Eat Local Northwest

No. 3 on Mark Bittman’s latest list of 101 fast recipes was the sort of thing you spot while enjoying your morning coffee and find yourself making an hour later. It’s delicious and easy to make with local ingredients, including herbs in season now.

Curried Egg Salad

2 hardboiled eggs, chopped / 1 tbls mayo / 1 tsp dijon mustard / pinch cayenne / ¼ apple, diced / 1 tsp each chopped cilantro and chives / squeeze of lime juice, optional / salt & pepper to taste

Stir ingredients together. Serve on toasted bread of your choice. Adapted from Mark Bittman.

My friend Caroline was finally planting her Romano beans, now that the soil was good and warm.

She downplayed the event. “They’re like any Romano bean you can get from the seed catalogs,” she said.

Except that Caroline’s seeds descended from ones her neighbor Wally gave her before he died a few years back, at age eighty-nine. He grew the beans for decades, having obtained his stock from childhood pals born and raised in Garlic Gulch, the old Italian settlement in the Rainier Valley, where immigrants once maintained small farmsteads. Caroline thinks the strain is hundreds of years old. She’s pretty sure they’ve always been grown organically.

“Wally was kind of a health nut,” she said. He ate a cup of quinoa and a banana for breakfast. The beans he dried, stored in big pantry jars, and ate year round. He stood about 5 foot 2, Caroline said, and couldn’t have weighed more than 85 pounds. He never married, didn’t have children.

Wally was systematic about his bean growing. He always sprouted the seeds on a damp paper towel and planted six around a 15-inch diameter circle. He trained the plants onto a central trellis constructed from a tall stake with scrap wood nailed on. Caroline told me the beans are real easy to grow and produce lots of nice pods. She grows them in waves, so there’s always a fresh supply; that’s how she prefers eating them.

Later I searched a few online seed catalogs and discovered that some do indeed sell the Romano variety, also known as the borlotti, a flat green bean. The Roma bean is a sibling; a more distant cousin may be the flat wax pole bean I grew last summer called Gold of Bacau. The seeds of Romanos are often white or black, but Caroline’s are tan, with brown speckles and fat racing stripes.

Anyway, she sent me home with two of last summer’s pods. Back home, I put them in a damp towel to sprout, happy to do my part in propagating the bean and its history.

Which reminds me that I need to read Claire Cummings’ book about genetically engineered seeds.

I left my job at the public hospital today.

It was my first real job, one I felt passionately about. I worked alongside incredible colleagues, some of whom have devoted forty years of their lives to caring for people with nowhere else to turn.

These folks are the reason I went to work there. They are my heroes.

The truth is, though, that work was all-consuming. My identity became inseparable from my career; life took a backseat. I spent a year grappling with alternate paths. I knew that whatever I decided, I wasn’t going to find another place around town with such a strong sense of health justice.

In the end I took a very part-time gig working for the Man. Was it the right decision? It’s going to take time to figure that one out. This go around, I don’t think it’s work that will be the adventure, even if I’m not entirely sure what the adventure will be. I’ll be spending more time digging in the dirt. I’ll be visiting the farmers markets whenever I like now. I can perfect that killer loaf of artisan bread, if I choose. But I’m not sure that all I ever wanted was to be the domestic goddess of green living.

So I’m going to float for a while. I’m going to dream a lot. But I’ll keep my skeptical edge. For example, I’ve been thinking about how good organic food is beyond the reach of so many people, like those I took care of at the public hospital, who were delighted to get three soggy meals a day and a warm bed. I came to see that health and food are linked tightly. That good health and good food play big roles in equality and justice.

I’m going to take some time to contemplate these things and consider how I might play a bit part in our planetary drama. For starters, the food bank beds at the community garden need some serious TLC. There are amazing local groups like Northwest Harvest and Lettuce Link that I’m just starting to learn about. And those who know me know that when I get a little time on my hands I like to sit down and tell a good story. So stay tuned.

Yesterday was hot and sunny and I could smell the ripe strawberries as I walked towards the Madrona farmers market. Man, it smelled good. About ten paces into the joint I spotted my favorite celebrity runner, vegan guru Scott Jurek, clad in a sleeveless biking jersey and sporting a chic new haircut. Alvarez was back with black beans, Scott reported happily, and he’d scored two kinds of cherries plus a big bag of pink lady apples, which were going for $2/pound at Lyall Farms of Mattawa, Wash. And he reminded me how much he loves Local Roots’ produce.

The Madrona market, at Martin Luther King and Union, started just last year but word has definitely gotten out; the place was packed. Amazingly, it’s one of three that we can access pretty easily on foot or by bike, if I could just get up the gumption to ride again after my recent spill. Anyway, in my wanderings I noted peas, carrots, bunched onions, even summer squash, alongside the obligatory squash blossoms. No way would I pay for squash, I thought, not after we could hardly give it away last summer. Still, how good was it to know I no longer had to eat every vegetable on offer, just to get some variety?

So life was good and the shopping was easy. I snapped up broccoli and bok choy and Alvarez’s last bunch of basil, my favorite harbinger of summer, and inhaled the intoxicating scent all the way home. Soon I’ll be restraining myself from buying every good thing that’s in season.

My friend Alice called to report that she’d just been to the Columbia City farmers market, where her pickings included cherries and strawberries.

“Local fruit is back!” she said. She was making strawberry shortcake for a dinner party we were both attending, a line of thinking that I readily encouraged. She told me she’d spotted fava beans at the market.

I got excited. “How big were they?”

“I wasn’t really looking at them,” she said.

I considered driving out to Columbia City just to see what a harvest-sized pod should look like but only made it as far as our community garden. In our absence the patch had become overrun by fava plants, which were weighed down with swollen pods. Faithful readers may remember I planted these cold-weather legumes months ago, hoping the beans’ nitrogen fixing capabilities would replenish the soil. The strategy seemed to be working; adjacent chard and scallions were twice the size of more remote counterparts.

The original plan was to grow favas not just for the nitrogen but for the beans themselves, a two-fer, but it’s been such slow going that recently I considered tearing the plants out to make room for summer crops. It being summer and all. Yesterday, though, some pods seemed ripe so I broke one open. The beans were about the size of a penny and encased in plush, velvety padding.

I picked the biggest pods then headed home to do some research. There was a big haul coming, if I could just stay patient, and I wanted to be prepared. I’d only eaten these things fresh once before, served with rabbit-stuffed ravioli at Union, and needed something simpler. Cookbooks recommended mixing them into stews or mashing them on grilled bread. Fellow bloggers were more inventive. Poppy at Mixed Greens had created a good-looking fava puree with herbs, and Hank at Hunter Angler had several helpful posts about the beans from earlier this spring.

In the end I opted to eat them plain, which is to say blanched, skinned, and mixed with olive oil, salt, and pepper. The prep went sort of slowly but seemed like something that could go more smoothly with practice. I sampled the thick skins, which are said to cause gas, and the taste was reminiscent of edamame. The beans themselves had a faint bite like lime zest and a nice watery quality.

But I’m still not sure what to do with the imminent harvest … I’m open to suggestions.

We’ve been on the road again, this time gone to the Wyoming backwoods where my husband ran in a trail race. So much about the trip was classically Western, from the vast green valleys, swollen rivers, and dirt roads to the smoky bars and bikers covered in blue tatoos. The rural West is old familiar territory for both of us, but things seemed different this time too.

Like that the winning runner was an organic farmer.

Like that in Livingston, Montana, pop. 7280, there’s a bustling farmers market and an organic coffee shop. That the top headline in the Bozeman Daily Chronicle yesterday was, “Want to go green? Join the waiting list.” And that Missoula has a cozy new spot called Biga Pizza, which sources most ingredients locally. What a find! Here in Seattle, local food tends toward the upscale. But Biga felt less precious, more democratic. Even if our pizza of morels, fresh ricotta, basil, and bay oil should have been called Yuppie Delight. And even if the pizza crust, with its hint of sweetness and tangy hit of sour starter, was made from organic Montana flour.

The two of us got very full for $12 plus tax and tip. Now that’s what I’m talking about. Local food for the people.

Awfully good when you’re carbo-loading, too.

Here it is mid-June and we’re finally getting snow and snap peas in the backyard. They’re wonderfully sweet and crisp, like something a novelist might think up. They’re also nearly two months late — what a trial the peas were in the garden this spring. An early round of seeds got plucked up by birds, so I sprouted a second batch on a damp towel and nursed seedlings along in indoor trays. Thanks to persistent cold, the plants didn’t grow for months. It was enough to trigger thoughts such as: why not just buy?

Thus far the harvest is tiny not least because I’m picking the pods daily, hoping to keep the vines producing. In the kitchen that means using them in ways that seem gratuitous, as crunchy green snacks, sliced into salads, or tossed into a stir fry. I’d love to make a pea and herb risotto, but seeing as it’s almost July I’m not optimistic we’ll get enough of a real crop.

The somewhat disappointing experience with winter and spring vegetables has made me rethink my laissez-faire approach to vegetable growing. I’m definitely a convert to the religion of composting, which delivers dramatic results, but modifiers like row covers and water warmers have always felt like overkill. If we want to eat from the garden most of the year, maybe I ought to consider lending the plants a little more assistance.

How fabulous was it to come home from work to Charlie’s egg salad sandwiches, made from eggs laid a couple neighborhoods over? His whip includes a big pinch of paprika, and we spooned the salad onto the pepper-potato bagels I love so much. My contribution was the spicy green stuff that’s everywhere in the garden these days. We ate out back, basking in the sunshine, and watched the tomatoes grow.

Peppery Egg Salad

4 eggs, hard-boiled / 2 tbl minced onion / 1 tsp minced fresh parsley / 1 tsp minced fresh oregano / 2 tbl mayonnaise / 1 tbl dijon mustard / big pinch paprika, or to taste / salt & pepper / handful of arugula leaves / 4 slices rustic bread, pita, or whatever you wish / chopped black olives

Gently mix together the first seven ingredients. Add salt and pepper to taste. Place arugula on bread, add egg salad and top with olives. Serve open-faced. Feeds 2. Variations are truly endless, consider substituting in homemade mayonnaise if that’s your thing or adding minced pickles.

Biking home from work yesterday I hit the curb, tumbled over the handlebars and face-planted on concrete. The damage wasn’t serious: a couple of chipped teeth and a banged up mouth. I know there are many worse cases and I’m grateful not to be one of them. But after getting patched back together today I had to face facts. If I eat whole apples or corn on the cob again, I risk knocking off joint compound, and that means snaggly front teeth. I could be done for good with subs from Salumi, which are made with hometown charcuterie and pepperocini and clad in heavy ciabatta rolls.

My chef friend Evan tried to console. “Your incisors,” he said, sighing. “This is serious. You shouldn’t think about corn on the cob right now. But the pork in your freezer? Don’t feel you need to braise all of it.”

He threw in some dental advice too. “All you really need are the molars,” he said.

Most of the day I sat around icing my face and wondering why my arms felt so achy. I also had time to cook, a good thing since I can’t exactly chow down yet yearn for tasty things as much as ever. The rice casserole I opted for wasn’t really local, except for the ground pork and oregano from the yard. But it was hot, flavorful, and easy on a sore mouth, and promises to become seasonal later in the summer. A salad with garden lettuces, radishes, and a few lovely first peas kept the food mileage down tonight.

Rice, Chili Pepper, and Pork Casserole

4 large poblano or anaheim chilies or 2 canned chipotle chilies, chopped / 1 cup rice / 1 onion, sliced thinly / 2 cloves garlic, minced / 2 tsp dried oregano / 1 cup fresh or canned tomatoes, chopped / ½ lb ground pork / 1 cup shredded melty cheese

If using fresh peppers, char these under a high broiler, steam under a bowl, peel, remove stem and seeds, and chop. Boil 1 quart of water plus ½ tsp salt in a medium-sized pot. Add rice and cook for 12-15 minutes, until the rice is barely hard in the center, then drain. While rice cooks, heat a heavy skillet over medium-high heat, swirl in vegetable oil, and cook onions until browned and slightly charred, about eight minutes. Add garlic, oregano, and chilies and cook another minute or so, then add tomatoes and cook down for another few minutes until slightly thickened. At the same time, heat a small skillet and cook ground pork on high heat until browned, about 5 minutes. Season peppers and pork with salt and pepper to taste.

Turn on oven to 350 degrees. In a heavy baking dish layer on half of rice, half of peppers, half of cheese, pork, then remainder of rice, then peppers, then cheese. Bake thirty minutes or until cheese is bubbling and browned. Garnish with cilantro and additional cheese, if you wish. Feeds 4. Adapted from Rick Bayless.

Some people pine away for basil and tomatoes all winter. Me, I save myself for fresh tarragon. My yearnings are specifically for chicken braised in a creamy tarragon sauce and eaten with egg pasta, a Jerry Traunfeld preparation that tastes extraordinary for how easy it is. The secret is in the fresh, anise-flavored leaves.

Among tarragon’s selling points is that it’s a wonderfully sturdy herb that dies back in fall and comes back three times as strong in spring. In years past I’ve killed it out of total incompetence but we now have some good-sized plants thriving in a sunny raised bed, which is all they ever wanted anyway. There’s finally enough of it this year that our days of rationing may be over for good.

Chicken Breasts with Tarragon Cream Sauce

1 large chicken breast or 2 small breasts / 1 shallot, sliced thinly / 2 tbls vermouth / 2 tbls chopped fresh tarragon / ½ cup cream / 1 tsp lemon juice / salt & pepper

Slice breasts in half and sprinkle both sides with salt and pepper. Heat a heavy pan over medium-high heat. Swirl in vegetable oil and when hot, fry chicken until just starting to brown on each side, about 2 minutes per side. Remove from pan. Add shallot and cook, stirring, for about 30 seconds. Add vermouth, turn heat down, then add 1 tbls tarragon and all of cream. Replace chicken in pan and cover, cooking on low heat, until chicken is just cooked through, about 5 minutes more, then remove breasts. If sauce is runny, cook on high heat for another minute or two to reduce, then stir in remainder of tarragon plus lemon juice. Correct salt and pepper, then serve over egg noodles. Feeds 2 or 3. Adapted from Jerry Traunfeld’s fabulous Herbfarm cookbook.