provision from above

Though not traditional American fare, in England goose is saved for the most special occasions like Christmas or celebrations. Growing up, I remember singing the nursery rhyme that my mother taught us, "Christmas is a-coming and the goose is getting fat. Please put a penny in the old man's hat. If you haven't got a penny, a ha'penny will do. If you haven't got a ha'penny, a farthing will do. If you haven't got a farthing, then God bless you!" But the closest we ever got to the real thing was running away from the mean, honking (alive) beasts at the Thorson's farm in Dorset, Vermont. We never actually had goose (farmed or wild) for Christmas. Perhaps this year will be different... though I'm not sure I'm quite there yet with my dad who can look up in the sky at the signature V-formation and think "dinner."



The Fall, my favorite time of year! One of the things that I love about it are the geese that fly over our house on the way to warmer climate.

It was on Saturday morning that we saw several flocks when I said to my wife Sally, (please don't be offended) “Wouldn't it be nice to have one of those on our table.”

Wouldn't you know it that that very evening my good friend Stewart presented me with two beautifully cleaned wild Canadian Goose breasts from geese that had been shot that very day. (They are huge.) We have put them in the freezer to save them for a special occasion. (Like maybe my birthday coming soon 11/6.) I will try this recipe.

For wild goose, it is best to soak the breasts in buttermilk for a day beforehand.

Goose Breast à l'Orange

Ingredients:
2 breasts of goose
1 pkg. dry onion soup mix
1 apple, sliced
2 cups water
2 tbsp. frozen orange juice (undiluted)

To make:
Fillet breasts. Place breasts on platter and cover with apple and orange. Cover with plastic wrap and refrigerate overnight. Place apple, and orange and fillets in 1 1/2 quart oblong baking dish. Empty onion soup into dish; add water. Bake at 300 degrees for 2 hours. Serve with pan drippings. Serves 4.

—Larry Wall, Newport, Vermont

nourishing the people

Nourishment is a sexy word and naturally conjures up the warm and fuzzy sentiments—the extra-special things—that make us feel, well, nourished. These are the things we are wont to explore and write about. But what about those everyday commodities that nourish us behind the scenes? Those things—such as milk or water—so common, yet so important to our daily nourishment. We take them for granted. Is milk just not sexy enough to warrant our attention?

While most of us think of nourishment in terms of our own experience, there are some, like my brother-in-law, who can’t think about nourishment without thinking about those who nourish us. For Kevin Kouri, a dairy nutritionist from Burlington, Vermont, understanding what it takes to get the milk from the cow to the table is a part of what he does every day. He visits the farmers of Franklin County; he listens to their stories and helps troubleshoot their dilemmas. He’s not only a consultant, but a friend and confidant. His phone is always on, even on weekends. That’s just the nature of the business.

Here Kevin helps us dig a little deeper for the story behind milk and explains why we should all try to understand a little bit more.



Nourishment comes in many different forms for me. Playing golf with friends and family, skiing down the slopes of the Green Mountains, taking in a day on the waterfront or watching the people on Church Street in downtown Burlington, spending time with my beautiful wife and my English black lab are all things that gives me fulfillment and nourishment.

What I would like to explore in this short essay about nourishment is not what I find nourishing to my own body, mind or soul. Instead, I would like to focus on those individuals who bring nourishment to all of the people who reside on this planet: farmers.

Farmers are purveyors of all things good, natural, clean, healthy and pure. They are stewards of the land and protectors of the environment. As consumers of their goods, we do not celebrate enough their hard work, commitment and sacrifice they make to support our own lifestyle. Popular press articles about agriculture typically spin a story about big agriculture and the pollution it generates. It’s convenient for us to read these stories and believe they are true, without seeking out the truth on our own. I hope that I can convince the readers of this essay to seek their own truth about agriculture.

Farmers’ markets have sprung up as the new vogue thing in the last couple of years. We have taken ourselves out of the grocery stores to shop directly from the small-scale producers and support local agriculture. As a person who works day in and day out in the agricultural world, I find this enlightening and beneficial to our environment and economy. When I stroll the Burlington farmers’ market I see signs boasting catch-phrases like “local,” “community-supported,” “organic,” “natural,” “hormone- and pesticide- free,” “family,” “low-intensive” and “sustainable.” Words that make us consumers feel great, happy to buy what they have to sell, and that we did our good deed for the day.

The idea of “big agriculture” isn’t so recent and in the United States dates as far back as the early Twentieth Century when U.S. agriculture saw a tremendous boom primarily due to World Wars I and II. The largest growth tended to be the dairy sector. Not only did we need to supply milk and cheese to our troops and foreign allies, but also we needed to feed the citizens of Europe. This forced the agriculture industry to grow in order to meet the demand. Over time the phrase of “big agriculture” has become ugly and some people feel that big farmers, primarily livestock and dairy farmers, are ruining the landscape and the environment.

These forces have started to collide pinning small agriculture vs. big agriculture. This is bad policy and it could signal the change to the future of agriculture in Vermont and other New England states.

Both can exist and they should exist. How is a 500, 1000, or even 2000 cow dairy farm bad? Have you ever stepped onto a farm of this size or seen the regulations they must follow for animal husbandry and environmental protection? Would you ever consider they are milking that many cows because the farmer has a family of 10-15 sons and daughters who all work and hold stake in the farm and who are each supporting their own family? Some dairy farms such as these support 20-30 employees and must provide a livable wage with health insurance and sometimes a 401K plan for all of them.

This is not big agriculture this is the size of a farm that can sustain its family members with a livable wage during good years, and provides jobs to citizens of the community. The farmers work an honest day to make an honest product that we all enjoy. So if size is the issue, remember what comes with that size and the families that operate these dairies, big or small. These are third- and even fourth-generation farms that have cared and nurtured the land year after year to bring a product like milk to everyone’s table. To make a product that is pure, safe and wholesome.

Currently, most consumers do not buy locally made milk. As a region, we are short on providing milk due to large fluid markets such as New York City and Boston. So a lot of milk flows in from the West. If we want to buy locally supported produce and meat at the Burlington Farmers Market, we should make the same conscious decision at the dairy case.

Read and ask questions. It’s up to us as consumers to understand where our food comes from and what is behind it. If we do not try to understand, then it’s too easy for policy makers and lobby groups to dictate the future of our food sources. Agriculture needs to have a unified voice not a divided force.

I am a believer in regional food production and I feel dairy needs to be number one in this category. Agriculture is the number one revenue-generating industry in the state followed by tourism. It is not IBM, Burton, General Dynamics, UVM or Pratt and Whitney that are the number-one employers in this great state of Vermont—it is the farmers.

Next time you drive by a big dairy on 22A in Addison County or on Route 105 in Enosburg Falls, try not to focus on the fact that the farm smells or looks intrusive in such a pretty landscape. Instead think about the number of people working there—the people who are caring for the land and animals—and the family that’s trying to make a living like everyone else.

—Kevin M. Kouri, M.S., Dairy Nutritionist/Sales, Poulin Grain, Inc.

transparency

In order to minimize my impact here on Earth, I’ve thought about what it would mean to lead a transparent life. What it would mean to untangle the complexity of this world, and truly understand and find meaning in the basic elements that contribute to my existence here.

It would mean taking nothing for granted. It would mean having a hand in the decisions I make. A literal hand. It would mean mixing my dough rather than pulling it from the package. It would mean raising the chicken if I’m to have eggs. Growing the wheat to make the flour. It would mean walking to work. 12 miles down Route 7. And 12 miles back. On shoes that I made from tree bark or, if I have the stomach, from the leather of a felled doe. That I felled myself. It would mean fetching water from the lake (a 15-minute walk there and 15 minutes back). And then to boil it to purify it. On fire that I built by rubbing some dry wood with a piece of stone… And that’s just to start.

To iron out the complexities of life would mean intangible things as well: being honest and true, pursuing knowledge while being sensitive to the needs of others, yearning for community, taking time to understand.

To reach transparency is a huge task. We can only get there one step at a time. I might not have room or time to raise my own chickens, but I can choose to buy eggs from my local farmer and I can make an effort to visit his farm and understand his practice. It is there in our search for understanding that we build community and sensitivity. We nourish one another. And we learn that our efforts have the power to build exponentially upon each other.



Blog Action Day

cuisine & tradition

This time of year always reminds me of Arles, an ancient town in Southern France, where I was an au pair girl for several months after college. I lived with a culinary family—an Arlesien father and an American mother named Madeleine—who runs a cooking school there specializing in the ancient foods of the region. I was there in the fall and early winter. I was there for mushroom hunting and truffle season. I was there for foie gras and fig nougat, olive harvest and Chateauneuf du Pâpe. Erick made a wonderful pâte de coing (quince patty) that's like a glorified fruit roll-up, only thick and chewy and we would cut it into ruby red squares and serve with a lovely sheep's tome from the nearby farm.

There were the luxurious chocolate truffles from Joel Durand, showcasing exotic regional flavors like lavender, chestnut, honey, and basil. And there was so much more. When there were students there were six-course meals. When there were none we ate up the leftovers of magret de canard, smoked salmon, and milles feuilles. We'd spread foie gras on our toast for breakfast. It was beyond nourishment at times and bordered on excess. But that was the nature of the business. And I was lucky enough to plunge into this crash course of French cuisine and Provencale culture.

Madeleine and I still stay in touch. And at the beginning of each new season, I enjoy receiving her e-mail missives describing all of the lovely goodies they're finding at market right now (Arles has one of the largest outdoor markets in France that wraps around the main boulevard right outside the city walls), what their friends and farmers and artisans are up to, and of course what's cooking in the kitchen. Below is an excerpt from one of my favorites called "Early Winter in Provence."

I'm baking more bread with my lively starter that's been bubbling since last March. Sometimes I pour in some muesli, sometimes some leftover spelt berries, a bit of chopped dried apricots. As the whim takes me. Hot cocoa and hot honey laced tea for breakfast, a rich red wine for dinner. Warm soups of every possible winter root vegetable are a weekly event (that is, I make enough to savor each one for a week!) Rutabaga, parsnips (ooh I love these!), turnips, squash, leeks, potatoes... often these are enriched with a bit of broth I've culled from a duck carcass, or rabbit bones.

The French see this time of year as chocolate weather. As we begin our preparations for the season many Christmas fairs are sprouting up, and chocolate stands with dark rich truffles, fruit puree laced ganaches and more are always a prime feature. The weather is ideal -- though a bit less humidity would be better. And with the lessening daylight hours, a bit of extra magnesium just feels good. Time to sample that black currant ganache recipe we learned from the chocolate maker... perhaps as a filling in my buche de Noel? (I've put this recipe below. Enjoy!)

We're also feeling the need for a bit more nourishment -- a bit of foie gras perhaps? Rich for some, forbidden fruit for others, the French see it as a seasonal delight. Now through the New Year's is a time for a bit of indulgence. Mistakenly (if happily so) I enjoyed a bit of foie gras during my two pregnancies, thinking "ah, extra iron." Ah well, whatever excuse is necessary. And yes, I too have adopted this winter "habit."

Cassis/Black Currant Ganache

This recipe is straight from the chocolate maker with only minor adjustments on my part. All the measurements are in grams, so rather than cups or other utensils, you'll only need a gram scale, a sauce pan, a sturdy knife for chopping the chocolate, and a large bowl with a whisk for mixing. To use this recipe in a cake, let sit for a half hour or so at room temperature (or table to cool quickly) and then spread on your cake. Let set before putting on your second layer, or, before rolling in the case of a log cake.

Ingredients:
240 grams black currant purée
40 grams sugar
4 grams pectin
100 grams sugar
125 grams UHT heavy cream

To make:
Boil all the above ingredients together then pour over in batches:

500 grams dark chocolate (55% or more) couverture - chopped finely
125 grams milk chocolate couverture - chopped finely

After the mixture is fully incorporated, and reduced in temperature, add the 125 grams creme de cassis liquor.

You can table this mixture to cool it, and then pour it into a square mold to set over night, or for 36 hours. Till ready to cut and dip in dark chocolate.

Take care, and our best to you.

—Madeleine Vedel, Association Cuisine et Tradition, www.cuisineprovencale.com

autumn clarity

When you ask a person to write something for you, it is a very intimate request. That's because when you ask someone to write, you are essentially asking them to shave away a layer of skin—of privacy—and expose a little bit of their innermost being for the world to see and judge.

I was a little hesitant to ask my boy Colin to write on nourishment. I had to be careful that the experience would not put us as odds in any way, that it indeed be nourishing—for both of us. I needn't have worried. He gladly accepted, and as I watched him typing his words out last night, I realized: this is the first bit of writing I will have read by him. This is nourishment in its most honest and real form: to share a part of yourself with someone you love, to make yourself vulnerable, to discover, to trust. To bring down your barriers and let someone in. Because in the peeling away, our bonds grow stronger. We become, in all irony, more richly layered through our experience. Col's eventual theme, then, of "shedding skin and growing new layers" seems quite fitting.

The changing time… the kids are back in school, it’s getting cold out, the landscape is shedding new colors, and the summer is officially over.

From summer into fall, it is my favorite time of year. The time of autumn, where there is so much change around us, in preparation for the coming winter. It’s where we find nostalgia in putting our sweater on for the first time since the previous season, where apples never tasted so sweet and savory, and where we feel that another year has just ended and a new one is beginning (even though it doesn’t officially happen until January).

My surroundings alert the involuntary sustenance all over again, and it makes what is a new year, come in the most positive and assured light.

It is here, I feel nourishment within me—a time of reflection and preparation—a time of shedding my skin and growing a new layer.

—Colin Alger