Play with your food

I am obsessed with food, I admit it. Every so often I come across someone else who can talk about what they're making for dinner as they're eating lunch. My dad. My best friend Felicity. My friend Mark in Burlington. Occasionally there is someone with an interest as much in food enjoyment as in food justice, like my friend Martha in Milwaukee. And then, so very rarely, I come across someone who includes all of the above qualities and who inspires me by coming up with a novel way to educate about the importance, and the joy, of a healthy, active life. Chef David Leathers is one of those people. In fact, I think I am in love with his life. (I like my own pretty well these days, but still.)

I first met David on Will's farm in Tupelo, MS as we prepared for a farm dinner. Here's a pic of David and Will assembling the delicious salad course early on in the evening. (Photo courtesy of Aaron, my personal paparazzi for two weeks.) It was pretty busy all night, so I was glad for a chance to talk with the inspiring chef a few nights later at a smaller, informal dinner gathering in town. It was over some rosemary and goat cheese focaccia and a few beers that I got the scoop on a kids TV series David is filming for PBS....

It's called "I Play With My Food" (David's catchphrase) and I can't wait for when it comes on the air. The show sounds like Sesame Street meets Julia Child, with cooking demonstrations interspersed with singing, dancing, and mini lessons on topics from nutrition to recycling to the importance of exercise. In addition to David and a bevy of kiddos, the show has its own band, The Paisley Pickles, and a muppet-type worm who lives in the set's compost bin. What fun!

(Since I don't have a working TV at home, I'm going to have to cajole my way into friends' homes to watch a few episodes. I'm happy to cook in exchange for TV access -- remember LOST? Mitch, back me up here....)

I love everything about the series that's geared toward 4-7-year-olds. What a fun way to teach kids about healthy living, reaching them at their most impressionable. Maybe I can make a guest appearance on the show one day as The Tire Iron Chef, teaching kids how to make healthy, tasty meals with things they can bring on a camping trip. Meals one can make in the time it takes to change a bike tire. Or something. (I wouldn't necessarily recommend that they carry 25 spices and a chef's knife -- I can tone it down a bit -- but I could tote things there in Ollie's panniers.)

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Return of the native, Part 2

During my time in Mississippi, I had a chance to visit a second young farmer -- Horton, the driving force behind Isis Gardens. Like Will, Horton recently returned to his native Tupelo after years of working on farms elsewhere. (In his case, he was returning from Colorado.) He, too, decided that home was calling, that Mississippi was in dire need of chemical-free, responsibly grown food. He, too, moved home and began cultivating a piece of land that had been in the family for years. And yet it was a very different operation from the town's other organic farm.

When Aaron and I stopped by the CSA farm on a Friday afternoon, Horton walked us around the rambling property, excitedly pointing out various cover crops, dozens of heirloom vegetable varieties, the insectary (a plot of land set aside to attract beneficial insects), purple marten houses (to attract bug eating birds), even the inside of the Depression era home he had recently come to inhabit. It was decidedly less structured, and perhaps overgrown in places, but the green space nurtured an abundance of plant and animal diversity quite rare in these parts.

As we took a little rest in the shade of the front porch to sip on cups of cool sun tea, Genevieve joined us and the couple graciously invited Aaron and me to stay for lunch. As we munched on leftover pasta and a giant salad, and sipped on cold beers spiked with chamomile flowers, Horton expanded on his passion for seed saving. As conventional American (and global) agriculture careens at a breakneck speed toward uniformity and productivity, this young farmer remains part of a small but persistent group of growers striving to preserve quality and diversity in our food system. Perpetuating strains of corn and potatoes and beans that are all but extinct. Nurturing tomato and melon varieties from places as far away as war-torn Iraq. (Consider the very real possibility that without heirloom growers like Horton, some of these treasures may be lost forever.)

Now, I know southerners have a reputation for hospitality. I have also found organic farmers to be more welcoming and generous than the general population. Horton espouses the best of both groups, with a ready smile and openness to sharing both food and knowledge. I was just giddy when he sent me away the following afternoon with a big hug and envelopes of heirloom tomato and melon seeds from my dad's native country. I can't wait to get planting, doing my part to keep some of these rare (and delicious) species around a bit longer...

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Return of the native, Part 1

I'd first met Will back at Deep Seeded Community Farm on my way through California last December. As we harvested kale and washed carrots, I learned that he had spent some years working on organic farms in Humbolt County, and now, at 24, the anthropology-student-turned-farmer was ready to start his own place. But rather than add another farm to the somewhat saturated organic produce market in coastal northern California, Will decided to move home to Mississippi, where comparatively little exists in terms of sustainably grown food. Modeled closely on the Arcata farm where he'd been interning, the goal was to provide fresh, clean food and build a sense of a food community. What I discovered during my days working with Will last week in Tupelo was that over the past five months he's managed to cultivate not only healthy plants but a healthy fan club. Organics taking root in Mississippi? Y'all better believe it.

He's something of a local celebrity, with a recent article in the local paper leading to dozens of calls from folks interested in buying fresh produce, seeking gardening advice, or sometimes letting the young farmer know he was welcome to come by to harvest their extra mulberries. People would stop him on the street, in a cafe, at the market, to compliment the work he has been doing. He seems to take it all in stride.

Cultivating a piece of land on his parents' property for vegetable farming, and with plans for a flower and animal operation on his own land soon, Will has already built up a strong group of supporters for his operation. (No, really, at the Saturday farmers' market the sole organic stand generally sells out by around 10am.) He welcomes volunteers and neighbors to come by Native Son Farm and chats easily about the different varietals, from the sweetness of the heirloom corn to the history of the "mortgage lifter" tomatoes. Folks coming to pick up their CSA-inspired produce box from the front porch on Fridays sometimes wander about the crop rows or seek advice on preparing unusual items. There's a woman in town with a penchant for kohlrabi who was the inspiration behind Will's planting of the delicious, alien-looking root vegetable. I suspect others will be stopping by with requests in coming months. People are talking; Will's listening.

It's a family affair, with dad assisting with equipment, mom reaching out to community members and sending out the weekly CSA notices, sister Lauren and girlfriend Amanda working alongside Will on the farm and at the Saturday farmers' market.

In addition to the CSA and farmers' market stand, there are plans for a series of farm dinners -- to celebrate local food and help supplement the farm's income -- featuring the talent of Will's friend David, a local chef. (More on David's amazing work in a future post.) The first farm dinner, with ingredients culled from a 30-mile radius (including fresh rabbit and goat cheese), happened to take place last Thursday, so Aaron ("the photographer from San Francisco" deemed, well, the official photographer) and I ("the woman biking around the country for over a year to visit farms" and happily designated as the evening's wine stewardess) had a chance to help out. The food was divine. In spite of a series of rain showers, the event was an overwhelming success, with gleeful, full-bellied patrons advising on dates for the next dinner as they departed. And there will be more: the farmer and chef team are looking to hold 6 or so each year under the stunning giant oak tree alongside the farm.

All in all, I was impressed by Will's insight and his success thus far. Soon hopefully other farmers will begin to provide fresh, clean food in Mississippi. Wouldn't you know that I met a second organic farming friend in town over the weekend. Check back soon for more on Horton's organic farm down the road....

[In case you're wondering about the higher quality of this photo, it was snapped by "the photographer from San Francisco" while Will and I washed veggies for the farm dinner. Yes, a real camera... and a real photographer, for once. ;)]

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Meals Rarely Edible

So there have been a few inquiries about the status of the MREs since I acquired a couple from my new friend Buddy last week. Wonder no more.

Unless you've been in combat or lived in the wake of a natural disaster, chances are you might not know what an "MRE" is. Technically, it stands for Meal Ready to Eat. More accurately, I would suggest it is more along the lines of Meal Rarely Edible.

I am researching food, and here in tornado country I thought it a good idea to test out one of these emergency food packs. Also, I must say I was a bit curious. I mean, the Mysterious Reddish Experiment package even comes with its own plastic spoon, cookie, raspberry-flavored drink mix (which contains no actual raspberry), spices (a small packet of black pepper), and miracle-of-modern-science one-time-use heating mechanism. So just a couple of days ago, Aaron rejoined me in central Mississippi along the scenic (and blessedly tree-lined) Natchez Trace Parkway. As our supplies ran low and food options along the route were nonexistent (unless I wanted to take a crack at squirrel hunting or poison ivy salad), we broke out the Muck Reserved for Emergencies. Yep, I'm talking about the chicken and black beans and rice. We were starving, and the thought of yet another granola bar was less appealing than the hyper-synthetic food product. Maybe it was the southern humid heat making me delirious, but it seemed like a good idea at the time. (Michael Pollan would be horrified. At least I could pronounce most of the 17 ingredients listed on the label.)

I won't say the meal was an epic failure, but it wasn't one of my finer culinary moments. In spite of step-by-step instructions *and* diagrams, it took multiple attempts to prepare the Mush, Remotely Edible. (Yet another reason I'd never make it in the military: I'm not good with following orders. It's also probably why I am a better cook than a baker. What? Measuring? Bah.) Roughly 15 minutes after I'd stuffed the required components together, there didn't appear to be much activity going on in terms of the gruel heating up. I broke down and read through the instructions: top ripped open (with my teeth; I wasn't about to risk another incident with the multi-tool), salt water packet dumped in, packet folded over, package reinserted into cardboard box... oh... heat pellet on the *bottom*.... (Aaron helpfully pointed out that I didn't go through the requisite military training session on how to prepare these Mostly Rancid Ex-foods.)

Once I got the heating mechanism placed correctly, it was another 10 minutes or so until the Mildly Radioactive Ectoplasm was ready for consumption. As we waited for the contraption to cool to non-molten-lava temperature Aaron and I nibbled on the crackers and knead-packet-before-opening cheddar cheese product -- one of the side items in the Morphologically Re-Engineered meal.

When we actually got to eating the Magically Reconstituted Effect, I believe the consensus was "not as bad as it could be." With our salt intake for the week now taken care of, we hopped back on the bikes for the rest of the day's ride. All in all, the Mildly Repugnant Esculent fit the bill: calories not in bar form. (Though prior to heating, the foodlike substance was a Markedly Rectangular Entity....)

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Weight, weight, don't tell me

Okay, now, I realize I have a lot of stuff loaded onto Ollie. No, really, I do. People stop and gawk all the time as we roll past. "What the...?" But can you believe my new friend Buddy loaded me up with *another* bag at the campground in Liberty, Mississippi? Yep. After helping me bandage up the bleeding hand wound -- oh, right, I should maybe elaborate on that -- he insisted I take two MRE packets. One with chicken and beans and rice and a second with pasta and marinara and vegetables, and both came with a drink mix and cookie. There's even a little self-heating device for the main course. I guess most folks in hurricane country have a few crates of these around. An interesting twist for the bikeable feast, to be sure. But seriously, Buddy must be the first person I've met in 22 states to actually tell me I could fit *another* bag on here somewhere (and not be saying it sarcastically). That's southern hospitality for you.

So: the bloody hand. Wouldn't you know that I was sitting in my tent making a sandwich this morning when my multi-tool got jammed. I had the feeling I should be careful, so I was. Well, until the blade finally started to close and I jabbed myself right square in the palm with the scissors and started bleeding like a stuck pig. I mean BLOOD EVERYWHERE. My tent looks like the set for a Coen Brothers movie. I stumbled out of the tent, gripping my wrist above my head, and made a beeline for where I'd seen a couple of gentlemen unloading a truck by the shower building. I thought it best to be around other people in case I passed out. Did I mention there was a lot of blood? It was like a dress rehearsal for the Black Knight scene in Monty Python and the Holy Grail. Anyway, Buddy helped me dress and tape the wound once I got it rinsed out. His companion, a younger guy in striped trousers finishing up a two-year sentence for doing coke, offered me a tube of Neosporin -- I'd vouch for this guy as a model citizen any day.

I've given up some of my hypochondriac tendencies, but after the random staph infection this December, I thought it a good idea to get myself checked out. I slowly packed up my gear, wiping off what blood I could so as not to attract undue attention from the police as I continue my journey, and made my way to the nearest health clinic for a tetanus shot. Friendly and just a bit curious, the medical staff squeezed me in to see the doctor around lunchtime. Aside from discomfort for about a week, I don't foresee any serious complications. Of course, it's tender and bruised right where I lean on the handlebar, but I'm tough. (*whimper*)

And, yes, regarding how much weight I'm dragging around, well for my part I've put on roughly two pounds since leaving DC over a year ago. (They weighed me at the clinic.) Ollie, though... wooh! For those of you still wanting to know how much Ollie weighs -- now with two MREs and a jar of mayhaw jelly adding a solid pound -- I'll never tell. Or, rather, if I ever make it onto the Daily Show one day, maybe I'll roll a fully loaded Ollie onto a scale. Actually, Jon and I will probably need to go off site to a truck weigh station....

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