Edible winter 2014-2015

edible

southwest colorado

Traversing our region to bring you the story of local food, season by season.

No. 19 Winter 2014/15

$4.99

TUNNELING FOR WINTER'S HARVEST

the things we keep the seed saver making meat soup 101 Mr. Grumpy Pants

Where Mediterranean meets the mountains Recommended by Bon Appetit Sunset Magazine The New York Times “Best Food” Award, Taste of Durango

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Winter Recipes:

6

4

8

OUR STORYTELLERS

36

Ramja, Indian Red Bean Chili

| Amita Nathwani of Surya Health and Wellness in Durango

Chocolate Cherry Bread Pudding with Warm Cherry Sauce | Karen Byler of Straw Hat Farm in Montrose

SOUP 101 | Becca James

38

DIY Pantry EGGNOG | Rachel Turiel

10

18

THE THINGS WE KEEP | Rachel Turiel

39

DELICIOUSLY ROOTED | Kati Harr

MAKING MEAT

With admiration, gratitude and a tinge of regret

| Dan Hinds

22

24 28

27 34

LOCAL CHEFS SHARE:

JOSH NIERNBERG

Bin 707 Foodbar

TUNNELING FOR WINTER'S HARVEST | Sarah Syverson

THE SEED SAVER | Sharon Sullivan

14

MR. GRUMPY PANTS | Rick Scibelli, Jr.

EDITOR'S LETTER

M

ary Vozar of Confluence Farm in Mancos, CO, wearily scanned her late October field sculpted with neat rows of carefully covered spinach. “I dread trying to sell that,” she mumbled.

Vozar and her partner, Paul Bohmann, are members of San Juan Farm Fresh, a cooperative that helps farms like theirs sell their bounty. (A similar program is in the planning stages in Montrose.)

The freeze was coming and Farm Fresh was a week away from shutting down operations for the off-season, thus gently placing the job of selling back onto Vozar’s lap (Confluence, with the help of high tunnels and hoop houses, farms all winter. See page 28). There are few people (much less, farmers) that are good at this. Selling. “Marketing” being the fancier word. A few are willing, but lack the time.

Most, I would argue, don’t have the proclivity. They lack the DNA. This includes me.

I am not sure if it was Barnum or the other guy, Bailey (or somebody else altogether), who once said, and I paraphrase: ‘A funny thing happens when you don’t market yourself. Nothing.' Excellence isn’t enough.

Dear farmers, generally speaking, you are not salespeople. Yes, there are exceptions. No doubt. Like, two. But for the rest of you, it borders on hopeless. You don’t have the time to sell. I hear you.

But let’s be honest and admit that even if you did have the time, you would use it to drool over seed catalogs. Or hibernate.

I know, nobody likes making calls. Especially considering a chunk of you hardly have cell service. By the way, raise your hand if you still have a flip phone. I see. Most of you.

Flip phone, smart phone or land line … the scene is often repeated: “Hi, can I speak to Chef Fill-In-The-Blank?”

“Can I tell him who’s calling?”

“It’s Homer from Simpson Farm. Chef told me to call when I had parsnips.” In my case it would be: ' it’s Rick from Edible, he told me to call regarding advertising in our upcoming issue.' Usually this is followed by a pause that suggests they have no idea what I just said.

“Hold on.”

Now cue muffled background noise (like somebody has put a pillow over the phone pretending it’s your face). You think you hear pots and pans banging in the background. Muted voices barking orders. Somebody is laughing. Are they laughing at me? A phone is ringing. Is there another line? Did I call the wrong number? Does he not want to talk to me? Does he not like me? What I did I ever do to him?

I never liked him anyway …

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A second voice comes on the line. “Hello?”

“Yes, hi.”

“I am sorry, who is this ?”

“Um. Homer, Homer from Simpson Farm." (What is really going through your mind at this time is not printable).

The new somebody has now put their hand over the mouthpiece.

You hear dampened conversation.

“Hi. Sorry. Um, chef is fixing a plumbing problem and will have to call you back.”

But he won’t and you know it. Yet in his defense he is dealing with a clog and an upcoming lunch rush and a dishwasher who noshowed. His life is no different than yours. He too, is over-extended.

This truth doesn’t soothe the reality, which is you sitting on perpetual hold in an effort to maybe sell a head of lettuce (or a parsnip).

The math isn’t exactly encouraging.

I will tell you this now, having spent 5 years as editor and publisher of this magazine. We give up too easily. I still make my living as a freelancer and have for 15 years. But I know something now that I didn’t before: just because somebody doesn’t return your phone call (or email), doesn’t mean they don’t want what you are offering. It’s gospel. The squeaky wheel does get the oil. I never persisted in the past because I didn’t want to be annoying. But persistence is what is absolutely necessary to succeed. You aren’t bugging anybody, trust me. You are, by stark contrast, doing them a favor. You are helping another overworked person remember that you have something that they will someday want and need. Unless, of course, your product is god-awful (or unneeded) and you aren’t privy to this. In this case somebody should put you out of your misery and gently say: ‘Please, for the love of Pete, quit calling me.’ And I would say to that: ‘Hallelujah.

Thank you for your time-saving honesty.’

I understand that this doesn’t solve the underlying problem.

Persistence may not bother them, but the sound of your own voice may, in short order, annoy the living hell out of you. Whatever it is that pushes people to push, you may not possess. So maybe that is just going to have to be okay.

So I say to myself and to you, squeak … or find peace.

Rick Scibelli, Jr.

ON THE COVER: Horton Nash, 32, is from Mississippi and Alabama. Ask him which one and the manager of Buckhorn Gardens near Colona, Colorado, will shrug and tell you "both" in a subtle lilting kind of drawl.

Buckhorn Gardens has winter gardening dialed in: four giant hoop houses, including a brand new gigantic Bolivian-inspired walipini (see page 29).

This winter Nash and his colleagues are experimenting with more than 100 varieties of specialty greens.

southwest edible colorado EDITOR AND PUBLISHER Rick Scibelli, Jr.

MANAGING EDITOR Rachel Turiel

BUSINESS DEVELOPMENT Michelle Ellis

COPY EDITOR Chris Brussat

WRITERS Sharon Sullivan Kati Harr Becca James Sarah Syverson Dan Hinds

PHOTOGRAPHY Rick Scibelli, Jr. Michelle Ellis DESIGN Rick Scibelli, Jr.

INTERESTED IN ADVERTISING? Rick@ediblesouthwestcolorado.com Michelle@ediblesouthwestcolorado.com edible Southwest Colorado 361 Camino del Rio Suite 127 Durango, CO 81303 Edible Southwest Colorado is published quarterly by Sunny Boy Publications. All rights reserved. Distribution is throughout southwest Colorado and nationally (and locally) by subscription. No part of this publication may be used without written permission of the publisher. © 2015.

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Print is alive. Print resonates. Print is tangible.

At edible Southwest Colorado, our business is telling stories. In every issue we introduce our 35,000 readers to the innovative people, places, businesses, and organizations that exemplify change and creativity in our local foods economy. Our advertisers are an essential part of that conversation.

We value real journalism, outstanding photography and design, quality paper stock, and a publication that conveys warmth and credibility. We are apolitical and shun agendas. We craft every issue to be a collector’s item.

The time and attention to detail in every issue means it costs more, but it's worth it.

Readers can see and touch your ad in an environment that communicates your commitment to quality and to community. It simply works.

We plan to change the world here in Southwest Colorado; to grow a strong local foods economy that creates jobs, keeps the dollars here, and makes our communities more sustainable, healthy and prosperous.

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OUR STORYTELLERS

Rachel Turiel is managing editor of this magazine, and a freelance writer raising food and a family in Durango. She teaches classes for adults and children on writing, homesteading, and the DIY kitchen arts. See the current list of classes on her website: 6512 and growing

Sarah Syverson is the director of the Montezuma School to Farm Project and also manages a three-acre subsistence farm in the Mancos Valley with her partner. In her spare time, you'll find her writing and producing one-woman comedy shows and relaxing on her hammock, doing her part to counteract the busyness of the world.

Kati Harr is currently obsessed with intentional doodling, learning new constellations, and scribbling frantically in her journal. She is madly in love with her husband and 6-year-old son, both of whom she finds hilarious and true, and she couldn’t be happier with or feel more blessed by her current situation. To relax, Kati likes to make delicious hippie pies.

For Michelle Ellis, growing up in the South, the kitchen was the most important room in the house, and it still is. Ellis believes eating more locally-sourced products is key to our health and economy.

Through her role at this magazine, she feels she can help spread that message and try to get more fresh ingredients on our plates.

Embracing the adage “blonds have more funds,” Chris Brussat plied the peroxide and waited to see his bank balance increase. Meanwhile, as our copy editor, he can spot an errant em-dash from 100 yards. This local food advocate owns TerraNova Gardens market garden, works at Durango Natural Foods, and hopes to open Sweetgrass Natural Foods in Bayfield soon.

Sharon Sullivan is a freelance writer whose stories have appeared in local, regional and national publications. She lives with her husband, John, in Grand Junction, where she loves hiking the nearby canyons. She supports local foods, community radio, and Tangle, Grand Junction’s lovely locally-owned yarn shop.

Becca James avidly cooks, loves exploring nutrition, and teaches occasional cooking classes in addition to writing, farming, and mothering. Originally from Washington State, she now lives on the James Ranch with her cheesemaker husband, 3 children, 100 chickens, 35 dairy cows, 2 goats, and a rabbit.

Dan Hinds lives in Durango and hunts in the San Juan Mountains of Southwest Colorado. With his wife, Rachel Turiel and his kids Col and Rose, he enjoys teasing a living out of the local landscape. Brain-tanning buckskin, crafting handmade wooden bows, and antler art are some of his favorite activities. Etsy Shop @ “BuckskinAndBows”

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Photo by Rick Scibelli, Jr.

soup 101 | Becca James

M

y Grandma used to say “Security is a casserole in the freezer.”

I know how she felt. In our household, we believe security is a pot of soup on the stove. The security comes from soup’s nourishing presence – quickly heated to provide a warm and satisfying meal. I have even been known to indulge for breakfast. Really delicious soups with layered, deep flavor will not make it onto Rachel Ray’s 30-Minute Meals. Traditional soups are slow food but, once created, are a go-to fast food, reheated in minutes. I often make soup in the morning and it’s ready when I drag in at 6:45 with three hungry children nipping at my heels. It then also serves as the centerpiece for school lunches the next day. A steaming bowl of soup imparts a certain comfort in those cold months – like a little blanket for the soul.

Soup is a house waiting to be built. Provide the foundation and

let creativity and improvisation guide your walls and windows into place.

Stock or broth is your first essential element. The general consensus is stock is made with more bones and less meat while broth is made with more meat and fewer bones. Vegetables alone can be used to make a broth. Do not be intimidated to make your own at home.

Bones, onions, garlic, celery, peppercorns, and bay leaves covered with water by an inch or two and long-simmered on low heat (I do poultry for 18 hours and beef/pork/lamb for 36-48 hours) in your crock pot or on the stove will yield a beautiful broth with about 5 minutes of prep. With a little meat on the bones, roast at 400 degrees for 20 to 25 minutes first. This will deepen the flavor. I add a splash of vinegar to the water to help leach the minerals out of the bones.

Broth made this way is full of gelatin, amino acids and minerals.

Next, you need your flavor base. A flavor base is a collection of aromatic vegetables sautéed slowly in fat (coconut oil, lard, tallow, or butter). The classic French mirepoix, my go-to, is a mixture of two parts onion to one part each carrots and celery. The soup base manifests in many forms across cultures. “The Holy Trinity” in Creole or Cajun cooking is equal parts onion, green bell pepper, and celery while the German Suppengrün combines carrots, celery root and leeks. The list of variations goes on.

Let’s stick with a mirepoix for now. Have your stock strained and waiting in a separate vessel before you start cooking. Add onions to your fat of choice in the soup pot and let them soften a bit. Then let your carrots and celery join the party. Salt and pepper at this stage will enhance flavor and help break down the vegetables faster.

Cook them until they are soft and starting to caramelize, leaving little brown bits of goodness on the bottom of the pan. Your future soup will thank you. If your recipe includes chili powder or curry or another smoky, lovely spice, add it now, before your broth, to let it toast a little.

Now is when the pantry-purging creative storm can begin. Of course beautiful soups develop from recipes and planning, but if you have steps one and two down, you can craft a nutritious, soul-warming soup from the ingredients you have on hand in no time.

Meat, vegetables, spices, herbs, and creamy elements can all be added at this stage. If your soup will include meat, add a little fat to your soup pot, sear your meat on all sides or brown it if using a ground meat. Remove the meat but do not clean your pot at this point. The brown bits on the bottom mean big flavor. Add a little more fat if necessary and start cooking the onions (or whatever manifestation of the allium family strikes your fancy) and continue with your mirepoix. The exception is if you are using already-roasted meat. In this case, skip the searing step.

Other vegetables such as kale, more carrots, tomatoes, broccoli, beets, mushrooms, or potatoes, can be sautéed with the mirepoix or added to the broth to simmer until done. Once cooked, blending is an option for a creamy or puréed soup.

Finishing your soup is easy, fast and allows for additional creativity. Adjust your seasonings to taste at this point. Soups with homemade stocks will take more salt than you expect. A little acid in the form of wine, vinegar, or lemon juice can brighten the flavors of a soup at this stage. The addition of something a little creamy, crunchy or fresh as a garnish finishes the dish. Chopped fresh herbs, crumbled cheese, sour cream, crumbled bacon and toasted nuts or seeds are all options.

Soups can be prepared a day in advance, too. Many improve as their flavors meld overnight. When you smell onions on your hands as you floss before bed, you know tomorrow will be a good day. I think Grandma would approve. e

The things we keep | Rachel Turiel

D

Kefir grains

(From the top) Kefir grains. Sourdough starter. Kombucha Scoby.

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eclaring that food is nourishment is like teasing out an essay’s “thesis statement” from 7th grade composition class just before passing out from boredom. What truly pings with interest is that what we eat tells a story. A story about culture, history, rules; about tradition, superstition, and pleasure. Following my great-aunt Matilda’s handwritten recipe for bourekas – mini cheese- and vegetable-filled pastries – is like having the Jewish matriarchs of the Ottoman Empire drop in to read coffee grounds and fill the kitchen with white clouds of flour.

Some foods are as alive and diverse as the hands that tend them: kombucha, kefir, yogurt, sourdough, honey meads, sauerkraut, and kimchi. All products of fermentation, their stories are of yeasts and bacteria with multisyllabic names, invited to the banquet in exchange for the byproducts of their metabolism. This relationship is reciprocal. These microflora must be fed, and in turn will nourish you as generously as any Jewish auntie. Keep generations of microorganisms in top form and they will grow and multiply, culturing vats of kombucha, oceans of kefir, and barrels of sour pickles, requiring that you find good homes for their ever-increasing offspring, that you pass along odd amalgamations of bacteria and yeast with the fervor that selfies are passed through the Instagram set. Now, who’s tending whom?

SOURDOUGH Mike Harris, an Ignacio schoolteacher, has been caring for a single sourdough starter for sixteen years. “Smell it,” he beckons, lowering his nose to the whitish-grey gloppy offspring of the original. It throws off the desired scent of yeasty alcohol, Harris notes, proud as any parent of a well-behaved child. It can be assumed that those original wild yeasts present in Harris’ kitchen ecosystem back when Bill Clinton was president are subtly different than those which made San Francisco sourdough famous (later named lactobacillus sanfranciscensis). Though to Harris, they’re no less precious.

A sourdough starter is simply flour and water, the desired microorganisms being experts at converting starch to lactic acid, the coveted souring agent. People often use grapes to speed up activity.

In Mike Harris’ case, it was the leftover water from a pot of boiled potatoes. This is known as wild fermentation, or the “you build it they will come” model, trusting that if you leave a sweet treat of flour, water and potato broth on the counter, the wild yeasts surfing the air will touch down like Santa Claus to a plate of cookies.

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Harris feeds his starter about once a week with more flour and water (microorganisms must eat, after all), and has brought his starter back from the neglected brink of “grey yuck.” For this work he is rewarded with the makings of weekly sourdough pizza dough (half the starter goes to the dough, half remains to inoculate the next batch), as well as “a satisfaction similar to nurturing children or pets.” His pets may number in the millions, but his duties don’t keep him from an occasional two-week vacation in Mexico. “I get someone to feed the cat and the sourdough starter.”

KOMBUCHA Today, it seems every foodie hipster has his own kombucha Scoby sipping sugar and burping out acetic acid, gluconic acid, B vitamins and more. Kombucha is a tea-based fermented drink made from a Symbiotic Colony Of Bacteria and Yeast, known as a Scoby, which, floppy and tan, looks somewhat like an alien contraceptive diaphragm. Rowan Hill, a wilderness therapy guide, lives in Durango with three roommates, three dogs, and an ever-growing, multi-layered Scoby pressed into continuous service.

Hill’s Scoby is currently floating in three gallons of root beercolored solution. He pushes on its rubbery surface and it burps on command, much like a well-practiced middle school boy. Being a freewheeling 28-year-old unlikely to pass up adventure, Hill has had to find good homes for his Scobys while on extended rock-climbing trips. Upon return, like some new, cool, locavore version of 1950s suburbia where neighbors always had a spare egg to lend, Hill says, “friends always have extra Scobys lying around.”

Hill’s primary reason for making continuous batches of kombucha is taste and health benefits. But inextricable from the above is the satisfaction of tending a living thing, assuming, in essence, the role “Rancher of Microorganisms.” “With my schedule, fluctuating attention, and being a renter, I’m not quite ready for chickens. So being the caretaker of this,” he motions to his burping, hard-working symbiotic colony of bacteria and yeast, “is perfect.”

KEFIR When Durango home inspector Todd Wright spent a winter in Italy with his family, he stopped at a Tuscan farmhouse whose sign advertised “soap and kefir.” Wright was seeking soap, but when a clump of kefir grains was pressed into his hands by an Italian farmer, Wright did the obvious: emptied out a lotion-containing 3-ounce travel bottle to transport those kefir grains home. Serendipitously, at airport customs, the piles of Italian moss Wright’s eleven-year-old son tried to smuggle home for his salamander acted as kefir diversion.

Kefir grains are not actually grains, but white, cauliflower-like combinations of yeast and bacteria which culture milk into something thick, yeasty, and drinkable. Wright’s living Italian heirloom has grown to a softball-size clump and been passed to friends, who have in turn passed it to friends, suggesting that six degrees of sepa12 edible

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ration exist even among our food.

The kefir bacteria are the first to start digesting milk, creating an environment too acidic for putrefying bacteria to take hold. The slow-acting yeasts, arriving later to the party, break down lactose into ethanol and carbon dioxide, giving kefir a bubbly, carbonated taste. As a result of the fermentation, very little lactose remains, allowing many people with lactose intolerance to enjoy kefir.

You may pretend your attraction to kefir is due to its bacterial profile being superior to even yogurt, when the real reason is that kefir is made in absence of stove, thermometer or even measuring cup; you only have to get off the couch once to toss the grains in a jar of milk.

In the Wright home, kefir culturing is a daily affair, but kefir grains can be stored in milk in the fridge, where they go pleasingly dormant until you’re ready to revive them.

MICROBIOME, A NEW FRONTIER San Francisco miners were rumored to wear sourdough starters around their necks, guarding them as fiercely as any irreplaceable possession. If, before mass commercialization of food, you happened to capture the wild yeasts which spun your honey into a particularly memorable alcoholic drink, you too might have kept a continuouslyfed starter batch, as prized as any family heirloom.

And though kombucha Scobys and kefir grains are still reverently passed along, there are new reasons to cherish these living foods.

It’s well documented that non-human cells in our bodies outnumber human cells ten to one. What’s just becoming clear is how these trillions of microorganisms in our guts, reproductive tract, skin, mouth, and lungs affect our health. Studies suggest that a poor (non-diverse) mix of bodily microbes may aggravate autoimmune disorders, as well as predispose people to obesity. And because some of our intestinal microbes can modify the production of neurotransmitters found in the brain, altering gut flora may allow for some relief for schizophrenia, depression, bipolar disorder and other neuro-chemical imbalances. The National Institute of Health refers to this as the “microbiota-gut-brain axis.” Clearly this is a new frontier. However, eating fermented foods to populate our guts with a diverse set of microorganisms is some of the oldest health care still available.

Mike Harris recalls the Hermosa trailer he lived in sixteen years ago – two elderly dogs parked continuously by the woodstove – when he launched that first sourdough starter. He’s been producing sourdough pizza for so long, it’s like a weekly date with old friends.

Does his current starter, uncountable generations beyond the first, contain some of the original microbes called by the siren song of that long ago potato water? Is there some imprint of those beloved dogs and particular terroir of his kitchen circa 1998? If food is literally alive, does it carry memory? “I don’t know,” Harris shrugs and peers into his grainy gruel. “There’s been a lot of loss and gain over the years. And a lot of sourdough pizza.” e

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IN THE BREWERY

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Mr. Grumpy Pants | Rick Scibelli, Jr. Come in, have a beer, have several beers, get a growler, get several growlers, get out.

– Ourayle House Customer Service Policy

J

ames Paul “Hutch” Hutchison, owner of the Ourayle House, a nano-brewery in Ouray, Colorado, is not a good bartender. He will tell you this. “I have never been a guy to hang out in bars,” the fulltime bartender says. “And I don’t particularly like doing it now.”

The hitch here is Hutch may be in the hospitality business but don’t expect him to be hospitable. Thus his second nickname: “Mr. Grumpy Pants.” “I may be grumpy, but I love my life.” It’s true, Grumpy Pants may not be much of an innkeeper, but he is an artist with the brew kettle.

Seven years ago, the athletic salt-and-peppered 52-year-old was a home brewer concocting bottled Christmas gifts for the staff at the 14 edible

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Beaumont Hotel and Spa in Ouray where he was the chef. “They all said, ‘this is good, you should open your own brewery,’ ” Hutch says in a sing-song self-mocking voice. So he sold his condo, rented a garage off Main Street and moved into a 200-square-foot space upstairs. He still lives there, although the brewery has moved 246 feet away to Main Street. “I thought it would make a difference,” Hutch says, scanning his empty bar one weekday afternoon. “Shows what I know.” He built a bar with salvaged wood. Tables and chairs he acquired second-hand. Then he started brewing, one barrel at a time, also by hand. In the time it takes one of the better-known micro-breweries to brew 100 barrels of beer, Hutch hammers out 1.5.

He will tell you he really needs to expand. Someday.

The Ourayle house has the vibe of a simple cowboy bar but not in an intentional thematic kind of way. There is no chrome. No polished wood. No sound system short of the silent boom box by the front door. Everything appears to have had a prior life somewhere

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else. Barbie dolls pole dance in suspended animation from a piece of salvaged PVC pipe secured floor to ceiling in the front window.

(Hutch, on the advice of friends, felt the dancing girls might bring in more people.) Behind the bar, a homemade swing assembled with climbing rope, old carabiners, found wood and barn rail allows Hutch to tend his bar without ever standing. Dollar bills are tacked to the ceiling. Handwritten signs stand in for artwork: “Welcome to Mr. Grumpy Pants Brewing Company. ‘Welcome’ being a relative term.”

“Miraculously, although be it somewhat begrudgingly, we are open” “Our beers are brewed 22 feet from here.”

And they are. In a 100-square-foot garage adjacent to the bar.

The menu is written on a chalkboard. The header on the first column reads “The Only Column That Might Help.” This being true, considering the other columns are empty. Below it are listed the beers presently on tap: Hoppiest IPA, Lightest-Blonde, Darkest-Stout, Medium-Hopped Pale, Amber, Darker-Smoked Brown Ale. The qualifiers dripping with Hutch’s bone-dry wit as if one cannot be trusted to decipher that a blonde might be the lightest just by nature of the name.

Hutch speaks with clear and concise diction. Each and every word carefully delivered – certainly a deliberate technique to avoid having to, god forbid, repeat himself to another uninitiated out-oftowner.

Rusty Brew (yes, his real name), a too-tall 50-something bony Texan with Wranglers jacked up high and Navy tattoos wearing thin on long sinewy arms, and his wife, a happier and chattier version of the rest of us, are the second and third customers of this particular day. (The first being a freshly-shaved tourist looking for a souvenir.

“Do you sell mugs?” “No,” Hutch says. And that’s that. Conversation over.)

“You guys looking for beer?” Hutch’s tone is flat. He will tell you he is not an entertainer.

“I’m looking for a beer, she’s looking for a toilet,” Brew says with a long homey drawl.

“Looks like you both got what you wanted,” Hutch says, reaching for his wooden teacher’s pointer, circa third grade. (“I prefer to call it my baton,” Hutch clarifies, feigning a thick French accent on the last word.)

“This is the beer menu on the chalkboard. Notice we are cash only,” Hutch instructs, tapping his baton on the specified header.

Tap. “So far, so good?”

“We are good,” Brew replies, reflecting a former life as the enlisted.

“In that case, welcome,” Hutch says, his tone slightly softening.

It’s apparent Hutch approves of Brew. He is a man who doesn’t need

things explained a second time.

“We have the one column that explains the six beers I have on tap. Tap, tap, tap … They’re all brewed here.” This is followed by complete silence. Brew’s wife is still in the bathroom.

“Smoked brown ale, that sounds good,” Brew says … his twang sounding like a hymn.

“Made with smoky goodness,” Hutch says. He likes Brew. He is real.

“Can’t go wrong when it’s dark,” Brew says.

“I have his and hers sizes.” At the Ourayle House, there are two sizes. One is bigger. If you order water, depending on Hutch’s mood, it might be served in a genuine sippy cup, the kind used to quench a 2-year-old’s thirst.

Brew takes a careful draw from the heady his-size stein. “Oh man, that is good. I like beers like this. I like beers that somebody has put their heart into.”

“Where are you from?” Hutch has dropped any defense. It is safe.

“Texas. Out in the boonies as they would call it.”

“What do you do?”

And like another hymn, Brew says, “I save lives.” He pauses and takes a long draw of the brown.

“I build helicopters for the Marine Corps. I heat-treat the gears.

Every time I see someone rescued, I think, ‘I was there. My DNA is in that helicopter. I touched it and it saved someone.’ ” In the middle of this ocean-blue autumn day, late-season tourists cram the sidewalk outside while in this empty bar with the homemade feel, a tired Texan silently stares into his mug of smoky goodness.

“Oh. I just want to cry.”

And then, he does.

Hutch tops off his beer, with grace. One misunderstood artist to another. And for a long minute, nothing more is said.

“People are people, you love them,” Brew says, struggling to gather himself. His wife, having returned from her mission, now quietly rubbing her man’s back.

“Yep. You don’t wish ill will on anyone,” Hutch says. And Mr. Grumpy Pants means it.

“I better go,” Brew says, having now polished off the smoky brown.

“Let me give you a splash of the stout before you go,” Hutch offers.

He pulls a half a “hers” and slides it across the bar.

“Oh man, that is beautiful. Thank you.”

“You are welcome.” e

IN THE FOREST

Woodblock print by Dan Hinds 18 edible

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MAKING MEAT

With admiration, gratitude and a tinge of regret | Dan Hinds

A

s a hunter, I’ve come a long way since those green days of my first elk kill in the Weminuche Wilderness of Southwest Colorado. That cow didn’t just fall over after the shot from the .30/06 (they rarely do), and it wasn’t until the next morning that my buddy Dave and I stumbled upon her, in the cool shade, but belly taut with inner heat. We had the hardbound field dressing manual propped open with a rock and did the best we could. I remember the look of that strawbrown elk hide skinned out on the tundra under a flawless October sky, the aspen slopes ablaze in gold, and the blood-tipped game bags hanging solidly in the shade of the spruce. I inhaled the heady tang of the mountain vegetation ripening before winter, the rank musk from the animal now in our presence. I couldn’t shake these things from my mind: they went deeper and I’ve never been the same.

Fifteen years later, the magic of “getting lucky” is still the same, walking up on the gift of big game. The life of an animal arrested and the result at your feet, condensation of all the essences of the woods and mountains into this flesh and blood, hide and hooves. Thoughts of the miracle of this life being transferred from one being to another swirl in my mind as I check to make sure the glassy eyes twitch not.

The forest is usually extra quiet, the other animals seem to give room for this ritual of receiving, a space for us to pull the parts through. Or maybe it’s just a different kind of listening, now that the game is down and I no longer need to be sneaky.

A sigh of relief and gratitude, a swallow of regret over the unavoidable violence of it. An admiring of the animal’s coat, meaty muscles, the details of face, antlers, legs, hooves. The smell of the creature conjures some wisp of childhood for me, an empty hayloft in a sun-filled barnyard. And the feel of its dusty hollow hairs, thick for the coming winter, brings a bittersweet nostalgia for something profound though unnamable. I look around, take a deep breath: a still moment in this hectic human life.

Being a foot hunter without access to pack stock, who has never been able to roll a deer or elk into the pickup truck whole (though I’ve seen it done by others, the lucky dogs!), I’m going to remove the meat from the carcass. In so doing, I’ll both cool the meat quickly (Job #1 with any game processing) and get it into backpackable chunks. All I need is a sharp knife, the custom ram’s horn-handled beauty on my hip, with the drop-point blade of only three and a half inches.

First, I skin the hide off the side of the animal facing up, taking care around the abdomen and to not nick the skin or dull the knife by cutting too much hair in the process. Tanning my deer and elk hides gives me an appreciation for an intact hide, plus I use the soft white skin as a mat to keep the meat clean as I go. Some deer hides, especially still-warm ones, can be peeled off the meat with hardly the need for a knife, fist-punching connective tissue apart. Heat from the meat steams off, and often muscles still jiggle and quiver, a somewhat disconcerting reminder of the basic chemistry that ties us all together.

There are the lean muscular bull elks, whose fatless bodies reveal the rigors of the rut, and the dry cow elk going into winter with plenty of padding, and sometimes a cow who still dribbles milk from recently-used teats. The bucks, just gearing up for their rut, almost always have good layers of fat, the rich skunky funk of it suddenly redolent in the vicinity of the kill site. I pull the greasy white chunks from the meat, the sound like a dinner bell to the scavengers in the woods. It’s amazing that game animals can turn mountain vegetation into a surplus of pure fat. Though we remove it while home butchering because of its gamey flavor (the greasy ribs, however, have never disappointed), the fat is the true white gold for our backyard chickens; certainly our ancestors never discriminated against the rich layers between the hide and meat.

The front legs or shoulders come off easily and there is no danger of mis-cutting into the guts, but the rear leg, or ham, is a little trickier. I keep the knife from puncturing the abdomen while slicing down to the ball and socket joint and around the pelvis. With an elk, I tie the hooves back to a tree, enlist a friend, or just lean my shoulder in to keep the legs spread as I work. I envision myself, viewed from afar: a small human figure straddling the lifeless wild beast, deep in the woods with a flashing blade, a hunter in the ageold tradition of providing.

These heavy hams contain the largest muscles. I can see in my mind the packages labeled “Holiday Roast” and the mountain of ground meat on the butcher table ready for sausage spices. But now in the field they can be hard to handle for one person. I make a slit between the tendon and the ankle bone for a handhold, open the game bag all the way to plop it in, and hunchback toward the shady spot to cool the meat. Packing these hams for miles out of the deep canyons and over the pass on my back the mantra is “Baby steps… baby steps”. I remember trying to stand up with one in my backpack, not mustering enough, sure my partner was standing on my loose pack strap and pinning me down.

Wrapping the clean hide back over this side, I struggle to flip the animal over. Now I’ll repeat the skinning and leg removal on the other side. When all four legs are bagged, my shoulders and arms are fatigued, I’m sweating but psyched, a growing sense of satisfaction with each chunk of meat processed. I sit back, count my blessings, and sharpen my knife for removing the choice backstraps: long thick cords of meat nestled on either side of the spine. The tidbits left on 20 edible

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the skeleton when the backstraps come free are a favorite appetizer for those hunters interested in a small flavor of the animal au natural. The translucent ruby flesh swims in my mouth, shooting sparks of grass and osha, ice water and iron.

By now, the life of the animal seems far away. That it was free and breathing this morning is hard to fathom. The scene has finally chummed in the birds: the gray jays especially are unafraid, staking out the kill site with inquisitive chortles and quick grabs of fat.

Clark’s nutcrackers visit, attempting to add to their cache of pine nuts, and undoubtedly the ravens have circled, sensing the bounty.

The only reason to gut the animal is to retrieve the tenderloins, heart, and liver. I roll up my sleeves, keeping that blade pointed up.

Going on feel, I slit the abdomen and around the diaphragm, reach up through a burst of steam and blood, fingering past the fluffy lung tissue until I can find the hose-like esophagus toward the neck. With this severed and pulled, the guts easily spill out. The rigid grey bag of the stomach, the coils of intestine, the other slippery strange organs, all seem eager for the pull of gravity: an awkward slosh, a host of new sometimes daunting smells, a few more slices to clean things out.

The liver and the heart come still hot from the body cavity. The dark liver is a floppy thick saucer, dense with nutrients; the heart, valves dripping coagulated blood, is always startling to hold in my hand in its meaty perfection. The two tenderloins are the only meat left on the underside of the spine, buttery soft cutlets, soon free and slick in my palm. Carefully removing any connective tissue, I’ll wipe these parts down with clean snow if possible, and pat dry on the outside of a game bag.

I keep a tidy field-dressing area: inedible scraps are kept contained nearby, and the guts are rolled away, discreetly covered with duff or rocks. This goes a long way toward confidence in full retrieval of useable meat without snitchings from bears, coyotes, or other meat scavengers. Leaving a human-stinky shirt with the meat is recommended; I also wrap the game bags with a spare emergency blanket. What could be stranger to a meat marauder than this crinkly foil-like material?

The pack out, usually over a few days, is one of my life’s most enjoyable efforts. The work of it can be extreme, but after a couple trips – fueled by fresh liver or heartmeat – my body grows to relish the challenge. Unlike the hunt before the kill, there is little unknown. Usually friends arrive to help and the mood is festive and reverent. These steps through the countryside are accented by the belief that the meat now in me contains the spirit of the animal: it likes to look all around, visit its old haunts, feels respect at being shown again its home landscape. In contrast, the wild animal – the dense essence of it – seems to push down, to resist in a silent forceful way this removal of its body from the homeland. Yet the hike uphill with a meat-heavy pack always somehow feels good, and does make the meat sweeter. Maybe it is a spiritual exercise, or maybe it’s just a man making meat. e

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LOCAL CHEFS SHARE

JOSH NIERNBERG Bin 707 Foodbar, Grand Junction, CO

J

osh Niernberg’s Pinterest page is pasted with personal snapshots of restaurant interiors and menus from NYC to Barcelona to Atlanta. Niernberg, the tattooed chef and owner of Bin 707 Foodbar in Grand Junction, is many things, but there are not too many former professional snowboarders who have an affinity for interior design.

(Or a Pinterest page. For those of you not in the know, Pinterest is like a virtual bulletin board for creative types. It is where you can tack up what inspires you.)

Since 2011, Niernberg and his wife, Jodi, have operated the highly popular (and beautifully designed) game-changing gastropub with a locallysourced menu and spirit and wine list located smack dab in the middle of meat and potatoes country.

“In our eyes, Grand Junction had been overlooked for its agro-tourism potential,” Niernberg says. “We have a long growing season, distilleries, breweries, farmers, wineries and winemakers.”

Niernberg set out to create a restaurant that complimented the established guard and their imported wines and old school ambiance, yet was completely different. “As I began to put together the menu, in the middle of a recession, it seemed to be our responsibility to support our community as much as possible,” he says. So he built the menu as well as the beer, wine and drink lists around items he could source responsibly.

Like most chefs in Southwest Colorado, the challenge is time. Nobody has it. Not the farmer; and certainly not the restaurateur. “I see a need for a third party vendor that could work directly with

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Photo by Michelle Ellis

2014 / 2015

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multiple farms, ranches, dairies, etc. to bring those items to market,” Niernberg says.

And wheels are turning on this front.

The vision is working. The restaurant is feeding between 350 and 500 people a day. The staff has gone from 20 in the beginning to 60 today. And there is a new food truck in the mix that will be used as an experimental kitchen and a way to host pop-ups. And no doubt, it will have style.

Edible: Describe your very first restaurant job.

Josh: My first real kitchen was Old Chicago on Market Street in downtown Denver. This was '93 or so. Long before Old Chicago was a corporation, even before Lo-Do was Lo-Do. I remember having a line around the block with people waiting to get in. I started by learning how to make dough. I quickly learned how to read the dough and make it by eye. I worked my way through all positions there in about 2 1/2 years. I have worked in restaurants ever since.

Was that the very first job you ever had? If not, what was your very first job?

I was a p.m. stocker (not night stalker) at Hugh M. Woods, a chain of hardware stores, when I was 15.

Who is/was your biggest culinary influence?

Several. I remember reading the Charlie Trotter books a long time ago. And when The French Laundry Cookbook came out – that kind of changed everything for everyone. Of course, the guys I came up working for in Denver, like Kevin Taylor and Sean Yontz, would have to be mentioned. Today, I really like the way people are reimagining things. David Arnold is the voice for new technique.

The Mission Chinese crew and their book are awesome. Jose Andres, Sean Brock and the Momofuku group and their whole “think tank" of reinvention. Even Steve Ells and the Chipotle story and his partnership with the dudes from Frasca [a trend-setting Italian restaurant in Boulder]. All of those are huge motivators of what can be done with food.

To a young person who thinks they want to be a chef, what essential qualities would you tell them that they need in order to be a success?

Work harder than anyone else around you, always. Have respect for the people teaching you the way they are doing something and learn from it, good or bad. Don’t lose track of the big picture. Consider both criticism and emulation a compliment, because at least that means you have people paying attention.

Describe one of your most memorable meals.

My birthday dinner at WD-50 with my wife and brother-inlaw and his girlfriend. We went all out and had a tasting menu of Wylie Dufresne’s [a pioneer in molecular gastronomy] food. It was ridiculous! There was one dish that was like bagels and lox. It looked like a little miniature version, but everything was in another form so nothing was actually what it seemed. It was a really, really good meal, and my first time in NYC.

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You’re at a dinner party and somebody serves something that you just don't like?

I don’t love beans which is kind of weird, but it’s just a texture thing. Otherwise, game on.

It's your last meal, what will it be? And what bottle of wine will you order to accompany it?

Tacos. Probably from my wife, Jodi. I love tacos. But tacos and wine don’t really play together very well, but a Mexican Logger and some hot sauce, that’s all I need!

What detail about you would people be most surprised to learn?

I’m really into interior design. I skateboard better than I walk. A full dining room makes me feel like our food is too safe. And while Jared Leto [the musician and Academy Award-winning actor] was blown away by Bin 707 Foodbar, feeding professional skateboarder Natas Kaupas was a much larger milestone in my book.

When you were little, imagining your future, what career did you envision yourself doing when you grew up?

I liked to draw and paint. Everyone thought I would be an artist, including me. It wasn’t until after high school I realized “artist” wasn’t really going to pay the bills.

What's on your "most listened to" list on your iPod? Old Punk Rock, New Metal, The Smiths, and Led Zeppelin. e

Photo by Cat Mayer

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IN THE HIGH TUNNEL

Tunneling for Winter’s Harvest | Sarah Syverson

W

hile the rest of us are gladly shoving our rakes, hoes and wheelbarrows into the garden shed with a sigh of worn-out relief, an altogether different breed of farmer is starting up their proverbial production engines and shifting into high gear. It’s September and they’ve only just gotten started. They are the off-season growers, composed of two parts mad scientist, one part “we will defy any odds” and a heavy seasoning of “I have to grow something at all times.” These are the people you want to know if the food system goes down. They can pull a sweeter-thanyour-momma carrot out of the ground in mid-December along with the best spinach you’ll ever taste.

How does this magic happen? One tunnel at a time.

Before we dive into the “how-tos,” we need a glossary of terms to help us navigate the winter growing waters (icy as they may be). Winter farmers use high tunnels (also called hoop houses or poly-tunnels). These structures are sometimes referred to as greenhouses, though there’s a clear distinction. Greenhouses are heated. High tunnels are not. The tunnels are generally tall enough to walk through while standing up straight and can range in size from a homemade 50-square-foot version to the Rolls Royce mail order model of more than 2000 square feet.

Winter growers have a few more tools in their belts, namely floating row covers and coldhardy varieties that enjoy life at 20 degrees. Floating row cover is essentially a winter blanket made of spun bonded polypropylene fabric. It also goes by the name Agribon or Reemay. The floating row cover is placed over wire hoops that extend a foot or two over the beds. You leave it on your crops like your favorite winter sweater.

The last thing that some growers use is Christmas lights. That’s right. The larger outdoor lights, which can be strung underneath a floating row cover, can give off enough heat to be useful. (Note that they can’t be the energy-efficient LED lights – they have to be old school, energy-sucking ones to qualify as a legitimate heat source.)

Now equipped with our glossary of terms, we can attempt to understand the winter farmer’s life cycle. What DO they do out there while the rest of us hover near the fireplace, waxing poetic about our next trip to Mexico or binge watching Netflix?

They’re farming of course, with a couple more layers of Carhartts on.

Heidi and Judy Rohwer of Rohwer’s Farm based in Pleasant View, Colorado, at 7000 feet, are in the middle of their fourth year of winter high tunnel production. They start seeding in September and plant successively through the first week of October. Their gamut of winter season vegetables includes 10 varieties of lettuce, 7 types of kale, and 3 types of spinach,

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Laura Parker of Buckhorn Gardens in the farm’s brand new Bolivian-inspired walipini – an Aymara Indian word for 'place of warmth' – a partially underground grow house.

Mary Vozar of Confluence Farm in Mancos, Colorado.

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photos by Rick Scibelli, Jr.

Paul J. Bohmann of Confluence Farm in Mancos, Colorado.

Horton Nash, manager at Buckhorn Gardens.

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month throughout the season. It can be done with overhead watering or with drip irrigation on a warm day.

“High tunnel farming has increased in our region with 33 seasonal high tunnels being built since 2012,” reports Joel Lee, Cortez Natural Resource Conservation Service District conservationist.

“Most people are currently experimenting with what works and what doesn’t.” With each new high tunnel built and with the shared experiences of farmers like Paul, Mary, the Rohwers and Bryan Reed, local winter food sources will inevitably continue to grow.

Winter growing offers a chance to grow at a calmer pace and produce a different variety of foods that thrive in colder temperatures. It offers us an opportunity to continue to eat seasonally – creating culinary delights utilizing our winter storage crops of potatoes, onions, and squash mixed with the tunnel offerings of carrots, beets, spinach, and perhaps a topping of spicy mizuna on our dinner plate.

Not bad for the middle of winter. e

photo by Michelle Ellis

along with radishes, carrots, beets, onions, bok choy, arugula and a little exotic mild mustard green called mizuna. These two ladies harvest up to 300 pounds of food monthly from each of their two 2000-square-foot high tunnels during the winter season, replenishing their tunnel stash by seeding again in mid-January if the weather is reasonable enough (above 0 degrees).

Heidi Rohwer likes the winter growing season because it sets limits on her “field,” meaning she cannot grow outside the high tunnel, so she doesn’t get overwhelmed by production possibilities. She can simply concentrate on what’s inside. Plus weeding and bugs are significantly less of an issue.

Mary Vozar and Paul Bohmann of Confluence Farm in the Mancos Valley experience similar benefits growing during winter hours. They came up with the idea of growing in the off season long before high tunnels were the “cool kid on the block” in agricultural circles. Studying the likes of Eliot Coleman, author of Four-Season Harvest, they built mini high and low tunnels that they crawl through to harvest (right now you’re thinking just how lucky you are that you can simply purchase local winter vegetables). With the addition of a 30-by-70-foot high tunnel more than two years ago, they rose to their feet cultivating crops similar to the Rohwers’ and selling at regional markets.

Some of the most pleasurable experiences for both Mary and Paul, as well as the Rohwers, have been tromping through three feet of snow to their respective tunnels and lifting the row covers to find leafy, beautiful masses of edible greens and root crops waving their sweet, flavor-packed foodie flags. “They are completely different vegetables in the winter,” quips Heidi Rohwer. “The cold makes the sugar content higher so they are much sweeter and more tender.”

All this sounds really neat and special, right? But what happens when the thermometer dips into the negative teens? How can a tiny, leafy, fat-free plant survive?

According to Bryan Reed, Sustainable Gardening Instructor at Western Colorado Community College, plants are both thriving and surviving during certain times of the winter. If you can grow your plants to the adolescent stage before cold temps hit and the sunlight ratio drops below 10 hours a day, they will hang out and simply “survive” until the mercury rises and daylight hours increase. Most high tunnel farmers will experience their plants hanging tight from December through mid-February. Then suddenly roots and leaves gain new life force as the calendar turns toward March.

Watering is quite possibly the most interesting part of this whole grand winter food propagation scheme. Evaporation is slowed by the decrease in temperatures, and retention is benefited by the high tunnel and row cover. Watering ranges from once a week to once a

Bryan Reed, sustainable gardening instructor at Western Colorado Community College

The Seed Saver | Sharon Sullivan

I

nside Lance Swigart’s adobe home there’s a delicious aroma of drying stalks of grain, bushels of garlic, recently-harvested apples and pears. And on this particular autumn morning, fresh-baked bread made from the wheat, rye, spelt, amaranth, and kamut he’s grown, harvested, threshed, cleaned and hand-ground into flour.

Even the bread’s poppy seeds come from the flowers in his garden.

On an acre of land outside of Hotchkiss, Colorado, the wiry 58-year-old grows enough fruits, vegetables, grains and beans at 6,200 feet elevation to feed himself year-round. Surrounded by Rocky Mountain juniper, sagebrush and pinon pine, wintertime temperatures there often hover below freezing. “I want things to stay frozen,” Lance says. “A colder winter means less bugs in the spring.”

Wearing a straw hat to protect his face from the high desert sun, Lance gives visitors a tour of his famous North Fork Valley garden, started in 1979. A former “California beach boy” who grew up in San Clemente, Lance says he always wanted to grow his own food. Tea, salt, a few condiments, cheese, butter, and rolled oats are the only food items he purchases. Everything else is grown from seed he’s saved from his organic garden.

It’s September, and a lovely willow fence bordering the garden is covered with grapevines that have spread to a nearby mulberry tree. Golden calendula flowers pop against a lush green field that includes spinach, kale, bush beans, beets, cucumbers, and melons.

Pink and orange zinnias grow tall in a bed of squash. “The butterflies and hummingbirds like the seeds, so I just leave them,” says Lance. Sunflowers grow companionably alongside cornstalks. “It makes everybody grow taller” as both plants reach for the sunlight, making it harder for raccoons to snag the lower ears of corn, says Lance.

An electric solar-powered fence keeps out the deer, porcupines, skunks and rabbits. An old-time remedy of saved urine (his), mixed 50-50 with water sprayed around the garden’s perimeter works pretty good, too, he adds.

Lance eats vegetables from his garden all winter long although he doesn’t can anything. He’s found simpler ways to preserve his food. In late October before the ground freezes, he digs a trench in the garden 12 inches deep, 16 inches wide, and 13 feet long where he places a mix of carrots, beets, radishes and kohlrabi. He covers the vegetables with straw or leaves, then dirt, followed by bales of hay. “Every two weeks, I dig up enough veggies for the house,” he

photos by Michelle Ellis says, for a winter salad of sliced cabbage, grated carrots, beets, onions, garlic and radishes dressed with Celtic salt, oil and vinegar.

“I’m planning a root cellar at some point. The hole is dug.”

Other produce like potatoes, onions, garlic and winter squash are kept through the winter in what he calls his “garden room,” a tiny straw bale house intended originally as a meditation room until he needed the space. Here he also stores years’ worth of seeds he’s collected in five-gallon buckets and miscellaneous glass jars, each one labeled and dated.

In his house, gallon jars full of dried apples, apricots, pears, peaches, and raisins hold last year’s harvest. He freezes raspberries, but not much else. In a spare bedroom, five-gallon buckets store several varieties of grains and beans. These include pintos, black, Montezuma reds, Roma, Swedish browns, Anasazi, Sonoran gold, scarlet runner and cranberry beans. “I eat grains and beans yearround,” says Lance, who became a vegetarian 35 years ago.

“I eat popcorn year-round also. I store it on the cob. I take it off as I pop it. All grains store better on the seed head.”

Lance sows seeds continuously throughout the growing season: cilantro is planted every 10 days. Snap peas and pintos are planted

in mid-July. A final crop of greens is started in early August. He plants the first of four 600-square-foot carrot beds during the last week of March. “I eat one a day,” he says, as he pulls a giant carrot from the ground, brushes off the dirt and takes a bite. Locals refer to his carrots as “candy” because of their sweetness.

From late March through mid-November, Lance works outside – whether it’s ten- to twelve-hour days in his garden, or doing yard maintenance for income. He also sells his produce locally to natural food markets.

His annual gift of dried fruit disappears fast among shelves of canned goods at a local food bank. Lance gives lettuce and other greens to the Kids’ Pasta Project, a weekly community dinner in Hotchkiss that raises money for charitable causes. He also donates vegetables to the Loving Spoonful Community Dinner in Paonia, a weekly gathering he attends during the summer when days are long.

Lance laughs when asked if he’s ever bored – he doesn’t own a computer, television or stereo – though he does listen to the local community radio station on a small radio in the kitchen. “Never,” he answers. “There’s plenty to do. And the night sky’s pretty nice. During the day, I listen to the birds, insects or just the silence.” Plus, there are friends to visit and potlucks to attend. He uses a land line, but doesn’t own a cell phone.

During winter after the garden has been put to bed, he collects firewood, cross-country skis in nearby Crested Butte or Gunnison, reads, chops wood, cleans seeds, go for walks and bakes bread. He also meditates each morning and evening.

CHECK OUT SEEDS “I started saving seed ten to fifteen years ago,” says Lance. “I learned where to take it from the plant to increase production.

There are some tricks to saving seed, such as growing enough of a particular crop to discourage in-breeding, and growing only one variety at a time to avoid cross-pollination.”

Earlier this year, at the behest of the Hotchkiss Public Library, Lance started teaching his technique to the public. “It re-

ally lined up well with what we’re trying to do,” says Kit Stephenson, the Delta County Library regional manager. “Getting people to start saving their seed.” In March, the library began checking out seeds to patrons, hoping they would plant, then later harvest their seeds and donate back to the library.

“We were inspired by the Basalt Library [after its seed library was featured last year on National Public Radio],” says library staffer Sarah Pope.

Seed libraries have sprouted up at public libraries across the country in the past 10 years in an effort to preserve the genetic and cultural diversity of plants. To get started building its own seed library, the Hotchkiss branch held a seed swap in January, and began collecting seeds over a three-month period from patrons and seed companies specializing in heirloom and open-pollinated varieties.

Lance shares his gardening knowledge every Tuesday at 6:30 pm during a program called “As the Worm Turns” aired on KVNF Community Radio in Paonia. “Someone else came up with that name,” says Lance. “I’m not that comical.” e

WINTER RECIPES “R ajma” Indian Red Bean Chili

By Amita Nathwani, Surya Health and Wellness, Durango, Colorado

INGREDIENTS

1 1/2 cups red beans or kidney beans (Rajma)

1 cup of water

1 medium onion, chopped

Salt to taste

3 tablespoons light olive oil

2 bay leaves

1-inch piece ginger, chopped

2 cloves of garlic, chopped

3 medium tomatoes, chopped

1 tablespoon coriander powder

1 tablespoon cumin powder

2 teaspoons red chili powder

1/2 teaspoon turmeric powder

1 teaspoon garam masala powder

METHOD (serves 4 to 6) Soak the beans for 6 hours or overnight. Cook beans with 5 cups of water till totally cooked and soft. This could take 1-3 hours depending on elevation.

Heat oil in a deep pan. Add bay leaves and onion, and sauté on medium-high for 2 minutes.

Add ginger and garlic and continue to sauté till the mixture turns golden. Add coriander powder, cumin powder, red chili powder, turmeric powder and sauté for another minute.

Add the cooked beans along with 1 cup of water. Adjust salt and then add garam masala powder. Add chopped tomatoes last.

Lower the heat and simmer for about 15 to 20 minutes on low heat. Serve hot with steamed rice. e

Chocolate Cherry Bread Pudding with Warm Cherry Sauce

By Karen Byler, Straw Hat Farm, Montrose Colorado

INGREDIENTS 6 eggs 1 cup milk 1/2 cup sugar 1 tablespoon vanilla 1/2 teaspoon cinnamon 4 cups whole-grain bread, cut into 1-inch cubes (approximately 1/2 pound) 2 cups frozen pitted pie cherries, thawed (or you can use canned) 3/4 cups semi-sweet chocolate chips 1/2 cups sliced almonds, toasted (divided)

METHOD (serves 8) Preheat oven to 375*. Grease an 11x7 glass baking dish, or any 2-quart casserole. Prepare custard by whisking together eggs, milk, sugar, vanilla, and cinnamon. In a large bowl, toss bread cubes, cherries, chocolate chips and 1/4 cup of the almonds.

Add the custard and mix well.

Pour into baking dish and press mixture down. Cover with foil and bake for 45 minutes. Uncover, sprinkle with remaining 1/4 cup almonds and bake 15 to 20 minutes longer until it is puffed and golden. Serve warm with a spoonful of warm cherry sauce and whipped cream!

While the pudding is in the oven, prepare your cherry sauce 2 cups (10 oz) frozen pitted pie cherries 1/2 cup + 2 tablespoons sugar 2 tablespoons cornstarch 1 tablespoon butter 1/2 teaspoon vanilla

Combine the first three ingredients in a saucepan over medium/high heat and cook, stirring occasionally, until mixture boils and thickens. Boil 1 minute. Remove from heat and stir in butter and vanilla. e

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DIY PANTRY

STOP BUYING AND START MAKING:

EGGNOG | Rachel Turiel

T

his recipe is as much for eggnog as it is for the very fact of winter. Not that winter needs a remedy, exactly, just some added cheer on an extremely regular basis. This is a long, dark, and cold season in which we’re all seeking something deeper – something spiritual perhaps – like enlightenment, salvation, eternal good will toward our fellow humans, or maybe just sweetened cream with the invigorating kick of rum.

And really, who wants to traipse through the easy meadow of summer all year long like a romance film on endless repeat? I like how winter draws us close and holds us there, if even a bit too long or forcefully. It’s in this being pressed together – our family like

DIY Eggnog

METHOD

Makes approximately 5 cups

Whisk the eggs and the sugar for 5 minutes. If using honey, make sure it’s at room temperature and add to the

INGREDIENTS 1 quart half and half (or 1 pint cream, 1 pint whole milk) 3 whole eggs (if there were ever a time to use pastured, local eggs this is it)

crystallize the honey.

Next, add the half and half and whisk a few more minutes. the time to pour off some non-alcoholic eggnog for the

1 teaspoon vanilla Sprinkling of pumpkin pie spice (or nutmeg for traditionalists) 1/2 cup rum (optional, but barely)

SOUTHWEST COLORADO WINTER

eggs before you add the cream, which is cold enough to

Add vanilla and pumpkin pie spice. If you’re nice, now’s

1/4 - 1/3 cup honey or sugar

38 edible

wildflowers in a heavy book – that I remember the quieter joys of an inside life.

Which is exactly where eggnog comes in. The Joy of Cooking lists it under “Party Drinks,” a perfect classification for something that elevates the ordinary with only the simple tool of a whisk. It’s festive and delicious and the sort of thing that tastes best when daylight is a thin sliver between two slabs of darkness. (It’s completely obsolete come spring). Eggnog is the “Christmas lights” of beverages, warming your home, heart and belly and turning an average night into a small celebration. Raise a glass and toast to that. e

2014 / 2015

kids. Add rum to the rest, mix well and chill in the fridge.

Also lovely in coffee.

photos by Rick Scibelli, Jr.

DELICIOUSLY ROOTED

M

| Kati Harr

any holiday seasons ago, my hungry, pregnant self was shuttling toward a holiday party, chauffeured by my own mama.

Our backseat was steaming with the fragrant, come-hither scent of home-baked breads, casseroles and side dishes fresh out of the oven.

Too much to resist, I unearthed a platter of roasted beets from their tinfoil bed and snacked surreptitiously as we wound up and down sunny mountain roads. Deeply baked in olive oil with a dusting of salt and pepper – just the right amount of toothsome and tender – these little purple beauties blew my pregnant mind.

Upon arrival, as we ferried all of our goodies inside, unwrapping cling wrap and de-lidding casserole dishes, my mama cried out across the kitchen, “Kate! Where are all the beets!?” Cue my sheepish grin and silent gratitude that pregnant ladies can get away with just about anything.

Though I’m less inclined to wolf an entire holiday party’s serving while in transit, root vegetables like beets, carrots and parsnips still hold a sweet, earthy spot in my heart. They taste amazing and are chock full of vitamins and minerals (beets are an excellent source of folate, while carrots are chock full of vitamin A, all three providing vitamins B6 and C, as well as a healthy dose of fiber). And – bonus!

– they taste sweeter after a frost, due to the cold weather conversion of starches into sugars, which is honeyed news to those of us living with a short growing season.

Though it doesn’t take much more than olive oil, salt and pepper to make these beauties sing, the following recipe takes root vegetables to the next level, playing off their inherent sweetness with a little heat and some savory zing. No longer pregnant, I promise I’ll share – but only if you ask nicely. e

M ama’s Miso and M aple Root Roast INGREDIENTS 3 medium carrots 3 medium beets 1 large parsnip 4 tablespoons sunflower oil (can sub olive or vegetable; we prefer oil with a high smoke point) 1 ½ tablespoons miso 1 ½ tablespoons maple syrup 3 garlic cloves Pinch of red chili pepper flakes (optional, though I highly recommend)

DIRECTIONS Preheat oven to 425F. Chop all vegetables into evenly sized pieces and put aside. Smash or press garlic cloves into a paste. In a large bowl, big enough to hold all chopped veggies, whisk together oil, miso, maple, chili flakes and garlic.

Add vegetables and stir, coating evenly. Here, you can marinate up to overnight in the fridge – either way, spread vegetables in one layer on a cookie sheet and roast in the oven for 25-40 minutes, depending on how browned and well done you like them. Enjoy!

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