Local Food Hero!

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• 1. localfoodhero  |  February 13, 2008 at 4:13 am

  The 8th of May celebration in Mérindol les Oliviers outside of Vaison La Romaine, FR.

  A few years ago we had reservations at a B&B called “La Lumiere” owned by Peter and Beth Miller who are expat Brits living in the south of France, we showed up quite late and they poured us both a whiskey and ushered us off to bed.

  They turned out to be the best guides. Beth knew all of the Caves (wineries) in the region. They had a simple but comfortable house in the countryside and made equally simple but intensely fresh local breakfasts. One morning Beth brought to the table small glass jars of sheep’s milk yogurt. They were made in a nearby creamery and were so rich that if it wasn’t for a slight tangieness you would have thought they were clotted cream. (she also knew the farmers’ markets in each of the surrounding villages, oh… and sometime I’ll tell you about the truffles she cooked up for a late impromptu supper.)

  One morning at breakfast Peter informed us that the town would be having their 8th of May celebration–I felt a bit embarrassed because I had no idea of the significance of that day, but I’m not one to turn down a celebration. He invited us to tag along as there would be a parade and a paella in the town square. We got there just in time to see the Mayor lining everyone up, he carried the blue white and red–on his left was an elderly man carrying a flag from WWII and on his right was a man who appeared to be older than the giant cedar tree in the town square carrying the flag of WWI. We all together set down the road — in order, first came the mayor, then the two men, the adults, children and finally a way back my wife and I.

  We all gathered at the entrance to the town cemetery where the Mayor said a few words then began to read a list of names off a monument. After he would read a name the towns children would say “qui est mort pour notre liberté—or—who died for our freedom”

  This was their memorial day, and this short list started to seem pretty long when you looked around and noticed how few people this town really had to offer for their freedom.

  Well everyone went in to the cemetery and had a good sob at their family plots — for the soldiers and family members who had gone on before. Then, after what seemed like a reasonable time to him, the Mayor announced that it was time to head back up to town.

  When we arrived back in the square everyone had a tall glass of cool, milky-white, anise and herbal-scented pastis with water. The fires were stoked under two great seas of paella (rice and saffron — studded with hare, muscles, clams, sausages and prawns.) The pans must have been five feet wide and they used old gnarled grape vines for fuel. It was quite the “cook out!” Though our French is pretty bad, we knew that we were welcome and we are forever grateful to have shared that most intimate moment with people who we now feel like we know better than had we stayed back at the B&B by the pool that morning.

• 2. Lindsay Rebahn  |  February 13, 2008 at 8:19 pm

  My First Real Tortillas:

  After college I traveled in Central America and volunteered in Guatemala for year working on farming projects. For part of my time I lived in San Lucas Toliman with the Campa family of 9. I quickly learned the family routine and joined in the work. Along with the other million things the women tended to daily - tortillas were made fresh and eaten 3 times a day. Around 6 or earlier in the morning you would hear loud sounds of roosters and the clapping of hands. This was the sound of breakfast tortillas being made. Machine made tortillas were simply unheard of. Guatemalan tortillas are thicker than the typical Mexican corn tortilla, a little crispy on the outside and smooth on the inside.

  We grew corn, among other crops and hung the cobs to dry from our roof. If we didn’t have corn, we’d buy some in the market. There would be a bowl of corn kernels soaking in the house overnight and in the morning we switched off who took the bowl to the grinder down the street. When we came back with the corn dough, the rest of the family would be waking up. The open, indoor, wood fueled fire was set – it never went out completely. Taking some dough I shaped my disc and patted on one palm to the other until I was satisfied with the outcome. On the comal (Pre-Columbian clay griddle) I would slap my tortillas down, wait a minute and flip with finger tips, careful not to burn myself. There was always lots of laughter but I provided additional fodder for jokes as my unshapely tortillas were rivaled by my 4 yr. old host sisters’ and took twice as long. Once cooked, I sprinkled a few crystals of salt and enjoyed the best tortillas of my life. The feeling is difficult to describe but definitely one of belonging as I shared in the ancient ritual of tortiando. You could fill a book with the life lessons of tortilla making. Such a simple daily routine, but this is how I learned what I harvest, what I labor over, what soil I tread on, what water I gather is all part of knowing my food and understanding my connection to the land.

• 3. Lindsay Rebahn  |  February 13, 2008 at 8:21 pm

  Strawberries in Bosnia:

  In 1992, my mom and I were traveling in the Former Yugoslavia. I was 12 and vividly remember the house we stayed at in a small village near the border of Croatia in Herzegovina. The entire front yard was planted with edibles, including many strawberries. Before dinner one night the innkeeper invited me out to pick the strawberries along with some other local kids. My Croatian was minimal at best but that didn’t matter because I knew exactly how to pick berries. I had strawberries in my backyard in Nebraska and wasn’t going to miss out on the fun. I ended up getting to know the other kids through a series of hand gestures and basic Croatian while picking the strawberries. Afterwards we ate together and added some sugar to a bowl full for spreading on bread later. I realized at that point it didn’t matter if I could speak the language or not, knowing and enjoying our food was enough to make a friend.

• 4. Laura Hedlund  |  February 18, 2008 at 10:24 am

  Rasberries. Neighborhood kids gleefully gathering our free rasberries & strawberries. Frozen rasberries used in smoothies.

  Once established, rasberries grow like weeds. My in-laws grew up in Finland during depresssion, war, depression, etc. They had large berry gardens. Those berry gardens made a huge difference during tough times.

  At a time when many families eat Ramen noodle for financial reasons, how about starting a “free food movement?” Organic apple, plum and pear trees; berries; planted in alleyways, on boulevards, in school yards, cucumbers growing on fences, etc.

  We have raspberries to share. (They taste better this way)

• 5. Marie Matthews  |  February 25, 2008 at 5:04 pm

  My food hero was my mom, Olive. We lived on a small farm along the bank of the Rainy River in northern Minnesota. We grew our own vegetables, raised our own meat, and picked wild berries and fruit. We even had the gift of free fertilizer.

  We grew our own vegetables in a large garden which we 8 children helped to plant, weed, hoe and harvest. We grew potatoes,tomatoes, beans, peas, carrots, beets, corn, cucumbers and other vegetables my mother decided on each year. She harvested dried beans. We picked wild strawberries. blueberries, raspberries, cranberries, pin cherries, choke cherries, plums and currants. We helped mom can jelly, jam, fruit sauce, pickles and vegetables. She got great pleasure in seeing the rows of canned food grow wider all summer and fall.

  We had our own cattle that grazed in the pasture in the summer and ate hay that we grew, cut and stacked by the barn for winter. From the cows we milked we were rewarded with cream, butter and milk. Mom sent some cream to the creamery in exchange for cash for other groceries we could not grow such as sugar, tea and coffee. She even got out the hand crank ice cream freezer and made ice cream from our own cream and eggs. We raised a few pigs each year and had chickens. The chickens gave us eggs for breakfast, cakes and cookies. They also pecked our fingers if they were on the nest and we tried to take an egg.

  We didn’t have a fridge or a freezer when we were growing up on the farm. In the late fall my dad would butcher a pig and steer or two for our meat. My mom would quarter the meat, make roasts, hamburgers, and steak and freeze some outside in the shed. She would also can a lot into meatballs and roasted meat. She smoked bacon and ham in our smoke house Dad built for us. She smoked fish from the river. When company came we had fried chicken.

  My mom had a strong work ethic she instilled in us but she also made things fun. After all the hard work of food processing, milking and farming, she took us on picnics, swimming , trips, and to visit neighbors and friends. There was nothing in the world to compare to coming into the kitchen after walking down the long county road after school and smelling home made bread and soup or beans on the wood stove. She was a good cook and the food was home grown and of excellent flavor. We didn’t realize it at the time that we were organic farmers with local grown food. It was the cheapest way for mom to provide us with food and we were never heard to complain that we were bored!

• 6. Song Lee  |  March 5, 2008 at 4:45 pm

  In addition to the washer and dryer, my mom has another electrical appliance in her laundry room. It looks like something one would order from Rob Popeil’s late night informercial.
  The round machine could house a large bundt cake pan and constantly makes a whirling sound. The machine is busy growing bean sprouts. During Minnesota’s long winter months, my mom, who longily looks out at her backyard garden, manages to grow edibles in her laundry room. The clean, fresh, and strong sprouts are made into a satisfying soup with a healthy dose of crushed red pepper flakes and cubes of tofu. Or the sprouts are quickly blanched and made into a salad with nothing more than some salt, sesame oil, and green onion to accompany a steaming bowl of rice. It’s no meatloaf and mashed potatoes but it’s my kind of comfort food a la Korean.

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