A granola bar

We eat a lot of oats around here. In fact, I just searched through my email receipts so that I could give you some sort of number, and it turns out we eat about 60 pounds of oats, just the two of us, every year. Hoo-ey!

Mostly, we eat them for breakfast. I buy them from Maine, online from a farm called Wood Prairie Farm in Bridgewater, and they are organic and Maine-grown and make top-notch homemade granola. But thanks to my sister [hi Anna!], we have now found a new all-day snacking use for them, and between that and the baby, I predict our annual consumption will soon be in the high eighties. Please, no crop failures.

So, what is that beauty up there? That is one of the Granola Bars with Chocolate featured in the New York Times article that Anna sent me last week. It is also addictive, and not entirely healthy, but also not entirely unhealthy. The bars are made up mostly of oats, but also of butter and honey and dark chocolate. They hold up the way a granola bar should—they're chewy but not hard, they don't fall apart—and they have a hint of cinnamon and a dash of vanilla. In short, they are absolutely lovely.

I should have noticed them earlier, since the paper pulled the base recipe from a cookbook I have and love—Kim Boyce's Good to the Grain—but her version recommended dried fruit instead of chocolate. What can I say? Chocolate gets my attention.

GRANOLA BARS WITH CHOCOLATE

Alex says these are too chocolately. That phrase really isn't in my vocabulary, but if you're not a chocolate person, try making these with dried fruit instead. Oh! and a note about the wheat bran: the NYT recipe uses flaxseed meal, and the headnote in Kim Boyce's original says you can also use wheat germ. I just used coarsely ground wheat from our grain CSA.

3 tablespoons butter

2 cups rolled oats

1/2 cup wheat bran

1/2 teaspoon cinnamon

1/4 teaspoon salt

1/3 cup honey

2 tablespoons brown sugar

1 teaspoon vanilla

1/2 cup dark chocolate chips (I like Ghiradelli's 60% Cacao Bittersweet Chips)

Preheat the oven to 300 degrees F. Grease an 8" by 8" glass or metal baking pan.

Melt the butter in a wide saucepan over medium heat. Add the oats and cook, stirring frequently, until the grains are lightly toasted—about 8 minutes. Be careful not to let them burn—they should smell toasty and should be, in Kim's words, about two shades darker. Turn off the heat and spoon the oats into a mixing bowl.

Wipe the pan clean and add the honey, brown sugar, and vanilla. Bring the mixture to a boil over medium heat and keep it at a gentle bubble for 5 minutes. Pour this syrup over the oats and stir well. Let the mixture cool for 5 minutes, then stir in the chocolate chips.

Scrape the batter into the prepared pan and spread it evenly. Bake the bars for 20 minutes, taking care not to let them brown or they'll get hard instead of chewy. Let them cool completely; then cut them into squares and store in an airtight container.

The Local Food Report: hot pepper jam

If you've been around here for a while, you know by now that Clare Bergh has a way of collecting seed varieties. First came the tomatoes, then the eggplants, and the garlic. This summer, it's hot peppers—she's hooked.

Her table at the Orleans farmers' market is a mosaic of reds, yellows, purples, greens. She labels the peppers by heat range, according to a system known as the Scoville Scale. If you've never heard of it, the basic idea is this: a guy named Wilbur Scoville came up with a method for testing the amount of capsaicin—the chemical compound that makes our mouths feel spice—in hot peppers. Based on the decisions of Scoville's taste testers, the amount of capsaicin different peppers contain and how spicy they are as a result can now be found on charts. Bell peppers, for example, have zero Scoville Heat Units, while law enforcement grade pepper sprays rate at over five million.

If you squint at the photo of Clare's peppers up there, you can tell from the numbers that the Giant Thai Hots are significantly less spicy than the Golden Nuggets to their right. Here's a chart of where all Clare's hot peppers rank on the Scoville Scale, to give you a little bit more specific idea of what I mean:

3,000:
Czech's Black
Jalapeno

5,000:
Jalapeno Heaven
Serrano Tampequino

8,000:
Giant Thai Hot

20,000:
Fluorescent Purple
Haiti Cluster

25,000:
Hot Lemon

30,000:
Cayenne Long Purple
Cayenne Long Red
Ho Chi Minh
Lemon Chile

50,000:
Las Cruces Chile

80,000:
Golden Nugget
Thai Hot

100,000:
Georgia Flame

125,000:
Hinkelhatz

250,000:
Fatali

300,000:
Habanero Lemon
Habanero White

350,000:
Habanero Orange

450,000:
Habanero Caribbean Red
Habanero Chocolate

Personally, I probably will never make it very far beyond Jalapeno Heaven. I am a terrible wimp when it comes to spice, and although I will gladly eat your pickled Jalapenos off a Greek salad, I cannot endure even the slightest hint of Scotch Bonnet or Habanero. Clare claims that she can't either, at least not raw, and that this is where friends come in handy, friends like Ben.

(Ben is Ben Chung—the guy who sells quail eggs and all sorts of garlics and herbs at the Orleans Farmers Market and, incidentally, also the same Ben Chung who has a practice downtown as a dentist—and he is not afraid of hot peppers in the least. Clare found a new cultivar growing wild in her garden this year, and he happily gave it a taste—raw!—and suggested a number for the scale.)

But while she might not go nibbling raw peppers the way Ben does, Clare is not afraid to cook even the hottest peppers into a jam. She wears gloves, to protect her fingers and (later) her eyes, and she cooks Jalapenos and Habaneros and plain old bell peppers down with vinegar and honey. Something about the combination soothes the spice of the hot peppers, she says, so that the jam is easily spreadable on toast or hot dogs or piled up on hamburgers even for "non-chile heads."


Next week, I plan to give it a try. If you get there before me, let me know how things go, okay? Oh, and if you're growing any hot pepper varieties, let us know, on the Scoville Scale, where they stand. I'm not sure if it will be for drying, or for paste, or for jam, but one of these days, I'd like to try growing some myself.

HOT PEPPER JAM

To use Clare's words, "Even with all these hot peppers, this jam's not too hot for the non-chile heads." So long as you use gloves and avoid pouring warm or hot liquid over any of the hot pepper seeds or scraps (the steam can carry the spice and burn your nose and eyes), you should be safe from even the habaneros. Enjoy!

1 dozen bell peppers (use red, yellow, and orange for a colorful jam)
10 Habanero peppers
10 Serrano or Jalapeno peppers
1 tablespoon salt
1 cup white vinegar
1 and 1/2 cups honey (or 3 cups sugar)

Wash canning jars and lids and place jars in a boiling water bath.

Wash, seed, then chop the peppers in a food processor. They will be wet—drain any excess liquid and combine the pulp with the remaining ingredients in a large, non-reactive soup pot. Bring to a boil over medium-high heat. Boil gently for 20 to 30 minutes, or until the volume of the jam is reduced by half and it thickens enough to sheet from a spoon.

Ladle the hot jam into hot, sterile jars (they need 10 minutes in a boiling water bath with at least an inch of water covering the tops of the jars), leaving 1/4-inch headspace. Wipe the rim of the jars with a dish towel dipped in boiling water to make sure they are clean, and seal tightly with lids and bands dipped in boiling water.

Turn the sealed jars upside down and leave overnight; in the morning, check the seals. Any jars that for some reason do not seal can be put in the fridge to be used right away; the others will store in a dry, dark place for up to a year.

The Local Food Report: the nectar progression

The other day, I walked into a conversation at the farmers' market that stopped me in my tracks. Gretel was standing behind her table, selling those skinny yellow carrots and sugar snap peas that she does so well, and Barbara Dean was next door, selling her Little Caesar's and Rediculous and chatting about the heat. Someone asked Barbara about her honey, and why it was so light in color, and suddenly, Gretel was on red ribbons and Barbara was talking about loosestrife and neither one could stop praising spring nectar. I knew a lot more about local honey when I left.

As it turns out, Barbara's honey was so light because it was spring honey. Bees around here go for the light colored flowers in the spring—the roses and the locusts and all those other first blooms—and the nectar they bring back to the hive is light colored, too. Most years, because of the wet and the cold we seem to bring in May and June, people around here don't get much of a spring harvest. But this year, in Barbara's hives at least, there was a boon.

She took two supers—a super is the wooden box beekeepers put on the hive to collect excess honey, and then grab when it's full—for a total of 45 pounds. She poured the honey, so clear it looks almost like lemon water, or maybe a weak ginger tea, into jars, and shoppers have been wondering after it ever since.

Gretel didn't have any at her stand, but apparently, years ago, she took second place for her spring honey at the Barnstable County Fair. She says she thinks she might have gotten first, a blue ribbon, if she'd properly filled the jars, but she didn't and they docked her and so she took home the red instead.

All of this is to say, of course, Did you ever realize honeys could be so different?

I did not. I had no idea that in the fall, honey gets dark and spicy and even a little cedary toward the end. I had no idea that commercial honey was mixed—from different hives and states and seasons into a monotone, amber blend. I'd never heard of buckwheat honey—dark black, with a taste almost like molasses—or thyme honey from Greece, or locust honey, the kind Barbara harvested this spring. I did not know that there are controversial blossoms for honey production—things like loosestrife, which some people love for honey and others can't stand—or that at certain times of summer, there's almost no nectar for the bees at all.

I talked with several beekeepers besides Gretel and Barbara, and from what I can gather, the nectar progression on the Cape goes like this: In May and June it's black locust and oak and roses and autumn olive, then cranberry blossoms if there's a bog around. Mid summer it's wildflowers and garden blooms like thyme and loosestrife, then in the fall, aster and goldenrod. The locust and roses and cranberry blossoms all give the honey a light, floral flavor, while the aster and goldenrod turn it spicy and dark.

When I got home, I searched through my cupboards to see what sort of honey we had kicking around. I'd gotten a spring bottle from Barbara, we had one mid-season blend from E & T Farms, and there was an old jar that we got from Mel Hammond down the street in Wellfleet last fall. We did a taste test, and the beekeepers were right: there was a huge difference. I couldn't pick a favorite, but I see now how different seasons of honey could be better for different uses and recipes.

Where ever you get your honey—there's a list of local producers over here—I highly recommend you stock up and get it into the kitchen as soon as you can. Because the peaches are ripe and honey—for a batch of summer peaches spiced and chilled in white wine—is all you need to make dessert, and dig in.


HONEY SPICED PEACHES CHILLED IN WHITE WINE

Cool, marinated peaches are one of my favorite things on a very hot day. They make an equally excellent dessert plain or over vanilla ice cream—we had them with vanilla ice cream that we made with a batch of Mel Hammond's fall honey left over from last year, and the more spicy fall honey flavor of the ice cream perfectly complemented the lighter, more floral flavor Barbara's spring honey lent the fruit. For the wine, I used a half bottle of Botani—a light, fruity moscatel.

1/2 bottle (about 2 cups) dry, fruity white wine
2 tablespoons honey
a pinch of nutmeg
a pinch of cinnamon
4 very ripe peaches

Heat up the wine, honey, nutmeg, and cinnamon in a saucepan over low heat, stirring until the honey dissolves. Turn off the heat and set aside.

Slice the peaches very thin, and add the slices to the hot wine. Cool to room temperature, then chill for several hours. When you're ready to eat the peaches, serve them either on their own, with a little bit of the wine, or strain them out and use them as a topping for vanilla ice cream.

The Local Food Report: Bee School

I can imagine enrolling in all sorts of schools. The Cambridge School of Culinary Arts. Colombia Journalism School. The Salt Institute. But honey bee school? I had no idea.

As it turns out, it's quite the thing on the Cape. Bee School—put on through the Barnstable County Beekeepers' Association or BCBA—fills up every spring. Its waiting list spills over to next year already, and this season's class doesn't even graduate until early May. Apparently, beekeeping knowledge is in high demand.

There are lots of reasons people want to keep bees: because they love honey, because they have a cranberry bog out back, because their brother wanted to take the class with a friend. You name it, someone's there, and the class covers just about everything, too. Students learn about all the key points in a hive's life cycle, what you need to build a hive, and how to protect the bees from disease and ensure a good honey harvest come fall. As far as tuition goes, it's certainly less than any of the other schools I've been dreaming about. Thirty bucks gets you in the door: handouts, mentoring help, lessons, and all. You even get a BCBA membership!

It seems like there would be a lot of red tape and town regulations to go along with getting a hive, but really, most people have no trouble at all. It can be a bit complicated—laws vary by town—so the best thing to do if you're interested is just walk over to town hall, talk with the health agent, and then give your neighbors a heads up. One woman I spoke with lives next to a pre-school, and even she didn't have any problem enrolling, so I'm willing to bet you have a pretty good shot.

In the event that you check things out with the town and your neighbors and do one day enroll in bee school and end up tending your very own hive (or, ahem, are inspired to buy a big jar of the sweet liquid gold at the farmers' market come May), you'll need something to do with all that honey. There's tea, certainly, and peanut butter and honey sandwiches, but those will only take you so far.


That's why I made you these. They're honey spice squares. (It took me three tries to make them for you, and I'd rather you didn't tell anyone about the first two recipes I tried out. One went directly into the compost and the other tasted much more like chewy cardboard than anything that should rightfully be parading around as a dessert.) But the third—this one's a gem. Soft, sweet, a little bit gooey—just the thing for a blustery afternoon.

It has a few more steps than the other two did, but based on the results, I'd say they're worth it. Plus, the whole mixing process couldn't have taken me more than twenty minutes, tops, and that's really not so much time to spend on a batch of sweet, zesty, ever-so-subtly-spicy squares that will carry you through the afternoons all week.

I got my honey from E & T Farms in Barnstable, but who knows: you just might have your own.

HONEY SPICE SQUARES

adapted just slightly from Great Coffee Cakes, Sticky Buns, Muffins, & More by Carole Walter

for the batter:
2 and 1/2 cups all-purpose flour
1/2 teaspoon cinnamon
1/2 teaspoon nutmeg
1/2 teaspoon baking powder
1/4 teaspoon baking soda
1/4 teaspoon salt
1 and 1/2 sticks butter
1/4 cup honey
zest of one lemon
2 eggs
1 cup brown sugar, packed
1 teaspoon vanilla
1/4 cup sour cream
1 cup pecans, broken into small pieces

for the syrup:
1/3 cup honey
juice of one lemon
1/3 cup water

Preheat the oven to 350 degrees F. In a small, heavy-bottomed saucepan, melt the butter with the honey and the lemon zest. Meanwhile, in a large mixing bowl, whisk together the flour, cinnamon, nutmeg, baking powder, baking soda, and salt and set aside.

Get out another, medium-size mixing bowl, and crack the two eggs in. Beat them on medium high speed until they lighten up, which will take about a minute. Then begin adding the brown sugar as you beat, a few spoonfuls at a time. Beat until everything is well combined, about 2 or 3 minutes.

Turn down the speed and slowly pour in the butter mixture (it should have cooled down some but still be slightly warm). The mixture should thicken as you mix; then add the vanilla. If everything looks curdled, that's okay.

Alternately add the dry ingredients and the sour cream, mixing until just combined after each addition. Fold in 3/4 cup of the pecans with a spatula, and spread the batter evenly into a well-greased 9- by 13-inch baking pan. Sprinkle the rest of the nuts over top, and bake for about 20 minutes, or until the center is set and the cake is a deep amber brown.

Now it's time to make the syrup (I know! We're almost done.) For this, you simply combine the honey, lemon juice, and water in that same small, heavy-bottomed saucepan, and bring them to a slow boil. Turn the heat down, and let the liquid simmer for a few minutes until it thickens somewhat.

Using a toothpick or a skewer, poke holes in the cake at one or two inch intervals. Spoon the warm syrup over top, continuing until every drop is absorbed. Let the cake cool for a few hours before cutting it into squares. If you need to have a hot and toddy while you taste the first one, I completely understand.

Honey from the comb

There is nothing my mother loves better than good honey straight from the comb. She first found it in her Christmas stocking, toted up north from Wellfleet, the year I brought it from Rich's farm stand down the road.

This year, she sought it out, pulling in to check Sheila's carefully stocked shelves each time she passed the stand on her way out for a visit. "No luck," she'd say; Rich's was out of honey.

She found some finally at the Common Ground Fair, combs packed tightly into a small plastic box. She tried a box from the local coop, too, and a farm nearby, but when she spooned it out onto her fork, it was never the same. They were all too waxy, less delicate, and not quite so sweet.

So when I spotted the comb honey at Crow's Farm in Sandwich the other day, I had to pick some up. I packed two boxes into my brimming paper bag, and tucked one away for safe keeping. At home, I opened the other at breakfast. Popping in a piece of bread, I pulled out the butter and settled in to wait.

When the slice emerged toast, I carried it to the table and began to spread. First butter then honey melted into the grains, salty yet sweet and lingering long on the tongue. I can't say for sure, but I think it's as good as Sheila's honey. I'll have to wait for Christmas to get the last word.

TOAST WITH HONEYCOMB, GORGONZOLA, AND GREEN APPLE

Serves 2

Slice 1 Granny Smith apple very thinly. Slice 4 pieces bread, and put in to toast. When hot, spread each with 1 tablespoon blue or other soft cheese and 1 tablespoon honey from the comb. Layer with apple slices and eat warm.

Quince leather

They started out as poached quince—the fruit leather, that is. I peeled the strange green crosses between apple and pair, sliced them down the middle, and set them in to boil. They simmered away, in honey and lemon, leaching tannins and rigidity until finally they sat, soft as mush.

The trouble was, the peculiar, impossibly hard fruits were now too soft. A few days earlier, when I'd picked them up at the market, this had been a mistake impossible to imagine. You could have thrown one from a moving car, stem and all, and found it still intact after the wheels ran it over.

A few of the poached halves were still good, of course, but most had gone over the tipping point from tender to mush. We ate those that hadn't, drizzled with the honey-lemon sauce, a sprinkle of salt, and a pinch of fresh ground nutmeg, and I threw those that had into the food processor.

I'd been wanting to make fruit leather for a long time now, to see if it was really possible like they said in the books. I'd never had the treat homemade, only bundled in plastic and tucked into lunchboxes, but I was eager to give it my best.

Without a dehydrator, this meant careful work. After pureeing the soft fruit with a few spoonfuls of honey, I spread it on a well-oiled cookie sheet with a thermometer on top, and sat down to work. Every hour or so, I turned on the oven to 200 degrees. The mercury shot up to 150, and I turned it off again—my attempt at a homemade machine.

With all but the middle strips, I overshot of course. Afraid of undercooking, I hardened the thin edges into long, brittle crisps. Relinquishing them to trial and error, I sat, marveling nonetheless, at the ones I'd managed. The morning's wet paste of fruit and honey had dried into a pliable, sticky sheet, just like those of the third-grade lunchroom. I took a bite; the flavor was there, and the texture, too, like a chewy bite of ambrosial nectar.

I wrapped what I'd made in thin, wax strips. The paper kept the leather from sticking; a rubber band offered to secure. Tomorrow, I'm hoping for another batch—this time, aiming for perfection.

QUINCE LEATHER

Fills 1 cookie sheet with 1/8 inch pulp layer

Poach 4 quince, peeled, seeded, and cut in half, in 3 cups water, 1 cup honey, and the peels and juice of 1 lemon. Bring to a boil and then simmer until tender, about one half hour, turning fruit occasionally.

Blend quince in food processor with several tablespoons honey. The mixture should be easily spreadable; if not, add more honey or a bit of the poaching liquid. Spread on a well-oiled cookie sheet or screen, and dry in the oven (kept around 135 degrees) for 4-8 hours. It helps to keep on the convection fan, if you have one. Midway through, when the paste is beginning to harden, cut the leather into strips and flip. This will make removal and drying faster and easier. When dry and pliable but not crisp, roll up in wax paper and tie or secure with rubber band.