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Before Whole Foods, Martha Stewart and Anthropologie got wind of Anarchy In a Jar, Laena McCarthy’s jam, jelly and preserves company was simply a way to put her passion into practice.  She grew up watching her mom can food, and then in college, made the connection between those early impressions of DIY sustainability with a new curiosity for food politics.

A botched batch of strawberry jam eventually led to launching her own company in 2009, amidst what McCarthy describes in her new cookbook, Jam On, as “a food-production renaissance blossoming in Brooklyn.”  Perhaps it was luck, as she says, or perhaps her key to success is her innovative ingredient combinations, sourcing directly from small farms, or choosing to recreate recipes with less sugar than usual. What began as a revolutionary idea against the norm, to share with the public pure, concentrated, clean flavors, is today flourishing from coast to coast. Although somewhat ironic, from “anarchy” to popularity, the wide approval is a heartening sign that the consumer is primed for knowing more about where their food comes from. And in this case, that food happens to be quite delicious.

The book, Jam On: The Craft of Canning Fruit, is a wonderful example of organization, simplicity and consistency in terms of lay out. Each of the eight chapters (except for number one, which is “Laena’s Story”) begins with an informative introduction, explaining the recipes ahead, then lists the recipes in an index before launching into the step by step instructions for each. At the bottom of each recipe there is a “Tips” section that discusses appropriate pairings and suggestions for serving.

Along these same lines, a whole chapter at the end is dedicated to pairings, offering a variety of savory and sweet dishes to prepare that feature the book’s previous ideas. A little bit of humor and/or regionalism is mixed into many of the titles, a nice flair to accompany the unique flavor combinations, such as “Love Me in the Morning Heart Eggs with Grapefruit and Smoked Salt Marmalade and toast,” “I Eat NYC Hot Pepper Jelly,” “Thai Me Up Jam” or “Big Apple Butter”.

Most importantly, chapter three, “Get Your Jam On: The Step-By-Step Guide,” is a must read before jumping into the book regardless of your skill level or previous capacity in canning. McCarthy breaks down the steps involved into simple and easy to follow numbered sections, debunking many myths (no one ever told me that you didn’t have to use a rack at the bottom of your hot water bath or that you could stack jars on top of each other while boiling!) and offering in-depth explanations to the reasons behind some of the more mystifying elements to jam-making. Perhaps it is her formal academic background in science that lends to such clarity about pectin, sugar content, temperature and experimentation within the boundaries of safety.

That emphasis on experimentation is really what sold me on this cookbook in particular. I have a hard time following a recipe word for word, as I generally tend to cook based on what I have on hand and what inspires me at any given moment.  It seems that McCarthy works this way as well, and as a result, has included at the back of each chapter a section entitled “Make It Your Own.” Every recipe has a list of alternative additions or substitutions along with proportions to re-create one of her original recipes into something that might be more fitting to your palate or your pantry. This makes working with Jam On pretty fun, offering guidelines to ensure positive results but lots of wiggle room to play.

I chose to tackle the Meyer Lemon Marmalade because I have a tree dripping with the fruit right now. Following the lower sugar, less cooking time method that McCarthy adheres to perhaps creates a few more steps, such as boiling apples to make a “juice” (mine came out more like an apple water) and then adding some of the pulp and seeds of the juiced lemons to the cooking jam to contribute their natural pectin. I also ended up having to juice way more lemons than the recipe indicated, but that could be based on the size of mine versus hers. The addition of bay leaf and absinthe is what made this marmalade stand out, but I could have easily subbed in whiskey and cardamom, brandy and sage or sake and lemongrass per her suggestions to suit my taste…all equally as unique and impressive as a gift idea. With all of the lemon peels left over, I chose to make candied citron as a by-product. I’m somewhat surprised that McCarthy didn’t suggest this herself, as a candied citrus peel recipe is actually included in the book and would have been a fitting, practical idea to offer for this particular recipe.

I’m still having fun with Jam On and intend to refer to it throughout my holiday edible gift crafting. I’ve already procured some of my friend’s home-brew beer to use for the Spiced Beer Jelly and I’m already looking forward to making Rhubarb and Hibiscus Jam or the Tart Attack Shrub with rhubarb and lime come spring. If you have never made your own preserves before but really want to get going, this is a great book to try. But even if you feel like a pro and rarely look to guidance while putting up your bounty, this is also a great book to try. The fact that a single book can cater to that kind of range in experience while upholding a high level of innovation is truly impressive. A jar of homemade jam and a copy of Jam On might be just the ticket this holiday season.

 

This review was originally posted on Civil Eats.

I just harvested a baby. Picked after 40 weeks plus five days of ripening, she weighs in at a whopping 9 pounds, 1 ounce and stretches 21.25 inches long. Her genus is Sonial Stimpson, but commonly referred to as the “Hazel” variety. There really couldn’t be a more perfect example of her species, and we are tempted everyday to just eat her up!

The special “Hazel” variety

Preserving her takes a lot of preparation and work, though. And unfortunately there isn’t really a recipe for success…mostly trial and error to get it just right. We are two weeks into the testing phase, preliminary research and development did not provide comprehensive guidance into the project and we are working overtime to say the least. Lots of sleepless nights, but all worth it. In fact, the brevity of this field note entry is a testament to our time constraints and level of activity poured into putting up Hazel. I’ve learned by now that caffeine doesn’t adequately fuel the energy needed for this type of work, and can have disastrous secondary effects on the specimen. However, highly nutritious fuel is required to keep the project moving forward. The following recipe, with room for adaptation to suit anyone’s preference, has proven to be a great start to each day.

Hazel’s Harvest Time Granola

4 cups rolled oats

2 cups unsweetened, wide flake coconut

2/3 cup chopped dried fruit (currants, apricots, cherries, etc.)

1/2 cup nuts, seeds, or combination

1/2 cup unsalted butter, oil, or combination

1/2 cup sweetener (honey, agave, etc.)

1 egg white

1/2 tsp. salt

1/2 tsp vanilla (optional)

Preheat the oven to 300F degrees. In a large bowl, combine the oats, coconut, dried fruit, nuts/seeds and salt.  In a small saucepan over low heat, melt the butter (if using). Stir in the sweetener and remove from heat. If using oil, mix in a small bowl with sweetener. Add the vanilla (if using) and pour into the dry ingredients, stirring well until everything is combined. Whisk the egg white in a small bowl and add, stirring well to coat. Divide the mixture between two rimmed baking sheets and spread into a thin layer on each.

Bake, stirring occasionally and then re-spreading evenly, for about 30-40 minutes or until deep golden brown. Rotating the pans is a good idea to ensure even baking. Remove from the oven and press down with a spatula. Let cool completely before transferring to an airtight container. Makes about 8 cups.

I’m 5 months pregnant. Actually, in baby speak, the language they communicate in here in the land that I suddenly find myself in, that’s referred to as 20 weeks pregnant. It is quite an experience, has its ups and down’s as any woman with child will tell you. And as my first crack at it, I have to say that I am astounded every day that something so scientifically magical can take place pretty much without intervention, at least when all goes well, thankfully. My body keeps rolling along, expanding and stretching and creating a little life that will pop out in a few months like a cake hot from the oven. Which brings me to the point of all of this: FOOD.

I can, with all honesty and confidence, tell you that my relationship to food has always been a strong one. My work, my life, my self is intertwined in the subject and has been for as long as I can remember. I write about, I make it, I sell it, I eat it, I think about it all the time. So when something like getting knocked up occurs, silly me assumes that my food self will stay the same as always. I’m healthy, I listen to my body, I eat a very balanced, clean yet delicious diet, so what could change? And why would I need to change anything? Well, things do change, and it has led me to ponder some big questions in a way I never have before.

One of the main things I keep running into has to do with cravings. And it’s not at all a cliché to say pregnancy causes cravings. It really does, in a primal, needful kind of way like a wild animal must have. (It also causes really abrupt aversions, so drastic that once-favorite flavors can cause a gag reflex practically overnight). So what happens when a person, let’s say me, who ardently promotes seasonality and supporting local farmers and producers (like my own business), finds herself craving pineapple. So desperately that she has to leave work to go hunt one down. I know it sounds dramatic, but it happens. This brings me to think about moral dilemmas that become less important in the name of nutrition.

I must have needed potassium or Vitamin C. Pineapple also is high in fiber and actually contain large amounts of serotonin, according to “The New Complete Book of Food, A Nutritional, Medical, and Culinary Guide,” by Carol Ann Rinzler. The week or two of pineapple gorging that I had was enjoyable, but I kept having this somewhat guilty feeling as I looked at my counter, otherwise piled with seasonal bounty like Oro Blanco grapefruits and Meyers Lemons from our orchard. The Costa Rican Pineapple (it was organic, at least) stood out like sore thumb. And then there was the weird carob craving, despite the suspicion that the “grain sweetened” (i.e.: malted barley and corn) carob covered almonds I was wolfing down were not organic and most likely contained GMO ingredients, not to mention the soy lecithin, which is a whole other topic.

I’m actually not a crazy, uptight, hyper-vigilant person. I acknowledge that you can never avoid everything harmful or know how to fix everything. I don’t live in a prison of restraint or try to preach it to others. But when you do know certain things, about food additives and politics in this case, it is hard to let yourself go blind to it, especially when you are consuming the very same “bad” thing for two. Yes, I could have maintained stronger willpower and breathed through the cravings, but then I would be ignoring an important voice that my body was literally screaming at me to obey.

Another issue I have come across has to do with food restrictions. Every pregnant woman in America has been told to avoid certain things. Mainly, the list consists of unpasteurized cheeses and dairy products, caffeine, a wide variety of fish (and never raw), and alcohol. We take all of this as scripture, baffled that there was once a time when doctors advised you to limit your prenatal martini intake to only two at cocktail hour. How many of our parents came out just fine, relatively speaking? And I’d love to see some statistics about how many French women refuse to eat genuine Camembert for nine months, or Japanese women who bypass their daily fish diet. What about all the female winemakers or relatives of them, in any of the hundreds of winegrowing regions across the world? (Seriously, if anyone finds stats on this stuff, send it to me…). I’m not disregarding the proven hazards or nutritional research to these dietary recommendations; I’m just bringing up the extreme black and white nature that is often the standard of western medicine.

The point of this diatribe, I guess, is to bring attention once again to trust and intuition. We are all just struggling along in our own little worlds, navigating through life the best we can. The importance lies in letting ourselves listen to ourselves, trusting that our decisions will guide us, and not getting lost in the quagmire of information that is hurled at us every single second in this day and age. So let yourself eat a tomato in Maine in January if you absolutely need it (remember that it won’t taste very good though) or order a milkshake knowing it isn’t organic once in awhile. Just listen, and come back to yourself.

 

Well, this post is going to be extremely short because…we are getting MARRIED on Saturday! It is crazy how time flies by. So anyway, we just wanted to reach out one more time before the big day with a couple of small details.

If you are arriving from out of town on Friday, please feel free to stop by The Tyrolean Inn (9600 Highway 9, Ben Lomond, CA 95005) for a drink. We will be there for our rehearsal dinner and would love to see anyone and everyone in the Beer Garden following our meal.

On Saturday, the ceremony starts at 3pm at the Alba Road Schoolhouse (12070 Alba Road, Ben Lomond, CA 95005), followed by lots of delicious surprises! We can’t wait to see you all.

Sunday, we will be opening Filling Station (1500 Mission Street, Santa Cruz, CA 95060) just for you! Swing by for breakfast at Fran’s (The Truck Stop) and coffee at the shop. We will be there from around 10am until we have to leave to pack for New Orleans!

It should be a beautiful weekend and we are so excited to share it with you.

 

Well everyone, believe it or not the big day is almost here. A mere 42 days from now we will celebrate our wedding with those of you who can make the trek. We wanted to provide a little bit more information about where you can stay and what you can do here in Santa Cruz if you are coming from out of town. Our wedding weekend happens to be packed with local activities to keep you busy. Here are a few suggestions:

Open Studios - A huge array of artists from both sides of the county take part in this widely popular annual event. You can purchase a guide from the Cultural Council or just look for the bright green signs that indicate where an artist is showing their work.

Santa Cruz Beach Boardwalk - Needs no introduction. Fun for all and nothing really comes close to the kitchy nostalgic strangeness of one of the only authentic boardwalks left. Oh, and our friend Athena took some great engagement photos for us here (see above), so we like it a little bit more now.

Santa Cruz Mountain Winetasting – Download a map from the Santa Cruz Mountain Winegrowers Association and check out why our area offers such a diverse mix of great wine. We are happy to provide some names of our favorites if you are interested.

The San Lorenzo Valley is the region of town that we live in, and although beautiful and much sunnier than fog dense Santa Cruz, this rural valley does not offer much in the way of lodging. However, we reserved rooms at the following locations:

Best Western Scott’s Valley – Our reservation block is under Stimpson/Turpin, #81

Quality Inn Ben Lomond – Reservation is under Amber Turpin, call direct and specify that you need to transfer the room into your name.

If you are interested in staying in Santa Cruz, which is about 30 minutes from the wedding and reception, we would recommend these spots:

Dream Inn

West Cliff Inn

Adobe on Green Street

The Babbling Brook B&B

Davenport Roadhouse

To arrange for a shuttle or rides to and from your hotel to the reception, the following might be your best bet:

Santa Cruz Experience - Offers shuttle service for events and also group wine tours.

Hero Designated Drivers - A great service.

Other taxi and limo companies

Since you will be enjoying the mountainous nature of our San Lorenzo Valley, you might as well soak up some of the culture in this unique place. Here are some of our, um, recommendations? near Alba Road:

Tyrolean Inn – Authentic German food with a wide array of beer served in their outdoor beer garden. There is often a blow up jump castle that the kids love.

Coffee 9 – Good bran muffins

Henflings – A true biker bar. Cheap drinks, live music, a sunny deck and the thrill of never knowing what might happen.

Redwood Pizzeria – A young hippy couple that actually succeeded in creating an eatery that is semi-decent and good for the community. We like the old Palookaville posters and the Santa Cruz Mountain Brewing on tap. Order extra sauce if you get the pizza.

New Leaf Markets – This is a small chain of natural food stores that we do most of our shopping at. Our favorite is luckily in Felton, about 3 miles from Ben Lomond.

If you havn’t already, please remember to send us your RSVP cards! We need to make sure you all get plenty of yummy food and drink, so let us know as soon as you can if you are planning to come join the party.

We opted out of registering for gifts since we really don’t need more things, however we did set up a special Honeymoon Fund so we can take the trip we have been dreaming about. See below and right to contribute…

We can’t wait to see you all and are so happy this occasion will bring us all together.

Oh yeah, and by the way, if you didn’t know…we are proud to announce our newest coffee shop venture: Filling Station! Visit us online, on Facebook, or in person if you can.

OUR STORY
by David P. Stimpson

I had seen her from time to time at one party or another.  She was quiet and a little sad, and she was beautiful.  She lived somewhere else and occasionally visited her good friend and my housemate Emily.  At a Halloween party we flirted, though I don’t know if she knew it.

Then I hurt my knee and surgery lead to an infection, which almost killed me.  I missed Ed and Jessica’s wedding while recovering, more an atrophying, on a single mattress in the living room, and she brought me back a flower.  In the haze of Oxycontin and immobilizing illness, while a velvet Marcel Marceau painting mournfully watched me teeter at the precipice of the abyss, I felt a twinge of something, of that one thing.

Eventually, I planned an epic adventure; it would be my first out of the house in many months.  I would show up at her work/living place, a farm, and family camp way out on the Eel River, with an impromptu picnic.  I brought beer and wine and bread and leftovers from a Middle Eastern themed dinner we had at the house the night before, and chocolate and flowers.  I limped to my truck and headed into unknown territory.

Three hours up the 101 and thirty minutes on a winding county road the last of which becomes gravel as it snakes along with the Eel.  The drive was beautiful and the hills still held some green, though the fading of summer had begun.  The warm air through the window buoyed me and somehow I had no doubts about what I was doing.  All was right.  The unknown was not scary, but enticing, and exhilarating.

There were some guys working near a gate and I asked them if Amber was up ahead and they said yes with a wave.  I parked, and with a full picnic basket in one hand and flowers in the other I limped toward voices and kitchen noises.

“Do you want to try this chocolate pudding?” someone said.

I like pudding,” I said through a screen door.

She was more bewildered than surprised.   She wanted to know what I was doing here, I said I was in the neighborhood; I don’t think she got it.  Then I asked her to picnic with me.   She said yes.

She had to finish working, which would be soon, and I could wait in her room/cabin.  So with full picnic basket and flowers I limped across the grounds toward her place.  To my right a short ways off a large table full of people ate dinner, but as they saw me with flowers and picnic basket limping toward only one possible location, all the accompanying murmuring and clanging of a convivial meal abruptly stopped.  In deafening quiet, with dozens of eyes burning into me, I entered her room to wait.

Eventually, she finished working, and then she forced marched me up to Inspiration Point, unaware of the still excruciating pain of post knee surgery or my total lack of physical conditioning. We ate and drank and talked for hours.  In the wee of night, hand in hand, we walked the farm and toured the barns. She plugged in the party lights hanging from the barn rafters for a magical, fleeting second. I like to think that despite her fear of getting caught at the early morning hour she was compelled to capture a moment. We returned to her room and slept; she on her bed, me on the concrete floor.  In the morning, we toured some more, mostly the animals this time, and my all time favorite baby pigs.  We said good-bye, and I drove home full of something I had always lacked: Belief.

For months we lived far apart, mostly remaining in contact, or rather getting to know each other, by hand written letters sent via the US Mail.  Occasionally we meet up in San Francisco or some other bay area locale, often with awkward and certainly drunken escapades.  But, probably for good reason, she seemed timid and shy; reclusive, and me, volatile and erratic…a quitter by natural tendency found a way to start something beautiful.

It grew slowly, surely, deeply, with ease and fun.  We lived the good life for years before we had to weather dark skies and stormy seas, whose waves threw us against jagged cliffs again and again. But eventually those waves bore us away to calmer bays.  And so, with this approaching wedding date our story seems to begin again and go on and on and on, like those waves rolling and crashing. If not forever then surely their echoes will be eternal.

Three days later...

Getting chickens saved my starter. I know it sounds weird, but because I chose to start the starter in early spring and because our wood heated house never has a constant ambient temperature above 65-degrees unless the fire is blazing, my homemade starter was in a sate of stasis…no bubbles, no smell, no life. Then we got ten baby chicks. They lived in a large cardboard complex in our living room, and a big red heat lamp hovered above them non-stop. Just like the babies, my starter needed warmth to live. I realized that I could station the bowl of starter in close proximity to the lamp and soon started to see signs of life. The chicks and the native wild yeasts thrived together.

First step: Leaven

I received the Tartine Bread cookbook as a christmas present right after it was released. I had pined away for it and a couple of my loving co-workers had noticed. I’m not sure if I should be thanking them or cursing them, because it is not the simplest of undertakings, at least not in the beginner. By now there are hundreds of blog posts about Tartine bread, if not more. I could probably do a whole post just listing all of those posts. And now I’m one of them. Funny.

Mixing

I’m definitely not bread baking expert. What I’m writing here is about my first and only attempt at the Basic Country Loaf recipe so far. I had every intention of doing this project on a regular basis. In fact, it was one of my New Year’s resolutions. Making Tartine bread and my own yogurt regularly. I have prevailed, for the most part, on the former. But for the bread, this is it. I’m not going to get into the details much here, like hydration ratios, bench rest or turning technique. If you want the recipe, buy the book. It’s totally worth it, even if you never make any of the recipes. The photos are gorgeous and the story is inspiring.

Hot out of the oven

Despite some minor hiccups, like running out of regular white flour (instead of 10% whole wheat, mine ended up being 40%), the bread turned out amazing. I was glad that I had a three day weekend, because tracking the progress of each step took some time, patience and diligence. I’m sure as you get more familiar with the process and your own climate changes, the recipe becomes second nature. I will keep at it, but at this point I can’t really see how someone could do this on a day to day basis if they work away from home full time. Regardless, I ate bread for breakfast, lunch and dinner last weekend and loved every second of it.

Crumb

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