Foodlore Library
For those displaced by job loss, get rooted again with these ideas from wildcrafting to cooking with rhubarb (Original post on Slow Food Waltz)
One of the fallouts of this economic recession-- I'm discovering first-hand-- is a sense of displacement. Job loss means redefining how an occupation plays into your sense of belonging to a place.
I spent a week in Bend, Oregon searching for "real" food and discovered what I think is one of the region's food gems: "real" milk: pasture-fed, unprocessed and full-fat milk produced by purebred jersey cows from Central Oregon Jersey Farm. Billy Sieburg, the dairyman there, sells milk to people who come to the farm in La Pine and delivers the milk to CSA's in Redmond and Bend.
I'm walking through the rainy streets of downtown Portland in search of an Irish pub.
7 O'Clock At Biddy McGraws
6000 NE Glisan, Portland
www.biddymcgraws.com
Is it a pint of Guinness I’m after? Nope — I don't imbibe. As a food writer, I've sat at many tables with friends and other writers, tables that are bedecked with rich, heady liquors: drinks which I admit, are strangers to me. I never drink. I'm a devout Mormon, a member of a faith who encourages its people to abstain from alcohol. So, as always, I'm pub hopping stone cold sober.
…especially when the photos are old!
Farm boys eating ice-cream cones: Washington, Indiana. July 1941.
It's out, my secret love is really a Breton pastry from a bakery called Les Madeleines in Salt Lake City. The Kouing-Aman is a study in opposites: crunchy, chewy; dense, light; caramelly sweet and salty- easy on the eye and delicious in the mouth! Romina Rasmussen created this pastry and says it was an “overnight success.” She started making the goodie (bringing it to hungry Utahns) after admiring its beauty in a magazine article. www.les-madeleines.com
This fall, my roommate and I decided to harvest prickly pear fruit and make syrup. October is one of the best times to hike in the desert. It's cooler out and the trees in the valley are a kaleidoscope of fall colors.
Here's the location of the pricky pears we collected.
Here's one of the fruits I plucked from the cacti.
(This story is written by my friend Penny about her adventures in motherhood and cooking while living on a ranch in Montana.)
I come from a long line of cookbook collectors. My mother hordes collections of recipes for vegan casseroles and impossibly complex bread recipes, while I prefer tomes filled with creative soups and classic Italian sauces. My grandmother, however, takes collecting to a whole new level. Reorganizing her bookshelves not long ago, I discovered no less than six editions of The Joy of Cooking, most of them with cracked bindings and food-splattered pages, evidence of years of good use in her steamy, yellow-walled kitchen.
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