Burgers

Happy New Year's Eve! I don't know if you all know this, but Super 1 gave everyone who cares about food in Spokane a little gift this holiday season: salt! A big, beautiful pile of specialty salts: fleur de sel, Hawaiian red salt, grey salt, black salt, and the list goes on. Take that, Trader Joe's and Whole Foods! 

In five beautiful, glorious days, I am leaving Spokane for a four month gig in Firenze. You may all commence jealousy; it is well placed. We have a beautiful apartment in between Santa Croce and Mercato San Ambrogio waiting for us, picked out at least partly because of its surprisingly new and large (by Italian standards) kitchen. Here's hoping we can turn on the oven and a burner at the same time in this one!  My plan is to once again turn this space over to a travel blog, so keep an eye out for new posts. 

Part of the whirl of getting ready for the trip is getting together with friends one last time, and that has brought up the question, what can I eat in Spokane that I expect to miss in Florence? There are some obvious answers: my Indian food. It seems highly unlikely that I'm going to recreate my Indian spice pantry in Italy. It would be expensive, even if it were possible. Good mexican food. Not a lot of burritos in Italy, in my experience. I hit Taco del Sol for lunch a couple of days ago. Their Mexicali taco combo is simply good eats. 

But the most important answer is: burgers. Sure, there are hamburgers in Florence. There's a McDonalds on Via Cavour. But I'm not talking about those flat, uniformly gray patties between two pieces of collapsable sponge that pass for burgers at fast food places. I'm talking about a thick, juicy, fatty, beefy, wonderfully unhealthy and possibly toxically pink-inside hamburger. I'm talking about high quality cheese and real mayonnaise and a bun that has just enough integrity to make it to the end. And that is a species of food the Italians do not understand. 

So, I've been thinking about burgers here in Spokane. Mentally, I split burgers into three categories: the fast patty, the messy, and the high end. I'm not going to talk about fast patties. They can be good, satisfying fare, but for me, one cannot achieve burger excellence if one is not willing to go pink. That leaves us with the messy and the high end. Both usually start with the "pub style" base, which means a thicker, rarer patty and bigger, heftier bun. The difference is in the intention of the toppings. In the messy burger, the toppings are the point, and the burger is simply a way to convey them to your mouth. It's the species of burger featured at Red Robin, and once you see guacamole, onion straws, or pastrami (when did that become a thing? Is it a thing anywhere not Spokane?), you know what you are dealing with. For my money, Waddell's on Regal does this style of burger really well, and the atmosphere is considerably more adult than Red Robin. Their truly fine sweet potato fries and lovely back patio area make them an easy choice for a late summer meal after an evening on the river. 

Really, though, the messy burger is just a toppings vehicle. To achieve true burger sublimity, I believe the focus must be on the meat. It needs to be juicy, fatty without feeling greasy, and it must taste of beef. The toppings must be there to enhance the meat rather than being an end to themselves. Sante attempts a high end burger on their lunch menu, and I've had it twice, and, honestly, I've been disappointed twice. Both times the middle seemed raw rather than medium rare, and that through the whole experience off. They also frequently have a kobe beef, foie gras burger for lunch, and it is better. The fat content is higher, which almost always means better, but I think the foie gras ends up burning while the beef is crusting, so the taste is off. Sante offers too many really exceptional options to waste one's time on their burger. 

For several years, I have publicly championed the Luna burger as the best in town. They had a beautifully cooked burger, topped with ham, a nicely aged cheese of some kind, and a lovely tarragon aioli. I've spent many nights, sitting in their wine bar (a far better, more casual space than their overly formal dining room), glutting myself on the burger. Alas, the last time I was there, the burger had mysteriously shrunk, the ham had mysteriously thickened and toughened, the tarragon had disappeared, and the whole thing was just not the same. A quick look at their menu reveals that the burger has slipped off it entirely, to be replaced by a lamb burger. Long live the Luna burger.

Fortunately, there is a better burger in town, at Wild Sage. It is described as a kobe beef burger from Snake River Farms (which means it is not really kobe, but technically wagyu). It comes with a choice of aged cheddar or blue cheese, caramelized onions and aioli on the side. One can choose to add bacon, avocado, or mushrooms. I had one last night, with blue cheese and mushrooms, and I feel entirely confident saying that it was the Mary Poppins of burgers: practically perfect in every way. The onions were caramelized down to a rich, deep brown, incredibly sweet and soft, nearly an onion jam. The mushrooms were a mixture of crimini, shitake, and I think some other varieties, and they too were beautifully sautéed to bring out their woodsiness, their natural sweetness, their richness. The cheese added just the right amount of salt and funk. All the toppings were clearly back up players to the beef, which was just so perfectly beefy. As great as the taste was, the mouth feel was almost better. Biting into this burger felt rich, decadent, even heady, without being overwhelming or exhausting the way some rich, intense food can be. This is a burger that is too good for bacon, which is usually necessary to add salt and fat, and way, way too good for avocado. 

In my last post, I lauded the nascent Spokane scene, and I fear I may have shorted the importance of Wild Sage. Wild Sage has the best service in town, and they are never disappointing -- which is saying a lot -- but neither are they particularly innovative, so I don't always have much to say about them. Well, there is nothing innovative about a hamburger, but doing one that is that good, that thoughtful, that carefully prepared shows true commitment to good food and a kitchen that knows what it is doing. Add to that really outstanding cocktails and those yukon gold taquitos, and I think you have a restaurant that is hard to beat. 

I'm not going to even try to replicate the Wild Sage burger at home. However, I do make, if I say so myself, a mighty tasty lamb burger. Here's the recipe:

Three or four lamb t-bone chops

Two lamb shoulder steaks

1 tsp coriander

1 tsp cumin

1/2 tsp cayenne pepper

1 tbsp grated fresh ginger

1 tbsp minced garlic

1/2 cucumber

1/2 small red onion

3 tbsp red wine vinegar

2 tbsp salt

2 tbsp sugar

mayonnaise (preferably homemade) or yogurt

buns of your choice

Take the bones out of the lamb, cut into cubes, and put in the freezer for 1/2 hour. While you are waiting for the meat to firm up, peel and slice the cucumber very finely, and put in a strainer with a tablespoon of salt to drain. . Slice the red onion very finely, and place in a bowl with the vinegar, salt and sugar. If you are using yogurt, place a half a cup or so into a cheesecloth lined strainer to drain. When the meat is firm but not completely hard, run through the finest setting of your meat grinder twice (the Kitchen Aid attachment is one of the best gifts I have ever received, and totally worth the money if you don't have one yet). Add the spices, garlic, and ginger and salt to taste to the meat mixture, and form into thick patties. 

I think these work best on a grill, but they can be broiled or cooked in a cast iron skillet. Keep them pink on the inside. Rinse and squeeze the cucumbers, and drain the onions -- these are your toppings, along with mayo or the thickened yogurt. 

Signature Taste of Spokane

You may recall that I have pondered before about whether or not there was such a thing as an Inland Northwest cuisine, whether there was something about our food that makes it distinct from the cuisine of Seattle on one side and Montana on the other. If there is such a thing as a Spokane taste, it would have to be considerable less urban and urbane -- not to mention seafood dependent! -- as Seattle, without sliding into the self-conscious rusticity of Montana's cowboy cuisine. We would value local, fresh, and sustainable ingredients, although perhaps not as zealously as the Portland foodies do, so our dishes would feature local wheats, lentils, and farmstead cheeses, as well as game and freshwater fish like trout and steelhead. It would have a healthy dollop of Italian cooking, perhaps some Russian influence and a hint or two of Mexican flavors. And it would, no doubt, put my beloved Rueben front and center. 

It is premature to try to describe an Inland Northwest cuisine. I realize this. However, I do put forth the proposition that we have a young but respectable, even exciting food scene here. I know some of you may scoff at the idea; after all, denigrating Spokane's cosmopolitan credentials is nearly a contact sport around here. My eyes were opened earlier this fall when I helped organize and host a small, regional academic conference. Everyone raved about how lovely Spokane's downtown was, and everyone talked about how good the food was. A friend from San Francisco announced that the celeriac potato soup with parmesan and truffles at Italia should win an award it was so good. Friends from Vancouver said that they didn't have anything like Sante back home. A couple from Victoria said they were thinking about taking a getaway weekend trip to Spokane sometime, they loved it so much. Really? From Victoria? 

But, think about it. Sante thrives, offering high end, in-house charcuterie and an ever changing seasonal menu. Italia Trattoria I would put up against any Italian restaurant in the Northwest, and would beat most of the restaurants I ate at in Rome easily. Wild Sage has always had the best service in town, and their food (which seemed to me to take a little bit of a dip in innovation if not quality) is now solidly good. Mizuna has kicked up their game considerably. Madeleine's is about to open a second location. Rocket Market is a mecca. We can get good bread from Bouzie's, good pho, good street tacos, great cheese, great wine. We have three worthwhile farmer's markets, one of them year round (top that, Portland!). There are Russian, Korean, and Indian groceries. I surprised myself by passionate championing Roast House Coffee over Stumptown to a Portland-born student. Regal Street seafood even made me the most beautiful and delicious platter of oysters on the half shell last week for a party. To me, that constitutes a scene. 

You don't have to take my word for this (although you probably should). My friend and current hero, Nicole Manganaro, has "co-authored" Signature Taste of Spokane, a cookbook featuring recipes donated by over one hundred restaurants from all over Spokane. All proceeds from the book are donated to firefighter charities. I called it a cookbook, but it is actually a good deal more than that. One of the epigraphs in the book describes the project as "a culinary postcard: a celebration of the city itself," which is not a bad description. Every restaurant featured gets a quotation from the owner and a photo, in addition to their recipe. The recipes, like the restaurants, vary widely, from the high end Truffle Steak Penne from Twigs, to the homey, one might say basic, Traditional Egg Salad from the Garland Street Sandwich shop. Like the Spokane food scene itself, it is pretty hit or miss. I can't wait to make the Poblano Artichoke dip with Blue Corn Crackers from Wild Sage; I doubt I will ever make sausage gravy with Italian sausage, as the recipe from The Flying Pig suggests. Nothing against The Flying Pig. I've never eaten there. It may be great. 

I put scare quotes around the word "co-authored," because this book is all Nicole. It was Steven Siler's idea and money, but the work for this volume (Signature Tastes of is a series) was all hers. I don't believe Mr. Siler even had to set foot in Spokane, because she handled everything. She contacted the restaurants. She edited all the recipes to ensure they were complete, follow-able, and do-able in a home kitchen. She made and troubleshot many (if not all) of the recipes. I was lucky enough to be there when she tested the "buckets o' love" spiced chocolate cakes from Latah Bistro, and the Basil Strawberry Martini from Bistango. She copy edited every word. She handled the layout. She took all the photos but about six. She took the photos! This book, as Siler says, is a tribute to Nicole's determination, but also to her care, dedication, love of cooking and love of Spokane. She did such an amazing job that Siler put her on the Signature Tastes of Seattle project.

At the moment, I would argue that no one knows the Spokane food scene better than Nicole. She has talked with nearly every chef and restauranteur around. When I asked her my question about what makes Spokane's food distinctive, she had a very simple answer: "Honesty. When I called up the owner of Waffles Plus, he gave me his recipe for waffles. That's his livelihood. And he shared it with me without hesitation." I'm not sure what honesty tastes like, but I have over a hundred recipes to go through to figure it out. Now, if I could just figure out what "waffle flour" is . . . 

Manito Tap House

The hopes have been high around these parts, lately. These parts being "the mid South Hill" (surely we can come up with a cooler neighborhood moniker than that). I'm not even talking about the Trader Joe's that will be opening, at long long last, later this month. I'm talking about the Manito Tap House, which has moved into the old and frightening Pear Tree Inn space, underneath what used to be Gottschalks and will soon be Ross Dress for Less. The early buzz seemed so promising: calling itself a gastro pub; fifty beers on tap; everything made on premises; a commitment to local ingredients and environmentally conscious materials and practices. Best of all, the location is within easy walking distance. Oh please, please let it be good!

The Tap House hasn't been open for long, and is still something of a work in progress. A few menu items are  unavailable, and the outdoor seating area is a pile of construction materials and caution tape. The new sound baffles have been ordered, but sound still bounces almost painfully off the concrete ceiling. So, take what follows with a grain of salt. It is all subject to change.

First, I'll start with things I like. The interior is comfortable, chic, and does not feel like the decor was inspired by HGTV. The lighting is a tad on the dim side, but I like both the wit of the "chandeliers" and the energy savings: they are LEDs suspended in beer bottles. The menu is highly promising, filled with tasty sounding entrees that I would like to try. And, the beer list is long and impressive, although I will echo Luke Baumgartner, there isn't that one really special beer on it. The service is friendly and knowledgeable, if lacking in polish and, at least tonight, definitely tailing off in attentiveness towards the end of the meal.

But, the real make-or-break for me is, of course, the food. The good news: the lamb burger is excellent. The yam chips are a nice twist on the ubiquitous (if yummy) sweet potato fries. The fried mozzarella was tasty, if confusingly mislabeled "bruschetta." The hot crab and asparagus dip was pleasantly crabby, although the accompanying bread was barely toasted and lacked any presence at all. Think Safeway baguette. And the pork tacos are a big success, succulent and moist without being wet or mushy, with a complex blend of flavors and a pleasant kick of spice.

Now for the bad. Their signature burger is dry. I ordered mine medium, and it came out without a hint of pink or juice. The promised Oregonzola cheese was barely present, and I'm pretty sure the promised caramelized onions were not there at all. But the real cardinal sin was the pork chop. I'm not sure how any chef would let that plate leave his kitchen. I've seen tastier, prettier food on a season opener of Hell's Kitchen. The chop was thin and cooked to shoe leather, topped with apple sauce that I'm sure was house made but could easily have come from a child's lunch box. The risotto was worse than mush. It was pasty mush. There was a large bowl of overcooked vegetables swimming in some unidentifiable liquid. The soup was just bizarre. It was like each component had been cooked separately, piled into a soup bowl, and then covered in a fairly unappealing broth. The result was not inedible, but it failed to be soup in some existential way.

There is also a very strange thing about the Tap House: the beers are small. Like stonehenge from Spinal Tap small. They arrive in pint-glass shaped glasses, but they aren't pints. I think they are twelve ounces. This wouldn't be so bad if they weren't also really expensive. $4.50 for a not-pint of PBR, are you kidding me? Some of their beers are $8.50 a glass, so the very least I would expect is that the glass would be adult-sized. The thing that really bothers me is that nowhere on the menu does it acknowledge that what you are ordering is not a pint. This fact, tied with the rest of their relatively aggressive pricing, makes an evening at the Tap House cost more than it feels like it is worth. That is never a good feeling with which to leave a restaurant.

The Manito Tap House is not a disaster. At worst, it will be a comfortable neighborhood hangout, a place to get a beer and a nosh. At best, it could be what it seems so earnestly desire to be: a progressive, sustainable, local hot spot. But, for my money -- of which they seem to have more than they should at the moment -- it isn't there yet. I'm sure I'll be back. It's too close, both literally and metaphorically, not to keep trying. But I'm sticking to the lamb burger and the tacos until something convinces me to foray back out into the wilds that are the rest of their menu.

Tomatoes and Maionese

Wow. Really? I haven't written since I left Portland? I guess I have been focusing on things not food based this summer. That's not a bad thing, but it does make me wonder if Portland really did manage to sate something deep and heretofore hungry within me. Surely I haven't really had enough charcuterie to last a lifetime?

No. I absolutely have not.

It's not that I have no thoughts on food in Spokane this summer. It's just that none of them seemed big enough to fill an entire blog post. For example, I have thoughts about the infamous "Diners, Drive-Ins and Dives with Guy Fieri" episode filmed in Spokane this summer. I think that Picabu is a perfectly pleasant restaurant, but that their fire pasta is a strange dish, muddy in its flavors and intentions, and not worthy of television fame. I think that there is some food worth talking about at The Elk, but that their reuben is not any of it. I prefer both The Viking and Hills' contribution to the genre far more, and nothing, nothing reuben-like can compare to Kenny and Zuke's in Portland, largely because their pastrami is such a wonderful, fatty, salty, smokey revelation. Were I to tackle The Elk, which I will, I think I would focus on their blackened chicken quesadilla. I really must figure out how they make that onion dipping sauce, which I want to lick out of the bowl when I run out of quesadilla. Waddell's is a pleasant surprise, even though I am as a general rule turned off by restaurants whose marketing strategy is based on excess: excess food, excess ingredients, excess calories. The "Lamb-strosity"? Pastrami on a burger? Also, I have no idea what "tasty bits" are, nor why they are on my hamburger. I'll take the slightly more refined burger at Luna any day, but Waddell's is good when something more casual is called for.

I learned that I need never eat at Winger Bros in the valley again, even if it is conveniently located near a kayaking take-out. I learned that Spokane has a little baby food truck pod in downtown, now that Mamma G's has joined the taco truck. I also learned that I don't want grilled cheese on a day over 85 degrees, no matter how gourmet it is. I learned that peaches can live on a savory pizza without being an abomination (thanks, Perry Street!), but that I will still order their prosciutto any day. I'm a sucker for arugula on pizza, or anywhere else.

But the last few weeks haven't really been about learning or thoughts for me. They have been about tomatoes (at least food-wise. There's been a lot going on that has not been food related). I thought the cold spring and late summer would kill any chances that we would get a good harvest, but I was wrong. My plants produced a ton of fruit, and the late heat has given them a chance to ripen. There is nothing better than a real, garden grown, vine-ripened tomato. I won't repeat the endless recipes on-line talking about how to turn them into soup, pasta sauce, etc. As soon as you cook them, they are lessened (although I do occasionally toss them with pasta. There is some residual heat involved. But that is the absolute limit.) I recommend eating them with a little salt. Maybe some basil and mozzarella, but only if you can find bufala or barrata. Otherwise, it isn't worth it.

Or, you could make your own mayonnaise. Like ricotta, home-made mayonnaise bears almost no relationship to its store-bought brethen. It manages to be both lighter and richer at the same time. It never morphs into unsavory goo when overused. Best of all, it has a wonderful, heady, subtle flavor. It is also remarkably easy to make with a food processor. I actually use an Italian recipe instead of a traditional French one; the main difference is that my recipe uses a whole egg instead of the standard egg yolks. It lightens the final product just a bit, and I prefer the consistency. Here's how you do it:

Crack one egg into the bowl of a small food processor (or the small bowl of a large one). Add a tsp of dijon mustard, 1/8 tsp salt, and a pinch of cayenne. Turn the machine on while you mix 1/2 cup canola oil (or any other neutral tasting vegetable oil) and 1/4 cup really good quality olive oil. This is a place to bust out the Columela, or any other fruity, slightly bitter olive oil. While the machine is still running, start dribbling in the oil. All the recipes say "drops," but a thin stream works fine. Start really thin, and then, after you hit the halfway mark, you can add it faster. Enjoy the heady aroma. I swear, I've nearly passed out from how good it smells a couple of times (then again, I really like my olive oil). At the end, add a tbls of lemon juice, and then stop the machine and taste for salt. You'll know when it is right.

Eat with tomatoes. Or on bread. Or off a spoon.

Regrets, I've had a few . . .

. . . but then again, too few to mention.

It is, alas, time to say goodbye to Portland, capital of all things weird, sustainable, progressive, and delicious. The last few days have been gloriously sunny, with the mountains shining in the background and the leaves tossing gently in the breeze. We have done our best to acclimate to the Portland way of doing things, biking and walking nearly everywhere, composting and recycling nearly everything, and eating nothing that has been on a truck (unless food carts count as trucks). The last few days of most trips turn into a frenzy of trying to hit the last "must try" spots on my list and returning to my favorites one last time. This trip, however, it has seemed far more important to see people one last time, and that, I think, is the sign of a good trip.

There are some food odds and ends about this trip that didn't quite fit into any of the previous posts, but deserve mention, so I'm going to be lazy and write some bullets:

* Tasty and Sons. Portland is mad for this restaurant, which is the sister of the also very popular tapas place Toro Bravo. Ever since we hit town, every foodie we have talked to has put Tasty and Sons on the top of the list. They specialize in brunch, so a few Sundays ago, we dutifully trundled ourselves off to N. Williams St. to be greeted by a two hour wait. I get it: it was Sunday, Father's Day even, at eleven o'clock at the hottest and newest brunch place in town. But two hours? We called our dads while waiting, even managed to find a nearby farmer's market to peruse, and around 1:30, finally got our table. The concept of Tasty and Sons is small plate brunch, with everything meant to share. We ordered the sweet biscuits with strawberries (excellent), spinach with a soft egg (very competent), a nepalese pork stew (excellent), a red pepper and sausage stew (very good), and some chocolate donuts (surprisingly dense and disappointing). Everything was good, and it was nice to have so many non-traditional options for brunch. Everything but the biscuits and the donuts had a soft yolk egg on top which, when broken and stirred in, rounded out the sauces and made everything that much richer and saucier. That's definitely a trick that will be making its way into my repertoire. But, overall, I'm not sure I'm quite the devotee that so many Portlanders are. The plates were very small -- only a few forkfuls each (although there were three of us) -- and I left feeling barely satisfied and slightly sticker-shocked. I certainly don't mind spending some cash on good food, but the price seemed discordant with the extreme casualness of the space and the service. Chalk one up to excessive expectations.

*Pine State Biscuits. Our second day in Portland, we biked to Alberta St., which is the new Hawthorne, and mighty cool it is, considering the last time I lived in Portland no safety-conscious white girl would dream of going north of Failing. Cool clothing stores, a music store with an enormous selection of new and used acoustic guitars (so says Jeremy), and the nicheiest food establishments I have ever seen. Mac n Cheese To Go, which sells just that and only that. The Burger Bus, with a similarly predictable one item menu. And Pine State Biscuits, doing a screaming, line out the door and down the block kind of business. I was intrigued, but not at that time hungry. Then we started seeing Pine State booths at the big Farmer's Market, again with multiple block length lines. Really? For biscuits? I became frantic to try; Jeremy maintained his skepticism. "I just don't get the biscuit thing. Is there meat on them?" Finally, last weekend, I demanded we go. We joined the queue at the Alberta location (the line moved pretty briskly, as it turned out). I ordered the Reggie deluxe, an amazing biscuit sandwich with fried chicken, cheese, sausage gravy, bacon and an egg. My heart stopped a little just typing that. My god. Big biscuits, but wonderfully light without being even a little spongy, with the crispy, lightly salty crust that comes from being brushed with butter, and big, warm flakes inside. Moist boneless chicken breast with a still crispy skin. Creamy, spicy gravy, and that ubiquitous soft egg, as if it needed to be more rich and gooey. Now that was a breakfast of champions. That I would have gladly paid twice the eight dollar price to enjoy. Not necessarily pretty, but unbelievably satisfying, and while decadent, its single biscuit size keeps it from being too, too much. Jeremy's pulled pork biscuit, with pork from Pudnah's pit, was good, but really could not compare. Now I get the whole biscuit thing. We really, really, really need one of these in Spokane.

Bunk Bar, late night coz to Bunk Sandwiches. We went there after one of Jeremy's jewelry classes. The space was cool, the music was quite good, and the vibe was pure Portland hipster. I swear, in Portland, good looking women put on cowboy boots and oversized glasses so they won't look too good. The Portland chick chic is part part lesbian, part motorcycle gang, and part Lisa Loeb, and while some -- a very few -- manage to look cool and counter, most women just look like they are going out of their way to ugly themselves up. Men just wear plaid, and seem to shave their heads more than in other cities. Anyway, Bunk Sandwiches, much like Tasty and Sons, was high on my list of places to try. The word in the blogosphere was they were an instant classic, that they elevated the sandwich to its highest form, and that their cubano would make you forget all others. I had a meatball parm that was, while not sublime, perhaps the Platonic ideal of the form. The meat was juicy and moist, the balls had structural integrity without being dense or rubbery, the sauce was plentiful but neither messy nor overpowering, and the cheese asserted its presence in every bite while still playing nice with the other components. Jeremy had the cubano, and I have to say, again, I don't get the buzz. It was fine. A little overly mustardy, a little strong on the vinegar. The meat was promised to be pork belly, but I couldn't have told it apart from loin in a line-up. What's the big deal, Portland? Are they better during the day? And, dear lord, cut back on the salt on the fries. I know it encourages beer sales, but salt should not burn my mouth. Still, the experience got me thinking about how good a sandwich shop could be, and how many truly great sandwiches there are in the world. If you could put ten sandwiches on a menu, what would they be? Reuben, Meatball Parm, Banh Mi . . . what else?

*Olympic Provision's Cacciatore salami is the best salami anywhere. Done.

*I would like to take a bath in Chop's Chicken Liver Bourbon Mousse. Their Venison Pate isn't bad either.

* Two Tarts little cookie sandwiches are amazing. I thought nothing could be better than the li'l mamas (chocolate cookies with vanilla buttercream) until I had the cappuccino cookies with cinnamon butter cream.

As for those regrets? I regret that we made it to neither of the raved about pizza establishments, Ken's Artisanal Pizza and Apizza Scholls. I regret that I was unable to convince the proprietor of the People's Pig to relocate to Spokane, or to let me open a franchise. I regret that morel season is over. I regret we didn't make it back to Pok Pok, although we did make it to Ping, where we put away three steamed pork buns. But mostly, I'm just looking forward to being home, and the gloriousness that is summer in Spokane with my friends. I've missed you guys!

Cured pork and Cocktails

I didn't think it could happen. Not to me. Maybe to other people, people with lesser stomachs and a poorly defined palate. Or to health nuts who weren't used to, you know, food. But not to me, not with my voracious appetite, my love of all kinds of food, my desire to eat the best possible food all the time. Surely I simply could not get tired of eating good, interesting, carefully prepared, rich food. And yet, here in Portland, even I hit a wall on Thursday. Not another charcuterie plate, cried my palate. Please, let's not split a number of fascinating smaller plates composed of surprising juxtapositions and unusual ingredients. I want someone to put a plate of simple food in front of me and let me eat it in peace. Or, even better, I want to cook a meal of something simple and good, and just eat that.

Of course, getting to this point has been a wonderful journey, and I'll do my best to recreate it step by wonderful step. We've been to a number -- a large number -- of really good places and eaten really good meals, not to mention gotten back in touch with friends we haven't seen in ages. Turns out the road to satiety is paved with cured pork and cocktails.

After our missed first step with Blue Hour, Jeremy and I journeyed out to Bar Mingo, the newer and more casual sibling of Caffe Mingo on NW 23rd. It's Italian, and most of the plates are small and shareable. They pride themselves on their homemade pasta, and it is a testimony to the greatness of the meal that the house made ravioli, delicious as it was, was the baseline of the meal, the stand up bass against which the rest of the dishes played and sang. We started with a brilliant braised squid bruschetta, cooked with red wine and butter. There was a grilled shrimp wrapped in pancetta on a citrus salad that, unlike most dishes, became more interesting the more one ate of it. The ravioli -- which I don't mean to damn with faint praise -- was creamy, herby, and with just the right amount of chewiness in the pasta. And finally, there were the lamb meatballs with mint and rosemary, meatballs so delicate that they seemed to transform into the essence of lamb in your mouth, meatballs so  light you wondered how they maintained ball shape through the cooking process. Man, those were good meatballs.

We went to our beloved Clyde Commons for a light, late meal, and they continue to be consistent and not to disappoint. I had a lovely ravioli stuffed with farmer's cheese and greens, served in a brown butter sauce and a delightful bowl of fresh, local vegetables lightly sauteed and dressed with just the right hint of acid. Jeremy had a lamb shank. There has been so much good food since then that neither one of us can remember anything about that lamb beyond "it was good," and "it made me slightly regret my ravioli." I returned to Clyde Commons a few days latter for their happy hour with my grad student, Kari, who was in town from Davis for her birthday. I had a fantastic bourbon drink, "bourbon renewal," and we split their small, happy hour charcuterie board -- just some salami, a boiled egg, some cornishons. Still, not a bad deal for five bucks. I like that place a lot.

Last Friday, we went to the rave reviewed Laurelhurst Market with Jeremy's first roommate in San Francisco, Tracy, who moved to Portland two years ago. The bartender there, a brilliant man named Evan, is a high school friend of hers, and made me a classic drink called an "airmail." It's a rum drink, and I never order rum drinks, but I am so very happy I put myself in Evan's hands. Rum, citrus, champagne, light, refreshing, yum. I have to say dinner, while good, was not spectacular. We had good torchon of foie gras, wholly underflavored steak tartare, and great french fries to start. I had a delicately refined salmon dish which kept the salmon the star (and did not over cook it). Tracy had harissa coated short ribs that were the hit of the table. Jeremy had pork ribs that were just okay -- a little dry -- but that came with a house-made hot link sausage that was redemptive. In Spokane, it would have been a great meal. Here, nothing special.

On Monday, we met up with my old friend Amy from my PSU days. She was always brilliantly sharp and funny, and we have had strangely parallel lives: our houses are the same style and era, our lives until recently revolved around ancient and beloved cats, and we both knit. And, we both love food, so we went to Gruner (as you can see, there is supposed to be an umlaut in there), which describes itself as serving "alpine cuisine." A good charcuterie board there, an endive and apple salad I found mostly tasteless, and then some spectacular entries. I had the lamb, which came with perfectly cooked chops and the most complex, house-made lamb sausage I have ever tasted. Jeremy had a duck schnitzel with, of all things, a rhubarb sauce (don't tell him -- I don't think he knew what the fruit was), and Amy had chicken and morel spaetzle (is there another missing umlaut? I'm not sure). She and I had opposite reactions to the spaetzle: she liked it more and more as she ate it. By my third taste (she nicely traded for some sausage), I was getting buttered out.

On Wednesday, we went to Ned Ludd with my longest running continuous friend, Christopher, and his boyfriend Rob. By this time, Jeremy's college roommate James had joined us (he and Jeremy are working on a computer project together). Of course, first we needed to stop by a local bar and have some cocktails. We ended up at Tear Drop, where the decor is an uncomfortable melange of down-homey wine bar, modern apothocary, and a little zen rock garden thrown in. But, the drinks were fine, especially my airmail (although not as good as Evan's) and Christopher's Tanqueray and tonic with housemade tonic. Then, on to the restaurant. The schtick at Ned Ludd, and I'm not sure how much of a shtick it is, is that they cook everything that is cooked on their wood stove. Great were the charcuterie plate (pictured at the top of this post), especially the porchetta and the rabbit liver pate, the shaved asparagus salad, and roasted new potatoes with basil aioli. Good was the pork belly and beans -- they managed to get a terrificly crispy crust on it without drying out the tender meat -- but I don't know how anyone could have eaten more than two bites without exploding. Also good was the porchetta, arugula and lentil salad, although the lentils added nothing to the plate. Problematic, at least for some of us, was the rabbit loin. The breading was on the soggy side, the salad was overdressed by far, and the rabbit had considerable chew -- maybe some untrimmed silver skin on the loin? And, I don't know. Rabbit. Fuzzy hopping bunnies. Since they still taste like weird chickens to me, do we really have to ruin their lives by turning them into food animals?

And that is how it happened. Faced with the question what to do for dinner with Tracy and James on Friday, I announced I wanted to eat in. And I made a meal with absolutely no pork at all. Really, I don't know what the world is coming too for me. But, I haven't even looked at a charcuterie board in four days, so hopefully I am on the mend.

A few of my favorite things

I remember a trip to the grocery store, the only Piggly Wiggly on the west coast, when I was a college student in Tacoma. Why was there a Piggly Wiggly in Tacoma? I have no idea, but there was. I went with friends, and on the way, we talked about what we were going to get. After a few minutes, one of more politically-minded friends pointed out, with a good deal of hostility, that I talked only in brand names. I remember I had said I wanted Tim's Potato chips and some Henry's (that would be Henry Weinhardt's Ale -- remember, this was the eighties, and hence before the micro-brew explosion in the Northwest). I'm sure I had dropped some other brand names along the way as well. Her implication was that I was a slave to marketing, a total consumer zombie, a capitalist running dog, and I was mortified. I carefully expunged all brand names from my vocabulary, although I still made sure I got Tim's and Henry's.

In hindsight, however, I'm not sure her implication was correct. Yes, capitalism convinces consumers to pay more for certain names with little respect to quality or design: Gucci, Prada, etc. But there is a difference between brand loyalty and label porn, isn't there? I go to a store here in Portland called Radish Underground and pay a premium because I know the brands carried there are by small designers, made by hand and using sustainable fabrics. That feels like being a responsible, educated consumer. Yes, there is a certain arrogance and pretentiousness (what, me, pretentious?) about name dropping, and I suspect that is what really irked my college associate, but I also think there is a difference between Tim's potato chips and Lays. I want Tim's, for a whole number of reasons, and I'll stick to that.

All of which is a long preamble to a list of the specific stores, foods, and products that have been making my days here in Portland incredibly satisfying and filled with pleasure. I promise I have no financial relationship with any of these companies, except that they all have a good deal of my money.

Stumptown Coffee. I'm here in Portland partially to finish up my ms, so every weekday morning, I walk to the PSU library and write footnotes. On my way there, I stop by Stumptown coffee either for an Americano to go or a cappuccino for there, depending on who is working the machine. They are slow as molasses, but I have never had better espresso, even when I made it for myself back in the Starbucks days. They roast their own coffee, dark the way I like it but less charred than Starbucks has become. They clearly start with superior beans with lots of body and flavor. And then they take incredibly care with the shots, the milk, the proportions. The result is wonderful, strong, sweet, balanced, with a great mouth feel and a lingering bite on the tongue. Yum.

The People's Pig. Portland has over four hundred food carts in over eleven pods, plus some lone wolves, scattered throughout the city. They tend to specialize on an ethnicity or food niche, from Viking to Vegan, and the quality varies from bad -- I made a bad mistake with the most bland, colorless non-Pad Thai I have ever seen last week -- to outstanding. I'm starting to develop a list of traits to look for in a good food cart: a short, tightly focused menu seems to always be a good sign. A big line to order is also a good sign, although a big crowd waiting for their order can be misleading, as it is also a sign of a disorganized kitchen (hence my Pad Thai blunder).  I have my list of ones I want to try: the Frying Scotsman fish and chips and Mobster Meatballs top it. But the problem is, I would have to bypass The People's Pig for something else, and I just don't see that happening.

The People's Pig makes three types of pork sandwiches a day. There's always a pulled pork, a chef's special (I've seen pork chop and bacon sandwiches, and heard about a cubano), and there is always Porchetta. You may remember my love affair with Porchetta from Italy, but I'm telling you, this Porchetta is better. He sources from local, heirloom pigs, and he doesn't roast them whole. Rather, he rubs a loin with herbs and wraps it in a pork belly, and then roasts the package. Each sandwich has some belly and some loin, some arugula and some lemon on a beautiful ciabatta roll. They are almost too much, almost too rich and fatty, but the peppery freshness of the arugula brings it back from the edge. Barely. I could use a little more crispy, chewy cracklings, but other than that, it may be the world's most perfect sandwich. I wonder if the owner would let me open a franchise in Spokane. Or maybe marry him. Really. It is that good.

Continuing on the pork theme, when I get home from the library, I've been snacking on the amazing pork wattle rillette from Chop, found in the Saturday market, on a slice of one of the beautiful loaves from Pearl Bakery. Chop's pates are equally spectacular -- I have also feasted myself on the chicken liver pate with pistachios with incredible happiness. Jeremy, however, is partial to Olympic Provisions' cacciatore salami. He has good taste, as well. The bread at Pearl Bakery is also nearly perfect, the kind of bread with such a great wheaty, yeasty flavor, such an amazing texture, soft and chewy on the inside, crisp and cracking crust, that you don't need anything to enjoy it. Although butter is never bad. And pork rillette, fatty and chunky with a faint whiff of sweet onions and . . . is that allspice? doesn't do it any harm either.

It's a little sad that in such a short time, surrounded by so much amazing food, I've already fallen into a food rut. On the other hand, each of these things gives me intense pleasure every time I sit down to them, and they make so happy to be alive, to have a life that allows me to eat rich, good, relatively expensive food prepared with care and conscience, to have a day filled with intellectual stimulation, satisfaction, and punctuated by pleasure, love, and friends that I am almost overwhelmed by gratitude. I take it back. It isn't sad at all.

I love Portland. It's no surprise, I suppose. Growing up across the river in Vancouver, Portland was the epicenter of cool. It was where I was first exposed to urban, to sophisticated, to cultures different from the one given to me by my parents. I love and respect my parents, and I have adopted an unusually high percentage of their values, priorities and world-view, but I needed to find my own style -- both life-style and fashion style. Both started to form in Portland in the eighties. Then, I returned to the city in the nineties to get my masters at Portland State. In my mid-twenties, that was the time I was learning how to live as an adult, and when I started to amass a household. I used the dining room table I bought off Hawthorn until just a few years ago, and the beautiful chandelier I first obtained in Portland has graced every dining room I have ever owned. Portland formed me during some important years, so it makes sense that it formed me to love it.

On the other hand, there is a lot to love, symbiotic formation or not. This is a city that takes sustainability incredibly seriously, and values above all books, food, and art. What is not to love? I wonder how much Powell's had to do with the ethos of Portland. I think Portlanders loved Powell's, so they got used to thinking in terms of local business early. Also, Portland is aggressively liberal, so it reacted against the anti-intellectualism of the Bush years. In fact, Portland was the only city to have spontaneous protests over the illegality of the first Bush election. As the country become less interested in facts and reason, Portlanders became more educated and engaged.

As for the weather, it just doesn't bother me. Even when it rains, there is a lot of light, especially compared to Spokane in the winter, and when it rains as much as it does here, you just figure out how to do what you like doing in the rain. As an added bonus: lots of really stylish rain jackets!

Portland Bound

Jeremy and I continue to milk the creamy goodness out of my sabbatical year, this time by heading to Portland for a month. Readers of this blog already know of my deep love of Portland, its food, its shopping, its vibe. Jeremy shares this love, and so here we are, ensconced in a very hipster loft in the heart of the Pearl District. It's supposed to have a spectacular view of Mt. Hood, but it is Portland, so we have yet to see any sign of the mountain.

We drove in yesterday, and after a long day in the car eating nothing but Cheeto Puffs (which we only eat on road trips, I swear), we decided to have a nice meal out. We chose the nearby and well respected Blue Hour, and I have to say I was slightly underwhelmed, or perhaps it was just that, atypically,Jeremy did a better job of ordering. Jeremy's beet salad with watercress and mascapone was delightful -- the cheese added a beautiful creaminess, the beets were earthy and had the perfect amount of chew left in them, and the pepperiness of the watercress added just the right amount of bite. The only problem was that it was under-seasoned; even Jeremy added salt, and he never ever adds salt to things. For our entries, Jeremy ordered roast chicken and mashed potatoes, and they were really good. The chicken was moist, the jus it came with was powerful, and the mashed potatoes held a wonderful cheesy surprise. This is the second really good chicken dish Jeremy has ordered in Portland recently (the other was at Le Pigeon in March), causing me to question my long standing rule never to order chicken in a good restaurant because it is a protein chefs don't respect. I think chefs are starting to show chicken the love it deserves.

I ordered the delightful sounding brown butter gnocchi with vegetable ragu and tempura egg. I'm pretty sure I could make a dish with that description that would slay you, but this . . . eh. First of all, I would like to have a word with the chef about terminology. Gnocchi are akin to pasta, and as such should have some internal structure, a little hint of chew. They should not be miniature mashed potato fritters. My dad used to use up leftover mashed potatoes by coating them in egg and flour and then frying them in butter; they took the place of hash browns in many a breakfast of my childhood. In my memory, they are wonderful, rustic things, crunchy and buttery and creamy. They are not gnocchi, and yet the things that showed up on my plate last night bore more than a passing resemblance. Not bad, just false advertising. Second, ragu refers to a slow cooked meat sauce. A vegetable ragu is already a misnomer, but at the very least it should refer to vegetables that have been combined together with some liquid to form a sauce. It should not refer to dry peas, oven dried tomatoes, and dry sauteed rapini. Notice all of those descriptions involved the word "dry." Their was no sauce. The gnocchi had absorbed any hint of brown butter, and the whole plate was parched.

But, never fear you think, because there is another component: the tempura egg! Surely that will contain lovely, runny, rich yolk that will bring everything together in its loving embrace. It did, for a few bites, but it was just too small and too fried to rescue the entire plate. And they weren't kidding when they said "tempura" -- that term they used with great literalness, and it was just odd. The batter, while crispy and fried and hence good, had nothing to do with the brown butter or the gnocchi. All in all, not, as they would say on Top Chef, a well conceived dish. By the end of the entries, I was exhausted, so we skipped the inviting cheese cart and the desserts and headed home.

Lunch today was another matter entirely. We headed into Chinatown, and a small restaurant that I first spied on a trip several years ago. It has all the markings of a terrible or great Chinese restaurant: absolutely no decor, lots of Chinese and very little English -- the name of the place is actually "Good Taste Restaurant" -- and, best of all, there are lacquered-brown roast ducks and huge hunks of red, glistening char sui hanging in the window. The ducks still have their beaks, poor things! I had the Super Bowl A, which was a punch bowl of rich broth, egg noodles, roast duck, BBQ pork, and pork wontons. I can't believe how close I came to eating every last drop of it. The duck was rich and tender, and the skin was still lightly crispy. The char sui had a surprisingly satisfying sweetness. The wontons were fat and ugly and had a ton of meat in them. Jeremy had char sui over rice, and that too was good. This is the kind of place I dream about finding: small, cheap, filled with people not speaking English but still friendly, and with great food I can't possible make at home or buy in Spokane. Thank you Portland food gods. Oh -- and they sell their duck and pork by the pound to go!

Before we left, our dear friends Heather and Gordon invited us over for dinner, and I offered to bring a salad. Heather accepted, but only on the condition that I didn't buy anything special that I would then have to throw out before we left. Kind, that Heather, and wise. So, I made the salad equivalent of fridge pasta -- you know, the pasta you make by throwing all the odds and ends in your fridge into a pan, the kind that is sometimes good and sometimes really not? As it happened, I had some slightly unusual ingredients to use up, because the night before I had made spring rolls with peanut dipping sauce. That left me with half a bunch of mint and half a can of coconut milk. And so was born Coconut Corn salad, and I have to say, it was good. It was very good. Spicy and fresh and sweet and creamy. Heather asked me for the recipe, so here it is, to the best of my memory:

Coconut Corn Salad

Dressing:
Combine a quarter of a cup of the thick part of a can of coconut milk, half a bunch of mint, a veined and seeded serrano pepper, a pressed garlic clove, a teaspoon of grated fresh ginger, and a tbls of honey into the bowl of a food processor and combine until smooth. Taste for salt and sugar -- mine needed a good pinch of salt. Add the thinner liquid from the coconut milk if it is too thick.

Peel, halve lengthwise, and seed two cucumbers. Slice them thin on a bias (I used a mandolin), toss with a tsp of salt, and set in a strainer over a bowl for half an hour or so. Meanwhile, lightly roast three ears of corn, and slice the kernels off the cob.

When ready to serve, pat the cucumbers dry (no need to rinse them -- the salad needs the salt), toss with the corn and add the dressing to taste. You'll have extra dressing, which I suspect would be great tossed with shrimp, grilled chicken, or any number of things. I would have been sad to throw that elixir away -- thanks Heather for taking the remainder!

Kalalau Trail

This whole trip to Hawaii started with an email. In January, I think, or at least some dark, cold month, Jessica wrote to me that she was dreaming of swimming in the ocean. I wrote back that I was dreaming of the Kalalau valley. I sent her this link,  and asked if she wanted to hike the trail with me. When Jeremy and I were here last March, we hiked the first two miles of the trail, and I thought it was so spectacularly beautiful, although also spectacularly muddy, rocky, and steep, that I wanted to hike the whole thing. It's a "strenuous" eleven mile trail, so it is a backpacking trip for all but the athletic aliens among us (who know who you are). Jeremy is not so jazzed about backpacking, as it doesn't have a high enough adrenaline to effort ratio, but I have been wanting to try it as an adult (I did some when I was younger with my dad). So, getting Jessica on board seemed like a great solution. I would get to do the trail, we would get to spend time together, Jeremy could get in some extra surfing, and we would have someone to take us to and from the trail head.

Oh, the best laid plans.

Things started to go wrong before we set foot on the trail. Regular readers will remember that, in my first post from Hawaii, I mentioned that it was raining. It didn't stop. It rained from mid-day on Saturday through Monday night with an intensity that defied my understanding of the laws of physics. The rivers flooded. The one-lane bridge on the only only road into Hanalei closed for two days, which meant that no one could get into town, which meant nothing was open. There were flash flood warnings and thunderstorms. Jessica and I were supposed to leave on Tuesday, spend Wednesday exploring the valley, and hike out on Thursday, but since there were still flash flood warnings through Tuesday afternoon and the trail includes several river crossings, we decided to put the hike off for a day and turn it into an in-and-out. Now, in some ways, this was a good decision. Tuesday turned out to be a nice day, but at least we were being cautious and respectful. But, it also set us up for trouble, since it meant we had to hike a very hard trail on consecutive days.

Anyway, we got up before dawn on Wednesday morning and hit the trail while it was still a little dark. Our hope was to get to the valley early enough that we would still have time to explore in the afternoon. We saw the sunrise from the first headland above Ke'e Beach, and it was a beautiful, misty, sunny start to our day. We watched the frogs scurry in front of us. We saw a large pod of dolphins from one of the headlands, and met a very skinny cat on the Hanakapi'ai Beach at the two mile mark. We also, in those first two miles, gained and lost 600 ft of elevation, slopped through some mud, and scrambled over a lot of rocks. And here was subtle hint number one that things were not going to go as planned. While I was in good shape, Jessica was moving very slowly. I asked if she was okay, and she said she was trying to be mindful of her steps, because she didn't want to aggravate a long-standing knee injury.

How I wish we had stopped and had a serious conversation about that. How I wish I had made it clear that we could stop, that I wouldn't hold it against her or be mad (although, to be honest, I would have been so disappointed I probably would have held it against her and been mad). How I wish she had been honest and said that her knee was already hurting, and that there was no way she was going to make twenty two brutal miles, carrying weight, in the next 36 hours. How I wish I had listened to the warning voice in my head, instead of doing what I always do and just bull ahead because I want to do something. Lesson one learned. I learned a lot of lessons on this trip.

None of these things happened. Jessica continued to insist that she was just being mindful and that she was fine. I continued to get annoyed with her slow pace instead of thinking about what that pace meant. The weather was glorious: sunny and warm, but not super hot. The trail was tough, but well within my comfort zone. The scenery was beyond words. Every headland offered new vistas of ocean and coast line; every valley offered a different tropical microclimate. I didn't expect the profusion of wild flowers and flowering trees. In places, the brilliant magenta petals fallen from a mimosa-like tree carpeted the ground. The air was perfumed with a floral, citrus smell. The trail was lined with wild passion fruit. The water was the most saturated turquoise I have ever seen, and so clear I could see the sand and coral ocean floor. Sure, there were some difficulties. For one, I was sweating like a horse (which is why I will be including no pictures of myself from this trip. Between the sweat and the doo-rag, I can't handle how butch I look in all of them. I loved being a lesbian, but that doesn't mean the butch look works on me. It so doesn't!) The mosquitoes were thick, and totally undeterred by my paltry Gentle Skin Off with Aloe Vera, or for that matter with Jessica's far beefier Deep Woods Off towelettes, so we were both getting eaten alive. And the trail is, I believe I mentioned, tough. As you can see from this elevation profile, there isn't a flat step to be had.

What the profile doesn't show is that the trail is split fairly evenly between scrambling over rocks, wading through clay-based mud, and clawing your way through thick vegetation. So, not only is nearly every step a stair master, but also every step has some other reason it is a challenge. But, slow as we were going, we made it to the campground at Hanakoa for lunch around 10:45. It was there that we first met the incredibly nice and fantastically speedy Larry and Natalie, who will play a big part in this story.

About mile seven, we reached the cliffs of insanity. As you can see, the trail hugs a very steep, very exposed headland. The rock is loose and crumbly, and is 400 ft above an angry surf. The trail itself is very narrow, and sloped strongly downward. It was dramatic and scary enough that a tour boat actually stopped to watch us make the traverse, and cheered when we were across. What I didn't realize is that Jessica was terrified. Her left knee hurt badly, and she didn't fully trust it, and her pack was not entirely centered, so she felt like it was pulling her off the cliff. I was being an ass, and was a good distance in front of her, and had no idea she was struggling until we reached the end of the section and she was shaking and nearly in tears.

That's when the situation started to dawn on me, miles and miles too late. That's when I finally realized, or admitted to myself, that Jessica was in no shape to do the trail. It wasn't lack of strength or conditioning, and she had will power to spare. But her knee just was not up to the challenge. She had known that within a mile of the trailhead, but didn't want to tell me because she knew how much I wanted to reach the valley, and she didn't want to ruin the trip for me. She had been gritting it out out of love for me. There is a good (if illegal) campsite at mile eight. We should have cut our losses and camped there, but it didn't occur to me as an option (the enormous NO CAMPING sign didn't help).  Instead, we limped our way to Kalalau. The trail ended with a half-mile descent down a red-clay mudslide which Jessica already could barely handle. We made it to the valley almost too preoccupied to enjoy how spectacular it was.

The valley is spectacular. The beach is large, and there is a waterfall nearby to use for fresh water and a shower. Behind the beach, the cliffs rise more sharply and with more green than words or pictures can capture.

Almost as otherworldly as the scenery is the community in the valley. The attitude seems to be that anyone who wants to be on the beach badly enough to actually get to the beach is okay. People stay there for weeks, foraging off the land, fishing, eating the abundant tomatoes that have gone wild over the valley floor, even hunting the pigs and goats with bow and arrows. The first question is always "first time here?" and the second one is "how long are you staying?" Five days seems to be a minimum, largely because no one wants to face the trail after having just faced the trail. We set up our little campsite, right next to our trail friends Larry and Natalie.

It was nearly four when we got into the valley, and Jessica was hurting so much there was no question of exploring more than the immediate beach. We showered off, spent some time on the beach, and just as we started thinking seriously about dinner, it started to rain. We had a wet dinner, and turned in a little after dark. We could hear the surf pound, but we could also see the lightening flashes through the tent and hear the rain fall. I was seriously scared about how we were going to get out of there. Neither of us slept well.

We woke at dawn, ate a quick hot meal of oatmeal and Starbucks Via. Whoever gave Jess that tip: thank you! I've never tasted better coffee. We broke camp as quickly as we could, with me taking as much extra weight as I thought I could handle to try to coddle Jessica's knee, and off we went. That first red dirt hill was brutal. I was blowing like a steam engine by the top, due to already tired legs and the extra weight. Jess started the trail barely able to bend her knee, but assuring me that, with a positive attitude, she could do what she did the day before. Lesson two: injuries don't get better. They get worse.

We did okay until about three miles from the trail head. We went slowly and took many breaks, but we made constant forward progress. Predictably, it wasn't long before Jessica's right knee started hurting from compensating for her left. I have never seen a gutsier, grittier performance. She walked eight of the toughest miles I have every seen on two very painful, barely functional legs. I am sure that I could not have done what she did. But the wheels came off on the headland above Hanakapi'ai Beach. With 900 ft to descend, and then another two mile headland in front of us, Jess went down with a cry and couldn't get back up.  She took eight Advil and elevated her legs; I took everything out of her pack except her sleeping bag and mattress and transfered it to my pack. Lesson three: know what your companion has packed, because you might end up carrying it. Jess and I both overpacked, due to inexperience and not knowing what to expect condition-wise. Man, did I regret every additional pound.

I was planning at that point to camp at the beach below us, and then hiking out solo to get help the next morning. Two fortunate things happened so that we didn't have to do this. First, Jess' legs responded well to the elevation, and she could walk, although extremely slowly and painfully. Second, Larry and Natalie came by just at that moment. We gave them Jeremy's number, with the message to get his boots and meet us on the trail. I didn't exactly know what he could do other than take Jess' already lightened pack, but I knew that if I could see him, everything would somehow be all right. With Larry and Natalie speeding to cell phone coverage, Jess and I started hobbling down the hill. As we headed up the slope after the river crossing at the beach, just to add a little drama to the situation, a dark, scary, intense thunderstorm moved in, flooding the trail and making it difficult to see. Jess could barely walk. I was pulling her up about half of the steps, because the rocks were too big for her to negotiate on her own. On the downhills, she leaned on my pack from behind. I was exhausted, and she was exhausted and in excruciating pain.

Thank god, Larry and Natalie were as good as their word. Jeremy found us about a mile from the trail head, rain pouring on us, thunder continuously growling, in the dark, and hardly moving. I nearly burst into tears of relief when I saw him, literally running up the trail to help us. I'm crying right now as I remember it. He gave us blissful non-treated water and took Jessica's pack. And then, step by painful step, we inched forward. Sometimes the two of us would flank Jess, but most often Jeremy supported her. It took at least an hour and a half to make it down that last half mile. By the time we reached the parking lot, it was nearly dark, and there was not a dry molecule anywhere near any of us. But, we made it. Safe, if not fully sound, and with a tale to tell.

The good news is that we are both basically fine. Jessica is limping and sore, but walking and okay enough to decide to put off a doctor's visit until she gets back to Spokane. I have more angry mosquito bites than I can count, and am covered in chafe spots from walking so long in wet clothes, and I have this lovely rash on my ankle. In short, I got off easy.

Mistakes were made. I pushed too hard to make something I wanted happen, and I didn't heed the abundant warning signs. Jess prioritized not disappointing me (or, I hope, herself) over being honest about her condition. Neither one of us had enough respect for that situation or that trail. We were novices, neither knowing what we were capable of doing or what we should do. We are extremely lucky not to have had a serious fall, given her unsteadiness and that I was carrying too much weight. I still want to do more backpacking, and I would even like to return to the valley to explore, but I will never have the same attitude toward the wilderness again.

And Larry and Natalie? We had Mai Tais with them last night at the Hanalei Colony Resort. I love that they turn out to be in normal life exactly what they seemed to be on the trail: open, friendly, smart, thoughtful, fun, kind beings, and a wonderful couple to be around. I hope they turn into long term friends and hiking buddies. They live in Seattle, so the North Cascades may be calling us . . .

Hanalei Rain Storm

So, here we are in beautiful Hanalei, on the north shore of Kauai.  We are just north of the wettest place on earth, Wai'ale'ale plateau, which gets a whopping 511 inches of rain a year. For comparison, Forks on the Olympic peninsula gets 120 inches of rain a year. But Hanalei itself only gets, on average, 78 inches a year. Alas, we are getting all 78 inches right now. The NWS is reporting 1.6 inches an hour. An hour! Honestly, until today I believed that there was a limit to how hard it could rain, that rain drops couldn't be bigger than drops, and that they couldn't fall faster than gravity would pull them. I have been schooled. It is raining so hard the eave line of the house is a solid sheet of water, like a water slide. It is raining so hard I actually got water in my lungs from breathing. It is raining so hard the rain drops are bouncing a good six inches after they hit the ground. There is flash flood warning. The bridge in and out of town is closed because the river crested at over nine feet (six feet is considered flood stage), which means that the entire town is closed. No one can get in to work, and god knows no one who works retail can afford to live in Hanalei.  This is epic, tropical, we-better-placate-the-Tiki-Gods kind of rain. I would go prepare a sacrifice, but the supermarket is closed.

Our first full day was lovely: warmth, sunshine, lots of blue sky and bluer sea. We snorkeled in the morning and surfed in the afternoon. Friday wasn't bad, either. A little more rain, but still plenty fine for snorkeling and surfing. Jeremy has already mastered his ten foot hardtop, and is planning on trading it in for an eight footer tomorrow. I'm still working on timing my waves, but my balance seems fine. Yesterday was mostly rainy, although Jessica got in a surfing lesson, which she declared "the most fun ever in my life" even though she got pelted with rain for part of it. I think she was pretty close to getting asked out by her hot surf instructor, too.  For the most part, what rain there has been has been typical, tropical rain: twenty seconds of intense downpour, and then the sun comes back. The word is that the system we are in will move by us sometime overnight, and we will return to our previously scheduled mostly sunshine.

Hanalei is a wonderful town for many, many things. I don't think there is a better place to learn to surf anywhere in the world. The beach has an enormous sand break, and there are almost always surfable waves that don't require too much paddling. There are amazing snorkeling beaches stretching in both directions, and the pristine Tunnels beach, with an easily accessible inner and out reef, is just minutes away (once you figure out which "No Parking -- Private Road" signs are lying and which will get you ticketed and towed). Hanalei town itself (all towns in Hawaii are referred to as town: Kapaa town, Puako town, etc. I don't know why) reminds me of a tropical version of Cannon Beach, but with more surf shops and bikinis. What Hanalei is not good for is restaurants. I suppose this is to be expected: none of the restaurants here depend on return customers, since very few people are in town for more than a week at a time. Plus, it is fairly isolated. So, the food tends to run from bad to edible, and all of it is expensive. I had a twelve dollar fish burger the other day that was a hamburger bun, a lot of mayo, and a very small piece of ono. The sausage that came with breakfast this morning was a cross between summer sausage and kielbasa -- very odd with french toast. But, hey, it was the only open cafe in town.)  The one exception that I have found so far is the blissful Java Kai. Oh, how I love the Java Kai. They roast their own coffee. They know how to pull shots of espresso with beautiful, sweet crema. They have solid baked goods. They have efficient service. I want to buy the Java Kai and go native. Really rather a lot, actually.

Fortunately, since we are renting a house, I have both a kitchen and a Weber. We have already grilled chicken and pork with some success. Last night, however, was the first truly good meal here on the island. We feasted on local bounty. See, Saturday mornings feature the wonderful Hanalei Farmer's Market. It isn't as big as the Portland market, but it has many more pineapples. It has an amazing amount of local produce. Jess and I came home with mizuna, green onions, green beans, gorgeous long purple eggplant, mint and basil. We were sorely tempted by the eggs, and utterly seduced by the salsa and the "herb almond pate." We were less impressed by the slightly sour goat cheese. We were amused by the earnest lady who wanted to sell us very expensive crystals that would make our dreams more vivid and help us with our psychological work.

The best part of any farmer's market, for me at least, is having to figure out how to combine what I bought into a meal. Combine that with the Top Chef worthy challenge of cooking in a rental home kitchen, with the random spices and accompaniments left by previous renters, and with the wholly inadequate knives and cookware that one finds in such places. This house actually has a decent pantry; clearly, someone has been cooking asian. I inherited fish sauce, soy sauce, and sesame oil. It has particularly dreadful knives, some of which I am convinced started their lives in a child-safe pumpkin carving set. The rest are obviously courtesy of late night infomercials. Never dull! Can cut through this can! Please note that the "best" knife here has a bottle opener built into the blade. The pans are, basically, formed out of aluminum foil. I scorched one pan without managing to brown the butter in it. How is that possible according to the laws of physics? Shouldn't the melting point of cookware be above the melting point of butter?

Anyway, here is what I came up with: Eggplant with diced chicken thighs, stir fried with garlic, ginger, vinegar and sambal olek. Tofu marinated in fish sauce, soy, sesame oil, basil, mint, and green onions. Green beans, mizuna and green onions sauteed in butter with good, old fashioned salt and pepper. And you know what? My favorite was the tofu! The sauce was deep and nutty, and contrasted with the bright, fresh herbs beautifully. It came together in about a second, too. I heated the soy with a little garlic and ginger in the microwave (I didn't want to bite into a big chunk of raw garlic, and I couldn't do more than gnaw at it with the available knives) for about a minute. Then I tossed in everything else. Simple, low calorie, high flavor, high protein. Jeremy missed out by refusing to try it (he believes soy products cause a brief upsurge in estrogen production followed by a longer depletion, leaving you incapable of feeling happy. He may be right, but I can't say my mood is crashing at the moment, and I ate a lot of tofu last night).

Tuesday morning we leave for the hike, assuming the flash flood warning is lifted and we can make the river crossings safely. Fingers crossed! Should be some muddy, slippery fun.

Answering the eternal question

Yes, it has been a while. I was on a diet, and then I was running a lot, and its been winter and cold spring in Spokane, which means lots of produce from far away with no real flavor. It all added up to me not having much to say about food that seemed all that exciting. I wasn't eating much of it. I wasn't experimenting. But such an unnatural state of affairs cannot last long. I am starting to have things to say about food in Spokane once again, and starting in May, I'll be traveling, so I'll have things to say about food in Hawaii and then food in Portland. Ah, Portland. Foodtopia of the Northwest.

I know. You've seen them, too. The descriptions of how easy it is. The exhortations about how good it is, how much better than anything you can buy in the store. You've read the recipes and thought, you know, I probably could do that. But then, you haven't. It just seems like a daunting idea, the kind of thing that really must be difficult. And then, you wonder, is your strainer big enough? Where does one even buy cheesecloth? So, you've never done it. You are sure you will get to it, one day. You will make your own ricotta.

For me, that day came last Friday. My friend Nicole and her husband were coming over for dinner on Saturday, and I wanted to do something special. I've written about Nicole in this blog before: she is a stone cold solid good cook. She is also, like me, a competitive person, so while I think our mutual respect took us past one-upsmanship (my computer is insisting that isn't a word. Is that a word? Is it a phrase?) remarkably quickly, I do want to do something special when I know she is going to be eating my food. Even more than keeping her respect, I know that she will appreciate what I've done, and it is always nice to perform for an educated, appreciative audience.

I've been reading a wonderful blog out of Seattle called "I Made That!," written by a truly ambitious and adventurous cook who makes all sorts of things one would think one could make in a home kitchen, things like pork buns stuffed with homemade char siu, olive oil crackers and, almost as an afterthought, ricotta to put on those crackers. She is inspiring, even I don't think I'll be cranking out tortillas anytime soon. I used her recipe for ricotta, which uses buttermilk to curdle the milk instead of the also common salt. I went out and bought a shiny new medium-sized mesh strainer, and, yes, some cheesecloth. To my great surprise, my beloved Super 1 stocks cheesecloth. Who knew?

Everything you have read is correct. It is easy to make ricotta. So easy you will wonder what took you so long. And it is so good. So, so good. So totally beyond what you think of as ricotta. You know the difference between traditional supermarket tomatoes --the ones picked green and gassed into redness, so hard they are nearly crunchy, so completely lacking in flavor -- and home grown tomatoes picked off the vine and still warm from the sun? We are talking that level of difference. We are talking that level of goodness. Dan, also at the dinner party, struggled to describe it: "it's fluffy," he said, "and in between clotted cream and whipped cream, but with a little tang." It is, in short, heavenly. I know this won't convince you any more than any of the other odes to homemade ricotta's goodness or ease, but it should. It really, really should.

So, here's the recipe, straight from "I Made That!":
In a large pot, combine 6 1/2 cups whole milk, 1 1/2 cups heavy cream, and 2 cups buttermilk. Cook over medium heat, uncovered, until the curds form and the whey is clear. Turn the heat off, and let sit for 1/2 hour to strengthen the curds. Pour through a strainer lined with a double layer of cheesecloth, and let drain until it reaches the desired consistency. Add about 1 tbsp of salt.

That's it. It took about an hour in total, but of that I only had to pay attention maybe ten minutes. For the dinner party, I served it on bruschetta with pistachios and honey (again, straight from the website), and with basil, olive oil, and black pepper. It was delicious.

But, the best was yet to come. The real revelation. The moment the heavens opened up and the food gods shined their light upon me. The gnudi. That deserves more emphasis: THE GNUDI. Cue hosts of angels to sing hosannas. THE GNUDI!


Even after the bruschetta, I had half a pound of ricotta left, and I remembered seeing a recipe in my beautiful Barbara Lynch cookbook, Stir, that called for fresh ricotta. It was for ricotta gnudi, which I have heard elsewhere described as ricotta gnocchi, but which she explains as what would happen if you left the pasta off cheese ravioli. The filling would be nude -- get it? (Hint: the g is silent). It is, like the ricotta, a ridiculously simple recipe:

Mix 1 pound fresh ricotta, 3/4 cups all purpose flour, 1 large egg, 1/3 cup parmesan grated on a microplane, 1 tbsp kosher salt and finely ground pepper together (note: I made a half batch, which feed two comfortably). Turn out on a lightly floured surface, and work in flour as needed until it just holds together. The goal is to work in as little flour as possible while still being able to shape them.

Working in small batches, roll the dough into 3/4 inch diameter logs. It should still be very, very soft.  It felt like there was a thin coating of flour that let me work with it, but that the insides of the log were still super squishy. Cut the logs into 1 inch pieces, and then roll each piece into a rough ball. Roll each ball over the back of a fork, so that you get gnocchi style grooves. Honestly, these cooked up so soft that I'm not sure the grooves even survived, so I think this last step might be superfluous. The next step is the genius one: place them on a baking sheet and freeze them. If you don't do this, you will have no chance of them holding together when you cook them.

When you are ready to serve them, bring a large pan of salted water to the boil. Have your sauce (I used a stupidly simple tomato sauce, just crushed canned tomatoes, red pepper flakes and garlic, with torn basil thrown in at the end) hot and nearby. Have plates, warm and nearby. Toss your frozen gnudi into the water, and then take out as soon as they float. It happens really fast -- two minutes or less. Put them directly into your warm sauce. You will see that, as you stir, they will start to break apart, so stir as little as possible to get them coated. Serve immediately. I topped mine with a little more parmesan and some of my favorite olive oil, Columela.

They are so delicate, so tender, that they disintegrate in your mouth. What is left is, basically, cheese sauce. That's right -- it's cheese sauce coated in tomato sauce. You no longer have to decide if you want white or red sauce. You can have both! But it is more than that. There's a temporal aspect, as the gnudi dissolve in your mouth, and the fresh brightness of the tomato sauce and basil gives way to the richness of the cheese. It is the essence of great Italian food. So simple, all about the ingredients, all about balance, easy to put together and yet bespeaking care and craft.

We served ours with a rack of lamb, and the gnudi totally stole the show. And, I confess, I served it for passover, so I'm waiting for a plague to strike me for mixing dairy and meat. In my mind, I thought we would eat Italian style, with the gnudi first and on a separate plate, and then the lamb as a secondi, but the timing didn't work out that way. I'm hoping for frogs. I think I could live with frogs. Please don't let it be lice. Or boils. The boils sound bad. Cattle disease would be a walk in the park, since I don't own any cattle. Maybe I'm already being visited with cattle disease, and just don't know it? Whichever plague it will be, I'm pretty sure it was worth it.

Cheese Makers Under Attack; or, what happened with the Inlander

It is time to admit that my foray into professional food writing, via the Inlander, has officially fizzled out. I think had the lovely and intelligent gentleman who hired me remained as Arts and Culture Editor, the story would have had a different ending. It isn't that the woman who took his place (so that he could devote more time to his own writing) isn't good at her job. I'm sure she is. It's just that I'm not a journalist, and I don't think she and I were compatible enough for her to teach me what I needed to know. Whatever happened, I ended up writing a story that I think is worth telling, and it isn't going to get used in the paper in a recognizable form, so I thought I would "publish" it here. The issues came down to two things: first, the article needs more quotes and to be more journalistic. The editor is right about that, but I decided that I should concentrate on my scholarly writing, rather than attempt to learn a new craft. Second, she wanted this to be a character, hero-driven piece rather than an exploration of an ethical dilemma, without seeming to advocate for small businesses or potentially risky eating habits. This felt like the wrong way to take the story (not to mention contradictory), and it was on this point that perhaps my stubbornness took over. I wouldn't cut the quote at the end, and I wouldn't dramatize Sally Jackson into some pathetic old woman clinging to the last strands of her livelihood. Her story has more dignity than that. To the wonderful people who shared their time and story with me, I'm sorry I didn't find you a wider audience. For those of you in Spokane who read the Inlander, keep an eye out for the tendency of Arts and Culture pieces to feature a dramatic hero presented in hyperbolic descriptions. It's like a drinking game. 

Without further preamble:

Cheese Makers Under Attack

Sally Jackson is a pioneer, and the kind of woman who could have journeyed west in a covered wagon.  Instead of settling new land, she opened up new culinary territory. In 1979, she started making goat’s milk cheese when no one in America was eating it.  She was, arguably, the first person to market goat’s milk cheese in America, although that title is usually awarded to Laura Chenel of Sonoma, California. Her small farm deep in the Okanogan highlands, a farm which was first wired for electricity only a few years ago, now produces high quality semi-soft goat and sheep’s milk cheese, and, most recently, a cow’s milk cheese called Renata, named after Jackson’s Brown Swiss cow.  Cutting into the dense rind of any Sally Jackson cheese reveals a creamy white interior, redolent of grass, with the hint of funky barn distinctive of goat’s milk cheese.  Her cheeses have traveled from Okanogan to the restaurants of New York, Los Angeles, and Chicago.  So why is it she is contemplating giving up cheese-making now, when there is finally an educated public that can appreciate her cheese and her values?

Like a good post-modern tale, there are two stories here, occupying the same set of facts, but otherwise incommensurate.  Both tales have lurid details; both lay claim to core values and beliefs.  One story has to do with the government fulfilling a role even the most radical of libertarians think is one of its primary functions:  protecting our health by ensuring the safety of our food supply. The other story has to do with an unfair government agency, geared to serve and protect giant agra-business and unable, or worse, unwilling, to work with local, small, sustainable farms.

In Washington state, there are a rapidly growing number of farmstead cheesemakers.  Part dairy and part kitchen, farmstead cheesemakers are responsible for the entire process, from raising the milk-producing animals to packaging and, often, distributing the cheese itself.  These operations answer directly our growing desire for a sense of connection to our food.  We want to know where it came from and be able to speak to the people who produced it.  We want to know what the animals ate and how they were treated.  We want to be reasonably certain that we are doing no harm to ourselves, others, and the environment. 

Catha Links of Alpine Lakes Farm near Leavenworth is typical of the second generation of farmstead cheesemakers in the state,  a generation which includes: Joan Monteillet of Monteillet Fromagerie in Walla Walla, who handles all her own distribution and marketing, and who would be happy to teach you the art of cheese-making while you stay in her agri-tourismo style lodgings; M. Clare Paris of Larkhaven Farms in the Okanogan, who can be found each summer week-end at the Spokane Farmer’s Market, providing samples of her cheeses and proudly showing photos of her livestock; and Kelli Estrella of Estrella Creamery in Montesano. Links’ operation is tiny; she makes cheese in a single, large pot. Since at their heart, these operations are small farms, the work is physically demanding and insistent.  Goats, cows, and sheep are milked everyday, which means that cheese is made everyday, sometimes twice a day.  Lambing, calving, and kidding season means nights spent sleeping – or not sleeping – in the barn.  Sometimes there are interns, but often the work comes down to one or two people. Links is motivated by love – of cheese, of the animals, of sustainability – rather than by profit.  She says she loves it that people are asking the right questions now, “questions about what are the animals eating, what antibiotics and hormones are [being used], why [she isn’t] organic.”  Like most of these cheese-makers, she isn’t organic because it doesn’t make sense for her scale of operation.     

Links is worried, however. Worried enough that she is going to stop producing semi-soft cheeses altogether.  In October, the FDA placed all cheese at the Estrella Family Creamery under seizure because Listeria had been found in samples taken from retailers.  Supporters of the Creamery, including Paris, point out that there are no reports of any sickness coming from their cheese, that Listeria is a common bacteria with many non-virulent strains and the FDA tests have not determined what type of Listeria was detected, that the no tolerance policy taken by the FDA is unreasonable and unusual (for example, the European Union allows small amounts of the bacteria) and nearly impossible for small operations to maintain.  In November, the Washington State Department of Agriculture gave Sally Jackson thirty days to upgrade her dairy facility to meet Grade A standards, even though she has been operating with a non-Grade A license for over thirty years.  More alarming, in the beginning of December, cases of E-coli were linked to cheese boards including her cheeses, causing the FDA to issue a full recall of all of her cheeses.  Jackson is cooperating with both government agencies, but the strain is audible in her voice when she talks about the future.  She wants to fight, because she thinks what is happening to cheese-makers in the state is unfair, but she wonders if it is time for her to move on to the next thing in her life. 

The problem is that all of these operations produce raw milk cheese, meaning that the cheese is made from milk that has not been pasteurized.  Any bacteria in the milk finds a comfortable environment in the cheese to set up shop.  Some of these bacteria, namely Listeria and E-coli, are particularly virulent.  We are all familiar with the horrors of E-coli, including kidney failure and death, although most cases involve little more than the stomach flu.  Listeria is also potentially fatal for anyone with a compromised immune system, and can cause birth defects and miscarriages when consumed by a pregnant woman.  Confirmed cases of people becoming sick from eating raw milk cheeses are rare, and both bacteria can be found in pasteurized milk cheeses as well as other types of food.  In fact, Chris Loss, Director of Menu Research and Development at the Culinary Institute of America, says “there is no evidence that cheese from a small operation is more dangerous than cheese from a large operation,” although he cautions that all raw milk cheese, regardless of where it was produced, poses a potential risk.

There has been considerable on-line debate about the government’s actions in these cases.  Friends of Estrella Family Creamery have started a fund to help save the business (estrellacheese@wordpress.com).  Pete Kennedy, a lawyer writing for Farm to Consumer Legal Defense Fund, suggests that the FDA is overstepping their mandate in the Estrella recall, and in a similar recall in Missouri (www.farmtoconsumer.org/fda-ace-in-the-hole-kennedy.htm).  There are rumors flying in the cheese blogosphere about government conspiracies to shut down farmstead cheesemakers, and hints that the FDA is working in the interests of Big Cheese.

Kirk Robinson of the Washington State Department of Agriculture asserts that these rumors are unfounded.  “We have a double role here,” he explains.  “Our top priority is the safety of food, but we also want to ensure the success of small farms.”  When asked about the perceived hostility between the government and small businesses, he replied “we want to treat everyone the same.  If anything, we spend more time with the small business, providing technical support so that they can succeed.” 

It is easy to become frightened by these bacteria.  It is equally easy to become enraged by government agencies that seem to be standing in the way of small businesses while turning a blind eye to the issues inherent in large scale food production. Cheese lovers find themselves torn between wanting to simultaneously donate to the Help the Estrella Family Creamery fund and swearing off cheese entirely.  The truth of the matter is, everything we eat involves making complicated choices, often involves conflicting values.  We are used to thinking in terms of nutrition versus flavor, but we are also making value judgments about safety, environmental responsibility, and our economic system.  Nor is the issue of farmstead cheeses a clear-cut one, with safety on one side and artisanal small business on the other.  The most notorious recent E-coli outbreak was linked to mass-distributed packaged spinach, after all. 

Dr. Ellen Maccarone, Assistant Professor of Philosophy at Gonzaga University and a specialist in the ethics of food, summarizes the situation in this way:  “Local producers whose customers can know them and know their products is likely a better bet overall [than large-scale food companies].  When customers can know who produces the food and ask questions, then customers can make choices for themselves that reflect their values, whatever those might be.  When it comes to food, like so many other things, knowledge is empowering.”