Warm Welcome: California Date and Carrot Salad

While the rest of the country was watching the Super Bowl this past February, Brad and I were hurtling across the desert of Southern California at 70 miles per hour – a pace we had been keeping for most of the past six days. In the coming weeks we would hear that our East Coast friends and family were hunkering down for yet another snow storm, while we headed out to explore another new hiking trail with our dog Francine, or to stock up on some more local citrus at the second, or maybe third, farmers market of the week.

We moved to California, Oakland actually. A whole continent away from the life we have known together in Brooklyn for nearly 10 years. When we drove away from our beloved brownstone apartment Brad looked at me and said, “Well, we’re officially homeless.” We’ve since been shacked up in someone else’s apartment with furniture that is not our own in a city where we still feel like visitors, but the welcome we have received in California has been warm – and I’m not just referring to the weather here. Our new lives are already full of family and friends with whom we’ve shared memorable meals and experiences since the day we arrived.

And that road trip with the dog, three bicycles and as much as we could fit in our station wagon across this very big country? Well, it was epic. True to form we set out with little more than a plan to head west, and our days and routes were dictated by a continuous search for the next great meal (if you’re curious, I kept a little #opRoadFood diary on Twitter). There were goodbye dinners with family in NJ And PA, biscuits and gravy for breakfast in WV, and BBQ for dinner in TN and AR. We ate chili on Frito pie in OK, and burritos, tacos and more burritos in NM and AZ, smothering everything we could in green chili. And when we finally arrived in sunny CA, all I wanted was a salad.

On our first night in Oakland I satisfied my craving with a raw carrot and date salad. We enjoyed it while toasting our arrival with friends who had been awaiting us, and it quickly become a staple at shared dinner tables throughout the tale end of our first California winter – if you can call it that. I’m sorry to make those of you on the opposite coast jealous, but even in February, leafy greens and colorful collections of sweet carrots are plentiful. There are more varieties of dates than I ever knew existed, and they’re local.

It’s March now and strawberries and asparagus have already sprung. I hear whispers of fava beans, and I don’t think I’ll ever grow tired of local avocados or oranges, clementines, tangerines, grapefruits, pomelos and of course, lemons. I miss the friends and family we left behind dearly, but when it comes to cooking and eating good food together, I couldn’t feel more at home than I do in this place.

California Date and Carrot Salad

1 small bunch of carrots
1 handful of dates (8-10)
1 small handful of pepitas
1 small bunch of baby arugula (or 2 good handfuls)
olive oil
white wine vinegar
salt and pepper

Using a vegetable peeler, peel and then shave the carrots into a salad bowl. Slit the dates lengthwise, pull them apart and remove the pit (discard), then cut into 1/4″ slices. Add to the salad bowl. Toss in the pepitas.

In a small bowl or cup, whisk together a quick vinaigrette of 2/3 oil and 1/3 vinegar (or a few tablespoons oil, a splash of vinegar and salt and pepper to taste). Toss the contents of the bowl with the vinaigrette.

Meanwhile, wash the arugula in your salad spinner, finish preparing your meal, and when you’re ready to eat, gently toss the arugula with the rest of the salad just to coat it with the vinaigrette and pile the salad on a plate. Enjoy with friends.

If you’re feeling very California you could use almonds in place of pepitas. Also, my sister-in-law likes to top the salad with a few shavings of Parmigiano Reggiano and I very much approve of this embellishment.

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Sesame and Ginger Chicken Soup

It’s been quite some time since I’ve shared a recipe on this website, but if there was ever a dish for a comeback, this fragrant chicken soup is it. If you’re like me, and are trying to ween yourself off what has become a daily ration of Christmas cookies and other sweet treats, a healthy soup loaded with ginger and vegetables is the perfect follow-up to holiday decadence, not to mention just right for a cold winter day.

While I was still living on the farm this past fall and the cold air seemed to have crept into our trailer for good, all I wanted was something to warm me from the inside. We had plenty of homemade chicken stock on hand (do you know about the health benefits of bone broths?), so I browned some legs and thighs, added some stock and tossed a big pile of cut up veggies into a pot. I let everything simmer together for an hour or so, pulled the tender chicken off the bone and stirred it back into the soup along with several handfuls of hearty greens. The result was a rich and satisfying soup with little effort, and it only got better in the days to come.

Once I returned home to Brooklyn I decided to make another pot of chicken soup, but this time I spiked it with Asian flavors inspired by this recipe from Melissa Clark – a favorite from last winter. I love the smell of ginger and star anise wafting through the apartment as the soup simmers, and the way the big chunks of daikon radish and carrots drink up the broth as they become flavorful and tender. Sesame and Ginger Chicken Soup is now a staple of the Thomason household, much to the enjoyment of Brad and several of our friends who have dropped by just in time for me to ladle them a bowl of hot chicken soup.

Sesame and Ginger Chicken Soup

2-3 Tablespoons sesame oil (plus more for serving)
1 whole chicken, cut up (or 3 lbs. bone-in chicken parts)
3 garlic cloves, smashed and sliced
2″ piece of ginger, peeled and thinly sliced
1 quart chicken stock (preferably homemade)
2 quarts water
4 large carrots, cut into 1″ pieces
4 daikon radishes, cut into 1″ pieces
3 tablespoons soy sauce
2 tablespoons mirin (sweet rice wine)
2 tablespoons rice vinegar
1/2 lb. shitake mushrooms, tough stems removed and sliced
4 whole star anise pods
1 bunch spinach, coarsely chopped (if your radishes have nice greens on them, you could use those too)
chili paste for serving (optional)
cooked rice for serving (optional)

In a large stock pot, heat 2 tablespoons sesame oil over a medium-high heat. Add the chicken parts in a single layer, skin side down, and allow to sizzle until they’re golden brown (about 5 minutes). Remove the chicken to a bowl, add some additional oil to the pot if necessary, and sauté the ginger and garlic for 2-3 minutes, stirring frequently until very fragrant. Add the stock, water, chicken, carrots, radishes, soy, mirin and vinegar. The liquid should just cover the contents of the pot. Allow the soup to come to a bubble and skim off any foam that floats to the surface. Add the mushrooms and anise pods and reduce to a simmer. Allow to cook for about 1 hour until the chicken is tender and easily pulls away from the bone.

Remove the chicken from the pot and allow to rest on a cutting board until cool enough to handle. Remove and discard the skin. Pull the chicken off the bones and tear into roughly 1″ thick pieces. Return the chicken pieces to the pot and stir in the spinach until just wilted. Serve the soup, garnished with a few drops of sesame oil. You may also wish to serve some chili paste and rice on the side to spoon into the soup as desired.

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Taking Lives and Making Friends

food-philosphpy-square-crop — Me, my food philosophy and some good meat to share at Eat Retreat. Photo by Jesse Friedman

Last month I had the amazing opportunity to attend Eat Retreat, a weekend gathering of 40 food innovators from around the country who came together to share food and ideas. I was flattered to be invited, and as I read through the list of attendees I was in awe of how much they had all accomplished in the food world. But as the group formed and our individual interests and offerings evolved into an agenda for the event, my experience from the season I was spending on a livestock farm (in addition to some farm-cured guanciale) became something I could bring to the table. We as a group had the opportunity to butcher the chickens we would eat for Saturday night dinner, and I was asked by the coordinators if I would be willing to lead a hands-on chicken slaughter workshop.

On Friday afternoon everyone arrived a few at a time, introduced ourselves and immediately fell into easy conversation. In the course of hours we slurped oysters, watched a lamb breakdown, feasted on a collaborative meal, sipped beautiful wines, and gathered around a campfire to introduce ourselves. There was lots of talk and enthusiasm that night about the morning slaughter. Some people told me they were looking forward to it, despite the fact that they anticipated it would be outside their comfort zone. Others asked, with just a bit too much enthusiasm, “Can I kill a chicken tomorrow?!” I woke up on Saturday in my bunk at Hidden Villa, a beautiful educational farm in the Los Altos hills of California, with a thought I’ve had many times: “It’s chicken butchering day”. But my head swam with thoughts of how I would share the experience with others, and I found myself hoping that I could offer guidance and encouragement while still appropriately conveying the gravity of our task.

Emily killing — Emily, taking a flying leap outside of her comfort zone. Photo by Heather Irwin.

When the time came I started with what I do best. I talked. I spoke of the principles I’ve come to own over the past eight months in regard to raising animals for food; as a livestock farmer I hope to provide a healthy life and a respectful death. I talked about determination and the importance of following through – once you take a knife to an animal’s throat, hesitation will only cause suffering. I warned them of potential hazards, like blood spray and involuntary bowel movements. Slaughtering chickens is a messy job. And then I set to work, praying that my hands would do what I’ve trained them to do, despite the presence of an audience and the pressure to perform. In that moment I wanted only to be the swift killer I strive to be.

I demonstrated butchering 3 birds, walking the captive group through the steps that follow slaughter, including scalding, plucking, eviscerating and preparing the edible organs. Having described each step in detail as I moved through the motions, I intended to let everyone go to work and offer guidance as needed – after all, this is a group of people who have intimate relationships with food and are all competent, if not professional, cooks. But taking a knife to the throat of a living thing is not an easy task, and it was necessary for me to physically coach and emotionally support each individual through the act of slaughter. One by one I led them first in the moves I have internalized, “take the the feet in your right hand and now take the head in your left. Place the tip of your knife there…” and then in the final act, “OK, now take a deep breath and whenever you’re ready, just do it.”

Demonstrating evisceration, how I get down to the guts. Photo by Heather Irwin.

On a recent episode of Good Food, a radio show that I love, I heard host Evan Kleiman describe taking the life of an animal for food as the ultimate culinary act. It was an intense, challenging and ultimately valuable moment that I had the privilege to share with my fellow Eat Retreaters. Every single person depended on me being there by their side to complete the task and afterwards I was repeatedly thanked for the experience of the slaughter. It turned out to be a monumental moment in the retreat for everyone who participated. But I could only offer thanks in return for trusting in me. Teaching others gave me the opportunity to process and share the both the thoughts and skills I honed over the time I lived and worked at North Mountain Pastures.

For dinner that night, we ate chicken. Not a single person seemed to find this unappetizing. Instead they were inspired. The cooks assigned to that night’s dinner altered the menu to pay proper respects to the animals who gave their lives to our meal – those chickens spent the day soaking in a “Cleopatra bath” (which I’m told involved buttermilk and herbs). They were skillfully grilled and served alongside a bounty of side dishes, washed down with local wines and microbrews. Even the feet were fried crunchy crisp and I for one nibbled and sucked those chicken toes until they had not a drop of deliciousness left to give. Throughout the weekend we continued to share stories, laughter, knowledge and of course food in good company. I left with 39 new friends (well, 38 actually, as the lovely Kimberley Hasselbrink was the one who planted the Eat Retreat seed) and much excitement for all the things I hope to accomplish in the food world.

Chicken Feet — Chicken feet, soon to be delicious. Photo by Heather Irwin.

When I returned to Pennsylvania and the farm for what were my last few weeks, the task at hand was the final poultry butchering push of the season. In a single day I slaughtered 300 chickens and 25 ducks, and later that week I helped prepare 180 turkeys for Thanksgiving tables. Despite the soreness it provoked in my shoulders, it felt good to fall into the rhythm of this process one last time. I thought of the leap my fellow Eat Retreaters took with me, and I remembered the day many months ago when I too held a knife to a chicken’s neck for the first time hoping I would get it right. Bringing healthy animals to grateful tables is a charge I find fulfilling, and slaughter is a necessary part of this process. Ultimately it’s like dancing; you internalize the movements and they will always be in your muscle memory. When the time comes, you just have to have to remember to breathe and go for it.

The chicken slaughter workshop was documented both in words and video by Mr. Will Turnage. You can read more about the weekend and the workshop in other blog posts by Mike Lee, David Scheidt, and Rachel Adams.

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Waking the Milk Monster

milking — I’ve always wanted to be a hand model

As a child all I drank was milk. This is not an exaggerated statement, my parents will back me on this one. What did I want at every meal? Whole cow milk. When I was tired and thirsty from playing, I drank milk. Even when the other kids asked for juice, I asked for milk. And then when I was 10 years old I suffered a freak medical complication when doctors discovered 2 golf ball-sized calcium deposits in my gall bladder. I have a scar that runs from just below my sternum to my belly button to prove it.

I don’t know if it was my transition into diet-conscious teenagehood or my later adult doubt that given the absence of my gall bladder it wasn’t really good for me, but at some point I stopped drinking milk. On a rare occasion Brad and I would grab a quart of the good stuff to wash down some cookies, but I had all but suppressed my love of the liquid gold until I moved to North Mountain Pastures. Here there is herd of Nubian goats who roam the farm, grazing freely, and provide us with about 3 gallons of raw milk a day. Between the 6 adults and 2 children living here, we drink it all.

At first it was just with meals. I quickly adjusted to the routine habit of grabbing a mason jar and pouring myself a glass or two at the table. I would resist pouring a third. But as the farm season wore on, and the long days of farm work caught up with me, I stopped getting up early enough to eat breakfast and starting drinking more milk instead. I found that the delicious, cold, creamy beverage was not only the perfect refresher on a hot day, but it seemed to be a good source of protein and calories that could keep me going through hours of farm chores or a long day at farmers’ market. Lately I consume a half gallon per day, sometimes more.

In a recent chore rotation it finally became my turn to milk the goats. I was all too happy to do my part in providing the tasty stuff I’ve grown so dependent on. But I also found myself looking forward to the quiet solo hour in the barn spent cultivating trust and milking these wonderful creatures. Like any animals, they are conscious of your energy and mood. Keeping them calm while you sit by their side, yanking on their udders, or “nu-nus” as we call them, is a task I love. When Red Sonja gets fussy I just give here a moment and stroke her side. And when Gracey gets cranky and threatens to kick the bucket, I’ve found a little singing will chill her out. I love to pet their cheeks and thank them before they leave the milking stand, particularly Baby, who always gazes intensely back at you with her freaky alien-like goat eyes.

After milking I carry the frothy buckets back to the farmhouse to filter the fresh milk into jars and pour myself a glass or three of the cold stuff from the fridge. The goats go about their day and so do I, fueled by raw liquid gold. I wonder if I’ll ever be able to quiet the milk monster in me again.

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Life and Death in Pig Farming

It’s been a long hot summer and I’ve been away from my husband and my home in Brooklyn for nearly five months. Fueled by raw goat milk and a regular supply of good meat, I’m stronger (and tanner) than I was when I arrived at the farm, and I’m closer to the food I eat than I’ve ever been before. There are hundreds of animals here that we raise for meat and they all depend on us for their livelihood. I move about my days alternatively caring for these animals and making food from them.

Last week I spent a morning gutting chickens, tried a new trussing technique for hanging salumi in the aging room and practiced cutting down a whole side of pork. I also castrated four piglets, which is an unpleasant but necessary task that I do here. We breed hogs to raise and eventually butcher for sausage, bacon, salumi or just good old pork chops for our CSA members. While these pigs are out on their own, rooting around and fattening up, we can’t just have them getting knocked up or else we’ll be slaughtering pregnant pigs.

Our sows, or mama pigs, live in their own area with a boar named Boris. Here they are encouraged to copulate, give birth to piglets and look after them. After a good amount of time in the pig nursery (as I like to think of the sow pen, one of my favorite places on the farm), we ween the teenage piglets and train them to respect electric fencing. Eventually they join the other adult pigs in the the woods where they spend their days eating, snoozing and generally being piggy until they grow to full weight.

Every other day we move the feeder pigs to fresh pasture. It’s a practice called rotational grazing and it’s how we raise our animals – it’s good for them and the land. This is a chore that involves tromping around in the woods, stomping in fence posts, reeling and unreeling the fence lines and ushering the pigs into their new area. I more or less live in muck boots, which makes it easy to not care about stepping in poop all the time. And when the pigs occasionally decide they’d like to go wallow in the creek or forage somewhere else, we might spend a morning chasing them down and herding them through the forest back to their temporary home.

I knew I wanted to butcher animals and connect more people to healthy, sustainable meat when I moved here. What I didn’t know is how much of a liking I would take to pig farming, or how much joy I would get watching piglets grow from fumbling little babies in search of their mother’s milk to mischievous little teenagers who sneak up to the farm house to eat pears that are falling from the big tree. And despite all of this, how I would grow to accept the death of these precious animals. For even without butchering and in spite of our constant efforts, mortality is a regular part in livestock farming.

I believe more than ever in the importance of the goals that brought me here and I guess you could say I’ve taken to this lifestyle that is now mine.

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Chicken Chores

The biggest constant in farm life is chores. Every day begins and ends with them, as there are certain tasks that must be done to keep the farm running, and in our case, the animals happy and healthy. For the first 6 weeks or so at North Mountain Pastures, my chores centered around caring for our broilers (that’s what we call the chickens we raise for eating).

peeps in the brooder — You can never have enough peeps

It all started with the peeps. 275 of these little newborn chickens arrive on the farm every week or two and they need to be transfered to the brooder – the warm cozy place made of recycled cooler panels and propane heaters where we keep them until they’re big and strong enough to move out to pasture. Perhaps the sweetest task is introducing these guys to their new home and dipping their tiny little beaks in water so they know where to find a drink after that.

Once they’re settled in, they need to be checked in on and fed both morning and night. I’ve had mornings where I’ve chased escaped peeps through mucky corners, cursing their ability to just elude my grasp every time I nearly have them cornered. I’ve also spent mornings tallying a death toll, like when the propane for the heater ran out on a cold night, or when our laying hens were breaking into the brooder to steal feed and bullying the little peeps in the process. But most of the time I find them contentedly chirping and eagerly awaiting breakfast.

After a few weeks, the peeps grow to be little chickens and we transfer them to what we call the chicken tractors – Hoop houses we’ve retrofitted to give the broilers cover from rain and predators, while also giving them plenty of access to run around and eat all the bugs and grass they want. Everyday we use a skid loader (for which I’m still awaiting a driving lesson) to drag the chicken tractors forward one full length to fresh pasture and in exchange they leave behind plenty of precious fertilizer.

The meadow they’re currently circling will eventually be full of rich topsoil and new grass that we can allow the other animals to graze on – in fact, I just noticed yesterday that dark green grass is already springing up where they was only dirt and poop only six weeks ago. These guys also eat loads of feed made locally from organic grain and minerals. Keeping them fed makes for a good workout when you’re hauling buckets and buckets of the stuff.

Are these chickens happy or what? I took this little “bird’s eye view” video one day as the broilers were excitedly tromping around on their new home in the meadow.

Eventually the broilers grow to their full size and it’s time for butchering. This is not a chore but a whole day of processing to ready the birds to be eaten. The night before butchering we head out to the tractors and round up the biggest broilers into crates – chickens are pretty sleepy after dark and there’s a lot less chasing when you catch them at night. The following day we’ll all work together, assembly-line-style, to slaughter, eviscerate, package, weigh and label hundreds of broilers which will eventually make their way into the kitchens of our CSA members.

It’s an intense day, full of blood, guts and feathers, but satisfying when you can see just how much you’ve accomplished at the end. The first time I participated in a butchering day, Brooks trained me to slaughter and I worked my way through 2 crates of laying hens, which are now stewing hens. But generally my place in line has been on the evisceration table where I’ve gotten pretty swift at removing guts and sorting organs. I’ve also been tasked with cutting up chickens for CSA shares, which we do regularly in addition to providing whole broilers for roasting, or better yet, fried chicken.

Another new skill I’ve acquired in this whole broiler operation is the ability to snatch chickens up by their feet and hold 4 or 5 of them in one hand. The first time I saw the guys doing this I thought I’d never have the reflexes to catch those zippy little birds – but when I had to move 250 or so chickens to pasture I got the hang of it pretty quick. But enough of these chickens, I’m now moving on to the pigs.

***
Bonus photo for those who are not faint of heart

If you’re wondering how we do it, here’s Brooks on slaughter and Anna on evisceration.

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Perfect Together: Asparagus and Chives

When Brad and I designed the WordPress theme for this website, I drew those little asparagus in the top corner to celebrate the season. It’s hard to believe, but the asparagus have sprung again and an entire year has already passed since I started this blog.

Here on the farm I discovered wild chives growing all over the place just as the first asparagus arrived. I foraged (Yes, foraged! From right outside the farm house. Now that’s some seriously local country food.) handfuls and paired the chives with asparagus in a wonderful Spring pasta with some Pecorino Romano cheese. That combination has been a favorite ever since. Here are a few ideas so you too can savor the season and get a whiff of asparagus pee.

Sauté them:
Use the asparagus whole with only the tough ends trimmed or snapped off. Roll them in a skillet with olive oil over a medium-high heat until they’re bright green and tender but still a bit crisp (about 5 minutes). Toss in a pad of butter to melt, salt to taste and transfer them to a serving plate scattered with chives and a few shavings of Pecorino Romano cheese if you so desire. Deliciousness doesn’t get much simpler.

Blanch them:
Cut the asparagus into 2-inch pieces and cook in salted, boiling water until just tender (about 2-3 minutes) then transfer them with a slotted spoon to an ice bath. Cook some pasta (any type of short noodle like penne or fussili), and toss with the asparagus, a few handfuls of minced chives, a generous cup or so of grated Pecorino Romano cheese and a glug of olive oil. Add a healthy grating of black pepper and some lemon zest and you’re in business.

Roast them:
Cut your asparagus and some potatoes into 1-inch pieces. Toss them with some olive oil, salt and pepper and roast them at 450 degrees for about 20 minutes. Stir them once or twice, and when they’re almost done, sprinkle some Pecorino Romano cheese over top and continue to roast for a few minutes more until the cheese is melted and golden. If you can hold back from finishing them off, you can toss the leftover asparagus and potatoes into your morning omelet or scrambled eggs with some chives.

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New Life on the Farm

I’m not talking about my new life on the farm. These hungry little piglets were born yesterday.

I watched for about an hour and saw one birth, and how they all scrambled around in search of the boob and warmth. There were 14 in total and 12 made it through the night.

Eventually they’ll grow up to be big pigs and we’ll make salumi out of then, but right now they’re really cute.

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Spring Brunch: Eggs in a Nest

Spring is my favorite time of year for eating eggs fresh from the farm. The chickens are feasting on grass and bugs galore and you can taste all the new growth and life in their rich golden yolks. Between the production of our “layers”, AKA egg-laying hens, here at North Mountain Pastures, and the many Amish farmers in the area, we eat a lot of eggs. I typically start each day with two fried in lard, or the occasional scramble or omelet if I’m feeling ambitious.

Meanwhile, back in Brooklyn, our pal Ray Bradley provides Brad with eggs, and they are absolutely at their prime right now. On a recent weekend visit home, after our usual dog walk/Greenmarket Saturday morning routine, Brad and I set to making brunch. Inspired by a pile of gorgeous green spinach, tiny fingerling potatoes and a nice bunch of chives, I decided to stray from my ritual frittata and opted for another old favorite – eggs in a nest. Just perfect for enjoying on a lovely Spring day.

After much trial and error, I’ve found that 9 minutes is the perfect time in my oven to have the egg whites set but the yolks nice and runny. You can easily make this for four people; just double the ingredients and choose a large enough skillet to have room for eight little egg nests. Often I’ll sauté ingredients for 4 servings, then remove half and save them to make a nest for more eggs the following day.

Eggs in a Nest

Serves 2 hungry people

Oil or fat for sautéing
1/2 lb. potatoes, scrubbed and cut into 1″ pieces
Salt
2 cloves garlic, minced
1 lb. spinach, cleaned, tough stems removed and coarsely chopped (you can use any greens you like, just adjust the cooking time until they’re nice and wilted)
4 eggs
2 oz. goat cheese (optional)
Chives, finely cut or minced (optional)
Fresh ground black pepper

Heat the oven to 375 degrees.

In a medium, oven-proof skillet, heat a few tablespoons of oil/fat over medium heat. Add the potatoes, season with salt, and sauté, turning occasionally until golden and just tender. Remove the potatoes using a slotted spoon to a bowl and reserve. In the remaining fat, add the garlic, stirring for a moment, then add the spinach and sauté, stirring frequently until just wilted. Return the potatoes to the skillet, and toss to combine.

Turn the heat off and use the back of a large spoon create 4 “nests” or indentations around the pan. Gently crack and egg into each nest. Crumble the goat cheese, if using, around the eggs over the spinach and potato mixture, then transfer to the oven. Cook for 9-10 minutes until the whites are set but the yolks still jiggle when you shake the pan. Remove from the oven, salt the eggs if desired, crack fresh black pepper over the pan, and scatter the chives over top.

Serve in the pan with crusty bread and butter on the side and a big spoon for scooping the eggs and other goodness onto plates.

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Odds, Bits and Balls

When we’re not working on the farm, we’re usually eating. This is my kind of place.

Several times a day we gather around the table, and as you might expect, there is plenty of meat, goat milk, cheese and eggs at every meal. We also eat our fair share of veggies and a wonderful kitchen garden is just beginning to sprout from seed out behind the farm house. Anna does a lot of the cooking, although I’ve jumped in for the occasional meal as do some of the guys on the farm. It’s mostly improvisation using cuts of meat that we didn’t sell at market or use in CSA shares, and the occasional leftover odds and bits from the butcher shop.

The thing I love about this bunch who I now share my days and meals with is that they’ll eat anything. It’s not on account of foodie bravado, just genuine nose-to-tail awareness – certainly we can find a way to use the leftover parts of the animal and make something delicious. The first week on the farm we had a delicious dish of rice with chicken hearts and livers after a day of cutting up whole chickens for CSA shares. The following week we enjoyed pork tongue tacos that were salvaged from the butcher. When braised, then sliced, fried and served in warm, homemade corn tortillas, tongue is truly tasty. This week we took it to a whole new level – a first for everyone around the table – when I made us Rocky Mountain Oysters, aka fried bull testicles.

rockymountainoysters — North Mountain Pastures "Oysters"

The butcher gave us the sack of balls while we were in the shop making sausage last week, and of course the North Mountain Pastures crew was game to see what we could make of them. But a few days later when they were still in the fridge, I realized that none of the guys could bring themselves to actually prepare the testies, and Anna was certainly not jumping at the task. What is a food-loving butcher wanna-be like myself to do but offer to cook them up? And so after a Google search for “how to cook cow balls” and a bit of recipe cross-referencing, I had a plan and I set to work. The following day when I put the plate of crispy fried “oysters” on the table, they were gingerly sampled and then enthusiastically devoured. It certainly didn’t hurt that I battered them with corn meal fried them in lard, but it turns out that bull testicles really do taste good.

Should you find yourself with a spare pair of balls and feel like you’re up for the task, here’s my recipe:

North Mountain Pastures “Oysters”

2 large bull testicles
2 tablespoons salt
1.5 cups masa harina, or fine cornmeal
1 cup milk
salt
pepper
cayenne
lard or neutral cooking oil (for frying)
hot sauce for serving

Split the tough skin-like muscle that surrounds each “oyster” with a sharp knife and peel off.
Soak in a pan of salt water for at least 1 hour, up to overnight and drain.

Slice each oyster into 1/4 inch thick ovals. Combine cornmeal, salt, pepper and a pinch of cayenne to taste. Roll each slice into cornmeal mixture, dip into the milk, roll again into flour mixture (repeat the procedure for a thicker crust).

Heat 1″ of fat or oil in a heavy skillet or pot until glistening and fry, turning once, until golden brown – a few minutes in total.

Drain on paper towels and sprinkle with salt. Serve with hot sauce sauce if desired.

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