Um, Let me rephrase that: a fun filled week of thirty hormonally challenged high school students cooking, baking, farming, learning all about food systems, boning up on agriculture, and camping at Pie Ranch with no cell coverage – let the hunger games begin!

For the first time in my life, I was very popular. These young adults were keenly aware of who buttered whose bread. Either that or they just enjoyed listening to their “S.F. beats, yo” in my outdoor kitchen yo. A stereo with large bose speakers does wonders for one’s status. Who knew? And who knew that so many young people wanted to become chefs too? Pictured below is an upcoming culinary star…

Yes, I heard it several times throughout the week: “Chef Amy is sooooo raw.”

That’s slang for ‘cool’. In case you didn’t know.

I knew I would impress with a chicken parting demonstration. I began the demo slowly taking one chicken apart piece by piece explaining each cut with careful attention to detail and then sped through the next chicken with shouts and gasps of amazement for my speed and precision from the teenage onlookers.

Again, the crowd roared: “Soooooo raw……”

But I wasn’t the only “raw” instructor there. Oh no, there were several including their teacher Laurie, who has pioneered this partnership and program with Pie Ranch for the last five years. For half a decade she not only has camped with the students, monitored behavior, and provided lessons but also cooked 3 meals a day for them. I gave her a little break this time around with some culinary assistance.

Debbie  my colleague from Echo Valley Farm (who is also “raw”) demonstrated chicken processing. By this I mean: capturing the chicken, putting the chicken head downward in the killing cone, holding the chicken still, cutting quickly through jugulars on each side to kill and bleed (not so easy), and then plucking and gutting.

Suprisingly, the kids were brave and respectful during this demonstration. And, yes, the students were heavily prepped for this experience and no one was forced to partake. Every student ate chicken for dinner no problem. And all said they would think differently about buying chicken in the market and choose organic!

For the quiche recipe, the students collected eggs. Which I found out wasn’t so “raw” because cleaning eggs is “sorta boring” and they feared the chickens would peck them. (No one was actually maimed however.) I sympathized with this feeling because I, myself, have the same fear when it comes to chickens. That’s not to say that I don’t care how they are raised and treated, I just don’t find them cute and cuddly like the baby lambs on the farm. (And I will never understand why France has adopted Le Coq as it’s emblem.)

Before I wax on about how cool it is to actually be considered cool for a week, please tell me you’ve heard of Pie Ranch. You haven’t? Whaaaaat??!?!

It’s a pretty big deal out here on the West Coast. Pie Ranch is a non-profit working farm teaching students and communities about sustainable agriculture & farming, food systems. They do community outreach with schools all up and down the coast, barn dances, weddings, events, team building workshops, they host a CSA & a farm stand, and help newly trained farmers with land aquisition to ensure our future food source in Northern California.

This is a great video. Take a few minutes and check out this slice of Pie. They do so much more there but this is an example of the program…

Their mission is to: “inspire and connect people to know the source of their food and to work together to bring greater health to the food system from the seed to the table”.

One of the products grown and milled at the farm is wheat. Hard red wheat that is very low in gluten, has excellent nutty flavor, and high protein. It is outstanding for pies and patries. I have never in my life had pie crust like this – so flavorful and flaky.

And if flaky pie crust isn’t enough for you, it does get better – we light up a fire in the enormous wood burning oven and bake all day and night in it. That’s right, quiche Lorraine out of a wood fired oven. Can you smell the smokey bacon & onions gently melting away into a farm fresh egg custard? Thomas Keller eat your heart out! Oh, and that’s Pie Ranch Bacon by the way. And Pie Ranch flour. Pie Ranch eggs. Pie Ranch goat milk. Pie ranch onions. You get the idea…

This experience was one of the highlights of this year. I am looking forward to more opportunities like this one.

Pie Ranch is very very RAW.

The post Pie Ranch: Quiche & Kids first appeared on Amy Glaze's Pommes d'Amour.

I’ve always disliked pumpkin butter. It just looks awful. But out of need to extend the season here at Echo Valley Farm, I thought I should bite the bullet and give it a go.

Here’s what I learned: pumpkin butter is fabulous – I love it! I use it in yeasted bread with rosemary, on pancakes with maple syrup, and as a sauce for pizza topped with gorgonzola, caramelized onions, & arugula.

Pumpkin butter should no longer be home canned according to the new USDA ruling due to its density that makes it difficult to guarantee an internal temperature of 240˚F. There is still a chance of botulism because of this. Better to be safe than sorry.

But that’s okay, because we are striving for foods sold fresh or frozen here at Echo Valley Farm. Why go to the trouble to grow all these gorgeous fruits and vegetables and then completely cook away all the nutrients?

Pumpkin butter is pumpkin purée from roasted sugar pie pumpkins that is blended and cooked down over low heat until it is thick. I add agave nectar, honey,ginger, all-spice, cinnamon, cloves, nutmeg, cardamom, salt, a little apple cider vinegar to give it some character and lemon juice to help preserve the color. I add all this to taste.

Understanding the yield of pumpkin to purée is more helpful than an exact recipe: 10 pounds of sugar pie pumpkins (about 3 medium size pumpkins) yields about 2 quarts of roasted pumpkin purée.

To roast pumpkins, simply cut in half and scoop out seeds. Place flesh down on a baking sheet and cook at 400˚F for 30 minutes or until they are very soft. Scoop out flesh and blend up with just enough water to help it along. Cook purée down for at least 20 minutes on low heat stirring constantly until it is very thick and reduced to about 1 1/2 quarts. Add sugar (or agave, honey, maple syrup, or brown sugar) and spices to your liking and intended use.

I made a chinese five-spice pumpkin butter once that received interesting polarized responses on the farm. Now I tend to stick with the spices mentioned above or add herbs from the garden like sage, thyme, or rosemary.

The post Pumpkin Butter: In Bread, On Pizza, By the Spoonful first appeared on Amy Glaze's Pommes d'Amour.

Some of the ingredients might illicit skeptical reactions although I’ve yet to find one single traditional mole recipe. There are numerous variations on the theme. A woman I chatted with in the supermarket told me I could not use tamarind paste in mole – but I think she might have a change of heart upon tasting this combo. She did give great chili advice and some neat tips for making tamarind paste from pods – even though this ingredient didn’t meet mole approval.

(Love chatting with people about food while shopping – I always learn something new!)

Three different dried chilies make the base of my mole: mulato (smokey & chocolate-y), acho (sweet & mild), and pasilla (smokey with medium heat). The chilies are toasted, seeded, rehydratred, blended into a paste and cooked in lard (from the farm). To the cooked chilies I add a blended mixture of: sesame seeds, peanuts, tamarind paste, mexican chocolate, garlic, fresh pumpkin purée, brown chicken stock, sea salt, cinnamon, cloves, mexican oregano, and a little agave nectar.

Next time I think I’ll add some tequila too. Well, why not?!?!

I created the mole for a luncheon we hosted for a workshop on fruit tree planting, pruning, and grooming taught by Northern California’s leading fruit tree arborist. It was a fascinating lesson – even if you don’t have an orchard in your backyard. Farmer’s came from all around to learn how to whack and lop correctly and where and when to plant.

I wanted to use our sugar pie pumpkins in an unconventional way. I’m pretty sure everyone who works on the farm is sick of yet another version of my pumpkin pie no matter what “secret” ingredient I try to wow them with. The menu included a palate cleansing salad of kale, fennel, & blood oranges with a honey-apple cider vinaigrette, plantain wheat germ banana bread (not overly sweet), and farmer Kate’s effervescient lemon-ginger elixer to wash everything down.

Look for our Echo Valley Farm Pumpkin Mole starting at the farmer’s market in May! Or make it yourself…

The post Chicken Pumpkin Mole first appeared on Amy Glaze's Pommes d'Amour.

Before I recount this story let me give some background: this is an adventure post (although I’ll weave in food somehow), this area is on mountain lion alert (didn’t get the memo until recently), we don’t have cell phones (they don’t work out here), and we were only going to be gone a little while …

It has really been a storybook week with temperatures in the high 60’s during the day and moonbeams ablazing at night. My boyfriend comes to celebrate Valentine’s day and I have made promises of wood-oven cooked local salmon, fresh baked bread, nettle pesto pizza, local beer made from Echo Valley Farm hops, fire in the hearth, hot tubbing, and long trail runs. Fun!

We like to run together. We like to run about 10 to 12 miles at least. Anything less just feels like a warm-up. We spend the morn testing my new pumpkin butter-rosemary bread while sipping strong hot coffee and staring out onto the farm from the porch of my cabin. It’s a misty magical foggy morning. The sun has disappeared. But it’s still warm and pleasant.

The new adorable mini cow (Bambi) is moo-ing to us, the goats are bleating, the chickens are clucking, and one dozen baby ducklings arrive in the mail. The farm is just too cute for words.

We stuff ourselves and around 3:30 P.M. decide that we should work off our gluttony with a run. I’ve found a few short trail loops around here that I supplement with a little roadside action. But I have it on good word there’s a nice wide trail just a half mile away I have yet to try out.

Loma Mar is a special part of the Bay Area. It’s half way between Santa Cruz and San Francisco, fifteen minutes inland from the Pacific ocean and Pescadero (which is the closest town). It’s at the base of the Santa Cruz mountain range which is basically one enormous wild preserve with a few mountain towns scattered throughout.

Loma Mar is slightly off the grid surrounded with magnificent old growth redwood forests (some of the last remaining) and some State Parks that are mostly empty. And Loma Martians like it like that. I’ve seen the “Don’t Tread On Me” flag flying proud around these parts. Don’t get me wrong, people are super friendly around here and I absolutely think this is heaven on earth, but at the same time it’s pretty common to not know all your neighbors – jes’ like anywhere I s’pose.

We find the entrance to the trail I’ve been searching for and it’s a wide forgotten fire road called “Old Haul”. It’s perfect for running side by side. How romantic! The old gravel bed beneath our feet is littered with redwood tree leaves and it’s nice & bouncy. The air clears our thoughts with the fresh scent of bay laurel, ferns, redwood bark, and moss covered earth. Banana slugs crawl out to greet us – this is what Northern California is all about.

The forest tree canopy keeps the temperature just right for running – not too hot or cold. The fine mist that’s been lightly showering us all day gently washes away our harsh salty sweat and keeps us hydrated. We tear off layers of clothes and pick up our pace as we begin a mild ascent up some unknown part of the Santa Cruz Mountains. I’m feeling so good I could leap and pirouette my way up the hill.

This is called runner’s high: when you feel you can run forever, you relish inner thoughts, you feel one with nature, your heart no longer is pounding but rather sailing along on cruise control, and talking is easy – not labored – with no gasping for air inbetween.

If you run long distances, or even short ones for that matter, you will understand how annoying it is to come back whence the way you came. It is always better to do a loop. At least I think so. Especially when you get that runner’s high going and you want to keep the momentum going forward.

We have seen no trail markers or hikers so far. Which is sort of perfect we think. The woods are just for us today. So we agree to run 45 minutes on Old Haul and then turn around. That way we’ll make it back before dark which is around 6PM out here in the country.

But no. We come across two hikers.

Stopping briefly we ask where the trail we are on is headed. We find out it’s a straight shot to Portola Park – no looping around. I ask stupidly: “By chance do you guys know of any trails that will loop back to Loma Mar that just happen to bisect Old Haul?”

Of course they do…

“See you just go a few miles more up Old Haul trail, then turn on Snaggletooth trail, then take the Bridge trail to the Easterly Pomponio trail, and that brings you back to Loma Mar.” The hikers warn that it’s a good 5 miles. That’s peanuts to us, so we decide we’ll make it back home in plenty of time. They offer to give us their trail map.

“Oh, no thanks.” we politely respond, “That’s okay, we won’t need it, thank you anyways, enjoy the rest of your hike!”

That was mistake numbers: one, two, and three.

We shouldn’t have been running in an area that was closed just two days before because of a Mountain lion attack (not that we knew). We should have stuck to the plan and not run off the main trail, and we should have taken the trail map off those two hikers.

We continue up Old Haul a couple miles more and sure enough we see a marker for Snaggletooth trail. “Wanna do it?” I ask questioningly because the trail entrance is covered with a broken tree branch and it’s a single track that looks like it’s been unloved for a good ten years. “Sure, we can always come back if we want, we know that Old Haul will take us home”.

Snaggletooth trail, like the name suggests, is snaggled with broken branches and it’s muddy but nonetheless fun. We find the most magnificent Sequoia twisting clear up to heaven and it’s probably around 1400 years old.There are so few sequoias in this area that I’ve become familiar their history. It’s one of my favorite trees. I give it a hug and run on.

We find the Bridge trail and head up that and now we’re thinking we are well on our way home. Easy. No turning back now. “Those hiker guys really knew what they were talking about. This is fun! What a great undiscovered run!” I chirp, totally intoxicated from the fresh air and my runner’s esprit.

“Yeah, this is pretty awesome. We certainly have the whole forest to ourselves…” My friend responds just as caught up in the spirit of the adventure.

We come to an intersection of 6 different trails and an illegible trail map that is, by the way, the only one we’ve seen along the way. We see the Pomponio trail the hikers told us to take. We go for it. The time is around 5PM and it is starting to get darker and colder, but no worries…

We take Pomponio trail for a few miles and it’s a fairly flat run which is a welcome relief from the last 8 miles of uphill. We are chatting, breathing in the fresh mountain air, and just having a great time on our little adventure. My calf muscles are cramping but I’m not bitching about it because I know we gotta get home and – we’re almost home anyways.

The trail splits. One way crosses a bridge and leads to a County Jail which is clearly marked with big signs that caution us to stay away. “Crossing this property with alcohol, cigarettes, or drugs is a felony offense…”. The other path, which has an unreadable marker that’s been hacked through or struck by lightening, continues uphill on a nice wide path.

Had I known that the County Jail was really the Boys Juvenile Hall I would have run through it because I know that the entrance leads to Pescadero Creek Road which leads us back to the farm. But I thought it was some hidden county adult jail and the signs were more than off-putting. Too bad for us, because the Pomponio trail we are looking for picks up again just to one side of this correctional facility. How could we have known? Thank you San Mateo County and California State Parks!

“I don’t know if we should turn around now.” My friend says looking at his watch.

“I know. There’s no way we can get through that Snaggletooth trail again in the dark. No way. Too dangerous. There won’t be any light tonight. I think last night was the full moon. This path has got to take us somewhere. It’s got to get us to a road or a park entrance. We can’t be that far from Loma Mar.”

Mistake number four: do not guess where an unmarked trail goes when you are running out of time before it gets dark.

But here’s what was going through both of our heads: what if civilization is just a 1/2 mile away and we turn around and risk running back 9 miles in the dark through some pretty wet precarious trails? What if we’re almost home? We’ve got to be almost home!

The unmarked trail that we are now on just goes steadily up and up and up. The flora and fauna change, the trees become twiggier and the redwoods thinner. Crows circle their nests and caw to each other and at us. (So this is where all those egg stealer’s go! They’ve been driving our chickens crazy!) We are not in Loma Mar anymore that is certain. Every hollowed out tree we pass I try and memorize just in case – just in case we might need some protection and shelter tonight…

Our immediate mission now is to get to the crest of the mountain so we can try and gain some perspective on the situation before the light is totally gone.

We come to another marker. I’m beyond thirsty even though my face is covered with mist, I attempt to wet my palate by licking my lips, instead I get a mouth full of rock salt – blech! This marker now gives 3 new directions not previously mentioned before: the Overlook Loop, the Horse Trail, and the Canyon Trail. There are no mile indicators. We have no idea which one to choose. It’s Russian roulette.

What’s that Mary Ivins quote? The first rule of holes: when you’re in one, stop digging?

Sage advice be damned, we choose the Canyon Trail since it seems to crest the mountain we’ve already climbed. It must come down and out somewhere. We are walking now. Or rather, I am walking because my calves are cramping super bad and it feels like I’m being stabbed in the leg repetitively. My friend is running ahead to try and find trail information and running back with new reports.

“There’s another marker, it’s close, come on, I don’t know where it goes but…”

I force myself to jog (limp) lightly to the next marker. I look at it and I’m perplexed because the trail that we were just on seems to end and now three others begin. “Are you kidding me?!? Three more new trails? What happened to the one we were just on? What is going on with all these trails that just disappear? This is insane!”

One direction reads: Sam MacDonald Park Ranger Station. I know this park well. Or I used to know it well. I camped there when I was a kid all the time. That was only 30 years ago…

I also know that Sam MacDonald Park is not anywhere close to Loma Mar. It’s at least 15 miles away from the farm and higher up in the Santa Cruz Mountains towards the town of La Honda. But I figure we are closer to that now than to anything else considering how much we’ve been running uphill – which feels like 12 miles or more. And San MacDonald Park is a known entity. The other trails could go anywhere…

We are relieved. We have found a marker that makes sense. We run again even though it’s now raining and the trails are slick. My friend takes a bad fall, but brushes it off. He’s covered in mud. Hope is near we think. We are almost home. We are joking again. I’m talking about how good it’s going to feel to jump in the hot tub and quench our thirst with some nice pale ale.

Uh, yeah, right. Wishful thinking.

And besides Farmer’s Kate and Jeff will wonder where we are. They know I wanted to do a farm dinner tonight. We talked about it.  She will come knocking at my cabin and will smell my second batch of bread in my bread machine (no apologies for this little machine, I really like the convenience factor). I’ve told her the menu already: B.L.T.’s with a farm fried egg and roasted blue hubbard-garlic soup. She will see the last of the Echo Valley Farm Bacon defrosting on my counter and surely know that we have gone missing – I would never waste good bacon like that! Oh Lordy, no!

Yeah, and leaving breadcrumbs in the woods is a sure way to find your way back.

What could Farmer’s Kate and Jeff do anyways? Unleash the hounds? Form a search and rescue party? There’s nothing anyone can do in this weather. Not until morning.

The sun, which we have never seen today anyway, is sinking. We are lost. We are alone. We are cold. We are hungry. But we are trying our best to tell each other jokes and keep our spirits up. My boyfriend says encouragingly, “If we can get through this, we can get through anything.”

And I’ve always felt safe in these woods. They’re my woods. I spent many summers here with my parents and the Girl Scouts camping and hiking. I can forage for just about anything out here if need be. But this is not exactly a time to forage. This is a time to figure out where the hell we are and get back to civilization.

The trail that apparently will lead us to the ranger station splits again in four different directions. At this point it is laughable. We have no idea which way to go. We can’t tell North from South because we haven’t seen the sun the whole freakin’ day but my spider senses are telling me we need to go downhill and go fast. We need to find one of the creeks and follow it. Pescadero or La Honda creek – I don’t care. We just need to find one because most of the campsites, houses, and roads are close to them. (Why didn’t I think of this earlier – dumb – mistake number: three thousand and two)

Leaving the wide open space of the crest of the mountain which has provided absolutely no view, we head back into the thick redwood forest following a new path yet again: the Heritage trail. We are walking fast. It’s too dangerous to run. Too many obstacles, too little light, too wet and rainy. We can only see about ten feet in front of us – it’s all just different fuzzy shades of grey at this point. The only thing lighting our way is the lichen that radiates an eerie day-glow green all over the forest. It feels like a haunted house.

I’m leading the way and I luckily stumble on another marker with three more trails that split off from it. I get down on my knees to read it closer because I can’t make out the words in the dim light. One of them is (again) leading to the Sam MacDonald Ranger station. Hallelujah! We’re back on track!

“Did you see that? Did you see something move up ahead?” I ask not sure if my eyes are just playing tricks on me in the dim light and shadows are shifting.

“I can’t see anything. I hope it’s not a skunk! Want me to take the lead?”

“I think my vision is still okay for right now. I’ve got another 10 minutes before it all goes dark on me.”

My friend has picked up a heavy 12 pound walking stick which I am teasing him about it: “You look like a German hiker. Where’s your lederhosen and your mustache? Are you really going to carry that beast the whole way?”. I don’t like to carry walking sticks because I like to have my hands free in case I fall, but…

It’s pitch dark now and only 6:30 P.M. we can’t see to save our lives. My friend is in the lead now with his big walking stick and I am grasping on to the hood of his jacket like a duck on a june bug. That walking stick is our saving grace – I’m eating my words big-time. “Close your eyes,” he says, “We can’t see anything anyway, just focus on feeling the trail”.

He is stabbing the trail with his stick from side to side feeling for the ravine on our right and the mountain bank on our left and I’m doing the same but with my feet.

I have never in my life had to go without the sense of sight and I had no idea just how acute my other senses could be. I am navigating with my feet and I can make out the differences between the hard trail and the soft redwood tree litter of the banks. He says to me what I’ve been thinking for the last hour, “I’m glad I’m getting lost with you. I wouldn’t want to be here with anyone else.” and I know what he means. This isn’t a cute love-line per se, it’s just that we are both in survival mode and freaking out is not an option.

We joke about how you just don’t know some one until you’ve been in a life & death situation with them. Stories I’ve heard recently where hikers make stupid simple mistakes and die run through my mind. I keep this to myself of course. This is not going to happen to us. These are my woods. I was practically raised here.

Shit, I think to myself, I won first place in the Girl Scout regional fire building competition and the botany identification competition at Sam MacDonald park a quarter century ago. And I won first place in these two competitions for four years straight. We are not going to die. Not that I could make a fire in these wet conditions or identify a plant in the night, but we are going to get through this. I didn’t sell Girl Scout cookies for nuthin’!

And trust me, I would really like to cry, but I know it’s not going to get us anywhere. And neither is complaining about my stomach which is eating itself, or my dry throat & dehydration which have shut my voice down completely, or the fact that I really have to pee but I don’t want to stop hanging on to my boyfriend in case we loose each other and I’m not comfortable peeing in the dark. Is that weird or what?

“Stop!” He says. “Where’s the trail? Do you feel the trail? It all feels the same here…” he continues stabbing around for something tangible while I stamp the ground with my feet. Neither of us can find it. And everything that we both know from years & years of backpacking & camping and Eagle Scouts & Girl Scouts clearly states that if you are lost you should make a shelter and stay put. DO NOT WONDER OFF THE TRAIL.

Laugh out loud.

We cannot see each other’s faces which are right next to each other let alone find a place to make a shelter and get ourselves off the wet ground. Fire building? Forget it. Foraging? Yeah, okay. We are going to freeze if we stay put. The sweat on our bodies which felt warm while running is now icing us down. Our jackets are wet, our shoes are soaked through, and there is not a dry body part between the two of us. As much as we’d really like to follow the advice that’s been pounded into our brains since childhood, it’s sort of a toss up between hypothermia or getting lost further in the 5,759 acres of open space preserve. I want my B.L.T. and my beer!

We go down on our hands & knees and feel out the trail, calling to each other and talking loudly so we can find each other again. When I say ‘we can’t see our hands right in front of our faces’, I’m not joking.

“I’ve got it! I’ve got it! It’s this direction!”

“Are you sure? I can’t feel it….”

My friend has found the trail again. It has widened making it difficult to access the edges. Our only prayer is that there is not another stupid trail marker we are missing because we can’t see. We crawl patting our way on the ground. Oh what a relief to find the trail. Good Gawd what a relief!

We navigate switchbacks, ravines, and the wet slimey trail that is covered with fallen logs and trees and branches. We tap the path, we poke the path, we get on all fours and crawl the path. And we do this for two hours. Two hours in complete and utter darkness.

And it’s quiet. Too quiet.

Every now and then we hear an airplane passing overhead and we stop and listen hoping that maybe it’s a car. It never is. What I would do to hear a generator humming, or a camper singing ‘Kumbaya My Lord’ or an off-the-grid crazy guy chainsawing his backyard of trees into a bizarre sculpture garden (um, yes, there are a few of those around here).

And where is the Ranger Station?!!?! WTF?!?!

We are angry now. Not at each other but at the State Parks. The trails are not well marked, the ones that are marked have no mile indications, they are not maintained, and they don’t make any sense. They start and end haphazardly.

“It’s lucky that it’s you and me and not some kid who strayed too far from the campsite…” I couldn’t agree with my boyfriend more, but I’m not feeling so lucky. But it is true: how would a kid figure out anything on these trails? We are trained hikers and we can’t figure out jack.

We navigate another switchback and then I let out a little scream. My friend stops abruptly. “Look! Look!” I say and point to some itsy-bitsy teeny tiny flickering lights. He can’t see me pointing but he can certainly see the lights bouncing up and down in the distance. “It must be flashlights – it must be campers or people looking for us!!!”

I’m delirious obviously.

“Amy, be quiet, we don’t even know what that is. It could be just a reflection. Just stay quiet and let’s get back to the path, what if it’s some crazy person?” he jokes. But I am like a moth to light and I start yelling as loud as poosible, “Hello?!?! Hellllllooooooo!?!?! Helllloooooooo????”.

Nothing. No response.

“See? That light is a long, lonnnnng way off. And it’s throwing off my senses. I need to concentrate. Let’s keep our heads down and start moving…”

He’s right. I quit trying to wake up the dead with my hollering, and we need to keep moving, and the bouncing light could be anything, and it could also be miles and miles away or across another valley. And there is a ravine on our right which is stopping me from just running for it. But our hearts are both pounding with the sense that civilization is close.

We continue and the light disappears which is worrying beyond belief but I know we have to follow the trail. We have no choice. We navigate another hour of switchbacks and then the trail widens once again. We probably have hiked no more than five miles in the last two hours at our shuffle-along pace. We are down on all fours feeling our way.

“It’s a car! A car!!! Oh my God there’s a road ahead!!!” I call out at the sight of a moving traingular-shaped light in the distance.

I want to run, we both want to run towards it but we still can’t judge the distance. The trail is taking us the other direction from the car and we just have to bite the bullet and make our way no matter how far it is. The ravine has evened out so we know we are on level ground, at least we think so. We can’t afford for the trail to take us somewhere else.

We send some prayers up to the moonless starless night that there isn’t a canyon between us and the road. We tap and poke our way around redwood tree stumps and brambles and poison oak and God only knows what else.

Another car drives by in the distance and this time it doesn’t seem more than a mile away. We are laughing. We are going to live! The little lights that were bouncing an hour earlier now come into focus on our right through a thicket of ivy and branches. They are christmas tree lights strung outside a cute little woodsy house. We make our way through the thicket and pray nobody’s pitbull comes after us.

“A house! A real house!!!” I shout out loud.

My friend hangs back, who is covered in mud, while I tap on the door and peer through the window. A nice woman who is clearly afraid to open the door asks me what I want. I can barely speak. She see’s my friend and assumes that we have come to raid her or I don’t now what. And I can’t blame her because if I lived way out past Sam MacDonald’s park practically off the grid, I would feel the same way if some one showed up on my doorstep unannounced.

“Please, we’re lost, we’ve been crawling on our hands and knees through the forest for the last 3 hours because we couldn’t see the path. I live in Loma Mar. Where are we? Can I make a phone call?”

I have started to shake uncontrollably now. The cold has finally set in. She realizes quickly that I’m not faking it although she’s not sure if she want to let us in. She grabs the phone and dials the number I give her. Farmer Kate picks up the phone and she’s worried as all hell. Our story has panned out and the woman gives us a ride back to the farm.

“You’re in La Honda. You came a long way from Loma Mar. And you’re lucky to be alive. There’s been a lot of mountain lion sightings recently and some fatal attacks too. I saw one just the other day and reported it on google. A big male. Very big. Just out back here.” She points to her backyard, which is really the open land preserve, as we climb in her car. “Trust me, they are big, you two are very lucky, most of the trails are closed right now.”

“They are?” I say dumbfounded barely able to form a sentence still shivering away. “I’m sorry if we frightened you, we are so grateful that you’re taking us home, you’re little christmas lights saved our lives. We saw them miles away but we weren’t sure if they were campers or flashlights. Have you ever had hikers show up on your doorstep like that?” I ask wondering if maybe we’re not the first offenders considering the lack of trail maps and markers.

“Oh, you’re not the first.” She says which relaxes us a little as she handles the curvy mountain roads expertly. Only a long-time mountain dweller can drive curves like these at night I think to myself. “But you really are lucky, very lucky, Mountain lions don’t normally attack humans but there’s just been too many of them around here lately…”

I can’t help but to think ignorance is bliss because I know I would have freaked out if I thought there was a mountain lion on my tail. But I doubt any big cat would want to take on two humans – one with a big stick – who keep laughing, yelling, talking, making noise, singing, walking, crawling, and running. My Mom’s favorite saying about what to do if you must confront a mountain lion? Jes’ don’t act like dinner. We didn’t.

We arrive at the gates of Echo Valley Farm and thank our saviour for the lift home. “Now we just have to navigate our way back to the cabin…” my boyfriend jokes because the farm is set about a quarter mile back from the entrance and it’s pitch dark too. But we link our arms and tap the path with our feet and we laugh our way back to the main farm house passing the sleeping chickens, the silent mini-moo, and the sleeping goats.

The moon is nowhere to be seen. The stars are hiding. It’s a blackout night – the darkest I’ve ever experienced on the farm.

Farmer’s Kate and Jeff hug us and we are too tired to recount the story but promise a good one for the morning. We shiver our way back to my cabin, make a fire in the hearth, jump in the shower because the hot tub is way too hot for our frozen limbs, fry up some Echo Valley bacon and take the warm bread out of the bread maker and make some B.L.T’s. We crack open beers. We stuff our faces even though we are nauseous from hunger. We try to sleep.

But sleep doesn’t come to either one of us. Our bodies hurt so much and we can’t get comfortable. The adrenaline is playing games with us. We toss and turn. And morning comes…

My boyfriend says to me, “That was the best Valentine’s Day ever.”

“Really?” I reply in disbelief, because to me it was probably one of the scariest experiences ever.

“Yeah, really, best Valentine’s Day ever. Great adventure ….wanna go for a run?”

“Sure, let me just grab some bear spray, a few protein bars, a mini flashlight, my GPS tracker, and some strike anywhere matches. Wanna go see where we got lost?”

“Yeah, of course I do.”

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“The bad part is…” she says while lying still looking up at us looking down at her. “I’ve just fallen into nettles and they are stinging me and I don’t want to move until some one reaches down and helps me up…”

“The good part is…” she begins as we carefully lift her up avoiding the angry nettle patch. “The good part is – it’s nearly Spring!” And this does call for celebration because soon the whole farm will be bursting in flowers and buzzing with bees and just looking magical again.

It’s not that the kale, cabbage, and broccolini haven’t been inspiring this Winter, it’s just that nettle shoots are always a sign of the changing seasons.

Nettles Sting! Be careful and wear gloves!

Red welts develop on her arms, back of neck, and side of face in front of our very eyes. She likens the sting to red ant bites. Which is not suprising since the same stinging formic acid in red ants is also in the fuzzy hairs of this sprightly leafy plant. Not to mention oxalic acid, tartaric acid, and histamine.

We return back to the farmhouse and grab paper bags and gloves to take our revenge on the offenders. I notice the red welts on Kate’s neck are still there. Nettles sting – they really sting. It’s the price one pays for this little foraged plant that has miraculous curing and protective properties according to forklore, fairy tales, and modern science.

But who’s to say there’s not some truth in it? Can nettles protect from lightening striking if you keep some in your pocket? Will they break a magic spell if sewn into a coat? Will chickens produce more eggs if dried nettles are added to the grain? Do they help with allergies, arthritis, enlarged prostate, and other maladies?

Nutrition wise they are high in iron, vitamin C, and carontinoids. And apparently (ahem – ladies this is just for us…) they are also a diuretic and help with bloating.

I’ve heard it said that nettles taste fishy. To me they taste like spinach and smell like wet hay when cooked. The flavor is very mild. I can see a comparison with nori, but not fish.

I will say they do have a slightly algae like texture after being blanched and blended. Not slimy, but just more viscous than spinach puree. Any method of high heat cooking (I’ve blanched them here as pictured above) is the only way I know to get that stinging to stop. I monitor the cooking/blanching process and test the nettles along the way to see if the painful part has passed. It normally takes about 45 seconds if blanched.

Nettle puree

Blanching greens in salted water and shocking them after in ice water helps to lock in chloroform and it also helps green veggies or purées to stay greener longer even when reheated. That’s a restaurant tip. Just about anything green and cooked that you get on your plate in restaurant will have been blanched and iced before being reheated.

So how does one pick nettles? There’s some Scottish lore to this: if you are a “man of mettle” you shouldn’t have any problems swiping them up with your bare hands. I say put some gloves on and pick the new bright green tips. When nettles start to flower the leaves get tough again.

Once you get a whole large grocery paper bag packed of nettles tips that should make at least one quart of purée. And if you make a whole batch of purée then there are lots of possibilities: soup, pesto, pesto pizza!, chevre beurre monté nettle sauce, pasta, potatoes with nettles and hot bacon vinaigrette…. you get the idea.

It’s easy to make big batches of nettle purée and freeze it then use how you like. And although normally I make pesto by hand in a mortar and pestle, for pizza I wanted something a little more sauce-y so I opted to mix nettle purée to the other ingredients.

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After an onslaught of holiday parties, I am throwing in the cocktail dress and pulling on the workboots. I sink a few bucks into Jeeps McGee’s big belly and put San Francisco in the rear view mirror. Pescadero here I come…

Me and McGee are so in our element. We are noisily cruising down 280, bouncing up and over the curvy Skyline mountains down to Highway 1. I reach Half Moon Bay and my 33-inch flame tread tires screech left onto the Coastal Highway.

Ahhhh, the ocean….

Today is beautiful. The Winter sun crisp illuminating the Pacific on my right like a bright and blinding sequined serpent. The fields on my left bleak and mostly tilled under with random rotting pumpkins left unloved. Cypress trees, like tortured twisted shadows with desperate outstretched arms edge the endless blue. Weathered farms dot the coast.

Artichoke soup, dungeness crab, and  olallieberry pie – here I come!

Farmer’s Kate and Jeff of Echo Valley Farm meet me at Pescadero beach with crowbars and baskets in tow. We find a giant wave washed rock a little too far out in the receding ocean covered with cloistered blue mussels. Prying tools in hand we go to work.

It’s low tide, we should be safe, the tide pools surrounding us are dry and thirsty. Sea cucumbers and anemones hibernate in the squinty bright sun.

Prying bivalves loose, and careful not to destroy the whole entire eco-system, we opt for the bigger ones. The small ones, although tender, are just too much work and not enough meat to show for it.

And then it happens, while our backs are turned and my farmer friends are happily chatting about Spring planting plans – the sea sneaks up on us and takes us all by surprise. We are super soaked!

We grab our gear and make a dash inland trying to find our footing in the tide pools that are now under water. How did that happen?

Back on the farm we dry off and prepare the mussels. This is not a quick process. Wild Mussels are sandy and bearded and covered with mini barnacles.

If storing mussels for a day (or two at the most), kept dry in a single layer in the refrigerator with a damp kitchen towel over top. In a restaurant I store mussels in a perforated tray over ice in the fridge, but never in ice – they will die. Throw away any that have cracked shells. If shells are open tap lightly, if the bivalve closes it is still alive. Otherwise it’s dead.

When ready to use, place mussels gently in a bucket of cold water for 30 minutes. This will help the little bivalves filter out some of the sand. If they are kept in fresh water for an extended time they will die. Under running water scrape and/or scrub off barnacles and remove beard (or byssus) by grabbing the brownish threads with fingertips and yanking back & forth and side to side down by the hinge. Place cleaned mussels into a separate bucket of cold water to continue filtration.

The byssus thread is edible, but sand likes to stick to it and it’s not exactly pleasant to chew – unless you like to eat hair. However, if a few go un-bearded, it’s not the end of the world.

Our bright orange wild mussels taste like Pescadero coast: robust, briney and beautiful. The salty mussel liquor quintuples the white wine I’ve used to steam them open. I’ve never seen so much bivalve liquor before! This I strain with cheesecloth and reserve for various recipes.

Prince Edward Island (PEI) mussels, which are found in most markets, can be steamed directly with other garnishes (Curry & cream? Fennel, saffron & white wine? Tomatoes & capers? Ginger, garlic, & lemongrass?) because they are not sandy and do not need to be strained. Most farmed mussels require just a rinse before using.

But the liquor of wild mussels will need to be strained or the sand left to sink to the bottom of the pot and carefully avoided. I prefer to strain it out but this means my sauce or broth will take extra effort to finish. Totally worth it.

We are taking the mussels to a pot luck party at Pie Ranch down the coast towards Santa Cruz. I opt for a true marinara sauce (a tomato sauce with seafood – as the name implies) for our offering. We cook up pasta, toss it with our rich tomato-caper-mussel sauce enhanced with white wine and mussel liquor, sprinkle chopped parsley over, and head out back along the coast to the barn dance and dinner.

Sun sinking. Sky, a burst of pink and mussel orange. Clouds streaked greyish purple against the flame colored backdrop. Salty sea air stinging noses and wind whipping hair everywhere, we hold on tight in Jeeps McGee.

It’s time to kick up our heels Pescadero style…

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The fleshless fruit imparts a lovely fragrant sweet lemon essence minus the furniture polish aftertaste. Use the zest in just the same way you would a lemon. It can be candied, blended up in vinaigrette (pith included- it’s sweet!), or displayed as a fragrant center piece on the dining room table. It also makes a sexy twist in a glass of champagne.

Take the ingredients of this salad and use them simply or, if you feel like spending an hour on a dish that will be eaten in less than thirty seconds, you can follow my lead!?! I’ve sugared the walnuts with maple syrup, fried Cambozola blue cheese in beignet beer batter, and served the persimmon roasted in honey and sliced raw. Either way the flavor profiles hit all the right notes: sweet, sour, salty, and bitter plus the varying textures make for an exciting first course.

Blue cheese beignets are a guilty pleasure. If you’re not a salad lover they also taste good with a juicy steak. But, it’s hard to resist a crunchy beignet oozing salty blue gooeyness all over a sweet roasted perimmon…

I like kale raw, it’s so much healthier that way. And if I’m popping fried cheese balls in my mouth I favor the idea of a cleansing antioxidant chaser. Here’s farmer Jessica with a fresh picked bunch of curly kale at Echo Valley Farm…

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When multiple side dishes are served at the same time (ahem – Thanksgiving?) some need to be easier than others. Some need to be assembled the day before and baked off the day of – ah shoot – why not plan the whole menu that way?

This is an easy side that’s pretty on the plate. Pancetta wrapped anything is pretty on a plate. Slice the kuri in wedges, wrap in pancetta, stick in your favorite fresh herbs (sage? thyme?), drizzle with honey and roast. Red kuri skin is edible too.

Echo Valley Farm had a bumper crop this year. But if you don’t have a farmer’s market or local farmer in your vincinity check out Whole Foods Market, they carry kuri squash this season.

Roasted Red Kuri Squash (Potimarron), Pancetta & Honey

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I experimented with different types of flour for these biscuits, hoping to create a healthier recipe. The addition of pumpkin pack to the batter keeps whole wheat flour biscuits (like sprouted whole wheat) moist but they do not rise tall even with added leavening. They still taste delicious, but instead of having a flaky filling the crumb is more cake like. Unbleached white flour works best.

Making pumpkin pack is as simple as roasting sugar pie pumpkin wedges in a roasting pan with a 1/4 cup of water covered with tinfoil. When soft, scoop the flesh out and purée. Other squashes can be substituted for pumpkin like Kuri or Kabocha.

Two of the farmer’s at Echo Valley carved messages in the pumpkins while they were still small. Nobody noticed until the pumpkins grew up and the messages stretched and hardened. What fun to find a pumpkin with your name on it in the pumpkin patch!

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These little peppers are almost out of season. In fact they should be totally out of season but this summer has come and gone a little late on the West coast. At Echo Valley we love padron peppers and put them in everything: sliced in salads and on pizzas, grilled with sausages or shrimp, and braised in stews.

Our favorite way to eat these sweet mildly spicy peppers is simple. And it has become the go to appetizer after an exhausting day of selling at the Farmer’s markets. We like to get a skillet hot with a small splash of cooking oil (sometimes toasted sesame oil, but be careful it has a low smoke point) and throw the peppers in stems and all quickly tossing them around until they are blistered.

We plate them in a pile, top with crunchy Maldon salt, and dip them in whatever we feel appropriate. Sometimes Kate makes her famous Echo Valley Farm ranch dressing or I make a little ponzu sauce. Sometimes we just eat them plain!

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This is one of those recipes that is more feel than precise measurement and unfortunately I don’t know how doable it is for home cooks. Although many Asian supermarkets and butcheries carry various pig parts including bones.

The pork broth starts with raising pigs humanely and it ends with processing them humanely. Here at Echo Valley Farm that is important. And, for a change, I’m not going to elaborate except to say these pigs had a great life.

I roast the bones until nicely caramelized. Unlike some animal fat, pork fat has this incredibly rich scent that gets the senses going – makes me hungry! – hard to walk through the kitchen with pork bones in the oven.

After the fat left on the bone is caramelized, but not burnt, and the bones roasted I put them in an enormous stock pot (almost the size of me) along with the pig’s head and cover all with cold water. This I simmer slowly all day, all night, and all morning.

Here’s a basic recipe for stock: put bones, roasted or not, in a stock pot and cover with water by 4-inches (too much water will make it taste watery). Bring to a boil and skim off impurities that rise to the top including white-ish foam. Turn down heat and simmer, add mirepoix (carrots, celery, onion, herbs) and cook for a length of time depending on bone density and intensity of flavor desired. One hour for chicken to all day & night for pig or beef stock.

If brown stock is desired, brown the bones. If normal stock is called for, don’t. If a perfectly clear broth (consommé) is on order with no cloudiness, then clarify the finished stock with egg whites. And, do not add salt because it will reduce.

After a day and a half of making pork stock, I strain the liquid from the bones, and infuse with homegrown lemongrass, ginger, garlic, and onion. I strain this out again and add sliced fingerling potatoes, napa cabbage, carrots, tokyo turnips, chives, and a splash of rice wine vinegar.

I finish ladled soup with a drizzle of toasted sesame oil, a splash of white shoyu, a sprinkle of white sesame seed, and cilantro leaves to float. This soup couldn’t be lighter and heartier at the same time. Healing and whole hearted-ly fulfilling.

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Language barrier be damned! This smoky-sweet-vinegary Mexican marinade that my cooking team has nicknamed “Out-of Body” for “Adobada” is serious. Get out the grill. This is gonna put your neighbor’s tri-tip to shame. Gaujillo and pasilla chiles (dried) are what give this sauce it’s fruity, mildly spicy kick.

I use this marinade more like a barbecue sauce and slather it over steaks after the first quick sear on the grill. Maybe that’s unorthadox. I don’t know. I do know that I served this at an event for two hundred people and there were no complaints. Nada.

It’s definitely a leap from my usual French cooking and comfort zone, but I discovered these dried chiles on one of my many adventures to 24th Street in San Francisco and then had to figure out what to do with them. Why not try them out at a huge party and see how it goes?

This recipe is adapted from Roberto Santibañez, who is Chef/Owner of a great Mexican restaurant in Park Slope, Brooklyn called Fonda. For those West Coasters living in NYC, I suggest you stop whimpering about the lack of good Mexican food and make the trip… or make this at home if you can find the peppers ;-P

(Very easy to poke fun from my apartment in the Mission!)

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How can I say anything but yes! to a nonprofit that provides vital services for families living in the rural San Mateo South Coast communities of Pescadero, La Honda, Loma Mar, and San Gregorio?

Puente provides a single point of entry for men, women, and children to have access to safety net services, health and wellness services, youth employment, leadership development, and community engagement and action. This includes migrant farm workers that work to bring food to everyone’s tables.

Challenge: how to orchestrate a feast for 200 people (maybe 600 depending on the RSVP’s – yikes!) in a rural setting utilizing produce and products from as many surrounding farms and community vendors as possible?

And how to set up an outdoor kitchen, bring in a team of chefs, and all the necessary party supplies (tables, chairs, tableclothes, toilettes, chaffing dishes, bowls, plates, etc)?

I love this kind of stuff.

First I enlist the best possible staff. I hire one of my chef’s from Citizen Cake who opened the restaurant with me, and one from Circa who re-opened that restaurant with me, and one who comes highly recommened from Pescadero, and two more catering pros from San Francisco – and I bribe their 11 year old son with the promise of a new ipod mini. Yes, I bribed.

It’s for a good cause! You must come! You can stay on the farm and I’ll ply you with champagne and wine and fresh apple cider!

Who can resist a Martha Stewart-esque weekend like that?

Little did any of them know that sleeping on a farm can be difficult for the first timer. It’s quiet for one. Mysteriously so. Until the roosters start up at 4:30A.M and the farmer’s start milking goats and turning on lights and clomping around. (Mild exaggeration, bien sûr!)

Why farmers seem so happy so early in the morning is beyond me. Perhaps its the pleasure of waking city folk up? Even with the glorious smell of fresh coffee? This has got to be an inside joke. And funny enough, I’m beginning to get it.

Kelvin, my chef from Citizen Cake has a habit nobody but me seems to understand. He locks all the doors in our cabin at night. And I don’t blame him because I get scared out here too. It’s silly, yes, but maybe we’ve both seen one too many horror movie. I prefer to lie awake all night in fear, while he just gets down to business and battens down the hatch.

This, of course, is hilarious to the Echo Valley Farm team that use our cabin to store goat milk in the morning. I was hazed for locking my doors on my first overnighter and now him. And as part of the initiation rite of passage Kelvin is asked to milk the goats. He takes this with stride.

But it is Kelvin, who get the last laugh here, because he is a natural and the goats give no sign of annoyance. And I think the animals have decided he’s farm material because he listens to their concerns and doles out fatherly wisdom. Young Gretel is taking this lecture with all due seriousness.

Enough “kidding” around, there’s work to be done. Kelvin and I prep all the marinades and vinaigrettes for our luncheon a day before the other chefs arrive, and start setting up our make-shift outdoor kitchen.

I give the menu a latin spin because we are using Cleodtildé’s famous tamales (Pescadro local vendor) and somehow serving a pasta dish or a béarnaise sauce next to a tamale just doesn’t seem appetizing. But all the same, I don’t want the meal to be readily available items. I want it to be special and just a little different. Buh, oui, hein?

So I ixnay on the tacos and enchilades and go for Markegard family grass-fed beef smothered in adobada sauce. This is a kickass Mexican BBQ sauce of sorts that gets its sweet-smokiness from toasted and rehydrated pasilla and guajillo chilis with a nice puckery punch from straight up hard core white distilled vinegar. Vita-prep white onions, garlic, mexican oregano, and toasted cumin with the chilis, slather it on steak, throw it over a mesquite grill, slice up, and watch it dissappear: magic.

Because I feel guilty serving only buffet style food, I add appetizers to stave off starvation with Fly Girl Farm dry farmed tomatoes. I turn these intensely flavorful fruits into gazpacho shots blended with sherry vinegar, almonds for creaminess, garlic, and top with hard cooked farm eggs & crispy bacon. These go down easy.

One appetizer is child’s play and the bounty of produce I have to choose from is making me A.D.D., I add spiced kuri squash & kale frittata bites to remind our guests that winter is on it’s way with the earthier vegetables I always crave in the cold. Dee (the legend) of Harley Farm fame donates goat cheese spreads to top crostini. A drizzle of local honey and a crispy fried sage leaf tops the pumpkin smear and cherry tomatoes with basil top the herb spread.

But wait, there’s these cute little padron peppers from Del Sur Farm and a tree full of ripe asian pears at Echo Valley Farm! It’s only natural to add another hot entrée of spicy sausage-padron pepper-asian pear skewers brushed with chorizo vinaigrette.

And I’ve got to provide some salads and use the end of season vegetables. Hence the hickory smoked baby potato salad with freshly dug little jewels from Echo Valley Farm in all different colors: purple, red, and yellow that are smoked over the grill and tossed with a redwine-mustard combination and parsley. Smoked potatoes are really tasty.

The late season white corn on the farm is sweeter than sugar cane. I’m tempted just to throw it on the BBQ the day of, but I don’t want people worrying about corn-in-teeth at a party. Grilled corn & zucchini salad with farm cheese and lime it is. I add fresh oregano with black pepper and a butter-olive oil mixture for richness. Butter and corn are a no-brainer. Thankfully the zucchini season is finally slowing down on the farm, for awhile I thought it was going to simply take over the universe and suffocate all of us in our dreams. Then we’d really have squash coming out of our ears. With two crates of every shape and size of summer squash and eighty ears of fresh picked corn, this should be plenty for two hundred people.

Addwater Farm has really nice lettuce in all different shapes, sizes, and varieties. And farmer Brian will harvest this the day of for us so it is still alive and bouncy. To keep it simple (I mean come on, this is a farm luncheon, not a three hour tasting menu, right?) I add torn herbs with shaved Nantes carrot and whip up a poblano-orange-rice wine vinaigrette. It’s unusual and pleasant on hot afternoons.

Lastly, for something  spicy-sweet:  watermelon-cucumber salad with lime-chili vinaigrette. Okay, I bought the watermelons outside of Pescadero, but the cucumber was all Echo Valley Farm.

That’s enough. With the tamales and cupcakes for dessert and the fresh pressed apple cider? That should definitly do it.

I have cooked a lot of French food over the last 9 years. I want to kick it up a notch! Forget subtly of flavor –let’s just do this! I want some in yo face flavor happenin! Pow! Shazam! You get the idea…

I just want to have fun. No restraint. No coyness. Throw modesty to the wind. Forget frilly feminine and go fierce.

Keith, my chef from Circa, arrives and literally lifts me off the ground with the biggest bear hug ever. Then he pretends to strangle me for our photo opp. It’s a love-hate kind of thing clearly. “It’s good to see you Chef”, he says. And like a great team coming back together, I feel pumped that my action plan is on track. This just might work.

Okay this just might not work.

The party rental people arrive and apparently my order is mostly right. Mostly. This is partly my fault. I didn’t look at the dimensions on my invoice sheet close enough. I ordered “conference” tables to set the food on and I was reassured they would be wide enough to fit two rows of chaffing dishes down each side. But these tables are about 12-inches wide. So only one row will fit. Which means I can’t set out double rows of food, which means that I will have to refill dishes faster, and the food line will move slower.

I’ll make it work. I have to.

On the flip side, the bandana table clothes I ordered are totally cute. So totally cute that Farmer/Owner Kate strategizes on how we might be able to keep them and not give them back to the rental company. The farmers think they’re worth jumping up and down about.

And Kate also cleverly decides to match her outfit to the food tables covered with checkered oil cloth. Who said farmers aren’t fashionable? Martha eat your heart out!

The rented 5-foot charcoal grill is pretty badass and I like that. My carne adobada is going to be serious.

Jose, a young cook from Pescadero arrives, and I’m slightly skeptical because I’ve never worked with him like this. He’s the Pescadero farmer’s market manager and he does a great job at it, but cooking with some one for the first time in a setting where things need to get done fast and correctly is risky.

Jose has offered to make the tomatillo salsa to accompany the carne adobada. I’ve already cleaned a bushel of tomatillos and I hand over the basket and tell him to go for it. “I hear your salsa is bomb. Just do it the way you like but a little less spicy.” We discuss the process and agree upon the procedure. Jose busts out the best tomatillo salsa I’ve ever had in my life.

He blazes through endless prep with a smile, a positive attitude, and a wicked work ethic. I like Jose immediately. We all do. And we are all eager to mentor him.

Last to arrive are my fabulous foodie friends who are catering savvy. Robert is a Southerner and I know he works the grill like an octopus on steroids because I’ve seen it in action. And I’ve tasted his dishes in the past which have yet to disappoint.

Robert tests the grill and charcoal with the juiciest family meal: mesquite grilled hamburgers. Yum.

Kat is comfortable organizing huge conferences in Vegas and pulling together front and back of house flawlessly. So I know she can do both on the fly. And she has the eye when it comes to fashion, food, and art. I’m still working on the fashion, art, and understanding front of house drama. I’m happy to pass this off.

And she’s also just a beautiful woman inside and out which balances the testosterone fest and keeps all the guys on best behaviour. Trust me, this is a good thing, the guys appreciate it.

Jax, Robert’s son, is good at playing video games and playing baseball. Hmmm. Good thing there’s an old relic Pac-Man arcade machine in our cabin that works without quarters, but he is going to have sweat for that ipod mini. He does. No complaints.

And he works his way into my hard heart with his constant “Yes, Master Chef, what’s next?” routine which is hilarious to the whole team but secretly endearing to me. Flattery will get you everywhere.

There are still hurdles to jump. Prepping food for 200 people requires storage space. And that is something we have, but it is all over the farm: in the main house, in the guest cabin, in the pantry, and in a huge ice cooler. There’s also the issue of using stoves, ovens, and grills. We have multiple of each, but again they are all over the farm which means that I can’t watch everything and the cooks are running between our outdoor prep area, three kitchens, and four different storage areas. Confusing.

Our first day of prep reminds me of chicken processing. That part where the neck gets slashed and the body jerks around for awhile. Not pretty. Recipes are only half completed by the time the sun sets and I can feel my jaw muscles tensing as I hurry to finish my prep. Jax replaces the daylight with the bright glare of his cell phone held over my knife and cutting board. Note to self: kids should have cell phones if for no other reason than to provide light when working at night.

We call it after the mosquitos replace the yellow jackets that have been plagueing us all afternoon. The race is on and I am not exactly happy with our progress. I don’t like to be in the weeds. And I very much want to showcase all the locally grown produce properly because all the farmers will be coming to eat along with the Puente guests.

Stresssss….

I wake up the morning of the party at 5:00A.M and there is no point in going back to bed. Farmer Kate makes coffee and we chat about the procedure for the day. I have created a written master plan that I’m hoping will help everyone. She is already showered and ready to face the day. I am puffy eyed, sleep deprived, and wondering if perhaps I should have offered myself to the axe murderer who Kelvin and I know lurks out here somewhere instead of playing it safe on the sofa.

The sun is not up yet. And setting up the outdoor kitchen is useless. Instead I pull on my running gear and head out to the road that winds around the base of the La Honda mountains in the redwood trees. I can barely see one foot in front of the other, but the fresh air clears my mind, my shoulders drop, the sweat releases toxins from all the adrenaline build up, and the deep blue of the almost-morning sky is speckled with stars that guide my path. It’s beautiful. Peaceful. And I realize between cold gasps for air and steamy exhales that I am happy. I love being here. This farm is like a second home to me.

What could possibly go wrong?

Ah yes, runner’s high is just that. I arrive back at the farm with the daylight breaking. Kelvin is up and slightly annoyed with me that I didn’t wake him for the run. He likes to work out. Jose returns to the farm with his warm way about him, Jackson and family are still sleeping and I decide to let them lie in for a little bit. Naaaah, I’ll wake them up.

The menu sheets that I have made with everyone’s name tagged to specific items flies out the window.

But no matter, we all know now what needs to get done. I make it clear that everyone just has to finish fully whatever it is they are working on and own it completely. Day two of prep is so much easier than expected. We are ready to roll a good hour before the guests arrive. Basically we totally rock.

Robert naturally slides to the grill and takes over the charcoal lighting ceremony. Kat and I prep hundreds of gazpacho shots and trays of crostini and frittata, Jax is running around helping everyone, Kelvin and Jose are skewering skewers. Cleotildé arrives with 300 hundred tamales in two vegetarian flavors.

Carren, the local cupcake goddess and owner of Buttercup Cakes and Farmhouse Frosting rolls in with her little refrigerator truck and hundreds of tasty cupcakes, cheesecakes, and applecakes.

I give a quick lesson on serving to our Puente youth volunteers and they hurry back with empty platters excited that “People want more! They like it!”

Speeches are made, guests are fed, apple cider is gulped, kids are swinging under the walnut trees, dogs are scarfing down treats, cooks are sweating over the grill, Fiddler’s are fiddling, farmer’s are tasting the fruits of their hard earned labor, and life is good.

Just another day at Echo Valley Farm, and what a fabulous party. What an honor to cook for this community. What a great team. What extraordinary farmers that bring food to our tables and nourish our lives.

Blessed to be here!

Farm workers and their families need your support! Can you help?

Lars Howlett Photos of Puente

(Thank you Lars Howlett for capturing our day. And stay tuned for Part II: Puente Lunch Purveyors)

The post Part I: Farm to Table Lunch, the Cooking Team first appeared on Amy Glaze's Pommes d'Amour.

Apple cider is not easy to make. It takes a small army to do this right. One would think there was nothing to it. Ha!

A single ingredient anything (meal, dessert, beverage, etc) is one of those most complicated things to make right because if that one ingredient isn’t outstanding then the labor, effort, and enjoyment is worthless. Don’t believe me? Go ask Alice. I ate at Chez Panisse once and they served me a perfectly sweet peach for dessert – nothing else! And I still remember it.

Recipe: plant apple seeds in good soil, grow apple orchard if you’re planning on making enough juice to supply a county (easy?), nuture the trees and stay away from chemical sprays.

At Echo Valley Farm the apple trees are over one hundred years old and no one knows exactly what variety they are. We do know they are tart sweet and make killer tangy juice.

When the apples are at the hight of ripeness round up everyone in town to shake trees, pick, harvest, stand on ladders and grab. Core apples. Then get two insanely strong farmers to hand press them the old fashioned way.

This is not a job for wimps. This is a two day upper body work-out. (blow-out, might be a more accurate description.)

Strain out the yellow jackets that have dive bombed into the juice who are sugar drunk and a little cranky. 

Pour into 200 pint jars. Freeze. Take out jars in the morning before the 200 guests arrive for lunch and let them partially thaw so they are slushy.

Watch men, women, and children bring jars to mouth holding carefully with two hands.

Listen for lip smacking and satisfaction sounds.

Pescadero grown, Echo Valley Farm picked and pressed.

It’s the ‘simple’ things in life that bring so much joy.

(Thank you Lars for capturing the day)

The post Fresh Pressed Apple Cider first appeared on Amy Glaze's Pommes d'Amour.

Thursday, Pescadero Farmer’s Market day, is our Echo Valley Farm lunch. Where the team gets a chance to gather around the table to refuel, rehydrate, and share a few stories before packing up the day’s bounty and carting it into town.

I like feeding farmers. Mostly because they are starving from working all morning and will happily try anything and also because they appreciate seeing their hard labor utilized and transformed.

Here’s a beautiful recipe for rhubarb. It goes great with grilled pork chops slathered in mustard & rosemary served alongside yukon-gold mashed potatoes with freshly grated horseradish.

Be cautious with rhubarb, the leaves are poisonous and should be thrown away and the stalks cook fast. Rhubarb can go from tender-crisp to mush in ten seconds. Despite it’s murderess rap, I love rhubarb’s tartliness and the way it pairs with savory and sweet ingredients so unexpectedly.

Celery, often misunderstood as a vegetable put on earth to simply escort peanut butter to mouth, is actually quite tasty when braised. At Le Bernardin we braised celery with pata negra for one of the signature black bass dishes. So it can be braised and eaten in long stalks like this – just in case there was any doubt?

I like this side dish warm, but it can be served cold too. Continue reading for recipe.

The post Rhubarb & Celery Chutney first appeared on Amy Glaze's Pommes d'Amour.

There’s only two ingredients that really matter: the berries and the butter. Wild blackberries are mouth puckering tart and lip smacking sweet with less moisture content than store bought. And they are free, because you stop at the side of the road and pick them yourself or sneak into your neighbor’s back forty and harvest. (Don’t get caught.)

Check out this butter that Farmer Kate made at Echo Valley farm! And the color! I have never tasted butter with such Incredible depth of flavor – not even in France. If homemade butter is not a possibility look for European styles like Plugra or Strauss.

Of course the flour matters too; I use organic when possible. We are not milling flour on the farm but Pie Ranch is down the road. And, by the way, they are hosting a farm to table dinner with a barn dance this Saturday. Lots of pie for dessert if you’re in town.

I adapted an old recipe from Bon Appetit for the pie crust. It’s the only one I know that is flaky, all butter, and does not get soggy with a juicy filling. This pie should be juicy. The coagulated cornstarch amorphous blackberry blob just doesn’t cut it.

Correction: I was forced to “adapt” the recipe due to the available selection.

Normally the crust is a combination of cake and all-purpose flour. But when I asked at the local store for cake flour the response was: “Honey, we just don’t get that specialized around here.” Jeez, was it my Lulu Lemon yoga outfit and freshly coiffed hair-do that misconstrued my normal free spirit for some snooty high falutin’ city girl? Honestly, I didn’t miss it. The crust was great.

I’ll leave you the unadapted pie crust recipe. Or you can do what I did and sub the cake flour for all-purpose – if you’re not feelin’ too specialized!

The post Wild Blackberry Pie first appeared on Amy Glaze's Pommes d'Amour.

Farmer’s Kate & Jeff at Echo Valley bring in bushels of walnuts and we sit around the kitchen table cracking nuts, eating the ‘bad’ ones, and sipping coffee. It’s a good breakfast. After 4 hours of smashing nuts with hammers and crushing with crab claws we barely have any walnut meat to show for our hard work.

Nonetheless, we have enough for a big batch of pesto. And I prefer the bitter-sweetness of walnuts to pine nuts. Besides, pine nuts are ridiculously expensive this year and there are 3 walnut trees on the farm that are going crazy with little green grenades that bomb the ground haphazardly. Nuts away!

The basil is out of control: vibrant, bushy, and growing like weeds. I like to run my hands through the basil beds releasing their fragrance into the air. But enough basil romancing, there’s just too darn much of it.

Making pesto to sell at a farmer’s market is different than making pesto at home for immediate consumption. And at Echo Valley farm we have been trying to get it right. And by “right” I mean a pesto that does not turn black and keeps a bright green color, a pesto that has a nice balance in flavor (not too garlicky, not too walnut-y, not too cheese-y), a pesto that is a mixture with visually separate ingredients not a uniform paste.

When I make pesto at home for one meal – and one meal only–  I mix ingredients with a mortal and pestle or hand chop and add olive oil to combine. But if you’ve got a crop of basil? (We’re talking pounds not bunches.) How to preserve this amazing condiment without pasteurizing and killing all the antioxidents and flavor?

In the restaurant business we make pesto by first blanching the basil for a few seconds and then shocking in ice water. This helps to lock in the chloroform and bright green color. It also stabilizes the flavor and, unfortunately, I think it also diminishes it some.

For me, one of the worst aspects about store bought pesto are the added ingredients. Most add canola oil. Why? Because it’s cheap. And because it doesn’t thicken as easily as olive oil in the refrigerator.

Store bought pesto often adds spinach to improve the bright green appearance. This isn’t so bad, but again it’s cheaper than basil.

After experimenting with fresh and blanched ingredients I think blanching is the way to go if making a batch of it to last a week or more. Freezing also works – but I always forget that I have it on hand.

The best comment we’ve received on this recipe was from taste tester and neighboring farmer Brian at Addwater farms. He said, and I quote, “Shut the door, that was the best pesto I’ve ever had”.

Try for yourself, and include any notes. We would love to hear any and all fresh pesto debates. We hope to have sellable products coming soon to the Pescadero Farmer’s market and community food stores.

The post Pesto! first appeared on Amy Glaze's Pommes d'Amour.

After two years of barely having enough time to respond to email let alone cleanse the ridiculous spam from my inbox, I’m back. Refreshed. Renewed. And seriously annoyed that I have let Viagra Online take over my blog.

Even my namesake website address, Msglaze.com, which I failed to renew has been poached. Why would anyone use my name for a Japanese travel site? And a Russian site has been copying my content and won’t remove my plageurized posts. Ha-rumph! And double shaking fists!!!

Regardless. Today is a big day at Echo Valley Farm. And I have not slept.

My nightmares have been disturbing. I wake in the middle of the night paralyzed with fear and force myself to move again. My throat is tight and no scream could escape even if life depended on it. After what feels like an eternity of frozen hell, I crawl out of bed and lock up my sweet little cottage just in case there is anyone on this enchanted farm that feels like making my fears a reality.

6A.M. comes around much sooner than expected. Man, doesn’t it always?

Farmer/Owner Kate of Echo Valley taps on my window, my front door locked, and whispers, “Don’t you want coffee in bed Missy Glaze? And a computer?” I pop the window open and thankfully accept these gifts. I wonder to myself if this laptop-on-loan is a subtle yet direct way of telling me that it’s time to write again? I tell her about my dreams and I can see she is troubled too.

“No wonder, today is chicken killin’ day Missy! But don’t get up yet, enjoy the coffee, I’m going to boil some water outdoors and get things set up.”

I can’t exactly explain why it is so important to me to be part of this processing day, but it is. I have learned much of the art of butchering game in France from skinning hares and wild boar, to plucking grouse and pigeon, to cleaning game birds of guts and shot and breaking down sides of veal. But I want to have a stronger connection with the food I eat and prepare. So here I am.

I sip my strong coffee mildly diluted with fresh goat milk, pull on the clothes I care least about, wash my face, and open my laptop. Cell phones don’t work out here but some how the interenet does. My unanswered inbox is intimidating and I give up. Besides the roosters are rooster-ing right outside my window and it’s distracting! Who can work with such noise? Such clamor?

Otis the Pup, the newest addition to the farm, greets me with happy-go-lucky good looks and wagging tail. His weak little pup yelp for attention forces me to pick him up and kiss his cute little face over and over while he in turn licks my face clean.

I carry treats for him to win his affection much to the chagrin of his mom who can’t figure out why he follows me around the farm nipping at my heels. We head over to the shade of the walnut trees where our makeshift chicken processessing plant is set up. He rests his head by the stock pots ready for the action to begin.

Huge stock pots of water simmer on a propane burner. We wait for the temperature to rise to 160˚F while setting up the “killing cone”; an aluminum cone that helps to steady the chicken during and after the slaughter. It is much better than the ol’ swinging-chicken-overhead-and-snapping-neck technique. At least I think it is – but what do I know about these things?

DeeDee, the farm manager, gathers us and begins with reading a poem of Mary Oliver’s. It is worth remembering and if I had to choose an epitaph this would be it…

Messenger

My work is loving the world. 

Here the sunflowers, there the hummingbird — 

 equal seekers of sweetness. 

The post Otis the Pup & Chicken Processing first appeared on Amy Glaze's Pommes d'Amour.

Free at last. Free at last. 

And although there is plenty of trouble to get into on a late Sunday afternoon in the sunny Marina, I need to get out of town or I can't truly relax. To go where my cell phone doesn't work. To be in wild blackberry bushes, and chicken coups, and zucchini plants up to my ears, and holly hocks and sunflowers towering over my head, and heirloom tomatoes ripe for the picking, and collard greens begging for attention. 

I need to be at Echo Valley Ranch in Loma Mar, California. 

One of the most enjoyable parts of being a chef in the Bay Area is making connections with the farmers. And I'm partial to the ones around Pescadero and Half Moon Bay. 

Why? Because half my family lives here and I grew up on this coast boogie boarding and camping on the beaches and picking artichokes on the side of the road and buying beans at Phipps farm and getting fish just in off the boats. 

I cracked my first dungeness crab at the local institution Duartes as a toddler. And have picked endless flats of the relatively unknown but nonetheless delicious berry, ollalieberry, to make jam with my mother. 

Kate and Jeff Haas are the proud owners of Echo Valley Ranch. And they grow an array of beans, greens, squash, herbs, carrots, potatoes, and more. They also produce farm fresh eggs. (Although it can be quite challenging to find out where the chickens lay their eggs since they run around the farm at will – I even found one nestled at the base of a redwood tree) 

I mentioned awhile back that I would really like zucchini flowers and maybe some interesting varieties of squash and now I've got so much of both I'm practically throwing them into all my dishes. This is a good problem to have. 

Squash blossoms are a specialty item because they are difficult to transport. And for those who have suffered squash fatigue (I just picked all the zukes last night!!?! How is it possible that there are a gazillion more this morning??!), laugh not. 

Although it is true that one plant can overwhelm a family and inundate a neighborhood with endless "gifts", restaurants pay top dollar for flowers and baby squash.

Currently on the menu I have handmade fettuccine with scallops, Laughing Bird shrimp, sautéed squash blossoms and dill white wine sauce. I have a walu (butterfish) garnished with stuffed blossoms in tempura batter. 

But that's not all: I have grilled baby pumpkin and summer squash and a zucchini & basil soup garnished with basil-mint oil, crema, and micro cilantro. The only thing I don't have (and should have) on the menu is zucchini bread. I love zucchini bread.

This is my second home. 

I walk out in the gardens and pick bright colored rainbow chard, nasturtium blossoms, peppery arugula, red runner beans, corn, squash, carrots, basil, and tumeric root. 

I look at the bounty and brainstorm dishes for dinner supplementing with whatever protein is in the fridge. Kate pitches in and we cook together on her old Merrit O'Keiffe stove in well seasoned cast iron pans that make everything taste so much better. Jeff pours wine lending a hand where needed and always adding his sense of humor. 

We polish off God knows how many bottles of wine (whose counting anyway?) and close the night with wild blackberry pie and coffee.

The roads through Loma Mar are windy and I never make the trek home after dinner. Instead I stay in the meditation cabin just feet from the river that surrounds the property and close my eyes to the music of water rushing over smooth rocks and pebbles. 

My shoulders relax, the crease in my forehead disappears, I smile at my good fortune to be in such a magical place, I am at peace.

For the moment…

I still have to find more recipes for all the flats of blossoms and cases of squash I know I'll be driving home with in the morning.

The post Echo Valley Ranch Rules first appeared on Amy Glaze's Pommes d'Amour.