The Local Food Report: green, in February

Green, in February, is a very welcome sight. It is especially welcome when it comes in the form of Chinese cabbage and pak choi and pea tendrils and crispy crunchy salad mix, and when it finds its way through a shower of creamy balsamic dressing onto my lunch plate. When it does that, it feels a lot like an August house guest who washes their own towels and sheets and makes the bed and empties the dishwasher before they leave. As in, it's a you-can-stay-forever-if-you-like! sort of a thing.

Generally, I'm a sucker for brighter colors like reds and yellows and oranges, but this time of year, I think they're a little overdone. Greens are the new heirloom tomatoes, or the new juicy peaches—that kind of thing. You know, at least they aren't winter squash. I think everyone can agree on that.

Not that winter squash is such a bad thing. It's just that, especially in leap years when Punxsutawney Phil sees his shadow and you're going to have not just six more weeks of winter but actually Six Weeks And One Day, anything with the word winter in it starts to get a little old. Which is why it was nice that when I went to the Plymouth Winter Farmers' Market a few weeks ago, Silverbrook Farms had a good supply of greens on hand.

Actually, one other stand—the one I mentioned the other day, Allen Farms—had greens as well—pea tendrils—but those were the only two. (Everyone else had important things like storage onions and carrots and granola and bread and cheese and potatoes and winter squash, which I probably should have bought more of since the greens lasted all of a week, but sadly I did not.) Instead I picked up a bag of pea tendrils from Allen Farms and then headed over to chat with Bianca Meleo who was standing in front of the pak choi and lettuce mix and Chinese cabbage over at Silverbrook Farms. It turns out the greens were sort of a last-minute, fast-growing thing for them—something they've experimented with in the past, but that they just started seriously for the winter market this fall. Bianca's the farm manager, and the one you see at the markets alongside Andy a lot, and she's also a newly converted winter greens nut. After the terrible growing conditions in June and July, this winter's actually been better than the summer was for things like lettuce and cabbage and spinach, she says. She was telling me about how they keep they crops warm—how they plant them inside in greenhouses, but without any heat, and then cover them up with frost clothes to prevent moisture from landing on the leaves. This is what kills them—this getting wet and freezing. It actually isn't the cold temperatures, unless it gets so chilly that their roots freeze, which is pretty rare.

We also spent a lot of time chatting about what Bianca likes to do with the greens, which recently, has been very much focused on a pak choi-chicken combo, with avocado spread on sandwiches and peanut oil in stir-fries. She says it works because the pak choi is a little bit nutty, but also a little bit sweet. We talked about pak choi for so long, in fact, that you might have heard us talking about it on the radio today, right before my producer said something about me having a recipe for chinese cabbage and pak choi stir-fry for you today.

I do not.

Following a rather disheartening mishap involving a box of cornstarch and waaay too much white powder dumping into my wok and a tearful meltdown that I'd rather not discuss, that recipe is still a work-in-progress. So instead, what do you say we talk about that creamy balsamic dressing I mentioned up top instead? Because that has never let me down, and it is an equally good way to dress up your plate with green.

In fact, beyond Bianca's winning description, I don't know why I ever mentioned anything about pak choi stir-fries in the first place, because this dressing has been on my plate every day at noon for the past fourteen days straight, ever since I stocked up on greens at the Silverbrook Farms and Allen Farms stands. It takes all of about three seconds to make, and best of all, it is so good and so simple that drizzled over a bowl of top quality, sweet, winter greens, the two make a salad without any need for anything else. It isn't at all fussy, and it certainly doesn't involve a wok or any cornstarch.

Instead, it gets its thickness from heavy cream and a sweet, oozy balsamic glaze. The only other ingredient is olive oil, preferably a green, spicy, newish variety like the one we brought back from Italy, and then if you like, a pinch of salt. You mix everything together with a fork, the cream acts as an emulsifier and binds everything into a light brown, creamy river the exact color of a nice pair of suede boots, and that's it. You're done.

So the next time one of these winter markets is open—the one in Plymouth, or the new one starting this! Saturday! in Marstons Mills, or even if you live a little further afield the well established one in Providence—keep your eye out for the little green patches. Then buy out the supply as quick as you can and ask in your most fervent tone for them to Keep On Planting More.

CREAMY BALSAMIC DRESSING

This is so simple that I am a little bit embarrassed to offer it as a recipe, but what it lacks in grandeur it makes up for in taste. The important thing is to make sure that your base ingredients—since there are only three of them—are of top notch quality. The olive oil should be a greenish, almost spicy extra virgin, the newer the better. The balsamic glaze is that thick, syrupy balsamic you see at specialty food stores that costs an arm and a leg but is worth it because it goes a really long way. (We use a brand called Acetum that we found at Phoenix Fruits in Orleans.) As for the heavy cream, don't do something silly like substitute half and half. The consistency will be all off, and the dressing won't emulsify like it should. If you get the ingredients right, though, it's very hard to go off track. The measurements below are just approximate, so go ahead and experiment with the proportions until you get it to taste. I tend to do it by eye, so it changes every day.

3 tablespoons extra virgin olive oil
2 tablespoons heavy cream
1 tablespoon balsamic glaze
salt to taste

Combine the first three ingredients in a small measuring cup, and whisk them together until they form a thick, creamy dressing. Add a pinch of salt, taste and adjust as necessary, and once you have the dressing where you like it, pour it over a big bowl of salad greens. Toss well, and serve at once.

The music plays

Each Saturday

there's a fiddler
in a bustling, revitalized mill
in the town where I grew up

Brunswick, Maine.

Shoppers barter with farmers
while all the while
the music plays.

The Local Food Report: Four Season Farm

This post, I'm afraid, is a bit fraught for me. I'm supposed to write about Four Season Farm, and the guru Eliot Coleman and his spritely, lovely wife Barbara Damrosch, and their penchant for winter gardening. The trouble is, the picture that keeps coming back to me is this.


It's the town closest to the farm, Harborside, Maine, or maybe Brooksville, I can't remember to tell the truth. The picture was taken from the street, peering down a roadside hill, lens teetering out into the mist. It's where the fishmonger and I got engaged. He asked (of course) while we were walking, just minutes before the interview, so that when we showed up for lunch with Eliot and Barbara, I was flustered, to say the least.

But to their credit—or perhaps in testament to my fascination with the idea of growing winter produce in Maine—soon after entering their busy kitchen, I became so enthralled with the couple I just about forgot the ring. I swapped diamonds and white gold for spinach and carrots, and couldn't have been happier with the trade.

It started with lunch. First of all, we had the pleasure of sitting down not only with Barbara and Eliot, but also with their farm hands, a couple who had come over to think about buying a greenhouse, and their adorable, cheeky child. The table was set for twelve and the food cooked entirely on an old-fashioned gas cookstove, complete with a cast iron cooktop and tourquise enamel paint. The first thing I did, of course, was to swoon over it, a sentiment Eliot promptly dismissed. Please don't encourage her! he laughed. It was straight out of a 1930s kitchen, detailing and all, and he seemed to think it should go back.

But then there was lunch, which on November 7th, tasted more like September 28th. It was whole wheat pasta with carrots, Tuscan kale, red pepper, cauliflower, and maybe even broccoli. There was some sort of a lemon tahini sauce on top, which I originally thought was perhaps the only item bought from away, until we went out to get the greenhouse tour and I encountered the lemon tree. Yes, we were in Maine, and yes, it was November, and yes, there it was with three others in a row, churning out Myers like a champ.


This greenhouse was heated, the only one. It had a woodstove and a washing station, so that the workers could scrub the lettuce and carrots for market and still keep their fingers on. The other greenhouses—those with the leeks, the spinach, the candy carrots—were all insulated, but none had heat. They simply relied on a double layer of plastic, with a few inches of air trapped in between, to soak up what radiance they could from the day.

The land was amazing—part of the original Nearing Farm, that Helen and Scott and the back-to-the-landers so revered in the 50s and 60s. Eliot bought a piece and cleared it himself, and today it's a year round commercial farm. He and Barbara sell to local grocers and schools, and in the summer operate an out-of-the-way farm stand. They have interns coming and going, learning their ways of coaxing the land into production come snowfall or hail or rain.

There is certainly a lot to learn, what with tools and techniques and selecting seeds. Luckily, for those of us who can't spend a year on the land, they've written book upon book to inspire. The Winter Harvest Manual and Four Season Harvest I think are the best; they help with picking out spinach and raddicchio and radishes and whatnot, and how to best cover the plants. They span a wide ability range, too, from novice to accomplished hand.


There are a few other resources any aspiring winter gardener should check out: Moveable Greenhouses (in case you're looking to offload some serious bucks), and Grower's Supply if you simply want to get started, sans cash. There are also lots of winter seeds available through Johnny's online, and through FedCo in Maine.

But even if you don't make it this far, there's a winter recipe from Barbara to enjoy—butternut squash and leek soup, with a dash of tomato paste, and a good dose of chicken broth. It's quick, easy, and fantastic, and warm right down to your toes.

BUTTERNUT SQUASH AND LEEK SOUP

adapted from a Barbara Damrosch recipe, published in Food + Wine, February 2003

2 tablespoons unsalted butter
4 leeks, white and tender green parts only, coarsley chopped
1 celery rib, chopped
1 garlic clove, smashed
1 quart chicken stock, preferably homemade
1 large butternut squash, peeled and cut into 1/2-inch dice (3 cups)
1 tablespoon tomato paste
several leaves sage
sea salt and freshly ground pepper
1/2 cup heavy cream

Melt the butter in a large heavy saucepan. Add the leeks, celery, and garlic and cook over moderate heat, stirring occasionally, until softened, 7 to 8 minutes. Add the stock, squash, tomato paste, and sage. Season with salt and pepper and simmer over moderately low heat until all the vegetables are tender, about 25 minutes.

Puree the soup in a blender, then return it to the saucepan. Stir in the cream and cook until just heated through. Season with salt and pepper and serve hot.

A shelter from the cold

Did I mention that there's a greenhouse outside?

I should have said something sooner, I know, but I'm just as surprised as you are. It's been a long time coming—since that crazed Saturday in August when I began planting for winter—but still, every time I glance outside, I can hardly believe it's there.

There were a few setbacks, to be sure. A tree fell on the garden in the midst of clearing the way; Grower's Supply sent the wrong size plastic, and a very short door frame, too. Damp leaves squashed a row of scallions; the carrots were planted too late; and the Vietnamese cilantro succumbed to cold before it could be ushered in.

But for a first try, I have to say I'd call the experiment a success. The spinach sprouts new leaves every day, the lettuce has begun to spiral, and the kale, though small, shows promise. The surviving brussel sprouts are just about ready for picking, and the radishes are gaining inches and leaves at an exponential rate.

Part of this, of course, is thanks to the seeds. The lettuce is a four season variety, the spinach a winter bloomsdale, and the radishes cold-loving nero tondo. But the stretch of plastic helps, too. On those nights when the temperature dips into the 30s and 40s, the garden sits warm beneath its watch.

We aren't quite there yet—next year, I'll plant with more organized walkways, I'll start the seedlings earlier, and I won't worry so much over density. I'll seed directly in the greenhouse for the more delicate plants like scallions and spinach, and I hope we'll have a real door. But all in all, for $800, I'd say it's an investment bound to pay off. In a January salad, that is.

BUYING & ERECTING A GREENHOUSE/COLD FRAME

We bought our kit from Grower's Supply. I can't say I'm raving about it—they got most of our order wrong, and then charged us extra for doing so. But, in the end, when we got the right pieces, it was quite a good kit. If you order from them, be sure to double check EVERYTHING on the phone. And order far in advance, and check the parts when you get them, before you start to build, just in case. That will save you a lot of frustration.

The construction is not a small project. It will take 2 able bodied people at least 2-3 days to complete. But once the frame is up, it's up, and taking the plastic on and off as the seasons change is easy.

Don't expect to erect the greenhouse over your plants. We did manage that, but I recommend putting it up in the spring, before you plant. Then you can plant your early seedlings inside, remove the cover when the weather gets nice, and put it back in place when it starts to get cold again. Winter seedlings (except the fragile ones) can be planted in trays, and then moved into the greenhouse once the summer plants have run their course and been pulled up, and the soil composted.

As for options besides plastic, there is a company called Moveable Greenhouses that makes gorgeous glass greenhouses out of Rockland, Maine, but they carry a hefty price tag. If I could afford to buy one, I would, but they are most certainly out of the range of the average grower. Someday, perhaps—it never hurts to dream.

Until then, good luck and happy planting!

Surprise, surprise

I saw two things this weekend in Maine that I thought I'd never see. This first was the fishmonger, down on one knee. (Yes, I agreed! Anyone with a bake ahead cake recipe, or some idea of how many whole pigs it takes to feed two hundred hungry guests, please report immediately.)

The second surprise, more startling still, was a Myer lemon tree, hidden from the fog and wind by a subtle layer of plastic, and in full bloom nonetheless. Tucked into the eaves of a Down East greenhouse, it sat warmed by a woodstove and the gentle hum of the sun.

It was on the grounds of Eliot Coleman and Barbara Damrosch's famous Four Season Farm that we found the tree, on a tour through their greenhouses after a noontime meal. I was there to interview the year-round gardeners, to learn how they kept their plates so green in the months of white and gray.

The farm was beautiful, full, laid out in a clearing that once belonged to the estate of Helen and Scott Nearing, the back-to-the-lander legends. The Nearings hadn't touched the land when Eliot came looking exactly forty years ago, and so they sold it to him at the price they'd paid: $33 an acre.

His thrift is as inspiring as theirs. Together with Barbara, he runs the farm from January through December with very little waste, changing crops with the season and working with the weather rather than against. On that gray November noon, she served us a hearty meal of whole wheat pasta, fresh cauliflower and peppers, Tuscan kale and carrots, and a warming sauce of Tahini and lemon. I never guessed the lemons could have been local—until I walked into the greenhouse, that is.

As it turns out, the Myer lemons do just fine over the winter. So long as they're potted and moved into a greenhouse or sunny room for the duration, they'll likely keep fruiting for months to come. Just be sure to re-pot the plant periodically, keep its soil moist, and feed it from time to time. It may be a labor of love, but the promise of Florida sunshine on a winter's day ought to chase any doubts away.

Winter harvest

I am planting like a mad woman. It began in the night, beneath a reading lamp with my dog and boyfriend fast asleep beside me. The only sounds as the clock ticked towards two a.m. were those of the pages turning, the trees howling, and the ebb and flow of my own breath.
















It was a book by Eliot Coleman that had me up. Four Season Harvest, it was called. A friend had turned me on to it, touting the text as a sacred book of sorts, a recipe for winter locavore survival in the universe beyond southern California. (You will notice, if you think through the most famous advocates of the trend—Alice Waters, Michael Pollan, Barbara Kingsolver, even—that none of them lived in New England. Or really anywhere even close.) I have been drying and freezing and canning for winter, certainly, but I cannot expect us to live off of those provisions alone. There will have to be fresh food, too, and for that I had not yet devised a plan.

Until I met Eliot. With his seed lists and cold frames and construct-your-own root cellar diagrams, the winter gardening guru swept me off my feet. I lingered over his words until there was nothing left, until the only respite from learning was action itself. I hurried to the garden store in the morning, picked up a truckload of compost and a stack of seeding flats, and made my way home to place an order. Johnny's Selected Seeds, Eliot recommended. Arugula and claytonia and miner's lettuce and raddichio; evergreen scallions and kohlrabi and nero tondo black radishes. There were candy carrots and Asian specialty greens, celery and celeriac and broccoli raab. While the growing season might end, he reminded me, the harvest season need not.

Plenty of these crops could survive a hard frost. Frozen each night and thawed back to life during the day, they would remain fresh and hardy all winter long. Early spring varieties could be started now, too, ready to emerge once daylight returns.

It was revolutionary this idea of winter garden as Eden. The French do it, and the English, and others with our latitude and climate, but somehow in translation the tradition was lost. Without a custom of winter gardening, it is a difficult reality to grasp.

But there is only one way to begin, and that is to give it a try. I'm not expecting this year's harvest of tatsoi to keep us fed, but I do hope it will help point us in the right direction. Maybe if we spread the word, one of these seasons will bring a winter farmers' market. Until then here's a list of seeds and dates to start growing your own.

WINTER HARVEST PLANTING DATES*

*Note that these planting dates are for Coleman's farm in Maine, which has a slightly shorter season and harsher temperatures. I'd guess they can be extended at least a week, if not two, for Cape gardeners.

BROCCOLI RAAB 7/1 to 8/1
CABBAGE, CHINESE 7/15 to 8/1
CELERY/CELERIAC 7/1 to 8/1
CORNSALAD 8/15 to 9/15
CLAYTONIA 8/15 to 9/15
DANDELION (ITALIAN) 7/15 to 9/1
ENDIVE, ESCAROLE 7/1 to 8/15
GARLIC (FOR SPRING) 10/20
KALE ("WINTERBOR," "VATES") 7/1 to 8/1
KOHLRABI ("PURPLE KOLIBRI") 7/1 to 8/1
LETTUCE 7/15 to 9/1
MIZUNA 7/15 to 8/15
GREEN ONION ("EVERGREEN HARDY WHITE") 7/15 to 8/15
RADICCHIO 10/15 to 11/15
RADISH ("ROUND BLACK SPANISH") 7/15 to 9/15
SPINACH ("SPACE," "WINTER BLOOMSDALE") 8/1 to 9/1
SORREL 9/1