Wear your love like heaven...

Just the other evening after I had decided to treat myself to a leisurely drive up and down the county roads, when the air was beginning to go from summer cool to early autumn chill, I couldn’t help but begin to think about my life, my past and my consistent, recurring relationship with the upcoming season—fall.

That night I had walked out onto my front porch and looked out to my right, where I can see the curvaceous crests of deciduous tree tops which create the peaks of Southeastern Ohio’s mountains. Sparsely speckled and just barely visible to those with a keen eye are the early bloomers of those trees, the ones who find the charms of autumn before their peers, those who stand out from the crowd who were slowly beginning to turn from lush green to muted brown and longing for blazon red. That night, those trees were glowing orange in the dying ember of sun dipping into night fall and sinking quickly behind the far off hills. Keys in my hand, I walked down my front steps onto the sidewalk where I unexpectedly stepped on top of a few, lonely, fallen dry leaves and after hearing the crunch beneath the soft bottoms of my trendy slipper-like shoes, I instinctively inhaled deeply, filling my lungs with the cool night air and the smell of fall emanating up from beneath my toes. I got in my car and took off to the west, up a winding state road, up, up and over that ridge top I could see from my porch, chasing the sun in a hopelessly romantic attempt to make the perfection of that evening last as long as possible. When I got to the peak and let my car follow the peaks and valleys of the road, hugging the voluptuous natural landscape, I had succeeded and for a few moments longer I basked in the glorious hues of what was the beginning of an illustrious affair I have year, after year, after year.

When I thought back on my past, on my history of love and relationships, I noticed one commonality: Every time I’ve found myself falling in love, it has always happened in autumn. I thought of this the other night, when I was out driving, punch drunk on life itself and the beauty that surrounded me. The more I thought about it, the more I thought about the notion of falling in love with fall itself. I do it every year. It’s like people who have summer flings, like teenagers who fall sweetly in love on salty boardwalks and crowded beaches. I’ve never had an experience like that, but for me, my annual renewal of spirit, love, and passion comes in late August and lasts until flakes of sweet tasting early snow fall onto trees dangling a few remnants of their dry, brown, crinkled leaves. The more I got to thinking about my deep feelings for fall, the more I began to analyze what about that particular season has so seduced and delighted me. It is more than just the physique of curled yellow and orange leaves, more than the intensity of a dying red sun, more than just the chill that permeates the air and sends prickly tingles up and down my arms. It’s the food, the food culture, and the love that radiates from the climactic end of the growing season and the triumphant release of knowing the harvest will be successful and sustaining.

I love apples. Many, many people have heard me say that Ohio produces the best apples I’ve ever eaten and they are highly underrated. I want every person in America to know what an apple, freshly pulled from a flinging branch of a gnarled tree tastes like. I want everyone to know that the juice that runs down your chin when you bite into that apple should be murky and foamy and should taste so good that you stretch your tongue down over your lip, cutting across your teeth, straining to lick up every drop that has escaped your mouth. I wish each of us could have the experience of hauling crates of heavy apples from the bed of a rusty pick-up truck to a hand crafted wooden cider press, to load them into the square, funnel shaped grinder one by one, and to feel sweat run down our temples as our arms begin to feel strained and ache as we turn the wheel of the grinder by hand, listening for the trickling sound of a tiny stream of fresh cider flowing into an antique ceramic jug. Experiences like this feed my soul, fill my senses with restless desire for more, and make autumn into a love interest which I relentlessly pursue.

Of course it isn’t just apples. Soon the smooth, rounded pear shaped butternut squash will be ready for harvest. When autumn is in the peak of its glory, when November falls and frost becomes an imminent threat, nothing warms me, or my heart, like a bowl of warm, nutmeg spiced butternut squash soup, swirled with a dollop of creamy, slowly melting goat cheese. And how could I forget about chestnuts, carefully sliced and roasted until the rustic, earthy, nutty aroma fills the house, then burning my fingertips on the front porch, cracking and pulling open the blistered shells to get at the soft, milky nut steaming inside. Sometimes I imagine what it was like for people in our not so distant past who relied on the seeds they had sewn months before, to provide them with all the food they’d need to survive on until the earth woke from sleep again in early spring. How could they not be in love with fall, when their crops were ready, their lives insured for another winter, their bellies full and happy?

This year, I am falling in love with fall all over again. It has started. The other night, while I was driving my car with the cool wind blowing stringy strands of my hair across my face was the first of many small but significant flirtations with my beloved autumn. I love autumn, and as we get deeper and deeper into the season, the more autumn loves me, sharing its hearty orange pumpkins, pink and red and yellow apples, its deep green kale, its bleeding magenta beets, and every color, shape and size of winter’s eternal squash with me. Do yourselves a favor this year. Let your guards down, let go of your anxiety about the upcoming winter months, and let yourself fall a little bit in love with fall. You’ll be happy you did.

One of my favorite fall recipes, courtesy of my Mom…

Apple Spice Cake

5 locally grown apples, peeled, cored and chopped to 1/4in pieces
6 TBS. bourbon (or apple cider if you’d prefer, but the bourbon makes is amazing)
2 cups sugar
½ cup vegetable oil
2 eggs
2 cups all-purpose flour
2 tsp. cinnamon
2 tsp. baking soda
1 tsp. nutmeg
1 tsp. salt
¼ tsp. group cloves
1 cup chopped nuts
1 cup raisins

1. Preheat oven to 350 degrees.
2. Place chopped apples in a large bowl and pour bourbon over them.
3. Mix together and beat the sugar, oil, and eggs. Add this mixture to the apple mixture.
4. Stir together the flour, baking soda, cinnamon, nutmeg, cloves and salt. Add this to the apple and sugar mixture. Stir until mixed. Fold in walnuts and raisins.
5. Pour into a greased 9 x 13in pan and bake for one hour.
6. Dust with powdered sugar and serve.

This cake is a guilty pleasure for me. It is something I eat maybe once a year and thoroughly enjoy. You can also make it in a bundt pan, which is beautiful but can be tricky to get out of the pan. Make sure you grease it well, perhaps even butter and flour it, or grease it with something solid like Crisco. If you make it, I know you’ll love it.

The Praises of Honey

As I sat in my office today after a morning filled with phone calls, e-mails and my giving of good service, I swiveled around in my chair to face the tall tinted window and eagerly peeled back the foil seal of my highly anticipated lunch of Greek yogurt and honey. As many of you know, honey is one of my favorite foods. No, not just one of my favorite foods, but rather one of my favorite things. I tout the good news of honey to almost anyone who will listen. I am almost as obsessed with honey as I am with Snowville Creamery Milk (of which I have been accused on more than one occasion). Thinking about honey this way then led me to another grand observation, made with spoon in hand gazing out at the bountiful hills over lunch. What exactly was I eating for lunch? Honey? Yes. Greek yogurt, which is made from milk? Yes. I was lovingly consuming two of my favorite things, and two things that have a long history together—milk and honey. Upon making this observation, I decided to delve into the world of honey and it’s more than casual association with milk. I wanted to find out exactly what the centuries old Biblical connection meant, surely there had to be more to it than just a general abundance of all things good, and more so, why do I harbor such strong feelings of love, that extend beyond taste alone, for honey?

When I think about honey beyond it’s literal function as a form of natural sugar, my mind likes to wander into the world of metaphor. It should not go unnoticed here that the word "honey" itself has innumerable uses in the world of both love and sex. If you've ever called your significant other your "honey," then you know that culturally, honey is more than just a sweet, sticky syrup. There are some foods, and some of you have heard this from me before, that to me are inherently sensual. Some foods provide a sensory experience that is so much like a sensual experience that they in fact are sensual, passionate, romantic foods. Honey is one of those foods, and I am apparently not the only one who thinks so.

As I dug into the history of milk and honey, all signs began leading to the same place—the Song of Songs. The Song of Songs, also known as the Song of Solomon, is a part of Judeo-Christian biblical text. In my past experience, the more one reads and learns about the Song of Songs, the more one begins to wonder why exactly it was included in the final cut of what we know today as the Bible. It is a love poem, a beautifully written work of devotion, passion and sensuality. It is the subject of a round table of discussion on it’s intended meaning, it’s possible metaphorical meaning, and it’s place in Judeo-Christian teaching. Milk and honey are referenced more than once in this book, not always together. The book details the progression of a passionate, sexual partnership between a man and woman, and honey's presence does not go unnoticed in the context of their story.

I found a very interesting article by an author named Jonathan Cohen called “Why Milk and Honey,” which connects the promise of God to God’s people “…a land flowing with milk and honey,” to the Song of Songs and in turn connects that to even older civilizations and devotees of the power of honey. While I don’t want to forge or copy any of Mr. Cohen’s words or ideas, I have provided above a link to his entire article, which I highly encourage anyone who is intrigued by this topic to consider reading. It has some wonderful ideas about honey, sensuality, sex, love, God and the divine feminine.

In the meantime, for my little old food blog, however, I just want to pull a quote from the Song of Songs which Mr. Cohen uses in his article. It says, “Your lips distil nectar, my bride; Honey and milk are under your tongue.” Honey can be used metaphorically to represent so many things, and many of these things relate back to sensuality and sexuality. As Mr. Cohen says, honey (ideally) is community property. There was a time when bees weren’t farmed, when we didn’t incur a cost to produce honey, and when we didn’t profit from it. We simply found it, in nature, and collected it for our own use. It is the quintessential symbol of natural abundance, and being that it is also decadent and possesses healing, nurturing properties it is also the quintessential symbol of health, wealth and all things fertile, including our own bodies. It is a metaphor for indulgence and desire, as well as vigor and strength given its medicinal qualities. It oozes, flows and drips with sweetness. A smear of honey on our fingertips will always subsequently end up on our tongues where our sense of taste sends tidings of joy to our brains—not unlike a kiss. Honey is nature’s feel good drug, in more ways than just theoretical and historical metaphors.

Honey is also an antiseptic, full of anti-oxidants, and is a source of natural sugar which can be more easily digested by our bodies. It is used to treat wounds, it is combined with milk to improve the health of our skin, and to soothe an aching throat. Now, it is produced almost everywhere in the world and buying a jar of local honey is in turn sending your hard earned dollars right back to your community, to the farmer up the road even. For my readers in Southeast Ohio, I highly recommend the Dark Honey from the Athens Bulk Food Depot. Local honey doesn’t get much better than that. For my Northeast Ohio readers, I recommend the Ohio Honey Company’s Strawberry Blossom Honey (made from the pollen of strawberry flowers), which can be found at the Geauga Fresh Farmer’s Market on Saturdays.

I am mad for honey. I am drunk on honey. I hope you’ll buy a jar and fall for it as hard as I did.

Culture

"I'm a culture vulture, and I just want to experience it all."
Debbie Harry

Culture. “I go to Athens when I need a little culture,” my supervisor said to me on the very first day I met her. We were discussing Athens and it’s close proximity to McConnelsville, the city where my potential new job would be located. As I later found out, she really wanted me to work for her and she was baiting me with promises of culture within driving distance. I bought it hook, line and sinker and yesterday I got to experience my first forty-five minute drive navigating the ridge tops and subtle valleys of the land that flows between McConnelsville and Athens for a little bit of “culture.”

When I was sharing the story about my supervisor with some of my family at home, one of my Aunts (who has been to Athens several times in recent years) immediately said to me, in a mocking and sarcastic manner, “She goes to ATHENS for culture?” as if the possibility of what she knows to be “culture” could exist in poor, rural, Appalachian, Ohio. Yesterday, I could do nothing but smirk to myself as I walked up and down the streets of uptown Athens. Yes, there is more culture in the faintly, eroded letters “Athens Block,” carved into the century old brick under my feet than my Aunt could find at any cosmopolitan, recently opened, wildly reviewed restaurant or bar or shop in the Greater Cleveland area.


My day started with a trip to the Athens Bulk Food Depot, one of my favorite spots, where the short, petite, and adorably charming Italian woman who has worked there forever pulled the lever on the spout of a five gallon bucket and filled a quart jar full of thick, sticky Athens dark honey (which didn’t make it home without being opened and invaded by my fingertips). Then my car groaned as it rumbled, tumbling over the brick laden streets that create the grid of Uptown, surrounding nineteenth century buildings like a carefully planned series of rugged, red moats. Some of these bricks are engraved Athens Blocks, some Nelsonville Blocks, and some Trimble Blocks. No matter where they came from, they came from somewhere not more than a day’s journey away when there were still furnaces and kilns firing Southeastern Ohio’s clay.


I parked my car facing upward on a hill. It had started to pour rain only minutes before I’d parked, yet there was already a mighty river gaining strength and volume as it ran through the crevices between the bricks as it made it’s way to the Hocking. I tip-toed and leapt over the rushing water, dropping two quarters into what to me is a somewhat despised parking meter, and sprinted under the plum colored awning of my favorite coffee shop in the entire world. Immediately upon entering Donkey Coffee, you are comforted by the familiar darkness, dimly lit by tiny table lamps, that accompanies a great coffee shop. The hues are earthen; the wooden paneling on the walls is not outdated yet rustic and charming. Your senses are filled by the sight of a steaming espresso machine straight ahead of you, the sound as it whistles out the boiling pressure, the smell of rich, roasted fair trade coffee, the feel of soothing dampness as the steam wafts over the counter towards you, and finally of course, the taste. Donkey Coffee brews and creates my very favorite cup of coffee I’ve ever had. They are the only coffee shop to my knowledge, of anywhere I’ve ever lived, that serves Italian-style cappuccinos. Like most things that are Italian, it puts its competitors and often merely imitators to shame. An equal portion of steamed organic, locally raised milk and bitter, acidic espresso, and just a touch of Amaretto and for me there is nothing like it. I carefully carried my teetering cup and saucer, foam and coffee spilling over, staining my fingers, and sat down at a table tucked into a corner perfect for people watchers and voyeurs alike. I love the way the foam feels against my lips as I patiently tip the cup until warm, sweet, nutty coffee pours over my tongue and fills in the spaces between my teeth and my cheeks. Yes, yes this coffee really is that good.


After my little afternoon coffee break, and during a brief reprieve from the torrential downpour, I walked two doors down to a restaurant that offers a sensory experience I’ve yet to experience anywhere else in America. I was meeting a very old college friend at Salaam on West Washington Street. Just upon stepping inside and letting the door slowly close behind me, braced against my back, I was slowly taken from the humid, steamy street to a casual Parisian-style salon somewhere like Morocco or fantastically colorful places in Northern Africa. The mood inside Salaam is purple and blue. Tapestries, or modern versions thereof, line the walls and spackle the rooms with gold, green, red, orange, magenta and lavender. Decorative tiles line an opening in the wall where at eye-level; dishes of steaming curry and boldly spiced kabobs fresh from the grill await their journey from kitchen to table. Seemingly endless strands of beads drape the windows like curtains, and pieces of pottery, ceramics and works of metal art dot the tables and ledges around the restaurant’s rooms. It smells like a bustling market, between meat seared on the grill and vegetables doused in curry and coconut, and in the oven where pastry puffs between layers of spinach and feta as the chef prepares one of their Greek imports. Just when you find yourself halfway through a glass of their delightfully warming house red, awaiting a salad of grilled chicken and roasted beets with honey and goat cheese, thinking that nothing could make this experience any better, your ears perk to the sound of softly jingling metal. Suddenly, music is turned from soft to audibly noticeable, and across the room you follow the sound to a bare-bellied woman in a long, flowing skirt with thin metal medallions strung in layers around her hips. The soft jingling then turns into an energy driven percussion ensemble, and before you know it, she is belly dancing her way past your table. Our food arrived, my senses were filled, and I spent the rest of the evening contently deep in conversation and drunk on the world around me.

No, there’s no culture in Athens. Not even a little bit.

Away down the river, a hundred miles or more...

The cool breeze sweeping my cheeks was overdue and gladly welcomed as my car skirted the edge of a cornfield, where the corn was so tall it cast a shadow over the dusty lane on which I was sailing southbound. It was the first relief from the baking sun and steaming dampness of a long summer's day. To my right, the dying orange sun was sinking below the deep green of a shadow cast mountain, and soon a chilly August night would be falling and settling like dew over the corn, the hills, and my contented self.

The beauty that can be found in the living breathing things of Morgan County, Ohio would surely surprise even the most skeptical traveler. While hundreds of thousands of people who live East of the Mississippi in this country flock to America's most popular National Park, just a few hours away, I'd gladly stay here, soaking in small town America crowned by small Appalachian mountains and severed by a small but mighty river. The corners of this part of the country are not dotted by Starbucks, but rather anchored in the centuries old foundations of churches. The hours are not marked by electronic flashing numbers on the signs of banks, but rather the numbered ringing of bells that hang in skyward stretching steeples. Wal-Mart is at least thirty miles away in any direction, but they have almost anything you'd ever need at Miller's Hardware, where the hammered tin ceiling echoes the very beginnings of the Main Street store in 1845. You simply cannot buy or create the charm and character that defines McConnelsville, Ohio.

Living in this place where all things are local, where your hard earned dollar usually stays here in the community, it truly shocked me that many of the people I've met here do not take advantage of one of this region's greatest resources-its abundant produce and locally produced food. In places like Morgan County where the summer is annually marked by long, hot days and a humid and lengthy growing season, produce is not only abundant and fresh, but sitting right on the back porch, just steps away from the kitchen. On Friday I walked past the ten or so booths at the local Farmer's Market, surprised by the noticeable lack of customers. I know from personal experience that you don't have to go to Georgia to find the best peach you'll ever eat in your life. In fact, I ate the best peach I've ever tasted in my entire life on Friday afternoon, on a sticky, sweet drive home from an orchard in Washington County. The tomatoes here are the deepest red I've ever seen, the corn pops white and yellow, and the fact that this is a region where lima beans actually grow is in itself a virtue.

In case anyone needs more convincing evidence as to why they ought to buy fresh, local produce and other local food products, other than supporting local farms and keeping your money where your mouth is, here are a few more fun facts for you...

The longer the trip from the farm to your table, the more nutrition your produce loses. You could buy peaches grown in California at the IGA, or you could go to the Farmer's Market and buy a peach that was grown less than ten miles away. Its going to taste better, and its better for you.

The variety of foods you can find at the Farmer's Market will always out number what is sold in the grocery store. At the McConnelsville farmer's market there are at least five different varieties of tomato sold, six varieties of squash, three varieties of watermelon, and fresh vegetables like okra and lima beans which you wouldn't ever spot on the shelf at Kroger.

As far as meat products go, one of my favorite authors, Michael Pollan says, "Eat animals that have themselves eaten well." At the McConnelsville Farmer's Market, Witten Farms was selling all natural, locally raised grass-fed rib eye steaks for $6.50/lb. If you have ever lived in the big city, your jaw just hit the floor at how cheap that really is. Buying local, natural, grass-fed meat ensures that you're getting the best nutrients from the meat, without the anti-biotics and chemical food additives that you yourself end up ingesting.

The last thing I want to add, and this is important for so many people, you CAN use your food stamps at the farmer's market. Look for the tent at the end of the market where you can exchange them for a certificate you can use like cash.

It is early August, and that means it is probably the most plentiful part of the growing season in that there is so much variety in what is available now. For my Morgan County folks, and my dears in Cleveland, here's a recipe for you from your Italian-American, city-fied import. You can buy every vegetable you need for this recipe at the Farmer's Market, and I have to tell you that if you make this and shop at the grocery store, my heart will probably be broken. Please seek out and take advantage of local foods: they're not expensive, they're abundant, and they're not only good for your body, but good for your community. Enjoy.

Eggplant Caponata
Serve warm or cold, with toasted bread slices (whole grain, of course)

2 medium eggplants, cut lengthwise into 1/2 inch slices
1 TBSP olive oil, plus extra for brushing
1 small onion, chopped
1 medium red, yellow or orange bell pepper, chopped
1 clove garlic, minced
5 roma tomatoes, peeled and seeded
1/4 cup green olives, chopped
1 TBSP drained capers (optional)
1/2 cup red wine vinegar
2 teaspoons sugar
1/4 tsp. crushed red pepper flakes
1/4 cup chopped fresh basil leaves

1. Preheat the broiler to high heat. Brush the eggplant slices with the extra olive oil. On a large baking sheet, broil the eggplant slices until they are tender and slightly charred, about 5 minutes per side. Set aside to cool.

2. In a large skillet, heat 1 TBSP olive oil over medium heat. Add the onion and bell pepper and cook, stirring occasionally, until tender, about 7 minutes. Add the garlic and cook, stirring, for thirty seconds. Add the tomatoes, olives and capers. Cook, stirring occasionally and breaking up the tomatoes with a spoon until everything is tender and warmed, about 5 minutes.

3. Meanwhile, roughly chop the eggplant. Add the eggplant to the tomato mixture and cook, stirring occasionally to heat through, about 1 minute. Stir in the vinegar and sugar and cook, stirring occasionally until the liquid has evaporated and the mixture is thick. Remove from the heat and stir in the red pepper flakes and basil.

Serve warm or chill.