Practical Homesteading

Category: Food

  • The Power of Local Food: Lessons from Ethnic Cooking

    Until I attended college, I believed that cultural influences on food were largely a thing of the past.  I grew up in a part of small-town Wisconsin where the cultural influence of my German dairy farming heritage had diminished over the years.  Regional dishes, while still present, were largely nationalized.  Food was sourced from boxes at the grocery store in the wintertime.  Even in summer, the food from gardens supplemented our dishes, but were never the bulk source of our food.  Farmers’ markets were present, but we did not patronize them.  I thought this was how everyone lived.

    The first chance I had to learn about different culinary experiences was after I started college in Madison, a nearby city.  From childhood on, I had always wanted to learn how other people lived, and suddenly I was surrounded by many different cultures.  European, Asian, and African cultures all coexisted together on campus, practically begging for me to observe their customs.  During my 6-year undergrad and graduate school tenure, I made Asian dumplings, drank Turkish coffee, watched African dance, and had hot pot many times with such great company.

    Towards the end of undergrad, I began working in a soils lab, performing experiments to better understand the swelling properties of bentonite clay.  For a person who majored in geological engineering, it was a dream come true and my first real job in my chosen industry.  Although the work was tedious and painstaking, I felt like I was finally flourishing as a professional.  And it beat one of my previous jobs of counting corn kernels.

    During this time, I frequently ate lunch with my Chinese coworker, whose parents had recently immigrated to Madison from China. I was always fascinated with his lunches.  Every day, he ensured he ate every morsel of food on his plate, saying “Every grain of rice is a drop of sweat from a farmer’s brow.”  His sautéed wood ear mushrooms looked delicious every time he brought them, which was frequently.  In turn, he seemed fascinated with my own solo culinary exploits during “spaghetti week”, the time I inadvertently made a pot of spaghetti so large it lasted for a whole week’s worth of lunches and dinners.  I was only too happy to share some with him, as anyone who has made too much spaghetti knows.  We became such good friends that he gladly accommodated me at his parents’ house during “Homeless Night”, the one night every year when the apartments near campus are prepared for next year’s leasers, and I needed a place to stay.

    That night, I was excited to ask how I could help him prepare supper.  The rice cooker was already humming as he grabbed a knife and basket and gestured me to follow him to his back yard.  Just outside the door was a green grass carpet about 6 inches tall and the footprint of a child’s backyard swing set.  These were Chinese chives, also known as garlic chives.  The patch was (and still is) the largest I had ever seen.  Using the knife, he carefully severed handfuls of chives at the base, leaving an inch for the stubs to regrow.  He slowly filled his basket, then proceeded to lead me back to the house.

    I kept him company that night as he prepared the most delicious sauteed Chinese chives over a bed of rice.  The wok sizzled as he poured in the oil then added the chives.  A faint allium smell wafted over to me as he added salt and pepper to taste.  Dinner was on the table in short order.  The chives were garlicky, salty, and chewy.  The rice was fluffy and perfect.  He prepared another dish, but for the life of me I cannot remember what it was.

    Ethnic traditions and edible landscaping were not completely new concepts at the time.  My family grew asparagus, horseradish, and rhubarb, perennial plants that were beautiful as well as being edible.  But it always seemed that these foods augmented a grocery store-sourced meal, not the other way around.  That simple dinner that my friend prepared was the first time I truly observed the power of the “outdoor pantry” in action.  Fresh, local food that comprises much of your dinner can be as close as your backyard and eaten within an hour of harvesting.  That meal made an indelible mark on me, and I’ve strived to source the bulk of my meals from local sources ever since.

    I’ve lost contact with this friend in the intervening years.  I moved several times, got married, and had 2 wonderful children.  Last I heard from him, he was still in Madison and enjoying himself.  If he’s reading this, I wish him well as he’s moving through life.  Your humble meal inspired me to prepare many simple delicious meals from my backyard.

    My personal priorities have changed over time, but my feelings about food remain unchanged.  I have been successful in expanding my food preparation skills over the years, learning to bake bread, preserve vegetables, and ferment cabbage into sauerkraut, a practice in line with my cultural heritage.  I have even started growing mushrooms for our table.  I still remember my friend from time to time as I establish and expand my chives patch or harvest an especially large bounty of food to share with family and friends.

    Did you learn something valuable from another culture? Share your stories below, and subscribe to join a community of like-minded people.

  • Sourdough Bread

    Sourdough Bread

    To me, sourdough is both fascinating and frustrating.  How can something based only on simple pantry staples:  flour, water, and salt, result in such a delicious cornerstone food of society?  Once you attempt your first few loaves, you begin to understand.  There’s a certain alchemy in the starter, the captured yeast on which the success of your culinary exploits rest.  I’ve observed that like all worthwhile things in life, sourdough is not just bread, but a lesson in patience, a crash course in humility, and a reminder that the messiest things in life often taste the best.  And even a failure is really just toast, breadcrumbs, or croutons waiting to happen.

    You begin by adopting a starter, a sentient lump of flour and water that demands more attention than the most finicky orchid.  The starter acts like a child who only communicates via bubbles and guilt.  Feed it too much flour and it floweth over, creating a bubbly mess.  Forget it for a day, and it develops both the boozy aroma and the clear liquid on top.  Nurturing a starter can be unpredictable, expensive, and prone to failure.  Meanwhile, your actual orchid withers away in jealousy.

    After mixing the dough, you begin the ultimate test of patience.  You’ll attempt to stretch and fold the dough, only to end up with a glue-like substance clinging to your hands like wet clay.  The dough metaphorically laughs as it oozes across the counter, mocking your attempts at control.  After much coaxing over several iterations, the dough relaxes and begins to cooperate.

    After stretching and folding, you enter the bulk fermentation phase, where time becomes a myth.  The recipe claims four to eight hours, but your dough adheres to its own cosmic clock.  If the dough is too cold, it will remain as dense as a rock.  If the dough is too warm, it will overproof into an exhausted heap.  You’ll obsessively poke the dough, whisper encouragement, and question your life choices as it defies every timeline you’ve read online.

    After bulk fermentation, the dough must be shaped into a loaf.  It’s the dough’s version of a spa day, where it is pampered, tucked, and rolled into a sleek new outfit before its big debut in the oven.  You gently flatten the dough into a rectangle. Next comes the folding, first the top third down, then the bottom third up, creating a snug little dough envelope that’s hopefully ready to rise to the occasion.  As you forgot to dust your hands, you now need to scrape dough off your elbows before beginning the roll.  After thoroughly cleaning your extremities, you pinch the seams with the seriousness of a detective sealing evidence, tuck in the ends, and flip the dough seam-side down into the loaf pan, ready for its oven transformation.

    You’ve shaped your loaf into something resembling art. Because you’re difficult and don’t like the fancy sourdough boule shape, you preheat a roasting pan like an oblong sarcophagus.  When you finally score the loaf, your razor either drags like a butter knife or gashes the dough like a horror movie prop. The result is a crust that resembles a topographical map of Greenland.  Into the oven it goes, and for the next half hour you pace and agonize more than an expectant parent.  Will it spring?  Will it split?  Or will it burn?  The smell of success fills the air.  You optimistically crack the lid, only to find a solid brick replacing the airy loaf of bread you expected.  Because you always finish what you start, you dutifully lower the oven heat to finish the bake, watching through the glass door as the crust turns darker than your humor.

    Sliding the pan from the oven, you wait until the loaf is cool enough to slice.  The knife skids across the bread crust as if it is duller than a spoon.  After much cajoling, the crumb finally stares back like a party guest trying desperately to impress.  Instead of a light, airy charm, the holes are somehow all wrong, tiny, and, tight.  The mouthfeel is wet and chewy rather than fluffy and inviting.  And yet, I will inevitably try again to make that elusively perfect loaf.  Kneading dough is cheaper and tastier than therapy, and I’ve learned to love my finicky starter.  It’s part pet, part science experiment, and entirely a reminder that chaos can, occasionally, rise to greatness.  Finally, I can bond with fellow bakers over our shared failures.  After all, misery loves company, especially if that company brings fresh bread.

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