An orchard in our midst

My mother and I found the apple identification worksheet at the Common Ground Fair last week. I was home for a visit, and Fedco was interested in identifying old apple tree varieties. Homeowners with un-named trees were asked to send in any information they had on the fruit.

At the fair, the seed company showcased an entire table of old varieties they’d turned up in American orchards.

Winter Banana: Indiana, c. 1876, one tag read. Coles Quince: Cornish, ME, 19th century. The list went on, with names like Twenty Ounce, and Winthrop Greening. We’d talked about reviving the old apple trees scattered through my parents’ woods before, off-handedly, but the worksheet got us started.

The next afternoon, we ventured beneath the pines with flagging tape and pen to uncover what we could of the orchard. There didn’t seem to be much pattern to the trees—they arced around the property in strange, mangled pairings, making it difficult to discern what the original organization might have been. It was clear there were at least two varieties: a soft, sweet-smelling yellow cooking apple and a tart, green keeper.

As we stumbled through the underbrush tagging the trees, we picked an apple from each and labeled it by number. One, two, three…before long we had circled back to the house with a grand total of twenty-three. All these years, there’d been an orchard at work beneath those pines.

In the morning, we headed to the market. Dick Keyough was there, selling plums and apples from his truck flat when we strode up with the basket. He offered several guesses for the fruit right off: Wealthy for a rogue red striped sweet, translucence or yellow transparent for the soft golden. The tart green, he said, could carry any number of names.

“Go back and plot out the trees,” he advised. “Old orchard patterns are set in 35 foot squares.” Anything outside that grid, he explained, had sprung up from seed, cross-pollinated and wild. These new varieties might be keepers, but they could also be sour. Whether or not we held on to them would depend on our taste.

I went out into the orchard that afternoon to collect a few of the greener fruits for baking. We had a dinner party to attend, and I could think of few things better for a crisp fall evening than a dessert of stuffed baked apples.

Back in the kitchen, I cored the fruit. Out came stem, seeds, and toughened marrow, but the bottom stayed, a last layer of protection for the stuffing to come. While the oven warmed, I mixed together maple syrup, dried cranberries, and a handful of oats, and stuffed the apples full.

It seemed to take ages for the apples to soften. When they finally emerged, wrinkled and tender, I plated them for dessert, topped with a dab of whipped cream and a melting puddle of vanilla ice cream. Perhaps one of these days, with the orchard revived, we’ll bake enough to feed a Friday night supper.

STUFFED BAKED APPLES

Serves 4

Wash and core 4 crisp, sweet apples, making sure not to cut clear through the fruit. In a separate bowl, mix together 1/3 cup maple syrup, 1/4 teaspoon salt, 1/2 cup dried, fresh, or frozen Cape Cod cranberries, 1/2 teaspoon cinnamon, a pinch of nutmeg, and (optional) 1/4 cup oats. Pack into apple cavities and place in a shallow baking pan. Bake 1 hour at 375 degrees; serve warm topped with vanilla ice cream.

Animal Kingdom

Caution! hungry horses.

Draft horses may be strong, but visually, they aren't the smartest creatures on the block. This sign left us laughing as we watched the horses pull sleds, plows, and people.







Just ducky.

We picked up a flyer on poultry as we browsed the cages. "Match your need to the right breed!" it encouraged. My mother decided on a classic black and white Bard chicken; I was leaning towards a duck. For eggs, the sheet recommends Khaki Campbell or Indian runners; for meat, White Pekin, Aylesubury, or Muscovy.

Strange folk

Gourd, anonymous.

I didn't catch the name of this blue-ribbon beauty, but if I had to come up with one of my own I think I'd call it the peanut squash. Gnarled and wizened as the roots of an ancient tree, it reminds me of Down Easters themselves.








Butternut.

Endangered by butternut cankor, the Maine butternut is in decline. The pleasant tasting, oily, wild nut is one of the few native to the state, and is especially prized for making maple butternut candy.

Unexpected contestants

Sunflower oil.

On display at one booth was a sunflower seed press, used to extract oil. Seeds are pressed, with shells, through a small, cranked tube, yielding an 80 percent extraction efficiency. For industrious growers, this offers the potential for a Maine-made cooking oil.




Waves of grain.

Showcased at the fair were all kinds of Maine-grown grains, from spelt to wheat. In the 1800s, most small New England farmers grew grains ground by water- or wind-powered grist mills, a tradition that had lost footing until only recently. Today's state movement toward locally grown grains is headed by Jim Amaral of Borealis Breads.

The Local Food Report: Quail eggs & toast

Quail may look feisty, but according to Orleans dentist Ben Chung, they're calm enough to make good neighbors. With controversies erupting in some towns over the right to keep backyard livestock, Chung is lucky his layers are so friendly.

Beyond good humor, the birds boast another asset: good eggs. Though little larger than a cherry tomato in size, the large-yolked eggs pack a punch, flavor wise, and are considered a delicacy in many countries.

At my house, the favorite way to eat them is fried up alongside a piece of homemade toast, or hard-boiled as a delicate snack. Either way, we can easily eat a half dozen at a sitting—it takes 6 or so to cover a piece of toast.

Recently, I tried them in a twist on the more traditional chicken egg hole-in-the-wall breakfast. Creating four tiny holes in a piece of just toasted anadama bread, I threw it into a hot pan and cracked four quail eggs into the ragged gaps. In moments I had flipped it, eggs firm and toast crackling, and allowed the other side to warm. On the plate, I crumbled a bit of chevre over top, and layered on a few slices of tomato. With a dash of salt and pepper, it made an excellent start to the day, in miniature.

HOLE IN THE WALL QUAIL EGGS, with chevre and tomato

Serves one

Toast 1 slice bread. Cut 4 bottlecap-sized holes in each quarter of the bread, and place the slice in a pan over medium heat with 1/2 tablespoon melted butter. Crack 4 quail eggs into the 4 holes, and let cook until eggs are firm on bottom. Flip, adding an additional 1/2 tablespoon butter if needed, and cook until eggs are done to taste. Serve warm with a layer of crumbled chevre and several slices tomato, with salt and pepper to taste.

Click here for more recipes and stories with quail eggs...

Lunchtime: meat & veggies

Blooming Onion.

Something of a cross between an onion ring and a French fry, these fried sensations were spotted in the hands of hungry wanderers across the fairgrounds. Their dipping sauces of whole grain mustard mayo and organic ketchup made eaters all the merrier.






Lamb kebabs.

Speared and grilled by the Noon Family Sheep Farm of Springvale, ME, these meat-packed sticks inspired a line around the bend. Also featured at the stand: ground lamb sausage, equally enticing.

Breakfast, defined

Bog juice.

(n) Definition: a rich, pulpy beverage made from crushed organic Maine cranberries, water, and Maine maple syrup. Delicious chilled or hot.








Honey-bun.

(n) Definition: a honey-drizzled, breakfast sandwich on gooey whole-wheat stuffed with warm apples, toasted pine-nuts, and several raisins.

The Common Ground Fair

I'm traveling this week, for food. Yesterday was the final day of the Common Ground Fair in Unity, Maine, the annual Down East celebration of local harvest and rural living. With upwards of 60,000 fair-goers, it's one of the largest local food gatherings in the country.

(Slow Food Nation, touted as "the largest celebration of American Food in history," drew only slightly over 60,000 with extensive advertising and a spot in local food hub San Francisco, making it all the more impressive what a crowd the Common Ground event draws with Maine food alone.)

The fair has been going strong for 32 years now, put on by the Maine Organic Farmers and Gardeners Association (MOFGA), and boasts everything from fairground gardens to livestock demonstrations to a full blown farmers' market. Rules governing food vendors are strict: all ingredients must be organic, and from Maine if available in the state. Crafts, demonstrations, and animal participants are held to similar standards.

The net result falls somewhere in between Bangor and heaven. Over the course of the day, I tasted: a whole wheat honey-bun, stuffed with apples and pinenuts and drizzled with honey; an apple cider donut; a "blooming onion" fried onion ring type snack, accompanied by organic ketchup and a whole grain mustard mayo; a blueberry-apple cider snow cone; several jugs of apple cider; and a glass of "bog juice," made from crushed, pulpy cranberries with a bit of water and maple syrup.

I wish I could've tried more. Between the lamb-kebobs, the sausage rolls, and the pie cones, I could've used an extra belly. But while I didn't manage to fit it all in, the camera did. Every day this week, while I'm on the road, I'll offer several snapshots of the fair, in food. I hope you'll enjoy.

Birthday tartlet

We had one of those monumental birthdays in my house yesterday. I'll try not to give too much away, but it was a decade, a paragraph marker of sorts, the start of a new and shiny era—or so we like to say.

The transition is strange, between decades, even for the most excited of travelers. For ten years you linger on one side, suddenly to jump to another.

And so we made a birthday breakfast. There are few better ways to make the leap than with a fork in hand and an omelette in sight, and so we prepared our traveler with plate and feast for the day ahead.

My father made the eggs: big, fluffy clouds oozing cheese and veggies, tomatoes from the garden and spry, spicy scallions. My mother poured coffee and cider and ferried toast, while I worked away on a smaller surprise.

I had been hoping to make breakfast tartlets. There was a ball of dough tucked away in the fridge, waiting for morning and the jubilation of dawn. But by the time I got started, I was a bit behind. The table was set, eggs nearly done, and the oven just barely hot. Nonetheless I was determined to make one, at the least, to surprise the honoree and pass around in bites.

I sliced a peach and pressed the dough, forming it to the curvature of the tiny scalloped pan. The orange slices nestled close along the edge, and I spooned a bit of crumbled butter and blackberry jam over top. Just like that, it went in to bake. By the time we'd finished the eggs, it made an excellent coffee-side treat.

PEACH TARTLETS WITH BLACKBERRY JAM*

Makes 6, 4-inch tarlets or 1 large tartlet

Beat 1 stick butter with 1/3 cup sugar until creamy. Add 1/4 teaspoon vanilla, 1/4 teaspoon salt, and 1 egg yolk, and mix until uniformly combined. Stir in 3/4 cup white flour and 1/2 cup whole wheat flour, mixing until there are no dry spots in the dough. Form into a ball and chill at least several hours, or overnight.

Press dough into large or small tart pan(s). Prebake at 375 degrees for 15 minutes, or until just firm. Slice 4 to 6 ripe peaches and layer over bottom. Top with 1 tablespoon blackberry jam per 4-inch tart or 8 tablespoons for a large tart. Bake 5-10 minutes at 350 degrees, or until fruit warms and softens slightly.

*Dough recipe adapted from Alice Waters, The Art of Simple Food.

September picnic

The sun filtered through the trees like moonlight as we took off our packs and swung our legs over the old railroad bridge. It was a perfect day for a picnic—cool, crisp with the promise of fall, with a stunning blue sky and white light overhead. Poplars and oaks rustled as the river meandered by beneath us, and we spread our napkins for the noontime meal.

My mother had helped me with the sandwiches: big, thick slices of squash bread from Cottage Street Bakery in Orleans, sliced cucumbers and tomatoes from my garden, a thick wedge of goat cheese invited down from Maine, and a few leaves of basil from the pot on the deck.

But the star was the spread. I made it finally—Nelia Dunbar's rosehip jelly—the recipe I received from my call to arms last week. It was a thick, luxurious red, with the aroma of tomato soup and the gooey sweetness of pie. Back in the kitchen, we'd spread it thick on toast and set out through the woods to enjoy that first taste.

The bridge made it come alive, our legs running free through empty air, spurred on by their own reflection and a swig of cider here and there. It seemed appropriate to enjoy the jelly there in the manmade wild, on the banks of a century-diked river still fighting for freedom and an empty railroad bed that wished it'd never found it. The rosehips were like that too, introduced but adopted, long ago washashores now passing as natives.

When we finally shook out our napkins and packed up to go, I wondered how many picnics the bridge had seen. This—our first—would be far from the last.

SEPTEMBER PICNIC SANDWICHES

Toast 2 slices good bread. Spread one side with rosehip or other savory jelly, and the other with a generous layer of soft chevre. Stack one side with sliced tomatoes, basil leaves, and sliced cucumbers, and top with the other. Cut in half, place in a plastic sandwich bag, and rubberband so as to keep from shifting. Bring along a salt shaker, a bit of cider, and one good apple. Enjoy outdoors.