Venison jerky, and a deer

I had a whole post for you yesterday, but it vanished suddenly with a clumsy click.

It was about a walk we took last night, and how we sighted the prints of a big deer. It was about how the shadows on the snow fell all dark and silent and blue—and how surreal it was to realize that such a big animal lived so nearby.

It was also about the hunt—how we imagined we were stalking it for real, what it might actually feel like to track and kill a deer. Of course, I've never even held a bow, but it was fun to pretend. He took us through swamps and briars and open woods, and finally down an old dirt road that led nearly to the back of our house.

We were amazed he had come so near—a friend was just telling us there isn't much to hunt around here. He says he goes instead to upstate New York, where he finds many more bucks. He says it isn't that you can't find a buck here (the progression of bow to shotgun to powder that starts in October and ended last week certainly gives enough time) but that he'd feel badly, taking one of so few. I'm not convinced they're so scarce, but our tracking adventure made me wonder, made me feel their presence at least.

Oh! And I was telling you about the venison jerky—it would be a shame to forget about that. The same friend who shot the bucks in New York gave us a bundle of his venison Slim Jims to taste. They were a bit softer but still chewy, salty, and not gamy in the least. He had a recipe to share, just in case we ever get that deer. And you can make it with ground beef—a tasty, tasty treat.

VENISON JERKY

10 pounds ground venison meat (the same recipe also works for beef)

jerky seasoning to taste (he gets his from Cabela's)

2 cups vermouth

2 cups brown sugar

Combine ground meat, jerky seasoning, vermouth, and brown sugar in a large bowl, making sure to keep everything cool. Pack mixture into a jerky gun or sausage extruder; it will come out in sticks. Bake in a preheated oven at 200 degrees for 4 hours, until the sticks have the consistency of Slim Jims. They will freeze well, or you can let them cool and stick them in the refrigerator to enjoy within a few weeks.

Peas from the pod

Some evenings, company is more important than the food you keep. After a day cleaning house, four too long unseen friends came over for supper. With one lost to the west coast, two to work, and the last to the big city upstate, it was a gathering of overdue reunion and well worn laughter.

The food that sustained it was as warm as the conversation. A primavera pasta of scallops and peas shucked this afternoon in the hammock off the back porch steamed in bowls as our chatter turned from memories to predictions.

As the candles burned down, bowls shone clean and the last shimmer of prosecco was drained from glasses one by one around the table. The heavy comfort of good food and beloved company settled over the table, and the final evening of a celebratory weekend came to an end.

SHUCKING PEA AND SCALLOP PRIMAVERA

Serves 5

Boil 1 pound pasta; drain, drizzle with 1 tablespoon olive oil, and set aside. In a heavy saucepan, melt 3-4 tablespoons butter. Sweat 2 chopped green onions until translucent, sprinkling salt to taste. Add 4 chopped scallions and 1 minced clove garlic and sauté several more minutes. Pour in 1/2 cup half and half, cream, or milk and reduce down by half. Add 2 cups of white wine in 1/2 cup portions, each time reducing down by half and making sure to keep pan hot. After adding one cup, add 2 cups fresh peas and 5-8 large scallops. Continue testing and seasoning with salt and pepper to taste. When all wine is added and peas and scallops are cooked to taste, add pasta and toss with sauce. Serve hot.

Soldier bean re-fry

It's pantry cleaning season. With squash flowers turning to fruit and green tomatoes gaining weight on the vine, the time has come to clear the dark, musty shelves of last year's dry goods and make room for a new crop.

This early July pause between the wealth of August and the long, uncertain supply of winter and spring sees the bottom of oat tins, jam jars, and flour bins. Licked clean and dry, the shelves and containers line up one by one, waiting patiently for a refill.

The soldier beans on my kitchen hutch have been especially composed. They have watched as the oats, pasta, beach plum jelly, and pickles have gone before them, popped open and tucked into the fridge, and then one day gone entirely. They have said goodbye to the lamb, the squash, and the berries in the freezer, and even a container of last summer's thawed gazpacho.

Finally several days ago, I went to them. I cracked open their lid, poured several cups from the jar, and picked them over. I rinsed them in the colander, set them into a crock, and covered them with cool water for a soak.

Then again, I forgot them. They sat for three days—three long, hot days—before I noticed them again, and when I did, I feared it was too late. The water looked cloudy and white. A quick rinse, however, proved the beans resilient; firm and smooth, they were ready for the pot. I filled it with cold water and a dash of olive oil and salt and poured the soldiers in, turning the flame to simmer beneath the silver bottom.

Several hours later, the beans were tender. With most of the water evaporated, they mashed easily. I chopped a purple scallion and crushed a clove of garlic for seasoning; a crank of salt and pepper, several spoonfuls more of oil, and a turn in the frying pan, and they were ready to eat.

I thought of making them into a burrito, or perhaps a sandwich of some sort, but after all they'd been through, it seemed too much. Instead I ate them plain, on a plate, topped with a scallop and a side of fresh sugar snaps, and let their strength soak in and take root in my belly—a more fitting end, I thought, for such a patient batch of bold, red-eyed soldiers.

SOLDIER BEAN RE-FRY

Makes 3 cups cooked beans

Soak 2 cups dried soldier beans overnight. Drain and rinse, picking over for discolored or bad looking beans. Simmer in a large pot with 6-8 cups water for 2-3 hours or until tender; drain. In a large cast-iron frying pan, heat up 3-4 tablespoons olive oil. When hot, add beans and mash. Stir in 4 chopped scallions, 1 clove minced garlic, and salt and pepper to taste. Cook several minutes, or until flavors are absorbed.

Serve hot or reuse in burritos, quesadillas, sandwiches, dips, sides, or over toast.

Pass the pasta—crank, that is

Last week as I wound through the vendors of one of our local farmers' markets, I noticed a bag of shoe string pasta sitting atop a corner table. With an egg-y, cream colored hue, it looked fresh enough to eat right there. Eager to round out my week's shop, I picked up a bag and stashed it into my shoulder bag in exchange for a few wadded bills.

Too late, I began asking questions. I learned that the pasta was handmade by the seller himself, and as a semi-dried, curvy variety could be stored in the fridge for a few months without spoiling but ought not be left to the cupboard. It would be best eaten fresh, he added, cooked for only a few minutes as it didn't require the boiling time that the more brittle, stick straight store bought variety does.

"Where does the flour come from?" I asked, hopeful that the answer to this question would be less elusive at the farmers' market than on your average grocery package. It wasn't.

"I don't know, from the grocery store?" he replied, off-handedly.

My disappointment was manifest. It's not that the flour had to be local; I appreciate foods from across the globe (with chocolate and coffee at the top of the list), so long as someone along the line has been asking questions about taste, sustainability, and quality. The farmers' market, I had assumed, would be one place where these requirements were a given.

While I appreciate the sweat that the pasta peddler kneaded into the strands (the noodles, compliments to the chef, were delicious), I hope that time and the questions of local consumers will change his answer over time. The re-making of the way we think about food starts with what we buy and how we shop. Asking questions is simultaneously the most effective and eye-opening way to get involved.

At Phoenix Fruit, every time a customer asks about a certain product or local availability, the cashier jots the request down on a hanging clipboard. If there's enough demand, the Nada's Noodles or Eastham asparagus they were looking for might be tucked between the boxes of glistening lettuce and fresh pulled carrots on their next trip through the aisles.

For many pasta purchases to come, I'll likely still be asking the same question and receiving the same answer. Until it's easier to find out where the flour's from, I've decided to take up pasta making in my own kitchen. To that end, I found an old fashioned hand crank pasta maker at CreativeCookware.com, and am planning to roll out my first batch when it arrives next week. The ingredient list won't be long—I have in mind a recipe that calls for only Maine flour, Wellfleet eggs, and salt from the Maine Sea Salt Company—but at least I'll know where every item on it came from.

For now, that's something worth cranking for.

HAND CRANKED PASTA

Makes one pound

Arrange 2 cups flour and 1/2 teaspoon salt into a volcano on the counter. Crack two eggs into the well; mix gently with a fork, incorporating the flour as you go until the mixture begins to form a large ball. Knead on a well floured surface until dough becomes stretchy; about 7-10 minutes. Separate into three balls, cover with a bowl, and let rest 15 minutes. Flatten a ball with the palm of your hand until it is about 1/2 inch thick, and feed it through a hand crank pasta machine on the largest setting to begin rolling it out. Continue tightening crank until the dough is about 1/16th of an inch thick. Using machine blade of desired width, cut dough and hang to dry. Repeat with remaining two balls.