted on the ottoman and her books spread over every upholstered surface in our living room. She's a student and man I remember those days. Except that Tiffany is a much better undergraduate student than I was. So as a little kingdom, phylum, class, order, uh... yeah, we'll take a break there for a little pick-me-up in a cup.

Hot Chocolate--Straight Up, One Cup.

1 TBS. organic semi-sweet chocolate chips
3/4 cup low-fat grass fed milk
1 TBS. grass fed half & half
1 1/2 TBS. organic cane sugar
1 TBS. dutch cocoa powder
1/2 tsp. vanilla
6 or 7 grains of coarse sea salt, or literally the tiniest pinch you could manage of regular salt

In a small sauce pot, over medium-low heat, lightly melt the chocolate chips. It will take probably less than 30 seconds.

Add all of the rest of the ingredients and whisk, turning the heat up to medium-high, until the hot chocolate is completely combined and just barely begins to bubble. It will take one or two minutes. Don't let it boil.

Pour into your cup and warm someone up, or yourself. Or double, triple, etc. the recipe to make enough for a crowd.

Enjoy! And always remember to eat well and buy local. Goodnight, folks.

A Few Little Foodie Things...

2012-01-26T09:30:00.000-05:00

I don't know what's up lately with rainy days and me blogging. Perhaps it's easier to rationalize staying in my pajamas until 10am (I know, we're talking rebellion there), when it is cold and I can hear the water rushing down the gutter just outside my second story window. Perhaps I'm more inspired on dreary days. Whatever the reason, I thought today with the chilly drizzle and some leisurely time at home would be a good opportunity to post a few little foodie-esque things I've been doing lately.

Tiffany and I seem to have hit a peak in the frequency with which we visit Casa Nueva in Athens. I think this sort of happened by accident, but it's been glorious each and every time. There are exactly two restaurants in Athens, Ohio (or all of Southeast Ohio really) where I can sit down and order anything off the menu without hesitancy, questions or guilt. Casa is one of those restaurants. I've written about it before, but in case you've missed those posts, Casa labels itself as "the locavore's solution." I know that everything I eat at Casa was either produced locally, and if not, then produced sustainably and ethically, without additives or other mysterious food components that I try so hard not to consume anymore. It's wonderful. Oh... and there's booze, too. Lot's of it.

Our first trip was for Open Doors dance night a couple of Saturdays ago. After downing a bowl of their seasonal Blueberry-Chipotle salsa, intermittently with sips of a house margarita, I had a fantastic plate of seasonal enchilada. Corn tortilla, wrapped around locally raised black beans from Shagbark Seed & Mill company (the same company that supplies the tortilla chips made from Morgan County corn), local seasonal greens and squash, Laurel Valley Creamery's Cora cheese, and peanut-soy marinated tofu. It was heavenly in all possible aspects, especially my dining partner.

Last Saturday dawned to illuminate our first real winter storm of the season. In Northeast Ohio where I was born and raised, I would've woken to inches upon inches of snow. In Southeast Ohio, it takes an extra special kind of cold to make the precipitation turn to dusty flakes. More likely, those inches and inches of snow fall as half an inch of rain, and when the temperature drops below freezing, that amount of rain turns into a quarter inch thick sheet of ice that entraps absolutely everything. After forty minutes of unearthing my car like a Titan from the dirt and depths below, it was driving ready. The trip to Athens that afternoon was precarious, probably dangerous, but contently peaceful. I was alone on the slush coated roads, saline and gray. It took me twice as long, but facilitated my quiet thoughts as I slowly navigated the slippery slopes. The solitary trip reminded me of the days before cars, before salt trucks and black top roads, when a storm like this would've kept the cold-hardened settlers in their homes for days and days.

You know what nostalgia like that does to me. When I arrived in Athens I wanted nothing more than the reminiscent comfort of a cast-iron skillet, sizzling simple comfort food, and a hot cup of coffee. I found that at the Village Bakery, my other locavorian haunt. They delivered the perfect meal, sticking to my ribs, tenderly warming my heart, the simplest of contentment. A plate with two bacon grease-browned over easy eggs, quick fried salty, smoky ham slices, and thick country wheat bread toasted, married with a small vessel of yellow Amish butter, nothing more than cream and salt. It was the perfect lunch for the quiet, old, winter day.

Then this past Tuesday rolled around. Last week I interviewed for a position at Ohio University in Athens. It was the opportunity I've been seeking for so long. I got a call on Tuesday morning with an offer, and with great joy and overwhelming relief I accepted it. In just over three weeks, I'll be starting my new job in the School of Nursing at Ohio University and I couldn't be more excited or grateful. Tiffany knew as soon as she heard the news that we'd be trekking to Athens again that evening, to celebrate of course! Back at Casa Nueva we arrived shortly before the restaurant itself opened, so we got to spend some time in their den-like bar, dark, warmly wood paneled, with bright-eyed windows on either side. I had a fantastic micro brew called Bach from Rivertown Brewing Company in Cincinnati. I love Ohio beer. In fact, I love all things Ohio.

Finally, in the world of foodie sorts of things, I recently took on a new project. I can't say much about it, but what I can say is that I'm sending letters and care packages to an American soldier stationed overseas, until they return home. It's been a wonderfully fulfilling project so far, and essentially the perfect activity for me. I am, admittedly, pretty damn good at compiling care packages and it's something I really enjoy. I have a list of items that soldiers often ask for, and one of those items was trail mix. After perusing the shelves of ready made trail mix at Jo-Ad Specialty Market in McConnelsville, I decided instead to compile my own. Buying each ingredient in bulk, I came home and tossed them all together in an enormous Tupperware bowl, and when it was all mixed, I have enough for at least three more care packages. I wanted to send the soldier things that would be good for their body, like raw almonds, raw pumpkin seeds, and dried cranberries. But I also wanted it to be a treat, maybe a sweet reminder of home in a small way, so I also included unsulphered dried pineapple, yogurt covered mini-pretzels, and two kinds of raisins. I packed up about two pounds and added it to steadily filling box on my kitchen table.

Syrup & Buckwheat Gingerbread

2012-01-12T10:37:00.001-05:00

Chilly rain drops blanketed the valley yesterday. From the early morning fog to evening's fall and into the night it rained hard and soft, gray clouds hovering seemingly motionless above the rooftops. From my office window I can see the hills and river valley off to the west, and can watch the weather roll in and disappear above the window pane, passing over the building and on to Marietta, and beyond. Out that window yesterday, the weather did not move. It rained drearily all day, and for me, with chilly winter drizzle comes the desire for nostalgic bakery.

Lately I've had an overwhelming need to get back to basics. I tell Tiffany over and over again how much I want to reconnect with the past, with wood stoves, with doing things by hand (why I haven't bought a bread maker), with simplicity in ingredients, and perhaps in doing so I will quietly work my way into the life I imagine will bring me the greatest satisfaction: simple and free. With that in mind, yesterday's weather seemed like the perfect rationale to make something warming and antique in my seasoned cast iron skillet.

Last fall I created my own gingerbread recipe, replacing refined sugar withnatural sweeteners, white flour with whole-wheat, and making it whole-heartedlymine. In cold, rainy January, the smell of baking gingerbread is like radiantperfume, awaking the senses from their mid-winter slumber. I decided to revampthe recipe once again, and after tasting the resulting flavor and crumb, havedecided that for now, it is Queen Honeybea perfection.

Now, it's not sweet by sugar-coated standards. When you eat the way I do,you learn that sweetness doesn't have to be overly present to be satisfying.Peanut butter will do it for me these days, and dried cranberries: that's allthe "sweet," I need sometimes. If you want a sweeter gingerbread, upthe maple syrup and honey. If you're so inclined, you could even add a 1/4 or1/2 cup of organic sugar. We like it just the way it is, and it is married wellwith hot coffee or cold milk. Remember, everyone benefits when you buy localand eat well.

Queen Honeybea's
Syrup& Buckwheat Gingerbread

2 cups organic whole-wheat flour
1/4 cup organic buckwheat flour
1 tsp. baking soda
1/2 tsp. natural sea salt
2 tsps. ground ginger
1 tsp. ground cinnamon
1/4 tsp. ground cloves
1/4 tsp. ground nutmeg
1/3 cup extra-virgin olive oil
1/3 cup pure, local maple syrup
1/3 cup local raw honey
1/2 cup dark molasses
1 tsp. pure vanilla extract
1 large, overripe banana, mashed
1 cup grass-grazed, organic milk
1 local, free-range egg
2 tbs. candied ginger, chopped
1/4 cup organic thompson's raisins
2 tbs. organic butter

1. Preheat the oven to 350 degrees. Place a 9 inch round cast iron skilleton the middle shelf of the oven to heat thoroughly.

2. In a large bowl, whisk together the whole-wheat flour, buckwheat flour,soda, salt, ginger, cinnamon, cloves and nutmeg. Set aside.

3. In a medium size bowl, whisk together the oil, maple syrup, honey,molasses, vanilla, banana, milk and egg. Pour this mixture into the dry mixtureand fold together until just combined.

4. Fold in the candied ginger and raisins until evenly distributed.

5. Using an oven mitt, remove the hot skillet from the oven. Drop the 2 tbs.organic butter in the skillet. Once melted, swirl the butter around the skilletto evenly coat the bottom and sides.

6. Pour the gingerbread batter into the hot skillet. Return to the oven andbake for 35-40 minutes, until the top is a deep, dark brown and a toothpickinserted in the center comes out clean. Cool in the pan. Serve by cutting intowedges.

Banana Cream Pie

2011-12-31T14:14:00.001-05:00

Welcome 2012. I am rededicating myself to this blog, starting today. In the spirit of pursuing happiness, I will try to pay more attention to the simplest of things in (and occasionally out of) my kitchen that bring me the best kind of contented joy. Perhaps it has been regression in a way, but lately I have been wanting nothing more than bare satisfaction, a return to sweet romance preserved in Mason jars, to a love song baked into the grain of a pungent sourdough, to feeling exhaustion because I worked my hands, my back, my heavy legs, and not because of longing for living from behind a desk.

For several days now, an overstock of aging yellow bananas has been collecting on my red kitchen table. Loaves of banana bread are my traditional use of such excess, but this time I decided to make something I haven't made in ages, something simple, reminiscent of home (any one's home), and something that requires crafting: Banana Cream Pie. Is it healthy because it's low in calories and fat? No. It's healthy because it's made with the barest bones of natural, some local, ingredients. It's healthy because when you eat it, it should soothe your worries for just a moment.

The crust is half whole-wheat, half organic white, made flaky with homemade Snowville Creamery butter, coarse natural sea salt, and Tennessee whiskey. Inside it's layered with buttery yellow vanilla pudding, creamy and whipped together with Snowville Creamery dairy, organic cane sugar, cornstarch, deeply orange local free-range egg yolks, pure vanilla extract, local raw honey and a pad of butter for richness. Sandwiched between the layers of custard are slices of bananas, constructed just the way my Mom taught me. It's topped off with homemade Snowville whipped cream, sweetened with local raw honey and a few grains of sea salt. This is the purest, most simple banana cream pie, an heirloom, soul food for certain.

I hope for a joyous, productive new year for everyone. I'll be toting this pie with me to a party tonight to help ring in 2012 and my newly impassioned focus on pure and simple, old and honored, sweet and succulent. Salute.

Of love and cowgirls

2011-10-10T22:03:00.001-04:00

Southeastern Ohio may not be big sky country. It may not be the Black Hills, the rolling plains of Oklahoma's panhandle, or even close to being hundreds of thousands of lush green mountains, littered with geysers and the playground of thundering herds of bison or wild horses. What it is, or rather, what I have learned it to be after moving out of the Athens bubble and into the Appalachian foothills, is the home of some of the most dedicated farmers I know.

These are men and women who have had their hands on the rough hair of a warm, heavy breathing, soon-to-be mother as they anxiously await the arrival of a spring calf in the bitter strain of frozen beginnings, with March roaring in the distance. Most of them have told stories of heaving calves, year in and year out, over their shoulders, and like dedicated comrades, carrying the helpless newborns out of the icy muck and mud, to the warmth and safety of a bed laden with hay, and many nights spent sleeping in the arms of and under the watchful eye of a farmer. I know for a fact that most of the cattle owners, the beef and dairy farmers I now call my friends and loved ones, have more personal, intimate, familial relationships with their animals, their herds, than any John Wayne or legend of lore of the old West. These are real cowpeople--cowboys and cowgirls.

Last Wednesday night I had the great pleasure of being welcomed to the table of the Downs family. While this may not seem like anything different or out of the ordinary, as I spend many minutes, hours, days and nights with the Downs family, you will learn that if you pay particular attention to the ordinary, you find the extraordinary. As I sat around a wooden, oval table under the glow of the yellow hew of lamps on a hanging fixture, I found myself noticing the treasures, the valuable moments that lie in the everyday comings and goings of an abundantly loving, hard-working, tightly knit family.

There were four generations around this table, something which I will likely never experience in my own family. There is no hierarchy in this family, as I was reminded that the teasing and harassment is equal opportunity. However, Elma Downs knows her family like a map she's honed in her mind, like directions to a destination she's followed so many times, she can see the handwriting as she makes the next turn. I think we often overlook the people in our lives who create our every day, our ordinary, the continuity we come to take for granted. Elma is one of those people. Planning meals, cleaning house, packing lunches, knowing when to buy new rugs, when to buy new socks for her husband, when to pick the green beans, how to pack the tomatoes, where to store the potatoes, how to crochet the blankets her children and grandchildren will throw over their laps mindlessly for years to come, Elma is the keeper of the pace of life in the Downs family. My maternal grandmother was the same for her family. I'd have given anything to have known Erma Turrin, and I see the stories of her reflected in so many ways in Elma Downs. Being able to know Elma has been one of the most healing experiences of my life.

Elma's granddaughters Tiffany and Heather are modern day Annie Oakleys. They keep alive a work ethic, and an attitude of hospitable confidence that is unmatched by their suburban and urban counterparts. Humble but proud, outspoken but quiet, Heather embodies the long line of hard working mothers from which she descended. As she carefully balanced outbursts of laughter with her cousin Tiffany while carefully blowing on small spoonfuls of spaghetti to feed the hungry toddler that happily bounced in her high chair between them, Heather emanated the living, breathing energy that warmed the room where her family gathers to share meals every night. Her daughter Haylee is the fourth generation. At seventeen months old she knows how to say "cow," and has a spitfire personality inherited undoubtedly from the bright, often fiercely loyal, but playfully loving and deeply devoted family into which she is being raised.

And if you don't already know how I feel about Tiffany Downs, then perhaps you don't know me very well. Not too long ago she expressed to me that she has been missing her "country," side. She spends most nights with me in town, most days at college, and the in between time she spends in the car driving between those two places and her job. She doesn't often go home, slip on her boots, and head out to the woods, or through the fields and trails of her family's 300 acre farm, followed only by three faithful dogs and the silence of her own thoughts. And she definitely doesn't often get to set out hay bales, or tend cows, or just tool around in the garage with her Dad and his collection of Chevrolet's. I love her country side, and she may not know it, but she'll never lose it. She may feel like it's somewhere else, like it has faded to a flickering dim, but it will never go away. I hear that genuine hospitality every time she speaks to someone she's never met. It's embedded within her and perhaps, much like my fly or my city swagger, it just needs to be channeled. She's been sporting a new pair of Wranglers lately, and plaid shirts and a sliver studded belt. Perhaps now her outside matches the inside, which she'll never lose.

I love spending nights around the dinner table with the Downs family, and I love spending my days and nights and hours and minutes, my short conversations and my laughs, my struggles and my accomplishments with Tiffany. They may have taught me a lot about country, but more than anything they've reinforced my belief in the goodness of humanity, our universal understanding of love and the strength of our families, no matter who sits at our dining tables. When I think of cowgirls, and cowboys, I'll always think of them first.

In my feeble attempt to help Tiffany feel as country as she knows she is, I made Gingerbread Cowgirls. In my feeble attempt at making cookies healthy, I spiffed them up Queen Honeybea style. They're full of whole grains, rich local honey, and homey winter spices. They made my entire house smell like Christmas, and they've lasted for days. I frosted them with a simple mixture of confectioners sugar, lemon extract and enough Snowville Half & Half to reach the consistency I wanted for piping. I hope you enjoy this recipe, and always remember to buy local and eat well.

Queen Honeybea's
Whole Grain Gingerbread Cowgirls
(makes 3 dozen or so medium sized cookies)

1/2 cup of organic butter, softened
1/2 cup of raw sugar
1/4 cup blackstrap molasses
1/4 cup local honey
1 tsp. vanilla
1 local, free-range egg
2 1/4 cups organic whole-wheat flour
3/4 cup of organic buckwheat flour
2 TBS. oat bran
1 1/2 tsp. baking powder
1/2 tsp. sea salt
2 tsp. ground ginger
1 tsp. ground cinnamon
1/4 tsp. ground cloves

1. Either lightly grease, or cover a large cookie sheet with parchment paper and set aside.

2. In the bowl of a stand mixer, or in a large bowl with a hand held mixer, beat together the butter and raw sugar until soft and incorporated. Beat in the molasses, honey, and vanilla until combined. Beat in the egg.

3. In a separate bowl, combine the whole-wheat flour, buckwheat flour, oat bran, baking powder, sea salt, ginger, cinnamon and cloves. Gradually add this to the wet mixture, beating on low until all of the dry mixture is worked in and a cohesive dough is formed. Wrap in plastic and refrigerate for at least 1 hour.

4. Pre-heat your oven to 375 degrees. On a lightly floured surface, roll the chilled dough out to 1/4 inch thickness. Cut into shapes with cookie cutters of your choice and place on greased or parchment lined baking sheets. Bake for 8-10 minutes, until edges just begin to brown. Cool for a minute on the pan, then remove to a wire rack to cool completely. Repeat this procedure until you've used all of the dough.

5. Once the cookies are completely cooled, you can eat them as they are, or frost them with a mixture like what I described above, or other cookie frosting that you enjoy.

Spelt Pumpkin Bread with Bourbon Soaked Raisins

2011-09-29T20:26:00.001-04:00

As soon as the crisp chill of fall air can be felt and also can be smelled, inhaled, breathed deeply infused with the scent of crushed dryed leaves and fallen pine cones, as soon as I step out my front door and find myself swaddled by a cool autumn breeze, that's when my brain recalls fondly the warm, earthy orange hue of pumpkin.

Pumpkin is one of my favorite vegetables, and so I attempt to incorporate it as often as possible into my fall and winter diet. Let's face it, as a locavore I will be eating pumpkin from now through the first frost and beyond as I freeze quarts of starchy puree. If you're not a pumpkin fan, let me try to sell you on this recipe.

Spelt pumpkin bread with bourbon soaked raisins would be an indistinguishable pumpkin source to anyone who did not know to taste keenly for the familiar bite of the overgrown squash. You could easily pass it off as spice bread, but if you're like me, you'd know that the moistness, the density, the heavy wet crumb of the bread is only made by one thing: pumpkin, period. Bananas don't make bread like this, nor does zucchini or applesauce or anything else you might try. Pumpkin quick bread has the best consistency, not to mention its spices are reminiscent of a pumpkin pie and a slice will keep you from breakfast to lunch with a hearty dose of heart healthy spelt.

My recipe calls for pumpkin puree. Obviously, I would use a fresh pie pumpkin. Making pumpkin puree is simple, and one pie pumpkin will make enough for two recipes of this bread, or for other pumpkin recipes you're toying with trying. I heat my oven to 400 degrees. Then, I cut out the top and scoop the seeds and seedy pulp out of my pumpkin. I set the entire pumpkin on a sheet of parchment paper on a baking sheet. I roast the pumpkin for about 30 minutes, or until the pumpkin flesh is soft and wilted. Then, allow the pumpkin to cool and scoop the soft pumpkin flesh out from the skin and mash it. Pumpkin puree!

I am embarking, beginning just this week, on writing a cookbook. I want this cookbook to be a collection of not just what I eat, but how I eat. It should be a gospel, of sorts, of my food philosophy, the sustenance and the soul food. This recipe will be included, for sure, with subtitutions and ideas on how to make it your own. That's the key to me, creativity and interest in the kitchen. Without those things, we are a hopeless nation of fast-food addicts. I hope many more recipes are to come for the Queen Honeybea cookbook. Enjoy this one, and remember to buy local and eat well.

Spelt Pumpkin Bread with Bourbon soaked Raisins

¼ cup golden raisins
¼ cup organic dark raisins
2 TBS. whiskey or bourbon

12 oz. pumpkin puree , 1 ½ cups
½ cup pure maple syrup
¼ cup raw sugar
1 egg plus 1 egg white
¼ cup extra virgin olive oil
1 tsp. pure vanilla extract
1 TBS. apple cider vinegar

1 cup organic white spelt flour
½ cup whole wheat spelt flour
2 tsps. baking soda
½ tsp. sea salt
1 tsp. cinnamon
½ tsp. ground ginger
1/8 tsp. ground cloves

1. Pre-heat your oven to 350 degrees. Butter and flour a 9 inch metal loaf pan and set aside.

2. In a small sauce pan, over medium-high heat, combine both kinds of raisins with the whiskey or bourbon. Bring this mixture to a boil, simmer for one minute, then remove the pan from the heat, cover it and set it aside.

3. In a large mixing bowl, beat together with a whisk the pumpkin puree, maple syrup, egg and egg white. Slowly drizzle the olive oil in as you beat with the whisk to incorporate it completely and slowly. Continue until all the oil is worked into the wet mixture. With a spatula, fold in the vanilla and apple cider vinegar. Set aside.

4. In a smaller mixing bowl combine the white spelt flour, the whole wheat spelt flour, the baking soda, sea salt, cinnamon, ginger and cloves. With the spatula, fold all but 2 TBS. of this mixture into the wet mixture to make a lumpy, just barely moistened batter.

5. Use the lid of the sauce pan with the raisins to drain the excess bourbon directly into the batter by keeping the raisins in the pot. Toss the soaked raisins with the reserved 2 TBS. of flour mixture, then fold them and the excess bourbon gently into the batter.

6. Pour the batter into the pan and bake for 40-50 minutes, until a toothpick inserted in the center comes out clean or nearly clean, and the center of the loaf seems set.

7. Remove it from the oven and tip the hot loaf pan onto its side to cool for 10 minutes. Then run a knife around the edges of the bread and remove it from the pan. Cool completely.

Serve the bread completely cooled the next day, when the flavors have married.

Apple Crisp

2011-09-16T15:02:00.000-04:00

Ouch. July 8th. That was a long time ago.

Since that time, I have started a new job, and also 3 weeks ago began my graduate program at Methesco. Oh, and I started writing a bi-weekly column for the local paper. I'm kind of busy these days.

However, for my own sanity I spent yesterday afternoon blissfully preparing food in my lately neglected kitchen. I picked up a local butternut squash, some local apples and apple cider and a box of free-range organic chicken stock at Jo-Ad Specialty Store in downtown McConneslville. God bless that place. I'd have to drive miles to shop without it.

The weather yesterday was perfect for homey, warm food and a few small, fall indulgences. It was a crisp, cool 63 degrees, clouds and sun battling it out all day long in the skies above, and my kitchen windows cracked ever so slightly to feel the cool breeze every now and again as I whisked from stove to refrigerator to sink. Bliss, I tell you.

I had taken some lamb rib chops from my freezer that morning which I had purchased from Shew's Orchard, right here in Morgan County. I smeared them with a mixture of mashed fresh garlic, sea salt, coarse cracked black pepper, dry rosemary and ground thyme. I seared each side, then added 2 TBS. of dry white wine and 1/2 cup of chicken stock. I let the chops, and the pan juice reduce by half. I plated them up and placed the bowl of juice on the table. We ate them "au jous" style, dipping each piece of tender, pink lamb into the juice then racing it into our mouths before we dripped. My first time ever cooking lamb and it was perfection.

To go along with that (because my theme lately is "clean out my freezer in order to put more food into it"), I sauteed then braised red and green cabbage with garlic salt, pepper and a pinch of sugar and water. I removed that from the pan, then seared off 10 handmade pierogies from the West Side Market. I combined them with the cabbage, and it was like a bite of home as soon as I took a bite. Cleveland is so fabulously Polish, pierogies will always make me a little homesick.

With the butternut squash I bought, I cut off the rind and seeded it. I diced it into half inch cubes, which I tossed with olive oil, maple syrup, sea salt, cinnamon and rosemary. I baked it in a greased casserole pan for about an hour at 350 degrees. It was candied and delicious when we popped it out.

Finally the indulgence portion of the meal. I made 3 baby apple crisps in my stackable mugs. I have this problem with dessert. Had I made a big apple crisp in a square or rectangular pan, we would've been obligated to eat it all. That would require more than one helping over a period of several days. I just can't eat dessert like that anymore. It really is a special treat for me, so small, single servings are perfect.

I wanted to make it just like my Mom's, as I was already feeling nostalgic yesterday. I sliced 2 apples thinly, and layered them with golden raisins in the small, ceramic mugs. Then I combined 1/2 cup of organic brown sugar (sucanat), 1/4 cup of whole white wheat flour (you can use any kind of flour), 1/2 cup of organic rolled oats, 1 teaspoon of cinnamon, 1/4 teaspoon of freshly grated nutmeg, and a pinch of sea salt. I cut in 1/4 cup of homemade Snowville Creamery butter, which I then worked in with my fingers until it almost resembled crumbly cookie dough. I packed 1/3 of this mixture on top of every mug of apples. I baked them at 350 degrees for 40 minutes to an hour, or until the crisp top is dark and golden, and the apples are bubbling and soft. Use a knife to see if the apples are cooked through.

The smell of cinnamon wafted out my kitchen windows and around the block. This is what I strive to achieve every time I cook. I want the whole neighborhood to know that good food can be found at my house, that the smell of cinnamon is coming from Betsy's house and she's probably at it again. I want to be the house with the pie in the windowsill and dinner on the table. Yesterday I made that happen, and it was good for my soul.

Happy Fall! Remember to buy local and eat well, with love from Queen Honeybea.

Cowboy Crackers

2011-07-08T19:15:00.013-04:00

Back to food. That's been my theme of the past few days. Getting back to food. I think it's safe to say that the past couple of months have been rather hectic, stressful and tiring for me. One job ended, and while I was meant to be winding down and taking some time off, I had an opportunity I couldn't pass up. I'm starting a new job on Monday, and am fresh off of a week spent in gorgeous Cleveland, Ohio visiting my family and friends. My blog has been shamefully neglected and so I will say it again and then not another word about my personal life: Back to food.

While in Cleveland I found myself at an old haunt. My Mom, girlfriend and I went to the End of the Commons General Store in Mesopotamia, Ohio. It's a lot more exciting now than it was the last time I visited, but it still carries the same old stand-by products in bulk foods and supplies. Every time I visit I have to peruse the cookie cutter selection. I will never have enough cookie cutters, never. This trip I picked up three new additions to my collection, a trio of sorts. I found a horseshoe, a cowperson, and the silhouette of a horse's head. Cowboy cookies were definitely in order...well, sort of.

One of the drawbacks of my leaving home is also having to leave my diet locked tidily up in my little duplex. When I say my "diet," I mean the way I eat, my food philosophy. Spending nine days at my parents' house, while my Mom makes great efforts to accommodate me (which do not go unnoticed), always results in feeling a little bad about myself, and my body not feeling quite up to par. Even the smallest addition of processed foods, preservatives and anything really atypical of my usual local-seasonal-organic diet can have a noticeable impact on my body image, and how my body actually feels. One thing that always seems to happen on my trips home is a dessert smorgasbord. Therefore, last night when I unpacked my brand new trio of John Wayne's favorite cookie cutters and could not resist the temptation to use them, I had to get clever.

My time at home made me come to another somewhat new decision. I want to eat as little in the way of processed food as possible. Yes, this is something I already do, but I want to go a little bit further with it. I'm going to try to start making my own snacks. Snacks have always been a point of anxiety for me. When most people imagine snacks, the list of things they imagine is almost entirely processed. I am the same way. So, after nibbling on a couple of Barbara's brand Oatmeal Animal Cookies, I had an idea.

I decided to make oatmeal crackers, cut out into my cowboy shapes. The keyword here is "crackers." That is precisely what they are. With the addition of more sweetener, they might be able to flirt with cookie, but as they are now, they are simply crackers-not savory, not sweet, but delicious. I tried to make them as healthy as possible while also making them taste good. I think I succeeded. The crunchy, dense cut outs are packed with oatmeal, oat bran, whole wheat, spelt, and flax. They contain no butter or eggs, and rely on sunflower seed butter and olive oil for their texture. I jazzed them up with some molasses for flavor, sweetness and nutrients, and some spices reminiscent of a gingersnap. When it was all said and done, I smeared a lucky horse's head with my homemade black raspberry jam and called it my two o'clock pick me up. It was delicious and satisfying and I will be making these again when my bag is almost empty. Enjoy, and always remember to eat well and buy local.

Queen Honeybea's
Cowboy Crackers
Makes 3 dozen large crackers

1/2 cup organic rolled oats
1/2 cup local organic milk
2 TBS. sunflower seed butter
1 TBS. olive oil
2 TBS. local raw honey
1 TBS. molasses
1 1/2 tsp. baking powder
1/4 tsp. salt
1/2 cup organic whole wheat pastry flour
1/2 cup organic all purpose flour
1/4 cup whole wheat spelt flour
2 TBS. oat bran
1 TBS. flax seeds
1/2 tsp. cinnamon
1/4 tsp. ground ginger
1/8 tsp. ground cloves

1. In a small sauce pan, heat milk to a simmer but not a boil. Add the oats and cool completely.

2. In a large bowl, beat together with a wooden spoon the sunflower butter, olive oil, honey and molasses. Add the oatmeal mixture and beat to combine.

3. In a medium size bowl, combine the flours, oat bran, flax seeds, cinnamon, ginger and cloves. Add all at once to the wet ingredients and mix to make a stiff dough.

4. On a floured pastry cloth, roll half the dough out to 1/8 inch thickness. Cut into shapes with cookie cutters, or cut into strips, squares or triangles for quicker, less intricate crackers. Place on a cookie sheet lined with parchment paper and bake at 425 degrees for 9 minutes.

5. Remove to a wire rack and cool completely. Repeat until all of the dough is gone and all the crackers are baked.

For my Dad

2011-06-18T20:46:00.009-04:00

Father’s Day is here, and yet another year is passing where I feel like I’m not acknowledging my father on this day nearly as much as I acknowledged my mother on her special day just a month ago. It’s not news to anyone that Father’s Day is Mother’s Day’s red-headed step-child. Why? Perhaps because American masculinity can’t be afforded the kind of emotionally charged tribute we pay to our mothers. Perhaps it’s because American fathers are changing, and American fatherhood is being redefined in both good and bad ways. Perhaps it’s because American motherhood seems to be getting harder, while participatory American fatherhood is dying and we unnecessarily praise American fathers who act like real parents (what a notion). Father’s Day should be just as important as Mother’s Day. Perhaps we ought to just have a “Parents Day,” where we celebrate the people who have lovingly reared us, whether they are our fathers and mothers, uncles, aunts, grandparents, neighbors, friends, daycare workers, etc. However, just like I said on Mother’s Day, not all of those people are my Mother. It is no different for me on Father’s Day. I have incredible parents and incredible parent figures in my life, but I only have one Father, which may be more than some and less than others, but at the end of the day I have one and he has solely defined the word “father,” for me, something for which I will be eternally grateful.

I am a writer, an emotional creature who empathizes greatly and feels deep compassion. That makes me a natural lover of stories. As I sit here thinking about Father’s Day, and specifically my father, I have realized that I have always thought of my father in the context of a story. My father (in all seriousness) is Forest Gump. My father is a textbook American story. While America’s collection of stories that compose our values and our innate sense of connection is massive, my father’s stands out to me…maybe because he’s my father, or maybe because it embodies the tenants on which Americans found their lives, like a cornerstone. While my father’s story is far too long, detailed, deep and broad to share in this small tribute, I would like him to know what it has meant to me, how it has shaped me, and how he has shaped me, how no one else could’ve done that, how I wouldn’t be the person I am without him and how my deepest roots are set in his soil.

My Dad built his own life, and in turn he built ours. My father came from very little. I obviously cannot know what his childhood was like, but the few times I’ve heard my father tell more than just a generalized story, what I imagine is a far cry from the childhood I knew myself. He did not grow up in a family like the one with which he was blessed, the one where he was known as “Dad.” In order to explain to someone what the term “self-made man,” means, I would tell my father’s story. I talk over and over again, boastfully proud of my Italian heritage, of the stock from which I come. I don’t think my Dad knows how overwhelmed with pride I feel when I am reminded of him. Two people created me, two people reared me, two people poured themselves into shaping my life. I am the product of two stories, two lives lived, two great histories. While my father’s traits may not be as readily identifiable in my day to day, he is permanently there. I will strive every single day to embody some semblance of my father’s work ethic. I know what success means because of my father. I understand the word “father,” as this man. I want to provide for a family the way my father did. I want it to be unquestionable that I am his daughter when I am seen learning new things, broadening my mind, reading, and trying to be the best version of myself that I can. I want my patronage to be easily recognizable when I am constantly changing, growing, working, providing, appreciating, giving, loving and simply in my contentment.

What I want my father to know more than anything is that to me, he managed to mold himself into the kind of father that stands out amongst his peers, and it has not gone unappreciated that he did this in spite of his role model. It is difficult for me to show my appreciation for my father without using heavily gendered expressions that don’t in any way apply to our relationship. This is how we’ve built fathers in America. I am not a “Daddy’s girl.” My father is not a “man’s man.” My father is a man, but my father is really an exemplary person. It isn’t that I don’t appreciate his masculinity, but rather that I don’t want my father to just be a “good guy.” I don’t want him to be measured on a scale where a “good guy,” is no more than a man who doesn’t do negative or destructive things. My father is not simply par. I want him to be known as good. Period.

I would like to think that part of this “good,” that my father is has been engrained into me. While my mother may have created my day to day, my father supplemented my character with his stories, his opinions and his innate diplomacy. My Dad is a Vietnam War vet, yet he is the most passive person I know. I have heard, to the point where it is now jokingly laughed at, since I was a small child that “War is chaos,” and that, “You do it for your buddy.” While those may be two sentiments that could easily go in one ear and out the other, the larger message in them has always resonated with me. “You do it for your buddy,” is a part of my Dad’s character. I learned what it means to be self-sacrificing and charitable from him. My Dad is not the typical patriotic war veteran, but rather a man who questions the good in all things, seeks it out, and tries to make it achievable for his neighbors, even within and beyond his own service. He has always taught me that giving back is a pinnacle part of our experience on Earth. I hold that firmly in my heart.

This Father’s Day I want my Dad to know that he isn’t just “father,” as defined by our culture or society, or in Webster’s Dictionary, or by someone else’s expectations of him as a man. He is my father. He shaped me, and to me, he is in my foundation and I cannot truly express how grateful I am for that. A day will never pass where I am not grateful for my father going to work, for paying our bills, for our blessed and privileged life, for being my Mother’s best friend, for checking my oil, for washing my car, for helping me move boxes from one place to another every summer, or for following me for five miles at 4:30 in the morning through a blizzard to make sure I got onto the freeway ramp safely. While I rely heavily on words to show my feelings, one thing my father has taught me, uniquely from anyone else, is how to show them without the words, but to convey the very same message: I love you. Happy Father’s Day, Dad.

From my first few days...to twenty-five years later. My Dad has always, always, always been there.

Memorial Day

2011-05-30T21:01:00.011-04:00

The grill was calling. I am as much a red-blooded, (who bleeds blue and green & white on different occasions) land loving American as the next person and even for me on Memorial Day, firing up my grill was clearly the only way to satisfy my carnivorous craving for flame kissed meat, dripping with tangy barbecue sauce. Add a micro brew perspiring in one hand and some fantastic company and we had ourselves a good ol' Yankee Doodle cook out.

For me, hamburgers and hot dogs are not the same. Nothing is really the same. I've taken to dedicated locavorism, and unwavering loyalty to all things natural and organic, and much of the food of my childhood and my recent past just doesn't do it for me anymore. A bun that is white, clammy and has the texture of play dough makes me wonder how I ever thought that was good for my body. No, this cookout had to be revamped Queen Honeybea style in order to suit both my body, and my soul in it's patriarchal claim to patriotism by cooking meat over fire.

This year's Memorial Day cookout was made up of myself, my girlfriend and our dear friend Mike. Mike and I mastered the meat department, and grilled up some ribs and chicken courtesy of King Family Farms in Athens, Ohio. I seasoned them well, baked them partially, then slathered them up with a local brew known as Bungtown BBQ sauce, from the makers of Bungtown Salsa. Check out the link to Bungtown below and read their awesome story of how they got their name. That's the kind of thing I live for!

On top of that we had pasta salad courtesy of Mike, Ohio Green Bean Casserole, Black Bean Brownies, and a heaping bowl of seriously addictive Shagbark Corn Tortilla Chips (made from Morgan County corn) and Frongranch Salsa. We drank beer, laughed, ate, laughed more, ate more, and by nightfall had experienced some fantastic fellowship.

I hope your Memorial Day was as relaxing, enjoyable, and refreshing as mine. Next year, look for some local meat, I promise it tastes better and helps your community. Always remember to eat well (even when binging on carnivorous, flesh and bone, American foods), and buy local.

Shagbark Corn Tortilla Chips and Frogranch Salsa. Addicting.

King Family Farm Spare Ribs and Chicken Thighs lathered up with Bungtown BBQ sauce.

Queen Honeybea’s
Bacon and Dill Pasta Salad

1 lb. organic whole-wheat short pasta (shells, macaroni, penne, farfalle, etc.)
1 cup cooked, chopped Canadian (or regular) bacon (5 slices of Canadian bacon)
3 large green onions, chopped green and white parts both
2 medium size local tomatoes, chopped
1 cup chopped local sugar snap peas
1 15oz can organic garbanzo beans, drained
¼ cup fresh dill, chopped roughly
2 TBS. chopped fresh sweet and red basil
1 TBS. chopped fresh cilantro

Dressing:
1 TBS. prepared Dijon mustard
1 TBS. prepared whole grain mustard
½ cup apple cider vinegar
1 TBS. balsamic vinegar
1 TBS. dried onion powder
1 tsp. garlic salt
½ tsp. salt
½ tsp. coarse ground black pepper
1 TBS. local honey
½ cup extra virgin olive oil

1. Boil pasta according to package directions to “al dente.” Drain well, and set aside.

2. In a large bowl, toss the bacon, green onions, tomatoes, snap peas, garbanzo beans, dill, basil and cilantro. Add the cooked pasta.

3. In a medium size bowl, whisk together the dressing ingredients except for the olive oil. Slowly drizzle the olive oil into the mustard mixture while whisking to incorporate until all the oil is added. Pour over the pasta salad and mix well. Refrigerate at least 4 hours, overnight is best.

Queen Honeybea's Bacon and Dill Pasta Salad

Sights and Tastes of Early Summer

2011-05-23T21:12:00.018-04:00

Yes, I am still here. After overwhelming myself by creating my own blogging deadlines and expectations, I needed some time off. I love writing about food. When it got to the point I resented it, temporarily, I needed to stop and start again when something began blooming inside of me, telling me things like "Betsy, this rhubarb is so beautiful, don't you just want to share it with the whole world and make them see how fantastic it is?" The answer to that very obscure internal question was Yes. Summer is arriving slowly and food ecstacy is becoming as abundant as sunshine.

Seasonal eating has been a challenge, but immensely rewarding. It has been a long winter of kale, chard, squash, potatoes, and thank heavens bag after bag after bag of greenhouse grown microgreens from Green Edge organics. At the first appearance of snap peas in early April, my girlfriend can attest to the child like delight I beamed as I skipped toward the table and snatched them up. Every week there has been something new, and it is very much like I am eating strawberries, asparagus and rhubarb for the very first time. Once you become as much of a seasonal eater as you can without dancing the line of malnourishment, you appreciate things so much more. Those first strawberries, while not overly sweet or juicy, were so pleasing to bite, to chew, taste and swallow. It's a sense of satisfaction only foodies know, but something from which I wish many more people could derive such simple joy.

Two weeks ago I was leisurely strolling through the breathtaking Athens Farmers Market with my list in hand, scribbled with all the usuals--Crumbs Bakery 10 Grain, Birdseed Bagels, Lettuce, Laurel Valley Country Jack, etc.--when I glanced over at a woman carrying a beautifully woven basket over her forearm. Inside the basket my eyes spotted clear, plastic quart sized boxes glowing red from the seed studded, green capped strawberries held carefully inside of them. Disbelief for a moment, then I was on a mission to find where that woman had ascertained those berries. Moments later I found myself paying premium prices for an early variety of strawberries called "Sweet Charlies." From them came five or six mornings of strawberry dressed whole grain cereal, strawberry slices adorning a peanut butter slathered bird seed bagel, and one delightful seasonal favorite, strawberry rhubarb tart.

I love springtime in Southeast Ohio, because the food availability is like summer in Cleveland. I've come home with pounds of rhubarb which turned into tender tart morsels baked and drizzeld with honey over yogurt, lemon-rhubarb bars (made with Morgan County lemons from Mr. Cherry's fine lemon trees), strawberry rhubarb tart, blueberry rhubarb pie and a "shut your mouth" delicious Rhubarb-Lemon-Blueberry upside down cake. I've come home with 3 quarts and one pint of strawberries, which in addition to what I listed above also made a fresh strawberry tart for my father, as it is his favorite. I've come home with bags of green house cherry tomatoes and cucumbers which found themselves in every salad from here to eternity, including the fattoush I concocted last week. I've come home with giant, stalky bunches of green onions, bright red, and white radishes, skeins of dill and mint, and pint boxes of dirt flecked snap peas, all of which have made some unique, insatiable spring salads.

Welcome summer. Welcome food. Welcome inspiration. I've been waiting for you. Please remember to buy local, seek out local food, go an extra mile for fresh eggs, find a farmer who will sell you his apples, because I guarantee you it's worth every extra step. And from Queen Honeybea in her summertime glory, always remember to eat well, because you not only deserve it, you are worth it.

Queen Honeybea's Lemon Rhubarb Bars. Zingy and tart, with a hint of ginger in the whole-wheat shortbread crust, crafted from homemade Snowville Creamery butter and a dash of their rich 2% milk. Slices of these will be attending the Memorial Day Chesterhill Produce Auction with me.

A springtime treat, crispy and tangy Queen Honeyea's Fattoush Salad, with local microgreens, mesculin mix, greenhouse cukes and tomatoes, fresh mint, lemon zest, toasted whole-wheat pita chips, bright green onions, slivered red onions, topped with homemade falafel and lemon-tahini-yogurt dressing.

Fresh Strawberry Tart, with slivered berries from the Chesterhill Produce Auction and a whole-wheat butter crust...the perfect end to an unseasonably hot May day.

Blushing sweet and tart Strawberry Rhubarb Pie, topped with flaky flowers in celebration of spring blossoms.

Finally, my latest concoction: Queen Honeybea's Lemon-Rhubarb-Blueberry Upside Down Cake. A velvety lemon olive oil cake topped with chunks of tangy rhubarb and bursting bites of sweet, popping blueberries, with just a hint of cinnamon. Find the recipe below.

Queen Honeybea’s
Lemon-Rhubarb Upside Down Cake

Topping:

2 TBS. extra virgin olive oil
3 TBS. sucanat (unrefined brown sugar, or regular dark brown sugar)
¼ tsp. cinnamon
A pinch of freshly ground nutmeg
1 ½ cups chopped rhubarb (about ½ inch pieces)
1 TBS. chopped lemon peel
½ cup blueberries (you could use any berries here, depending on the season)

Cake:

1 cup whole-wheat pastry flour
½ cup organic white spelt flour
2 tsp. baking powder
¼ tsp. salt
1 TBS. lemon zest
½ cup plain, low-fat organic yogurt
½ cup organic evaporated cane juice
½ cup local, raw honey
2 large free range eggs, 1 large free range egg white
2 TBS. lemon juice
¼ tsp. vanilla
1/3 cup olive oil

Directions:
1. Preheat the oven to 350°F. Using 1 TBS. of the olive oil, brush the bottom and sides of a 9 inch cast iron skillet to coat. Add the second TBS. of olive oil to the bottom of the pan and place inside the hot oven for 2 minutes, to heat the oil thoroughly.

2. In a small bowl, mix the sucanat, cinnamon and nutmeg. Sprinkle half of this mixture over the hot oil. Top with the chopped rhubarb, lemon peel and blueberries. Then sprinkle the remaining half of the sucanat mixture over top.

3. In a medium bowl, mix together the flour, baking powder, salt and lemon zest. Set aside.

4. In a large bowl, combine the yogurt, sugar, honey, eggs, lemon juice and vanilla. With an electric mixer, beat until well combined and fluffy. Pour the dry ingredients into the wet ingredients and beat again to combine. Slowly drizzle the olive oil into the mixture, with the mixer running, until completely absorbed and incorporated.

5. Pour the cake batter over the rhubarb and berries in the skillet. Bake for 30 to 40 minutes, until well browned, the cake appears set, and a toothpick inserted in the center comes out clean. Remove to a wire rack to cool.

6. Cool the cake in the pan for 10 minutes. Run a knife along the edge of the pan to loosen the cake, then using a large serving dish, invert the cake out of the pan onto the dish. Cool completely and serve with ice cream, whipped cream or yogurt.

For my Mom

2011-05-18T15:53:00.008-04:00

Mother’s Day has come and gone, I know. Early May is a big month in my family. First, my Father’s birthday, then Mother’s Day (typically) and then my Mom and Dad’s Anniversary all fall within the first two weeks. Every year it seems that not one of those events gets the recognition it would probably receive if it fell, for example, in early October when my family is on a dry stretch as far as celebrations go. While I didn’t get to spend Mother’s Day with my Mom this year, she has been and is always on my mind. In fact, I’ve been counting my blessings lately and my Mother’s value in that calculation cannot be measured nor surpassed. In fact, she is so valuable to me that I carry her with me constantly, and it is easy for me to look in a mirror and see her shadow cast in my own reflection. In honor of recently passed Mother’s Day, and every day that I have my Mother in my life, this is for her.

Some memories stand out to me like photographs hung on the walls and corridors of my constantly working mind—but they’re not like other people’s memories. When I close my eyes and try to process and pull out memories of my Mother from as far back as I can remember, it is like a movie reel run out of control, the film flickering on the screen, glimpsing everything yet seeing little. The memories that stand out to me are more like muted representations of what my childhood was like. For example, I remember sitting on a brown and yellow, floral patterned couch anchored into mustard yellow carpeting, watching Sesame Street and eating a turkey sandwich after an exhausting half-day of kindergarten. It is not that I remember one specific lunchtime where my Mother prepared a specific sandwich and I watched a specific episode of my show, but rather that this situation occurred so many times that the pattern has become a generic memory—I know it happened, and I can recreate it in my head.

The memories I have of my Mother are not like those I have with my Father. I remember specific things about my childhood with my Dad. I believe this can be attributed to the fact that my Father is a working man, he worked during the week, and when I did something with my Father it was special. It is not that I didn’t get to see him, but rather that when Dad and I spent a Saturday together at the Art Museum, or he’d take me fishing just the two of us, it was not like every other day spent in the daily happenings of life. My Mother was the creator of the daily happenings of my life. As an adult, I now wonder what thoughts passed through her mind as she spread mayonnaise on white bread for my sandwich day in and day out; I wonder what she worried about, I wonder what plagued her and I wonder what personal triumphs she celebrated. As a child, my world would not have existed without my Mother to grease the mechanics, to keep the engine running, to refuel the days of pattern and structure. What dreams did she have when she poured my cereal and washed up the dishes? What ideas did she conjure in the car driving us to the grocery store? Being my Mother’s friend through the entirety of her life would have been an experience about which I can only dream. However, I do have something tangible to treasure and value: as an adult, she is my very best friend.

It always seems on Mother’s Day we thank the matriarchs in our lives for being just that: matriarchs, for being the influential women in our lives. I want to thank my Mom for far more than that, because I had many influential women in my life, but they were not all my Mother. I want to thank my Mom for whatever mindless daydreaming she entertained, then tossed away as she folded my softball uniform. I want to thank my Mom for the turkey sandwiches, for truly creating my life in more ways than just the obvious. I want to thank my Mom for loving my Dad, for being a part of my “parents.” I want to thank my Dad for loving my Mom, because she is one of a kind and we wouldn’t be who we are without her. I want to thank my Mom, not because I remember making one apple pie with her, one time but because I remember making lots of pies with her, and tomato sauce, and Christmas cookies year in and year out. I want to thank my Mom for molding her life around nurturing ours. I want to thank my Mom for teaching me just that: how to nourish, for teaching me how to fiercely love those closest to me. I want to thank my Mom for that especially because without her I wouldn't love preparing food, I wouldn't love caretaking and tenderness, and I wouldn't want to be a mother someday myself. I cannot count the blessing that is my Mother, it is too great to measure and therefore I will just bear the weight in my heart, so that she will dwell with me no matter where I am, and I will shine her likeness for the world to see. Thank you for every day. I love you, Mom.

Mom with me. I wish everyone in this world knew the privilege of being so loved.

Six Week Project: Days 34, 35 and 36

2011-04-15T20:08:00.003-04:00

The weather in Southeast Ohio in the spring time is amazing to me. Yesterday, I made a snuggly, comfort food supper, and we tucked into the couch, under a blanket and listened to the cold rain hit the roof of my porch. Tonight, Wednesday, just one day later, I fired up the grill on a beautiful, warm, sunny spring day.

I got good news this morning, and while leftovers were on the agenda, I was inspired to cook. Therefore, grill was fired, and after discussions of the grilled bread I made several weeks ago had been dominating my conversations, I decided some thick slices of spiced, grilled bread were definitely on the menu. They'd be accompanied by two chicken breasts from King Family Farm that I salted and peppered, then slathered with a cilantro-garlic spear-green onion-grapefruit pesto. These packed a garlic punch, but were tasty. This was only to be married with a big salad tossed in a grapefruit vinaigrette. It was zingy, springy and satisfying. Cheers. Please, if you love me, buy local and eat well.

For Thursday and Friday, it was leftover pigeon peas and rice, salad, sauteed spinach and pita bread. See you Saturday!

Six Week Project: Day Thirty Three

2011-04-15T19:50:00.003-04:00

Close your eyes and imagine a spring day, laced with a chill and drenched in a day's long rain. The kind of day where you can see your breath easily, and droplets of water drip from the tip of your nose, when your glasses are covered in bubbles of rain, and a little jacket doesn't quite cut it. Now, imagine the kinds of food you like to eat on those days: pot roast, chili, roast chicken, beef stew...how about a gooey grilled cheese and a steaming bowl of tomato soup? Bingo.

Tuesday night I made grilled cheese sandwiches on bread brushed with olive oil, then hugged around four different kinds of local cheese: Laurel Valley Havarti and Country Jack, Athens Own Cheddar and Kenny's Farmhouse Norwood. Ooey, gooey, hearty and the bearer of a fabulous bite from all that ripe, local cheese. While I imagined this fromage-tastic concoction would be the highlight of this dinner, as it turned out, it was shown up...by soup.

I bought spinach last Saturday from Green Edge Organics. I wanted to find a way to consume said spinach, along with its cooking water. See, spinach releases its nutrients when it's cooked. Ever had someone tell you to drink the cooking water? That's because it contains the good stuff. When it dawned on me that I could drop lovely chopped fresh spinach into a soup, and I'd get all the good stuff and also a hearty spoon full of other great flavors, I was sold. I made my own version of Tomato-Florentine Soup. Wow. I'd make it again right now if I could. It was a full, thick soup with big chunks of meaty tomato, but just enough creaminess, and flecked with nutritious, delicious spinach. If you're a soup fan, and even more so, a tomato fan, try this. Enjoy! And please, for me, buy local and eat well.

Queen Honeybea's
Tomato Florentine Soup
Serves 2 large portions, 3 smaller portions.

1 TBS. extra virgin olive oil
1/4 cup finely diced red onion
1 TBS. local honey
1 clove of garlic, minced
2 TBS. organic tomato paste
28 oz. can of organic, fire-roasted diced tomatoes, juice reserved
1 TBS. chopped, dry basil
2 tsp. chopped, dry oregano
3 cups of vegetable stock
1 1/2 cups finely chopped local fresh spinach
1 TBS. balsamic vinegar
1/2 tsp. salt
1/8 tsp. black pepper
2 TBS. organic, low-fat Greek Yogurt

1. Heat the olive oil in a medium size sauce pot over medium heat. Saute the onions until sweating and translucent, about 3 or 4 minutes, stirring occasionally. Add the garlic, honey, tomato paste and diced tomatoes. Cook until much of the liquid has evaporated, about 8 or 9 minutes.

2. Add the basil, oregano, reserved tomato juice, vegetable stock, spinach, vinegar, salt and pepper. Stir together and bring to a boil over high heat. Turn the heat to low and simmer for 20 to 30 minutes, until thickened and the flavors are correct. Remove from the heat and stir in the yogurt until well blended. (Do NOT let the soup return to a boil after the yogurt is added) Serve with hot toasted bread, grilled cheese or just all by itself.

Six Week Project: Day Thirty Two

2011-04-12T08:46:00.004-04:00

Monday night. I can honestly say, I can't wait for Easter to roll around so that I can stop documenting every dinner I eat. Clearly, it is now Friday and I'm just now getting around to posting five blogs behind. These daily project things are just not my cup of tea. However...here we go. Monday night: Pigeon Peas.

On Saturday, I simmered dry pigeon peas that I had soaked overnight in a combination of chicken stock and coconut milk, with cilantro, peppers and onions. Then I added brown rice and simmered until the rice was cooked and the liquid had been absorbed. We ate these on Monday night with a big salad. Remember, buy local and eat well.

Six Week Project: Day Thirty One

2011-04-12T08:43:00.005-04:00

“We’re going for a cruise.” These have been the words of the week. Whether it was to get away from a stressful work environment for a few minutes, or to pass the hours of a welcomed day off, that has been the theme of this week. It seems as though when everything gets to be too much, getting into my car and driving somewhere other than where I am is one way for me to bring life back into perspective. As I head away from the place that’s bogging me down, I feel freer in every mile. It’s liberating to be able to take off without a care in the world, and I am going to treasure that while I am still able to do it, before I enter the future phases of my life where other adult responsibilities might inhibit my pedal to the metal attitude.

Sunday was a day that began without a plan. There’s a line in one of my favorite movies, Songcatcher, where Tom (the laid back Appalachian mountain man) says to Lily (the high-strung city dwelling professor), “Do you ever have a day without a plan?” That’s me. I plan. However, this Sunday, I vowed to myself (and my girlfriend) that we’d not set the alarm clock, we’d not have an agenda, and the only thing that hung over the day like a lovely misty haze was our idea to go shopping. It didn’t settle anywhere in a time frame, it didn’t get allotted to an hour or minute of the day, the idea was just there. How nice it was to experience a day like Sunday.

We took off for Marietta, then Parkersburg. We hit up our favorites (we’ve discovered that we do, in fact, have common favorites), T.J. Maxx, Old Navy and Borders, dropped a few bags in the trunk, and with the windows down and the sun roof open, I looked to the passenger seat of my car and said, “We’re going for a cruise.” I was fairly certain of the route that I wanted to take, but being the natural planner that I am, I consulted my trusty road map (I have a functional brain, and therefore I don’t have a GPS), and we hit the pavement sailing South on State Route 68 in West Virginia. State Route 68 follows the Ohio River and is studded by large farms, vast expanses of green, grassy fields and spring blooming wildflowers. When we got to Ravenswood, we crossed back into our home state and continued to hug the river down Ohio State Route 124. We made a joke out of every road sign we saw, said the name of each tiny town we passed through out loud, and commented incessantly about how beautiful of a day it was and what a perfect activity we’d found to occupy it. We stopped in Middleport at a lovely little antique store I’d visited in the fall, then burnt up some more time before dinner with a little trip to Gallipolis (where I found the cheapest gas I’d seen all day, and therefore filled up). We came back up State Route 7, and stopped at a little country place called Millie’s (of which I’ve previously written) for dinner.

I think I blew my girlfriend’s socks off when she saw not only what Millie’s served, but also what I ordered. Every now and again I break my own food rules. Not often, but once in awhile and when I do, I want it to be worth it. Millie’s is worth it. I was served up a huge, steaming bowl of white, gummy noodles (the way they’re meant to be) in broth naturally thickened by the flour that clung to the noodle dough as it was thrown into the boiling stock. This was flecked with pieces of shredded chicken, and was absolutely heavenly. As I told my girlfriend, making chicken and noodles into something whole-grain and healthy just isn’t worth it. It will never taste the same. So instead, I just break my rules maybe 3 or 4 times a year, and get the good stuff. This was accompanied by a bowl of sweet, tangy Harvard beets and an equally pungent and zingy three-bean salad. It was country-fied awesome.

Then, I broke down and cheated. This was my girlfriend’s first trip to Millie’s, and she loves pie. There was no way we’d be dining at Millie’s and skipping the homemade pie. We split a slice of apple, and I had no guilt whatsoever. There’s something about Millie’s pie that makes me feel homey. It’s not the best I’ve ever eaten, mostly because I think the apple pie I make, or my mother makes is the best, but it is better than most and the perfect way to cap off a meal there.

Evidence that I cheated, but it was so worth it.

We drove home the long way, up Old 33 through Shade and past the Last Chance Corral. The sun was beginning to fade, the breeze beginning to cool, and the beauty of the day began to culminate and slowly burn down like an ember. We picked up some coffee at the Donkey in Athens, then made for Morgan County and the work week that lay ahead of us. If you have an opportunity to take a day and explore your area, as we did, taking in all things local, I highly recommend it. There’s nothing quite like a day without a plan to make the days with plans seem worthwhile. I’ll pass those days along until the next day like Sunday rolls around. Please, buy local and eat well.

Six Week Project: 28, 29 and 30

2011-04-12T08:39:00.008-04:00

Days 28 and 29 were somewhat boring, as leftovers had made their way into my fridge and alas, onto my plate again. Thursday night was left over sauce and pasta and chicken from Sunday, and Friday night I concocted a "taco salad" out of left over vegan chili, greens, sprouts, salsa, cheese and tortilla chips. It was delish.

Day 30 was slightly more exciting. What counted as my dinner on that Saturday was my late afternoon lunch I got the privilege of sharing with two of my best friends, Aly and Lisa. We caught up, laughed and as usual they gave me life guidance and I tried to return it. We met at Casa Nueva in Athens, one of my favorite places. Casa Nueva is locavorian heaven. They use as much seasonal, fresh, local stuff as they can. Their menu changes seasonally and their soups, veggies of the day, salsas and dressings reflect what's in season at the moment. I had the pleasure of having a dish of their Berry Medium salsa, whipped up with strawberries from last year's Chesterhill produce auction. It was awesome. It accompanied my wrap stuffed with refried beans, monterey jack cheese, greens, and guacamole, and a side salad topped with sesame soy dressing. Casa Nueva is heaven for me. See the photo evidence below. Always remember to buy local and eat well.

My yummy wrap. Note the vibrant red salsa that is accompanying it. Salsa-licious.

My friend Lisa's lunch: Open faced pita sandwich and tofu fries. Yummo.

Six Week Project: Day Twenty Seven

2011-04-12T08:35:00.005-04:00

An unseasonably warm night, a good round of playing catch on a baseball diamond, and fellowship with loved ones were the precursors to a perfectly paired meal for just such an occasion. Wednesday night was pizza night in my house.

Of course, pizza in my house is healthified and yummified. I made a whole-wheat and spelt crust, thick and doughy with crunchy edges. I topped that with some left-over homemade tomato sauce from the pot I made last Sunday (the worst thing about making a pot of sauce is using it up, but pizza is a great way to do it!), crumbled chicken sausage from King Family Farm, grilled red peppers (frozen from last summer) and red onion (from the Market), and a combination of Kenny's Farmhouse Norwood cheese and Laurel Valley Creamery's Country Jack Cheese. It was melty, bubbly, local and satisfying.

Always remember to buy local and eat well.

Six Week Project: Day Twenty Six

2011-04-05T13:31:00.010-04:00

Dinner isn't always a big production in my house, and I think you're realizing this as my blog posts begin to include more and more days at one time. I think about food as much as men are purported to think about sex. Seriously, I do. I think about everything that goes into my mouth and what kinds of benefits my body will get from it. That's why, when I do cook, it's thoughtful and typically (I must say) pretty damn good. However, several nights a week I eat left-overs, or I don't eat what everyone else would consider "dinner"- sometimes a bowl of cereal, sometimes a peanut butter sandwich. Tonight I worked from 11:30 this morning until 9:30 tonight. Therefore dinner was a container of Thai Peanut Tofu Salad from the Farmacy in Athens, and a bag full of fresh snap peas from Duff Farms and a carrot from the Athens Farmer's Market, peeled with the greens still attached. I had to chuckle to myself when I packed this "dinner," because the people I work with always accuse me of eating rabbit food. If they could see me with this green topped carrot, they'd never let me hear the end of it.

However, since I managed to get the morning off given my extra-long day and evening shift, I took advantage of a chilly spring morning, and some random containers of "almost gone" peanut butter and made one of my new signatures: Queen Honeybea's PB+CC=Love Cookies. I decided to share this recipe with you, in lieu of a dinner post, because they're really, really delicious. Enjoy! And always remember to buy local and eat well.

Queen Honeybea's PB+CC=Love Cookies
Makes 1 Dozen Extra-Large Cookies, or 3 Dozen Average Size Cookies

1/2 cup All-Natural Soy Margarine, softened
1 1/2 cups peanut butter (I used some fresh ground organic, some organic unsweetened from Whole Foods and some Jiff Natural)
1/2 cup organic, unrefined sugar (evaporated cane juice)
1/4 cup local, pure maple syrup
1 local, free-range egg
2 tsps. pure vanilla extract
1 1/4 cups organic whole-wheat flour
1 tsp. baking soda
1/4 tsp. salt
1 cup organic, semi-sweet chocolate chips
1/2 cup chopped honey roasted peanuts
Extra organic, unrefined sugar for rolling

1. Preheat your oven to 350 degrees. Lightly grease two baking sheets. Set aside.

2. In the bowl of an electric mixer, fitted with the paddle attachment, combine the margarine and peanut butter and beat until combined and smooth. Add the sugar and maple syrup and beat again until combined and smooth. Add the egg and vanilla, beating until well incorporated and fluffy, about 2 or 3 minutes.

3. In a small bowl, combine the flour, baking soda and salt. Add to the peanut butter mixture, beating on low speed until a soft dough is formed. Add the chocolate chips and the honey roasted peanuts and fold until they are evenly distributed in the dough.

4. With a large dipper (or the size equivalent of two heaping tablespoons), scoop out one dozen balls of dough. Roll each ball in organic, unrefined sugar and place evenly spaced on each baking sheet. Flatten lightly with the bottom of glass, until the cookies are about 3/4 in thick.

5. Bake for 15-18 minutes, until they're nicely browned but not over done. Remove to a wire rack and cool completely.

(If you make smaller cookies, with a smaller dipper, they'll probably need to bake less time, about 10 minutes.)

Six Week Project: Day Twenty Five

2011-04-04T20:12:00.005-04:00

Simple, fresh and delicious. It was a balmy 72 degrees here in Southeast Ohio today, and balmy is no joke. Rainy, humid with passing rumbles of thunder and storms that blew through like so many people do each day up and down one of the two lane State Routes that transverse this county, leading from one bigger city to another. Warm spring days call for fresh food that bursts with the promise of summer's color and celebrate some of the season's earliest arrivals. For us tonight, that meant a big, big salad.

Tonight's meal was an Asian influenced salad chock full of local ingredients. It is no joke, and I am not ashamed to say that when I saw two small, strawberry boxes full of tender green pods labeled "Snap Peas," at the Farmer's Market on Saturday, I gasped aloud and skipped like a school girl, making a B-line for the lovely woman with what always appear to be soft, tender gray curls and a table full of sprouting pots and freshly cut herbs from Duff Farms. Finally, spring vegetables are slowly beginning to arrive as we're on the downhill side of the snow hump, and these freakishly warm days become less and less freakish. If you have access to locally grown spring vegetables, make up your own salad! Throw things together, cook without abandon, do not fear the ideas you come up with. Salads are meant to be bowls of stuff, tossed with dressing. Make it your own. Of course, always remember to buy local and eat well.

Tonight's Dinner:

Asian Style Salad with Grilled Sriracha BBQ Chicken
Sesame-Ginger Dressing
Grilled Bread

For the Salad (this made enough for a big meal for two):
Approximately 4 cups of chopped local lettuce (Green Edge Organics for me, of course)
2 cups of micro-greens (I used Sunflower micro-greens from Green Edge)
4 small, local radishes, sliced thinly
2 large, local carrots, shredded
2 local green onions, chopped
1 cup of locally grown snap peas, stems removed and chopped in half
1/2 cup whole raw almonds
1 organic orange (1 tsp. zest reserved for the bread), peeled and cut into segments
1 organic avocado, sliced
2 cooked grilled Sriracha BBQ Chicken thighs, sliced (recipe follows)
Sesame-Ginger dressing (recipe follows)

In a large bowl, toss together the lettuce, micro-greens, radishes, carrots, green onions, snap peas, almonds and orange. Toss together with the dressing. Divide onto two plates equally, then top with grilled chicken slices and avocado slices. Serve with Grilled Bread (recipe follows). Enjoy!

A bowl full of just local ingredients: lettuce, micro-greens, radishes, carrots, green onions and snap peas. Yum.

Sriracha BBQ Chicken thighs (For 2)
1 TBS. soy sauce
1/4 cup ketchup
1/4 cup rice vinegar
2 TBS. pure, local maple syrup
2 TBS. sriracha
1 TBS. local, raw buckwheat honey (or other honey that you have)
1 tsp. onion powder
1 tsp. garlic powder
1 tsp. ground ginger
1/4 tsp. salt
2 locally raised, free-range chicken thighs (I used bone-in skin on from King Family Farm, you could use boneless, skinless, or even chicken breasts or drumsticks, it's up to you)

1. In a shallow dish, whisk together the soy sauce, ketchup, rice vinegar, maple syrup, sriracha, honey, onion powder, garlic powder, ginger and salt. Add the chicken thighs and coat. Allow to marinate at least one hour, overnight would be best.

2. Heat your grill to around 400 degrees, medium heat, typically. Cook the chicken thighs skin side down for 10 minutes, basting at least twice. Flip the chicken, basting again, and cook for another 10-15 minutes until the marinade is caramelized and the juices run clear from the meat. Allow to cool before slicing for the salad.

Sesame-Ginger Dressing
2 TBS. low-fat, natural mayonnaise
1/4 cup low-fat, organic yogurt
1 clove of garlic, minced
2 TBS. rice vinegar
1 TBS. honey mustard
1 TBS. local, raw honey
1 TBS. tahini
1 TBS. orange juice
1 TBS. extra virgin olive oil
2 tsps. ground ginger
1/4 tsp. salt

In a small jar or liquid measuring cup, whisk all ingredients together until well combined. Refrigerate until ready to use. Makes enough for the salad above, about 3/4 cup.

Grilled Bread
4-3/4in thick slices of crusty bread (I used Italian Whole-Wheat from the Village Bakery)
2 TBS. extra virgin olive oil
1 TBS. local, raw honey
1 tsp. ground cardamom
1 tsp. grated orange zest
A few grains of salt

In a small bowl, whisk together the oil, honey, cardamom, orange zest and salt. Brush one side of each slice of bread liberally with the oil mixture. Grill oiled side down until the slices are golden, brown around the edges and have lovely grill marks. Flip and toast the opposite side until it is also golden and marked.

Six Week Project: Day Twenty Four

2011-04-03T20:13:00.005-04:00

Sunday dinner. Period.

I love cooking Sunday dinner. It's a family thing. We've always had a thing about Sunday dinners and the thought of spending the afternoon in my kitchen preparing a meal with excessive amounts of love and thought, to nourish those who are dearest to me, to coddle them in my nest and keep them safe, warm and full. Okay, I know. However...Sunday dinner was on tap for today.

My mother makes some mean sauce and meatballs. That's where I learned, and I still make my sauce the way my Mom does, with very few changes. However, like one of my Aunts, I love, love, love to cook chicken in my sauce. I don't think this is my Mom's favorite, as she never did it when I was growing up (nor does she do it now), but a pot of tomato sauce simmering with bone-in chicken and chunks of Italian sausage sounds like a bubbling vat of Heaven to me. And that is exactly what it was. So here's to Sunday. And you won't be getting the recipe, because like every other good Italian woman, my sauce recipe is under lock and key, tucked into my brassiere, close to my heart.

Tonight we had:

Homemade Sauce with
King Family Farm Chicken Thighs and Bulk Sweet Italian Sausage
Whole-Wheat Organic Cavatappi
Village Bakery Italian Whole-Wheat bread
Salad with greens and micro greens from Green Edge Organicsand Carrots, Radishes and Green Onions from the Athens Farmer's Market

Mangia. Per favore. And always remember to buy local and eat well. Ciao for today.

Six Week Project: Under the Weather

2011-04-02T18:04:00.004-04:00

And yet another five days have passed without an update and therefore, yet another blog post will cover days 19, 20, 21, 22 and 23. Follow along...

This week, as I mentioned in my last post, I made some kickin' vegan chili. I love my vegan chili and I think it could easily stand up to, if not knock out Casa Nueva's vegan chili. Tofu, carrots, onions, peppers, beans, spinach, tomatoes...good stuff. That was Tuesday night. We ate it topped with organic avocado and it was fabulous, easy, and super healthy.

Then...Wednesday morning hit and along with it came a wretched stomach virus. To be fair, I wasn't feeling great on Tuesday, but I thought it was just a passing thing. Oh no. It was a miserable bug that stuck with me through Thursday afternoon. Therefore, Wednesday night I made scrambled eggs and potatoes for Tiffany, and toast for me, though I did sample a small helping of the other items. I was feeling a bit better by then.

No worries, however, because by Thursday morning the bug was back with a vengeance and I spent another day on the couch. Fortunately by Thursday afternoon I was feeling quite a bit better. That morning, Tiffany told me she had a hankering for grilled cheese. I got some white bread to make toast for myself, and some American cheese and made her one for dinner. Below is photo evidence that I do, on VERY RARE occasions, burn things. She assured me it still tasted good, however.

Friday and Saturday night were dinner-less. I ate larger meals during the day and sort of grazed on healthy goodies like hummus and pitas, figs, bananas, apples, and sweet potato chips. Tomorrow, I'm making a pot of sauce with chicken and salad. See you then. Remember, buy local and eat well.

Six Week Project: When Things Get Random

2011-03-28T18:42:00.003-04:00

This blog post is going to cover days 14, 15, 16, 17 and 18. That's Thursday through Monday. Here's what happened...

If you follow this blog, you know that I've kind of been losing weight. Like, a lot of weight. A lot of weight as in a hundred pounds in two years. It hasn't been easy, but I made it to that bench mark in January. As that was my goal, I assumed it'd get easier. I was wrong. WAY wrong.

Over the past 2 months I've (as Nathan Lane in The Birdcage would say) "Yo-Yo-ed" between 185 pounds and 192 pounds. Trying to balance what I eat with how much I exercise, while also enjoying life and the food I love has been quite an uphill battle. After hitting a low point last week, I decided this weekend that I really need to eat as though I'm still trying to lose weight again. That is how my body feels the best, and while I don't care if I lose a significant amount of weight from this point, I do care that my body feels healthy, happy and balanced. Therefore, my eating has fumbled a bit over the past five days, trying to get back on the bandwagon that was steadily chugging away from me.

So, here's the low down. I'm eating less, again. I'm eating when I'm hungry, and only if I'm hungry. I can't eat as much bread as I want to, I just can't. I'm going to try to eat larger meals in the middle of the day and smaller dinners. I don't need the energy provided by 3 whole grain pancakes at 6pm. I need it at 10am when I'm dragging. Any processed foods that found their way into my diet this past weekend I spent at home will be cut out. I even bought local, organic cream to make my own butter. I am a locavorian queen with "Organic" at my right hand, and I will strive to keep my throne. Therefore, I have to say, this blog may not be as interesting, as my dinners have been sparse and somewhat boring. However, I made a commitment to finish, so I will.

Day 14: Banana Crunch Pancakes and Scrambled local eggs (inspired by the chitter chatter over these on Facebook)

Day 15: Left-over stuffed peppers, and a salad at my Mother's house

Day 16: Burger, oil and vinegar slaw and oven fried potatoes at my Mother's house

Day 17: A bowl of Kashi Honey Sunshine and a banana

Day 18: Half a cup of low-fat Greek Yogurt with 1/4 cup of pumpkin seed granola, a drizzle of honey, and dried tart cherries, a handful of Kashi crackers, and half an organic pink grapefruit

Tomorrow will be more exciting, I promise. I made vegan chili today, of which I am fairly proud. I bought organic avocados to eat with it, so at least there will be pretty pictures and a recipe. In the meantime, thanks for reading, and always remember to buy local and eat well.

Six Week Project: Salads

2011-03-23T20:54:00.003-04:00

My dinner on days Twelve and Thirteen both consisted of salads. Day Twelve (Tuesday) was a tossed salad, just to use up some ingredients I'd had laying around (Roasted Red Peppers, Spinach, Carrots, Arugula, Mixed Mesculin, Organic Raisins and homemade honey mustard dressing). It was nothing exciting and therefore will not be getting its own special post.

Day Thirteen (Wednesday) however, was another night of using up ingredients, but was far more exciting and a new Queen Honeybea favorite. I've been consuming a ton of carbohydrates lately. I don't really think there's anything wrong with this, other than it's been mostly in the form of bread or some relative of bread (pasta and pancakes). I decided at work this morning that I wanted to make something with brown rice. I love brown rice, it's so, so good for you, and it's filling and a good way for us carb lovers to consume our beloved starchy goodness. I've also been craving some more lean protein in my diet, and a can of wild caught, sustainable Alaskan salmon did the trick for that. So this is what I concocted over my lunch hour: Queen Honeybea's Brown Rice Salad with Salmon. Enjoy, and always remember to buy local and eat well.

Queen Honeybea's
Brown Rice Salad with Salmon
Serves 2 with a few leftovers

1 1/2 cups brown rice
2 TBS. extra-virgin olive oil
1/2 a red onion, diced
1/2 cup chopped red bell pepper
1 clove of garlic, minced
2 cups of chopped fresh spinach
1 tsp. ground ginger
1 6 oz can of wild caught, sustainable Alaskan salmon, chunked
2 large carrots, shredded
2 TBS. low-sodium soy sauce
1/4 cup rice vinegar
1 TBS. local, raw honey
1/2 tsp. sriracha (Korean hot sauce)
a pinch of salt
a pinch of black pepper
a pinch of garlic powder
Two large hand fulls of shredded mixed mesculin greens
Extra sriacha and soy sauce for serving

1. Cook the brown rice according to the package directions. This should yield about 2 cups of cooked rice. Set aside.

2. In a large skillet, heat the olive oil over medium high heat. Saute the onion and red pepper until soft and beginning to brown. Add the garlic, and stir constantly for thirty seconds. Add the shredded spinach, ginger and salmon and cook until the spinach is wilted, about two more minutes. Remove from the heat and set aside.

3. In a large bowl, toss together the rice, cooked vegetable mixture and the shredded carrots.

4. In a small bowl, whisk together the soy sauce, rice vinegar, honey, sriracha, salt, pepper and garlic powder. Pour over the warm rice mixture and chill for at least 4 hours, over night would be ideal.

5. Place a handful of lettuce in each of two serving bowls and top with scoops of the rice salad. Serve with extra sriracha and soy sauce.

Six Week Project: Day Eleven

2011-03-23T20:38:00.005-04:00

For the past two weeks, since my girlfriend and I meandered around the West Side Market in Cleveland and spotted heavy bundles of coiled pappardelle pasta at Ohio City Pasta, I have craved nothing but that. I love pappardelle pasta. It's like sheets of lasagna that have been cut into thick strips, then usually smothered in something delicious, saucy and full of Italian love. Pappardelle and I have had a date on the horizon for some time.

For dinner tonight, I decided to saute, in olive oil, the very last of a bunch of Green Edge Organic's Swiss Chard I bought three weeks ago (this stuff lasts, it's amazing), along with some carrots from the Athens Farmer's Market, some local red bell pepper I've had chopped and tucked away in my freezer, and some local green beans which have been living next door to the red bell peppers. I added some roasted garlic, dried basil and oregano, white wine, organic-free-range chicken stock, and some cooking water from the papperdelle until I was happy with the taste and consistency. Once the pappardelle had been cooked, I tossed the pasta in with this mixture and served it topped with slices of Norwood Cheese from Kenny's.

It hit the spot. The thick pieces of homemade, whole-grain papperdelle were velvety and filled every crease and crevice of my mouth as I tried to eat them whole. It was a pasta experience of a repeat, which may very well happen. I don't know how many people take the time to make their own pasta, let alone on a week night after working all day, but let me tell you: it's worth it. Enjoy, and always remember to buy local and eat well.

Six Week Project: Day Ten

2011-03-23T20:20:00.005-04:00

While I know this project was meant to showcase every dinner I eat for the six weeks of which Lent consists, some days dinner just doesn't happen. Sundays have a tendency to be those kinds of days. Unless I have an immaculate dinner planned already, the highlighted meal of my Sunday often turns out to be breakfast.

Sunday is my splurge day on breakfast. I eat a serving size of measured out Kashi cereal, a cup of coffee and sometimes a banana every single day of the week, except Sunday. Sunday is fun day, if you will. I love to cook breakfast, and have found myself recently in posession of company on Sunday mornings, for whom I cook breakfast and we lounge on the couch and enjoy each other's company. I know, pretty much my domestically inclined dream.

Therefore, as my "dinner" turned out to be chips and guacamole this night, I'm going to share my breakfast recipe with you instead. And if you're anything like me, breakfast for dinner (as in at 5 or 6pm, not ten am when we ate it) is also a fabulous treat. My health-i-fied version of a dish I order at First Watch Cafe in Cleveland was on the menu for this Sunday morning: Queen Honeybea's Whole-Grain Banana Crunch Pancakes. Enjoy, and always remember to buy local and eat well.

Queen Honeybea's
Whole-Grain Banana Crunch Pancakes
Serves 4

2 local, free-range eggs, beaten
2 cups local, organic skim milk
1/2 cup lowfat organic plain yogurt
1/4 cup local, pure maple syrup
1/4 cup vegetable or canola oil
1 TBS. pure vanilla extract
1 1/2 cups whole-wheat flour
1 cup white whole-wheat flour
1/2 cup oat flour
1 tsp. salt
1 tsp. baking soda
2 tsp. baking powder
1/2 tsp. ground cinnamon
2 large bananas, sliced into 1/4 inch slices
1 cup of crunchy, organic granola of your choice

1. In a large bowl, whisk together the eggs, milk, yogurt, maple syrup, oil and vanilla. Set aside.

2. In a medium size bowl, mix together the whole wheat flour, white whole wheat flour, oat flour, salt, baking soda, baking powder, and cinnamon.

3. Grease and heat a large griddle pan over medium heat, until water droplets sizzle when dropped onto the surface. All at once add the dry mixture to the wet mixture, folding until just combined and still lumpy. Pour out your pancakes using a 1/2 cup measuring cup. On each pancake, place banana slices and sprinkle some of the granola. When the edges are turning brown and the top is covered with bubbles, flip the pancakes until just browned on the opposite side. Serve hot with butter, pure maple syrup or organic peanut butter.

Six Week Project: Day Nine

2011-03-23T19:46:00.005-04:00

"It's my observation that when Italian genes are present, all others duck and cover."

This sentence by Barabara Kingsolver reminded me immediately of myself upon reading it. I am American by birth, and half Italian-half Slovenian by blood and heritage. As many people observe of me and others like me, our Italian sides seem to be so over developed that they have a tendency to smother and conquer any other hint of ethnic heritage found within us. My Italian pride is infalted, period.

Saturday night, my girlfriend was privy to a feast of great proportions, accompanied by Italian Folk Songs (Finiculi, Finicula and Santa Lucia and the like), fantastic organic wine, and my Italian charm and ego. My own personal version of machismo has a tendency to shine in such instances, and this past Saturday, while my house might be situated in South Eastern Ohio, we were dining in Tuscany.

I even eat like Italians, as Barbara later describes in the same chapter as the quote above. She says of Italians, "Watching Italians eat (especially men, I have to say) is a form of tourism the books don't tell you about. They close their eyes, raise their eyebrows into accent marks, and make sounds of acute appreciation." After reading this chapter about a month long tour of Italy, about courses, agritourismos and pasta, I decided we needed to bring Firenze to Morgan County. I decided to make one of the four courses of traditional Italian meals: the antipasto. This is what became of that ambition:

Marinated Chickpeas in vinegar, oil and herbs
Mediterranean olives
Kalamata olives
Slices of rolled capicola
Norwood Cheese from Kenny's in Kentucky (it tastes similar to parmesan)
Betty's Favorite Cheese from Laurel Valley Creamery
Roasted Red Peppers
Black Figs stuffed with Chevre (from Integration Acres) and wrapped with prosciutto
A steamed artichoke with roasted garlic, lemon, and dijon mustard dipping sauce
Roasted cherry tomato, rosemary and goat feta (from Integration Acres) crostini
Marinated, pickled eggplant and arugula (Green Edge Organics) crostini with Norwood Cheese
Grilled slices of French Gallette from the Village Bakery

An organic sauvignon blanc, by Neuvo Mundo in Chile ($14.99 @ the Village Bakery)
(This wine was fabulous!)

Six Week Project: Day Eight

2011-03-21T13:59:00.007-04:00

Friday nights are one of my favorite times of the entire week. To me, five o'clock on Friday is the beginning of the end of the work week, and the official start to the weekend. My fondess for Friday nights goes far beyond work, however, I imagine. I've held that particular evening dear to me ever since I was a teenager in High School, and Friday nights during the Fall meant marching band, football games, and sharing time with my good friends. This has grown into a desire for fun on Friday nights, and as of late, fun has become food. I love to make and eat fun food on Fridays. Pizza is a fun food, chili is a fun food, burgers are a fun food, and as I make these things myself I can craft them so that they fit into my locavorian-seasonal-natural food culture. This weekend, I managed to add another "fun" food to this list: Sushi.

My friend Michael and I had been planning a sushi-making session for several months, and this Friday we were finally able to get together and "roll," if you will. We decided that because the raw fish availability in the Mid-Ohio Valley might be questionable at best, that we'd make one of our mutual favorites: California Rolls. California Rolls are seaweed wrappers stuffed with sticky sushi rice, and wrapped around avocado, cucumber and imitation crab. Now, this meal did not, in any way, fall into the parameters of my local-seasonal-natural philosophy, but it was fun and every once in awhile I splurge and buy a cucumber in March!

I just have to say that we made some damn good sushi. Our sushi rice was superb, sticky and perfectly cooked. Our rolls were tightly wrapped and easy to slice. We spent a good portion of the end of our meal with tears welling in our eyes, laughing at one another as we suffered through our love of pungent wasabi as we tortured ourselves with every green bite. It was a fun. Period. Enjoy and always remember to buy local and eat well.

Michael is working the Rice Vinegar into the rice. It became translucent and sticky and we were so very proud.

Michael rolling the second roll.

Six Week Project: Leftovers

2011-03-21T13:26:00.005-04:00

Days Six & Seven
As I don't want to bore you with repeated recipes, or more information than you really need about "Chick-a-strone" Soup, I thought I'd just post these two days together and suffice it to say I ate leftover soup both of these nights, with toasted whole grain bread from Crumbs Bakery in Athens. It seemed to keep getting better the longer it sat in the fridge, ending with a mug full yesterday which my girlfriend eagerly slurped down.

In the meantime, I spent the early week making Whole-Wheat Irish Soda Bread and Whole-Wheat Cut-Out cookies to send to a few of my loves for St. Patrick's Day. Below are some photos of the cookie-making process. This is the first time I'd made them with Organic White-Whole-Wheat flour instead of all-purpose. I heard they were delicious. I've given up dessert for Lent, so these little lucky gems made it in and out of my kitchen without managing to make their way into my mouth. Enjoy. The recipe for these cookies can be found in my blog titled "Milk and Cookies" from May of last year. Simply sub White-Whole-Wheat Flour for the all-purpose to make them this way.

Always remember to buy local and eat well!

Six Week Project: Day Five

2011-03-15T21:25:00.003-04:00

Just a quick post tonight sharing my "on the fly" meal with you. It was damp, chilly and rainy here today. As my girlfriend walked out the door this afternoon, I said quickly as it crossed my mind, "How about breakfast for dinner?" This is one of her favorites and mine as well, so she eagerly agreed that would be a wonderful way to cap off such a day.

I scrambled us some local, free-range eggs from Blue Rock Station with a hunk of Laurel Valley Creamery Cheddar. We had toast made out of Birdseed Bread from Crumbs Bakery, and a bowl of organic oranges from Whole Foods tossed with dried cranberries. I par-boiled some whole redskin potatoes from the Athens Farmer's Market, then quartered them and sauteed them in olive oil with garlic salt, pepper and parsley. Our toast was topped with local Amish butter and my homemade strawberry and black raspberry jams. It hit the spot.

Always remember to buy local.

Six Week Project: Day Four

2011-03-15T13:22:00.006-04:00

Anyone who knows me well knows that I don't just throw food away. For example, I am a perpetual maker of soups after crafting large meals that involve any sort of usable scraps. Not wasting food is a core tenant of my food ethics. This is something that is difficult to unlearn and to then relearn in a healthy, conscious way. While it was never explicitly said to me that I'd face consequences if my plate was not clean after dinner as a child, I knew that we didn't waste food. I was a clean plate club kind of a girl, a second helpings kind of a girl, and as a result (in conjunction with many other factors) I was a big girl as well. It has taken some restructuring of the way I think about food to get over the "clean-plate" syndrome, and truly believe in my mind that it's okay to leave a few bites of food on my plate, if those few bites mean the difference between satisfied and uncomfortably full. However, that being said, the best remedy I've found for this syndrome is to start with less in the first place. Serving for myself a smaller, healthier portion of food to begin with has helped my brain and my stomach to both feel good. One fabulous way I've learned to fool my brain into thinking it's eating more is to eat soups that are packed with nutrients and are considered meals in themselves.

In the spirit of not wasting food, I made a big pot of what I've dubbed "Chick-a-strone," as it is an Italian flavored soup that is like a Minestrone with chicken. After finishing up the Greek Pot Roasted Chicken last night, I quickly threw the chicken carcass in a large pot with chunked carrots, garlic, parsley and some dry chicken bullion. I added enough water to cover the carcass, brought it to a boil and simmered it uncovered for at least 2 hours until it had reduced and the whole house smelled like warm broth. I strained it and refrigerated it overnight, and the next day before making the soup itself, I strained off the solidified fat, making it a bit leaner. Then it was ready to make a deliciously simple, rustic, homey dinner. This soup recipe will serve four as a main dish.

Chick-a-strone Soup
Baguette

8 cups freshly made chicken stock (or an all-natural, free-range chicken stock)
2 large organic carrots, peeled and sliced into 1/8 inch rounds
1/2 a yellow onion, chunked
4 large Swiss Chard Leaves, slivered
1 15 oz. can of organic Cannellini beans, drained and rinsed
1 14.5 oz. can of organic Fire-Roasted diced tomatoes, drained
2 cloves of local garlic, minced
1 tsp. salt
1/2 tsp. black pepper
1 TBS. dried oregano
1/2 TBS. dried basil
1/2 tsp. dried rosemary
1 cup of cooked whole wheat pasta, kept separate (I used baby seashells)
2 cups of cooked chicken pieces

1. In a large soup pot, bring the chicken stock to a boil. Add the carrot slices and onion chunks. Boil for five minutes. Add the slivered Swiss Chard leaves, beans, diced tomatoes, garlic, salt, pepper, oregano, basil and rosemary. Return the pot to a simmer and simmer uncovered for 30 minutes, stirring occasionally.

2. Add to the pot the cooked chicken pieces, and simmer for 5 more minutes or until the chicken pieces are warmed through.

3. Into serving bowls, scoop 1/4 cup of cooked pasta. Top with ladles of soup. Serve with crusty bread.

Six Week Project: Day Three

2011-03-14T13:31:00.007-04:00

Just once in my life have I had the privilege of diving, submerging myself into the pristine blue waters that ebb and flow through the Mediterranean Sea, gently massaging the gray and white beaches, the ancient jig-saw like shoreline of Greece. If I never make it there again, my memory of that experience, of swimming through the deep blue with an ominous black aquarium below, the salt and the sunshine, the feeling of running my hand like a rudder through magical waters once navigated by King Menelaus, upon which Helen’s face launched a thousand ships will last me the rest of my lifetime. I surely hope, however, that it won’t come to that. Tonight, while my girlfriend and I shared our meal together, I was momentarily taken back to a cafe near the sea where I was served steaming hot moussaka and crisp wedges of bursting pink watermelon on a dry, hot night in the briny air of Corfu.

When I make food for the people I love the most, I am compelled to implore all of my food ethics, philosophies and inherited traditions so that like a bubbling risotto, the deepest feelings in my heart will be absorbed into everything I lovingly prepare. This was on my mind when I was crafting the menu for Sunday dinner. Like many American families, mine has a bit of a tradition of having Sunday dinners together, therefore causing this day’s meal to take precedence over all other eating engagements throughout the week. This particular Sunday I had an opportunity to share love and food with someone I love immensely, and therefore my menu had to reflect that.

What I settled on was a Mediterranean Pot-Roasted Chicken and Greek Salad, with a baguette from the Village Bakery. It has never been put past me to toot my own horn and so I will do it without hesitation. This chicken was phenomenal. I wish I could’ve fed the entire block, because I’m fairly certain the aroma from my house probably spread that far. It began to fill the house just moments after putting the hefty pot into the oven, and by the time it was finished, it smelled so good it was almost unbearable. When my girlfriend emerged from the shower just before dinner was ready, she commented that the worst part about being in the bathroom for that half an hour was the fact that she couldn’t smell the dinner. This meal was so easy, will feed four, and is healthy and heavy with local ingredients. While we were eating, we decided that this meal would be one of my signatures, in so much as it will be one of the things that will invoke the plea, “Honey, will you make Greek Chicken tonight?”

Queen Honeybea’s Greek Pot Roasted Chicken
Greek Salad
Baguette

1 small, local, free-range chicken (I have no preference between fryer or roaster, to be honest)
1 clove local garlic, minced
2 TBS. chopped fresh parsley
2 TBS. dried oregano (or fresh if in season)
1 TBS. dried thyme (or fresh if in season)
1 TBS. lemon zest (about half a lemon)
2 TBS. extra-virgin olive oil
Salt and Pepper
1 lemon
½ yellow onion, divided
2 cloves local garlic, roughly chopped
2 TBS. chopped fresh parsley
1 TBS. dried oregano
Six small to medium size local red potatoes, peeled and cut into long wedges
¼ cup sun dried tomatoes, cut into slices
¼ cup pitted kalamata olives
2 TBS. chopped fresh parsley
1 TBS. dried oregano
Salt and pepper
1 cup dry white wine

1. Pre-heat the oven to 425 degrees. Prep the herb paste, cavity stuffing, and vegetables to go along with the chicken. First make the herb paste: In a small bowl, mash together the minced clove of garlic, 2 TBS. chopped fresh parsley, 2 TBS. dried oregano, 1 TBS. dried thyme, 1 TBS. lemon zest, and 2 TBS. extra-virgin olive oil. Set aside. Next, halve the lemon. Quarter one half (the half you just zested for the paste), and slice the other half into thin slices. Place the quarters in one bowl and the slices in another. Halve the ½ an onion. Sliver one half into slices and set aside with the lemon slices. Chunk the other half and set aside with the lemon quarters. In the bowl with the lemon quarters and onion chunks, add the chopped garlic, 2 TBS. chopped fresh parsley, and 1 TBS. dried oregano. To the bowl with the onion and lemon slices, add the potato wedges, sun dried tomatoes, olives, 2 TBS. chopped fresh parsley, and 1 TBS. dried oregano. Now you should have 3 bowls prepared: one with the herb paste, one with the chunked lemon and onions to stuff into the cavity of the chicken, and one with the lemon slices, onion slices, and potatoes to place around the chicken in the pot.

2. Prepare the chicken: Rinse the chicken well and pat dry. Set it breast side up into a lightly greased Dutch Oven with a tight fitting lid. Generously salt and pepper the chicken cavity. Add the chunked lemon and onion mixture to the cavity, stuffing it full. Now, use your finger tips to gently pull the skin away from the breast without tearing it. Stuff the herb paste between the skin and the breast, spreading it evenly on both sides. Brush the chicken with a little bit of olive oil and salt and pepper it generously. Add the potato wedges, sun dried tomato slices, olives, parsley, and oregano mixture around the chicken in the pan. Place the lemon slices on top. Pour the cup of dry white wine over the bird and vegetables.

3. Fit the Dutch Oven with its lid and bake the chicken at 425 degrees for one hour. Turn the oven down to 400 degrees and bake for one more hour, basting every 20 minutes. The thickest part of the chicken breast should register at 180 degrees when the meat is done. Remove the vegetables to a serving dish and keep warm in the oven. Remove the chicken to a cutting board. When cool enough to handle, carve the chicken and serve with the sauce that is left in the Dutch Oven after cooking.

Note: I believe this would be delicious with boneless, skinless chicken breasts, which would also be a bit leaner and would take less time. Omit the herb paste and cavity stuffing. Combine 4 local, free-range boneless, skinless chicken breasts with the potato/vegetable mixture in the Dutch Oven. Bake at 350 degrees for one hour, basting every 20 minutes. I haven’t tried this yet, but in my head, this would work.

For the Greek Salad:

4 cups of mixed mesculin greens, roughly chopped (Or a head of local romaine, chopped)
Two handfuls of organic cherry tomatoes
1 cup of drained, pitted kalamata olives
½ cup of crumbled goat feta (mine is from Integration Acres in Athens)
Greek Vinaigrette Dressing (recipe follows)

1. In a large salad bowl, toss together the greens, cherry tomatoes, kalamata olives and goat feta.

2. In a mason jar, shake together ¼ cup red wine vinegar, 2 TBS. lemon juice, 1 tsp. Dijon mustard, 1 TBS. dried oregano, 1 tsp. dried basil, ¼ tsp. salt, a dash of black pepper and ¼ tsp. garlic powder. Dress the salad, toss and serve.

Note: When in season, a nice addition might be diced cucumber, or slivered red onions.

Really, this was just superb. The chicken was fall off the bone tender, juicy and absolutely permeated with the flavors in this dish. It was a triumph. Enjoy, and always remember to buy local.

Six Week Project: Day Two

2011-03-14T11:38:00.004-04:00

Do you ever have a day when you just feel old-timey? An early spring day warmed slowly by the sun, when a still chilly wind blushes your cheeks and the light dawns, blanketing the hillsides covered in budding deciduous trees, when the smell of thawing soil swirls about your nostrils and a morning trip to the Farmer’s Market makes for heart-panging nostalgia and a hearkening to a time when those hillsides were dotted with log cabins, small Appalachian farms and hard-working pioneers. My day today was swollen with such feelings. I spent the day flitting about Athens, Ohio, with the sunroof open and the windows down, soaking up an abnormally warm Saturday in March. At the Farmer’s Market I scooped up some fresh Swiss Chard from Green Edge Organics, and Betty’s Favorite cheese from Laurel Valley Creamery. These two items, along with an outstanding egg from Blue Rock Station, and stone ground cornmeal from Rio Grande made for a dinner that sang like Bill Monroe’s fiddle—to my ears, at least.

Tonight’s dinner was reminiscent for me of the American South, the Appalachian foothills, and using my own (or rather someone else’s very local) food. It was a dinner that could’ve easily been prepared a hundred years ago by someone in this area. Healthy, fresh and local, tonight’s dinner of sauteed Swiss Chard, onion and black eye peas, cornmeal cake, and an over easy egg was the perfect cap to a lovely day in the foothills of Southeastern Ohio, when spring was calling and bringing the past back to life, like the green leaves of resurrecting tulips, made the day magnificent. This recipe makes enough for one serving.

Sauteed Swiss Chard, Onion and Black Eye Peas
Cornmeal Griddle Cake
Over-Easy Local Egg

1 TBS. extra-virgin olive oil
4 large Swiss Chard Leaves with stems, chopped
¼ yellow onion, slivered
½ cup cooked black eye peas (I use organic canned peas)
½ tsp. garlic powder
Salt and Black Pepper to taste

2 TBS. whole-wheat flour
¼ cup stone-ground cornmeal
½ tsp. baking powder
pinch of salt
1 TBS. low-fat yogurt
½ cup local skim milk
1 TBS. local honey
1 tsp. extra virgin olive oil
1 TBS. shredded local cheese (I used Betty’s Favorite from Laurel Valley)

One local, free-range egg
Salt and Pepper

1. In a large cast iron skillet, heat the 1TBS. olive oil over medium to medium low heat. (A cast iron skillet will get hot and stay hot, and food will burn easily) Add to the warmed oil the slivered onion and the chopped chard stems. Saute for five minutes, stirring often, until tender.

2. Add to the skillet the chard leaves, black eye peas, garlic powder and salt and pepper. Turn the heat to medium low, and saute stirring occasionally while you prepare the cornmeal cake batter.

3. In a small bowl, whisk together the flour, cornmeal, baking powder and salt. In a small liquid measuring cup, mix together the yogurt, milk, honey and olive oil. Stir the liquid into the dry mixture, and fold in the cheese just until everything is moistened.

4. By this point, the chard and black eye peas should have cooked down, the greens should be wilted and the onions browned. Turn the heat on the skillet back up to medium, and use a spatula to move the chard mixture off to one side. Pour the cornmeal batter onto one corner of the skillet.

5. Crack the egg into the remaining corner of the skillet, and salt and pepper it to your liking. When the cornmeal cake begins to brown on the edges and bubble, loosen it with a flat spatula and flip it over. When the egg whites have cooked through, flip the egg and cook it for about a minute. Remove the egg to a plate, and when the cornmeal cake is browned on the bottom and feels solid, remove it and the chard and peas as well. Spread the cornmeal cake with butter and serve hot.

Enjoy! Always remember to buy local!

Six Week Project: Day One

2011-03-11T17:50:00.004-05:00

Stir-crazy. Yep. That is the perfect expression to describe my emotions, my mind and my spirit as of late. It's nearing the end of winter, we've all been trapped indoors in close proximity to one another for the past four months, and burn-out is imminent. I've been eating rutabagas, turnips, cabbage, potatoes, and apples for what seems like an eternity, and I'm ready for some asparagus spears to pierce the surface of the soil so that I may roast and delight in them. When I get this way, I know exactly how to solve it. A project.

Many people have asked me over the course of the past two years how I've changed my diet, what I eat, or what I've done to lose weight. I try to explain it, but often it seems like there's so much to say that I never manage to convey everything I'd like. I decided tonight, while scooping a spoonful of barley onto my dinner plate, that I ought to share my meals. What better way to explain a diet or a way of eating than by sharing meals with someone? Therefore, I'm going to share my meals with all of you for the next six weeks. This is a little Lenten project that will hopefully also help me stay on the healthy eating bandwagon and not have a thousand calories worth of just peanut butter for dinner anymore. Yes, yes there can be too much of a good (and healthy) thing.

Each dinner I eat, from now until Friday, April 22nd will be posted on this blog, along with how I made it or where it's from if I've eaten out. Any of my Facebook friends are probably aware that my last project, "Photo of the Day," died several weeks ago when some extra activity was added to my life and I simply lost the time to keep up with it. That will not be happening to the Six Week Project. From now on, you'll be privy to a glimpse of how this natural, organic, seasonal, local eater dines every night. We'll start with tonight...

Last Tuesday, my girlfriend and I cooked up a bag of fresh fettuccine she'd bought from Ohio City Pasta at the West Side Market in Cleveland. She bought regular semolina and basil. Wanting to get the most out of the pasta as possible, I decided to whip up some quick marinara sauce with some veggies for added nutrition. There was a big bowl of said sauce leftover after we feasted, so tonight I decided to enjoy it over barley instead of pasta.

A cup of cooked hulled barley constitutes 54% of your daily fiber requirement. Just like oatmeal, it's fabulous for your heart, and cholesterol levels. Remember to buy the hulled barley, as it is considered a whole grain, whereas pearl barley is not. I try to consume as many whole grains as possible, and very little to preferably no white flour. Thus inspiring the use of barely for me and leaving the leftover fettuccine for my girlfriend.

Quick Vegetable Marinara over Barley with a
Small Tossed Salad

2 TBS. extra virgin olive oil
1 large local garlic clove, minced
Half of a local onion, minced
2 large carrots, peeled, halved and sliced thinly
1 cup diced green bell pepper (mine were local, chopped and frozen from the summer)
1/2 cup dry red wine
1 14.5 oz. can of organic fire roasted diced tomatoes (no salt)
1 14.5 oz. can of organic fire roasted crushed tomatoes
1 cup water
1 tsp. dried oregano
1 tsp. dried basil
1 tsp. organic evaporated cane juice (Florida crystals)
a pinch of hot red pepper flakes
salt and pepper to taste

1. In a medium size sauce pan, combine the oil and the garlic while you chop the rest of the vegetables. Heat the oil over medium heat and add the onions, carrots and peppers. Saute, stirring frequently, until tender (10 minutes).

2. Add the red wine, and simmer until the wine is reduced by half. Add the diced and crushed tomatoes, the water, oregano, basil, evaporated cane juice, and red pepper flakes. Bring to a boil, then reduce the heat and simmer at least 30 minutes, stirring often. Taste for seasoning, and add salt and pepper to your liking. I simmered mine for about an hour, until it was thickened.

This is what I ate over my cooked barley, topped with chickpeas for protein, and I made a small salad with mixed mesculin greens and micro greens from Green Edge Organics, a shredded carrot and my typical mustard vinaigrette. When I make salad dressing I usually combine 2 TBS. of some kind of mustard (Dijon, whole-grain, Honey, etc.) with 1/4 cup of vinegar (usually balsamic, apple cider, or rice), some salt and pepper, 1 TBS. honey, onion powder, oregano and 1/2 cup of extra virgin olive oil in a mason jar and shake. I switch it up depending on my mood, and just keep replenishing the jar as I use it.

Day One, down. Enjoy. Always remember to buy local.

100 Miles or More: Part Four

2011-03-09T11:18:00.015-05:00

Eating is a two-faced, back-stabbing best friend. While it reminds you constantly with stomach groans and hunger pains that you need it to stay alive, it in turn wreaks havoc on your body in so many ways if you don’t do it properly.

March 8, 2011
Fat Tuesday

It has officially been two years, to this day, from the moment I decided I wanted to be a happier, healthier person. When I began writing this blog series I had good intentions of outlining how I did it, the nitty-gritty details if you will, but still in the form of a story. Because I am a naturally reflective, thoughtful person, I am having a hard time making it that simple. Drawing on the specifications, the exact changes I made, the foods I ate and the exercise I undertook is far too watered down for what it is I want to share with anyone who has known me for any amount of time and is reading this blog. If you’re one of those people, you know that change has become a facet of my day to day. You know that I now embody an entirely different person: physically, mentally, and emotionally. After spending a weekend at my mother and father’s house in Cleveland, seeing people I love and have known my entire life, I can only imagine what your perspective of me has become. It would also be completely unfair of me to omit certain portions of my experience, including what I am going through now: the struggle and heartbreaking difficulty of maintaining. Given my deeply embedded sense of nostalgia, of memories and of allowing the romance of the past woo me into the future, reflection will be the theme of this post. This is a glimpse into the day that began this journey, in celebration of the second anniversary of the first step.

Tuesday, February 24, 2009

Shrove Tuesday has always been one of my favorite days of the year. Beyond its more religious title it is nicknamed for a more cultural attachment which is spelled out for us in three letters given to this particular Tuesday—fat. A day of socially approved gluttony was like a gift from Heaven, literally in this case. This particular Fat Tuesday was beginning normally, like any other day in late February in Athens, Ohio.

Out the expanse of picture windows which glass plated the front of our house I could see drifts of snow sloping, heavily blanketing the stiffly frozen blades of green and brown grass left helpless from autumn. Large, puffy flakes were falling fast from the endless mass of heavily soaked gray clouds that hung wet above our home. That sense of nostalgic comfort that accompanies a blizzard like this in early December, anticipating the familiarity of another Holiday season, had long since passed and we were approaching the chorus, melodically speaking. We were entrenched in the bleakness of midwinter. Being a culture of people who always wait for the next big thing, getting through the slump of hibernation inducing winter weather isn’t easy. The day after Christmas is always anti-climatic, as the road that leads to Easter is long, and one could easily be lulled into believing, like Robert Frost, that there is no way out and perhaps laying down to sleep in pillows of snow will prove too enticing. These are the months we spend watching blizzards and ice storms come and go, knowing that an early, warm spring day will come, but with no guaranteed arrival date. So as I was on this day, we gaze out our frostbitten windows at the barrage of heavy, matted snowflakes crashing into the windshields of our cars, frozen in our driveways, and we wait.

However, thanks to some strategic spiritual planning, we have Fat Tuesday, stuck like a pin in a country road on the map between Christmas and Easter. Warming my fingers around a mug of freshly brewed coffee, snuggled comfortably in the aroma it sent creeping throughout my house, I looked down at the front of my neon orange hooded sweatshirt, marked in chocolate brown block by brilliant advertisers with the words “Cleveland Browns,” and like every other day, I acknowledged my more than average, too "uncomfortably full" to be "pleasantly plump" body. It was a given for me at this point. The world around me existed, literally, around me. There was nothing about my body image that touched fluidity, but rather rigidity in physical boundaries. My body required more space than other people's bodies. It had a greater presence, setting its own limits. In one of the cozy armed chairs in the front living room of our home, I pulled my feet up underneath me, curling and tucking my way into the warmest position I could endure. The lowest folds of belly fat careened over themselves and pressed deeply into my thighs as my body curled into the roundness that is required to imprison its own heat. Looking down at myself, thinking nothing exceptional of my body, but rather accepting it as known to me, I gently tapped my fingernails rhythmically against the coffee cup and tried to decide what to make of this day.

Our house on Columbus Road was very, very blue. The blue stretched from the room in which I was contemplating the morning, through a wood paneled door frame which led to a hallway, past and into a bathroom and around a corner to the sleepy blue, and cocoa brown bedroom where my partner was still tucked under the covers, asleep and unacknowledged of bitter chill. I’ve always been a morning person, and rarely did a day pass when she would wake to find me at home. She was typically greeted with a note, and a ceaselessly warming pot of what would be stale coffee by the time she roused to the kitchen. I had a pattern down, a sequence memorized, of where I could attempt to stealthily place my feet on the wooden floorboards so as not to evoke a creak or stir the furniture into the thunderous rumbling that would occur when I walked normally through the house. When I reached my side of the bed, where my clean clothes were stacked almost unrecognizably from my dirty clothes in the heap of a wardrobe that had developed on the floor, I swapped my love of the Dawg Pound for a slightly more fitted, certainly more insulated sweatshirt advertising the mighty terriers of Boston University. I left my sweatpants where they had been pulled off from my legs, and donned a pair of what I lovingly called “comfy” jeans, some heavy socks and my "way-past-their-expiration-date" Vans sneakers. My clothing reflected my body in shape, fit and my regard for them. T-shirts, hoodies, "comfy" jeans and worn out hipster shoes were normal, fitting loosely over me so the only confinement I felt came from the stretched surface of my own skin.

The decision I made while brewing over coffee and blizzards was to go to Kroger. Being unemployed, it was difficult to entertain myself while also feeling productive and spending the least amount of money possible. We did things like splurge on the larger cable package, play endless hours of board games and cards, and place food consumption and therefore also food preparation in a place of high importance to help with this constant dilemma. Food consumption was a major part of our day, not just because I loved to cook, but because we both loved to eat. Eating is a two-faced, back-stabbing best friend. While it reminds you constantly with stomach groans and hunger pains that you need it to stay alive, it in turn wreaks havoc on your body in so many ways if you don’t do it properly. For two unemployed people, my partner still being a college student, spending money on food was an easy justification. We needed to eat, or we’d die. Therefore, trips to Kroger were almost a daily occurrence, and spending guilt amounted to almost none. Being the consumer of culture that I was, I decided that being Fat Tuesday, we really ought to celebrate. I remembered that Kroger sold boxes of Paczki each year, and that is precisely what I wanted to plop in my cart, along with some fixings for Jambalaya, and indulge in upon returning home.

My family has had a Shrove Tuesday tradition that paints my memories as far back as they go. I have the fondest, warmest, treasured thoughts when I remember those snowy, dark nights that dot my past every year on Fat Tuesday in the dead of Cleveland’s often viscous winter. I yearn now for the feeling to which I had grown accustomed with my family. Those Fat Tuesdays were always so familial and communal, as we’d crowd together around a hexagonal shaped kitchen table, with fruited Spode place mats, and a rustic chandelier flooding the table in muted yellow. This was my Aunt and Uncle’s house, and every year they’d drive to Garfield Heights during the day to get a dozen tender, perfectly fried Paczki to share with our family.

I suppose this story begins with my Uncle George. While my Uncle George was an import to my family, gaining status as uncle, brother, son and friend when he married my Aunt Liana, he was never an import to me, as I was born many years after they’d been married. In my mind, he was nothing other than my Uncle, and when I was five years old, I believed that we shared the same blood, the same breath, the same inherent structure. This is what constitutes family to me. What I would come to learn and understand later is that my Uncle George was Polish, and Jewish, which meant little to me, because in my heart he was just Uncle George and I loved him, which in turn helped me think nothing of and love the differences between myself and others in my future. Our differences, however, are not the point of the story, for we shared far more similarities.

My Uncle George loved food and culture, and was broad minded enough to embrace and experience multitudes of both of those things. Being Jewish, my Uncle didn’t observe the religious tenants of Fat Tuesday, but being Polish, it was probably nearly impossible for him to escape the cultural tenants that anchor that holiday to the calendar. Even though Polish Jews didn’t eat Paczki on Paczki Day (Fat Thursday, or the last Thursday before Lent) or Fat Tuesday, they make, fry and eat them during Hanukkah, to honor the tradition of eating foods fried in oil. Paczki are Polish, period. They are essentially glorified donuts, round and fried, filled with fruit and dusted with powdered sugar or glazed. They have a historical purpose. They were made to use up the sugar, lard and fruits kept in the house, so that deeply devoted Catholics would not consume those foods during the Lenten fast. My Aunt and Uncle would go to Charles Peters Bake Shop in Garfield Heights, after having ordered them at least a week in advance, take a hand written number from a flimsy nail in the molding of the door frame, and stand in the line that often extended to the sidewalk, down the street and around the corner. They’d bring the boxes home, and that night we’d gather.

I remember my mother bundling me up, and together we’d climb into the car to often brave snow and wind, up and down what seemed like treacherous country roads at the time, on the fifteen minute trek from our little white house in the suburbs to my Aunt and Uncle’s cedar sided home, tucked deep in the woods down a long and winding driveway. While it was familiar and felt like home to me, it was also always an adventure and I’d often imagine for myself stories of the creatures that lived in those woods, the ghosts that dwelt within the pines, and the characters that inhabited such a different place than what I knew at our own house. Through the darkness we’d be warmly greeted by mellow garage lights, and a forest green door that inevitably yielded a welcoming Golden Retriever or two upon opening, and either my Uncle George or Aunt Liana, smiling and asking for our coats to hang. Below our feet was a grid of red clay tiles, grouted in dark gray, puddles from melting snow collecting in the grooves between them. The colors in the long kitchen reflected the surrounding nature, the forest; deep shale blue, gray, hunter green, Terra cotta, and deep walnut, all draped in the warming glow of the chandelier, and deeply set pot lights above the kitchen counters. The surfaces were decorated with Fitz & Floyd, and Spode ceramics, where vegetables had been turned rigid and glazed, and suddenly a bundle of asparagus would dust black pepper when overturned. It was in this place, the uniqueness of it, where I felt so unconditionally loved.

Here, around this table, my Aunts, Uncle, Mother, sister and I would sit. The Paczki each had been cut into quarters, revealing a great mystery of what filled each round, and we’d share, taste, talk, and laugh over pieces of tender fried dough smeared with prune, apricot, lemon, apple, custard, poppy seed, and raspberry fillings. We weren’t really preparing for Lent as much as we were celebrating one another’s company, our shared fellowship, our bond as family and lovers of culture and food. Thus began my love affair with prune Paczki, and with food, and specifically with the cultural relevance of food in general.

Being reared around such people, I could not escape this binding tie with food preparation and food culture, with love from my Mother’s kitchen, with trips to the West Side Market with my Aunts, and with sharing those experiences with others. That’s how I knew, on that day when I came home from Kroger with my half dozen of prune Paczki and then decided to throw them in the freezer, giving up dessert for Lent, that walked the path which began to lay out before me wouldn’t be easy. Sitting in the chair in my living room on that snowy day, I felt stuck, stationary and wedged into a life that didn’t really belong to me. There had to be more than the day to day living, more than the folds of fat that weighed heavily under my skin, the board games, the occupancy of time wasted. I lost my Uncle George in August of 2006 to leukemia. My beautiful family had spent too much time, too much energy expended, too much love given for me to sink into that sea. I was too smart and possessed too much burning potential to allow my feet to submerge any further into the wet concrete of my turbulent early twenties. No more looking out the windows, no more waiting for the next big thing. I had to save myself.

March 8, 2011

I thought re-creating that day might help inspire me. I have hit, without question, the hardest part of the process I'd outlined in my mind, thus far. On January 8, 2011, I stepped on the scale and saw the number 186 for the very first time. I had lost 101 pounds. One hundred was my goal, and I went flailing about my apartment, dancing up and down the hallway, clapping my hands and yelling for joy when I read it. That was the peak for me. Suddenly the anxiety and heavy burden I'd been carrying of working constantly on a seemingly impossible goal for almost two years had melted away. I'd made it. I had been anticipating this moment.

What I wasn't expecting was to gain back five of those pounds in the two months following that blissful day. While five pounds may seem like nothing to the average person who hasn't embarked on a weight loss journey, let me tell you, it's a source of major anxiety and disappointment. Many times in the past several days, I've thought to myself that I've created a monster. The diet and exercise I've incorporated into my life are my new sense of "normal," and no matter how much I want certain aspects of my old life back, I cannot have them without consequence. I have created a monster and now I have to live with it, and perhaps even more challenging, I have to love it.

While many people view great achievements as having a price, I simply can't look at it that way. I will learn to love this monster. Giving up my old food philosophy, my slothful habits and my need to cling to the familiar has not been a price paid, but rather a change that was necessary, a change that occurred and now it is a part of my life-a real transition. We spend our entire lives fearing change, then being flung to emotional, mental and physical polarities when we are faced with it. What I tried to do, and am still trying to do, is embrace change and learn how to manage it well, because at the end of the day, it is now and always will be a part of my life. Why have I gained back weight it took me two months to lose? Because change is inevitable and welcomed, and because learning how to balance the many facets of our lives is the moral of the story.

Learning how to maintain my weight where I have felt the happiest (between 185-187) is going to be a continual challenge for me. Over the past two years I've become intimately familiar with my body, scrutinizing it daily in the mirror, while changing my clothes, or sitting at my desk. I am keenly aware of it's shape, it's boundaries, it's nuances. I knew I'd gained weight back, even a pound or two, without ever stepping on the scale. My physical awareness is heightened, but that was necessary in order to overhaul myself into a healthy human being. I am working on finding a healthier way to look at my body again, without sliding back into an oblivion of hopeless obesity. I am slowly, painfully coming to terms with the fact that I will probably spend the rest of my life balancing in order to maintain. Some days that is a daunting thought, and others I try to remind myself of how far I've come, that I've done it before and I can do it again. I believe it will get better.

Where I find myself today is so drastically different than the story I told of this day (Fat Tuesday) two years ago. The person who wore that Browns sweatshirt, staring out the picture windows is a ghost that dwells in the dark spaces of my heart. Today the light is shining. Today I am in love: new love. Today I deeply know those I love and defend, and who love me deeply in return; they are no more than a handful, but I hold them tightly in my palm. Today I use my mind, my soul and my kindness on a daily basis to help others. Today I have a plan, I have ambition and my path will always lead to other paths. Today I am open-ended, I am eager for new experiences and the ability and desire to change and grow flows through me every single day. Today I am the healthiest I've ever been in my life. Today I have done everything I can to live. Today has never felt so good. Tomorrow awaits and I am more ready than ever for all of its magnificent glory. Amen.

Amitié

2011-03-01T14:58:00.015-05:00

The thin, beadboard like hardwood floors of the hallway that leads from my bathroom to my bedroom radiated the warm, steamy fragrance of the crushed lavender blossoms that had been steeping in my bathwater. The floorboards almost bowed under my feet as I sunk into the cozy sauna that had been created in my half of a big white house on a charming village street. Every once in awhile, when I fall off the face of the Earth for an indefinite period of time, I need a little bit of genuine, self-inflicted comfort to help bring me back to life, awaken my senses again, and remind me that I still exist within the comings and goings, the business, the activity of every day life.

This particular night I had chosen lavender. If you hadn't noticed, I have been away from my usual blogging, from my weekly routine for a few weeks. If I have learned anything in my short twenty-four years on this Earth, it's that life happens and we must let it. In fact, there are times when we welcome life's arrival, because it means greater happiness, fulfillment and joy within our lives. The interruptions incurred on my usual schedule have been welcomed with open arms over the past six weeks. Exhausting? Yes. Procrastination? A definite result. Worth it? Undoubtedly. I decided last night that lavender was going to help bring me back down, to re-ground me and make me focus again.

The name lavender comes from the Latin verb "lavare" which means "to wash." Biblically it was known as "nard," and is mentioned in one of my favorite books, of which I've written before--The Song of Solomon. The Romans began the transition from nard to lavender as it was used commonly in their baths, as it was realized that lavender is good for the skin. I am a firm believer in the power of the mind, and the romance that lies in the connotation of lavender is right up my alley. Thoughts of it immediately draw up soothing sentiments, the smell of warm herbal tea, and for me, of onions and carrots sweating and softening in perfectly warmed olive oil, and the aroma of crushed Herbes De Provence seeping into the walls of my home. My soothing lavender bath, where I got back in touch with myself was an appropriate precursor to conjuring a big pot of French Lentil Soup, Queen Honeybea style, heavily seasoned with Herbes de Provence and reminiscent of friendship.

I have this friend, see. She's one of the best I've ever had. She is a self-identified Francophile, and for some time now I've been wanting to make this soup for her, after a candid discussion of Herbes De Provence over some dusty old books in a kitchy thrift store. Herbes De Provence is a simple mixture of some fabulously French and Mediterranean flavors: savory, fennel, basil and thyme. I learned recently that the addition of lavender to the mixture is purely an American nuance. I found that to be only appropriate for making this soup for my friend. French flavors with a little American twist; as if I stirred a portion of myself into the soup, which is always my goal when sharing my food with others. While I've been fairly preoccupied with the happenings of my own life lately, this friend always reminds me that I am cared for greatly.

It amazes me how taking time for myself actually makes me realize my humble place in life's greater picture. When I was finally presented with silence in the darkness of a warm bath, and my mind was free to relax, my thoughts went immediately to those I love. I haven't had much time to think about them lately, outside of work and life and life's little wonders and the stress of straining to see the future. Then I found myself alone, thinking of my dear friend who had just so happened to text me and say nothing more than "What happenin ladyyyy," which led to an entire conversation about the things that were making my life chaotic. She reminded me that I have human obligations to my friendships and my family, and that they aren't obligations, but rather privileges and blessings. So I steeped in lavender and thought excitedly about crafting my French Lentil Soup for her, and for me and for the people we love; about sharing fellowship and friendship, laughing and knowing we have more than just our own two feet with which to walk through life. Lavender and friendship have pulled me back to Earth for now, but I'm not so naieve as to miss chasing clouds when I can. I can only hope they will always lead me to vibrant purple fields of lavender, to friendship and to love. Bon Appétit.

Queen Honeybea's
French Lentil Soup
(Serves 6)

1 lb. of Organic French Green Lentils, sorted and rinsed
Boiling water
3 TBS. extra-virgin olive oil
1 large organic yellow onion, chopped
2 cloves of local garlic, minced
5 large organic carrots, peeled and chopped into 1/4" half circles
1 tsp. dried ground cumin
1/2 tsp. dried ground rosemary
1/2 tsp. dried thyme leaves
1 TBS. dried Herbes de Provence (with Lavender)
1 tsp. salt
1/4 tsp. dried black pepper
2 quarts organic, free-range, low-sodium chicken stock
3 large local red potatoes, peeled and diced to 1/2" pieces
1/4 cup dry red wine
Salt and Pepper to Taste
Extra-virgin olive oil for serving

1. In a large bowl, cover the lentils with at least 2 inches of boiling water. Let sit for 15 minutes, then drain. Set aside.

2. In the meantime, in a large stock pot, heat the olive oil over medium heat and add the chopped onion. Cook stirring often until onions are tender, translucent and sweating, about 10 minutes. Add the minced garlic, and cook stirring constantly for 30 seconds. Add the diced carrots, cumin, rosemary, thyme, Herbes de Provence, salt and pepper. Cook stirring frequently until the carrots are lightly tender and the entire house smells delicious, about 10 minutes.

3. Add to the pot the chicken stock and prepared lentils. Increase heat and bring to a boil. Lower heat and simmer aggressively for 30 minutes, stirring every so often. After 30 minutes, add the potatoes and the red wine. Taste for seasoning and add salt and pepper as needed. Simmer for 30 more minutes, stirring occassionally.

4. Serve piping hot. Drizzle additional extra-virgin olive oil over each bowl and serve with crusty French bread (baguette or galette).

When the Mood Strikes

2011-02-10T20:27:00.004-05:00

Just a quick post (yes, I said quick, believe it or not) to share a recipe and some photos of the fruits of my labor during a recent Indian kick in my kitchen.

It all started with black lentils. Over the winter holidays I discovered black lentils at the West Side Market in Cleveland. I'd never seen them before, and being intrigued and curious as usual, I went home with a bag. They've been burning a hole in my kitchen cabinet ever since, until yesterday when I decided to get them out for some much needed vegetarian protein. At least once a week I get a craving for some fabulous non-meat protein source, usually beans or lentils or tofu. My body doesn't love meat anymore, it loves fiber. Therefore...it was lentil time.

After perusing some black lentil recipes on-line, I decided to just boil the little buggers up and toss them with some sauteed Swiss chard and cauliflower. It wasn't until later, as I was perusing my DVD collection for something to entertain myself for the five minutes it takes me to eat alone in my living room, that I saw the case for the movie Slumdog Millionaire. Instantly, no joke, I heard the soundtrack playing in the back of my mind and remembered driving around Athens, Ohio on a hot, sweaty summer day with the windows down, playing "Paper Planes" by M.I.A. and "Jai Ho," as loud as my car speakers would handle. That is a fond memory for me, and suddenly my black lentils turned from plain to generously, lovingly spiced with coriander, cumin, mace, allspice, cardamom, and turmeric. Add that to a pot of boiling potatoes, drained and tossed into curry powder that had been warming in olive oil and my house soon smelled like Mumbai. Okay, not really, because I've never been there and while I'd love to think that all of India constantly smells of curry and cinnamon, I know I am wrong in that fantasy.

Dancing gleefully to the Slumdog Millionaire Soundtrack this evening, I took my pseudo-Indian feast from last night and turned it into something only about a thousand times better tonight. Being a fairly strict locavore, my body, mind and soul have been longing, pining, almost painfully missing fresh fruits and vegetables. One can only eat exclusively apples and turnips for so long. Therefore, I decided to cheat today. I think we all deserve a little cheat now and then. I stopped into Kroger in Marietta after work and picked up an organic, fair-trade mango, a bag of organic carrots, a box of organic mint, a bag of sweet, crunchy red grapes, and a bottle of Major Grey's Mango Chutney. I was going to India tonight in my little duplex set deep in Southeast Ohio, mark my words.

What became of these contraband items was a salad I'd readily make again. In fact, if I wasn't stuffed to my brim, I'd make another right now. I impressed myself with the flavor combination, and I only wish I had an army to cook for, so that I could share it with loved ones and friends. It was simple, healthy, and most of all, bursting with bright, zesty flavors that were reminiscent of spring, heat, humidity, summer, passion and fondness. Enjoy.

Queen Honeybea's
Mad Love for Lentils Salad
Serves 4

Ingredients:

A large bag of mixed salad greens (probably two good handfuls per serving)
A handful of micro greens per serving
2 large carrots, shredded
1 red onion, finely slivered
4 tomatoes, cut into eighths
A handful of red, seedless grapes per serving, halved
1/2 cup golden raisins, divided into 4 servings
2 large, ripe fair trade, organic mangoes, peeled and chunked
1/4 cup chopped fresh mint leaves, divided into 4 servings
2 cups cooked brown basmati rice (1 cup uncooked)
1 TBS. olive oil
1 TBS. rice wine vinegar
pinch of salt
4 cups prepared lentils of your choice (mine were black, cooked with spiced sauteed chard and cauliflower)
One recipe of prepared chutney-yogurt dressing (recipe follows)
A dollop of mango chutney per serving
Ground cinnamon
4 large whole-wheat pitas, warmed in the oven

To make said deliciousness:

On four plates, divide the salad greens equally for a good serving of salad per person. Top each serving evenly with micro greens, carrots, onion, tomatoes, grapes, raisins, mango chunks and mint leaves.

Toss the hot, cooked basmati rice with the 1 TBS. olive oil, rice wine vinegar and salt. Place 1/4 cup scoop of rice on each salad, then top with the dollop of mango chutney.

Beside the rice, bed down 1 cup of warm prepared lentils. Top with the chutney-yogurt dressing and sprinkle with ground cinnamon. Serve each salad with a warm pita.

To make delicious, nutritious chutney-yogurt dressing:

1 cup low-fat plain, organic yogurt
1/2 cup Major Grey's Mango Chutney
2 TBS. extra virgin olive oil
1/4 cup rice vinegar

Whisk all this yumminess together until you have a well melded dressing that's thin enough to pour over the salad. If it's too thick, add more vinegar.

Just in case you need some extra inspiration. This has been on repeat in my house.

100 Miles or More: Part Three

2011-02-06T20:57:00.006-05:00

Losing is the hardest part. We carry weight in so many different bags and baskets, slung over our shoulders and strapped up by our hips. Baggage is distinctly human, and we all carry our share. I found myself carrying the weight of the world that summer, on my body, in my soul and with every ounce of mental strength I had left. The forward progress I’d made during and shortly after my first steps through Lent had come to a halt, as my feet were planting into slowly hardening concrete under the weight of stress, heart-breaking pain, and heavy emotional casualty. As I was losing myself in the depths of despair, in the daily paranoia my life had become, I had lost the drive, the focus I’d been able to harness so well just months before.

What had changed was that the rock of my life then, that to which I’d been anchoring myself for almost four years of commitment and devotion, was slowly deteriorating. As I watched my partner spiral further and further into a dark, difficult abyss from which I wondered if emergence was even possible, I felt myself consumed with trying to hold dearly with white knuckles and clenched fingers to the life we'd built. It wasn’t working. I was holding onto weight alright—emotional, mental and physical and before I knew it I was sinking and drowning with lies, pain and loss stuffed like rocks into my pockets.

Losing weight has been a mastering of the mind for me. It has taken great focus, and dedication in order to relearn how to live, eat and move so that my body would match my desire to live. From June of 2009 to February of 2010, I probably lost all of ten pounds. I spent those eight months entirely focused on the health and well being of someone else. Two someone elses, in fact. I hadn’t a moment's reprieve to even remember that I had recently embarked on a weight loss journey myself. I was on a road that I believed would lead to a happier, healthier life, but for the moment I was stuck between a rock and a hard place, twiddling my thumbs on the edge of that lonely byway. Recently, I heard a piece of Buddhist wisdom that I found particularly relevant for this period in my life: “Roads are made for journeys, not destinations.”

My road from two hundred and eighty-seven pounds to one hundred and eighty-five pounds has certainly been journey, rather than destination focused. So many things factored in my ability and desire to lose weight, and each changed my path in such a way that I never could’ve mapped the course by which I traveled. This has been the greatest lesson. Life happens, it always has and it always will. We can try as we might to control, organize and plan our steps, but life will always happen. What we can do, and what I did, is make decisions that will make the journey more bearable and to trust in the power of pursuing our own happiness.

In July of 2009, my Mother was diagnosed with Type II Diabetes. Therein lay a fork in my road, and this was one of the first places where my path began to change. Unsure of this diagnosis and without significant guidance from her doctor, my Mother was understandably bewildered as to how she would have to change her life in order to reach a point of good health again. Seeing my mother confused and perhaps a little afraid of the unknown drove me to a place where I had to sit down and learn about how food works, period. And it was not until I began slowly learning on my own, did I realize how little I knew, or rather, how little we all know.

After implementing a couple of diet changes for my Mother, I decided that as I was living with my parents at the time, I’d implement those changes to my own diet to help support and motivate her. Helping my Mother with this not only ended up significantly helping me, but it also gave me a distraction from the pieces of my life that were falling apart right in front of my eyes. This is where "dieting" became "changing my diet permanently." It was essential that my Mom be able to lose a little bit of weight, and to eat foods that were easier for a Type II Diabetic's body to process, in order for her to effectively reverse her diagnosis and be a healthier adult. What was our first lesson? That bread isn't the enemy, but that it likes to be paired with protein. What became our new favorite lunch? Brugger's whole-wheat bagels with peanut butter. That was the first step.

Helping my Mother with her diagnosis helped me to begin learning about how food is processed, and what we can eat that makes our bodies function and feel better. During that summer, we switched to whole-wheat and multi-grain breads almost one hundred percent of the time. We cut out dessert except for very special occasions, and the desserts we did eat if we were having a craving became a serving size of organic animal cookies, or a serving size of graham crackers. We always made sure our carbohydrates were balanced with lean protein. Arnold's Sandwich Thins became another staple, piled high with fibrous vegetables like shredded carrots, slices of cucumber, slivers of red peppers and micro green sprouts, lean turkey and just a slathering of light mayo. We became addicts for Kashi's Original Seven-Grain crackers, organic breakfast cereals with at least 6 grams of fiber, and the abundance of local fruits us lucky Clevelanders get to enjoy mid-July. Blueberries found their way atop bowls of Fiber One, raspberries and raw almonds made their way into tossed salads dressed lightly with olive-oil and vinegar based dressings, and we stopped eating yogurts that contained more than 10 grams of sugar per serving. We went Greek with our dairy, eating plain, 2% fat Greek yogurt with diced peaches and honey. We became vitamin guzzling, anti-oxidant rich, fiber consuming machines...and implementing these small changes a couple of times per week helped us both feel better and lose a little weight over those eight months.

By the time February of 2010 rolled around, I was reaching a breaking point. While my Mother and I had made some really great progress with our eating habits, I was not exercising regularly and still following my old routine of food consumption the majority of the time. My relationship was and had been essentially over in my heart. Because of how I had to handle and deal with that aspect of my life, I found myself under even more undue stress and anxiety within my family relationships. My body was on the brink of getting to a place where it could feel better, but I hadn't been able to push it over that hump. The train was spouting coal dust and puttering "I think I can," repeatedly as it chugged up that hill, but something had to change in order for it to reach the top. Fuel needed to be added to that fire, it needed to be stoked and I was the only one holding that heavy, iron rod.

On Fat Tuesday of that year, I stepped on the scale in the familiar green bathroom at the home of two people I used to know and love as my own family. The bobbing needle pointed two hundred and forty-five pounds at me. That was the last time I'd weigh myself on that scale, or set foot in that green bathroom. It was the last time I'd face the walls that were shaded with horrible memories from the hot summer before. Two days later, I broke. I ended the relationship I imagined would last forever. I took the reins of my life back, staring down the dark road before me, unsure of what would await at dawn. When morning finally broke, I found that I had a whole lot of time to focus on myself. I gave up dessert for Lent again to re inspire the ball I'd began to roll one year earlier. I began walking one and a half miles in the park every week day. I picked up a copy of Michael Pollan's book Food Rules: An Eater's Manual, and read it cover to cover in two hours. I picked myself up, put one foot in front of the other, and never looked back.

November 2009

December 2009

February 2010

And a special thanks to Anna Zimmerman for always taking photos of me. I'd have no way of sharing pictures with the world if you hadn't been snapping them for me.

The Luckiest

2011-01-26T11:58:00.009-05:00

"There's nothing like poverty to get you into Heaven. They got a lot of wine and fish up there, and the bread is unleavened. They got a lot of ears that heard a whip go crack, lots of missing toes and fingers and scars upon their backs. Daddy's been working too much for days and days. He doesn't eat. He never says much but I think this time it's got him beat. It isn't that he isn't strong or kind or clever. Your daddy's poor today and he will be poor forever."
-Patty Griffin, A Poor Man's House.

Tucked cozily into a straight-backed bar stool at a hand crafted wooden counter, I scribbled down words inspired by a glorious winter walk while I waited eagerly for the waitress to round the corner with my morning meal at The Village Bakery last Sunday morning. After spending an hour sleepily lulling about a wooded, creek guided trail through dusty snow that glistened up the rays of a rare January sunrise, the butter yellow walls and warming glow fueled by happy diners and wall ovens were more than welcomed. While defrosting my left hand around the comforting curvature of a red mug full of Snowville swirled, organic coffee, my right hand was wielding it's usual black ink pen, writing about love. It is romantic to me to hearken the voices of the transcendentalists, tread out into nature and hear the words for myself; inspirational to say the least. While the smell of sharp, melting local cheddar and sizzling scrambling eggs swirled about me I found myself eaves dropping on the loud conversation to my left, interrupting the flow of my day, between a father and his newly minted Bobcat daughter.

"You don't know how lucky you were, kiddo. Trips to Europe, a new car when you turned sixteen, always getting new clothes and handbags."

This comment made by the girl's father came about ten minutes into their conversation about Athens, college-towns, and alleged hippies. It came about five minutes after they discussed how he didn't know how students survived before the uptown appearance of Chipotle. It came just seconds after he said, "When I was a student at the University of Dayton, there was a college nearby called Antioch. That's where all the weirdos went." It was the comment about luck, however, that hit a nerve within me. Until that point, I was able to retreat into my Cancerian shell, turn off the world around me and delve happily, quietly and alone into griddle cakes and my own thoughts. As soon as my ears noted this particular comment, the switches to my analytical nature were tripped, and I wrote in all capital letters on the top of my earlier scribbling: "What makes a life, a person, an experience 'lucky'? What defines 'luck'?"

Within the context of the situation, it was hard for me to digest the fact that this pair of people were sitting in a locally-owned, locally-operated, food conscious cafe, plagued and ridden with people that probably, based on fundamentals and personal codes of ethics, fell into the previously mentioned category of "hippie" and "weirdo." In fact, they were sitting next to me and while I fit nicely into what the man obviously considers an acceptable social appearance, despite my lack of dreadlocks and body odor, I fundamentally agree with many people who self-identify as "hippies." I self-identify as a hippie.

This morning while reading a chapter in Barbara Kingsolver's Animal, Vegetable, Miracle: A Year of Food Life, this weekend scenario began to replay in my mind. In the chapter I was reading, she began to explore the divide between our unofficial American caste system, or rather the classist division of urban and rural. I know into which caste my breakfast neighbors fall. It is the same one into which I fall: the urban middle-class. However, my hippie friends, and my farming friends (many of which claim both those identities) often fall into the socially deemed "lower" of the classes: the rural poor. While the three of us were sitting over pairs of whipped local eggs, handmade biscuits with locally milled flour, and thick, smokey pieces of bacon from a notoriously local family farm, we were actually caught up in the flavors, the texture, the grit of the cause; we were eating food, and food is ensuring a chronic separation of two Americas- the rural and the urban-and more importantly of Americans themselves, more and more each day.

Barbara says of the modern American farming industry...

"...as the years have gone by, as farms have gone out of business, America has given an ever-smaller cut of each food dollar (now less than 19 percent) to its farmers. The psychic divide between rural and urban people is surely a part of the problem. "Eaters must understand," Wendell Berry writes, "that eating takes place inescapably in the world, that it is inescapably an agricultural act, and that how we eat determines, to a considerable extent, how the world is used." Eaters must, he claims, but it sure looks like most eaters don't. If they did, how would we frame the sentence suggested by today's food-buying habits, directed toward today's farmers? "Let them eat dirt" is hardly overstating it. The urban U.S. middle class appears more specifically concerned about exploited Asian factory workers." (pg. 208, Animal, Vegetable, Miracle: A Year of Food Life)

America's supposed "upper" classes are, by their food choices, nourishing rural poverty. In a country where patriotism runs high and mighty, where red, white and blue are practically bled from the veins of American citizens, the upper and middle classes are monopolizing against the history and tradition of American family farming; against agriculture, the first and largest industry in America's life story. Every meal we purchase at McDonald's is slowly killing one family farmer after another, turning the rural poor into the untouchables. Barbara illustrates how this is happening in a passage about corporate grocery stores purchasing locally grown, organic tomatoes in mid-August in rural Appalachia:

"...when the farmers were finally bringing in these tomatoes by the truckload and hoping for a decent payout, some grocery buyers backtracked. "Not this week," one store offered without warning, and then another. Not the next week either, nor the next. A tomato is not a thing that can be put on hold. Mountains of ripe fruits piled up behind the packing house and turned to orange sludge, swarming with clouds of fruit flies. These tomatoes were perfect, and buyers were hungry. Agreements had been made. But pallets of organic tomatoes from California had begun coming in just a few dollars cheaper. It's hard to believe, given the amount of truck fuel involved, but transportation is tax-deductible for the corporations, so we taxpayers paid for that shipping. The California growers only needed the economics of scale on their side, a cheap army of pickers, and customers who would reliably opt for the lower price." (pg. 211, Animal, Vegetable, Miracle: A Year of Food Life)

Buying organic produce in the grocery store is certainly taking a step in the right direction as far as your health is concerned, but where your community is concerned, buying locally produced goods becomes the determining factor between a home-cooked meal and a trip to the soup kitchen for many family farmers.

It is not that the rural poor wish to become the urban middle-class. After stewing over the idea of luck, and what it means to be lucky for some time, as well as reading this particular chapter of Animal, Vegetable, Miracle: A Year in Food Life, I believe you'd find that the rural poor consider themselves lucky, and that luck is defined and determined solely on our rearing and raising. One does not need trips to Europe, new clothes, or handbags to be "lucky." One doesn't need a new car or any of the other socially deemed "privileged" experiences to consider them self "lucky." That notion of "lucky" exists only in the minds of those who also consider themselves the "have mores," who recognize their status as middle, or upper-class. If I asked my friends who own, work and tend a dairy farm, whose milk is locally processed into half-gallons, into cream, into cheese and yogurt whether or not they felt "lucky," I imagine their answer would involve something along the lines of "We feel lucky every day that we wake-up with our feet on the ground and our livelihood still living." I believe those who we categorize as the "rural poor," (a category which includes many American family farmers) in fact think of themselves simply as being who they are, and every day that they can continue to be who they are, they find themselves steeped in the wealth of luck.

I wish that every Ohio University student who finds them self to be of the middle and upper class, thrown suddenly into rural Southeastern Ohio, who found them self out for breakfast with their folks that Sunday morning of the annual "Parents Weekend," would have eaten at The Village Bakery. If all of us who "have more," could spend our "more," on locally produced food products, it'd be the greatest oath to our nation we could take, it would be an act of great patriotism. We're Americans, our country was carved by plow, driven by tractor and agriculture fed the passing of knowledge, the building of family, the fellowship of community. Even though we also have an industrial, corporate history, we must never forget that even within those contexts we are still a nation of individuals. Ford doesn't pay the bills of the assembly line worker in it's Detroit plant We do. We pay that worker. We're the consumers, and we ought to be smart, caring, compassionate consumers.

Visit a Farmer's Market, buy a locally produced jam, join a CSA, buy locally raised meat once a week, buy eggs from the farm up the road, buy local honey, eat local apples, use pure maple syrup tapped from trees just miles from your house, find a locally owned and operated bakery, and most importantly, if you find yourself in a position that allows you to do any of those things, then count yourself as the luckiest.

(One final note, because sometimes I can't help myself: If you're one of those Americans who is so concerned about illegal immigration from Mexico, if you want to build the fence, if you so desperately want to keep "them" out, then you should probably stop buying produce from the grocery store. You're ensuring that "those people," have a job. Someone has to pick those cucumbers for less than minimum wage, then they have to be shipped to where you live using your tax dollars, in order for you to buy them for next to nothing. Just saying.)

Vittorio's Boun Appetito

2011-01-19T12:16:00.019-05:00

Home. Every once in awhile it takes a little more than the physical place itself to make that word resonate within me; to transform it from a word to a feeling, a quiet vibration that hums through my soul and bones. While I spent two days humbled by the presence of the place I call "home," it wasn't until I found myself seated at a familiar table in a restaurant I've been intimately acquainted with for years, did I find myself glowing, singing softly the intensity of "home."

Cleveland will always be my home. My knowledge of the world through the wide lens of Northeastern Ohio is like graffiti on the walls of my heart. The gritty chip of a city deemed nationally miserable, regionally depressed, and locally beloved sits proudly on my shoulder. There is so much more to Cleveland than gray clouds, hard winters and seemingly bitter people. Like every other city in America, Cleveland has a living, breathing culture that penetrates it's city blocks, stretching roots out to the suburbs, and implanting itself in those of us lucky enough to call ourselves "Clevelanders."

There was a time in it's history when Cleveland was a booming industrial center. The now almost century old Terminal Tower shined bright, new, and clean over a city situated perfectly for shipping and trading by sea and land. Cleveland was a destination for domestic and international immigrants alike. Like Detroit, it was a temptation for the gleaming, weary eyes of tired, poor Appalachian farmers looking for better, more productive ways to provide for their families. And like every other booming American city, Cleveland was the recipient of an influx of international immigrants looking for the same things. My Italian grandfather's appreciation of his life in America is something I will never forget. It fuels my patriotism, and further entrenches my heavy cultural ties, knotted to Italy and Slovenia forever.

My grandfather wasn't the only Italian immigrant to call Cleveland home. According to Ohio History Central...

"In 1870, only thirty-five Italian immigrants resided in Cleveland. By 1920, their numbers had surged to more than twenty thousand people. Most of these immigrants found low-paying jobs in factories, as day laborers, or as waiters, waitresses, and cooks in restaurants. Immigrants who were more successful established businesses that supplied their fellow migrants with traditional Italian products or began their own clothing or construction companies. In Cleveland, the Italian immigrants tended to settle in their own communities, preferring to live among people who shared similar cultural beliefs and spoke the same language as they did. By the late 1800s, most Italian immigrants in Cleveland had settled in two neighborhoods nicknamed Big Italy and Little Italy. Most of these immigrants were followers of the Roman Catholic Church."

They came in droves. For me, this meant not only my existence as a human being, but also my roots forming and growing in a city steeped in cultural diversity. It is hard for me to view the world through lenses that aren't tinted with that diversity. My entire understanding of my cultural identity is based on an immigration culture that helped create, paint, and write the majestic city from which I proudly hail. This is precisely why "home" is so much more to me than just the house where my parents live, more than just my parents themselves.

One of the communities where Italian people settled in the early twentieth century was the community where I grew up. An Eastside suburb of Cleveland, Wickliffe was an ideal place for many of these immigrants to settle. It was in perfect proximity to many different employment opportunities, it was accessible to Cleveland by street car, and it was a small, tight knit place with good public schools and promises of a beautiful American life. My mother's family settled there along with several other families from close, similar communities in Italy. Lisa Salotto, the owner of Vittorio's Buon Appetito restaurant in Wickliffe, is from one of those other families. Our familial histories have been intertwined for more than one generation now, and that connection is evident every time I sit down at a table in the utter perfection that is the presence and energy of her Italian restaurant.

This past Saturday night my parents, Uncle and I enjoyed a soul nourishing Italian dining experience at Lisa's charming restaurant. Two dining rooms are dimly lit by sconces, and columns wrapped with glittering strands of tiny clear bulbs. The cozy mocha walls warmly reflect the simple elegance of stark white table cloths and glasses of swirled, breathing red wine. A play list of Italian-American favorites, highlighted by the Rat Pack was just barely audible, as background mood music ought to be, so that conversation can flow, engage, and rise to fill and warm a room. The words spoken at our table over tenderly sweet, flour dusted homemade rolls and a dish of pungent aromatics soaking in pungently smooth olive oil were shared with love, as nothing else can result from such surroundings.

The food at Vittorio's is picturesque, and unlike the cover of Food & Wine or Gourmet Magazine, it's actually there in front of you filling each of your senses with something uniquely Italian-American. I ordered a bowl of what I feel to be, by far, the best Italian Wedding soup I've ever eaten. There is nothing superior to the fullness of the broth, the juicy pieces of chicken, tiny quaintly spiced meatballs and a handful of al dente pastina. This is the soup I want to be fed with care by someone who loves me greatly when I am sick, covers pulled up to my waist, sitting up in bed with a runny nose; it is medicinal.

I followed that by ordering Eggplant Roulades as my entree. Wafer thin slices of grill-marked, smoky eggplant doused in oil and herbs found themselves wrapped around rich, creamy, salty Italian cheeses and baked happily on a bed of nothing less than ancestral marinara. A glass of Merlot and the opportunity to look into the eyes of three people who love me unconditionally, to make conversation with them and share a few moments sharing our lives, and my soul found itself humming the sounds of home.

If you find yourself on the Eastside of Cleveland and you're craving just such an experience, a plate of Vittorio's pork parmigiana, a glass of wine, or just the feeling of being at home, then I highly recommend you step into Vittorio's for a round or two of Frank Sinatra and good old fashioned love, done Italian-American style. Buon Appetito. Enjoy.

100 Miles or More: Part Two

2011-01-14T12:50:00.004-05:00

Temptation is the furthest thing from a simple joy. Temptation cannot exist without consequence. While not all consequences are bad, without careful thought and patience they will be. We are undoubtedly the writers of our own sagas, the wielders of pens that scribble out the narratives of our daily lives, we are creators. We must create good consequences for ourselves. When I found myself sitting down to write this next chapter of my own story, I found myself contemplating temptation and consequence existing as a cause. I have never faced temptation without seeing the bad consequences and creating the good shortly after. Grappling with temptation has been a cause for me, and where there is a cause of something there exists an effect and for me, a subsequent solution.

McDonald’s would like you to think that temptation is just a simple joy. I have been so bothered recently by their latest ad campaign for their chicken nuggets. A ridiculously good marching band drops from formation, one by one, tempted by bags and bags of McDonald’s chicken nuggets. We are in an economic recession, and we’re retreating to simple, to basic, to the uncluttered. We are retreating to joy as a source of pleasure, rather than the pleasure money used to buy for us. McDonald’s knows this, and they want you to believe that the temptation you feel at the sight or smell of a box of chicken nuggets is a simple joy. Not, of course, that the food itself is a simple joy, because even the advertising executives at McDonald’s know that is so far from reality they couldn’t sell it in a ad, but rather the temptation of the aroma of day old grease and manufactured, frozen pieces of batter-slathered chicken chunks. Temptation is the name of the game when it comes to America’s relationship with food. We are a country of excess, where we can eat almost anything we want, anytime, and yet we still need to be tempted?

Watching this commercial, I cannot help but think of the first days and weeks spent on my journey to improve my health. Like any other great journey, I learned as I went. Lewis and Clark had no idea how many supplies they’d need to head into an uncharted wilderness of unknown expanses. They didn’t know how far they’d go, how long they’d be gone or what they would face. The first few weeks, I imagine, were spent learning how to live, to function and simply exist on their journey. They stumbled and faced uncertainty. They reached for help in order to help themselves. Those first few steps are precarious and can transform the feet, yards or miles that lay ahead of you. Temptation dwells in my shadow, just where the hue turns to black and I can feel its presence close to me. It has always been and will always be there. I spent those first few weeks learning that I cannot face what I cannot see. I could not outwit what I did not understand.

I had lost seven pounds during the course of Lent in 2009. That Easter Sunday was transfiguring for me. While I certainly enjoyed the cakes and pastries of my family’s traditional celebration, I saw them in a new light. I was exalted for the first time, out of a place where I felt powerless over my health and my body, and raised to a place where I could see myself more objectively. Those weeks of keeping my Lenten promise had proven to me that I not only had control over my body, but they proved to me that I wasn’t treating it well. It was made absolutely clear to me that the simple joy I found in decadent sweets was disconnected from my body’s actual physical experience of nourishment from them. My body did not enjoy them, my brain did. Just like the gender roles I’d spent so many hours reading about and studying in college, my affection for dessert was nothing more than social, cultural construction, as was my guilt over eating it.

I had spent those first few weeks beginning to tear down the siding, breaking out the windows and removing the shingles of the building that represented my desire for and the satisfaction I derived from certain foods. I realized that perhaps all of my life I’d been told that dessert is at once a temptation, a source of privilege, and therefore something I should desire. The place held by dessert in our culture is more than evident in the language that surrounds it. Marie Antoinette told angry, impoverished, starving French peasants to eat cake when there was no bread. Dessert is saved for last, because we are led to believe it is the best part of the meal; that is has more value than the other portions of the meal which serve only a nutritional purpose. Stressed is desserts spelled backward, don’t you know? Dessert after every meal is still seen as a measure of wealth, and the lack of it a shameful mark of poverty. I was never eating cake because I needed the sugar for a boost of energy. I was never eating pie because I thought I could use another serving a fruit that day. I never ate one or two cookies for a quick snack when my stomach was rumbling. I was eating dessert because my gluttonous American mind believed it to be measurable, as though it added to my substance, my personal value, and paid away some of my anxiety.

I was slowly beginning to learn how what I put into my body correlated with the way my body and mind felt. While my body bears and displays the physical changes I’ve made over the past two years, my mind bore the brunt of the revolution. The construction of guilt is another piece to this puzzle. Our common relationship with food is so far off of what is natural and normal for human beings that we crave what we do not need, then wrecked with guilt for eating it. Guilt, like temptation exists with both good and bad consequences. It has taken me the entirety of my journey to build a healthy relationship with guilt. For those first few weeks, developing this relationship was my constant battle. Walking for fifteen minutes inside my house everyday was a great challenge and I had to develop such a fine tuned sense of guilt that I wouldn’t—no, couldn’t not do it. I had to teeter past the opposite edge of a healthy relationship with guilt, and I had to have the self-control to manage it without falling off the cliff. While most of my friends and family would assure me that it was okay for me to skip a day of walking, or it was okay for me to eat a big piece of pie, I absolutely had to believe that it wasn’t okay…and then I had to keep myself from developing a mental disorder. It is a game to learn, a fine line to walk, and it is far from easy. It is more than just a lesson learned in honing self-discipline. It is actually doing just that—mastering self control.

As the spring of 2009 carried on, as days got warmer and short hikes and walks outside became more accessible, my partner and I would venture outdoors for exercise. I lost another eight pounds by learning my way through temptation and guilt, through self-control and over-indulgence, by eating the foods I’d always eaten, but in moderation instead of excess. We were planning on moving home, settling, working and making a life for ourselves. In May of that year, everything seemed to be soaring. I was drifting on cloud nine, and my spirit was going nowhere but up. What I didn’t see then was the imminence of summer’s thunder, of heat and lightening, of a slowly developing hurricane that would change my life.

The following is a recipe from that time in my life, to give you an idea of the beginning of the changes I’ve made to my diet. While I probably wouldn’t make it this way anymore, I would modify this recipe again to fit my lifestyle now, and I may just do that. This salad was inspired by the grilled chicken salad from Sonic. There was something so delicious at the time about a heavy onion ring atop a bed of greens and grilled chicken coated with melting cheddar cheese. This was my “healthy” re-invention, circa Spring of 2009. While this is probably not the healthiest recipe I’ve ever created, it was what was working for me at the time. Slow and steady wins the race, and this is a vast improvement from the salad from Sonic itself, for my body, my wallet and the local economy. Enjoy.

Revamping our favorite Sonic Salad
Serves 4

2 large boneless, skinless chicken breasts
2 TBS. good honey mustard
1 TBS. apple cider vinegar
½ TBS. olive oil
Dash of garlic salt
Dash of black pepper
One medium sized head of romaine lettuce, chopped
A hefty handful of mixed mesculin greens
Eight strips of turkey bacon, microwave cooked until crispy
2 hard boiled eggs, peeled and sliced
Two avocados, chunked
One package of grape tomatoes
Two large carrots, shredded
One red bell pepper, finely diced
½ cup of raw almonds
4 oz. shredded, local Cheddar cheese
One recipe of Ellie Krieger’s Oven Baked Onion Rings
Newman’s Own LIGHT Honey Mustard Dressing

1. Start by getting the chicken ready. Heat a large skillet coated with cooking spray over medium-high heat. In a small bowl, whisk together the honey mustard, cider vinegar, olive oil, garlic salt and black pepper. Cut the two chicken breasts in half length wise, leaving you with four thin pieces of chicken. Brush them with the honey mustard mixture and cook thoroughly in the heated skillet, turning once, about 5 minutes on each side. Remove to a cutting board to rest and cool slightly, then cut into strips for the salad.
2. In a large bowl, or on a large serving plate, pile the lettuces, bacon, eggs, avocado pieces, grape tomatoes, carrots, pepper, and almonds. Top with the slightly warm chicken, then top the chicken pieces with the shredded cheddar. Then top with the oven-baked onion rings. Serve and dress individually with the dressing.

April of 2009, seven pounds lighter and already happier.

Comfort Food Sunday

2011-01-09T18:52:00.005-05:00

Only the most dedicated of local food patrons braved the weather yesterday to stop by the chilly tented Athens Own booth in search of creamy cheddar cheese, hot coffee, a bowl of piping thick oatmeal, or a pound of ground beef certain to be brewed into chili later that afternoon. Snow was swirling down in flittering drifts from the clouds, and being windswept in horizontal sheets across the barren, ice caked parking lot of the Market on State where four lonely vendors withstood the cold to deliver their precious goods to local Athens customers. Needless to say, in my knee high boots and intricately woven pink and purple Thai scarf, I was one of those frost-bitten customers.

As a point of appreciation, and also my desire to be an active member of the vibrant Athens food community, I am slowly but surely working my way to a first name basis with many of the market’s locally famous producers. While some people are excited to meet celebrities of musical or cinematic fame, I am excited to meet the farmers I see at the Athens Farmer’s Market every week, year in and year out. For a long time, it would never have crossed my mind to introduce myself to one of the weathered, smiling faces with which I would have weekly business interactions. In fact, I wouldn’t have introduced myself to anyone and no one introduced themselves to me. Confidence can do wonders for a personality. It is rare lately that someone would not smile or say hello to me, as I try to do the same. I notice more often than not that people look at me, smile, and give me kind expressions. Yesterday, this quality helped me meet Constantine.

When I found myself at the entrance to the igloo like structure Athens Own had constructed for their array of products, I also found myself peering into the back of the tent for a package of beef stew meat. It’s been “that time of year,” for quite awhile now, and I still haven’t made one of my favorite winter staples: Beef Stew. Yesterday was the perfect day to dream up a recipe, and gather the ingredients with bone-chilled knuckles clenched around delicate mushrooms, dirty potatoes and pungent onions. I crafted in my mind a loose idea for a locally rich stew, made in the style of Beef Bourguignon, but lighter and steeped in the root and soil flavors of Appalachia’s deep winter. This is where Constantine entered my life, because alas, there was no stew meat.

Constantine owns Athens Own, where I buy infamous Cheddar Cheese, and addictively good sweet beef bologna. With a graying mustache tickling the edges of his lips, and matching beard that followed the flow of his words, he introduced himself to me and then explained that stew meat isn’t his most popular cut, but that it was available at a local grocery store. Through round, metal rimmed sunglasses and the cloak of a hooded sweatshirt he took the time to tell me about the different producers he uses, as well as the difference in the grade of beef. He suggested I try to the more expensive, 14 week dry aged stew meat, even though many people say the flavor doesn’t matter for stew. Constantine had my number, because I, for one, certainly know that the flavor matters and that the quality of the beef will make the difference between any old stew and an epic stew. He was delightful and I look forward to seeing him again soon and continuing to become familiar with and embed myself in the Athens Food community.

So for Constantine, who told me to let him know how the stew came out, here is the recipe for my Midwinter Beef Stew, served up hot with homemade buckwheat-corn bread and chased with a slice of homemade apple pie.

Queen Honeybea’s
Midwinter Beef Stew
Serves 6
2 TBS. extra virgin olive oil
1 lb. locally raised, dry aged beef for stew (rinsed and patted dry)
Salt and black pepper
2 cups chopped local mushrooms
1 cup chopped local yellow onion
2 cloves chopped local garlic
2 TBS. dry red wine
4 cups organic, low-sodium beef stock
2 TBS. pale ale honey mustard (or any pungent mustard you like)
1 TBS. red wine vinegar
6 small local potatoes, peeled and chunked
2 organic carrots, peeled and sliced into ¼ inch chunks
1 cup local green beans, snapped into 1 inch pieces (Mine were frozen from August)
1 tsp. salt
½ tsp. black pepper
2 TBS. dried parsley
A pinch of ground thyme
A pinch of ground rosemary
A pinch of Hungarian paprika

1. In a coated Dutch Oven, heat the olive oil over medium heat. Sprinkle the rinsed, and dried pieces sparingly with salt and pepper. Sear each piece of meat on each side until lightly browned, turning to ensure all surfaces are cooked. Remove the meat to a paper towel lined bowl.
2. Add to the Dutch Oven the mushrooms and onions, stirring almost constantly to keep them from sticking to the pan. Sautee, stirring for five minutes, or until the mushrooms and onions begin to sweat. Add the garlic, stirring, for 20 more seconds. Add the red wine, scraping the bottom of the pan to get all the goodness up into the stew. Cook for another minute or two, or until the wine is reduced.
3. Add the rest of the ingredients in order, along with the reserved pieces of beef. Stir to incorporate and slowly bring the mixture up to a boil. Reduce the heat to very low, and cover partially. The stew should be slowly simmering. Stir occasionally and taste to adjust the seasoning as needed. Simmer slowly, covered for at least one hour and uncovered for at least one hour. Ideally, simmering covered for 2 hours and uncovered for one will yield a nicely flavored stew with a thick but not too thick broth. Serve piping hot with crusty bread.

This stew was absolute perfection. Not to toot my own horn, as if I’d ever dream of that, but it truly was a simple masterpiece if I do say so myself. The beef was incredibly tender and had such a decadently soft texture. I can’t thank Constantine enough for his recommendation. I also have to give credit to Roger Graves at Yankee Street Farm in Vinton, Ohio for the beautiful, dirt coated potatoes I bought from him at the market, which turned into little pieces of pearl colored velvet in my stew. I was surprised that when I reached the bottom of the bowl there were just potatoes left, as I was saving the best for last. I hope you make this stew and enjoy the same sort of hearty romance I did, as I sipped its silken broth and nuzzled into the corner of my couch on a cold winter’s night. Remember, of course, to always buy local.

My apple pie chaser. Mama pie and baby pie. My half-and-half crust, fresh local apples, organic sugar, cinnamon, freshly grated nutmeg, a hint of lemon zest and lots of patience and love. Pies are an art for me, I adore making them.

100 Miles or More: Part One

2011-01-06T14:09:00.006-05:00

I was still just over an eighth of a ton, and my body was more than vocal about its unhappiness. Two hundred and fifty-seven collective pounds don’t want to pick blueberries from the branches of a bush dwelling twelve inches off the ground. It’s more than just the knees. While I had shed thirty pounds, and was seemingly holding that position steadily, picking blueberries required energy. Years and years of High School science class, and one of the few things I remember is that energy is required to move mass. My thighs cannot power me upwards, thrusting at the knee, without the required amount of energy. I also know that moving mass becomes more and more difficult when the mass is greater and greater. When I think of my body this way I imagine that level of Dante’s inferno where the man is pushing a great rock up the hill, only to have it roll down again. And like the consistency of daily life, the rock must always be moved again. It cannot be sedentary at the bottom of the hill, it must always be moving. I was twenty-three years old. Quitting my life was not an option that was presented to me. I would be moving the rock again.

I wrote these words recently about the summer of 2009, now eighteen months ago. I have been asked so many times about my journey of reinvention that I decided to start writing about it regularly, in hopes of compiling something coherent, logical, and poetic eventually. The complexity that weaves this process is enormous and entangled, and the thought of unwinding the fibers one by one in order to tell a complete, tightly woven story is daunting to say the least. While it will be impossible for me to recall every moment, every event, every passing word and fleeting action that led me to this contentment where I now dwell, I have promised to share at least a portion of it with you, in order to help my friends and family understand how someone goes from 287 pounds to 189 pounds in a healthy, transformative way.

I could spend several paragraphs now detailing the changes I made to my eating habits, and explaining the different kinds of exercises I have tried, done and re-done to lose this amount of weight, but that would be like giving someone a basket of ingredients and asking them to create a specific dish without also providing them with a recipe. There is a story behind every great success and every great failure. As anyone who reads this blog regularly knows, I love words, and like my literary heroine Baroness Karen Von Blixen, I love stories and understand their importance. For anyone who is reading this thinking they’d like to make positive changes to their lives, I encourage you to think about why you want to make these changes, and to understand that you have a story of your own, so make it personal to you and envelop these changes within your own pages.

I have to begin this story honestly. I will not lie to you and say that it was divine intervention, or cosmic karma, or that something specifically struck and inspired me one day in the mid-winter of 2009. I remember the day well, and I remember the first decision I made to which I actually adhered, but I have no recollection of why I made that decision, or why it realistically worked for me that time. I know that I had tried and tried so many times before. I had tried since I was eleven years old, when I began to hit puberty and realized that my body wasn’t going to develop into an hourglass, or even a tender, ripe pear. I realized that my body was already large, it was fat, and that I wasn’t going to embody the hyper-sexualized image into which all of my friends’ bodies would be maturing. Until that February day, two years ago, I hadn’t been able to commit to making any changes concerning my body. It was therefore surprising to me when I decided on February 24, 2009 to give up dessert for Lent, and when Easter Sunday morning dawned, I hadn’t broken my Lenten promise. Not only that, I had lost seven pounds.

That’s where it all began. I specifically remember eating two prune paczki on Shrove Tuesday, then bagging the other four from the box and throwing them into the freezer. I don’t know what rennet caused that decision to separate from the rest of the so-called decisions I’d made in the past. It was different, however. This decision led to another decision soon after. Instead of spending my long, unemployed days sitting around doing nothing, I’d try to start exercising a little. As I sit here in the shortest skirt I’ve ever worn in my life, legs crossed with sheer black leggings stretched tightly across my thighs, I can’t help but be taken aback by the evolution of my exercise routine. I remember sitting in a baggy pair of navy blue sweatpants, an over-sized neon orange Cleveland Browns hoodie, and pair of worn, old pink and gray Vans sneakers on my living room floor, thinking that walking for fifteen minutes was exhausting.

My mother walks in circles around our house. It’s good for her knees, and more comfortable for her all around. My Mom has had a lot of success. When I was living in Athens my house was set up in such a way that I could also walk in circles around it. I tried to walk for 15 minutes every day. I had no motivation to do it, but for the first time in my life I forced myself to do it. I wish I could explain why or how I did. I have theories, certainly.

At that point, there were so many things about my life that were slowly eroding. The previous June I’d graduated from Ohio University with no job prospects. That September the economic recession hit. By the time February rolled around, I’d spent eight-months without work. It wasn’t just that I was without work, but rather without ever working. I hadn’t had an opportunity to take that important step into adulthood and I was feeling worse about myself every single day. It was far more than just not having a job, and not being able to support myself. It was constantly thinking that what I’d studied in college, which I thought to be so important, was thought to be useless by so many people. After hearing it so many times I began to believe it and I began to resent the university, resent my degree and resent the idealistic values I’d set. My confidence was plummeting to a place from which I never thought I’d be able to resurrect it.

Simultaneously this, along with some other outside factors, was causing strain on and within my long-term relationship. While delving into the most intimate and personal details of what happened isn’t the point of this blog, it is a part of this story. I believe anyone can relate to how changing relationships affect our lives in one way or another. When you feel something that you once held securely begin to slip out of your fingers, you grapple for control. There came a point in my relationship, much later than where this story is beginning, where I was losing it. My deep-seeded mission of crafting and changing my body gave me a sense of control over at least one portion of my life. When the relationship finally ended, and my focus was able to shift solely onto my own needs is when I really dove head first into this journey and started making major changes.

That brings me to the last thing I want you to understand about making changes to your life. While you may start with one goal, one plan, or one course of action, it’s highly likely that it’s going to be altered, shifted or changed. On that February day when I threw the paczki into the freezer, my goal was to not eat another one (or any of its decadent kin) until Easter Sunday; it wasn’t to lose a hundred pounds. My goals evolved, my routine evolved, and the path by which I traveled evolved. For me, it was essential to be open to changes. In the end, it benefited me greatly. If I was still eating the way I used to eat, only omitting dessert, and walking for 15 minutes a day, I would still be unhealthy and probably unhappy. Life is about change, growth and development, so embrace it.

Because this is a story, I’m going to break it down into chapters. It wouldn’t serve well for me to simplify it too much, to try to squeeze it into one blog post, without giving it proper credit. This is the beginning: one small decision, leading to another small decision. That’s where I started.

Mary Christmas

2010-12-23T13:20:00.003-05:00

I imagine on Christmas morning, there are many people in this world who wake up to a day that is just like any other day of their lives. After listening to the song “Wintersong,” by Sarah McLachlan on repeat the past few days, I could not help but ponder and dwell on people who find the often forced gladness of our cultural holidays to be nothing more than sad, or rather exceptionally more sad than the other days of their lives. The circumstances of my own life have been such that Christmas has, until last year, been an unquestionably happy occasion. The warmth and tidings I received from spending the eve of and Christmas day itself with my family, my most loved and cherished human connections, was overwhelming. Now, finding my circumstances changed on so many levels, I am facing Christmas from a new direction. I cannot help but think of my most beloved character in the nativity story, and the direction from which she faced that very first Christmas.

It is easy for us to see a nativity scene, perhaps figures cut out of one-dimensional fiber board painted to look like us, pale and rosy, and never think twice about the knowing and contented smile given to Mary’s expression. It is assumptive of our society to believe that women are always filled with happiness upon the birth of their children. We do not want to believe otherwise, because that would mean that women may serve another purpose on this Earth apart from bearing the next generation of the species. I felt especially compelled to write this blog after my week at work was filled with conversation about children and family, and more specifically, after talking to my co-worker about the post-partum depression she experienced. Note that a woman who feels depressed or saddened after giving birth and facing the reality of now having to care for every need of a tiny, undeveloped human being has to be referred to as a medical condition, and not simply a normal, or healthy occurrence.

Can you imagine what Mary’s first Christmas was like? Think of your most loved family members. Think of the only people you’ve ever known to be loyally, devotedly yours. Think of the people you’ve always known, the townspeople and villagers that make up the passersby, the comings and goings of your day. Think of the woman at the drugstore who always asks about your son. Think of the man who delivers your mail and waves at you from the loading dock of the sleepy morning Post Office as you drive past. Think of the familiarities, the things from which you derive unconscious comfort each day. Now think of venturing far from that place, those people, and that comfort. You are traveling to a place you’ve never been with someone you barely know, who has been entrusted with your care. You are nine months pregnant, and those months have been filled with ridicule, skepticism and flat out confrontational harassment. You’re a teenager. This is your first child, and therefore your first everything. Is it impossible to imagine that after her baby was born, that perhaps instead of the glistening ray of a divine star shining through the roof of a barn, illuminating a post-card portrait of a new family, that instead Mary was just a bit frightened, unsure, and worst of all, perhaps lonely? It isn’t hard for me to imagine, and these thoughts make me love and cherish her so much more. I want these thoughts to help comfort others who feel those kinds of emotions this coming holiday.

This will be my second Christmas that is somewhat different, not only from the last, but also from the 22 I’ve celebrated before. I can’t help but feel my heart connecting to Mary and the bewilderment of a screaming child, in a lonely, unfamiliar and isolated place. When she found the familiarity of a swollen belly and a tiny, gentle kicking from the inside out to be gone and before her lay a human infant she’d never experienced as her own before, I think that’s something we can all relate to in one way or another. But the joy of this story is that the comfort returns, that we are resilient creatures, that love is our most powerful connector. As I move on from Sarah McLachlan’s “Wintersong,” to Patty Griffin’s “Mary,” I listen to words written about a woman who bears it all. A story of a mother who loved her child more than she loved herself, and while her worth is not measured in that selfless love, it shines on her personality, her character and her sense of devotion to something larger than, greater than herself. The things in this world that we find are greater than ourselves are the things I find myself taking comfort in on these somewhat lonely days leading up to Christmas. Compassion and love remind me daily of why we’re celebrating on Saturday. The joy that lights my face when I think on the new friends I’ve made, the loyal kinship I’ve found with a handful of beautiful people I’d not known before reminds me that celebrating goes far beyond a tinsel trimmed tree and a man in a red suit. Seeing the face of the mother that loves me, as Mary loved her own child, reminds me that some of what is familiar to me will always be so, that I will not lose everything, that there are things in which I can still trust.

I will spend Christmas Eve using my hands to knead pasta dough, and my fingers to roll out tiny, delicate cavetelli on a floured board, just the way my Grandmother did. My mother is going to teach me how to make them for the very first time. I spent the week making Italian Panettone, reminding me of the warm, crusty slices my Mom would take from the toaster and slather with butter for me at Christmas time when I was a child. I made torrone from scratch, an Italian nougat candy as old as Ancient Rome, which made my mind recall the Christmas dinner’s we’d spend at my Aunt and Uncle’s house. We’d sit around a table in a dimly lit, blue wall-papered dining room, surrounded by breakable pieces of Fitz and Floyd and Spode dinnerware, and an antique silver service. Around this table we’d laugh, eat far too much, and end our meal unwrapping tiny portrait painted boxes of lemon, orange and vanilla torrone. The familiar has not left me. Comfort and joy thrive within my memories, my heritage and the newly sewn patches to the quilt that blankets my heart. Buon Natale. Merry Christmas from Queen Honeybea.

Panetone.

Gooey Torrone.

Perhaps my favorite Christmas song.

Made From Scratch: Vegetable Lasagna

2010-12-19T13:38:00.014-05:00

When someone tells you something is made from scratch, does that typically make it more appealing to eat? It does for me, and this week I put together a vegetable lasagna for a potluck I’ll be attending this evening. I know there will be several vegetarian guests, as well as many people who enjoy, appreciate and work for local food access at said potluck. It has also barely climbed above single digits here in balmy South East Ohio over the past several days, so I also knew I wanted to make something warm, hearty and soulfully cozy. For me, this has always been a bill fit by lasagna. For me now, that meant creating a lasagna that would provide some nutrients along with its cheesy richness, as well as incorporating as many locally produced and homemade ingredients as possible. Below is what I came up with. When pulled from the oven after baking until bubbly, this lasagna looked and smelled like perfection.

Queen Honeybea’s
Vegetable Lasagna

The Parts:

Ricotta Cheese
Vegetable Filling
Tomato Sauce
Lasagna Noodles

Part One: Ricotta Cheese

Homemade Snowville Creamery Ricotta Cheese
(Adapted from the Snowville Creamery website)

One gallon of Snowville Creamery Whole Milk (or other locally produced milk)
6 TBS. distilled white vinegar
1 TBS. salt
Cheesecloth
Candy Thermometer

1. In a large sauce pot using the candy thermometer, heat the milk slowly to 180 degrees F. As soon as that temperature is reached, stir in the vinegar and salt. Assure that the milk either again reaches, or remains at 180 degrees F, then remove it from the heat. Cover and let stand for 15 minutes.

2. In the meantime, line a large colander with 2 layers of cheesecloth. Wet the cheesecloth so that it conforms to the colander, and make sure the edges of the cloth extend above the top of the colander and drape over the edge.
3. After 15 minutes, scoop the separated curds out of the milk mixture and into the cheesecloth lined colander. Once you’ve removed most of the large pieces, drain the whey through the cheesecloth to ensure you get all of the curds. Then, pull the edges of the cheesecloth together and hang the bundle of curds over a bowl or over the sink for 15 minutes. This will produce a soft, silky ricotta.

4. After 15 minutes of hanging, remove the collected cheese to a bowl. This should produce about 2 cups of ricotta cheese.

Part Two: Vegetable Filling

Sautee of Red Onion, Mushroom and Spinach

1 TBS. extra virgin olive oil
One large locally grown red onion, diced
16 oz. of locally grown mushrooms (I actually used shitake, they were delicious), diced
16 oz. of locally grown spinach, roughly chopped
½ tsp. garlic salt
Black pepper

1. In a large skillet, heat the olive oil over medium high heat.
2. Add the diced red onion and diced mushroom pieces, and cook stirring frequently until the onions begin to turn translucent and sweat and the mushroom pieces appear moist and plumped, about 6 or 7 minutes.
3. Add the chopped spinach, garlic salt and pepper (to taste) and cook again stirring frequently for 4 or 5 more minutes, until the spinach is wilted and the vegetables appear to be cooked. Set aside to cool.

Part Three: Tomato Sauce

Quick Sauce for Lasagna or Baked Ziti

1 TBS. extra virgin olive oil
One clove of garlic, minced
15 oz. can of organic fire roasted crushed tomatoes
15 oz. can of organic tomato sauce
8 oz. water
½ cup red wine
1 tsp. dried oregano
2 tsp. dried basil
½ tsp. salt
Black pepper

1. In a medium size sauce pan, combine the oil and garlic while you open the cans of tomato sauce. Pour in the crushed tomatoes, tomato sauce, water, wine, oregano, basil, salt and black pepper (to taste), stir to combine and bring to a boil.
2. Reduce the heat to a simmer, and simmer uncovered for about one hour, or until the mixture is reduced and thickened slightly and tastes correct. Set aside to cool.

Part Four: Lasagna Noodles

Queen Honeybea’s
Almost Whole Wheat Pasta (For One Pound)

1 cup whole-wheat flour
½ cup organic, unbleached all-purpose flour
½ cup semolina flour
½ tsp. salt
2 local, free range eggs
2 TBS. water
1 TBS. extra virgin olive oil
Pasta maker

1. In a large bowl, combine the flours, and salt. Make a well in the center.
2. Into the well, crack the eggs and add the water and olive oil. With a fork, whisk them together, slowly incorporating flour from the sides of the well. Gradually incorporate all the flour, switching to your hands when it becomes too much for the fork to handle. Knead this into a stiff dough, making sure it is incorporated and binding together. Wrap in plastic wrap and let rest for 15 minutes.
3. In the meantime, set up your pasta maker on a lightly floured pastry cloth. Cut of ¼ of the dough at a time, and press through the thickest setting on the pasta maker. Fold this piece of rolled dough in half, then press it again. Repeat this four times in order to further knead the dough and achieve the proper consistency.
4. Then, gradually press the dough to your desired consistency. On my pasta maker, for lasagna noodles, I use the second to thinnest setting. Repeat and continue until all of the dough is pressed into lasagna noodles.

Finally…

Queen Honeybea’s
Vegetable Lasagna

One pound of fresh lasagna noodles
3 cups homemade tomato sauce
2 cups cooked vegetable filling
2 cups fresh, homemade ricotta
1 cup shredded fresh local melting cheese (I used Laurel Valley Creamery’s Havarti), divided
1 local, free-range egg
½ tsp. salt
¼ tsp. black pepper
¼ tsp. freshly ground nutmeg
2 TBS. locally produced 2% milk
1 TBS. local, raw honey

1. Pre-heat the oven to 375 degrees. Cook the lasagna noodles in batches, lifting them out of the water when they’ve reached al dente, then draining and cooling them flat in a large colander so they don’t stick together. At full boil, they should take between 2 and 4 minutes to cook to al dente.
2. Grease a 9 x 13 inch casserole pan, or metal or glass pan. Ladle a 1/3 cup of tomato sauce onto the bottom of the greased pan. Then lay out one layer of lasagna noodles.
3. Make the ricotta filling by combining the ricotta cheese, 2/3 cup of the shredded melting cheese, the egg, salt, pepper, nutmeg, milk and honey. Mix until well combined and creamy.

4. Top the lasagna noodles in the pan with half of the ricotta filling. Then top the ricotta filling with half of the cooked vegetable filling. Top with 1 cup of tomato sauce and another layer of lasagna noodles.
5. Repeat with the rest of the ricotta, and vegetable filling and one more cup of sauce. Top again with lasagna noodles. On top of the very last layer of lasagna noodles, pour the remaining 2/3 cup of sauce. Cover tightly with foil and bake at 375 degrees for 30 minutes.
6. Remove the foil and top the lasagna with the remaining 1/3 cup of shredded melting cheese. Cover again with foil and return to the oven for 15 more minutes, until the lasagna is bubbling and the cheese is melted. Serve hot.

Makes one 9x13 inch lasagna. Remember to buy local.

All I Want for Christmas

2010-12-14T14:49:00.013-05:00

With the sun heating us up to a balmy fifty degrees, last Saturday could've practically been springtime in Athens County, Ohio. Practically, but not really, as I ducked out of the path of a chilly December wind and into the vast hangar like shopping mall known as The Market on State, echoing with childrens'voices and music. The first thing to catch my eye was a cluster of glitter dusted, gold flecked, red velveteen poinsettia leaves. This is no springtime sight, although mall shoppers may have been convinced otherwise by the mile long spread of tables loaded with fresh local greens, turnips, potatoes, apples and radishes that lay before them. Still no, because the leaves and small inconspicuous blooms of poinsettias come bursting from shiny, foil coated pots only for one occassion per year. Merry Christmas.

Donning leg hugging skinny jeans, a light coat adorned with a costume jewelry flower pin, and sequin bangled black flats, I was tempting Old Man Winter in more ways than one. With a silver-framed cloth basket in hand, I purchased and toted freshly picked spinach, a bag of dirt-scented fresh mushrooms, green and pink tomatoes and a dozen shiny, sweet red and yellow onions. The farmers in Athens County and in many other places that consider themselves part of a four-season America have taken January by coup d'etat and reclaimed fresh, green produce for all of their grateful consumers. They've mastered the art of seasonal growing, green houses and cool-season crops. For this, I am extremely grateful, because the contents of my trendsetting cloth bag are going to flirt, date, marry and consumate a vegetable lasagna of epic local proportions for a lovely Sunday potluck, celebrating the Winter Solstice.

After taking my leave from the part indoor, part outdoor market, with absolutely divine local Havarti from Laurel Valley Creamery and a sweet, robust Beef Bologna from Athens Own chilling in my cooler, I headed out to visit Athens, Ohio's long lost, red-headed step-child: Nelsonville. I say this because, if you utter the word "Nelsonville," to people from Athens County, you are greeted with a host of negative, skeptical and often classist reactions. However there is beauty to be found in curly red locks and an off-beat personality. Nelsonville is a little like Athens, and a little something all its own. It has to be taken and experienced for what it is, appreciated and loved for its quirks and offerings, and laughed at, or rather laughed with, when necessary.

My grand plan for this entire nippy yet warm, melting Saturday was to partake in some major local Chritmas shopping. I had no intentions of Christmas shopping at all this season. I had planned to make a donation to a local charity and have that serve as a Christmas gift to the short list of people who matter to me most. However, there are two people for whom I wanted to compile something extra special. One I have known for many years, and the other I barely know at all. Both have been wonderful, supportive friends to me this year (or rather a portion of this year), and I know both will enjoy a locally themed gift. I wanted to share a few of my favorite things with them, hoping that in turn would help them know and understand me better. Not forgetting, of course, that local Christmas shopping is the best Christmas gift we can give to our communities. I picked up a few non-perishable foodie things at the Farmer's Market (which I won't explain in detail because I know at least one of them reads this blog), and this is where Nelsonville came into perspective.

There is a little ceramics shop on Nelsonville's Public Square where I've been shopping for years, picking up a piece each time I visit. This shop is stocked exclusively with local art, produced by local artists and is owned and operated by a co-op of these artists. The store itself is perfection. It is tucked into the bottom of multiple story brick building. The front door is at the narrow end of a funnel lined by glass display cases, tempting anyone with an appreciation for thrown pottery and brilliant glazing. Inside, hardwood floors are seemingly endless, leading from the sparesly arranged front to the more heavily showcased back of the stark white store. Each artist's work is clustered together, and everyone I've ever known to shop there has a favorite. Annjudy is mine. She makes bowls, plates and other awesome, practical pieces using Nelsonville's signature Starbrick pattern, and the name of this shop just so happens to be Starbrick.

Of course I didn't leave Starbrick empty handed, so after stopping back at my car (which was parked for free in a space right on the square thanks to the holiday generosity of the City of Nelsonville) I walked over to a new shop called The Joy of Books. As soon as I pulled the door open I heard the familiar jingle of a leather belted strand of sleigh bells as the door closed briskly behind me. The store was dimly lit, and smelled of two distinctly comforting things: a scented holiday candle and old, worn, used books. I love the smell of old books. The shelves of the small, cozy store are lined with delicious second-hand books, pages yellowed, and smelling like Saturday morning at the public library. The owners of the bookstore were warm, and embracing, and more than gracious. Book in hand, I stepped back out onto the constellation like patterns of starbricks and headed around the corner to two more familiar stores.

First I stepped into the Spinning Turtle yarn shop. If you are an avid knitter, crocheter or you have some other fabulous use for yarn, you should pay a visit to this cute, tidy little shop. The yarn in this shop reminds me of Victorian libraries, where the shelves line the walls from top to bottom and a wheeled ladder is required to zip from one end to the next. The walls of this shop are adorned in yarn filled cubbies of all colors and textures. Earlier this fall I'd picked up a skein of sandy sea-shell and tidal blue dyed yarn produced by Manos del Uraguay, a co-op of rural women who spin and dye this wool to support themselves. There is something so satisfying about not only purchasing this yarn, but purchasing it at a locally owned business-supporting women-owned business from Uraguay to Nelsonville.

My last stop in Nelsonville was at Nelsonville Pottery and Arts, directly across the street from the Spinning Turtle. The sun was shining brightly as it was peaking in the late afternoon, and that was certainly reflected by the baking, yellow toned shop in which I found myself. Beaming through the glass of the front window display, sunshine lit up their collections of kitchy Athens Block memorobilia, and locally themed pottery gifts. This store is full of exclusivley local artists, and the art ranges from pottery to jewelry to fabric work and handmade soaps. Like Starbrick, this is a shop that also produces, and sells all the tools one might need to embark down a road of clay and ceramics.

Finally, I made my way back down the old familiar stretch of State Route 33 between Nelsonville and my home away from home, Athens and made one last shopping stop. In Athens there is a place unlike any place I've ever known. In many places in the United States, employment programs are provided by public and private entities for adults with disabilities to have an opportunity to earn a living. Many of these employment programs involve simple, mundane tasks that are repetitive and easy to do and do again. Capping pens for eight hours a day might be the best job for some people, but in Athens they offer an alternative for the adults with disabilities who are incredibly talented, capable human beings in their own right, often more talented and capable than the rest of us who are so priviledged to check box ourselves as "able."

A beautiful Passion Flower to get you through the long winter ahead.

Passion Works is an art studio and art company where adults with disabilities can create, reproduce and sell their artistic creations. It's amazing. Color is far too simple of a word to describe the visual effect the Passion Works store has on shoppers, consumers and passers by. Like a garden, the signature passion flowers bloom, lining beds of other creations like mugs, aprons, t-shirts and greeting cards. An image of two penguins side by side has always been my favorite, although I was swayed by a piece done by the artist of the month, Jason Douglas, detailing from his own point of view, his breakfast options. Foodie art always gets me.

Jason Douglas's painting titled Chef Jason, which I fell in love with.

All said and done, I returned to my apartment with all the things I'd wanted to fill my two special Christmas bundles. I felt good about the money I'd spent, just a county away from the one in which I reside, knowing it wasn't going much further than the tri-county lines of this part of Southeast Ohio. I hope after reading about my local shopping extravaganza, you'll think twice about your weekend that is quickly approaching, and perhaps add a stop at a locally owned business to your mapped out agenda of holiday shopping. Buy some of your holiday gifts at a local business. Knowing that I've influenced you to shop locally is all I want for Christmas.

The Patron Saint of Baking

2010-12-03T13:29:00.004-05:00

Discovery has always been incredibly exciting to me. Being reared in a cultural system based on a history (be it good or bad) of discovery, conquest and expansion, I don’t know an American who doesn’t identify with that excitement in one way or another. Lately, probably due to some decisions I’ve made and to onslaught of the Christmas season, I’ve been feeling very in tune with some of the religious icons and idolatry I’ve known since being a small child.

I like to tell people that I was partially raised Catholic. I was baptized, kicking, screaming and burning red in the face, in a Catholic Church. I went to Saturday School at a Catholic Church and made my first penance, and first communion at a Catholic Church. There was a period between those benchmarks when I also attended church every Sunday morning at 7am with my father. I’d bring something to color or draw, and we’d head out into the dark, cold morning together and be home in time for coffee and breakfast. I can’t say, however, that I was raised strictly Catholic. My mother didn’t go to church often, and that period where I was going with my father was short enough that I don’t really remember it very well. I had an extremely devout Aunt and Uncle, and the requirements of Catholic children which I mentioned before were certainly expected of me and awarded once achieved. But when I turned eleven, and decided I didn’t want to continue my supplemental Christian education and that I didn’t care about being confirmed in the Church, I can say now that I am so grateful my parents looked at me and said, “Okay.”

Thank God for my wonderful parents, who never forced a thing upon me. They were willing to let me explore religion for myself, watching me go through phases of Christianity, to thinking about Judaism, to Buddhism to athiesim and probably a great mixture of all of those things. It was only very recently that I found myself in the pews of a Christian church again, feeling more at home than I ever had before and truly connected to my faith.

Now, those of you who know me well know that I have, what us young folks call, “mad love,” for Mary. Mary is my home girl. I have been criticized in the past for worshiping a false idol when I speak of my devotion to Mary, and my explanation goes something along the lines of, “If you have any connection with your mother, or a mother, or a mother-like figure in your life, then you’d understand the kind of power that feeling has.” My house is adorned with her and I spent some time recently searching for more prints and unique Mary iconography to add to my collection. This is how I stumbled upon Patron Saints. I have a friend who recently tattooed her arm with a fantastic patron saint image, and we had a long conversation about our love of religious and specifically Catholic imagery and tradition. While I was perusing a Patron Saint website, I came across one in particular that caught my eye—St. Elisabeth of Hungary, the patron saint of bakers.

St. Elisabeth of Hungary lived in Hungary in the 13th century. She was the daughter of the King of Hungary (Andrew) and gave up her life of lavish wealth and royalty in order to serve God and the poor. She handed out loaves of bread to the masses of poor peasants in Hungary every day. She lived a very short life, and her interest in the commoners made her beloved by Hungarians. This led to her canonization and sainthood. There are a few things about St. Elisabeth of Hungary that tug deeply at my heart and soul strings.

First, traditionally spelled, her name is Elisabeth—yep, spelled with an “s”. Who else is named Elisabeth spelled with an “s”? Oh that’s right—me. Elisabeth of Hungary and I share the same non-traditionally English spelling of our name. My parents picked it because it was the Italian spelling, and my maternal Great-Grandmother’s name was Elisa. It is also the Hungarian spelling and a common Slavic spelling. This leads me to my next astonishing similarity.

St. Elisabeth was Hungarian. She was descendant of the Magyars, and the Magyars conquered and controlled a portion of Eastern Europe on the Adriatic Sea during the Middle Ages which included the modern day country of Slovenia. I am a proud half-Slovene and can certainly identify with St. Elisabeth’s heritage. While I am not Hungarian, a Hungarian influence is dominant in modern Slovenian and Northern Italian cuisine. Poppy seeds and beets are two staples of both those regional cuisines, not to mention a striking similarity in Slovenian and Hungarian cooking styles. Spaetzles, dumplings, goulash, paprikash: we’ve shared, traded and adopted it all.

It was easy for me to fall in love with St. Elisabeth of Hungary after reading about her for the very first time. I don’t know how I never found her before, but I know things seem to come and go, appear and resurface in my life for a reason. Reading about St. Elisabeth led me to wonder more about my official first name, and to discover its roots and meaning. I was struck once again by what I found. I turned to Wikipedia, which I know is unreliable, but I believe much of it anyway, and it told me…

“Elizabeth or Elisabeth is the Greek translation of the Hebrew name Elisheva, meaning "God's promise," "oath of God," or "I am God’s daughter." Elizabeth and Elisabeth are the parent unit names of Lisa, and Lilly, and Ella; Elsa, Isabel and Isabella are etymologically related variants.”

As many of you may already know, in August of next year I will be starting a program of study to earn my Master of Divinity, eventually becoming an ordained minister. The meaning of my name holds very dear to me, and I am so very glad I decided to take the time to discover it. I am, as we speak, ordering a St. Elisabeth of Hungary medal and of course images of her will be added to my already scrutinized collection of said “false,” idols. I will be baking Ciabatta bread this weekend, and cookies, and will no doubt be thinking of her, as I rub my rosary beads and pray, like some of my ancestors may have, “Pane, pane, cresci, cresci como Jesu bambino,” or rather, “Bread, bread, grow, grow like baby Jesus.” Blessings.

All Creatures of Our God and King

2010-12-01T20:04:00.007-05:00

The day before Thanksgiving was dreary at best this year. A spitting mist of rain drizzled down from McConnelsville to Zanesville to Dover and beyond. My cat Rosie was tucked safely into her plush crate, soundly sleeping and purring tenderly on the heated passenger seat. We were going home for the first time in two months. I looked at her fondly through the mesh screen which kept her from clamoring about the car, as swirling steam from pungent coffee escaped the cup that was warming the embrace of my hand. It is not that I had a bad childhood, rather quite the opposite. However, for some reason, cold, dark, damp weather made me feel at home. It was always as though the rain drops, the breath materializing into a disappearing cloud in front of my face, and the gray pitch of autumn weather made me yearn for feelings I associate with home—comfort, serenity, warmth, softness, all manners of love. This day could not have been more perfect for our valiant return to Lake County, Ohio.

We had one stop to make before we arrived and nested into my parents’ home. This year, prompted by Barbara Kingsolver’s book Animal, Vegetable, Miracle, Rosie and I were detouring from the monotony of a crowded Ohio Interstate to venture through Cuyahoga Valley National Park to Goatfeathers Point Farm in Peninsula, Ohio. As my tires peeled up a wet, tacky asphalt road, I noticed the surrounding landscape—it was more like places I’d been in Massachusetts and Connecticut than like the Ohio I’d just left. The trees were tall and visibly old, creating a canopied forest marked by oaky brown and fading winter yellow. There was a pale glow surrounding the almost black, soaking wet bark of gnarled tree trunks. The road cut through this landscape as though it had been traveled for a hundred years, and that’s probably because it had been. I looked at my directions, up and down, and back at the road hoping I hadn’t missed it. Then, on my right I saw a large, aged but beautifully managed blue house with a reassuring, deep porch and a barn anchoring it to the road. In front of this house was a handmade sign that said “Turkeys,” and gave a phone number. Clearly, I’d found it. I was greeted by rambunctious, friendly dogs stampeding from the newly opened door. I had a wonderful experience, albeit brief, at Goatfeathers Point Farm that day. Cindy and Terry Smith were gracious and overwhelmingly hospitable, knowledgeable about their animals, and from them I felt a sense of kindness that is often lacking in our social interactions today. The farm was absolutely beautiful. The greens and browns were deep, the white and black chickens and goats were bold, and the delights of the forest were visibly plentiful.

Rosie and I were at Goatfeathers Point Farm picking up a heritage breed turkey. If you haven’t read Barbara Kingsolver’s book, or more specifically if you haven’t made it to the chapter about turkey, then I’ll sum it up for you with an excerpt:

“Of the 400 million turkeys Americans consume each year, more than 99 percent of them are a single breed: the Broad-Breasted White, a quick-fattening monster bred specifically for the industrial-scale setting. These are the big lugs so famously dumb, the can drown buy looking up at the rain…If a Broad-Breasted White should escape slaughter, it likely wouldn’t live to be a year old: they get so heavy, their legs collapse. In mature form they’re incapable of flying, foraging, or mating. That’s right, reproduction. Genes that make the turkeys behave like animals are useless to a creature packed wing-to-wing with thousands of others, and might cause it to get uppity or suicidal, so those genes have been bred out of the pool. Docile lethargy works better, and helps them pack on the pounds. To some extent, this trend holds for all animals bred for confinement. For turkeys, the scheme that gave them an extremely breast-heavy body and ultra-rapid growth has also left them with a combination of deformity and idiocy that renders them unable to have sex. Poor turkeys.” (page 90, Animal, Vegetable, Miracle)

When I read this part of the book, way back in September while I was working a sweaty, dusty booth at the Morgan County Fair, I knew then and there we wouldn’t be eating one of those turkeys again. My family would (by force, of course) be dining on a heritage breed turkey this year. Heritage breed turkeys were developed for all the qualities one might want in an animal meant to be eaten—beauty, flavor, ability to survive, etc. as opposed to how quickly they grow and how much white meat they yield. The turkey I picked up at Goatfeathers Point Farm was living and breathing only days before it was most gratefully and appreciatively sacrificed for my family to consume on Thanksgiving Day. It was free to walk about and forage, it smelled the air, it saw the sky, it was able to dig its feet into the dirt and peck around about the grass. It lived the life God intended it to live, it was free to move, to stretch, to fill its lungs with breath and to run. When I got back into my car, turned the key and got a faint whiff of a wood burning stove, I looked at the farm that surrounded me with hills and valleys and deep, dense woods and knew that the creatures that live on this farm were God’s and that God was pleased with them.

Needless to say at this point, the turkey was stunning in both presentation and taste. It cooked beautifully, and tasted even lovelier. Our fireplace popped and sizzled and filled our house with its woody, smoky aroma, and yet it could not champion the smell coming from our oven—tender turning to crackling skin, dripping fat searing onto the hot pan below, meat swelling with its own juices, and steaming apples and onions inside the bony ribcage of a carefully tended, crafted bird. It was undoubtedly the best poultry I’ve ever eaten, and it was unanimously agreed that we will no longer be consuming Broad Breasted White turkeys at our Thanksgiving meals. Unanimous is in fact the perfect word for our Thanksgiving meal. We were unanimous in each other’s presence. We were all together in flesh and in spirit for the first time in a very long time. We shared family and fellowship without argument or negativity. It was different, and it will always be different, but it wasn’t painful or resentful, rather it was new. The food was reminiscent of our kinship and we bonded closely over the deep-rooted tradition in my Mom’s white bread stuffing and the new found spirit of health and happiness in my carefully constructed lettuce salad, featuring all local ingredients. It was a meal I never expected, giving me warmth and light and I could say nothing more about it other than, Alleluia.

The rolls I made: Queen Honeybea's Seed & Grain Rolls.

Our lettuce salad with Black Seeded Simpson lettuce from Athens, Green, Yellow and Red Tomatoes from Morgan County, Apples from Morgan County, Athens Own Aged Wisconsin Cheddar, baby Radishes from Athens, Arugula and Spinach from Athens, and Whole-Wheat sourdough croutons made from my own homemade bread.

Queen Honeybea's Honey Pumpkin Pie, which is utter pie perfection, I must say. Topped with Snowville Creamery whipped cream, sweetened with Kirtland honey.

Italian-American

2010-11-15T17:51:00.011-05:00

Someone said something to me a couple of weeks ago. I imagine the man with whom I had the conversation has long since forgotten about it. It wasn’t that easy for me. Something has been nagging at me. The words have been resurfacing again and again and each time they look slightly different as I try to make them more clear in my mind. For most people I know, a few simple words are easily forgotten. I have a history of festering on things, over-thinking and analyzing life’s tiny, seemingly insignificant details. That is the reason why, for two weeks, I’ve been brewing over this brief, to the point statement, said directly to me: “You’re not Italian-American. You’re just American.”

I’ve had many wonderful things to say about Morgan County since moving here in August. It is a beautiful place, and there are pockets full of posy to be found throughout the fabric of its land and people. But what kind of fabric is it? I grew up in a place that most resembles a quilt. Cleveland, Ohio and its surrounding suburbs are an excellent representation of America’s “melting pot,” image. The city is very much so made up of many colorful pieces from different backgrounds, different reams of fabric, different textile mills, sewn together by commonly sharing the ground, the air and the buildings of Northeastern Ohio. When I was learning about America’s “melting pot,” in grade school, it was easy for me to understand because I was wholly immersed in the simmering stew. While Morgan County is not without culture, it is overwhelmingly without diversity. With the exception of a few patches sewn on over the years, Morgan County is more like a blanket made of one solid piece of contiguous fabric. Its population is a people for whom their stories begin here. Morgan County is a place of origin, a two hundred year old family farm, years of tradition built right here within the county lines. This is a tightly knit culture of similar thread. It is less easy for air to flow between its fibers, and can often times be more smothering than it is breathable. This is something I tried to keep in mind while dealing with a twenty-year old man who was telling me how I could and could not identify myself.

He didn’t understand why I (among other “groups” of people) had to label myself differently, why I couldn’t just be an American. What I couldn’t seem to get him to understand is the separation between my cultural background and my nationality. I have traveled to Europe and Asia, to many cities and countries where they speak many different languages. Never once while I was chatting with other travelers hiking our way up Mount Vesuvius, or while enjoying the laughter of new friends over a plate of spring rolls in balmy, monsoon soaked Chiang Mai, did I ever introduce myself as “Italian-American.” While abroad and at home, if anyone asked me about my nationality, I’d tell them what I’ve always told them, “I’m an American.”

When it comes to my culture, however, the story is entirely different…almost. My ancestors never set foot on American soil until the late 19th century. My mother is a first generation American. The beauty of this place we know as the United States of America is the notion that people were at one time free to come and go, to take and leave. While many immigrants find themselves assimilating into what we all generally accept as “American,” culture, many hold tightly to their dearly beloved cultural and ancestral traditions as well. It doesn’t stop there. What we generally accept as “American” culture is not based in thousands of years of social and ethnic tradition, not even in hundreds of years. It has the global uniqueness of being a very recently developed culture, a one-pot recipe created from its 234 years of settlers, who systematically destroyed the culture that was already present on this land.

Someone joked to me one time that all McConneslville has to offer are beauty salons and pizza places. Isn’t it funny how a person who wants to define what is and isn’t purebred American also frequents a string of businesses based on a food product which is at its core…wait for it…”Italian American”? Our immigrants come and go, and take and leave. An Italian brought a thin, crispy crusted, coal baked pie topped with fresh tomatoes and gooey mozzarella recipe to New York City once, and now pizza is fully a piece of American culture. In turn, two Americans monopolized on a modified version of Germany’s tenderized, ground meat patties and began selling hamburgers at the very first McDonalds Restaurant. Those golden arches can now be found in Naples, the birthplace of pizza. If the man I was speaking with can gobble down pizza, burgers and beer (another genuine import), then I can call myself an Italian-American. In fact, there are so many words that could be placed before or after the common denominator in all of this—American—that help define pieces of my culture. Italian, Slovenian, woman, Christian, Midwestern, white…

While this man thought I was trying to separate myself from him, from what he considers his culture, he had no idea just how similar we really are. Calling myself Italian-American isn’t about separation, but rather assimilation, comparison, commonality. Just as Italian immigrants in the early twentieth century found comfort in their common label, I am finding comfort in my new home rooted deep in the rural, impoverished foothills of an old mountain range. My maternal Grandmother’s family is originally from Molise, a small province on the Eastern side of Italy. If the leg that fits into the boot shaped country were wearing an ankle bracelet, Molise would be one of its beads. It isn’t in deep Southern Italy, but is too far South to be Northern Italy. It is mountainous, cold in the winter and hot in the summer. What really struck me this week, and brought this entire internal argument full circle for me was a passage from Micol Negrin’s regional Italian cookbook, Rustico. She says of Molise,

“Constructing a meal along the lines of starter, first course, second course, and dessert is a luxury most Italians—and certainly most Molisani—couldn’t afford until after World War II. Italy’s historically impoverished regions—Molise, Calabria, Basilicata, Sicily and Sardinia—put little emphasis on the frills, focusing instead on dishes that best delivered nourishing sustenance at little cost.”

My great-Grandparents came from Italy’s Appalachia. They were poor, rural, living in isolated mountains, and historically so. The recipes that follow in the chapter of Rustico devoted to Molise include Beans, Cabbage, and Potato Soup with Garlic-Pancetta-Chili Oil, Grilled Rabbit and Sausage Skewers, and Sweet Chestnut Fritters. I have on more than one occasion met Morgan County natives who catch and enjoy rabbit as a main course, who grow their own chestnuts, and who have referred to themselves as “hillbillies” for enjoying boiled cabbage and potatoes for lunch. This is the stock from which I come, and now I find myself living in a place that perhaps wouldn’t seem so foreign to my foremothers and fathers. I am embracing the beauty of this place, and slowly but surely imparting a bit of my culture, knowing that I will leave in June with a pocketful of theirs. I take peace in knowing that even though this man doesn’t want me to call myself Italian American, it doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter because the best part about being able to call myself an Italian American is the American part, where I can be who I want to be, and no one can take my simmering pot of tomato sauce, my set of bocce balls, my ravioli cutters, my Chianti, or the voice which is expressed solely with my hands. No one can take my heritage, Italian and American.

To commemorate the feelings of completion, of fulfillment I’ve been feeling upon discovering the cultural traits I share with my fellow Appalachians, of course I had to cook something. Micol Negrin says, “The highlight of any Molisano meal is the first course, which more often than not mates pasta with beans, broccoli raab, bits of fried Pancetta, and chili…the most typical pastas are…cavatelli.” Just yesterday I bought a large, leafy bunch of rainbow chard at the River City Farmers Market in Marietta. Before I even read this passage, I’d decided to make a ragu of sorts, with the chard, great northern beans, fire-roasted diced tomatoes and lots of fresh garlic. This would sit happily atop a pile of homemade cavatelli, of course. While this dish is enthusiastically representative of my Molisani roots, only modified to fit my healthful eating habits, it is also made entirely with ingredients from not more than forty miles of McConneslville. I think that makes it enthusiastically representative of my time here. It is enthusiastically Italian-American.

Queen Honeybea’s
Whole-Wheat Cavatelli with Chard and Tomato Ragu
Serves 4

First, make the cavatelli:
2 cups of white whole wheat flour
1 cup of organic, unbleached all-purpose flour
A hefty pinch of salt
2 local, free-range eggs
12 ounces of 2% Greek yogurt

1. In a large bowl, toss together both types of flour and the salt. Make a well in the center and crack the eggs into it. Add the Greek yogurt, and with your fingertips, break the egg yolks and mash together the yogurt and eggs. Slowly begin rotating your fingers within the well, patiently pulling the flour mixture into the egg mixture. Continue this until you have created a moderately stiff dough that is not sticky. Add flour if necessary. Wrap in plastic and allow to rest for 30 minutes.
2. Unwrap the dough and place on a lightly floured pastry cloth or work surface. With a sharp knife, cut the dough into fourths. Then cut each fourth into fourths. You should have sixteen small pieces of dough. Wrap up the pieces you aren’t working with. Roll each sixteenth of dough into a long strip that is about ¼ inch in diameter. Cut into 1 inch pieces.
3. With the back of a rounded kitchen knife, a pastry blade, or a clean putty knife, pull each piece of dough across the work surface, starting with a large amount under the blade, and ending with a thin, curled round of dough. (See the photos below) You want to make sure you press the dough very thin in order to achieve the proper texture once they’ve been cooked.
4. Repeat this procedure with all of the dough. This will make enough for a main dish portion for four people.
5. Place the cavatelli on a lightly floured sheet pan, cover with plastic wrap, and refrigerate until ready to use.

For the ragu:
2 TBS. extra virgin olive oil
8 stalks of rainbow swiss chard, stems and leaves
3 large cloves of garlic, thinly sliced
1 15 oz can organic, fire-roasted diced tomatoes (no salt added)
1 15 oz can great northern beans, drained
½ can of water
Large pinch of dried basil
Large pinch of dried oregano
Pinch of salt
Dash of black pepper
Pinch of red chili flakes (optional)
Parmesan cheese for serving

1. In a large skillet, heat the olive oil over medium-high heat. Separate the leaves from the stalks of the chard. Slice the leaves into ¼ inch slices, set aside. Dice the stalks into ¼ inch pieces. Add the stalk pieces to the hot oil and sauté, stirring often, for two or three minutes, until the pieces begin to soften. Add the garlic and stir constantly for fifteen seconds. Add the reserved chard leaves, and sauté, stirring, for one to two minutes until the greens begin to wilt.
2. Add the tomatoes with their liquid, beans, water, basil, oregano, salt, pepper and chili flakes. Bring to a soft boil, then reduce the heat to medium-low and simmer until the liquid has reduced to 1/3, about fifteen minutes. In the meantime, cook the cavatelli.
3. To cook the cavatelli, bring a large pot of salted water with 1 TBS. of olive oil to a boil. Drop in the fresh cavatelli and boil two to four minutes, until all the cavatelli are floating and when taste tested they seem to be done. Drain.
4. Top the hot cavatelli with a ladle full of chard ragu. Sprinkle with grated parmesan cheese, a drizzle of olive oil, or additional chili flakes.

Beautiful rainbow chard stalks.

Simmering ragu.

The finished entree, served with a slice of my first ever truly successful loaf of whole grain bread.

*Recipe variation: If you have no quarrel with white flour, and no qualm with ricotta cheese, you can make the cavatelli with 3 cups of all-purpose flour and 12 oz. of whole milk ricotta for a more traditional pasta.

Love from the Soil

2010-11-12T20:20:00.006-05:00

Fall is slowly fading here in Southeast Ohio. Everyday someone buys the very last pie pumpkin off of a dusty wooden shelf at a local orchard. Each night more and more potato sacks appear, draped over delicate perennials like a small herd of winter scarecrows dotting the yards, gardens and picket fences of this rural metropolis. I have reaped and enjoyed the gifts fall has offered to me this season. My exploits have included pumpkin pie, roasted butternut squash and cauliflower, potato & turnip soup, and spicy apple muffins. As the days get shorter, and the survival rate of outdoor vegetables hanging on by a vine or a stem gets lower and lower along with the temperature, there is one of autumn’s delightful treasures which I will miss dearly until next August. I will spend the winter, spring and summer heartbroken and pining for sweet potatoes.

For me, sweet potatoes are like young love from the soil. They are the breathtaking gasp of being kissed for the first time. They are the delicate, nervous brush of one hand on another while sitting side by side in a dark movie theater. They are consuming thoughts and sleepless nights of wild and running imagination. The first moment I begin to fall for sweet potatoes year in and year out is when I smell them. Heaped into a basket, coated with dirt like ancient artifacts unearthed from tombs, they smell like I imagine the core of the Earth to smell. They are maternal and rustic, filling my nostrils with pungency and the stinging smell of broken ground. For my love to blossom and grow they must also be warm, freshly pulled from dry, sandy soil, retaining the virile heat that penetrates even the depths of the underworld where sweet potatoes lie, below the fauna and flora. A fresh sweet potato on a fall day is love at first sight, first kiss and thinking about the unthinkable.

A sweet potato’s possibilities are endless. One of my favorite ways to enjoy them is to simply roast them, tossed with olive oil, salt, pepper and rosemary. In fact, I often find myself in conflict debating whether or not to tamper with their naturally pleasing flavor by preparing or using them any other way. This season I took on a new challenge after being inspired by my close proximity to the American South (in fact, Southeast Ohio often resembles the American South and may in fact be the stitching on the seam of the Bible Belt). Baking with sweet potatoes was a new concept to me this season. Certainly I’d heard of sweet potato pie, but that’s really more custard than it is bakery. I decided to throw myself into the endeavors of using sweet potatoes in baked goods as I’d use bananas, pumpkin or applesauce. The results were successful, and took my teenage love of sweet potatoes to a whole new level. Within the stretchy nooks and crannies of a biscuit mixed with homey banana and cinnamon, the sweet potato became familial. I felt the comfort found in my thoughts and company of loved ones folded into the lumpy batter of sweet potato muffins, baked with the soft notes of ground rosemary. Finally, the new, subtle closeness of my relationship with my one and only sibling, my sister, could at best be expressed to me through tender, spongy bites of sweet potato cupcakes enamored with antique cardamom and topped with a dollop of fluffy caramel frosting.

Last night I used my very last sweet potato of the season to make a tray of crispy oven fries, mixed with matchsticks of local Yukon Gold potatoes and tossed in salt, pepper, cinnamon, chipotle chili powder and granulated garlic. They were exquisite, and I had to stop myself from eating the entire tray with my meal. While I’ve been seeing the signs, receiving the passive messages, and getting the hint as the nights become frosty and the days turn to simply hours of sunlight, it is still sad for me to believe my seasonal affair with sweet potatoes has come to an end. I can, at least, take comfort in knowing that next August, after taking a long, lonely winter for myself, I’ll be able to fall in love all over again.

Sweet potato muffins, waiting to hit the oven, topped with dried tart cherries.

Queen Honeybea's Sweet Potato Cupcakes with Fluffy Caramel Frosting.

Pinwheel smears of sweet and salty frosting, dotted with dried tart cherries.

A homemade gift box containing a Sweet Potato Cupcake for a dear friend.

Send love, send sweet potatoes, and next fall, remember to buy local.

Pinwheels of Pumpkin

2010-11-10T14:40:00.004-05:00

At first, it was an unusual request. After all, Americans typically don’t stray from their well established food standards. For birthdays that usually means a 9 inch round, two layer cake of some favorite flavor, covered from top to bottom with fluffy, sugary frosting with the words “Happy Birthday so and so…” piped across the peaks and valleys of hand smeared butter cream. This is usually accompanied by waxy pink and yellow candles, and a frosty scoop of ice cream. Cake and ice cream, that’s how we do birthdays. So when I asked my co-worker Andy what kind of cake he’d like me to make for his birthday, the response was surprising. He said, “Pumpkin roll.”

I’d never made a pumpkin roll before, in fact, I wasn’t even really sure how pumpkin rolls came about. I always imagined some sort of fairy-like magical wand being waved over a pumpkin sheet cake and some cream cheese and after a little poof of sparkling dust, it would transform into a delightful pinwheel of pumpkin sponge cake twirled with smooth, white filling. Pumpkin rolls were intimidating. Naturally, the original source of a pumpkin roll for me had always been a holiday craft show, a Christmas bazaar, or a church bake sale. I didn’t inquire about their ancestry, their humble beginnings, or their maturation process into Thanksgiving’s version of a Buche de Noel. Until now, that is.

I knew Andy was going to be a slight challenge. He told me early on, when I was talking endlessly about my love of all things pastry, that he didn’t really care for sweets. He passed on my boss’s chocolate sheet cake, and when pressed for his favorite baked treat in order to commemorate the day of his birth, he responded honestly, truthfully, and as I’d learn, from his heart. Andy’s favorite dessert has always been pumpkin roll. His mother used to make it for him. After she passed, his sisters would make it for him on occasion. It was nostalgic for him. What better way to celebrate a birthday, really, than to enjoy the delicately spiced crumb of earthy pumpkin cake that reminded him of so many birthdays before?

I’ve heard at least once a week for the past four weeks of how much Andy has been looking forward to the pumpkin roll I’d promised him. As I found myself bent in half at the waist, one eye closed, squinting tightly as I slid my frosting spatula gently over the pale orange batter, making sure it was perfectly level in the well buttered jelly roll pan, I was reminded once again of how much food is tied to memory, to our hearts, to joy, to comfort, and to feeling. Food is our great constant. We all need it, and in our common need, we’ve constructed an infinite number of cultures and traditions based around it. Someone, somewhere, took a little round gourd and some farm cheese and turned it into a curly pastry that delights our eyes, noses, fingers and tongues. It reminds Andy of his mother, and today it’ll be celebrating the fact that we’ve all had the great fortune of having our friend Andy with us another year.

Happy Birthday Andy. Enjoy.

Queen Honeybea’s
Perfect Pumpkin Roll

1 cup, plus 2 TBS. organic, unbleached all purpose flour
¾ tsp. baking powder
¾ tsp. baking soda
1 tsp. ground cinnamon
½ tsp. freshly grated nutmeg
½ tsp. ground ginger
½ tsp. salt
5 organic, local, free range eggs
1 cup organic, unrefined sugar
1 tsp. pure vanilla extract
1 cup organic, pureed pumpkin (canned or made fresh from local pie pumpkins)

1. Pre-heat the oven to 375 degrees. Butter a 12 x 18 inch jelly roll pan. Line with parchment paper and butter again. Set aside.
2. Sift together in a medium size bowl the flour, baking powder, baking soda, ground cinnamon, nutmeg, ginger and salt.
3. In the bowl of an electric mixer, combine the eggs and sugar. Beat on high speed until the mixture is pale, pale yellow, thickened, and swirls like a velvety ribbon into the bowl when you remove the beaters. On low speed, beat in the vanilla and pumpkin puree.
4. By hand, fold the flour mixture into the egg mixture until all ingredients are incorporated.
5. Pour into prepared jelly roll pan, using a straight edge spatula to spread the batter out evenly.
6. Bake for 15 minutes at 375 degrees, or until the edges are slightly brown and a toothpick inserted in the center of the cake comes out clean.
7. Remove from the oven and cool on a wire rack for five minutes. In the meantime, prepare a clean kitchen towel dusted generously with powdered sugar on a cooling rack large enough to hold the cake. After five minutes, with one rapid motion, invert the pumpkin sheet cake onto the sugared towel. Peel off the parchment paper and allow to cool 5 more minutes. Dust the top of the cake liberally with powdered sugar, then gently roll up along with the towel, from the 18 inch side. Let the rolled up cake and towel set on the wire rack until cool.

Cream Cheese Filling
12 ounces organic cream cheese, softened
4 TBS. salted, organic butter, softened
1 tsp. vanilla
½ tsp. almond extract
1 ½ cups powdered sugar, sifted
Pinch of salt

1. In the bowl of an electric mixer fitted with the paddle attachment, cream together the cream cheese and butter until well blended and soft. Add the vanilla and almond extract and beat until incorporated.
2. Gently beat in the powdered sugar and salt until smooth and creamy.

To assemble:

1. Carefully unroll the cooled cake, taking care not to rip or tear the sponge.
2. Gently spread the prepared filling onto the inside roll of the cake, distributing it evenly over the whole surface.
3. Carefully, using the towel as a guide, re-roll the cake around the cream cheese filling until tight and the end seam is along the bottom of the roll.
4. Cut the cake into two pieces and wrap each piece tightly in plastic wrap. Chill for at least two hours.
5. Just before serving, combine 1 TBS. powdered sugar, ¼ tsp. cinnamon and ¼ tsp. freshly ground nutmeg in a sifter. Sift over the top of the pumpkin roll for a snow like garnish. Enjoy.

For other crazy people who celebrate their pets' birthdays.

2010-11-05T17:04:00.005-04:00

Just a quick post with a recipe and some photos. I feel as though I haven't been posting enough recipes lately, so I'm going to try and supplement each week with at least one recipe.

This week my little kitty turned three. There was no cake, no ice cream and no clown involved. She is a particular little bugger, and her birthday could only be celebrated with the few things she really, truly enjoys. It was surreal to me at first when I became a "cat person," that cats don't engulf every speck of any food-like substance to be found around the house. My family always had beagles, which required keeping all foods above counter level, under lock and key, and often in the presence of strict supervision. I have a plethora of stories stemming from the wonderful dogs we've had throughout the years. Our first dog scaled the six-inch wide ledge of a staircase leading to our basement to tear into and consume an entire bag of chocolate chips. We still don't know how she did it. My nephew, Henry the beagle, pushed the lazy susan open once and pulled out a bottle of cooking oil. He dragged it out of the kitchen, into the carpeted living room and chewed it open. To this day, my Mother keeps a throw rug over that oil stain. Needless to say, my family has many entertaining stories about food and our animals and their relationships with one another.

Rosie was a little strange, to say the least, as I realized that she didn't want to eat everything in sight. In fact, she eats very little outside of her alloted 2/3 cup of dry cat food per day. There are a couple of things she really enjoys, though, so what better way to celebrate her birthday than to serve up a plate full of her favorites. This included a salmon patty for her love of canned seafood (tuna nad salmon), a hunk of torn up multi-grain bread (she loves carbs, like Mom), and some crushed up Heinen's brand Organic Animal Cookies (she loses her shit when she hears that bag opening). Just for kicks, I threw in some lettuce, because she loves to devour any and all things green, like flower leaves and spinach, and a few bits of potato thinking she'd like to try it. It was a success, and as suspected, her first point of attack was to lick the Greek Yogurt off the top of her salmon patty (because she's a dairy kind of a girl). I left the plate out for her to much on all night, and can only hope that she knows how much I love her and how grateful I am for what she does to keep me sane. Happy Birthday Rosie.

Queen Honeybea's
Rosie’s Birthday Salmon PattiesServes 4

2 six ounce cans of sustainable, all natural wild Alaskan salmon (boneless and skinless)
¼ cup whole-wheat bread crumbs
2 TBS. ale & spice honey mustard (or your favorite kind of mustard)
1 egg, lightly beaten
½ tsp. salt
¼ tsp. ground black pepper
1 tsp. parsley flakes
1 tsp. dried dill
Extra-virgin olive oil for the pan
4 thin slices of local sharp cheddar cheese (Athens Own Wisconsin Cheddar is what I use)

1. In a medium size bowl, empty the cans of salmon and using a fork, flake into very small pieces. Add the whole-wheat bread crumbs, mustard, egg, salt, pepper, parsley and dill, and mix until well combined. Using your hands, form 4 well packed patties.
2. Heat about a tablespoon of olive oil over medium to moderate heat in a large skillet. Swirl the oil around the pan to coat. Brown the salmon patties well, on both sides. Turn the heat off, and put a slice of cheese on each patty, cover. In a few minutes, the cheese will be melted and bubbling and the patties are ready to serve.

I served mine with a dollop of ale & spice mustard, a baked local Yukon Gold potato, and a green salad made with local lettuce, local tomatoes, local carrots, goat cheese from Hiram, Ohio and a grainy-mustard balsamic vinaigrette, and a slice of homemade buckwheat bread.

Reinvestment and Recovery

2010-10-31T16:21:00.008-04:00

Every once in a while I find myself needing some time off. I suppose that’s why we’ve structured “weekends,” into the minutes, hours and days that compose each year of our lives. This week at work was exhausting, yet simultaneously rewarding. As I’ve been slowly but surely settling into my role at the Learning Center, I’ve also been slowly, but surely defining it. I am the first of my kind at the Morgan County Learning Center, which means I’ve been writing the story, script and manual of exactly what an AmeriCorps College Access Guide should be achieving there. This hasn’t gone without great direction and persistent suggestion from my supervisor, but for the most part, I’ve been volunteering the forty hours a week, of which as a functioning adult member of society I am expected to perform work for wages, flying by the seat of my pants and crafting the part which I’d like to play for the residents of Morgan County. This week, the pants came off. I am done crafting a well polished job description, and have accepted my role as jack of all trades. I am here to ensure the success of the Learning Center. I am here to ensure my own growth and development as an individual. I am here to ensure the success of Americans, the working poor, the middle class, the wealthy and all those who fall invisibly outside of those distinctions. I am here to help and be helped. That describes my job to a tee.

The need for help in Morgan County, and Appalachian Ohio is overwhelming. It often seems like the grubby fingers of the consistently overlooked and exploited will clamor at anyone and anything that pays attention. Yet clamoring doesn’t always yield a surmounted obstacle, but could and often does end in struggle with no gain and no energy left. The Edward M. Kennedy Community Service Act allowed me to come here, under one condition: America will pay my living expenses, if I expend my time and energy for others to live. Although working to make higher education more accessible doesn’t yield a high “life and death,” daily scenario, I do know that what I do here can mean the difference between barely getting by and living happily for students who find themselves enlightened and therefore pursuing happiness. I’ve been working harder as I’ve become more comfortable in my job. I put in extra effort, knowing full well that many before me have also put in extra effort and as it goes with clamoring, Appalachian Ohio always ends face down in the mud. I can’t change the tidal ebb and flow that keeps these hills and valleys tied to the gravitational force that is abject poverty. I can, however, be wise with the time I’ve been given here and smart with every choice I make in order to provide the most energy for our collective clamor to the top. Friday was pay day. What did I do with my biweekly living stipend this week? I took off exploring the region that has graciously hosted me for the past three months, and reinvested my paycheck in the delights of South Eastern Ohio’s local luxuries.

I took Saturday for myself, needing not only a short break from work, but also a break from my life. I needed to be nourished, replenished and re-inspired and sometimes my soul needs to work on that alone. After a chilly morning run, seeing the fuchsia sun smearing color across the blue eastern sky, I showered and dressed well, just for myself. Trusty cooler in hand and favorite Buddha tote over my shoulder, I got in the car and headed for the first place that comes to mind when I require an unique remedy for soul nourishing—The Village Bakery & Café in Athens. It was just the place to kick start this day of reinvestment and personal recovery. At a small, round café table I found myself seated in one of two charmingly mismatched chairs with a cup of steaming coffee and a tenderly moist pumpkin-apple muffin pulled halfway apart exposing its delicate crumb on a small plate in front of me. It was cozily warm, as the wall that was becoming fast friends with my left arm was abutted by ovens on its opposite side. The interior of the bakery is painted butter yellow, and the available surfaces are all campaigning for you to eat well, with posters, murals and memorabilia donning words like “Slow Food,” and “Locavore.” There at my table, taking up my small nook on the market side of the small agri-bistro, I paged through a cookbook I’d brought and sipped my coffee to the serenading cinematic like sound of Billie Holiday. Moments like this, however, do not only exist for mere seconds in the mind of a film director. They can be found and had, with an understanding of simplicity and a keen sense of satisfaction.

After leaving the bakery blissfully content, I assumingly headed to the arms of another love, which brings great passion to my heart on Saturday mornings—the Athens Farmer’s Market. My Chuck Taylor clad feet must have tread the same path at least four times, canvassing the “T” shaped market for inspirational produce, of which it is never lacking. The red lining of my Buddha bag soon found itself in close quarters with orange, purple and yellow carrots, burgundy red leaf lettuce, the clammy dampness of a freshly pulled sweet potato, a dozen baby bell peppers ranging from yellow to green to aubergine, and crunchy, exotic Asian pears. I picked up two slices of Crumbs Bakery’s famous market pizza to deliver a slice to my neighbor who is newly in love with said pizza, and one for myself for Sunday lunch. A pinched bundle of purple sage caught my eye, a basket of dusty fresh Yukon Gold potatoes, and a half dozen cooking onions would all marry happily together in the French Lentil soup inspired by the initial color wheel of carrots. Finally, a chocolate, cherry, chocolate-chip cookie from Crumbs would serve as my late afternoon dessert on a sleepy, warm drive home.
Crumbs Bakery's amazing pizza.

Two more stops in Athens followed. The Farmacy, located conveniently in town and stocking all things local, organic, natural and good-for-you, is where I regularly buy Aladdin’s multi-grain flatbreads, made in Cleveland, Ohio and irregularly decided to pick up a bunch of organic bananas, as I’ve never eaten them before. A short drive down State Routes 50/32 to just within the limits of Albany, Ohio there stands the Athens Bulk Food Depot. The cookbook I was paging through, jotting a shopping list as my moistened fingertip flicked page after page, is a book about baking whole grain bread. My latest ambition is to perfect two things: a perfect whole-grain loaf of bread, and a whole-wheat muffin base, from which many more delicious muffins may evolve. I took a basket, which by the end of my perusal through the narrow, fully stocked aisles was, as expected, full and dislocating my shoulder. I picked up a ten pound bag of King Arthur Artisan bread flour, which I could’ve bought at Kroger, but by buying it at the Athens Bulk Food Depot, the graciously friendly owner and his wife got to keep more of my money. In addition to the infant sized bag of flour, I invested in a few new discoveries from the chapters of my bread book: toasted wheat germ, buckwheat groats, and non-fat dry milk. Upon checking out, the owner of whom I spoke so fondly, had a momentary crisis with the cash register and apologized profusely for keeping me waiting, to which I replied, “Please, take your time, I’m not in a hurry.” He smiled, let out a relieving scoff and said, “Well, you’re unusual then.” I thought about that the rest of the day.

Not finding myself tied to a day planner, in constraint with time, or a slave to a schedule, I was able to find the kind of joy that some people believe only exists in Christmas songs and on television, in stories and other fictional makings. I had nowhere to be and no certain time to be there, wherever it was I was going. I had the time and the desire to take moments for what they were, enjoy nothing but the happenstance of my surroundings, and take my time. After leaving the Bulk Food Depot, I took the long way around, going out of my way for a beautiful drive from Athens to Middleport, Ohio down State Route 681. My partner and I used to take Saturday drives on this road, for its beauty and its isolation. Like in Morgan County, the homes of Meigs County are privy to the space between. Even homes that are not great expanses of farm land sit on property that stretches for acres and acres. We’d always pass one farm, an Amish farm, where a hand painted wooden sign would warn speedy travelers of cinnamon buns, homemade bread, and whoopie pies at a roadside stand within the next mile. We always stopped and bought something, not because the baked goods were particularly delicious or that we had some ulterior motive behind investing four or five dollars in the handicrafts of Amish women. We stopped because we had four or five extra dollars, and because of the rural space between, we couldn’t imagine this small family saw much business in their curbside confections. There was always some sort of nostalgia involved in stopping for Amish baked goods, in buying something made from scratch, by hand, and not wrapped in an industrially manufactured plastic bag containing a company logo and an ingredient list a mile long. I passed that farm on Saturday for the first time in probably three years. There was a homemade wooden sign with hand painted letters, but now it read “82 Acres for Sale,” and the farm house and roadside stand were abandoned and already being reclaimed, along with the rough, hilly fields by the weeds. While we’d all like to blame the government, or the banks, or the head-honcho types we imagine to exist in the world that looms above our heads and out of our reach, I think each of us can bear some of the burden of blame for our economic troubles. We don’t buy our bread from roadside stands any more. We buy it in those corporate plastic bags, with a corporate list of ingredients, from a corporation like Wal-Mart where eight people are making a million dollars a minute thanks to shoppers like us. You can’t point your finger at Wall Street CEOs like Michael Duke (Wal-Mart) when your other hand is pushing a cart in his store.

My intentions for taking State Route 681 to State Route 33 through Pomeroy to Middleport were imbedded in the little rumbling in my stomach, the CD mix of Appalachian music fiddling through my speakers and my desire for feeding my soul—or rather, soul food. I decided after the market that I’d have a meal at a restaurant I used to frequent often when I lived in Athens full time. Millie’s is a comfort-food haven, nestled along a country road, off the heavily beaten path of State Route 7. It’s a seat yourself kind of a place, where they’ll bring you a menu, but most people order from the eight or nine offerings written on a white board you can barely read from your table. One of those offerings comes with two sides for $7.95. When I started going there, the price was $6.95. Only a dollar’s worth of inflation through America’s Great Recession isn’t too bad. I sat myself in the farthest booth, this time carrying my book Animal, Vegetable, Miracle by Barbara Kingsolver. Shortly after getting my coat off and bedding into the bench seat, a smiling waitress brought me a menu and a tightly wrapped bundle of silverware in a starchy paper napkin. She immediately asked what I was reading, and through friendly conversation and an
explanation of the basic premise of the autobiographical story, she added that Millie’s gets as much food as they can from a local market, and often their eggs still have feathers on them when they go to crack them into your omelet—my kind of joint. My meal at Millie’s was a treat. Crispy skinned rotisserie chicken, tangy and salty collards cooked to mush with bits of smoky bacon, and a bowl of sweet, creamy macaroni salad comprised an eating experience I haven’t been able to enjoy for awhile.

Recently, upon returning to restaurants and dining establishments I used to thoroughly enjoy, I’ve been experiencing a sort of lack-luster disappointment as I dug into the foods I used to love to eat. My sausage sandwich at the Bob Evans Farm Festival left an unpleasant aftertaste in my mouth. The smoked, pulled beef brisket from Millstone BBQ didn’t please my palette the way it once did, and a crock of Chicken ‘n Noodles from Bob Evans was utterly offsetting. After eating whole, natural, local foods almost exclusively for certainly the past three months and even longer to a lesser extent, these foods didn’t taste good to me anymore. I could taste the preservatives. I could taste the mechanized process by which they were made. It didn’t taste good. My meal at Millie’s tasted good. As I pulled off bits and pieces of juicy, silken white meat from my chicken breast, I could hear women in the kitchen yelling orders back and forth. This little country diner serves up Appalachian Ohio soul food, situated just close enough to West Virginia to serve Southern favorites like collard greens and soup beans, yet Ohio enough for spaghetti and meat balls, and lasagna. They also make homemade pies, crust and all, with fresh ingredients. The apple has always been my favorite, and for the first time in my entire acquaintance with Millie’s, I passed on the pie for the cookie waiting patiently in my car. And while a Bob Evans situated on a busy street corner in a suburb, adjacent to a medical office, a drug store and two other corporate chain restaurants can claim to be “down on the farm,” Millie’s is just down the road, there are still feathers on their eggs, and Millie and her staff, and the local farmers who supply her restaurant got to keep a good percentage of the $8.12 I spent there on Saturday.

I drove home, back through Athens, stopping to pick up my Snowville Creamery milk and half & half and another cup of coffee at the Village Bakery, before heading back through the hills to Morgan County and my little McConnelsville home. The drive was lazy, sleepy and warm as anticipated, and I sipped my coffee and took small, gingerly bites of my chocolate, cherry, chocolate-chip cookie I’d been dreaming of all day long, so as to make it last longer. Crumbs Bakery has their non-dairy, no-egg chocolaty confection crafted to perfection. The center is chewy, the edges are crisp, and dried tart cherries, just barely plumped from the surrounding cookie dough, serve as delightful surprises throughout. The cookie made it twenty minutes, interchanged with sips of steaming pungent fair trade coffee. I made it another twenty minutes to my front door, where I was wearing the satisfaction of my day across my face in the form of a contented smile. It is safe to say that I am ready for another week at work, another day of paperwork and meetings, of filing reports and serving students. The weekend served not only as a recovery of my own sanity, my own spirit, but also a reminder that the work I do and the money I spend are America’s Reinvestment and Recovery Act. I try to eat locally, spend locally and serve locally. Thus far in my life, nothing else has so eased my conscience and brought me so much joy. Remember, take time to enjoy your life, to know yourself, and always buy, shop, and eat local.

Nostalgia

2010-10-17T19:57:00.002-04:00

As we begin closing the windows, putting up our storm doors, battening down the hatches for the winter weather we are all keenly aware will be arriving soon, the sense of comfort, shelter and protection that comes along with autumn in Ohio has been making me reminisce this week.

By nature I am an introspective person. I let feelings and emotions thrive and flourish within me. I am a keeper of memories, safeguarding my past and the history of my family. I have been accused of over-thinking things, of worrying too much, of obsessing. I like to brew over my thoughts while I perform somewhat mindless tasks. I am also a planner, an organizer, and a slave to my own schedule. I like to think of my home and life as a nest. I’ve built it, I tend it, I patch it up when it begins to fall apart, and at the end of the day, it is my favorite place to be.

I think this is why I love preparing food so much. Crafting a meal requires a dedicated balance and interaction of all these qualities. It begins with an idea. This is where my mind flourishes, pouring over archives of food photos I remember seeing as I paged through a magazine, recipes I remember reading, and what I’d like the overall effect of the meal to be. I sort through what I want to accomplish with this meal, and how I will set about achieving that goal. Then, once an idea has been roughly established, it follows with a plan. I like to make lists—a list of what I will serve, a list of what ingredients I need to make those things, and a list of what ingredients I’ll need to buy and where I will buy them. Creating a meal is a task close to perfection for anyone who fancies themselves a planner. Finally, there’s the execution. There are vegetables to chop, fruit to peel, meat to trim. These are the somewhat mindless tasks I enjoy so much because they allow my mind to wander, and my obsessive nature to come out and thrive. There always seems to be some complicated task, which challenges me, but also allows for a great sense of pride—a feather in my cap, or rather, in my nest, a photo to hang on my wall. Freely flowing among all of these components of a caringly prepared meal is one thing that shelters and comforts me—nostalgia.

It started on Monday of this week. Something persuaded me to buy two bunches of collard greens at the Athens Farmers Market last weekend. I’d been craving them. I think this has something to do with fall weather and fall foods. Collards are a cool season crop, and come in nicely in the temperate Appalachian spring and fall. I fixed them the only way I like to eat them—braised with biting vinegar and tender black eyed peas. I scooped a large dollop of dangling greens, dotted with tiny pieces of sautéed orange carrots and creamy white onions, into a small bowl. Perhaps my favorite part of collard greens followed, as I dipped up a ladle full of their pot liquor and poured it over them, exposing a mound of soft, myrtle, wilted greens and precariously perched black eyed peas. That was my dinner, accompanied by a piece of whole-grain corn bread, baked in my cast iron skillet. I used the golden, butter crusted bread to absorb all remnants of pot liquor once my greens were happily eaten. The coziness of a pot of slowly simmering collards always makes me think of the first place I’d ever eaten them this way.

Several years ago I had the wonderful experience of spending a weekend in the mountains of rural, Eastern Kentucky; in the city of Hazard, down Lott’s Creek, to be exact. While my collards were somewhat different, being prepared without salt pork, and dressed with olive oil and low-sodium chicken stock instead, the tanginess of the apple cider vinegar is what really takes me back. I was sitting on a wooden bench, Styrofoam tray in my hand with a cup of greens and a hunk of grainy, salty cornbread on the side, listening to a bluegrass band, lovingly cradled by two mountainsides. It was fall in the mountains, and I was in the company of a dear, sweet friend I only had the privilege of knowing briefly before God carried her home just after Christmas the same year. Collard greens always make me think of her. I like to think of myself as an adopted Appalachian sometimes. While it isn’t part of my heritage, I’d like to think it’s a part of the culture of who I am today.

Then came Wednesday, when Cleveland Scene Magazine released their “Best of Cleveland,” list. I was browsing through the fan and staff picks, seeing mostly expected results, until I came across an unusual category: Best Place to Experience your Grandparents’ Cleveland. Immediately the title of the article had me thinking about my own grandparents and the Cleveland they knew. Then I read the staff pick for this category: Frank Sterle’s Slovenian Country House. A very contented smile came across my face as I immediately began to remember Mother’s Day lunches and family birthday gatherings. It made me think of my paternal Grandmother, the only Grandparent I ever got to know. While I think most would say that her style of “Grandma,” was somewhat different than the stereotype of what we expect grandmothers to be, I can honestly say that now I understand and appreciate who she was and I don’t begrudge her that at all. Just reading the name of the restaurant made me remember so many things about her, most not even associated with Sterle’s. I didn’t see her very often, so one of my last memories of her is from my cousin Laurie’s wedding (which happened to be five years ago this month). When the DJ kindly obliged my family’s repeated request and played a polka, my Grandmother who was in her eighties danced with my Aunt Joanne, slowly, carefully and mechanically making all the correct steps. I’ve heard stories of how she used to love to dance polkas. I remember catching her out of the corner of my eye as my father practically dismembered me, whipping me around the shiny wooden floor. That was the only time I’ve ever danced with my father, and the last time I saw my Grandmother dance.

As always, food lives on like a flame in my memory, around which some of my fondest thoughts warm their hands. Sterle’s serves food like my Grandmother used to make, making it, for me, a perfect selection on how to experience your Grandparents’ Cleveland. I am not alone in thinking, and missing my Grandmother’s breaded city chicken, and pork chops, her home fried potatoes, browned and soaked with lovely bacon fat, and even her homemade creamed spinach, or fresh green beans dressed in vinegar and slivered onions. The Slovenian half of my heritage was never as fully developed as the other half, which I’m about to entertain. That doesn’t mean it isn’t there though, or that I don’t still strongly identify with my Slavic roots. I have heavy limbs, dark hair and blue eyes and I’m tall and broadly framed. I know those traits didn’t come from my short, petite Italian relatives. They are the things I see in the mirror every day and every day I’m reminded.

Finally there was Friday. Friday was the culmination of the mood of memories, autumn and cooking I’ve been experiencing this week. I had invited a friend over for dinner, and being the person I am, a meal rich in local foods, prepared in a healthy manner was in order. There is one thing I seem to make once a year, every year, in the fall—Butternut squash ravioli. There is something so delightful about the smooth, velvety pockets of pasta filled with creamy, nutty squash and a hint of fresh nutmeg. They speak of the comforts of fall, and for me, making ravioli hits home. My maternal Grandmother made homemade ravioli. We’re Italian, so of course she did. Before I moved to McConnelsville, my Mother and I were going through our kitchen drawers looking for any of my cooking utensils which had been mistakenly thrown in with hers while I was living with my parents. In one particular drawer where my Mother keeps very obscure things she never uses, I found a set of ravioli cutters. There was a large size, and a small. They were round, with crimped metal edges and worn, beveled wooden handles. When I asked about them, she told me they were my Grandmothers. Then she took them from me and put them in my box. She knew that nothing would’ve made my Grandmother happier than to know that I would use them, instead of letting them sit, sadly in my Mother’s kitchen drawer.

I carry in my heart so much unwarranted regret when I think about my maternal Grandmother. I want so badly to have known her, to have been her willing apprentice at pasta making and vegetable canning, to have known what her arms felt like when I hugged her. It isn’t my fault that I don’t know these things. She passed away three years before I was born. Thanks to my parents, I carry her with me everywhere I go. I feel her presence every time someone asks me what my middle initial stands for. While I know she might’ve been skeptical of the rich brown, grainy whole-wheat flour I used to make my paper thin sheets of ravioli, I also know that she could feel my palms bearing down heavily on the handles of the ravioli cutters, using my fingertips to guide and roll them, pinching closed the little pillows of seasonal American flavors. My heart feels near to her every time I make things the way she made them, as though I can feel her hands on my hands, directing me. The ravioli I made with her ravioli cutters on Friday were utterly perfect, so honestly reflecting my spirit in their preparation, ingredients, flavors and execution. They were the best I’ve made.

Cherry Orchards

2010-10-10T20:20:00.013-04:00

Grasshoppers scampered, jumping after my lightly treading footsteps startled them from one rough blade of dulling green grass to another. The coarse edges of drying greenery scratched softly against my toes as I meandered slowly through a tenderly cleared field, dotted with giant rolls of hay, looking like tightly woven skeins of yarn, planted heavily all over the terrain of rolling hills and dipping valleys. The late autumn sun baked my skin, and I basked in it, worshiped it, let it warm my flesh to the touch. Blue sky was laid out above me, a vast tapestry with wavy, lazy, wisps of pale white clouds stretched out from end to end. Just out of reach was a stand of apple trees, an orchard within an orchard, roped off and marked with a hand written sign forbidding adventurers and admirers from picking the heavy hanging, brightly pink hued fruit that dangled from the low lying branches. For the first time in my life, I bit down gently on the white tipped ends of clover petals, feeling a trace of sugary water tickling the tip of my tongue. The gently blowing wind pulled and tugged at strands of my hair, hanging down, dancing light footed against my neck. Unexpectedly, I had one of the most truly unforgettable experiences of my life.

There, just miles up a winding country road, is an old Orchard and a kind hearted farmer who is proud of his land, and his living. It was just by chance my friend Betsy and I decided to take a leisurely drive up State Route 669, heading North from Malta to Deavertown, in Morgan County. Well, perhaps not by chance. There is a barn on this road I had passed once before. It is an old wooden barn on a farm beautifully placed on a hilltop, and on the face of this barn is an enormous plaque of Our Lady of Guadalupe, holding her hands in prayer, blessing the tiny mountains and faithful farmers within her view. I fell in love with this barn, and decided my friend Betsy would love it also. I also knew there was an orchard on this road, further on past the immaculate rural vision. I’d learned of this orchard just weeks ago at the Athens Farmer’s Market, where one of the men working the market stand was wearing a Morgan Raiders t-shirt, and knowingly I inquired about the location of the orchard itself. We drove past the sloping gravel drive at first, thinking that the last thing either of us needed was more apples, but something stopped my car and brought to us a consensus that we really ought to stop. Treacherously backing the car up a tiny, blinding hill, we zipped back just far enough for me to make a sharp little turn into the drive marked by a sign reading “Apples,” and “Cider.”

I cannot exactly explain the events that followed our decision to backtrack, and take the time to explore a little piece of Morgan County’s vast patchwork of agricultural heritage. There is a spirit about Cherry’s Orchard that simply cannot be put into words. The land itself hums, it buzzes and hums, like far off singing, like distant voices joined in joyful song. The driveway is lined with multitudes of flowers, plants, trees and shrubs. Red zinnias caught my eye from the road, and a flowering vine fully loaded with pink bell shaped blossoms coiled about a trellis serving as a welcoming frame to an always open door. This farm was bursting with bright pinks, purples and blues which are not usually found in the heat of passionate autumn. The colors did not stop upon entering the small building which serves as the farm stand, but rather were almost painted from outdoors to in, taking the form of jars filled with vintage, cellophane wrapped hard candies, baskets of apples ranging from shiny candy red to verging on neon green, to deep orange jars of pumpkin butter, to a vast palette of jars of golden honey—orange blossom, buckwheat and wildflower each a different shade. From a door in the back of the farm stand emerged a kind eyed farmer, donning a scratchy white beard and charming, yet worn and functional straw hat. We complimented him on the breadth of beauty that was his farm, and he gave us one of the greatest and most simple gifts we’d ever been given. He invited us to take some time and walk around the orchards, to explore and take photos and enjoy the land.

The contrasting complexity and simplicity of life on Cherry’s Orchard seems so idealistically satisfying. We walked up a gravel coated country lane, where tracks worn in by years of traveling pick-up trucks and tractors lead us up and over a hill, and back to an old barn neighbored by a patch of Fuji apple trees. The only sounds that surrounded us were the soft buzzes of happily working bees, the orchestral pangs of grasshoppers, and haphazard chirps and melodic refrains of songbirds. That and the barely noticeable mechanical click of my digital camera, as we snapped dozens of photos, breathing in the countryside, the harmony and hospitality and the effortlessness of each other’s company. The grove of yet to be picked Fuji apples was full of large, crisp fruit with rosy skin and picture perfect droplets of slowly dripping morning dew. Just beyond there were vast, mowed fields and rounds of packed hay scattered about the rising and falling ground. I put my nose up to the warm, dry, coarse grass, bundled tightly together, and took in a deep breath of amber colored, earthy aroma that brought me back to my days as a small child, running through a corn maze and making my own scarecrow at a fruit farm near where I grew up. I leaned gently against the bale, and laid my hands upon the curve of its scratchy voluminous body and felt my spirit resting deep within me, content and sighing, happy and warm. There are times in life when my spirit soars, full of excitement and wonder, and I feel like my feet could be lifted from the ground at any moment. I love those times. There are also times in my life where my spirit feels tucked in, comforted and safe, sweetly sleeping, barely breathing and content. With the slowly baking hay bale warming my thighs, my feet nestled into hearty sprouts of clover, and my eyes cast upon land that can only be described as belonging to both Heaven and earth, this was one of those times, and I might have loved it even more.

We dawdled in the fields, were in no hurry to win any race in the alleys between rows of squatty apple trees, and lingered, loitering amongst bunches of royal purple Concord grapes. We shared laughter, and moments of silence when the magnificence of the farm stole our full attention. We felt the smooth bark of apple trees between our fingers, the pock marked skin of slick, early lemons, and the comforting heat of an ember-glowing sun upon our cheeks. We tasted nutty buckwheat honey, crisp and juicy Winesap apples, and the lip sucking sweetness of biting, cold pressed cider. By the time we made our way back to the farm stand, we’d discovered that we’d spent more than an hour drifting about the plush, fertile landscape. We loaded our arms up with apples, garlic, peach butter, honey, and a pocket full of hard candy, kindly paid and appreciatively thanked the farmer for his gracious and unforeseen hospitality, and drove away contently deeper into the temperate, fall kissed mountains of Morgan County.

I was reminded today that life is too short to take any experiences we’re fortunate enough to have for granted. There isn’t a video game or movie or television show created that can generate the same kind of feeling within me that this simple visit to a farm on a Sunday morning gave me. There isn’t a book that can be read, a class taught, a song sung that does justice to the energy that flowed like life through my veins as I stood, eyes closed, against the hay bale at Cherry’s Orchard. There is no comedy or drama that can portray the emotions I felt. I could spend a thousand Sunday mornings in church and never have the same peace in my soul that was brought to it today as I sat pleased and at ease among the tall stems of red and yellow zinnias. While there is no harm in doing all of these things, just don’t forget that beyond your door, just out your window, just up your road, a world exists that many people drive by, pass up and ignore during the monotonous routine and obligation of our everyday lives. Don’t take the perfection of freshly picked apples, the quiet simplicity of a living, breathing hillside, or the complexity of a well run, walking, living farm for granted. It’s fall. Get outside and lay your hands on Ohio’s robust, round apples, scrape your palm on the gnarled knob of a great terra cotta pumpkin, and taste the sweetness of brusque, cool cider, chilling your insides. If you live in or near Morgan County, Ohio, go to Cherry’s Orchard and ask if you can take a walk. You’ll lose yourself and be wishing you’d never be found again.

Radical Hospitality

2010-10-04T18:52:00.012-04:00

Someone call my Mother. Right now. Someone pick up a phone, call my Mother and say, "What is Betsy's favorite dessert?" ...or, "What dessert would be most likely to drive a stake through Betsy's diet?" I guarantee she'll have one, tiny, three-letter word to share with you. Pie.

I am admitting it here and now. I love pie. I don't just love pie the way I love sweet potatoes, per say, where I can write verses about the perfection of their sweetness and starchiness. I love pie in such a way that I really, truly just want to eat it. I don't want to write about it, I don't want to discuss it, I don't want to analyze it. I simply want to eat it. Any pie that is put in front of me, I probably want to eat. Fruit pies, cream pies, savory pies, cheese pies, double-crust, single-crust, cookie-crust, animal, vegetable, or humanity's creation known as Jello. No matter what kind of pie it is, I'm going to want to eat it. It has been a long time since I last let myself indulge in pie. I am a very well behaved human animal, and I eat things that are good for my body these days. However this weekend, a reason came to pass for me to fill up a dainty, frosted white dessert plate with slice after slice of pie, and indulge to my heart's delight.

This past weekend I participated in the United Campus Ministry's First Annual Pie-Bake Off. The event was a fundraiser for United Campus Ministry in Athens, Ohio. What was originally meant to be a competition turned into something even better, something more gloriously communal and more in line with the ideals of UCM. It turned into nothing more than an afternoon of antiquated community fellowship. Gone are the days when someone would spend a Sunday afternoon visiting a friend, or a relative over a pot of freshly brewed coffee and a plate of home baked treats. Now, we as Americans seem to be more likely found drowning our artificial, manifested sorrows related to Autumn athletics in endless kegs of watery American drafts. Or perhaps more appropriate for this past Sunday in Athens, we are more likely to be found caught up in someone else's idea of who we ought to be, as hundreds of young freshwomen vied for expensive spots within one of the University's many prestigious sororities, known for such achievements as infamous wet t-shirt contests. Sunday fellowship has fallen by the wayside, coinciding with America's compulsion to attend early morning Church services, or Church services period.

The second part of that idea may not be so bad. No one should do something they feel is compulsory, and mindless. However, in letting go of our rigid standard of required American Christianity, we've also inevitably lost something which is deeply attached to it-fellowship. We do not spend quality time with one another nearly as often as we should. We seem to be constantly attuned to something else, some other purpose for getting together, some arbitrary event that forces us to get to know one another. While I know some may argue that Sunday afternoon football is their form of fellowship, and I understand that, I also know that this past weekend I had an opportunity to gather with a group of people most of whom I'd never met, and I was forced to sit down and talk. It was wonderful. There was no television blaring in the background, no one was checking the scores, there was no music playing to distract from a conversation. We were simply groups of people, some acquainted, some not, gathered around tables over plates mounded full of freshly made pie, warming our fingers around cups of coffee and tea, and talking the way human beings ought to.

This originally advertised pie contest became something much more human at the end of the day. Competition would've ruined it, I believe. One of UCM's mantras is, "Radical hospitality." United Campus Ministry is an organization that strives to make everyone feel welcome, accepted, comfortable and served...absolutely without regard to difference. They are firm supporters and enablers of interfaith spirituality, social justice, and probably most importantly for this past Sunday, community meals. Nothing could've been more appropriate for UCM's mission of compassionate connectedness than a pie bake-off, turned retro Sunday afternoon visit. Pie is one of my top-ranked comfort foods. It requires no elaborate explanation, but rather its only requirement is to nourish and sustain not only our stomachs but our souls. We are as American as apple pie, after all. We are pie people. Pie makes me reminisce about the dessert finish of my family's Sunday dinners, or loading up trays full of tiny paper plates each donning a slice to be sold at my Church's Christmas Bazaar, or Father's Day, when every year without fail we conjure up a fresh strawberry pie made with just picked warm berries for my Dad. My family dinners, our Christmas Bazaar, and Father's Day all revolve around Sundays. Sundays are days of fellowship, compassion, caring, concern and love. Sundays are pie days. UCM hit this one on the nose.

With my delicious, "Queen Honeybea's Honey Pumpkin Pie."

I am so glad I not only had the opportunity to bake a pie for UCM, but even more so grateful to have spent an afternoon getting to know people I've never met, enjoying the homemade pies crafted with love, care, and all things local by the very folks who were surrounding me in the warm basement of UCM on that chilly, rainy Sunday. Thanks to the generous sliding scale donations made by the participants and tasters, United Campus Ministry raised almost $400 on pie alone. Thank you to UCM for hosting such a wonderful, heart-warming, community event. Thank you for letting me share my love of pie with you and our community. I'm already planning for next year.

Homecoming

2010-09-27T21:26:00.005-04:00

As my little Volkswagen zipped around the brand new, broad, tilted curve in the exit ramp that takes you from Route 8 North to the bustle of cars taking the long way around the city of Cleveland on I-271, I saw them. They slowly came into view, above the tree tops and before I knew it they were blanketing the sky above me, flowing like waves and puffed like dollops of whipped cream. In autumn, the city of Cleveland, Ohio is blessed with the most wonderful fall clouds I’ve ever known. Great expanses of them move like glaciers from the quickly chilling lake to shade the river carved terrain of the Chagrin valley. Many people who do not call Cleveland home may experience this seasonal gift and assume it to be one more gloomy and miserable thing about the city of Cleveland. Those of us who’ve grown up with the pleasingly calm and cool darkness that lasts from September until the snow falls, we love it. Well, maybe not all of us. How about this: I love it.

My sister and I, together for the first time in a long time.

This past weekend I took my first trip home after moving away eight weeks ago. It wasn’t an ordinary trip with no purpose, but rather a Homecoming. My beautiful sister was flying in from Connecticut on Sunday, and for the first time in several months my entire family was able to be together. My family has always been not just centered around, but nourished both physically and emotionally by food. The roots of our Italian cultural heritage are deeply embedded in the tradition of communal eating. We use food to show our feelings, bringing bottles of wine or someone’s favorite cheese to dinner gatherings. We say “I love you,” with jars of homemade pepper jelly and by fixing the foods we know will induce a desired emotion. When my mother wants to say “I love you,” to my sister with food, she fixes my Grandma’s Lemon Chicken. While it isn’t difficult or abstract, while the flavors are not bold or risk-taking, and while it requires very few ingredients, it is still one of the most comforting, soul-soothing foods my mother prepares. It is a dish that solicits an oral tradition, spoken down through the hierarchy of siblings in my mother’s family. On Sunday, as we all savored bites of silky smooth chicken, tenderly floured and browned, then dressed with tangy lemon sauce and topped with warm, macerated lemon slices, my older Aunts explained how my grandmother originally made the dish with veal, until that became too expensive. There were eight mouths to feed every night, after all. My mother added that she has the recipe written down as Lemon Turkey, and that she started making it with chicken when that became most readily available and required the least amount of extra preparation. I have always eaten and known it as Lemon Chicken. The very thought of it makes me yearn for home. It makes me want to see my sister, knowing it is one of her favorites. It makes me want to be warmed by it on one of those chilled, cloud covered fall days in my parents’ house in Cleveland, Ohio.

The chicken on Sunday was accompanied by my Mom’s piping hot, cheesy Italian rice, cooked and cut green and yellow beans served cold dressed with an Italian vinaigrette and dotted with freshly torn basil leaves, chunks of yellow and pink heirloom tomatoes marinated with slivered onions, and freshly baked, crusty Italian bread. Oh, and two bottles of red wine. For dessert, my mother made one of my own personal love letters: Italian plum crisp. This crisp is something that makes me think of the very same cool, cloudy fall days when I was a child, and my mother preparing one in the hours quickly fading to darkness before dinner. It makes me think of the plastic bowls I used to have, which were adorned with Kellogg’s Cereal characters. It makes me think of curling up on our couch on Luxona Avenue in Wickliffe. I’ve tried to make it myself, time and time again, always failing to get it to taste like my mother’s. I have given up on my efforts. The taste I am searching for isn’t anything I can buy in a store or add to my recipe. It’s my mother’s kitchen, the way my father washes the dishes, the sound of my sister’s car pulling into the driveway. Home is the taste for which I am searching. This weekend, I found it. I traveled three hours for this meal, and I’d gladly do it again. My family gathered, celebrated the joy found in the simplicity of being together, drank and ate until we were content and all was well within and between us.

My family. It is once in a blue moon that we're all four together.

The beauty, joy, peace, and love I had the privilege of experiencing this weekend, from dinner on Friday night until breakfast on Monday morning is a blessing I don’t know what I did to deserve. I found love in places it had been missing. I found joy in just the mere company of those I love. Beauty was all around me, filling and flowing from every sense my body possesses. Peace came to places I thought it had abandoned forever. All of this because of a generations old chicken recipe, some good red wine, and a basket of Italian plums—love your food, love your life, and remember to always buy local.

For resources on local food sources in Cleveland, check out the Northeast Ohio links listing to the left of the blog.

Hopelessly Devoted to Athens

2010-09-22T19:30:00.019-04:00

Athens, Ohio. My love of this place is well documented. I have written previous blogs dedicated to its wonder, I proclaim the goodness of this place to anyone who will listen, and I make pilgrimages to its city limits as often as my wallet will allow. Every time I am there, I fall more and more in love with the place itself. Athens is a small town, lovingly anchored by one of Ohio’s best Universities, and nestled happily in the valleys of Ohio’s portion of America’s older, wiser mountain range. There is something knowing about Athens. It was founded and named after the Greek goddess of wisdom, and for over two centuries it has been cradling young minds, wrapping its loving arms around those who seek beauty and truth, and kissing us until we have fallen madly, hopelessly in love with it. Signed, sealed, delivered Athens, I’m yours.

I began my descent on Saturday, flying South down a county road being touched by the gentle fingertips of the sun for the very first time. To the East it was red and yellow beaming out from behind the shadow cast green hilltops. To the West, the stars were hanging on for dear life, dying slowly and painfully until night would fall again. Morning is the best time to arrive in Athens on Saturday. By the time it was ten minutes until ten o’clock, the Farmer’s Market was already bustling like a beehive on an early-summer day when the smell of blossoms permeates the air. The Farmer’s Market even hums like a beehive. It has its own sounds that meld together making a distinctive song by which it can always be identified. Coins jingle as shoppers drop them into the withered palms of seasoned, Appalachian farmers. Cups full of ice and cool lemonade shake like maracas at the stand where they sell Mediterranean and Middle-Eastern food. The griddle sizzles at the very top of the market where a nice young man in an apron will cook you a burger made with savory locally raised beef and topped with biting, yet creamy Athens Own Cheddar. Crinkled plastic bags are the static undertone, being filled again and again with freshly picked produce and baked goods at every stand. Then there’s the melody, the chatter, the weekly banter between friends and neighbors. There’s a conversation about the difference between grain-fed and grass-fed beef. There’s an explanation of why the sweet potatoes were small this week. There’s a “please” and “thank you” with every purchase. There’s a parent giving in to their child’s request for a Crumbs cinnamon bun, or one of the Wagner’s apples. There are words dancing around you and suddenly you are lost in the song, doing the dance, and being seduced, dazed and dreary in the embrace of late-summer's sun. You are surrounded by color, vivid purple and sleek pearl eggplants, bursting cherry red peppers, terracotta pumpkins, deep emerald chard and kale, and of course, every color of apple known to our region. Cinnamon will cast itself upon the air you’re your lungs crave as you walk past the Crumbs Bakery table. Earthy pesto and tangy asiago caresses you as you glance at the Avalanche booth, full of breads which should be the envy of all other breads for their beauty and style. By the time you pull yourself from this place, you’ll be taken. This is the Athens Farmer’s Market. This is one of my favorite places on this Earth.

I stocked up as I waltzed through the crowd of Athenians and O.U. students alike, picking up a little bit of this here and a little bit of that there. All told, I spent well over $100, which isn’t hard if you trust the depiction provided above. Now, however, I’ve fed myself all week, and have stocked my freezer to the breaking point where heavy frozen tubs of eggplant jam fall out and nearly break my toes. I’ve also canned this week, and am getting myself ready to face head-on my very first real locavore winter. It’s going to be a long season of potatoes, onions, squash and apples, but thanks to my savvy shopping and stocking, I can pull out some almost-like-fresh green beans in February and not feel bad about it, whatsoever.

After my morning, stuffed full of Crumbs Bakery cinnamon buns, gluten-free brownies and some fresh grapes grown right here in Morgan County, it was hard to imagine my day would get any better. Hard to imagine maybe, but this is Athens we’re talking about-there is magic in this place. After watching my Alma mater’s football team take a beating at the mercy of that other college that calls themselves Ohio, my friend Noah and I stopped briefly at the Village Bakery for a little local fuel. His was in the form of two vegan chocolate-chip cookies and a glass of ice-cold, frothy Snowville Creamery milk. Mine was a bit more substantial as a girl cannot exist on micro brews alone. I ordered a bowl of split-pea soup with ham, a cup of coffee and a blueberry-blue corn-corn muffin. If you’ve never heard me sing the praises of Village Bakery muffins before, now is your chance. I like to fancy myself a little bit of a queen in my kitchen, but my muffins have got absolutely nothin’ on the Village Bakery muffins. No matter how hard I try, what recipe I use, modify or change, no matter how organic, local or original the ingredients, I cannot replicate a Village Bakery muffin. They are moist, the way all exceptional quick breads ought to be. They taste like all the ingredients had been carefully selected in order to produce a muffin that leaves your taste buds wondering, “We don’t know what that was, but we loved it.” Blueberry is my favorite. Frozen local blueberries pop like candy, and leave blue stained craters in the tender whole-wheat, bran flecked pastry that surrounds them. If I could write an ode to a muffin, I’d write it for the Village Bakery’s blueberry muffins. Perhaps I just did.

As evening began to fall, and the red and yellow sun of the morning turned into the bleeding orange sun of the afternoon, Noah and I headed to the Ohio Paw Paw Festival at Lake Snowden in Athens County. Just a jaunt down U.S. Route 50/32 West lies an absolutely charming natural wonderland known as Lake Snowden. It is natural serenity hidden just beyond the crest of the highway. A handful of wooded acres surround a human-made lake, and rustic camp sites border its marshy shores. This particular weekend, the lake was invisible, lost behind a city of festival tent tops, food vendor trucks, and a huge, wagon with wheels as tall as me and a team of draft horses to pull little children from one end of the parking lot to the other. It cost us six dollars and a flash of our IDs to get in and receive our pink wristbands which led us directly to the Beer Garden. The Ohio Paw Paw Festival is what a great festival should be. There were no frighteningly mobile carnival rides, held together by rickety popping screws and collapsible at the end of the night. There were no games where if your dart pierces one of a thousand balloons, you get to pick out a small, insignificant toy made from artificially manufactured material in a factory where little Asian girls work twelve hours for ten cents a day. The food was refreshingly local. The beer was pleasingly regional. The entertainment was what summer should be about—little kids running through the grass barefoot, a bluegrass band, and a host of vendors selling everything from homemade soaps and jewelry, to hand-crafted wooden novelties, to Paw Paw seedlings. I may have gotten drunk on the Marietta Brewing Company’s Paw-Paw Wheat, but I was simultaneously drunk on Athens, and the living, breathing culture of the Athenians who surrounded me. Had I had a pair of Emerald green slippers (not Ruby on Saturday, green and white were the only acceptable colors), I’d have clicked my heels together and wished that anytime I did that, I’d be returned to that place, just then, as the sun was setting and I was sleepily taking it all in from the wooden slat of a picnic bench, a local brew in my hand and a wonderful friend by my side. I ended my night with a paper cup full of free Paw Paw Ice Cream from Snowville Creamery. There were no spoons, and therefore I had to use the utensils God gave me, digging my fingers into the cold custard and shoveling it into my mouth before it melted and slid back into my cup. It was childish, and amazing. My fingers and my face were both coated with the sticky remnants after I drank down the last few drips. I laughed, smiled and thought about how much I wish everyone in this world could appreciate the simple joys of things like eating ice cream with your fingers, feeling the power of fellowship within your own community, and the cool breeze of an approaching autumn night. Heaven.

A treat I made with lots of Athens Farmer's Market ingredients. Grilled whole-wheat pizza with sauteed onions and peppers, herb pesto, parmesan and snipped basil and oregano.

What all did I purchase this past weekend? Just in case you were thinking, "What in the world did she spend $100 on?" ...

Snowville Creamery Skim Milk
Snowville Creamery Half & Half
Half a pound of Athens Own Wisconsin Aged Cheddar
Two whole cut-up, pasture raised, all natural chickens
One pound of the same chicken, ground
One pound of grass-fed ground beef
One quart of hazelnuts
Half a peck of Russet Apples
Five pounds of bell peppers
Five pounds of onions
Two loves of Crumbs Bakery bread
One pound of micro-greens (sunflower)
Two pounds of organic green beans
One Crumbs cinnamon roll
One Crumbs gluten-free brownie
Two heads of garlic
Two quart jars of local dark honey
One pound of crystallized ginger
One pound of raw almonds
One quart of Morgan County Grapes
One pound of red, yellow and orange carrots
Two heads cauliflower

I’ll be feeding myself for a long while from the goods I bought on this trip, locally and sustainably grown, and guilt-free. Please visit your local farmer’s market. It is fall, lots of delicious things are coming into season, and your money loves to stay in your community, I promise. Not to mention the fact that local food is love. It is sewn with love, it is tended with love, and it is reaped with love. It is handed down from generation to generation. It is the farmer's daughter and the young field hand. It is two older women working together in a carrot patch. It is a little girl on her father's shoulders learning how to pick apples. It is nourishing to our bodies and souls. Local food is passion, or else why would anyone still rely on such a difficult, unstable way to earn a living? The way the warm dirt feels between your toes as you tredge through the tomoato plants in the garden, that's passion. The way honey grabs your fingers and drizzles slowly back into the jar, until in a pinch of a second you pull it to your mouth and spread it on your tongue, that's passion. This food is much more than just sustenance. It is substance, succulence, and sultry.

A salad I made with Athens Farmer's Market Micro-greens, orange and yellow carrots, green beans and Russet apples, and my own heirloom tomatoes and honey goat cheese.

I want to share this song with you this week, not only because it is appropriately titled "Syrup & Honey," but also because the relationship she is singing about in this song is exactly how I feel about Athens. If I could spend my days lazily drifting about the city, going from place to place, eating, drinking, seeing friends and laughing, and letting Athens have its way with me, I'd do it in a heartbeat. I want Athens to spend its time on me.