I Heart Farms

Raw Milk Imperiled: California and New York

Pictured here: one of the sweet Jersey cows at Claravale Farm, one of California's two raw milk dairies.

CALIFORNIA
Others have written eloquent and informed pieces about AB (Agricultural Bill) 1735, a sneaky "Trojan horse" piece of legislation as has ever been passed. Amanda Rose wrote about it back in October at The Ethicurean. She says, "Coliform bacteria are a mixed lot. Some are beneficial, some are pathogenic. This legislation makes no distinction between the two." [Emphasis mine.]

And:

"Raw milk has coliforms. That is simply its nature. That is why it sours in my refrigerator. The beneficial strains of coliforms, the other beneficial bacteria, and the immunoglobulins are why I pay more for raw milk.

"I know that folks at the statehouse think I’m crazy and uninformed. They visit dairies regularly and know that it is increasingly common to find E. coli 0157:H7 in their cows. I am playing “Russian roulette,” they claim.

"But there is something that humans and cows have in common. When we are living on a diet that God intended for us, our intestines are less likely to be a breeding ground for pathogenic bacteria. When our gut is full of beneficial bacteria, it can fight back when we come into contact with pathogenic bacteria."

(I recommend reading the whole piece, which is intelligent and sensible, something you won't likely find inside Governor Schwarzeneger's office walls.)

There is also David Gumpert's piece at TheCompletePatient.com: "The reality, though, is that it is difficult to educate people about the true nature of coliform bacteria at varying levels. It’s also difficult to change legislation immediately after it's been passed. It’s especially difficult if the legislation was put into effect to accomplish a very serious long-term goal—namely, to deprive as many Americans as possible of the opportunity to obtain raw milk."

I have little more to add to the outcry beyond what I have already said here, but would like to direct your attention to something VERY IMPORTANT: Bonnie Powell, aka "Dairy Queen" at The Ethicurean, and deputy editor of Edible San Francisco, got a call from Collette Cassidy at Claravale Farm (one of the only raw dairies in California), alerting everyone to attend a rally on Wednesday in Sacramento. Assemblywoman Nicole Parra will hold a hearing on AB 1735, and your attendance could make a difference. Read Bonnie's talking points, please.

And if you can carpool and get to Sacramento, you might be part of making history. Failure to overturn this bill will effectively kill raw milk in California.

NEW YORK
Michael Ruhlman alerted me to Meadowsweet Farm in Lodi, New York, about an hour and a half southeast of Rochester. Meadowsweet Farm, owned by Steve and Barbara Smith, no longer sells raw milk products to the public, but to members of its LLC, a form of community supported agriculture that allows them to bypass the bureaucracy and mindless, uninformed restrictions that the state of New York would impose on them if they were doing business with the public.

The Smiths write: "Since March 2007, the New York Department of Agriculture and Markets has been trying to pressure us and Meadowsweet Dairy LLC out of business. For example, they have conducted numerous inspections, seized products, ordered the destruction of 260 pounds of raw dairy products, attempted to search our house, issued letters threatening fines and penalties, and have now issued an order requiring us and Meadowsweet Dairy LLC to show cause why the Department of Agriculture and Markets should not shut down the operation and levy fines. That show-cause order is now set for a hearing and a show down looms over whether the State’s police power extends to a group of private citizens who produce and consume their own food of their own choice."

There are two hearings coming up, and the Smiths would love your attendance at those:

January 17, 11 AM
Department of Agriculture and Markets
10B Airline Drive
Albany, NY
(Right next to the airport)

January 22, 1:30 PM
Seneca County Court
48 West Williams Street
Waterloo, NY

Please go to the link above and read what they have to say.

• • • • • • • • • • •

THOUGHT FOR THE DAY: "Never confuse movement with action." — Ernest Hemingway

I am really really really busy with work, and the weather's been horrid...but it's getting better and I hope to get out to a real farm real soon.

 

Thanks for visiting. Go rattle some bars in a government office: it'll feel good.

Delicious Treats, Part VIII: "No More Lobster Please!"

Pictured here: oh, one of the cutest little boys in the world. We had such a sweet Christmas, it's hard to let it go yet.

Here is the eight guest author, Monica Reyes, from Robin's Somers' writing class at UCSC, "The Meaning of Food." Her students are offering up their memoirs of childhood food, and it's my pleasure to publish them here.

Robin writes:

Monica Reyes, a sophomore at UCSC, was born and raised in El Salvador, where she ate more than her share of wild lobster. Her story of lobster reeks of nostalgia and nausea as she wistfully recollects her special family treks to the balmy seaside. Here, on El Salvador’s warm, salty beaches, her father caught and cooked lobster for his family, creating precious memories of a homeland which Monica revisits through the process of writing.

No More Lobster Please!
by Monica Reyes

For many people, their traditional dish comes from their native homeland. For Salvadorians, it is either popusas or tamales, while for Mexicans it may be posole, tamales, enchiladas, sopes and birria. The list goes on. One of my family’s favorite dishes is lobster with a side of salad—not what one would call a typical Salvadorian dish, but it happens to be our favorite.

I am not saying that we eat at Red Lobster. Instead we catch our own food, cook it, and eat it.  In the summer, when the sun is shining, and when it is the perfect time to go to the beach, we do what my dad likes to call “lagostear.” My mom gets the sandwiches and chips ready, and my dad packs his surfing wear, while my siblings and I wait in the car with our swimming suits on. It is on days like these that we have lobster for dinner, and it is precisely here where my story begins.

Delicious Treats, Part VI: Food, Weaponry, and Wheatgrass

Pictured here: our little grandson, Logan, who is almost four. Ya think he loves Christmas? He took some of his own money out of his piggybank to give his mama a present. (A silver picture frame that will soon hold this particular photo.)

I hope everyone's holidays are going smoothly: we had a very nice Christmas that was really about family, though my daughter is far away in Utah with her brothers, daddy, and his wife.

Here is the sixth guest author, Nicki Blaufard, from Robin's Somers' writing class at UCSC, "The Meaning of Food." Her students are offering up their memoirs of childhood food, and it's my pleasure to publish them here.

Robin writes:

Nicki Blaufarb writes about the uniqueness of being raised in the shelter of food conscious hippy parents only to be seduced by milkshake machines, packaged pizzas, and gooey sweets when she leaves the nest for college. Truly, a heroic journey, which tests and tempers Nicki’s love of good food.

Food, Weaponry, and Wheatgrass
by Nicki Blaufard

I am a product of proto-hippy type parents, the folks that followed around the Grateful Dead, took a liking to ‘Ghandi-esque’ ideals, hot tubs, and redwood trees and then became lawyers and nurses who practiced yoga and hiked religiously.  Being the offspring of such individuals threw me into the ever growing culture of those of us who strive to find the right way of living life, desperately seeking ways to make ourselves feel better, emotionally, physically, spiritually… It seems obvious then to start this adventure and deep search of the right way of living by embracing the essentials of what allows us as human beings to survive, the essentials, meaning, food.

Delicious Treats, Part V: "German Chocolate Cake"

Getting into the holiday spirit earlier than usual for me: maybe it has something to do with having a three-year-old boy in the house with eyes as big as basketballs when he looks at our eight-foot-tall tree. A tree which will likely stay up until the Superbowl: we're shunning the tradition of kicking it out immediately, as some heartless people do!

[Note: Our beloved friend, Charley, came home from the hospital last night, and we are so grateful. He's doing gr-r-r-r-reat!)

Here is the fifth guest author, Lindsay Elam, from Robin's Somers' writing class at UCSC, "The Meaning of Food." Her students are offering up their memoirs of childhood food, and it's my pleasure to publish them here.

Robin writes:

As Lindsay Elam weaves through her family’s mixed ancestry—so archetypical of this country—we discover many stories within the larger frame of her memoir. Her paternal grandfather has hidden his Native American ties; her maternal great-grandparents have emigrated from a German occupied city in Russia. Lindsay seeks to define vague spots in her lineage by rejoicing in the German Chocolate Cake of the holiday season, choosing to believe partaking in the cake honors her German ancestors.

German Chocolate Cake
by Lindsay Elam

“I cannot wait until we get there!” I said to my mother.

“I know sweetie, but remember it still takes us a little over an hour just to even get there,” she told me in a soothing, but at the same time irritated voice.

Once we were on the road I began to get more and more anxious. My little sister and I would complain when we got restless. She would complain about how she would burst if she did not go to the restroom, even though she just went about twenty minutes beforehand. I can honestly tell you that that girl has a bladder the size of a bean. Our parents would try to keep us occupied by bringing a small television so we could watch movies and not bother them, but we would continue to ask them “Are we there yet?” or “How much longer until we get there?”

After a long drive we finally arrived at the house. It smelled of smoked bacon and turkey, which had been in the oven all day. Our family stuffs the turkey with loads of stuffing, bastes it, and then places smoked bacon on top for extra flavoring. The best part about eating Thanksgiving dinner is the smell of the turkey cooking and eating the bacon. The first time I saw my mother stuffing the turkey, I did not understand why she was doing such a thing.

!I asked, “Mom, why are you putting your hand in its butt?”

Delicious Treats, Part III: "Tamales for Christmas"

Let not the presence of this photograph invoke the idea that the tamales in question are made with birria. No, this is just a sweet moment I captured at the holiday fair at Harley Goat Farms Dairy a couple of weekends ago. I just love it. Dee Harley's goats are so benevolent.

Here is the fourth guest author, Bianca Marquez, from Robin's Somers' writing class at UCSC, "The Meaning of Food." Her students are offering up their memoirs of childhood food, and it's my pleasure to publish them here.

Of Bianca, Robin writes:

Bianca Marquez realized she was Mexican-American on the afternoon her mother returned from the grocery story with a sack of masa for Christmas tamales. The young Bianca watches in awe as her mother and grandmother prepare the tamales, but, despite their coaxing, she cannot bring herself to eat one. Bianca has laid out her story about this traditional Mexican dish so effectively that her eventual decision to try a tamale symbolizes an embrace of her ethnicity.

"Tamales for Christmas"
by Bianca Marquez

I was six years old, sitting next to the fireplace with warm blankets covering every inch of my body.  It wasn’t any ordinary time of the year. It so happened to be my favorite holiday of them all, Christmas. This specific holiday is a time of giving, loving, and an excuse to get together with your whole family.

As I was sitting by the fireplace with hot cocoa in my hand, I noticed someone was at the front door—my mom, coming from a long day at work. After a minute of waiting for her to barge into the door, I finally came to the conclusion that she might need some help. I threw off all of the blankets and ran straight to the door. I was right. She had gone to the market and came home with a porch full of groceries. As I ran the heavy grocery bags to my kitchen, I noticed that they weren’t the Vons bags that I was used to carrying across my house. These were bags from a completely different store, with cursive words “El Chapalito” on them. I was confused. It looked like alien food.

Delicious Treats, Part III: "What, Thanksgiving Again?"

Pictured here: the 25-pound organic turkey I cooked for thirty people this Thanksgiving.

Here is the third guest author, Mike Drizik, from Robin's Somers' writing class at UCSC, "The Meaning of Food." Her students are offering up  their memoirs of childhood food, and it's my pleasure to publish them here.

[That Robin and I ran into each other in the emergency room at the hospital last night should tell you that things have been a little crazy for us both, hence the gaps in posting. (Nothing is wrong with either of us—family members are ill, and prayers and good thoughts are appreciated for Charley and Mary.]

About Mike, Robin writes (forgive me, Anthony Bourdain):

Mike Drizik, a sophomore, has the distinction of being the only student who came to the course knowing of Anthony Bourdain (he finds Bourdain entertaining, but doesn’t think much of his writing). Mike offers a story riddled with angst and wry wit about his Jewish heritage and his love/hate relationship with family dinners.

Thanksgiving Again?
By Mike Drizik

I dreaded sitting at the table from the very moment I heard a relative call and invite us to the dinner, almost to the point of fearing calls from my Aunt and Grandma. Any chance they had to come up with anything even remotely worth noting, much less celebrating, they would call up the entire family, knowing that undoubtedly at least a few would show up. Come the time of the year that we’re approaching now, I become particularly distressed knowing that I will soon again have to be in the company of my family, around a dinner table, much more often than I would like in much less time than I would like. Truly, there are few more frightening notions. Now, there’s nothing particularly wrong with my family! Don’t get me wrong! They’re kind of closed minded, money obsessed, and rude, but they’re all right. I got used to it. It’s just that when you put ten of these Russian-Jews around a dinner table with a couple bottles of vodka and endless wine, all hell ensues and I desperately want to shoot myself.

Delicious Treats, Part II: "The Food of My Family: Ham Pot Pie"

Pictured here: an old shot from Justin Severino's wooden work table at his butcher shop kitchen. I thought I'd re-run it to accompany the food memoirs of Rene Tanaka.

Teacher Robin Somers writes: "Rene Tanaka, a history major at UCSC, writes about a favorite Christmas dish, her grandmother's ham pot pie, which isn't she claims isn't really a pie. You'll have to read her story to discover why. Old family recipe included. Thank you, Rene. With whetted appetite, I'm going to give it a try."

"The Food of My Family: Ham Pot Pie"
by Rene Tanaka

It’s Christmas morning, and my body is pulsating with excitement.  At seven in the morning, I am the only one awake in my house, and I wander the hallway somewhat loudly to “accidentally” wake up my parents and sister.  I get to the tree and peruse the presents.  Slowly, the rest of my family begins to lumber out of their rooms.  “The quicker we get through the presents, the faster we can get to Grandma’s for breakfast,” I shout.

However, the best part about the twenty-fifth of December are not the presents from Santa Claus, it’s the breakfast my grandmother would make for us.  It wouldn’t be anything fancy or flashy, it was just plain, good, wholesome cooking, which is to say the best kind of food imaginable.

Delicious Treats, Part I: "The Meat Capital of the World"

Pictured here: outside the River Cafe & Cheese Shop, a table decoration at the flower shop. "Take a picture, it'll last longer" is true.

A day late, here is the first of the memoirs of childhood food by one of the students in Robin Somers' "The Meaning of Food" writing class at the University of Santa Cruz, with Robin's preface.

Beef takes a prime seat in Clio Berhnardson-Massolo's memoir about her childhood trips to Argentina where she stays with grandparents in the old family home. Her scenes, laden with ample servings of traditional meat dishes, illustrate the importance of food to Argentinian culture. As Clio prepares to return to Argentina this holiday, she anticipates major changes. Her grandmother has passed away, the old house has been sold, and Clio has become vegetarian.

Clio, a gifted writer, is a sophomore at the University of California, Santa Cruz, majoring in environmental studies.

"The Meat Capital of the World"
by Clio Bernhardson-Massolo

Entering elementary school in Oakland, California, I first had to get a physical from my pediatrician because I’d been out of the country for a substantial amount of time. Blood was drawn, eyes, ears and mouth checked, and shots administered. Waiting for some test results in the lobby, my mother and I watched the doctor enter, check his chart, and wrinkle his brow. He called over a nurse and murmured something low under his breath, pointing to the chart. My mother began to worry that something was wrong with me, and so asked the doctor if anything was the matter.

“Oh, well, there’s no problem, per se, Mrs. Massolo, it’s just that we’ve never seen an iron level so high in a child as with your daughter,” he said.

My mother sighed with relief, explaining to him, “We’ve just spent a year living in Argentina.”

ACTION ALERT: About the Raw Milk Legislation from Claravale Dairy

Folks, this is urgent. Please take a little time out from your day to contact lawmakers, to undo the grave legislation that would decimate the raw milk industry in California. You can do that with information at the first link, and read more about the situation at the second link.

1) OrganicPastures.com
2) TheCompetePatient.com

Here is a letter from Ron Garthwaite, owner of Claravale Farm, which is pictured above. Well, it's his former location that I once visited: last year was rough for Claravale, when their lease was yanked unceremoniously so the owners could get a higher-paying tenant on the land. Relocating to San Benito County after having spent tens of thousands of dollars in legal fees, trying to get the permits necessary from the visionary-impaired bureaucrats in Santa Cruz County, Ron built a new dairy facility that cost about $1M.

From TheCompletePatient.com:

What's made AB 1735 especially shocking to Ronald is that he was submitting plans and having inspections by the California Department of Food and Agriculture during recent months. “Had they informed us of this new regulation we could have made changes to the facilities in order to have a better chance of meeting the new regulation,” he says in an email he just sent to his customers. “Or we may have decided not to build at all.  Or we may have decided to construct it to produce products other than raw milk.

Here is a letter from Ron, which is necessarily long: there is scientific and political information that you need to know. Ron concludes the letter:

If you want to continue to be able to obtain raw milk in California you should fight this law with everything you have. Even if you are not a raw milk drinker but want to be able to get fresh, unadulterated produce or meat or, in fact any fresh food in the future you should be fighting this law. This is only one additional step in the State’s campaign to pasteurize or sterilize everything.

On behalf of the raw milk dairies in California, I thank you.

Paging CASFS, Paging CASFS: Come In, Do You Read Me?

The man pictured here is well known to a great many of my friends, and I am reluctant to name him, as he doesn't seem to seek the limelight. I think he'd rather you look at the things he grows than at him, and I understand that.

But because of his 30-year dedication to teaching hundreds and hundreds of people how to farm sustainably up on the UCSC farm, I immediately thought of Orin Martin when I received the following series of communications from one Fred Freid in Missouri. I would like to be respectful of Mr. Freid, but my golly, I'm having to bite my tongue right now.

I am just going to post Fred's comments to a separate page, and beg Orin and anyone involved in sustainable farming—people who give their very lives to DO THE RIGHT THING—to address Fred's beliefs.

I feel so deeply that the farmers I know are the true heroes on this planet, because they do REAL work—backbreaking work, sweating work, dawn-to-dark (not dusk) work—and nobody I know is gettin' rich from it.

Jim Dunlop Speaks His Mind about NAIS: "Bring It On!"

If there is anything in the world sweeter than standing amid 200 chickens underneath flowering apple trees on one of the most beautiful farms I've ever seen, I don't know what it is. This was taken a little more than a week ago at Everett Family Farm, here in Soquel, just a couple of miles from our house. These chickens belong to Mike Irving and Teresa Kurtak (pictured below), who met each other at last year's Eco-Farm conference, just as today's guest author, Jim Dunlop, met his beautiful wife, Rebecca Thistlethwaite.

The idea that sights like this might become imperiled if NAIS (National Animal Identification System) is implemented on a mandatory basis continues to alarm me. The response I got from the people I know who raise animals has been consistent: they're cheering this post.

I try very hard not to take anything beautiful for granted—I'm aware that there are people who read this site who may never in their lives have the chance to visit California, or even to visit a farm. My long-stated hope in visiting farms is that I might awaken in someone far away a curiosity about where their local farms are, and their local farmers.  I think any small farm should give a visitor the feeling of an oasis: water in a society parched for real, lasting beauty. At least, that's what they do for me.

"The Only Leverage We Have": Jeff Fiorovich of Crystal Bay Farm

Pictured here: beautiful squash blossoms, held by Lori Fiorovich of Crystal Bay Farm.

On Monday morning this week, I got a phone call from a farmer friend, Jeff Fiorovich, who runs Crystal Bay Farm with his wife, Lori. He asked for my help, and he's getting it.

Jeff is about as down to earth as anyone alive: his trade is building, but he farms out of love for the land. Originally, Jeff's mother leased the small farm to conventional growers (if, by "convention," you mean "the tradition of poisoning the earth and its inhabitants with toxins unnecessary for the health of the produce or the consumers"). Jeff began to reconsider this arrangement, and eventually, took over the land to grow organically. Specialities include culinary squashes and pumpkins (which turn into a wonderful pumpkin patch at Halloween), as well as giant strawberries, some of which are dipped in organic chocolate and sold at their roadside farm stand.

Guest Author: Myriam Kaplan-Pasternak DVM

I first met Myriam Kaplan-Pasternak at a farm dinner in Petaluma last July. She and her husband, Mark, who own and operate Devil's Gulch Ranch had provided the rabbits which were most excellently prepared by Chef Nate Appleman, of A 16. Being a veterinarian, Myriam maintains the excellent health of all the animals raised at Devil's Gulch. (That would be rabbits, pigs, and sheep.) A 16 is only one of many chefs serving Devil's Gulch Ranch meat: other restaurants include The French Laundry, Chez Panisse, Bouchon and more.

In January, the bus tour for Eco-Farm brought the Pasternaks out to TLC Ranch, where I was visiting and photographing. Myriam told me she'd recently been to Haiti, participating with Mark and their two young daughters in a farmer-to-farmer program, training the Haitians to raise rabbits and improve their standard of living.  I offered to publish her account of the trip here, so please let me introduce, with great pleasure, Myriam Kaplan-Pasternak, DVM. (She's in the blue shirt, above.)

Weighing in on "Artisanal": Part 1, The Cheesemakers

Pictured here: Andante Dairy cheeses at River Cafe & Cheese Shop in Santa Cruz.

Michael Ruhlman, respected food writer (and a favorite of mine), left a comment on my blog yesterday that was thought-provoking.

He said:

This is not exactly on topic, but Tana, would you give weigh in with a definition of an artisan farmer/producer, whether it be cheese or pork or beans?

I'm doing a local article about independent grocery stores that can and do source local products. To distinguish themselves from the Giant Eagles and Safeways, they often claim to bring artisan products in. A grocery store owner I talked to yesterday said his Carr Valley Cheddar from Wisconsin was just such a product. But when i called the company, they told me they do about 4000 pounds of cheese a day and have annual sales of $12 million. That's not artisan, to my mind. But they claim to have a branch of their company that works on experimental hand-crafted cheese. So maybe part of them is.

My question is, and I asked an artisan farmer this as well: how do you define artisan? Is there and actual number of pounds you produce beyond which you're not artisan? Obviously no exact figure. But what would you say? When you start moving beyond XX pounds of XX dairy product (or XX pounds meat product), you're no longer artisanal. Is Paul Bertolli no longer an artisanal sausage maker?

I did some research yesterday, and am tackling Michael's questions in three parts. The first post, today, will address what I know about cheesemaking.

Michael, You RUHLman

(The caption on the photograph is Rulhman-written.)

I knew this day would come.

Michael Ruhlman is blogging. (And he owes it all, well, a little molecule or two, to me.)

Why do I love Michael Ruhlman? Because he is a fine, fine writer with sensibilities I respect and with which I resonate. He supports the production of food that is both sustainably grown and humanely raised. Because he is ardent and articulate in his deconstruction of idiotic policies (like the ban of foie gras) that take the focus off the true atrocities in American agriculture and factory farming.

Whatever he turns his attention to is something worth knowing about: not just food, but his books on his house, the craftsmanship of making wooden boats, or saving children's lives (I admit I have not read it—I'm too squeamish, and especially about babies)...he is a thoughtful man.

Simultaneously, Ruhlman is not above a certain kind of King Henry VIII gluttony when confronted with the opportunity to do a faceplant in some pork belly confit—you can hear it on the podcast by Hungry Magazine. (Have some wine while you're listening...he does!) He seems to enjoy puncturing the veil of his choir-boy persona. (I knew guys like Michael Ruhlman in school...innocent faces, teacher's pets, and oh, could they instigate.)

Very Important from the Vanilla Queen

Once again, we hear from Patricia Rain, known all over the world as the Vanilla Queen, whom I see about once a month at our farmers markets. In her unending desire to keep real vanilla growing in the world, she has a new project. She is seeking donations of laptop computers to send to a small group of vanilla farmers in Africa (Somalia, Kenya, Rwanda and Uganda), to help them stay connected to the Google group she founded: the Tropical Farmers Network.

If you have a working laptop that you could donate, you can e-mail Patricia at rain@vanilla.com. She can't give you a receipt for a tax deduction, but maybe you'd be content with feeling good about helping someone you'll never meet continue to do good work. UPDATE, noon today: Patricia told me that she found a local non-profit to provide receipts for anyone who donates.

Also, if you have a mind, send good thoughts Patricia's way: she is enduring chemotherapy for advanced breast cancer. I'm amazed at her constant smile and the unfaltering radiance she always displays, but that's Patricia.

Feel free to link to this post on your own blog to spread the word, please. Surely there are five laptops out there that want to experience life in a tiny village in Africa? (And wouldn't it be nice if they were Macs, so the poor farmers don't have to worry about getting a virus?)

• • • • • • • • • •

That's all for now. What am I doing up at this ungodly hour? Wait, all the farmers I know have been up for an hour at least.

THOUGHT FOR THE DAY: “Thought is a kind of opium; it can intoxicate us, while still broad awake; it can make transparent the mountains and everything that exists.” — Henri Frederic Amiel

Thanks for visiting.

Michael Ruhlman Weighs In: 5 Things to Eat Before You Die

Pictured here: Logan picking strawberries at Crystal Bay Farm. I posted it already in his photo album, but I just love it.

I heard back from Michael Ruhlman, who wrote his list of Five Things You Should Eat Before You Die, which is circulating the food bloggers' world now. Not surprisingly, pork and foie gras figure prominently in Mr. Ruhlman's happiest food fantasies:

1. Oysters and Pearls at The French Laundry: a truly unusual dish mixing the luxurious adult pleasures of caviar and cream with the juvenile comfort of tapioca, mediated by the Dr. Seuss element of the oyster. I never tire of this exquisite dish.

2. One whole roasted foie, eaten with friends.

3. The tomato out of my mom and dad's garden behind the garage in Cleveland, circa 1970, the first one I'd ever picked and eaten right there: it was hot from the sun, the best tomato ever, a revelation, biting into something familiar and finding something completely new.

4. Deep-fried pork belly confit, with a baguette and a big zin, as can be had at Le Pichet in Seattle or in your own home if you go to a small amount of effort, eaten in greedy solitude.

5. Home-cured bacon from an Amish hog in central Ohio, eaten with my wife Donna.

How do you know if a hog is Amish? Do non-Amish hogs have motorcycles?

Thanks, Mr. Ruhlman: I look forward to the French Laundry someday myself.

• • • • • • • • • • •

Roxana Robinson on pigs, Michael Ruhlman on pigs and chefs

One of my favorite denizens of Readerville.com is Roxana Robinson, who writes so beautifully in the Gardening Lit thread. (I linked there to a post about her vegetable garden.) I begged her permission to reprint this little piece about pigs, which she graciously granted me.

She writes: More news from the rural countryside.

Nina Planck: Second Helpings, Helping Farmers

(Pictured here, ten little piggies at TLC Ranch. Jim and Becky have already sold all their shares in this litter, and are expecting a delivery of fifty more pigs next week. It goes without saying that these are the cutest damn things I ever saw. Below, further down, are pictures of George and Weezy, the twin calves, and some of the new baby chicks.)

Nina Planck, at right (photo by Craig McCord), whose words appeared here two days ago, had more to say in conjunction with NYC's Greenmarket, from which she was fired, as well as offering up some tips to farmers in general. I had read the following first at a food forum that I used to support, and asked Nina's permission to share her words with a larger audience. Farmers might find this information very useful: at least, I hope so.

Read on.

"How New York’s Greenmarket Went Stale"

(Pictured here: one of the many wonderful cheeses offered at the FamilyFarmed.org Expo. This is Fleur de la Terre, from Traders Point Creamery in Zionsville, Indiana.)

Today's post was written by Nina Planck, and was originally published in The New York Times (April 24, 2004). I thought it fascinating when I read it two years ago, and Nina gave me her permission to publish in my blog. I'm sure farmers and non-farmers alike will appreciate her insight into the problems at New York City's biggest farmers market. (Visit Nina's website: she's the author of The Farmers Market Cookbook, and the upcoming Real Food: What to Eat and Why, due out June 13. I am a fan of her work!)

How New York’s Greenmarket Went Stale
By Nina Planck

In 1979, when I was eight, my parents sent me to sell vegetables at roadside stands near our 60-acre farm in Loudoun County, Va. I sold corn and tomatoes, zucchini and pumpkins. The coins went in a Danish cookie tin and the bills in an apron my mother made. We struggled to earn a living, and that winter my parents took odd jobs.

The next summer the first farmers market in the area opened, in the parking lot of the county courthouse. Swarms of people pounced on our beets and Swiss chard. Since then my parents have earned a living from “producer only” farmers markets, where all the food is local and you are allowed to sell only what you have grown.