The lemon is underneath the cherries

This floated into the kitchen because Jan 23 was National Pie Day*, an event that got a surprising amount of  PR, given that every day is pie day in most people’s estimations. It’s probably because good pie is still – compared to say, macarons  – in woefully short supply.

Ok. Deciding to bake a pie was easy. Deciding what kind of pie to bake was not, fresh local fruit also being in short supply in the Northeast just now. We’ve gone through all the frozen berries already; we’re eating too much winter squash to make pumpkin appealing, and while apple might seem obvious, it’s not if you breakfast on baked apples with yogurt pretty much every mortal day of the winter.

But then I remembered I had a whole bag of Meyer lemons in the cold room, bought on impulse simply because I was so delighted to see them. Very seasonal. Especially made into Shaker lemon pie, which by containing the whole fruit and getting baked between two crusts seems better suited to cold weather than lemon meringue, even if custard is a major player.

And yet, and yet… “cherry” is surely pie’s first name if “apple” is rejected. And since cherry is almost always made with canned fruit there’s no seasonality problem.

I dithered back and forth for a while, then came down on the side of lemon. Completed the first step – thinly slicing the lemons, mixing them with a LOT of sugar and letting them sit for a day to soften and mellow.

Then I got worried. The sugar didn’t draw enough lemon juice to completely dissolve and the visible bits of lemon peeking through the syrup-rivuletted pile of white crystals looked seriously lonely. I tasted the mixture and found it wasn’t notably over sweet, but doubts remained. And as there happened to be a can of cherries in the store closet….Genius! If I do say so myself.

Cut to Bill and me, standing in the kitchen enjoying. I allow as to how I’d better give at least half of it away as soon as possible, to avoid will power problems. (There are just the two of us and neither is slender.) His reply? “Don’t you dare!!”

Shaker Lemon and Cherry Pie

The lemon filling ingredients are more or less universal, but discarding the pithy end pieces is a nicety that comes from Ruth Levy Berenbaum’s excellent Pie and Pastry Bible. Shaker lemon pie has a closed crust; cherry is traditionally lattice. I compromised by making the lattice a bit tighter than usual.  A closed crust will work just as well.

For a 10 inch pie:

2 large lemons – Meyer are widely recommended for their less acid flavor, but I doubt the Shakers had them and the difference is pretty petitie.

2c. sugar

¼ tsp. salt

1 14.5 oz. can pitted sour cherries in water

1 tbl. minute tapioca

pastry for a 2 crust pie (easy recipe here)

5 eggs

1. Freeze the lemons for an hour or so to firm up. Grate the zest from each end into a medium sized non-reactive bowl, then cut fruit in half the long way. Cut off and discard the flesh-free ends, then slice the rest very thinly. Working over the bowl, remove seeds and drop the slices in. Stir in the sugar and salt and set aside covered at room temperature for a day.

2. Roll pastry between sheets of waxed paper into 2 roughly 11 inch rounds. Stack the waxed paper sandwiches on a baking sheet and refrigerate for 1 to 4 hours.

3. Drain the cherries into a small saucepan and reserve. In a small cup, mix 2 tbl. of the juice with the tapioca and set aside. Boil the juice until reduced by about a third, then turn the heat to medium low. Loosen the tapioca mixture with a bit of the hot liquid, then stir it in. Cook, stirring, until the liquid is thick and translucent. This will happen quickly and there will probably still be white dots of tapioca. Not to worry. Stir in the cherries and let cool completely.

4. Put a rack in the lower third of the oven, put a baking stone on it and heat the oven to 450. (I thought I had invented this – see Crisp Crust Maple Walnut Pie -  but as usual with recipes, no such thing. Ms. B. was well ahead of me and I’m sure she’s not the only one.) Give it a half hour or so to be sure the stone is thoroughly heated.

5. While the oven is heating, fit one crust into a pyrex pie plate. Separate an egg, adding the yolk to the lemon mixture. Beat the white just until thin and fluid, then paint the inside of the pie shell with it. Set aside in a cool place that is not the refrigerator. (If you’re going for the lattice top, prefabricate it on a sheet of waxed paper and chill until needed.)

6. Beat the remaining eggs into the lemon mixture. When the oven is hot, pour it into the crust and top with the cherries. They will be gloppy; it’s best to use your hands. Apply the top crust and cut some slashes in it if you’re not using the lattice. Crimp the edges.

7. Bake for 12 minutes, then lower heat to 350 and bake until bottom/side crust is well browned and top is golden, anywhere from a half hour to an hour more. Be ready to protect the rim so it doesn’t burn. The custard will of course be cooked long before the crust. Doesn’t matter; it’s so sweet and acid the eggs don’t toughen or separate. Cool completely before cutting.

Next time I make it I’ll probably double the cherries, which will not only boost their taste but also raise the top crust a little bit so it browns faster. The obvious alternative, crustwise, is a 9 inch pie, but the filling flavor is so intense it needs a lot of crust for balance.

* Concerning National Pie Day

It’s a brainchild of the National Pie Council, which I’m sure to no one’s surprise appears to be primarily a promotional vehicle for Crisco.

National pi day (March 14, because that’s 3/14) is also a great excuse to bake one but other than that an altogether different kettle of pi. It’s been going since 1988 and was originally created by a physicist named Larry Shaw, who was working at the San Francisco Exploratorium when he came up with the idea.

from the wikipedia entry on pi day, which also includes this -

I love it! - portrait of Larry Shaw, the Prince of Pi

My take on King Cake, seasoned with thyme and marjoram, liberally studded with Gruyere, sprinkled with Parmesan instead of sugar but maybe next year I'll dye the cheese in the classic icing colors: green, yellow and purple

The classic King Cake of carnival season has many variations: coffee cake-ish, briochelike, or based on puff pastry. It may or may not include embellishments like candied fruit, frangipane, and colored icing. It may even be chocolate with coconut. But one thing will be for sure: it’ll be sweet.

Not around here. At this time of year I’m still recovering from the holiday cookie binge, and the idea of more of the same doesn’t hold much of a thrill. Yet I’ve always loved the idea of the thing, so our traditional King Cake is basically cheese studded brioche. Traditional tradition is honored in the ring shape and in the hidden token whose finder is the King.

Being King has its downside; it usually means you have to provide the next cake or throw the next party, which may come as soon as next week. (See the Wikipedia entry for an extensive exegesis of King Cake in its many, many manifestations.)

Savory King Cake

This recipe makes two roughly 10 inch rings because one very large one doesn’t always cook quickly enough. If you don’t need two you can freeze one and have it handy in case you wind up being King next time. It’s very simple and quick to make as far as working time goes. Just be sure to allow for the overnight cool rise.

What a difference an oven makes. I have two in my vintage stove, ovens in which these cakes were baked at the (theoretically) same temperature for the same amount of time. The paler one was in the little oven, the darker one in the bigger oven which I know full well runs hot and try to compensate for.

½ c. lukewarm water

1 tbl. dry yeast

1 egg

3 egg yolks

grated zest of 1 large lemon

3/4 tsp. dried thyme, crumbled

scant ½ tsp. dried marjoram, crumbled

1 tsp. salt

1 c. light cream or half and half

4-5 c. bread flour

4 oz. softened butter

6 oz. Gruyere or other nutty flavored hard cheese, cut into ¼ inch cubes

(1/2 c. chopped duck cracklings or crisp bacon, optional)

2 large dried beans, figurines or, so nobody breaks a tooth, large garlic cloves

1 c. coarsely chopped raw cashews, spread on a plate

1 egg, beaten with

1 tsp. lemon juice

Parmesan

coarse salt

1. Put the water in a large mixing bowl –  a stand mixer is ideal – sprinkle on the yeast and let it sit 10 minutes or so to foam. When it’s bubbly, whisk in everything else up to the flour.

2. Let the mixture sit a moment, then whisk in 2 cups of the flour, 1 cup at a time.

3. Add the butter. Switch to a paddle or wooden spoon and work it in completely, then work in enough additional flour to make a very soft, still sticky dough. This may take anywhere from 1 to 2 cups, depending on the size of the eggs, the moisture content of the butter and placement of constellations in the heavens above. The dough is ready as soon as it (more or less) leaves the sides of the bowl.

4. Scrape the dough into a rough ball, cover the bowl with plastic wrap or a damp tea towel and set it aside in a warm place until doubled, about 1.5 hours.

5. Turn the dough out on a lightly floured board and sparingly, a little at a time, knead in enough additional flour to make a smooth soft dough that is not sticky. Put it in a clean bowl, cover tightly and refrigerate overnight or up to 24 hours.

6. Punch down the dough; turn it onto a very lightly floured work surface and let it relax, covered, for ten minutes or so. Roll it out about ¼ inch thick, scatter on the cheese dice (and meat) and press them in. Roll up tightly like a jelly roll; fold into a ball, knead to further distribute the lumps and again let rest, covered, for about 10 minutes.

7. Divide the dough in half. Roll one half into a snake about 18 inches long, then coil it into a ring, pinching and pressing to join the ends firmly. Insert a token (from the underside) and press the ring firmly into the cashews to embed them in the base. Transfer to a lightly greased or parchment covered baking sheet. If you have room to bake two rings at once, repeat with the other half of the dough. If not, cover the other half, set aside in a cool place, then shape it when the first half goes into the oven.

8. Lightly cover the ring(s) with plastic wrap or a damp tea towel and let rise to not quite double, 1 to 1.5 hours. Heat the oven to 375.

9. Brush the ring(s) with the egg wash, grate on a liberal dusting of Parmesan and sprinkle sparingly with the salt. Bake until risen and well browned, half an hour to 45 minutes. It’s done at 190 degrees internal temperature (let’s hear it for instant read thermometers!), so start checking after a half hour. Cool on a rack and serve in thin slices.

The cheese coated holes make the cake seem light, but it's still tastiest to keep the slices on the thin side.

Concerning Recipes.

This bread in cake’s clothing is from one of my Good Food columns, now lost somewhere deep in history. I have the recipe only because I used it in The Modern Country Cook, itself now somewhat historical, having come out in 1991. The ingredients haven’t changed much but the instructions are a lot more streamlined.

I haven’t done any research but wouldn’t be at all surprised to learn this paring down is happening all over. For instance:

I’m currently in the middle of making a sort of bastard* Cassoulet, and as this is something I seldom do I turned for guidance to The Food of South-West France, by Paula Wolfert, a wonderful book when it came out (1983) and still a model of its kind.

Its kind is extremely thorough, however, so I also checked around elsewhere. Most of the elsewhere in my bookshelf was either equally thorough or not thorough enough, but when I looked again, there was Paula Wolfert’s World of Food (1988).

The Cassoulet recipe in that one is slightly shorter and easier to follow-while-modifying. Down it went to the kitchen. Then today (this is one of those recipes that takes at least 2 days and can easily be stretched out even longer) I was standing here at the computer trying to avoid work…

First recipe to pop up? Paula Wolfert’s, this time from Food and Wine Magazine in 2005. Considerably less involved, though still a bit of a production, and that’s the one down in the kitchen at the moment.

*Bastard may be a bit strong, this batch does involve multiple cookings and multiple meats (including plenty of duck confit), so perhaps it’s as legitimate as any named for someplace in the French countryside. To quote Elizabeth David:

“The Cassoulet is a dish which may be infinitely varied so long as it is not made into a mockery with a sausage or two heated up with tinned beans, or with all sorts of bits of left-over chicken or goodness knows what thrown into it as if it were a dustbin.” (French Provincial Cooking, 1960. Of course I looked. Are you kidding?)

Our holiday tree, 2011, aka the top of the former arborvitae. There’s a bucket of water inside the pedestal.

Putting it up was extremely easy; taking it down wasn’t much  harder and now we have the same pile of long branches anyone with a regular tree will have as soon as they saw them from the trunk, first step in successful home recycling.

Some will argue deconstruction is unnecessary; you can simply recycle the tree by setting it up outdoors, replacing the human-centric ornaments with items of interest to birds: cut oranges, a feeder or two, that cute bell made from suet and encrusted with seeds you got from the office gift-swap.

Well, yes, but myself I’d rather use cut boughs to mulch the perennial beds, evergreen boughs being just about ideal for this purpose: They hold in the cold without matting down and they’re quick and easy to remove in spring without harming tender emerging shoots.

That’s right, hold in the cold. There are some instances where the object is to hold in warmth – such as when you’re trying to protect the fig tree.

Wrapped fig tree surrounded by bagged leaves, further insulated by a large pile of hemlock boughs

But most of the time what the mulch is doing is keeping the surface frozen, so you don’t get repeated thaws and freezes between January and April. “Frost heave” doesn’t just happen to roadbeds. Even when plants stay put, delicate feeder roots right near the surface are often damaged by soil that expands and contracts like an accordion.

The beds in Maine take a lot of boughs, so each year Kristi goes scavenging right about now, looking for raw material. Being well out in the country, she has to work at it. But in towns that offer municipal pick up there’s a bounty of useful material conveniently located right next to the curb.

Alternate use for evergreen branches: back door decor. Former “tree” makes a good anchor; saved up shrub and hedge prunings add variety.

Beds already all cozy – or non-existent? Consider the outdoor arrangement. In cold climates cut evergreens will stay fresh looking right through the entire Carnival season (Epiphany to Mardi Gras).

Added benefit of tree-in-tall pot: this is actually the first tree we’ve had in several years, feline depredations having finally discouraged me from even trying. But it looks like a combination of cat maturity and – comparative – tree inaccessibility is a winning one.

It's not that he COULDN'T jump; even fat as he is that's an easy distance. But as long as nothing moves he's not that interested.

The decorated dark ones are gingerbread; pale stars are sugar cookies. Little round coconut covered jobs are rum balls; crescents are vanilla crescents (known as Moth cookies in our family). Round ones in the back are two kinds of jumbles and the dark rounds in the middle are Mexican chocolate chocolate chip.

I expect to discuss the Christmas Ham in the very near future, and may also pony up a picture of The Tree.

But first, even without cues from the weather, little miss knee jerk has responded to the usual stimulae in the usual fashion. Five or six pounds of butter, along with a similar weight of nuts but vastly less sugar  -  one of the reasons home made cookies taste so much better than store bought -  have already been put to use and I can tell there’s more to come.

The recipe for the gingerbread is here; rum balls are here and vanilla crescents here. The jumbles are David Schama’s Jumbles, via Rose Levy Berenbaum. The dark ones are the original (almonds, pecans, bittersweet chocolate and raisin);  the  pale ones are  pistachio, white chocolate and apricot.  Recipe is at the end of this post, where there are also recipes for Bill’s favorite spritz and my favorite pffernuesse and a link to James Beard’s Let’s Sugar Cookies, the recipe I use -  with a little less sugar and a little more mace..

I told you I wasn’t finished yet.

Mexican Chocolate Chocolate Chip Refrigerator Cookies

The Mexican part is cinnamon and almonds; there is no hot pepper. (If after all the recent overuse that combo’s still ringing your bell, I’m sure you could add a bit.) Be warned that these are crisp cookies. They have only the chips in common with the kind of “chocolate chip cookies” the phrase brings to mind, and if you use chocolate without emulsifiers they won’t even have that.

For about 40 cookies:

1 ¼ c. all purpose flour

3 tbl. cocoa

1 tsp. cinnamon

¼ tsp. clove

(a generous pinch of salt if you’re using unsalted butter)

4 oz. butter, malleable but not squishy

¾ c. sugar

1 egg

2 tsp. vanilla extract

½ c. small chips of bittersweet chocolate*

½ – ¾ c. finely chopped almonds

1. In a small bowl, stir flour, cocoa, spices (and salt if using) with a wire whisk until they’re well combined. Set aside.

2. Cream the butter and sugar; beat in the egg and vanilla; then stir in the flour mixture and lastly the chips.

3. The dough will be soft, but firm enough to form into rolls. If it isn’t, chill just long enough to shape. Set the almonds out on a plate. Divide dough in half.

4. Shape each half into a roll about 1 ½ ” in  diameter and roll in the almonds, pressing to embed them. Wrap the rolls tightly in plastic wrap and refrigerate overnight or up to 3 days. The rolls freeze well for longer storage if wrapped again in something more protective.

5. At baking time, heat oven to 350. Cut rolls into slices about  3/8ths inch thick and put the slices about an inch apart on parchment lined baking sheets. Bake just until a broken cookie looks dry inside, 10 to 12 minutes or more depending on your oven. If the first broken cookie isn’t done, leave it on the sheet and break one of the halves for the next check.

6. Let cool a moment on the sheets, then transfer to a rack. Cookies will be soft when removed from the oven and become crisp on cooling.

* Chopped up high-end candy bar is fine. The chocolate chips I use are the little drops of  Michel Cluizel couverture Kayambe Noir (72%) sold by Chocosphere.

 A Note about the Jumbles:

Using chopped white chocolate (in this case Caillebaut) and apricots instead of bittersweet and raisins yields a very different texture because the fat melts out of the chocolate and the apricots don’t absorb as much moisture as raisins do. Result is a richer, crisper, flatter cookie.

If you want cookies with white chocolate chips to stand up, either cut the butter or up the flour.

Holiday chocolate cookie-candies, everything easy except what to call them.

These classic holiday goodies are almost perfect: Only one (processor) bowl to wash; no cooking; deeply chocolate flavored without calling for obscene amounts of expensive high-end chocolate. Very simple to form and they keep for a long time. Just one small problem: their name.

You can’t really call them Hooch-soaked Crumbs with Chocolate and Nuts, but Bourbon, Rum or Brandy Balls doesn’t exactly do the job either. Maybe they should be called Poor Man’s Truffles. Please consider this an invitation, all suggestions cheerfully considered.

What we need is something that says Small, Rich, Alcoholic* and Chocolate, without getting any more specific. After deliciousness, lack of specificity is the distinguishing merit of let’s temporarily call them SRAC’s; they’re the pasta casserole of cookies. You can make them out of almost any dry sweet you happen to have around.

In our house, that’s sometimes leftover cake, reduced to crumbs and dried in a low oven. But it’s more likely to be cookies, either from a new recipe that was tried and found wanting or from the store closet, where there are always ladyfingers in case of emergencies.  As long as the nutmeats are soft and the crumbs are on the dry side, success is guaranteed.

The many recipes I’ve seen all call for set amounts and ingredients. The one that requires 2 tbl. cocoa or a few ounces of melted chocolate to 3 or 3.5 cups of some combo of vanilla wafers, confectioners sugar and pecans is common almost to the point of universality, but anything with this sort of exact measurement strikes me as… I don’t want to say ridiculous, but certainly the kind of overkill that makes perfectly capable people think they can’t cook.

So, in the spirit of public service, here’s the “recipe” as I feel it should be, a liberator of individual creativity (and user-up of leftovers). Good any time but especially welcome in the season of maximum painstaking baking.

SRACS

(small, rich, alcoholic, chocolate cookies)

1. Round up the stuff you’re going to use, inspired but not limited by the Possible Ingredient list that follows.

2. Grind the crumb item in a processor along with a small pinch of salt. Eyeball volume. Add from ½ to the same volume of coarsely chopped nuts and grind until the mixture is very fine. It may start to clump up at this stage.

3. Grind in @ 1 tbl. of cocoa per cup of material, then whirl in a few drops of syrup, @ 1 tsp. per cup.

4. One or two tablespoons at a time, depending on the quantity and desiccation of the crumbs, add flavorful alcohol. Stop when the mixture starts to coalesce into a mass. Go away and do something else for an hour or so.

5. Test the mixture for texture and taste. It should be claylike, soft but not sticky or greasy. Adjust, adding more of something absorbent if it’s oily or soggy, something liquid or semi-liquid if it doesn’t hold together. If the taste is all that wants adjustment, start by adding the salt if you thought you didn’t need it, then add small amounts of absorbent and liquid alternately.

6. Decide if you want to coat the cookies with something that must be applied right away (option b). If so,  set out the something in a shallow bowl. Otherwise, just roll the mixture between your palms into 1-inch balls and set them aside.

Possible ingredients

Absorbent crumbs:

• Almost any plain cake. Trimmings from something that needed neatening are obvious candidates (assuming you prudently put them in the freezer), but leftover layer cake freed from the icing works fine too. Crumble and dry out before proceeding.
• Purchased or home made plain cookies. Vanilla wafers are traditional, but my favorite ready-made is Savoiardi, the Italian-style ladyfingers widely sold to be used in tiramisu. Nabisco Famous Chocolate wafers up the chocolate quotient; anise biscotti,  Graham crackers and similar add their own unique flavors. Avoid shortbread, which winds up too greasy and of course anything filled with goo (a little jam will just mix in, eventually).

Absorbent non-crumbs:

• Cocoa
• Confectioners sugar

Semi-dry, aka soft oily nuts. I like them lightly toasted:

• Pecans
• Walnuts
• Macadamia nuts

Semi-liquid, aka syrup:

• Light corn syrup
• Honey
• Maple syrup
• Golden Syrup
• Molasses (good with gingersnap crumbs)

Liquid:

• Whiskey
• Bourbon
• Brandy/Cognac/Armagnac/Calvados
• Rum
• White fruit brandies, i.e. kirsch or slivovitz
• Cautions: Cordials like triple sec, amaretto and such are very sweet and a bit overwhelming in this context. Scotch is pretty strongly a personal taste; I like drinking it but don’t care for it in these cookies. If you try it; come to the same conclusion and don’t want to waste the material, try adding a good shot of finely ground black pepper.

Coatings:

• a) Easy: These come out dry enough to pick up without getting chocolate all over your fingers, so the easiest coating is none at all. But in the usual way of chocolate pastes they don’t look particularly appetizing.
• b) Second easiest: Roll as soon as formed in cocoa, coarse sugar or powdered sugar.
• c) Still pretty simple, but now in two steps because anything with genuine texture won’t adhere: Some time within a day of forming, beat an egg white until foamy. One at a time, dip balls, scraping excess against the side of the bowl, and roll in chopped nutmeats, toasted coconut, finely chopped semisweet or white chocolate. Dry on racks. Repeat if desired for heavier coating
• d) Not easy, but not difficult if you’re willing to go for the matte home made look rather than shiny chocolatier perfection. As long as the chocolate doesn’t overheat, it won’t streak white when it sets, and I think the texture contrast that makes hard coated soft truffles such winners is worth the extra bother:

1. Chop enough semi-sweet chocolate to equal at least  a cup or use disks of couverture. (This is enough to coat about 20 1-inch balls, and about the smallest amount it’s easy to melt properly. Any that’s left over can be reused, either re-melted or chopped.)

2. Put the chocolate in a shallow bowl and microwave at low power in 30 second installments, stirring after each. Stop when the chocolate is no more than 2/3 melted. Stir until all is melted and smooth, then perch the bowl over a pan of warm but not hot water; goal is to keep it fluid without reheating it. Sweet spot is 85-90 degrees, but since you’re not really tempering the chocolate, you don’t need to worry about using a thermometer.

3. Set out a rack. Turn off the phone. Dollop a large puddle of chocolate into your left palm (or right, if you’re a leftie). Using the other hand, drop in a ball, roll it to cover, scrape excess against the edge of your hand and put the ball on the rack. Repeat.

Don’t try to use all the chocolate in your hand before adding more; body heat is warm enough to make the chocolate too hot.

See, not as messy as it sounds like.

* If you want to avoid alcohol you could probably use strong brewed coffee or orange juice, but I have to confess I’ve never tried it.

A genuine heirloom (i.e. passed down through generations) turkey: my mother’s gravy boat. It has a matching ceramic ladle that broke about 15 years ago and has been in storage awaiting repair ever since. This speaks equally to my tendency to procrastinate and to the fact that said ladle, while cute, does not hold enough gravy to be practical.

In the edible bird department, some givens, about which more below:

1.) Like the proverbial yacht, if you have to ask how much a heritage turkey costs you probably can’t afford it.

2.) Buying a heritage turkey helps keep an endangered gene pool robust, so you get preservation points as well as a delicious dinner (assuming you cook it correctly).

I’m not in the yachting class and am already convinced on the deliciousness front, but I’m cooking two turkeys this year anyway, just for the sake of comparison.

One is a heritage bird from a farm about a half hour north of here, the other is an “organic, free range heirloom,” imported from Pennsylvania (about 5 hours south of here) by a specialty grocery. Although I haven’t cooked them yet, some things are already clear.

Those who simply want kitchen tips can go immediately to Roast Turkey 101.2 for general cooking hints and a recipe for wild mushroom stuffing. Guidance that’s specific to heritage birds is in the second part of  Wild Turkeys, Thanks But No Thanks. 

Otherwise, onward, with background research help from: My friend Ilana the egg lady at Blue Moon Farm;  her friend – and now mine – Maryann Hegel, at Freedom Farms, where I attended a turkey harvest last Saturday;  and Peter Davies and Mark Sherzer, co-owners of Turkana Farms LLC. (Mark’s a lawyer), where I bought my heritage bird.

1.)Why They Cost So Much

Just how much varies quite a bit, but a heritage bird (probably but not definitionally raised on organic principles) will cost somewhere around three times as much as a USDA Certified Organic conventional bird, which will in turn cost roughly twice as much as the supermarket standard. This is because:

* Right at the start, baby heritage chicks (poults) cost the farmer twice as much as conventional chicks. It is in the nature of turkey raising to lose at least a few poults in the first week or so, so right away the heritage grower is out of pocket at twice the going rate.

* Whatever their individual merits, all of the many heritage breeds take roughly twice as long as the agribusiness standard to make market size. During this extended period, those birds that survive childhood are eating more and more and more, all the while requiring protection from predators and an assortment of other regular attentions.

*Heritage  market size is @ 8 – 24 lbs, compared to conventional’s 10 – 40 lbs. or more, so fixed costs like shelter and care are higher on a per-pound basis.

* Most growers of heritage turkeys are small to tiny fry as the turkey biz goes. They can’t buy feed grain in cost-saving quantities and they don’t sell enough birds to recoup the cost of proper on-farm slaughter facilities. There aren’t many inspected slaughterhouses willing to accept small orders; those that do charge a lot for their services and of course the turkeys must be transported to and from.

2.) Doing Your Bit for Conservation

Almost all – maybe 97 percent – of the commercial turkeys in the US belong to one breed: the Broad Breasted White, a miracle of efficient feed conversion that otherwise has very little to recommend it, being both profoundly handicapped and not especially tasty. Then another percent or two are Broad Breasted Bronze, immediate progenitor of the whites and not a whole lot better in either regard.

But even if the Broad Breasted’s were models of animal health and gastronomic delight, confining an entire domestic species to a single very narrow gene pool is orders of magnitude not smart.

Alternative turkeys: a couple of closely related heritage breeds: New Jersey Buff hen, Bourbon Red tom, photographed at Blue Moon Farm

As I see it, you could save money and still help out by donating a less-big chunk to a worthy organization like the American Livestock Breeds Conservancy , but that’s a lot less fun. You can’t serve a thank you letter for Thanksgiving dinner – and you don’t get the extra bang-for-buck of helping a nearby farmer stay in business.

Genuine heritage birds (Chocolate Slate) on left; psuedo-heritage bird (Broad Breasted Bronze), delivered to Freedom Farms by mistake but raised as carefully as his cousins.

One minor irritation: Organizations like The Heritage Turkey Foundation and Slow Food and many individual suppliers wax lyrical about the particular merits of Bourbon Reds and Narragansetts, Chocolate Slates and Royal Palms, but can you order them by name? Probably, somewhere, but everywhere I looked “heritage” was the extent of the guarantee.

Obviously, this gives the growers maximum wiggle room to hedge their bets with assorted breeds and then deliver whatever does best in a given year, but I think it may also be because so many of them buy day old poults, rather than breeding their own, and they’re buying from hatcheries that are willing to sell a relatively small number – tens and hundreds, rather than thousands – of birds.

The catalogues from such places are closely related to seed catalogues when it comes to enticement. This breed is gorgeous, that one is especially sociable, this other is teetering on the brink of extinction. If you’re not breeding your own, you have no incentive to stick to just one when browsing in the candy store.

Unfortunately, if you’re not slaughtering your own you have no way to keep them separate for marketing purposes. They leave the farm as distinct as can be, but they come back headless, footless and featherless, looking pretty much the same.

That said

There’s no mistaking the difference between heritage (above) and not (below).

The fat bird on the bottom is the one imported from PA. It is a Broad Breasted Bronze. It is not, however, the same as these

A couple of the standard issue Broad Breasted Bronze turkeys that landed by accident at Freedom Farms.

When I ordered the commercial turkey I was just trying to compare Broad Breasted Modern with Heritage, but it turns out (after a bit of googling) that the bird I got is probably an Orlopp Bronze, a protected hybrid of a hybrid, created by Hendrix Genetics, a huge multinational major player in livestock breeding.

None of this means it won’t be delicious, and none of it necessarily means it has genes not normally found in turkeys. (Can’t say for sure about that part since although it was supposed to be organic, it wasn’t) But in any case this does suggest that “new and improved” might be a more accurate description than “heirloom”.

My oven is orders of magnitude too small for me to cook them at the same time;  the largest contingent of leftover eaters will be here on Friday, and by me the whole reason to have Thanksgiving is in order to have stuffing that has indeed been stuffed into the bird.* So I’ll be cooking the BBB on Thursday and the Heritage (which will come out better if cooked unstuffed) on Friday.

Stay tuned for a comparison based on the cold leftovers, which can be tasted side by side.

Might as well give it a shot, even though it’s actually apples and oranges. The conventional bird, while theoretically raised humanely and given plenty of room to roam, was actually neither, as far as I can tell from a bit of internetly drilling down. It did get far better treatment than anything raised for the mass market, but that’s not saying much.

Maryann may be the one who’s had the best chance to really see. She didn’t cook two birds side by side, but she did cook one of the accidental  Broad Breasts she raised side by side with her Chocolate Slates. The verdict? “It was absolutely delicious.”

Her guests said they liked last year’s heritage bird a little better, but it sounds to me as though (not surprisingly) nurture matters as much as nature if you’re talking strictly about table quality.

Before we met, Bill raised BBB’s for a few years, not de-beaking or clipping their wings, letting them roam freely and all the heritage usual, and he says they were far and away the best turkeys he’s ever eaten.

Update: When Bill read this last night he denied the BBB part. I thought he’d gotten his original birds from the local Agway, which even 40 years ago would have meant the Bronze turkeys he’s raved about all these years would have been BBB’s. But I seem to have misunderstood. He traded with a farmer friend – some rabbits for the turkey poults – and as he also got a Royal Palm or two and a Bourbon Red, his Bronzes – all of which flew with no problems, one of which mated with a wild turkey, were probably every bit as heritage as any in this story.

* See The Food Lab at Serious Eats for an interesting suggestion about preventing the “stuffed bird doesn’t cook through fast enough” problem. Short version is you put the stuffing in a cheesecloth bag and get it good and hot before you put it in the turkey.

____________________________________________________________________________________

 The American Livestock Breeds Conservancy Definition of a Heritage Turkey

“All domesticated turkeys descend from wild turkeys indigenous to North and South America. They are the quintessential American poultry. For centuries people have raised turkeys for food and for the joy of having them.

Many different varieties have been developed to fit different purposes. Turkeys were selected for productivity and for specific color patterns to show off the bird’s beauty. The American Poultry Association (APA) lists eight varieties of turkeys in its Standard of Perfection. Most were accepted into the Standard in the last half of the 19th century, with a few more recent additions. They are Black, Bronze, Narragansett, White Holland, Slate, Bourbon Red, Beltsville Small White, and Royal Palm. The American Livestock Breeds Conservancy also recognizes other naturally mating color varieties that have not been accepted into the APA Standard, such as the Jersey Buff, White Midget, and others.  All of these varieties are Heritage Turkeys.

Heritage turkeys are defined by the historic, range-based production system in which they are raised. Turkeys must meet all of the following criteria to qualify as a Heritage turkey:

Naturally mating: the Heritage Turkey must be reproduced and genetically maintained through natural mating, with expected fertility rates of 70-80%.

Long productive lifespan: the Heritage Turkey must have a long productive lifespan. Breeding hens are commonly productive for 5-7 years and breeding toms for 3-5 years.

Slow growth rate: the Heritage Turkey must have a slow to moderate rate of growth. Today’s heritage turkeys reach a marketable weight in 26 – 28 weeks, giving the birds time to develop a strong skeletal structure and healthy organs prior to building muscle mass. This growth rate is identical to that of the commercial varieties of the first half of the 20th century.

Beginning in the mid-1920s and extending into the 1950s turkeys were selected for larger size and greater breast width, which resulted in the development of the Broad Breasted Bronze. In the 1950s, poultry processors began to seek broad breasted turkeys with less visible pinfeathers, as the dark pinfeathers, which remained in the dressed bird, were considered unattractive. By the 1960s the Large or Broad Breasted White had been developed, and soon surpassed the Broad Breasted Bronze in the marketplace.

Today’s commercial turkey is selected to efficiently produce meat at the lowest possible cost. It is an excellent converter of feed to breast meat, but the result of this improvement is a loss of the bird’s ability to successfully mate and produce fertile eggs without intervention. Both the Broad Breasted White and the Broad Breasted Bronze turkey require artificial insemination to produce fertile eggs.

Interestingly, the turkey known as the Broad Breasted Bronze in the early 1930s through the late 1950s is nearly identical to today’s Heritage Bronze turkey – both being naturally mating, productive, long-lived, and requiring 26-28 weeks to reach market weight. This early Broad Breasted Bronze is very different from the modern turkey of the same name. The Broad Breasted turkey of today has traits that fit modern, genetically controlled, intensively managed, efficiency-driven farming. While superb at their job, modern Broad Breasted Bronze and Broad Breasted White turkeys are not Heritage Turkeys. Only naturally mating turkeys meeting all of the above criteria are Heritage Turkeys.

Prepared by Frank Reese, owner & breeder, Good Shepherd Farm; Marjorie Bender, Research & Technical Program Manager, American Livestock Breeds Conservancy; Dr. Cal Larson, Professor Emeritus, Poultry Science, Virginia Tech; Jeff May, Regional Manager & Feed Specialist, Dawes Laboratories; Danny Williamson, farmer and turkey breeder, Windmill Farm; Paula Johnson, turkey breeder, and Steve Pope, Promotion & Chef, Good Shepherd Farm.

______________________________________________________________________________________

Blue Moon Farm photo by Ilana Nilsen

Their backs turned to us: no problem. Our backs turned to them: catastrophe!

At this point, most people are at least dimly aware that it ain’t about the honey. Honey bees (Apis mellifera) are essential to the commercial production of most fruits and vegetables and those bees are in deep, deep trouble.

Being a locavore helps, especially if the locality is your own back yard, but staying away from agribusiness produce isn’t going to fix the problem. Even crops grown on small farms and in gardens need pollinators, and in many respects the woes of (non-native) honeybees are also the woes of native bees (there are scores of species) and other native pollen transporters.

What to do?

Planting bee-friendly plants helps. Eschewing strong pesticides, both chemical and organic, is equally or more important. It never hurts to spread the word; there are still many conservation-minded people who have no interest in bugs and (who could believe it?) don’t care about food.

And you can always get out there and count.

The folks at The Great Sunflower Project have teamed up with those at Your Garden Show (see button at right) to make July 16th another banner day for citizen science. People all over the country are invited to count how many bees they see in 15 minutes.

It’s scientific enough so they want everyone observing a prescribed asssortment of plants, including sunflowers -  specifically the cultivar ‘Lemon Queen’  – which you may or may not feel up to finding. Many of them are popular and common, so it isn’t really all that hard to find a few, even if you don’t grown them yourself.

But even if all you do is tune in, there’s plenty to enjoy and share, including a searchable map that shows how many bees got counted in your zip code. This probably shows as much or more about populations of internet-happy conservationists and elementary school teachers as it does about populations of bees, yet that too could be useful information, especially if you’re a gardener with young children and are considering a move.

Lots of nifty, somewhat more sophisticated additional information can be found at Urban Bee Gardens, compiled at U.C. Berkeley. Although it’s aimed at Californians, almost everything on it, including bee descriptions and plant lists, works fine all over the country.

Got bears as well as bees? We do. Here’s how Bill protects our hives.

Want to skip directly to eating? Bake some easy Honey Bars with Walnuts.

Photo by Bill Bakaitis

None of this is news to long time plant people, but even as a very long time plant person I was amazed at the extent to which snow matters in the larger environment. If you wish to be amazed too, check out Colder Soils in a Warmer World: Snow Depth, Soil Freezing and Nitrogen losses in the Northern Hardwood Forest. We learned about it at Snow is Good, a lecture given by Dr. Peter  Groffman (last Friday, at Cary Institute of Ecosystem Studies), a lecture we were only able to attend because Bill thinks snow shoveling is good.

Bill, mover of tons (and tons) of snow. You will notice that he is smiling.

On shoveling snow: physics, efficiency, work and art.

by Bill Bakaitis

It is beautiful, as Leslie says, the soft whiteness of snow, the purity reducing all forms and structures to their most monochromatic essence. “Yes, agreed,” I say, and quietly open the door and pick up the shovel. But the novelty of this white on white world quickly disappears from my thoughts and view.

I hoist the shovel, put leg and back to the task ahead and invariably sink into the repetitive task and thoughts which come back as regularly as breaths, each pass of the shovel, push of the legs, flex of the back, hips, arms. I fall into the trance of physical labor and recall lessons of my teachers.

It was Mr. Lowery, my High School agriculture, physics, and shop teacher who years ago gave the lesson of the inclined plane, that most efficient of tools.  His examples were of the screw, the driver and plow.  But now with the task at hand they seem to me to be most elegantly expressed in the snow shovel, with its blade gradually inclined into a curve, a graceful turning into itself which gathers and compresses the loose and light snowflakes into a more and more compressed and manageable mass.

I think also of inertia, the laws of bodies in motion, as the mass of my 150 pounds moves easily at a steady pace toward the end of the pass. No need to tell myself it is more work to stop and restart midway than to keep going. Every muscle in my body has personal experience with this simple truth. A body in motion tends to stay in motion. My grandmother taught me this.  Stop and you are dead she once told me.  And so I push through to the end of this, the first of many such passes.

That first pass is important and requires some consideration for all others will follow and build upon its placement.

The snow may be light and fluffy now, but given the way it soaks up ambient moisture from air and soil, it soon will become heavy. With the daily rise and fall in temperature it becomes increasingly immobile.  Better to do too much than too little, said my Mother and her brother, echoing the lessons from their immigrant parents. I tell this to my neighbors who have never had to deal with shoveling snow.

The difference is expressed in being boxed in by mounds of ice or having room to maneuver. Do a little more than necessary and where ever possible let nature, in this case the sun, help you.

At the end of each pass comes the task of lifting and with it the lessons of countless lifts and throws in my life. Skipping flat stones over the surface of a pond, counting the number of skips before the stone sinks. Throwing a baseball into the glove of a catcher or bales of hay onto the truck or into the loft.  In each case one leg being worth at least two arms. In each case the inertial energy of the body’s mass redirecting and focusing that energy by a series of internal fulcrums to a specific point, the body moving gracefully through a series of curves not unlike the inclined plane of the screw, shovel, or plow.

The physics of lifting described: At the end of the pass I bend my knees, left leg forward pushing into the snow. As the knees bend, the left hand comes forward on the handle of the shovel and only then tightens its grip. With a single smooth motion I stand and the shovel with its load of snow comes up with my body, the legs doing almost all of the work.

Continuing the movement I step backwards and the shovel with its load of snow now falls downward, pulled by gravity, increasing in speed. Without a pause I shift my weight from the left to the right leg, then to the repositioned left, swinging the shovel at first downward then upward as I redirect the fall, moving this mass of snow perhaps ten or fifteen feet.

Towards the end of the lift the left hand loosens the grip while the right hand, holding the end of the handle, directs the load to where I want to place it and abruptly stops. The load slides off the shovel, continues its trajectory, and lands as easy as a cat just where it is meant to go.

All of this is easier done than said.  Words, after all, mediate reality; they point to and arrest the dynamic process.  In this sense, as every good quarterback comes to know, the discursive, denotative nature of language can impede or get in the way of the process itself.  I once, and only once, took a Tai Chi lesson. The instructor looked amazed. “How did you learn these movements?” he asked.  “Pitching hay and ice skating” I replied.  “Ahh, yes”, he exhaled with a nod, a smile and a wink. I saw no need to come back.

There is something artful about physical labor, especially with those tasks which require repetition.  Not only does it become mindless, but the work becomes emotionless as well. There is no griping, complaining, no resentment.  As the body moves to the task it quickly pares away any excess. There is little room for superfluous movement, little space for anger or sorrow.  Unhinged from thought the body responds with a more and more elegant motion as physics and biology come into harness: the yoke of Vedic Script , explained Mr. Majumdar, my metaphysics instructor at The New School years ago. Practice this and the mind moves from the specific to the abstract, from the mundane towards the transcendent. Doggone if it doesn’t feel good to boot!

And to art.  The parallels to dance are obvious. When I see someone hard at work on a repetitive task I see dance. Trace the movements through time and space, say by a series of lights attached to hands, feet, and hips, and as the patterns become mediated they become drawing, painting, or sculpture. At times the texture of the snow I am moving captures the movement of my shoveling in a similar manner.

Call it work, dance, art, music. Not to get too dewy eyed or spiritual on you, but the doing and viewing of these all seem to collapse into a singularity. Call this the connotative or poetic aspect of language when we speak about it. Call it fun when we do it. For more about dance and language, see Douglass Dunn.

It is not incidental that these repetitive patterns are seen as art.  They are inherently pleasing to the senses. As a younger man I loved the way the tractor and plow laid down ordered furrows pitched uphill against erosion. I loved the way the cutter-bar laid down the timothy/alfalfa for the sun to cure, loved the way  the hay was pitched into rain-tight stacks or stacked under eaves as bales.

Today I love the way the arrows from my bow trace their way in arcs to find the target, love the way the line from my fly rod pulsates back and forth in graceful and efficient loops. Love the way the hoe moves the earth in the spring, the scythe removes the weeds in the summer, and in the winter the way the shovel moves the snow.

Practical points of shoveling snow:

1. Be careful of where you place the first load; all else follows.

2. Always work from a cleared place. Footprints compact the snow, making for jarring interrupted work later.  Machines are the worst. They compact the snow under tire and chain, chew up the paving and often require laborious hand removal of hard packed, crude machine placement.

3. Do more, not less than the minimum, and allow the sun to do its part.

4. Practicing on light snow cultivates good habits.

5. Never touch your tongue to a frozen shovel. Keep it firmly in cheek.

All photos except portrait by Bill Bakaits

There will be trees and flowers and food and garden design and some eeks of the week and a great deal more. But as it happens we are starting out with the wild mushrooms that appear here so frequently, because, as Bill said yesterday,

“ A January Thaw: What could be nicer? Today at noon it was 56 F on our front porch.The sun was shining, our  bees were out for their first cleansing flights of the winter, the odd songbird or two could be heard rehearsing spring calls, and on our new year’s walk this shining bit of cheer and promise: ”

No, they’re not edible; just a reminder that there’s always something growing (and always something to share).

Although snow was still falling and blowing all morning on the 27th, the blowing showed a great deal more enthusiasm. No way to start shoveling much before noon, by which time the snow was what one might call “formerly fluffy.” It wasn’t heavy, exactly, compared to some snows I’ve hefted in my time, but it was already closer to igloo material than the original thistledown.

And there was a lot of it, so both of us were out there for hours. Bill started by clearing a path around the greenhouse and down to the bird feeder

The greenhouse from inside (those shelves are 4 feet off the floor)

First chunk of first south window cleared

Birds, feeding

And that was the easy part. Next came

The head of the driveway where as usual there was an enormous wall of salt hardened sludge shoved at us by the town plows

The path to the shed where we keep the bird seed

The path from the street to the front door

And of course the parking area, 40 x 100 feet, roughly 16 inches deep. Except for the wind-driven 5 foot dune banked up against the barn.

The view from our back door

So it looked to me like taking an angled path through the shallower stuff would get us to the barn door more quickly and that’s where I started while Bill finished the driveway to the car.

I became absorbed in the task

and didn’t notice Bill had come back around the corner and decided to take the short, deep route

Even when he’s exhausted, he’s fast, so I guess I shouldn’t complain, and I did hear him shout “I’ll finish that for you.”

Moral of the story: look up from time to time. It’s beautiful and you might learn something.