Ramps and Reverse Foraging

My recent Serious Eats feature (which yay, I’m so excited about) is an inside look at ramp dinners, but my initial interest in ramps came about from the attraction of finding and getting them. Looking for ramps in the woods in the spring is a bit of a treasure hunt in nature. A person heading out foraging and coming back empty-handed at least got outside for a while and saw many non-ramp examples of wildlife, and that was pleasing to me.

I think that’s part of why ramps have become so trendy the past decade; even if you don’t get the full-on foraging experience from buying them at a fancy farmers’ market, just having them on your plate connects you to the larger romance of their story.

But this year I learned more about how our love for ramps is harming them. Nature can’t keep up with the demand, and ramps—while hearty—are very slow to grow.

Ramps were my introduction to foraging, but I like to get out and scrabble around for all kinds of greens, fruits, forest herbs, and mushrooms. Oftentimes I am not very successful, but the success is ultimately about reconnecting with my role in the immediate ecosystem where I happen to be at the time. Still, the lure of going into the woods is not nearly as potent without the potential reward of encountering something delicious to eat.

So I decided to be a little bit more proactive in making sure my actions help preserve the forest habitat I love so much—without it, there is no foraging. I think of it as reverse foraging. It may be just a drop in the bucket in the face of everything our modern lives do to alter the landscape we live on, but I think intentions go a long way for one’s spiritual well-being.

• Planting ramp bulbs in areas in decimated ramp patches, or, better yet, collecting ramp seeds in the early fall and planting them in the woods (which is actually very easy).

• Pulling up invasive garlic mustard and properly disposing of it so it does not spread. This one in particular is like beating back waves, because garlic mustard is very tenacious. But I saw some growing in my favorite ramp patch, and I was like, “that’s it, man! This is WAR!” Also, pulling up garlic mustard can be cathartic if you are in a foul mood.

• Following the basic principles of courtesy by not foraging for more than the land can easily recover from.

• Getting friends excited about the wonders of what grows right where you live. Even if someone is not going to go out and collect shagbark hickory nuts, just knowing they exist increases the value humans place on those trees, and, by extension, the biodiversity of their surroundings.

There’s a school of thought that the changes humans make to our natural systems is, in its own way, natural (e.g. invasive species accidentally coming over to new landmasses on ships, or people intentionally introducing new species). I get this—there were no apples in North America prior to the arrival of the Europeans, and goddamn do I love apples—but I think it’s fine to make judgments on a case-by-case basis, rather than cop out and say “fuck it, we’re screwed, but I’ll be dead by the time it matters.” Just today I was thinking there could be a year when I have grandkids and I’d tell them, “I remember when there were bats in North America,” or “There used to be these wild onions in the woods called ramps, and I liked to dig them up and cook them.” What a dreary future to have in store. I don’t want us to get there without a fight.

The Taste of Violets

Despite the momentary cold snap, violets are popping up everywhere now. Last year at this time it settled into me as a slow-burning mania, and I decided I just had to make violet syrup. Read my essay here on Full Grown People to find out what happened (hint: it's probably not what you think happened).

I did discover a few things about violets.

• It takes baskets and baskets of violets to get anything close to enough for culinary applications with any kind of character.
• Some violets have more flavor and aroma than others.
• My front yard violets are bland, and whatever violets went into the violet extract my friend Nikki brought back from France and added to her violet buttercream are not bland.
• Adding lemon zest to violet sugar to punch up its flavor will make the violet sugar turn a muted fuchsia instead. It's the chemical reaction between the anthocyanins in the violets and the acid in the lemon zest (lemon zest isn't that acidic, but it's acidic enough, apparently) that dulls the color.
• My days of cooking with violets are probably finished. I think I got it out of my system. Picking violets is fun, but as far as edible rewards and foragables, I much prefer mushrooms, greens, and fruit.

That's the finished, faded violet sugar on the scones. It still tasted sweet.

A Little Help with Listicies

Listicles--those breezy list-article hybrids that everyone shares on your Facebook feed--are a bit like marshmallows. Puffy and light, they go down easily, but if you've ever made them at home, you know there are distinct elements to their manufacture. Skip a step and they fall flat.

If you're a food writer who'd like to get in on the listicle action, or an author of published listicles looking to sharpen your writing toolkit, check out the guest post I wrote for Will Write for Food, the blog of food writing coach extraordinaire Dianne Jacob. I talk about the qualities that make or break a list, how to pitch lists to editors, and why lists matter in today's food writing landscape.

You Can Follow Me on Instagram Now

Just in case you were waiting, the wait is over now. I started an Instagram account. If you like pictures of desserts in progress, foraged fruit, or musty old records, you are in luck, my friend! Follow me here (@sausagetarian). 

The above photo is the orange tree across the street from my friend Adam's house in Los Angeles. His neighbor said it's okay to plunder the bounty of these sexy orange trees, and that's exactly what I did. Not all of the oranges were fabulous, but the ones that were just blew my mind--so juicy and sweet. I lived in California for seven years, and I never got over the fact that citrus trees just grow here and there like it's no big deal. 

Pawpaw SUPERPACK

This is the kind of superpack we can all get behind.  My friend Leigh Cox, who did the illustrations for The Pocket Pawpaw Cookbook, has put together your dream holiday gift: an organic cotton tote with a copy of The Pocket Pawpaw Cookbook to tuck inside of it. Hop on over to her Etsy shop to place an order. 

The Pawpaw Paradox / Scarcity and Abundance

Pawpaws have a powerful symbolic meaning to me as a reminder to move away from scarcity (the parts of my life that deplete me) and toward abundance (the things in my life that energize me, such as pawpaws).  However, wild pawpaws also embody scarcity and abundance in the most literal fashion possible, and I have been dealing with this in practice for the past few weeks.

In only ten minutes, I can walk to spots in the neighboring woods that are currently crawling with pawpaws. On a good day--like yesterday--if I'm really hoofing it, I can bring home about five pounds of pawpaws after ten short minutes of active searching. When I'm in the right mindset, it's almost as if the pawpaws just jump right off the trees and into my hands. They are unavoidable. Making use of them all is impossible. I could canvass the region for pawpaws, buy multiple giant freezers, devote myself full-time to capturing and processing them all, and still not make a dent in the county's pawpaw population.  

That wild seasonal abundance is what I consider a temporary infinite supply: the pawpaw paradox. Meanwhile,  the mass of pawpaw pulp that time realistically allows me to collect is finite. If I'm lucky, I'll come out of this season with about six quarts of frozen pulp, collected and extracted by my own loving hands. It's work I'm happy to do, and work that I don't consider work, but it does menace me, this pawpaw paradox. I hoard my pawpaw pulp and am reluctant to thaw and use it because once it's gone, it's gone. What if it's February and I need some for recipe testing? What if next year turns out to be a bad pawpaw year? When your culinary spirit animal is a fruit that's not grown on a commercial scale to speak of, the going gets tough.  Moderation is key.

Meanwhile, beautiful ripe pawpaws blacken and rot on the carpet of dry leaves out on the woods. This will happen for another two weeks, tops. We're spoiled by having everything we want at the snap of our fingers, be it produce, clothing, water, or visual and audio entertainment. The modern lives of the first-world bourgeoisie don't present us with much scarcity of anything, except for quiet time alone in nature. Luckily, the pawpaws don't need to be in season for us to access that.

It may not look like much on this screen, but this pawpaw is the centerfold of wild pawpaws.

On a side, note, I encountered yesterday the most wonderful feral pawpaw I've yet laid eyes on. One tree on my route was laden with about six giant pawpaws, ones that lit up the eyes of my inner food stylist. They are centerfold pawpaws. I tried to capture their beauty with my iPhone, but my skills could not do them justice. I processed the not-as-pretty pawpaws into pulp and drank a pawpaw lassi for breakfast this morning. It made me feel empowered and grateful. 

Pawpaw lassi, the breakfast of champions. Recipe is in my book!

It's Raining Turkeys

Today I rubbed the cure on our Thanksgiving bird, an 11-pound turkey I ordered from the local Cheyenne Valley Farm. Dustin, who I bought it from at the farmers market, didn't recall what breed it was. A white something-or-other? 

So I have no idea if it's a heritage bird or not. The term refers to the many old-school turkey breeds that fell out of fashion beginning in the 1950s. I'm glad we have a locally raised bird, period, something that's not pumped full of hormones or water and vegetable oil (which a self-basting bird is.)

The modern history or turkeys in America is rich with stories and facts. I had the pleasure of writing about the development of the Broad Breasted White for Modern Farmer. It's an edifying read--one that's laced with the tale of my husband's grandfather, Vic Ryckebosch, whose breeding and farming innovations led to a robust and successful empire of poultry in the high dessert of Southern California's Antelope Valley.

And for more nugget-like turkey facts, check out this list of 10 Turkey Myths that I did for Mental Floss. It's useful stuff, like: don't rise off your bird before you roast it. Why? Read the article, dummy! And happy Thanksgiving. 

Book Giveaway!

Last month was a good one for anthologies. At least for me—I have the privilege of both Best Food Writing 2014 and Full Grown People: Greatest Hits, Volume I including my work. I'm so excited, I'm giving away a copy of Full Grown People: Greatest Hits, Volume I. To enter, just LIKE the Facebook page for The Sausagetarian, and then comment on this post by answering this question: What's the most  memorable thing you've read lately? 

Both of the essays in this recent anthology-rama are from the knock-down amazing website Full Grown People, which you should check out already if you haven’t yet, okay? Full Grown People isn’t a website about food; it’s about those moments in your grown-up life when you think, “Wait, I don’t have any of this figured out, do I?” Those job-losing, relationship-breaking, loved one-dying, oomph-fizzling times both subtle and dramatic. The experiences are diverse; the writing is always fantastic. Full Grown People founder and editor Jennifer Niesslein has a pulled together a family of sorts, one of both readers and writers, and given them the space to be bold and thoughtful together.

The two anthologized essays I wrote hinge on food and identity (alert Freud!) “Smelted,” which appears in Best Food Writing 2014, has to do with finding a place for my formal training as a chef in my home and marriage. It’s not as easy as it sounds. Yes, smelt makes a cameo. (Best Food Writing deserves its own post, so we'll do that next week.) 

The other essay, “Return of the Dropout,” is about chemistry, cured pork products, and an abandoned mid-life career change. That one is in Full Grown People: Greatest Hits, Volume I. 

The honor of  regularly contributing to Full Grown People isn’t just about having a home for first-person essays that look deep into those messy gray areas that defy blurbs and sound bites. New essays go up twice a week, and every time I read one, I come away a little changed. I realize how differently we all approach the joys and travails of our days, how we deal with pain, loss, and happiness.  I realize that we’re all constantly seeking out that sweet spot of sustained contentment, and how slippery and shifting contentment can be. It moves into unexpected shapes and forms.

Listing my favorite essays from the site is tough…which is why you should just order Full Grown People: Greatest Hits, Volume I today. Jody Mace’s “Animal House” not only cracked me up, it vastly improved my marriage; through reading it I learned about doggie diapers, and now my husband and I can have civilized discussions instead of dealing with dog pee disasters all over our carpet. Carol Paik’s “Something from Nothing” examines the beautiful absurdity of paper-making. Meredith Fein Lichtenberg’s lyrical “The Pull of the Moon” braids together motherhood, nature, and summer holidays. “The Pageant,” by Shaun Stallings Anzaldua, hilariously recounts a bizarre but deeply meaningful family Christmas tradition. Randy Osborne tenderly reveals his unlikely love for his pet squirrel in “All Sort of Things and Weather, Taken in Together.” In “Someone Stole Home,” Antonia Malchik will stir the heart of anyone who misses the place they came from. Catherine Newman’s “In Praise of Synthetic Vaginas” fearlessly sums up the elephant in the room about long-term sexual relationships.

See? I have to stop now. This is ridiculous. Get the book and read them all, kiddos! For a taste of what Full Grown People is all about, here’s one of the most distinctive, thoughtful, and complex essays I’ve read about food in years, Nicole Walker’s “Persuasion.” It’s about god and faith and eating a pig head, and it’s not in an anthology. Yet.