10 PNW foods to try before you kick the bucket

Photo Credit: Jon Rowley

Shuksan Strawberries: This is the strawberry so fragile, so delicate that if you look at it the wrong way it liquesces into a pool of blood red sugar syrup. This fact should not at all stop you from a) getting thy ass up to a Shuksan strawberry field just as soon as they are perfectly ripe or b) being content to scrape up said blood red sugar syrup and steal it away like crime scene evidence to use in smoothies come winter. This is not hyperbole: I dare any other type of strawberry to out-shine, out-flavor, out-color a Shuksan strawberry at the peak of ripeness.

Geoduck: There are not many words that when pronounced, or rather -mispronounced- so clearly demonstrate one's regional affiliations as the "gooey-duck". Just as soon as some well-intentioned newbie lets a GEO-duck fly, we're more than halfway to spitting out, "so what parts are YOU from?" This beast of a clam has a few things that make it king. Most notably, no one (and I mean no one) can avoid a slight snicker, or perhaps a devilish twinkle in the eye, when looking at or worse - handling- the ridiculously phallic geoduck. Heads of state, Nobel Peace prize recipients, your mother - all will giggle, snort, cry until their salty tears mix with the ocean spray of a particularly randy clam that makes grown men and horses alike concede in futility. Oh, and lest I forget, it tastes damn good.

Huckleberries: Washington state huckleberries made my descent down some steep Mount St. Helen's trail delightfully bearable. So good are these earthytartsweet little balls of blue-purple nutrition that I literally dumped out my precious water ration to fill my bottle to the brim with them. It turns out that even with my remedial foraging math (3 in the mouth, 1 in the bottle) it eventually got filled. If someone tries to tell you that they are just "blueberries" followed by a "what's the big deal?" sneer at them down the length of your nose, say "tsk" followed by "shame on you."

Photo credit: colros

Hedgehog mushrooms: While folks around these parts are fawning all over the ubiquitous chanterelle or spring porcini (boletus) I'm saving my adoration for the mushroom that's too cute to mess with pedestrian gills. Hedgehogs have comical little fungi-quill equivalents where gills would normally be - which is fine and all. I'm not one to judge a food by its appearance for it can be postulated that the sillier and uglier something is the better it seems to taste (see celery root, kohlrabi, truffles, geoduck). This is truer than ever when it comes to the hedgehog. Don't like to eat foods with cute names? Get over it.

DuChilly Hazelnuts: Nothing makes me more likely to pass by a food than when it is utterly high-maintenance. Take the common hazelnut which must be toasted and then rubbed together in towels to separate the nut from the bitter outer covering. If the common hazelnut was a person, she'd be your best friend in high school who was nice and all once you pushed past her BITTERNESS and CONSTANT MAINTENANCE. Why bother? It's been years since high school and there are sweeter and easier nuts to crack, and this one requires no fussy peeling. The DuChilly Hazelnut must have been crossed with a zebra at some point in its past, for its skin is riddled with light and dark stripes. I'm sure there is zebra DNA somewhere in the nut. I think I read that somewhere. I wrote it down and then I read it.

Olympia Oysters: It's not always about size. In fact, small's got it all when it comes to certain things in life. Enter the Olympia Oyster, the only native oyster to the West Coast before MAN nearly slurped it to extinction during the Gold Rush. Luckily it's on the rebound and these little coppery ocean morsels are the perfect one to foist on your wimpy friend who refuses to try raw seafood but feels left out at dinner parties.



Montmorency cherries: I had one of these trees once, given to me as a house-warming gift. I stayed long enough in that house to bake one tart from that tree. It was a constant fight between me and the birds and the birds always won. If I had my druthers I'd leave all the insipid sweet cherries to all y'alls and keep these sour pie cherries for myself. That one tart I made? The Best Cherry Tart of My Life. For more on my Montmorency cherry "experiences" please click over here to read about my most humbling and humiliating culinary experience to date.

Stinging nettles: Thank God for that first deliriously starving lost person in the woods for falling into a stinging nettle patch mouth open, and while screaming in pain and writhing around in the patch decided to eat the plants to exact his revenge upon his aggressor. Once you learn how frighteningly healthy nettles are, you may be tempted to dive into them yourself, like some drug-crazed punk rocker into a mosh pit. Take it from me, always a good idea to wear protective gear. On the other hand, I'm not one to stifle spontaneity so if you do find yourself covered with nettle stings, crying for your mother like a little baby, stop your slobbering and look to the right or left. Amazingly the plant called "dock,"when rubbed onto the welts, takes away the sting and pain so you can dive right back into the evil green patch of nutrients. How do I know this? Because I took one for the team and there are photos to prove it.

Sea beans: From the genus Salicornia and also known as sea asparagus or samphire, "sea beans" are skinny succulent plants that contain a full teaspoon* of briny ocean liquor per bean. Once you know what sea beans look like you'll be walking the beach like a starving cow put out to pasture. Head down, grazing away, contributing to the "methane" problem in your own special little way. If your wimpy friend didn't take to the Olympia oyster see if the douche can handle a sea bean.

*this statement is complete bullshit. I know. I made it up.

Photo credit: jkirhart

Thimbleberries: Thimbleberries are the plain looking girl at the party that people don't see and yet, when they get to know her, they realize that there's been a sweet and deeply nuanced gem in their midst this whole time. It's a nice story, sort of after-school-special-ish but the point is: This average looking girl knows who's been ignoring her and she's not happy about it and she told her friend Leslie and Leslie told Chris and Chris forgot what Leslie said. So, the moral of the story is: don't look a gift Thimbleberry in the mouth. Yeah, what she said.

Seattle Premiere of Mission:Sustainable

God, I hate asking for money. I was never very good at it when I was 12, trying to get my Dad to pay for the movies and I'm lousy now. My Dad (oh he thought he was teaching me personal responsibility) made me mow the lawn before I could get the cash, but then I'd miss the movie and he didn't believe in loans. I suppose if, as a nation, we'd have all mowed our figurative lawns before spending we'd be a lot better off, but that's a different topic for a different day.

Thing is, we've already done our hard work and now we need some cash before January 15th, so you, collectively, don't miss this "movie". We, the cast, producer, director, and crew have been working our tails off for the last few months to make Mission: Sustainable a reality, and now it's time to make it a reality t.v. show. We've all donated our time, every last hour. We've produced a pilot on nothing but our enthusiasm and we want the premiere to be STUNNING with music, local company and organization booths, food and wine and an actual green carpet. We want a thousand of you to show up at the Fisher Pavilion at Seattle Center to collectively push this little show that could onto the national stage. We actually believe we can help change the world.

The premiere info is above. What else can I say besides, lovingly, appreciatively:

Bitches, it's time to get your wallets out.

The premiere is free but your donations can help offset the 5K we need. Go here to help, scroll down to the DONATE button and you can send some of your green via Paypal. $5 is totally okay. $50 is also totally okay. If you are able to donate, let me know in the comments section, and I'll give you extra special hugs and kisses at the premiere or if that feels wrong, I'll shake your hand and thank you sincerely, without public displays of affection and the exchange of bodily fluids. It's your call.

Here's a letter from our producer:

Dear Friend:

I made a resolution last January to make 2009 a year of ambition; I would not reject any experience to push myself personally and professionally due to fear.

Determined to live my resolution, I told one person about my dream to create a reality television show that would communicate the ideals and practice of urban sustainability. By utilizing television’s most popular format, I wanted to reach out to both the established environmental "choir” and the American viewers at large. Before I knew it, one conversation led to another and with a swell of support from friends, I was determined to pursue the show.

The result is a story about making a dream a reality with no cash, but many donations; no paid professionals, but a small army of committed volunteers; and little production experience, but plenty of passion. In May of 2009, I met my creative partner, Jon Sumple, formed ReGeneration Productions and Mission:Sustainable was born. By August, we launched a website, received media attention and held auditions for our cast of sustainability experts. The turnout was incredible, requiring two additional audition sessions to accommodate interest.

I am amazed by the energy and commitment of everyone who has contributed to the evolution of my dream. Our volunteer crew has grown from a few to several dozen, and nearly every time we ask for help, there is a person or company eagerly offering support. Thanks to the many donations of products and services needed to produce Mission: Sustainable, the pilot has been taped, and we’re now in postproduction.

The pilot is set to debut at Seattle Center’s Fisher Pavilion and by invitation in Eugene, Oregon, at the Good Earth Home, Garden & Living Show – the nation’s first sustainable home show, attracting tens of thousands of visitors annually.

To date, we have secured more than $20,000 worth of donations from our friends at Seattle Center, In Harmony Sustainable Landscapes, Mode Organic Salon, PCC Natural Markets, Full Circle Farms, Mutual Fish, Vesta Home Performance, Pure Audio and others. We wouldn’t be where we are today without their generous support, but we are in need of additional funds to cover expenses for our Green Carpet Event at Fisher Pavilion and travel expenses to Eugene.

Our goal: Raise $5,000 by January 15th.

I’m appealing to all of you, my friends and neighbors, to join me in bringing Mission: Sustainable into homes across America. Innocence, determination and luck have brought me and my growing team to where we are today. Your generous support will take us to tomorrow.

With your help, we can make 2010 a year of achievement.

Rose Thornton
Founder/Producer, ReGeneration Productions
ReGeneration Productions, LLC
Mission: Sustainable Website

Check out my luscious mussels.

Thanks to Ashlyn F for the recipe inspiration and the great pic.

No one likes to be the buzz kill.

Take a conversation on Twitter the other day where I tried to gently educate folks about unagi (eel) and how it is likely on its way to extinction. Some people were surprised to hear this and lamented how it is their favorite item to order at the sushi bar. Others were shocked, like my buddy Ashlyn who couldn't believe her last piece of unagi was less than stellar and now literally her LAST piece of unagi. A few seemed to have already gotten the memo. Then there was this memorable response, from a sushi chef who informed me that - and I quote - “you can take my unagi when you can pry it from my cold, dead, chopsticks.” I replied, probably too quickly, "well then, you won't be surprised when it's all gone." And yes my eyebrows shot for the sky and I was air-snapping as I typed my response.

I’m no Southern belle, but I do recall hearing that you can catch more flies with honey, so I linked to an alternative recipe for “faux nagi”– a dish concept developed by Time Magazine’s “Hero of the Environment” Casson Trenor. It's made with black cod (other versions employ catfish). It's luscious and sexy and before you know it, will replace that old over fished unagi pumped full of chemicals and that -- that is a very good thing, indeed.

I’ve been working on a sustainable seafood cookbook due out from Sasquatch Press in April 2011. One of my many goals in this book is to steer readers towards fish that have been well-managed while not putting too much pressure on any one species (diversity is key). I'd like people to understand that all wild fish is not good and all farmed fish is not bad.

Farmed mussels are a good example – they cook up quickly and deliciously and at least for now-- are very reasonably priced, around $4 a pound here in Seattle. Mussels are considered by the Monterey Bay Aquarium's Seafood Watch program to be a Best Choice. Unless things really take a turn for the worse, I don’t imagine anyone will need to pry mussels from your cold, dead, chopsticks. So eat up, and throw it back with some beers because no one likes to be a buzzkill.

But first, check out this short video I took on a recent site visit at Taylor Shellfish Farms in Shelton, WA. Here, a machine is washing the mussels while workers split the tangled ones into individuals. You might want to turn your volume down or off for your viewing pleasure.

Baked Mussels with pancetta, vermouth and parsley

Serves 6 as an appetizer

2 pounds mussels -- scrubbed and de-bearded (see note)
¼ cup Vermouth, dry white
2 ounces pancetta -- small diced
¼ cup shallot -- finely minced
1 lemon -- zested
¼ teaspoon cayenne
2 tablespoons mayonnaise
2 tablespoons parsley
¼ cup panko -- or substitute bread crumbs
¼ cup Manchego – grated (can substitute parmesan)
rock salt, as needed

Instructions

Preheat broiler. Place rack in the lower middle of the oven.

Place the mussels and vermouth into a sauce pot over high heat and cover. Cook just until mussels pop open, about 2-3 minutes. Remove them with tongs just as they open (to prevent overcooking). If any of them refuse to open, you can discard them. When the mussels are done cooking, strain the liquid left behind and reserve. Let the mussels cool.

In a wide saute pan, cook the pancetta over medium heat until it releases some of its fat, about 5 minutes. Add shallot and cook, stirring occasionally, until shallot is soft, about 5 more minutes. Add mussel cooking liquid, lemon zest and cayenne and deglaze pan, reducing juices until they are dry. Remove mixture to a bowl and fold in mayonnaise. In a separate bowl, mix parsley and panko.

When mussels are cool, twist off the top shell and discard. Place the mussels in their shell on a sheet pan that is covered with rock salt (to stabilize the mussels and keep the juices in). Top each mussel with a small amount of the pancetta-shallot mixture and then coat with the top with some of the parsley-panko mixture. Top with manchego.

Broil mussels until the topping is light brown, about 3-5 minutes. Don't overcook or the mussels will get tough. Serve with a squeeze of lemon, if desired.

Note: Scrub the mussels free of any dirt and de-beard the mussels by grasping the little stringy bit and pulling it down towards the hinge until it comes off. Do this just prior to cooking the mussels as they will die after you do this.

I fucking hate Vegas

Photo courtesy of cannonsnapper

As he was walking through the casino, I could make out his t-shirt miles before I could make out his facial features. It said, "I like boobs."

Actually, if I were more precise I'd type it all in caps: “I LIKE BOOBS!” because nothing in Vegas is said in a whisper, and that applies to overpriced souvenir t-shirts with deep statements such as this, just as surely as it applies to squealing girls in casino bars. I mean, c'mon, like you need a t-shirt for this? Makes much more sense to me that gay guys should wear a shirt that says, "Boobs? Eh, not so much."

I won’t lie about my thoughts on Vegas. Lying looks as good on me as that two-sizes-too-small dress did on that middle-aged woman, hell-bent on living out her prostitute fantasies at the expense of our eyeballs. When I lie, my untruths bust out awkwardly at the seams and it's obvious to everyone that there’s some gaping holes in my story. And I think you know what I mean.

I. fucking. hate. Vegas.

I don’t mean I fucking hate Vegas because I lost big, or got my heart broken or because the weather sort of sucked (though it did). When I say I fucking hate Vegas it’s because I sense that the “Strip” while surely “Fun®” for a great number of tourists, seems to represent the worst that America can be: plastic, obnoxious, all bells and whistles, no substance; a concrete and neon bubble trying to contain people's warped saccharine dreams of wealth and power and fashion, all set to a Celine Dion soundtrack, with swaying jets of water from the Belaggio fountains.

It's an uncomfortable concept that my hatred of Vegas makes me strange bedfellows with evangelical Christians, teetotaling early-to-bed-early-to-risers, and abstinence educators. It’s not that I don’t love a good time or the rush and buzz of big cities. Set me down in NYC and I feel the adrenaline and elevated heart-rate of a woman in love.

Work with me a second through this dime store psychology degree I got in Vegas. Here goes. I blame Vegas-hating on - wow, this is hard to admit - the fact that I must not have been exposed to enough glitter when I was a child. Or maybe I had some Go Fish or Gin Rummy trauma at the hands of my brothers. Or more disturbing to contemplate --- perhaps I have sequin-envy.

Whatever the cause, when the weather is bad and you don’t gamble or smoke or pimp or cheat or sell your soul or litter or abuse your body and you're on a budget and the wine goddess is trapped in lectures and wine exams all day, what’s a Vegas-hater to do?

People watching, or as my friend Marc says, "giving free evaluations," is always an option and one, in my opinion, best exercised in Vegas. Drinking is usually prescribed, heavily, and I did as the doctor ordered, which made for some well-lubricated and enthusiastic evaluations. Por ejemplo, “look at that douche in the big sunglasses trying to hold up that wasted girl in the thong.”

Photo courtesy of discopalace

Eating well is another option and for visibility and profitability some of the best restaurants in the world are in Vegas. For our budget, we sought out off the Strip and into the strip-mall, well-regarded spots such as Raku.

You won't find sushi rolls here, they specialize in food from the aburiya, or grill.

All the same, the sashimi was excellent.

Many thanks to my friend Henry Lo for telling me about this place. He kept asking me if I tried the foie gras udon, and I meant to, really, but I kept forgetting about the foie in favor of the tofu. That's right. That's not a typo. They had me at the tofu. Made in-house, it was creamy, rich, like a dense, soft cheese. It was so good it seems like a complete disservice to call it tofu because I know what you are thinking. You're thinking of those cold bland cubes giving you the evil eye, daring you to transform them into something good, or at least better. At Raku, you should have the tofu 2 ways. Way #1 is served right out of its little bamboo mold, served with their house salt (a mixture of Japanese sea salt, shiitake mushroom powder, green tea powder, and kombu powder), bonito flakes, scallions, and fresh ginger. Way #2 comes to you later as agedashi tofu with ikura (salmon eggs), lightly fried and served up in the richest dashi I've ever had the pleasure of tasting. On the lip of the bowl is a side-swipe of chile paste to mix in as you wish.

Go to Raku. Eat tofu. Now.

For our last night we splurged and cabbed to Mandalay Bay to dine at RM, Rick Moonen's eponymous restaurant where (thank you very much Jon Rowley for the introduction) we were treated to a rather special 10 course tasting menu based on sustainable seafood - the one green spot in a sea of rainbow-hued neon and cheap, artificial perfume.

oh my god, he's touching me.

Rick Moonen is exactly how you'd think he'd be if you are familiar with him from his appearances on television. He's charming, passionate and hyper, chatting one minute and then laughing with his staff and dashing off the next. He has this dish at the restaurant, a dessert of perhaps 20 ice creams and sorbets with a corresponding chart. If you guess all the right flavors, the dessert is free. It was fun watching a couple tables tasting and contemplating. These kind of Vegas games, I can get into.

The stand out dish for me was a piece of bigeye tuna sashimi with the freshest most luscious sea urchin (uni) on top, scattered with daikon sprouts and garnished with a surprising paper-thin dehydrated (perhaps candied?) ginger chip. The plate was gorgeous, with a line of parsley oil in contrast to the burnt orange of the uni and the deep red of the tuna.

After dinner, Chef Moonen took us back to the kitchen for a little tour where we started a rousing high-stakes game of "Guess that Spice" (aka: what food and wine nerds do for fun in Vegas). Basic premise is that you close your eyes and someone sticks a spice under your nose and you're supposed to guess what it is. It's a game I love to subject my dinner guests to when they come over to our house. I like to think I'm pretty good at it.

I'd be thinking wrong.

I started off on the right path by guessing part of the Z'atar spice blend by correctly calling out thyme, but didn't get the sesame seeds or sumac part. Nailed garam masala, tanked on oregano (calling it herbes de Provence, like a big dummy) and coriander (saying weakly, rose petals?), suggested shallot for vadouvan (which is sort of right) and bombed on sassafras by saying, "licorice?" while our friend Emily, who is a master sommelier, says "sassafras" at the exact same moment April says "root beer!"

Bitches.

Good thing I didn't bet. I would have lost my shirt, and then Rick Moonen would have had ample reason to call the authorities. Oh, wait, stripping is okay in restaurants in Vegas, isn't it?

In summation, I like boobs and I fucking hate Vegas.

Fat of the Land: Adventures of a 21st Century Forager

Spend any time with me and Langdon and you'll feel like you've regressed to some 70's suburban living room scene, with siblings lovingly spatting, trading barbs and one-upping each other. I keep telling him he's the little brother I never wanted. Turns out, he's older than me. Not that he acts like it, mind you.

Introduced by a mutual friend, he's one of those people that I felt instantly related to, in the comfortable familiarity we share, in our mutual love for a tall tale, and a meal earned through harvesting it yourself.

When I have a wild hair and a yen for adventure, my "younger brother" is on speed dial. Take, for example, my recent foray into wine-making. One phone call later, we were meeting on the shores of Lake Washington, catching up and foraging for ripe, luscious berries to ferment later that day. I'll let him tell you the whole story on his blog Fat of the Land when the time comes.

Here we are strolling the tide waters of south Puget Sound looking for
oysters, clams and mussels. Too bad you can't see how
particularly cool my wellies are.

I'm lucky enough to have incredible people in my life. No scratch that. Make that: incredibly TALENTED people. I'm not a restaurant reviewer or book reviewer. Yet when someone I know or respect puts out something truly different or fabulously well-crafted I'm more than happy to write about it. And shit, let's cut to the chase, I'm just proud of him because half the time I'm putting him down and teasing him and despite all that, he's gotten the better of me by putting out a book that is one of a kind, so solid I can't blow holes in it (though surely I tried).

Fat of the Land: Tales of a 21st Century Forager is tightly written in a way that many memoirs these days aren't. Langdon is a writer first, a forager second and as you follow him and his quirky pals through tales of mushroom hunting, squid jigging and huckleberry picking, you are first struck by the writing, his sly sense of humor, and his ability to paint a picture and to build your emotions right along with his. In his chapter on ling cod spear fishing, I felt my anxiety and claustrophobia building as the weight around his waist pulled him deeper into the inky waters. When his spear missed the target, I winced and held my breathe and was almost literally pushing him on to get to the surface for air.

"Even after you locate a truculent ling, the game has only just begun. Stealth is paramount. Above all, you cannot reveal your real intentions - no sudden movements, no clumsy maneuvering. You approach as if you have no idea the ling is there...dumpty-dum---looking away, minding your own business, keeping your swimming strokes to a minimum, careful not to blow an excitable storm of bubbles. Who knows what the ling sees in you: part foe, part ungainly curiousity. Often it's best to come up from below, arms and legs motionless, allowing your natural inclination toward the surface to carry you forward like a piece of drifting flotsam, your spear already cocked and pointed forward."

Excerpted from Fat of the Land: Tales of a 21st Century Forager with permission by author

When an author's words pull you down and then bring you back up again you are in the presence of excellent writing.

Here we are along with Amy Pennington sharing a beer and some of our legal limit.

I found his book to be a modern day Huck Finn romp, educational, boyish, full of life, adventure and passion. You are left, not with a map to his best mushroom spots (damn him), but with the satisfaction of a story well told, a skill seemingly lost in our attention deficit society. There are more books in Cook, waiting to come out. It matters not to me the topic.


A final note:

Last time Lang was over, we were racking our blackberry wine and planning future endeavors. He was putting the finishing touches on one of his blog entries so I let him use my computer as I puttered about the kitchen. He checked in on his Twitter account and made sure to mention out loud that he better remember to log off because he didn't trust me not to hijack his account.

The moments while I waited for him to pick up the phone as he was driving home were delicious. "Guess what you forgot to do?" I breathed into the phone, then cackled menacingly. He was silent on the other end of the line. "Oh," I pondered to him audibly, "what would I say if I were Lang in under 140 characters?" Crickets. "Oh, what's that? I AM Lang, for the next 5 minutes??" Turns out my little brother said the following,

"Becky is such a marvelous wine-maker. I learn SO MUCH from her every time we hang out."

Thanks Lang, that was extremely generous of you.

My omnivore's dilemma

Looking out at the hen house from inside
the poultry processing shed.

(The following post discusses the slaughtering of animals, in some detail. You may want to put down whatever you are eating.)

On September 8th, I followed through with a strange promise to myself. It went thusly: that, no matter what fear or trepidation I might have, I would kill - with my own hands - some of the animals I was choosing to serve for a farm to table dinner at Dog Mountain Farm, in Carnation, Washington. I asked the farmers, Cindy and David Krepky, to raise the Pekins for my 72 seat dinner and Cindy graciously agreed to teach a few of us how to slaughter, scald, pluck, and eviscerate them. The ducks were 7 weeks old, about 3 pounds each, white with yellow beaks. In the short time since they'd been in this world, they ate feed, waddled around, drank water, quacked along with their fellow ducklings, thought their duck thoughts and successfully avoided death by hawk attack or other means.

Until we walked up one warm fall morning (cue iconic gun-slinging cowboy shoot-out music).

I think my expression here says a lot. A shot of tequila
at 11 am didn't do much to ease my discomfort.

And here is where my thoughts, emotions and writing sort of gums up. I am struggling with how to express the complexity of my thoughts about how these ducks lived and then came to meet their "one bad day" at my hands, because truthfully, any words I use are rife with cliches, despite all attempts to avoid them. Frankly, I don't want to use words, yet know I must because interpretive dance would be silly and still wouldn't communicate how twisted up this experience has left me (though perhaps it might, on second thought).

The scalder is on the left. We dipped the ducks in here
for about 60 secs. to loosen their feathers. Then they went into the
"plucker" which has many rubber "fingers" that pull the feathers off.

I don't know what these ducks are capable of feeling or sensing but I would be a liar if I pretended I think animals are incapable of emotions. Anyone who owns animals as pets knows that they experience emotions (and I'm smart enough to know that just because we call them "pets" doesn't confer emotions onto them, it just makes us acutely aware of their existence).

The ducks were scared when we approached them. They were in a crate, scrambling around, attempting to get as far away from our hands as possible. They were making noises that seemed stressed. I did what any compassionate person would do and held "my" duck and stroked its feathers and seriously wondered how my compassion would allow me to go through with killing this animal.

Being in a group with 3 others helped ease some of my nerves. The macabre mood inspired much gallows humor, our laughter being matched, call and response style, by the gobbles of neighboring turkeys.

We held the ducks firmly around their wings, inverted them into a cone attached to a wall, so that their feet stuck out of the top and their heads hung below at the bottom of the cone. Cindy instructed us in how to hold their beaks firmly and locate the tiny arteries that ran on either side of the trachea. Using a small, hooked, sharp knife we punctured through the skin and severed, with a quick pull, their carotid artery. It took about 6-8 minutes for them to bleed out.

It was. really. really. really. hard.

3 really's are such a poor, insufficient and repetitive way to express myself and yet, that's all I've got, for now.

After the ducks were killed, we saturated their down with water to aid in removing their feathers and moved into the shed to begin processing them. It was extremely hot in the tiny, confined space with the scalding tank on and the 5 of us packed in there shoulder to shoulder, feathers on the walls, blood drying on our aprons. We went about our work, dipping, plucking, gutting as Cindy patiently guided us each step of the way.

Angela Garbes, Amy Pennington, and Katie O.

And then, at some point, we were done. Angela, Amy and Katie went home and I began to break down the 40 ducks into legs and breasts, much more comfortable with the individual pieces, as familiar to me as the blood and death were unfamiliar. I cut and stacked the meat, started a stock and sharpened my knives and operated in a sort of robotic, unfeeling manner. Maybe I was in a mini version of shock, but I realized I had a big dinner to do and a lot of work in front of me and I didn't even know what I was feeling so there was no time to ponder the unknowable.

I used every last little bit in the stock that wasn't destined for another use.
Heads, feet, gizzards, heart, carcasses, necks made it in
the pot, which cooked for 8 hours.

The dinner was a huge success, a 6 course affair where the ducks were featured in every course from duck pate and smoked duck, to confit, seared breast, cracklins and stock (given to guests in small containers to take home). Oodles of generous volunteers helped me get the food to the table and pour the lovely wines from Alexandria Nicole and I am deeply grateful to all of them for their help. I'm especially appreciative of the farmers, Cindy and David Krepky, for their graciousness, generosity and hard work.

But back to those sneaky emotions, that eventually, a few days later, started to surface.

Essentially, I think it's safe to say that I feel altered by taking an animal's life for the purposes of eating it. It's messy and somewhat brutal, especially when a novice like myself, is holding the knife. In the hands of farmer Cindy, it was quicker and cleaner. I feel, on the one hand, it is what my omnivorous DNA is programmed to do. It is undeniably a very natural act for an animal to kill another animal.

And yet.

And yet part of me knows I can survive and thrive without making this choice. I don't know exactly how I will be able to reconcile in my twisted brain eating meat at all or as often in the future. Vegetarians and vegans will certainly take issue with me, and perhaps they should, but I doubt I'll go the route of cutting meat out of my diet entirely. My 10 years as a vegetarian are certainly pulling at me even as, in the week's since I killed the ducks, I've ordered chickens from Cindy and David to teach a butchering class and prepared more duck for an event at our house. I'm not sure how I would answer the question: how, after that, can you justify eating meat?

I think I need more time to think. Or to forget. And the later thought brings up another wave of analysis.

I must admit that looking down on these gorgeous vegetables David and
Cindy grew was a nice emotional break from a day that started with blood and death.

Gorgeous pic taken by Ashlyn Forshner of the duck confit course
with farm tables in the background. Ashlyn barely had time to
snap it, busy being my sous chef for the day.



Another nice pic from Ashlyn. This course was inspired by a dish they make at
Tilikum Place Cafe. We grilled Italian chicory and served it with caramelized
grapes and pistachios with balsamic and dolce gorgonzola. On top are duck cracklins
made from rendering all the fat from the ducks.

There will be no neat conclusions to this story. Nothing is getting tied up all pretty and I suppose that's appropriate and to be expected. I'm not sure how all of this will settle out and I suppose it's ultimately a personal decision, left up to the individual to sort out. I do encourage you, though, if you are a meat-eater to consider witnessing or killing an animal yourself and draw your own conclusions, as murky and convoluted or as clear and true as they may be.

A view towards the Cascades as you approach the farm. Only thing missing
in this photo is a brown retriever named Shelby loping down the road to greet you.

A final word: Farmers teach their children not to name the animals destined for slaughter. When an alien race of carnivores that fancies an occasional human animal for lunch lands on Earth, I hope that they choose me as a pet and not a snack.

Please call me "Fluffy" from here on out. Thank you.

Mission: Sustainable

duhn duhn DA na duhn duhn DA na duhn duhn DA na
duhn duhn DA na. DA-NA-NA. DA-NA-NA. Duhn NUH!

There's this game called "I never." Most people know how to play, but for those who don't, you sit around in a room and say something (usually something fairly funny or shocking) such as: "I've never had sex with a pygmy goat from Afghanistan." If you or anyone else in the room can't honestly say that's true, you drink. If some dude you didn't invite to the party takes a sip from his drink to my particular example here, I advise you get up, place your drink down carefully, and then run screaming from the room tout de suite.

There's another game. Let's call this game, "I'd never." It's just a simple contraction "I" plus "would" along with "never" signifying the future. We all play this game in our lives.

My particular version of this game has involved sitting around having a conversation and someone says, "would you ever want to be on television?" I say, "I'd never!" which feels true, but I'm finding that if you treat life in this fashion, as if you can read all future versions of yourself and how you'll react to any circumstance with perfect accuracy, you really limit yourself. I've said this for most of my life "I'd never want to be on television." Especially now, with all of these reality shows, with all their drama and stress. I wrote about whether I'd want to be on Top Chef or not, and truthfully a lot of it came down to fear. Fear of failure. Fear of being judged. Fear of not being liked. But the biggest reason I didn't want to be on television was because I didn't feel like it was important enough to me to wade through these fears.

Until along came something different. Something so good, something much, much, bigger than little me and all my fears. Something I could get behind. Something that might land my sorry ass on television after all.

Education is my passion, and food is my muse and along came a television show concept that would allow me to reach a larger audience and teach people how to possibly make the world a slightly better place, by respecting food and who produces it and therefore the environment and community, in a way that is not the norm. The show is called Mission: Sustainable. It's produced by the charismatic and idealistic Rose Thornton. It's an idea built on a dime with an all-volunteer pilot cast of supremely fun and interesting people. Like Queer Eye for the Straight Guy meets What Not to Wear meets a little Extreme Home Makeover for a person who wants or needs a green lifestyle makeover. A show where a person's life is examined and consultants are brought in to lovingly, snarkily, teasingly, sensitively, firmly guide the person to make different choices in their lives, all the while educating the public about reducing one's carbon footprint to- excuse my cliche - make our world a better place (feel free to hum "we are the world" right now).

In short, this is a television show that I can get behind.

For more information, including cast bios and videos check this out. I'm thrilled to be working with such an amazing gaggle of talented experts and plan on looking carefully at my own life to see what changes I can make to live more lightly in my own loafers, so to speak. If anyone reading this is inspired to nominate someone for their green makeover and you live in Seattle, nominate them here. If you are inspired to volunteer along with us to get this pilot produced and then pitched to the cable networks send an email here.

Thanks to St Sandwich, Flikr photo credit

And just for the record, I'm still comfortable saying, "I'd never have sex with a pygmy goat in Afghanistan".