Tastes Better Outside

Outdoor table settingsmLocation, location, location! True for real estate and for food. Where you eat is every bit as important as what you eat. Some of my best meals have been based on the where, not the what:

  • Lunch of stale crackers and peanut butter, eaten at about 1100 metres on a ridge in Fiordland, New Zealand on the summer solstice.
  • A spicy breakfast salteña, eaten on the streets of La Paz, Bolivia (and subsequently vomited in a public park in La Paz…but it was a great meal!)
  • Breakfast of one banana, bought from a local subsistence farmer on a day-long hike to a friend’s house in Panama.
  • Leftover burgers and strawberries, accompanied by warm beer on a remote beach on the Banks Peninsula, New Zealand.
  • Cold Pop Tarts on a large boulder in the White Mountains of New Hampshire.

It’s no accident that all these amazing meals occurred outdoors. I can’t think of a better dining room than one without walls or a roof! Doesn’t matter what I’m eating, it will taste better eaten in fresh air.

Where have your best meals occurred?

Once and Future Food

DSC_0006sm9.2 cubic metres.

7,000 kilograms.

 

That’s how much compost I moved over the past two days. Carting it from the old compost area to the new compost bins my husband made for me. Turning the compost is an annual ritual—a compost pile that isn’t properly made and watered here turns into a dry mummy of weeds and kitchen scraps. This year’s turning was more difficult than usual, having to lift each forkful of weeds once into the wheelbarrow, then once more onto the new pile (rather than just tossing it next to the old pile). I dread the job every year—it’s one of those tasks I imagine exists in the level of Hell designed specially for gardeners (weeding thistles out of the gooseberry patch is another one of those jobs…I did that one earlier in the week).

But the job does have its moments. Uncovering a small pile of walnut shells—remembering the bag of walnuts our dentist gave us last April (also an avid gardener, we exchange produce at every dental appointment, and he once exchanged a filling for a block of homemade cheese). Bringing up the strata of last year’s tomatoes—salivating over the prospect of ripe tomatoes in less than a month. Yanking out a bean vine wrapped around jute—Liadan’s beautiful teepee of King of the Blues runner beans that fell over in a late summer storm. And finally, reaching last year’s broad bean plants, cut down a year ago, just after the last turning of the compost—remembering the final broad beans of this season, eaten just last week.

That mummified pile of plants represents the whole year in the garden. Turned and watered, it will soon become the food for next season’s crops. It fed us once, and will feed us again and again, as long as I keep turning that compost every year.

Team Cooking

Doing a little team cooking dance.

Doing a little team cooking dance.

Ian and I met studying guanacos at the Detroit Zoo, but we became friends over food. I lived in a dorm, he lived in a house, and he treated me to home cooked meals when we met to work on the latest research project for our Animal Behavior class. It wasn’t long before we were cooking those meals together, and cooking together has been an important part of our relationship for over 23 years now. We intuit each other’s cooking style after so many years, and as with good ballroom dancers, we understand, for each dish, who “leads”. Like seasoned dancers performing a well-rehearsed number, we work in harmony, joyfully, anticipating what comes next, so that even tricky moves look effortless to bystanders.

So I suppose it isn’t surprising that, about a month ago, the kids decided they wanted to make dinner once a week. They know what a fun and fulfilling task it can be, and they want to be part of it.

Unfortunately pre-teen siblings who are often nervous around things like hot ovens and stovetops don’t work together quite so smoothly. Indeed, after the first week, when they ended up cross and irritated with one another making the simplest one-pot meal, we suggested they cook two dishes—that way each one of them can be “in charge” of one dish, and while the other will help them cook it, they’re in charge of decisions about the dish and how it is made.

And I suppose this is exactly what Ian and I have come to in the kitchen, though not by design. We each have our specialties. Ian bakes bread, and though I help, and am perfectly capable of making fine bread myself, he is in charge of bread. I bake desserts, and when Ian takes on a dessert himself, he defers to my judgement if he gets into difficulty. I make cheese, he makes beer. I make omelettes, he makes frittata. Yet we rarely do any of these things alone—the other is usually there, cleaning or cutting vegetables, washing dishes, testing spicing.

It works for the kids, as it does for us. Though they often need a helping hand from Mum or Dad, and though they may argue about what they’re going to cook, once they’ve divided the meal, they manage to work together reasonably well…for 10 and 12 year old siblings. They are already developing their “own” skills, becoming the “expert” in chopping carrots, or cracking eggs. And they’re learning how to accept each other’s expertise. What a huge lesson! To learn that someone (even your little sister) might know more than you do! And to learn to accept, seek, and value someone else’s skills and expertise.

So, while the kids’ Friday night dinners often end with a shocking mess in the kitchen, and sometimes the smell of something burnt hard to the bottom of a pan, they’re great training for all sorts of situations in life.

365 Days of Food

Food.

It feeds us physically and emotionally. It is an integral part of our celebrations, and is the scaffold on which our days are built. As a gardener, food is even more; it is a hobby, a lifestyle, a way of seeing the world and my place in it.

Over the next year, I will blog daily about food. Not a daily recount of what we ate, nor a recipe a day for a year (though there will be some of both), but an exploration of the role food plays in our lives–a look at life, the universe and everything reflected in the bottom of a stock pot.

So pull up a chair and fill your plate. There’s always room for one more at our table.