FOOD ON THE FOOD

A Follow-Up Conversation with my Therapist

I’ve been putting this off for a while.  It’s hard to see the point of a pointless conversation with your stupid shrink when you don’t even have a problem.  Doesn’t everyone fall in love with their farmer?  And, if not, why not?  Have you no heart/taste buds?

But, Dr. Typepad doesn’t appreciate it when I blow off our appointments, and he keeps charging me anyway, so here I am.  Maybe, if things go well, he’ll fix my little banner problem on my About page someday.

Him: So, how have things been going since our last visit?

Me: (whispering) This room isn’t bugged, is it?

Him: Everything you say here is completely confidential.

Me: Okay, phew.  So, I’m still in love.

Him: You don’t say.

Me: Here’s what I’ve tried so far.  Avoiding eye contact.  Oh, and running away from any attempt at conversation.  Making up crazy stories in my head.  Even burning everything I cook.  Nothing’s working.

Him: Have you considered talking to anyone about your feelings?

Me: What?  NO.  Feelings are stupid.  I hate feelings.

Him: Crushes are completely normal.

Me: A crush?  (snorts)  What am I, twelve?  Don’t answer that. 

Him: Crushes don’t discriminate by age or marital status.

Me: Stop trying to trick me!  So, what are my options?  Besides talking, I mean.  Because no one is telling anybody jack shit.

Him: Well, you could wait it out.

Me: You mean, do nothing?

Him: Not nothing, exactly.  You would consciously try not to do anything that might encourage your crush.

Me: So, like, don’t bring the Farmer cookies?

Him: Right.  Do you bring him cookies?

Me: No.  Pffft.  What do I look like, the town prostitute?  God.  But, so, what if that still doesn’t work?

Him: You could always quit the CSA.

Me: What?  No.  They already cashed my check for the summer.

Him: I bet they’d refund your money.

Me: You’re a horrible, horrible man, and I hate you. (storms out)

Something tells me my banner isn’t going to get fixed anytime soon.

A Very Special Valentine’s Day Message

This week’s CSA pickup was supposed to be today.  But it being Valentine’s Day and all, the Farmer changed the date at the last minute.  I can only imagine the look of horror on his face when he realized his mistake.  What was bound to happen if the CSA pickup occurred anywhere in a 100-mile radius of Valentine’s Day.  The cavalcade of baked goods and off-key serenades he would have to endure.

So, excuses were made.  Something about “plans” and having to be “out of town.”  Right.

I was stumped on the right gift, anyway.  How do you show your appreciation to someone who can coax deliciousness out of what, to the untrained eye, looks like barren ground?  Sending flowers seems dumb.  He already knows how to grow flowers.  He’s seen them a million times.  Ditto for fruit baskets.  Plus, that’s probably what all the other CSA members have planned, and I’d like to think I’m one step ahead of them. 

There’s chocolate, of course, but if I gave him chocolate, then that would mean less for me.  And, I mean, I love the Farmer and everything, but let’s not get carried away.  Plus, all of these ideas require some rudimentary knowledge of his whereabouts (G2?  Miss.  E6?  Miss.), and let’s just say that certain people are remarkably tight-lipped for friendly farm folk.  So, finally, I decided to handpick a love song, instead.  And, lucky for me, the Internet has very long arms.

When selecting the perfect Ballad of Hunger and Yearning for your farmer, there are three key things to consider:

1. There should be at least one farm-related reference in there.  Two is even better.  Three is even better than that.  Are you following?  Extra points for anything bird- or bee-related.

2. It should be somewhat funky. (That’s just a personal preference, actually.)

3. The more stalker-ish, the better.  You know, so he knows you really mean it!

So, this goes out to all the small farmers out there (but, really, just mine).  Be sure to send some love to your own favorite farmer, too.  Word on the unpaved roads is that there are plenty of farmers out there who wouldn’t mind a little loving.  Don’t be shy.  What possible consequences could there be?

Rules: You have to listen all the way through.  And play it loud.  It’s totally safe for work until the veeerrrrry end, and then it’ll be over before anyone realizes what just happened.  Or maybe you won’t know what I’m talking about.  Are you ready?  Are you sure?

Sunshine
Earth, Wind & Fire
The Eternal Dance

(Or, if that doesn't work, click here for a link.)

Happy Valentine’s Day, lover.

Another Imaginary Conversation at the Farm

I hear they’re going to be starting up with maple syrup production at Drumlin soon, if they haven’t already.  Had I known, I would have arranged for a heated cot and an IV drip to be set up under the nearest maple tree.  Perhaps I was a little hasty with this whole “seeing other people” thing.

I had planned to ask the Farmer if he could hook me up with some syrup at the last CSA pickup, but he’s starting to smarten up and make himself scarce.  So, I tried some of my trademark charm on the other farmer, instead.  Let’s see how it went:

Me: So, where is he?

Him: Who?

Me: You know who.

Him: Uh…I’m not at liberty to say. (looking over toward the door to the “secret farmer area” in the back.)

Me: He’s hiding back there, isn’t he?

Him: I don’t know what you’re talking about.

Me: I’m not dangerous, you know.

Him: Okay, why don’t you put down that squash... 

Me: Don’t make me fake an injury just to get back there.  I know that’s where the First Aid stuff is.

Him: You wouldn’t.

Me: Wouldn’t I?

Anyway, whatever, he kindly offered to escort me back to my car.  I never got to the syrup question.  Is it unusual for farmers to have bodyguards?

Meeeeeeaaaaaattt

At long last, we’ve joined a meat CSA.  Wooooooo hooooooo.  My quest for local chicken is over, with the added bonus of beef, lamb, and pork.  And it couldn’t have come a moment too soon.

Yes, we’ve signed on with Stillman’s Farm in Hardwick, MA, together with fellow blogger Karen at Verbatim, in a meat partnership of gargantuan proportions.  Well, maybe that’s exaggerating things a bit.  I mean, we’re splitting a half-share is all.  But, I’m confident that I can work my way up to several full shares all to myself in six to nine months max.

This should spell relief for the farmer at Drumlin.  He can finally get a break from all the poorly crafted poetry I sneak under the crates (There once was a girl from Nantucket…), and I can eat something other than squash once in a while.  It’s nothing personal.  I just need some space to figure out where this relationship is going.  Seeing other people usually helps.  If someone could break it to him gently, maybe kiss away his tears, that would be great.

Meanwhile, Karen has demanded that she be the liaison for the first meat pickup (which is TODAY!!!) so that there aren’t any “misunderstandings” with the farmers.  I told her that nobody is “misunderstanding” anything.  But, she insists. 

No matter.  Bring on the meat!

A Conversation with Myself

You wouldn’t know it by the warm weather we’ve been having the past few days, but last week’s farmshare pickup was FRIGID.  The thermometer said 12°F, but between the wind and my cold, cold heart, it felt more like 6 below. 

The Farmer had to work out there in an unheated bay for five hours, which, I think we can all agree, sounds pretty awesome.  As I was weighing the onions, I started to feel guilty about the nice, warm car I’d soon be driving away in.  Here was my approximate train of thought:

Me: Offer him your coat.

Me: No, then I’ll be cold.  Plus, no farmer is going to take a girl’s coat.

Me: Offer him some hot cider, then.

Me: The cider’s right there.  I think if he wanted some, he’d just get it himself.

Me: At least see if he wants to sit in the car for a few minutes.

Me: That man would rather die a thousand frostbitten deaths than have to suffer through more stilted conversation.

Me: Um…conversation?

Yeah.  So.  I opted to just say nothing.  That was probably for the best.

The Many Shades of Beet

Well, I had to show my face at my CSA eventually.  Sure, these posts got around.  To everybody.  Who cares?  Not me.

With no Farmer in sight as I arrived at the pickup, I braked hard, dumped the nearest crate of vegetables into my trunk (13 Hubbard squashes?  Fine.), did a few quick, high-pitched doughnuts to reverse direction, and was all set to get the hell out of there, when…doh! 

That’s okay.  I played it cool, as is my way, by, first and foremost, soiling myself.  And then throwing any remaining composure out the window while I waited for the conversation to turn to sexual harassment charges.  It never did.  Maybe that mix tape I sent in the mail hasn’t arrived, yet?

Anyway, here’s how I’ve been making a dent in my as-yet-uninterrupted vegetable supply.

Roasted Butternut Squash and Farro from 101 Cookbooks

Yet another use for just about any kind of winter squash you have lying around.  Between the squash and the farro, this dish is meaty enough to not need meat, which is really saying something coming from me.  Husband disagrees with this assessment, but guess whose blog this is?

Beet Salad with Horseradish and Fried Capers at The Wednesday Chef

I have to say, I never would have thought of pairing beets with horseradish, but the combination works well.  It’s damn ugly, though.  Like a study in psychedelic fuchsia.  Just keep your eyes on the fried capers and you’ll be just fine. 

Parsnip and Rosemary Arancini

You asked for more parsnip recipes, and, goddamnit, you’re going to get them.  Boy, did I like this risotto.  But do you know what I liked even more?  Deep-frying this risotto. 

Day-old risotto often congeals into a sticky mass in the refrigerator.  When that happens, you have a choice.  You can either remoisten with stock or water when you reheat it, or you can use the situation to your advantage.  Meaning form the risotto into little balls, dip them in flour, then egg, then bread crumbs seasoned with a little salt and pepper.  Fry them up in two inches of canola oil heated to 375°F until the outsides get all crispy.  Drain on paper towels and season with more salt.  Eat RIGHT AWAY.  If all goes well, the insides will be all molten and oozy.  Lordy.  Everything is better fried and you, my little parsnips, are no different.

A Conversation with My Therapist

Actually, Typepad is my therapist, but let’s just pretend Dr. Typepad has a comfy red couch upon which I’m reclining.  Stiffly, like spaghetti just into the pot.  Take it away, Doc:

Him: So, what brings you here today?

Me: I think I’m in love with my farmer. 

Him: Interesting.  You know, I’ve been looking for a good CSA…

Me: He’s mine, all mine.  Find your own farmer.  He’s sold out, anyway.  HA!

Him: Okay, well, let’s get right to it, then.  What’s your relationship with this farmer?

Me: He grows our vegetables and I give him money.  For the vegetables.  Nothing else.  And then I cook them.  Then, I eat them.  That’s really it.  There’s nothing dirty going on if that’s what you’re getting at.  I mean, there’s actual dirt on the vegetables.  From the fields.  You have to wash them off…

Him: All right, settle down.  So, you see this farmer, you see him, and then what happens?

Me: I get hungry.

Him: Uh-huh.  And what does your husband think about this?

Husband: I’m okay with it.  She's been cooking A LOT.

Me: (to Husband) Could you stop looking over my shoulder when I’m on the clock?

(Husband goes back to his own special brand of therapy: fighting heroic quests in an imaginary troll world.)

Me: (to the doctor) You were saying.

Him: Do you suppose it’s possible that you’re transferring your feelings toward the food you eat onto the person responsible for growing it? 

Me: I’m sorry, I don’t understand the question.

Him: Well, if you’ve never had a face attached to your food before, it’s understandable that you might make certain…associations.

Me: I can see your lips moving, but…

Him: Look at it this way: What is food to you?

Me: Ummmm…love.

Him: And how do you define love?

Me: Food?

Him: Do you see how you just came full circle there?

Me: You’re not making any goddamned sense.

Oh, well.  No breakthroughs today.  You can’t expect success overnight.

What the World Needs Now…

It’s a little bit awkward when you fall in love with your farmer.  Especially when you’re already married.  When you love food, it’s easy to get confused.  Like this:

Me: I love you.

Farmer: What?

Me: Your celery root, I mean.  I love your celery root.

Farmer: …Thanks.

Me: Your carrots aren’t half bad, either.  And your beets are sooooooo sweet.

Farmer: Uh-huh… (backing away)

Must be an occupational hazard.

Now that the New Oxford American Dictionary has made “locavore” its word of the year, expect more of this phenomenon.  Mark my words, by next summer, celebrity chefs will be out and celebrity farmers will be in.