Rainbeau Ridge Weblog

Cuke & Zuke

No, not our barn cats!  It was a cucumber and a zucchini that Isaac presented me with today—the first of the garden (and one of the occasional privileges of being the boss).

We are hitting our stride—summer is here (notwithstanding that the sun and temperature belie this).  With a little steadier pace and a little less hectic daily activity, I’ve shunned my poor, ‘grab a carb on the go’ eating habit and returned to what I love—foraging the garden for my dinner. 

The cuke and dill salad and the sautéed zucchini with garlic scapes were the perfect accompaniments to my fresh fish dinner.  It wasn’t recipe directed or grocery list driven—it happened because that’s what was garden ready.  I love improvising each night.  Many times that will include a piece of cheese that I rescued from the cheese house refrigerator.

It is truly a privilege to eat the fruits of our collective labor.  Sometimes people take our ability to grow for granted—but most (CAP members) are as awed by it all as I am—the magnificent spirals of the Romanesco broccoli, iridescent red and green color of the radicchio, the sensational taste of the roasted turnips and the delicate flavor of the golden (not old!) snap peas jazz me like you can’t believe.

Eating ‘local’ these days is hardly a challenge as we head into the peak growing period—My advice is to slow down, savor the ingredients and be sure to squirrel some away for winter!

-Lisa

Letting Nature Take its Course?

Every year around February, I go into a pre-kidding prep mode—ordering supplies, cleaning the barn, managing the does’ feeding scheme, trimming feet, assembling clean towels, rounding up pop bottles, giving spring vaccines, and reviewing kidding literature.  It’s ‘last call’ visits with friends, wrapping up the only time I take care of myself, exercising, eating real food and doing other things I love (weaving for one) before I disappear off the radar screen and spend full time on the farm.

Preparing for spring kidding season always seems to prompt the same sets of questions from observers.  “When will [doe] have her kids?” and “Do you really need to be present at every birth? Won’t nature take care of things?”

I smile and answer, when the questioner is a human mother, “Was your child born on your due date?” or “Was there no one present at your child’s birth?”  The point is noted.  With a little more patience and explanation, others come to understand that there is a typical gestation period for the goats (150 days on average with a range of 149-155).  Given the possible range, we go on ‘goat watch’ a few days earlier than the due date and if the goat goes longer, we might be observing the doe for a week. And that week blends into the timing with another doe and so on and so forth.  Before we know it, we’ve been monitoring goats and birthing babies for two months straight sometimes.

While it’s probably my favorite time of year, I admit to becoming so exhausted it takes its toll on my outlook and health by the end. So why is it that I feel we have to be present for these births?  Doesn’t nature take care of things?

Nature is a wonderfully, magnificent thing – but we’ve fundamentally and already intervened even before the kidding season—we’ve impacted the goats with how we breed, our choice of stock, our feeding protocol, containing them in paddocks, controlling their regimen to name a few dimensions.  So we’ve made it our responsibility to ‘interfere’ at kidding time to correct for these farmer-made influences.

In the field, weather can take its toll, claiming kids born on freezing days without shelter, difficult deliveries can end with dead kids and/or dead does.  Multiple kids create challenges for the does and can benefit from our intervention—producing enough milk; eating enough to support the extra kids; having udders that become unbalanced or worse, mastitic, as kids favor one side over another; getting chapped udders that require that we monitor feed and nutrient intake; helping kids nurse from both teats and hand milking when they don’t.

So the challenge is to find the balance—to help where necessary but back off, and not be a cowboy or try to be a hero.  Under most circumstances we know the doe’s expected kidding date.  Assuming the weather cooperates (does have been known to wait out a storm), there are several visible signals that kidding is imminent.  Generally, labor begins and we monitor the situation—color of discharge, softening ligaments, and contractions tell us what’s likely to happen.  Once these things get set in motion, we keep an eye on the situation relatively closely.

In the best case, the doe takes care of things and you have a kid on the ground, cleaned, standing and nursing in a relatively short period of time.  This season we’ve been blessed with many successful births, including our first sets of quadruplets (two sets on the same day near the start of our season)!  We’ve have yearlings and veterans drop their kids with relative ease, the kids standing and nursing with just their mom’s natural assistance.

But too many times, the doe may not dilate sufficiently, labor fails or there is an abnormal presentation and then you have to decide when and how to intervene.  That usually means scrubbing up, lubing up and going in to explore.

This season we’ve had to assist, primarily in small (or young) does because the kid is moving too slowly in the birth canal, leaving it too long in a risky situation.  But the presentations have been normal so we assist just enough to move things along, or help the mom clean up the kid as more are on the way.

When the kid does emerge, it is covered in the slippery, warm sack, slithering out to the ground.  We rush to clear the membrane from its face, stimulate the kid and listen for its first cry.  Only after that do we check to see what the gender is.

There’s more ‘goober’ involved than I ever would have expected I would be able to tolerate.  Surprisingly, I am not at all put off by the fluids or afterbirth.  The process is so amazing that the minute I clean up from a birth, I’m already thinking about the next one.  It is bittersweet when the last doe kids for the season.

But sometimes things go awry.  At 2am on a recent morning I went to the barn for a simple goat check only to find Missy, no longer sporting the normal type of discharge as she had at 10:30  that evening.  Instead the color and type of discharge told me something was wrong  Washing and lubing, I went in to find feet no longer in a sack—indicating that help was necessary quickly if the kids were to emerge alive.  Her cervix was very tight so I quickly realized getting anything through would be difficult.  The situation was made even more troubling because the head of the kid had slipped backward—no way for it to make it out.  I tried to realign the head, snout first but still no luck.  My arm was literally being strangled by the ever narrowing cervix.  With a vet’s help and meds, we might have been able to relax the cervix but by the time I knew how much trouble we were in, the damage had been done, and critical time had elapsed.  The outcome was such that I don’t even want to describe it in any further detail but suffice it to say that it wasn’t good.  I spent the next 24 hours nursing severe bruises on arms—but Missy suffered far worse.

And then there are times when the intervention works as we hope, helping to coax out a kid that might otherwise die in utero.  We’ve had several good saves this season—so perhaps we are finding the balance.

I have enormous respect for and awe of nature—and when its course runs well, even more so.  But I am glad that I’m getting better at recognizing when our intervention is appropriate and helpful.  Even if we play only an assisting role or in only a small percentage of the births, it will have been worth it to be on hand—and what’s a few months of sleep deprivation anyway?

-Lisa

A Real Farmer

I often joke that I’m not a ‘real farmer’.  I think that I were a real farmer, then I’d make decisions differently than I do.  I’d make decisions more on the economics of the proposition than the emotions.  I’d not shed tears when animals die.

I have nothing in my background that would have exposed me to ‘real’ farmers but the traditional ones that I’ve met, especially ones on large scale farms, rule by numbers.  They have Farms, not farms.  They have herds, not 40 goats.  They euthanize lame animals.  They shed unproductive ones.  They don’t name their animals, especially not after singers. They mocked me (affectionately) when I told them I started with only two goats.  While I do not mean to paint ‘traditional’ farmers with a single brush—I think I make the point.

I tease myself as not being a ‘real farmer’ for many reasons.  If I were a ‘real farmer’, I would never have cried over the single dead chick in the box when I picked up the mail order package of 25 one-day-olds shipped from Iowa.  Perhaps I wouldn’t have taken in Kobi, the one-day-old, barely alive Southdown lamb, rejected by her mom because she was a runt, the ewe opting instead to mother the robust ram lamb sibling.  I certainly wouldn’t have hatched my own eggs and kept the roosters!  I wouldn’t have nursed Kiara (a doe) for seven weeks after she lost her triplets in utero, only to become septic and wither away. And most definitely, I wouldn’t continue to maintain four bucks just because they serviced the herd but were no longer necessary, and six wethers just because they are handsome!

In light of Jewel’s passing this past week and my ability to quickly rebound and talk about the incident without outwardly showing huge emotion, I remarked to a friend today that I’ve become a ‘real farmer’.  But he helped me recognize that I was mistaken.  ‘Real’ isn’t the right measure or the right adjective.  I’m a different type of farmer, coming recently and fresh to the profession, not hindered by traditional ethics or rubrics. I may no longer cry; but I still feel sad at the loss of life.  Intellectually, I know I need to focus more on the farm’s bottom line, but hope I never lose the soul of what moves me to farm each day.

-Lisa

Spring Cleaning

Just the other day, we had a particularly fine spring afternoon—blue sky, warm temps, and lots of mud.  It was the kind of day that I call a teaser.  After all, it was still February, but it felt more like April.  I prayed that surely winter had ended and spring had finally arrived. 

I looked into the cow paddock and there was DC leaning over, cleaning her mom, Destiny, with her tongue.  As if she were in a spa, Destiny was reposed and seemingly enjoying the licking she was getting—sort of facial-esque.  It gives a new meaning to spring cleaning!

The real deal of spring cleaning has been going on for a couple of weeks now.  It is truly necessary and at the same time very cathartic to clean out the farm.  Things have been shuttered up these last four plus months, seemingly longer with the early onset of freezing temps last fall.  Over the winter the cobwebs had gathered, the milking equipment had been ‘mothballed’.  Chores had focused mainly on keeping the ice out of buckets and keeping hay available.  Now we can remove the accumulated dust and wasted hay, refurbish the milk machines and parts, scrub the barn pre-kidding, haul out the incubators and sanitize the cheese house.

The sun is up longer, the chickens are laying heavily again.  The greenhouse is filling up with plants that had gone into suspended animation all winter.  The sugar maple trees are tapped, sap is flowing and we’ve boiled down and bottled up our first Grade A syrup.  Certainly that portends Spring, even if the calendar disagrees.

I’m ready to rid the barn of the stale frozen air.  I look forward to hooking up the watering hose to the outside tap and not worrying whether it will freeze.  The sight of swelling bellies of the does makes me tingle with nervousness and excitement as I think about the potential 40 upcoming kiddings.  There are gently used towels to stock and empty pop bottles to collect.  Feed rations get ratcheted up, as does access to minerals and supplements.

The last of my fresh frozen cheese curd has dwindled to nothing.  I long for the sweet smell that greets me daily in the cheese house and the rows of hand ladled product.  With milk volume potentially increasing this season, I scheme about new recipes that I might try.  In between the daydreaming, I get back to inventorying my supplies, ordering new labels and calling my inspector to give me the green light for the season’s production.   Calls come in from friendly voices anxiously inquiring about the start of the season.

A team refreshed with new faces, the comfort of the old, returning volunteers and a ground swell of new interest, record number of children in the Sprouts, Buds & Roots programs and a huge growth in CAP customers all have me totally jazzed to begin a new season.

And yet tonight, the forecast is for a block buster snowstorm!
 
With hope it’s not what they forecast,

My grandmother used to say . . .

My grandmother was famous for saying (or at least my mother was famous for saying that my grandmother was famous for saying!) “if everyone threw their troubles into a pile on the table and had to pick one, they’d take their own back.”

The older I get, the more I understand this.  And with all that’s going on in the world right now—economic hardship, disease, children losing their way—I consider myself a very lucky person.  So when things are troublesome on the farm, I feel pain but quickly try to put it in perspective and try to make the best of things and move on.

Relative to today’s burdens, farm issues seem trivial.  Losing a goat doesn’t seem like a big deal when you consider the hands others are dealt—but a loss is a loss and when it’s one of my original girls and having battled hard over the last several weeks to keep her alive and make her better, rushing Jewel in to the vet’s today for an emergency c-section which resulted in her demise and that of her three kids, was no picnic.

Hard to believe—almost seven years ago, Jewel, the goat I spent hours looking over for confirmation only to realize her name was the key factor in choosing her, joined our herd.  She taught me a lot.  She gave birth to triplets each year, including Fiona, a doe I’m very partial to.

But most importantly, she epitomized mothers—gave everything of herself to her kids—literally, as this season’s pregnancy sucked the lifeblood out of her.  She held on and worked with us as we tried one idea after another to build up her strength and get her closer to term.

But this morning it was obvious she was struggling so we rushed off to get the kids out—and failed.  Failure.  Second guessing.  A terrible trait.  Did we keep her alive for the wrong reasons? Should we have euthanized her weeks ago? If we had taken the kids early, knowing we’d lose them, would Jewel have lived? Was the $1,000 out of pocket and countless man hours justified?  What would another farmer have done?  The list of questions is endless and the self-doubt has stirred up bile.

I need to let go of this.  It comes at a terrible time.  The beginning of kidding season, which usually has me jazzed, invariably has me nervous as I question my skill set. I hope and pray that I’ve got what I need on hand and have the presence of mind to find the balance between intervention and restraint.  Just as I muster up the confidence and bring on interns to witness the glories of spring, I fail.

Attending to Jewel these last few weeks has required late night barn checks.  Under beautifully starry skies but frigid temps, I walked into the barn each night and absorbed the smell of urine and hay into my clothes and hair.  I ministered to her under the watchful eye of the barn cam and many followed Jewel’s odyssey on line with me.  We all prayed for her but it wasn’t enough.  She went from a weakened condition to going off feed to needing fluids to propping up her calcium and glucose levels before calling it quits.

So did I at least learn from this?  I mastered blood drawing on her dime; learned what I need to have on hand, maybe even to be more aggressive earlier when does go off feed; realized that I can’t crawl back into bed at night after coming from the barn unless I shower first…

Or maybe I learned what the Japanese knew all along when they say ‘shoganai’—it’s just the way—a common expression that is used when there is nothing that can be done about something and that one should just accept what is.

Quoting JunkoOgawa.com “Shoganai, yes, we Japanese say it a lot. It’s translated as 'no help' but also used as 'it's meant to be', because 'things happen where you have no control over them' is one of the Japanese ways of seeing life. It seems very subservient, however, this is also a concept that means that everything in this world has souls, consciousness and meanings of existence. Even if you are feeling helpless, you are still playing your role that is necessary in the world around you.  So I think 'shoganai' is a beautiful word to lead you to the next step.”

If not for shoganai, then my not being able to make sense from all this would lead me down a path really I don’t want to travel…

-Lisa

Reading the Tea Leaves . . .

It was Friday night of Thanksgiving week.  I had returned to the farm late that night to check on animals, cheese and when I walked out of the farmhouse, closed the lights and locked the door, I marveled at the clean crisp air and the sky filled with stars.

Drinking in the wonder of the evening sky, I was thinking back on two days of family, friends and food, having my children at home, reflecting on the successful 2008 farm season, how it was coming to an end and I was filled with a quiet contentment.

Upon returning home, it seemed that a cup of tea was a fitting way to savor the moment and hold on to those reflections a little longer.  It would turn out to be a tragic mistake.  I upended that simple cup of tea into my lap and managed to inflict second degree burns on both legs as well as my tummy.  A trip to the local ER was necessary and where despite great treatment, I was in severe pain until the early hours of the morning.  It would be a full ten days later before I was functioning at almost full throttle with minimal pain with some assurance that a skin graft wouldn’t be necessary.

How quickly that contentment vaporized, replaced by pain!  But it didn’t take long either to restore my balance and replace the self-pity with thankfulness, knowing that the injury was just that and not life threatening.  It was perhaps more shocking to realize how stressed my body was and how it would be taxed by the task of healing, zapping my strength from the simplest tasks of each day, forcing me to slow down, settling for accomplishing but a few items daily.

We all have setbacks.  It’s the question of what we choose to do about them.  Sometimes they’re a matter of health, sometimes a business or personal challenge—a failed exam or a rejected business deal, a burn or serious illness.  How large or small is all relative—to our age, experience base, and attitude. 

And if we’ve ‘been there, done that’, it rarely helps the next guy as we each have to endure the situation and deal with it for ourselves.  How many times are we given advice—albeit well-intended by others—heard countless personal tales of how others made it through similar circumstances?  Too often those pearls fall on deaf ears as the current victims just have to travel the path for themselves.

In its own way, the farm presents a continuous set of challenges—animal health (some life threatening), livestock decisions, crop failures, staffing, relentless hours, financial pressures.   There are moments when I question the wisdom of moving forward.  But then I reflect on a quote my son sent to me recently from Winston Churchill. I have posted that quote along with one from Helen Keller as two reminders of inspiration and attitude.

“Success is not final; Failure is not fatal.  It is the strength to go on that really counts.”
 – WC

“When one door closes, another door opens.” – HK

I hope I’m smart enough to follow those words, whether the challenge is large or small.  For now, I think I’ll just have a second cup of tea.

It Started and Ended with Rainbeaus!

Our early arriving Fall Fest guests included genuine Rainbeau’s!  (Yes the name is a family one).  Despite the dreary sky, close to 300 people passed through the gate at the farm to celebrate Fall. 
 
Neighbors, family, old friends from overseas, workplace colleagues, CAP members and people who have found us through the local media  (whose support we appreciate!), participated in seasonal craft projects, cheered on the hens and goats in their respective races, and enjoyed great music. 
 
Setting the background mood were the fabulous American Flyer Bluegrass Band, Rachel Laitman (playing acoustical guitar) and of course, Lyon’s Rock.  Acorns sloshed around in paint as beautiful art was created by the very young.  For those that love glue, sand art pictures of the farm were a lot of fun!  Families learned about our honey bees from Deb and enjoyed rolling their own beeswax candles. 
 
And what would a trip to the farm be without a visit with all our animals?  With Snooper providing the power, children were toted around on horseback with Mindy cheerfully leading the way.  Others enjoyed nominating names for the 2008 spring kids who have remained here at the farm and will become milkers next spring.  Ron & Max treated the crowd to hen races while onlookers ‘bet’ on the winners.  Ron & Bob, assisted by guests, tempted our goats to follow the grain in order to get them across the finish line.   (food always worked for me!)
 
Delicious cider, donuts, delectable baked goods from Red Barn Bakery, succulent preserves from Margie & Chuck.   The cheerful ladies from the NYU Herb Society were full of information, demystifying herbs for those who took advantage.
 
Our core of volunteers and staff, too numerous to count were fabulous and their help was greatly appreciated.  And it truly was a family affair—with Karen & Lisa at the helm, The Sabath boys playing music, Poppa & Laura manning the gate with Diane, Scott and Amy running the boutique, Liz & Andrew checking in, we are lucky to have such good-natured and helpful family.
 
The last of the sprinkles passed overhead and as the final visitors left, the tables and supplies packed away for another year, a rainbow appeared in the sky over the farm—I’d say that confirmed the day’s success, wouldn’t you?

-Lisa

The Cheese Conference

No sooner had I touched down from our Arctic adventure than I was off to Chi-town— the setting for the 25th American Cheese Society’s annual meeting.  Now for most people this is a non-starter but for me it’s the opposite—a jump start for my battery just about the time the mid-summer self-doubt kicks in. 

Reinvigorating
Working hard to keep milk quality high, managing the highly variable demand from customers, dealing with doubled feed cost and coping with the time required to be vertically integrated from milk to marketing are generally challenges that I thrive on, but by mid-summer, the kinks in the system have a way of getting me down.

But to be in a ballroom full of 800 people connected to cheesemaking is quite a kick.  To meet the ‘legends’ gets me jazzed.  To see familiar faces is a lot of fun.  To not stand out as a “what? A cheesemaker?” is comforting.

A few days of professional development and networking are invigorating.  Tonight’s program was ‘meet the cheesemaker’ and I worked the room to hunt out goat cheeses and their makers—I ran into a woman I went to a Cal Poly class with three years ago who is really making some wonderful cheese.  Some ‘old-timers’ are making some so-so cheese—and there are a handful of some really innovative cheese ideas that I found stimulating.

With the milk season about half over, I am happy to have gained a renewed view of how to approach the whole process with an idea of increased quality, improvements and innovation.  I’m already thinking about how I’ll do things next year—a big improvement over the melancholy thoughts I’ve been fighting off as recent batches of cheese randomly failed and cheese house staffing is in flux.

Soul Mate
My favorite conference attendee is Ricki Carrol of New England Cheesemaking.  It was Ricki’s Ashfield, MA workshop that I first sought out in March of 2002 before I picked up my first two milking does.  Her simple but complete intro to cheesemaking was a huge boost  to my book learning as I set my sights on becoming a cheesemaker (I highly recommend this to any food enthusiast). 

But it was more than the ABC’s of cheese—Ricki is the real deal, a cheesemaking soul mate who values the food ideals that led me to this in the first place.  Hearing her reminisce as a panelist during the conference’s opening session on “looking back” made me realize that the values then are still our values today—the difference may be that notions of ‘sustainability’, ‘knowing where your food comes from’ and ‘community’ are now more mainstream than belonging only to those who drop out.

Not Just the Big Producers
I don’t ask or take a lot from the ACS during the year but after seeing the retrospective film, I was humbled by the history and roots of the organization and appreciated being a member of this organization.  On the one hand it’s only 25 years old—just a babe in the scheme of things, but seemingly different today than at its origin with membership shifting to  a heavy ‘trade’ presence and large scale producers—maybe necessary for funding. On the other hand, there continues to be an influx of new, young cheesemakers which is encouraging.

Times change but stories resonate.  As cheesemakers share their stories of starting up 10 and 20 years ago, their tales of passion, persistence and poverty bring a smile to those who have followed in their shoes.  Thanks to those pioneers and early patrons, the path has been paved for many of us—with palettes and markets more receptive to new entries.  I had to laugh though as Alisson Hooper (VT Butter & Cheese) started her business with less money than the conference cost us to attend!

I took a well-deserved break after the evening session to walk the shoreline of Chicago, visit Millennium Park, enjoy the outdoor music and dance scene and slip into the Art Institute to pay tribute to American Gothic and other famous works before turning in.

The Competition’s Surprise
Day two was filled with more networking and breakout sessions.  I began to feel like I had my fill and should be heading home but changing my ticket was not an option.  So I stayed to listen to the awards from the judging and competition.  I learned that over 1100 individual entries from 181 members were competing in the various categories.  Points were awarded to each entry and 1st through 3rd prizes were point driven not comparative.  So it was possible to have multiple winners for any level and to have no awards given if it was not merited.  It quickly became clear that the large scale producers dominated the entries and the awards.  I was pleased to see some (newcomer) peers take awards.

Imagine my surprise when I heard Rainbeau Ridge called in a fresh goat cheese category!  I had one of those dream-like moments—‘did I really hear my name called?  what if it wasn’t and I’m halfway down the aisle?’  But it WAS real and it felt a whole lot cooler than I thought it would!  We had won an award for Meridien (click to read)! 

To be judged by the panel of experts on technical and aesthetic merits was somewhat intimidating—I’m looking forward to the detailed evaluations to help shape the future direction of our cheeses.  More importantly, I share the kudos with everyone on my team who helps care for our goats and milks our herd and helps in the cheese house.  And to my family, friends and customers who supported us through these early trials, in the absence of any award, it was these folks who made the effort worthwhile.

I’ve packed my bags and I’m ready to go.  Been away from the farm and cheese house for too long and am anxious to get back and get my hands dirty (so to speak).  I hope I can translate the lessons learned into better product and drive the reputation of Rainbeau Ridge even further.

New Year's Message

So there was going to be this clever version of The Night Before Christmas, modified to mirror life on the farm; a blog entitled Silent Night (and day) reflecting the new found quiet in the milk barn now that the goats are dry; alternatively I considered a mushy retrospective on the year.

In the end, the time has gotten away from me.  Instead of blogging, I‘ve been slogging --through mountains of 2007 paperwork and planning for the 2008 season.

But things warrant a time out—a pause from these tasks—long enough to say thanks to all who made 2007 such a wonderful year at Rainbeau Ridge.

To our friends, customers, vendors, kids, teachers, Farm Team, family, and others too numerous to name individually, we appreciate your continued support as we worked to expand our products and services in an effort to make sustainable living second nature(tm).

We saw our children’s programs, CAP program and cheese business expand significantly in 2007 and we are optimistic that 2008 will be even more successful.

We may face record cold during morning chores these days but the glossy covers of incoming seed catalogues give us hope.  We crack the ice out of the water buckets each morning but we’ve begun the countdown to kidding season and know that cheese production will be here before we could even forget the delectable taste that lingered on our palate at Thanksgiving.

We wish you a happy, healthy and prosperous New Year and hope you share our enthusiasm for the upcoming offerings we will bring to you this year.

-Lisa

Food Memories

There are a zillion reasons why I love food…but a very important motive is for all the memories that cooking and eating trigger.

For me, Thanksgiving is one big eating marathon.  Growing up, it was generally a holiday that involved seeing relatives whom I would only see annually.  Once past the obligatory jokes, cheek pinching and coat checking, the day was pretty boring.  Except—the food was fantastic—and the food rules (or lack thereof) were the best.  Shirley Temples, chopped liver, little hot dogs, nuts in the shell, olive trays—ok, not very Thanksgiving-ish—were my favorites.   I had to pass on the deviled eggs but they had their place on the hors d’oeuvres platter year after year.  We could stuff ourselves silly and not have to make excuses for why we weren’t eating the main course but managed to have room for dessert.  We even got to watch television—the parade of course—while eating.

As I stood in my kitchen today, preparing for family and friends, I moved quickly from one dish to the next, multi-tasking—cleaning, prepping, chopping, sautéing, frying—one after another, memories popped into my head.  Sometimes there was a direct connection, others seemed more remote.

The chopped liver and pigs in a blanket have been replaced by goat cheese and other contemporary foods. My menu is eclectic—not really traditional dishes but certainly traditional ingredients, made with a twist.  You will not find green beans, sweet potatoes sporting pineapple or marshmallows and I shy away from everything pureed (until dentures become a reality).  And of course, there are my kids’ favorites, regardless of whether they qualify for Turkey Day fare.

So as I made the ‘zippy tuna’, I was transported back to when my aunt & uncle would make this signature appetizer when we visited.  We couldn’t hold a family event without it and have adapted it somewhat to make it our own.  All my daughter has to do is say she’s coming home and zippy tuna appears on the menu.  Needless to say, I picked up the cell phone while prepping this and called her.  “do we use onions in our version?”— “No mom, but why not give it a shot.”   Didn’t matter what the answer was—just an excuse to connect.

The corn fritters, a new concoction and added to the hors d’oeuvres list as a nod to the ‘three sister medley’ reminded me of making latkes!  That triggered a quick call to my friend Lesley with whom I always share a knuckle grating story or two.

It was on to the wild rice dish, for our good friend and gluten free guest, Andre.  It happens to be an old Silver Palate recipe that was a notable favorite of my mother’s—unfortunately her untimely death just following Thanksgiving has made this food fav somewhat bittersweet.

By dinner time the day before Thanksgiving, (normally a no cook zone but a must cook because both kids were going to be home together for the first time in ages), I was whipping up their favorite Japanese meal.  As I ‘polished’ the sushi rice, I thought of my dear friend Kyoko and how much she taught me about Japanese cooking—not to mention her awesome meals.

By early afternoon on Thursday, the smells of roasting turkey mixed with freshly baked desserts wafted through the house.  Although some important people were not able to be with us, I was nevertheless floating above the scene, mulling over Thanksgivings past and contemplating those yet to come.  Free flowing associations of food , friends and family continued until the last dish was served—in fact until the last leftover was consumed. 

Adding to the personal side are Rainbeau Ridge’s cooking classes, I’m happy to report that we’re creating new food memories at the farm for our friends too.  My favorite these days has got to be the reports from our young cooks—kids in grades 4-6—making chutneys, pumpkin fudge and apple bread pudding at home for their families.  I couldn’t be happier that these young people are actively involved in the holiday food prep and with what will ultimately be recollections of their early cooking careers.

From now until New Year’s, there will undoubtedly be tons more culinary efforts that will be filed away in the family scrapbooks—whether we’re a piece of it our not, just knowing that food is such an important piece of our collective memories—makes me smile to be in small some way a piece of the ‘pie’.