The grain farm is a big operation – bigger than Greyrock, anyway – so the process is performed with a slick finesse. We walked through the field, grabbing rocks and tossing them into a large tractor that drove alongside us.

“Look for ones bigger than your fist,” Steven had said.

“Like the size of a sandwich loaf of ciabatta bread?” I asked, working the image into something I could recognize.

He looked at me with an odd, amused sort of gaze. “Well, sure.”

—

Since then, we’ve done a lot of rock picking at Greyrock. There’s no tractor around to lighten the load, but truth be told I like it better that way. It feels simpler, nicer, quieter. The task goes best with two or three people, one hauling a cart behind as everyone bends down to snatch up rocks from the dirt.

This might seem a silly practice – a Sisyphean sort of punishment for willing teamsters – but it’s hugely important. An errant rock can wreck havoc on a cultivator.

Tory has done the brunt of the work the past few weeks, clearing rows of transplanted kale, lettuce, onions and kohlrabi and receiving help from volunteers and workers who have a free hour or two.

On Monday, I joined her in clearing the field closest to the dairy barn and CSA distribution center. All winter it had been used as a habitat for the pigs, but as they’ve moved to a shady, muddy love nest in the woods across the road, the empty space will become a field for herbs and flowers – a pretty way to greet CSA members and visitors, and useful too. But first it had to be cleaned and readied for plowing. Tory and I were up for the task.

At first glance, the project seemed insurmountable. Instead of neat, clean rows to pace, Member Field was a barren wasteland of compost, carcasses, bones and rocks. “I guess we just start here,” I said as Tory parked the cart next to a pile of rocks, large and embedded in wet soil.

We picked for two hours, filling the cart with as much as we could haul and then dragging it back to a pile next to the fence at the edge of the field. The dense compost had rendered the dirt a playground for life, each overturned rock revealing worms and bugs and cold, wet earth.

At 3:45, Tory ventured to the greenhouse where she had weeding and thinning to do. “You go,” I said with a wave of my hand. “I’ll stay here and finish.”

She gave me a look of kind skepticism, a sweet furrow of the brow that made me nod and smile. “Really. I kind of want to.”

I continued to pick for an hour, using a garden tool to maneuver out rocks that clung tightly to the ground and walking past the ones too large to handle. We had briefly considered carrying them together at the start of the afternoon and decided to tackle them later – perhaps with a tractor, and definitely with one of the guys.

But as the amount of manageable-sized rocks diminished, I set my gaze to the seven large ones that remained. I took a big swig of water and swaggered over to the smallest of them.

“All right, rock,” I said, my voice dripping with disdain. “I’m gonna lift you.” I bent my knees and used my whole body to pull it up, then set (okay, dropped) it on the cart. I repeated the process with a slightly heavier one and clapped my hands. I was doing it! It felt great!

I dragged the cart behind me with relative ease until I reached a lip in the hill, the place where dirt met wet grass. It was trampled from our many trips back and forth from the pile, and my boots scuttled on the green as I yanked the cart towards me.

“Uff!” I said, my feet giving out from under me as I landed on the seat of my jeans. I picked up and tried again, counting in my head. Right after I reached three, I gave one great pull and the cart cleared the hill. “Duly noted,” I muttered under my breath. “More trips, less weight.” I brought the cart back to the pile and threw the rocks onto it with a satisfying smack. “Fuck you, and fuck you!” I said, pointing at each one. Adrenaline was running through my veins and I suddenly understood why people lifted weights at the gym.

I repeated the process again and again until I was left with one last, enormous rock. There in the field at 5 o’clock on Monday afternoon, it seemed more of a small boulder, really. I bent my knees and wiggled my fingers underneath it. I pulled, hard, but nothing moved.

“Not gonna happen,” I said out loud and squatted down further, resting my forehead on the hot grey surface.

And then I thought about everyone else on the farm. In the distance I could see Luke, bringing the dairy herd in for milking. “Come on, cows,” I could almost hear him saying as he patted their hindquarters. Across the road Tim was working horses and Sam was doing chores. I suddenly realized, with a newfound clarity, that although the titles and details varied, on our farm there is one real job: get things done, so that food may grow.

Moving rocks 30 yards might not seem like a part of the process, but without doing so, the field wouldn’t be suitable for plowing or planting the herbs that will go into the sausage that will eventually appear on our breakfast plates. I was the one in the field, and the rock was in my hands.

“This IS going to happen!” I yelled out loud and yanked the rock from the ground. And just like that, I had done it.

The day’s work wasn’t over, though, and so I returned the cart to the horse barn and skipped to the house, a new spring in my step. I washed my hands and began shredding the meat from two smoked ham hocks. I stirred that into a pot of simmering black beans and dried red chilies, then set to work on dessert.

Rhubarb is in season now, and it seems that we at the farm can’t get enough of its bossy tartness. Having made a few crumbles and a charmingly rustic pie, I reached far back into my brain for something different.

We ate a moist and dense rhubarb cake that night, with sticky-warm sauce spooned over.

As I lay in bed, exhausted at 8:45, I worked my thumbs into my biceps. A faint breeze wafted in through the window, fluttering the chimes and cooling the bottoms of my feet. I was going to be sore later in the week, of that I was positive, but I was also sure to be deliriously happy.

What an odd, delicious, sweet-tart paradise I had fallen into.

Rhubarb Cake
Serves 8-10

• Generous 1/2 cup very soft butter, plus more for preparing pan
• 1 cup raw sugar
• 1/4 cup maple syrup
• 2 eggs, beaten
• 1 1/2 cups pastry flour, plus more for preparing pan
• 1 1/2 teaspoons baking powder
• 1/4 teaspoon fine sea salt
• 1 cup plain, whole-milk yogurt
• 1 cup rhubarb, sliced thinly

Preheat the oven to 350 degrees. Butter and flour a 9X9 cake pan and set aside.

In the bowl of a stand mixer, or in a large, freestanding bowl with a hand-held electric mixer, cream together the butter, sugar and maple syrup until fluffy and light. Add in the eggs and mix to combine.

In a separate bowl, combine the flour, baking powder and salt. Whisk to combine, then add to the wet ingredients. Use a wooden spoon or spatula to mix.

Add the yogurt and gently fold in, then do the same with the rhubarb.

Pour into the prepared pan and bake at 350 degrees for 55-60 minutes, until risen, lightly golden and firm. A cake tester inserted into the middle should come out clean. Rest on a cooling rack.

Rhubarb Sauce
Makes about 1 1/2 cups

• 2 cups fresh rhubarb, chopped roughly
• 1 cup raw sugar
• 3 tablespoons butter
• 1/2 teaspoon cinnamon
• 1/4 teaspoon cloves

Combine all ingredients in a medium saucepot. Place over medium-high heat and cook, stirring frequently to prevent scorching, until the rhubarb has broken down and become soft. This should take just about 10 minutes.

Remove from the heat and serve warm or refrigerate and spoon over yogurt or ice cream.

I went there two Thursdays ago to help set up the barn for the weekly distribution of product and food to CSA members. And all of a sudden there it was, a full week later and I still wasn’t home, my bag full of ripe laundry and my fingernails packed with dirt.

There’s always something to do – something to be done – on the farm, so most of the time I don’t feel like too much of a nuisance. And plus, there’s definitely use for the odd butter-laden meal around these parts. I’m fitting in just fine, and where I don’t I listen closely and observe carefully so as to learn.

I don’t know if it’s the smell of earth after it rains or the way the sun looks at 5:45 in the morning, orange-red and brilliant and perfect, but something very strong and specific about this lifestyle speaks to me. Perhaps it’s just the way being around people who work hard makes me feel; I have never met a group as dedicated and responsible as this. But I’ve also never met people who make me laugh so hard that my body shakes in a fit of helpless giggles on a daily basis.

Work on the farm is hard and unrelenting, but it has to be done and there is joy in doing it.

—

It snowed that Sunday night. I woke at 3:30 and sat up in bed, rubbing the sleep and disbelief out of my eyes before padding over to the big window closest to the door. I pressed my hands against the pane and peered out into the night. Across the street the machine shop was illuminated by the glow of the coop, constantly lit to encourage the growth and health of the broiler chicks. Its roof was white – not just dusted, but packed – with a sheen of thick, white flakes.

I shivered and blew into my hands. “It’s snowing,” I said out loud. “Hey. It’s snowing.”

Tim made a non-committal murmur and rolled over onto his back, sleepily motioning toward the space on the right side of his chest.  ”Mm-really?” he asked, his eyes closed.

“Really,” I said, climbing back under the covers and letting my head nestle into the spot between his shoulder and neck.

The snow was still there, heavy and wet, when we woke two hours later. He bundled up and ventured out to take care of chores as I tied my sneakers and pulled sweaters over my head.

I start most mornings at the farm with a run. The rolling hills and sudden twists and turns in the path keep me sharp and clear the early morning cobwebs from my head. On that bitter Monday, I felt I needed it badly.

The road was only half-plowed and with each stride my feet splashed up slush, spattering it across my calves and knees. Halfway through the 5-mile route it began to snow again, fat snowflakes that stuck on my eyelashes and blurred my vision. I shook my hair from its rubber band and let the snow collect in my curls as I plodded down the road. The wet on the pavement made me feel slow and cautious, heavy like a horse doing plow work.

Tim with horses – Photos by Anthony Aquino

Breakfast on the farm is served at 7, and by 7:15 that day most of us had congregated around the table, a worn wooden plank with collapsible leaves, once owned by Matt’s grandmother. By 7:45, though, Gillian still hadn’t arrived and I began to wonder where she could be. The blustery snow made things seem urgent and worrisome. When I left to pull on jeans over my running tights, she still hadn’t arrived.

Later that morning as I sliced beets into thin rounds, she stopped in to the house in search of batteries for the voltage meter. I asked if she was all right.

“Phee-ew. This morning. It was difficult,” she said, running a hand through her hair, starting at the roots and stopping once she reached her ponytail. She laughed but her body seemed tired. “I had to move the mobile coops, but the snow was so cumbersome that it made it really hard.” She heaved a sigh of frustration.

“If it makes you feel better,” I said, setting down the half-beet I was holding, “I can barely lift a bushel of potatoes.” She smiled and I wiped my hands on a kitchen towel. They were stained pinkish red at the fingers through the upper part of my palms.

I smiled back and wrapped my arms around her shoulders. I wished there was a way to tell her that she inspired me, that her work ethic and dedication and desire to be the very best – not just her best, but the best – gave me heart.

But she wouldn’t have believed me. Like anyone who works with land and vegetables and animals, she holds herself to the highest, most rigorous standards, and wouldn’t accept flattery. And that’s exactly what makes her a good farmer, but I just hugged that happy piece of irony in to myself and squeezed her tighter.

Gillian working

—

The rest of the week turned out similarly; not snowy, but cold and rainy and windy like something awful. A discouraged sense of ennui settled over the farm as projects got pushed aside and extra layers were zipped up.

“What the hell!” Sam said on Tuesday, checking the forecast for the rest of the week. I nodded and sighed, thinking of the outdoor work to be done by everyone but me.

As I prepared dinner the next day I considered my place on the farm. A small part of me felt a tinge of guilt for not contributing in an obviously physical way. I didn’t know the first thing about moving beef out to pasture and I couldn’t build chicken coops – or at least I’d never tried.

“Sure you could,” Tim said when I told him this later, but I wasn’t entirely convinced.

But there was something I could do, could contribute, that was real and tangible and just as important, if in a different sort of sense.

I pulled eggs, Sam’s smoked bacon and Steven’s maple syrup from the refrigerator and clicked the oven on to preheat. I could bake something comforting and warm and rich and cheeky and silly, and I could serve it with supper that very night. I didn’t have to; dessert is welcome though certainly not expected. But deep down I knew that I’d be sorely disappointed in myself were I not able to give these farmers something to smile about on a chilly, dreary day. I felt an urgent refusal to ignore what I was sure was my duty and mine alone, and so I made a cake from maple syrup and rendered bacon grease.

And there, in the kitchen on a small farm in Cazenovia, I realized that although I was a weak one yet, and only in the most abstract of terms, I was indeed becoming a farmer.

Maple-Bacon Cake
Serves 8-10

• 3 tablespoons rendered bacon fat, from:
• 4-5 slices bacon
• 1 cup milk, preferably raw
• 2 tablespoons butter, cut into small pieces or softened (to facilitate melting)
• 1 cup maple syrup, plus 3 tablespoons
• 1 teaspoon vanilla extract
• 2 eggs, beaten, preferably organic
• 2 1/4 cups all-purpose flour
• 1 tablespoon baking powder
• 1/4 teaspoon ground nutmeg
• 1/4 teaspoon ground cinnamon
• 1/2 cup toasted walnuts, chopped

Preheat the oven to 325 degrees. Grease a 9X5 loaf pan with lard or butter and set aside.

Cook the bacon over medium-low heat, rendering out as much of the fat as possible to yield at least 3 tablespoons. Reserve any extra for other, sinister uses.

Combine 3 tablespoons of bacon fat, the milk and butter in a saucepan. Cook over medium heat until the butter has melted and the milk is at a gentle simmer. Remove from the heat and add in the maple syrup and vanilla extract, stirring to combine. Let cool for 5 minutes.

In a separate bowl, whisk together the flour, baking powder and spices.

Add the eggs to the warm milk-fat mixture and whisk vigorously to combine. Add the liquid ingredients to the bowl of dry ingredients and fold together gently with a spatula. Add in the walnuts and mix once more.

Pour the batter into the prepared loaf pan and bake for 60-65 minutes, until a cake tester or toothpick inserted into the center comes out clean. Let cool in the pan for ten minutes, then invert onto a kitchen towel and remove the cake. Set the cake on a cooling rack over a sheet pan.

Meanwhile, heat a skillet over medium-high heat. Crumble the cooked bacon into tiny pieces. Once the pan is sizzling hot, add the 3 extra tablespoons of maple syrup. Let it bubble and pop, then add the crumbled bacon. Stir to coat completely, then carefully drizzle the glaze over the top of the cake. It helps to reserve the bacon bits back with a spoon and dollop them on top.

Let cool almost completely before slicing into pieces and serving.

As Tim brought the last load up to the house, Steven and I sat on the dirt outside. The grass was sparse yet and the ground still felt cool to the touch – not like in summer months, when just placing your toes on the earth feels hot and good – but there were signs of new life and growth everywhere. I looked out to the pasture where a new beef calf had been born recently and smiled.

“Nettles are coming up,” Steven said, pointing to a tuft of gracefully curved green leaves.

I considered them, taking note of the short, almost-invisible hairs that covered the stem and top of each leaf. I had heard of nettles; of that I was positive. But I couldn’t quite remember where or when or what they were.

“Do you know how to harvest them?” he asked, rolling a piece of soil between his thumb and forefinger.

I pulled my mouth down into a frown and shook my head, yanking a piece of grass from the ground and pulling it taut between my hands.

“The hairs are prickly, and they’ll sting if you touch them,” he said, reaching for the patch. “So do it like this.” He placed his fingers underneath the leaves, away from the stem, and pinched. The hairs folded into themselves and Steven pulled gently away from the plant. The leaf detached.

“You can eat it by keeping it closed it like this. It’s when your tongue touches the hairs that you’ll get stung,” he said. “But if you cook them, they lose their sting and you can use them like you would any other green.” He shrugged, having come to the end of his sentence but not his knowledge.

I grinned and wrapped my arms around his shoulders. “Thank you for teaching me,” I said with a warmth meant to relay how deliriously happy I was to be learning, to be in the sun, to be at the farm.

—

Later that night I walked with Tim as he did the evening’s chores.

He turned off the fence’s electric charge and we stepped into the laying hens’ pasture. “Steven taught me about nettles today,” I said as he pulled hard on a rope that brought the wooden drawbridge door to a close, tucking the hens safely inside their mobile coop. I watched his arms tense and tighten as the door grew heavy. “How to harvest them.”

“Oh?” Tim said. “That’s great. How did he tell you to?”

“Like this.” I held my thumb and middle finger right in front of my nose and squeezed them together slowly, mimicking the act of folding the nettle in half.

Tim laughed and adjusted his bag over his shoulder. “I guess that is one way to do it.”

I crossed my arms over my ribs and smiled. “Well, how do you?”

“Like this,” he said, bringing his hand close to my face then grabbing the air away from my breath with his fist. “Right from the stem.” We stepped out of the pasture and he clipped the fence back into place. “Essex style.”

I narrowed my eyes and scrunched my nose in playful distrust.

“Steven’s way is right too,” he said.

—

After that the nettles grew quickly.

They appeared late Thursday morning when I emerged from the butcher shop where I’d been helping Sam clean the meat and fat from beef bones. Tim was standing at the large outdoor sink, swishing a bushel-full of them around in a bath of cool water.

I cooked a small batch the next day, leftover from the CSA pickup, throwing them in a cast iron pan wet with a sheen of olive oil. I gave them the briefest run around the skillet then tentatively touched the top of one. No pain registered in my finger, so I removed them from the heat and ate one. It tasted like spinach – strong spinach – with an extra-bitter finish. It tasted like spring and the farm and I liked it a lot.

That night I spread them on a honey and wheat pizza crust, along with ramp sausage and a cautious sprinkling of feta cheese. The next day, we simply boiled and ate them with salt and pepper alongside a flank steak and mashed rutabaga.

I touched the top of a raw one, out of curiosity, and yanked my hand back, shaking my fingers as though I’d been burned on a hot stove. The pain lasted only a few moments, but after that turned into a persistent itch.

—

Monday turned out hot and sunny, 80 degrees in the afternoon and 96 in the greenhouse where I sat between rows of spinach and chard, weeding and working my bare feet into the dirt. I peeled off my tank top and let the heat hit my back in constant waves until an occasional gust of wind fluttered the sides of the greenhouse, sending the reality of April up my spine.

Melissa arrived home later that afternoon and the two of us walked to the barn to cherry-pick a handful of vegetables from the cellar. I had been braising a pork shoulder in the oven with maple syrup and a bit of rye whiskey, and I wanted to boil then smash small potatoes into little pancakes, finally baking them until crispy and hot. We filled a bag with enough for a crowd – as there was sure to be one – and headed back to the house.

“This is what I want to spoon over the pork,” I said, showing Melissa a vibrant green sauce that looked just like traditional Italian pesto. “I made it with walnuts instead of pine nuts,” I said, “and nettles instead of basil.”

She tasted it and made a face of approval. “Though,” she said, her eyes thoughtful. “I wonder if we still have cheese from Meadowood? We did, and I took it out of the refrigerator, unwrapping it to reveal a pretty off-white pebbled cheese, semi-hard with a green-fresh scent.

I had just finished grating a generous half-cup when Matt burst into the house. “We’re going to jump in the lake!” he said, grabbing his car keys and motioning for us to follow. Melissa and I looked at each other, our faces mirroring one another; wicked grins tinged with excitement. I lowered the oven’s temperature and covered the pesto with a kitchen towel then ran out of the house, pulling my sneakers onto bare feet as I went.

We packed ourselves into the cars, Melissa and Jen and Sam and Steven, Tim and Gillian and Matt and me, and off we drove to the lake in the six o’clock sun.

“Look at this. Look at this!” Matt shouted over the music as the car rolled past green hills that met bright blue sky tinged with pink. “This is where we live!” I smiled back as the wind blew hair into my face, and reached my hand behind me for Gillian to squeeze.

We arrived at the lake and all stood at the edge of the concrete ledge, looking at the water and rubbing our hands over our biceps. I don’t know who dove in first but we all followed after, some of us twice, or three times, shrieking and shouting as our bodies hit the cold water. My lungs tightened as I came up for air, but Tim grabbed my forearms and hands and pulled me out, then did the same for Sam, laughing as he heaved him up the wall, and I relaxed into the sun and heat.

That night we ate dinner late, bolstered by vodka mixed with raw milk and homemade Kahlua, the boys singing and playing guitar as the girls and I set out plates and silverware and sliced meat and tossed beets marinated in olive oil and herbs. We ate the pesto, of course, dolloped over the pork and crushed potatoes. It tasted like nettles but not like spring.

In every bite, with every loud laugh, I grew happier to be warm, to be with friends, to be at the farm. It was delicious and it tasted almost like summer.

Nettle and Walnut Pesto

Makes about 2 1/2-3 cups – much like spinach, the nettles shrink down drastically when heated.

• 1 cup walnuts
• 6 cups harvested nettles, rinsed clean*
• 3 cloves garlic, peeled
• 2/3 cup extra virgin olive oil
• 1/2 cup aged sheep’s milk cheese, grated
• Salt, pepper

*When cleaning nettles, be sure to wear protective gloves.

Preheat the oven to 375 degrees. Spread the walnuts on a baking sheet in a single layer and roast in the oven for 7-10 minutes, until fragrant. Remove from the oven and let cool completely.

Meanwhile, bring a large stockpot of water to a boil. Once at a vigorous pace, add the nettles – in batches, if you have to – and use a spider strainer or tongs to submerge them in the water. Cook for 30 seconds, then using the strainer or tongs, remove them to a colander set under cold running water.

Repeat the process until all of the nettles have been blanched and shocked. Do not drain the nettles by pouring the boiling water out, letting the colander catch them – you’ll want to save that liquid, and I’ll tell you why in just a minute.

At this point, the nettles will have lost their “sting,” so feel free to handle them with your bare hands. Squeeze as much excess water from them as you can, then separate the clumps. Set aside.

In a food processor, puree the garlic to fine pieces. Add the cooled walnuts and process coarsely – a little chunkiness is nice here. Add in the drained and squeezed nettles and process all together, streaming in the olive oil as you go.

The mixture should be quite thick, and if that’s what you’re in the market for (say, for bread-spreading) then feel free to skip the next step. However, I like to add in as much as a 1/2 cup of the “nettle stock,” or the liquid used to cook them to thin it out. Even if you don’t use it in this application, it is delicious and healthy, and can be added to soups or drunk as tea.

Once the texture is to your liking, transfer the sauce to a bowl and stir in the grated cheese. Season with salt and pepper and use as you would a typical pesto or sauce.

All of its blood had been drained, its organs removed. Without them, its stomach caved into a deep hollow, dipping down into ribs covered in a milky-pink mix of flesh and fat.

“Wow,” I said. “That’s really beautiful.”

Sam had agreed to give me primary lesson in pig butchery. He’d slaughtered two earlier that week and hung them, snouts down, in the cooler. They were ready now and I couldn’t wait to learn.

I watched as he used a saw to divide the body into three separate parts – front, middle and back – setting the other two aside as he coaxed recognizable cuts out of the meat. He switched from a hand saw to a long knife to a small boning one to an electric band saw and back again, stopping to sharpen his knives on a steel every few minutes.

“It’s so much easier if you keep them sharp,” he said, though I couldn’t help but think that the difficult part wasn’t so much physically slicing through the flesh as it was knowing where to guide the knife.

Through a seemingly unnavigable mass of pig, he revealed cuts that I was familiar with – bone-in chops, tenderloin, ham – and ones I’d never encountered, like picnic roast. As Sam created edible art, I worked my knife through the scrap cuts, scraping off extra meat and fat to be put through the grinder for hot sausage and ground pork.

I learned the difference between back fat (pebbled and pock-marked, from its contact with the skin) and leaf fat (soft and pillowy, pale and pink) and cubed it into chunks. I pushed all of that through the grinder too, packing it into plastic bags that looked like so many bundles of cotton candy when piled into a crate in the cooler. We’d render that into lard someday soon, stirring as the fat melted and the bits of cling-on meat crackled and crisped and floated to the top of the pot, begging for a sprinkling of salt and powdered sugar.

As the afternoon drew to a close I settled into the steady rhythm of wrapping each piece in brown paper and labeling it with the date. With each fold the process became easier and by the time I’d wrapped the last chop, my packages had gone from unruly messes to tidy parcels. I tried to recite the names of every cut I’d learned, but already the words were blurring into a foggy jumble of letters, sinew and muscle.

Looking for something to cook a few days later, I rummaged through the house fridge until I came across a container of pork we’d reserved for our use. A rack of spare ribs was rolled up and stuffed between boneless chops. I unfolded it and placed it on the wooden table, running my fore and middle fingers over the bones. Last week I had loved the idea of butchery – the intimate and intense connection between self and animal – but after experiencing it, I loved the act even more.

It was thrilling, yes, but also exact and clean, specific and creative. It had felt satisfying in a very real and tangible way, and as I prepared a marinade for the ribs I noticed a feeling I’d never encountered before: pride, and a sense of ownership.

I couldn’t wait to review everything I’d learned, but it’d be another few weeks before I got the chance to practice on pigs. Next week was beef butchering and that, Sam warned with a smile, was a whole different animal.

Photo from Greyrock Farm

Orange and Soy-Braised Spare Ribs
Serves a crowd

• 2 full racks spare ribs
• 1 small white onion, chopped roughly
• 2 cloves garlic, peeled and smashed
• Zest and juice of two oranges
• 1/3 cup sesame oil
• 2 tablespoons tamari, plus 1 tablespoon extra
• 4 dried chilies, crushed
• 1/3 cup honey
• 1 teaspoon whole-grain mustard
• Black pepper

If the racks are very large, cut them in half – ideally, they should fit into large ziplock bags, so adjust accordingly.

In said ziplock bags (I used one enormous one; two or three is fine) combine the onion, garlic, orange juice and zest, sesame oil, tamari and chilies. Season the ribs with black pepper and place in the marinade. Seal the bags tightly and massage the marinade into the meat, turning the bag to coat the ribs completely. Refrigerate for at least four hours.

Preheat the oven to 250 degrees.

Remove the ribs from the marinade and rinse. Pat dry and place them in a large casserole or baking dish. Pour the marinade over the ribs. Add 1-2 cups of water to bring the liquid level halfway up the meat. Cover loosely with foil. Place in the oven for 3 1/2 hours, turning the ribs and rearranging every hour.

Remove from the oven after 3 1/2 hours and take out the ribs. Increase the oven temperature to 425 degrees. Discard the marinade and place the ribs back in the dish in a single layer – use two dishes if they won’t all fit without overlapping.

Mix together the honey, mustard and remaining tablespoon of tamari. Brush the mixture onto the ribs using a pastry brush. Put the ribs back in the oven for 25-30 minutes, until the glaze has caramelized. Remove and cut into individual pieces. Serve with plenty of napkins.

This is a perfect arrangement for me – not only do I get to spend time at a place with a strong pulse and a healthy heart, I have the opportunity to hone a whole new set of culinary skills.

See, I used to think that I cooked seasonally. I wrote about eating locally to better focus our efforts, refused to buy produce from California when I could get it from New York, and I knew, intrinsically, that acquiring strawberries in December was just wrong.

But you haven’t eaten truly seasonally until you’ve eaten with farmers. The freezer at Greyrock is stuffed with interesting cuts of meat (tongue, for one, on which I leapt greedily last week) and frozen wax beans and peppers. The walk-in cooler in the barn stores hearty root vegetables that almost emanate warmth from the late autumn sun – if you hold them tightly enough, that is, and close your eyes.

So that’s what we had to cook with through the doldrums of March. There were no young greens and designer salad mixes, no pert, tightly-capped asparagus spears. But it sure felt like spring outside in the sun, and had I been fooled by the onslaught of food writing extolling the lighter, brighter fare of the season, I no doubt would have caved and purchased an armful of young radishes.

Luckily there were two bushels of them in the walk-in, black and misato rose – the latter of which I consider delicate and feminine, despite Tim’s claims that they are somewhat “farty-smelling.” There’s kohlrabi, turnips, onions and carrots, leftover squash. Plenty to cook without getting bored, if you’ve got an imagination. In a perfect convergence of genius and simplicity, indulgence and scarcity, Melissa sliced a pile of big potatoes thinly on the mandoline (PS! I have access to a mandoline!), basted them in a dreamy mix of butter and olive oil then baked them until impossibly tender and crispy.

Earlier last week was more of the same – cubed butternut squash, roasted radishes sprinkled with so much cayenne that my nose scrunched up toward my forehead and tears welled in the corners of my eyes – until Thursday. Brooke and Steven went foraging for ramps and came home lucky. They offered the wild leeks to their CSA members and, to my delight, at the Friday farm stand.

How funny, I thought. Just like that, a discernible shift in the season had occurred; and so quickly that I wasn’t even there to witness it. But there they were, all the same: green and garlicky, with quietly pink-white bulbs. Officially spring. They looked shocking next to the bushels of black, brown and gray.

I took home a bunch and buried my face in their bashful green leaves. The fragrance was aggressive; more so than I remembered it being last year. They seemed so pure and perfect that I found myself hesitant to pull out my usual repertoire of olive oil, salt, pepper, and a quick trip to the oven. I wanted to eat them raw, with as little interference as possible. I wanted to be thankful for green in a way I’d never been.

So I pureed them with just a whisper of collaboration from other ingredients. I happened to love the way the vegetal heat grew slowly in the back of my throat with each bite I took, but if, after tasting, it’s a bit much for you do feel free to stir in some grated cheese or thick yogurt.

Ramp and Roasted Shallot Pesto
Makes just under 1 cup

• 1/4 cup hazelnuts, without skins
• 1 average-sized shallot, still in its skin
• 1 bunch ramps (let’s shoot for around 20 here), rinsed clean and pulled of any extraneous membrane
• 1/3 cup extra virgin olive oil, plus 1 tablespoon
• Salt, pepper

Preheat the oven to 350 degrees.

Place the hazelnuts on a rimmed sheet pan and bake for 10 minutes, until fragrant and lightly golden. Remove from the oven and let cool.

Rinse and dry the shallot, then rub it all over with the extra tablespoon of olive oil. Bake on a rimmed pan for 30-35 minutes, until tender and soft when poked. Remove from the oven and let cool slightly.

Pulse the hazelnuts in a food processor until coarsely chopped – resist the urge to whirr them into a paste.

Pop the shallot out of its skin, directly into the processor. Discard the skin. Roughly chop the ramps into two or three pieces and add those to the processor. Pulse until chopped finely, along with the hazelnuts and shallot.

With the machine running, slowly stream in the 1/3 cup olive oil. Taste, season with salt and pepper, and taste again.

Serve as a sauce over grilled or pan-seared meat, as a spread or a simple pasta sauce.

I love it dearly there, having since returned many times to eat lunch and dinner, sample canapes and well, just, hang out until I become a nuisance. (I am banking here on the fact that if and when that happens, they will kindly tell me; however, all is quiet on that front.)

The Newt’s executive chef, Brud – as in “rhymes with crud,” not “sounds like ‘to think moodily‘” – serves a very simple sandwich of roasted vegetables that I’ve all but fallen in love with. And in fact, most people I know who’ve eaten there wax poetically about it.

“It’s so rustic! The vegetables are just cooked perfectly! I order it again and again!” I hear when I bring up the sandwich in question. And I have to agree.

—

I spent yesterday filming promotional video-type things for Finger Lakes Wine Country, which was a lot of fun, in part because I do relish the opportunity to ham it up in front of a camera, but also because we were lucky enough to visit some of my favorite places in the region.

In a cunning move, Christina, our shoot coordinator (and perhaps, after 7 hours with me, we can also say “wrangler” or “handler”), scheduled a stop at Red Newt right around lunch time. Sly planning: I like that in a gal.

After Brud taught me how to cut miniature newts made from brioche, we took a quick walk through the kitchen: bustling, of course, and filled with the heady scent of baking bread. I took quick notice of two full pans of roasted vegetables, cooling on a rack in the middle of the kitchen. “For the sandwich?” I asked Brud.

“Mm!” He nodded and popped a carrot into his mouth then held up his thumb in approval.

I suppose I could have asked him the secret – if there is one – to his sandwich. I suppose I still can. But as with most things like this, I tend to forget until every so often, when all I can think about is the way tender vegetables marry with good bread, and, more urgently, how I have to experience it immediately.

I give into the craving and am slicing carrots and onions before I fully realize what I’m doing. I’ve been told this is not unlike blacking out and it happens with me often, though it’s usually pretty benign (except for that time I drove to the store and purchased an entire leg of lamb before I came to. Honestly, though, that turned out pretty amazing, so I’m not too upset about it.)

So I created my own version of the sandwich. It ain’t Brud’s, but I sure have grown fond of it. There is a delicate simplicity of roasted in-season vegetables, tender enough that when pierced with a fork, surrender quietly and slide out easily. I do advocate baking your own bread for this, so I figure I’ve got at least two of his must-have elements down. The rest is just fluff: what you choose to season with, how you’ll doctor up the bread, if you’ll include greens and if so, what kind.

This is wonderfully suited for lunch, but seeing as it’s a winery-inspired recipe, I sure won’t fault you if you pour a glass of Riesling to go along with.

Roasted Vegetable Sandwich
Makes two

The vegetables I outline here are offered as mere suggestion: feel free to adjust according to what’s in season and what’s in your cellar.

• 2 average-sized carrots
• 2 radishes
• 1 average-sized onion
• 1 tablespoon olive oil
• 1 teaspoon dried thyme
• 1 teaspoon Dijon mustard
• 3 tablespoons yogurt
• Black pepper, salt
• 4 slices good quality bread
• 1 cup hearty greens, like spinach

Preheat the oven to 375 degrees.

Rinse and chop the vegetables into bite-size chunks (say, about 1/2″ pieces). It’s up to you whether you want to peel them or not; I’ve found it wildly liberating not to as of late.

Toss them with the olive oil, thyme, salt and pepper and bake on a rimmed sheet pan for 35 minutes, or until tender. I like to pull them when they still have a faint hint of a bite; before they get that shriveled and dried look, anyway.

While the vegetables roast, whisk together the mustard and yogurt. Season with salt and pepper and set aside.

Toast the bread if you so desire and divide the spinach between two slices.

As soon as the vegetables are cooked through, pour them right into the mustard-yogurt mix, along with all of their oil. Coat the vegetables with the spread, then dollop them on the spinach-topped bread. Add a second slice of bread (really, you know how to construct a sandwich, don’t you?) and cut in half. Serve while still warm.

I get the whole “convenience” thing and when I talk about cooking to the general public, I really do advocate taking shortcuts that make life easier without sacrificing the integrity and quality of the food. I think pre-made puff pastry is one of those things you can get away with (store-bought mayonnaise, however, and packaged peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, are another story).

But I cook for a living. Okay, I peddle stories about food. Close enough. As I mentioned to Matt earlier this week, I’m a freelance writer who spends, on average, 80% of my time avoiding writing. If anyone has the kind of time for mucking around with a labor- and time-intensive pastry dough, it’s me. Yet I hadn’t entertained the notion of making my own since culinary school.

And that’s odd, because I absolutely love the idea of pâte feuilletée, or puff pastry. It’s essentially a classic butter-based French pastry dough that encases, well, a huge brick of butter. If this sounds excessive to you, it is. It’s also wonderful. Through folding, rolling and re-folding, the butter slowly melds into the dough, creating alternating layers. What happens then, when it’s baked, is pure magic. The layers rise dramatically, “puffing” up toward golden greatness. It’s flaky-tender and can be used for anything from cheese straws to the base for a seasonal fruit tart.

In fact, it was a fruit tart that we made at the French Culinary Institute, after hours of folding our pâte feuilletée, turning it, letting it rest and folding it again. We scored a small border and filled the interior with sweet pastry cream and berries, and, if memory serves me, lacquered it all with a simple syrup.

I don’t know as though I’ve ever told anyone this, so please do stay with me through this sticky confessional, but I remember having a few … dozen cocktails after class that night and subsequently getting lost on the subway ride home, ending up somewhere in Bushwick, where my apartment was decidedly not. Frustrated, lonely, sad and, um, probably a little bit drunk, I ate the entire tart sitting on someone’s porch steps before a black gypsy cab rolled up and offered me a ride home for the very “fair” price of $55.

Anyway, I hope that didn’t make you uncomfortable. The point of this entire piece is that I’ve been wanting to make my own puff pastry again for some time now. And today I did. It wasn’t hard; I think that as with most tasks we find daunting, it’s equal parts trusting ourselves to get it right and having the gumption to just jump in and try.

If on the off chance you’d like to make your own puff pastry, I’ve outlined the recipe here. I’m going to use mine as a topper for pot pies, but feel free to let your mind wander with possibility. And if you decide that you’d just rather buy the stuff, I wouldn’t worry too much about it. It’ll probably be another couple of years before I do this again, after all. I’ll need as much time before I work up the courage to share the odd places at which I end up these days.*

*I’m kidding.

Puff Pastry
Recipe adapted from the French Culinary Institute

Note that the ingredients are measured in grams. I think it’s worthwhile to stick with this, if only for the reason that I just purchased a digital scale. No, seriously: those French know their pastry. I’d trust them on this one.

• 250 grams all-purpose flour
• 3 grams (1/2 teaspoon) salt
• 50 grams soft butter
• 150 ml water
• 175 grams cold butter

Sift together the flour and salt onto a flat, large work surface (like a kitchen table.) Make a well in the middle of the flour and add the soft butter to it. Use a pastry scraper to cut in the butter. What you’re doing here is “chopping” the flour and butter together, moving things around with your hands so the butter pieces become smaller and smaller and work themselves into the dough.

Once the texture is sandy and the butter is well-incorporated, add the cold water to the dough. Mix it together and form the dough into a square block. It will be sticky; take the extra time to scrape the dough from your fingers and incorporate it back to the mass. Cut a large “X” in the top of the dough, letting your knife slice halfway down the dough. This will help relax the gluten. Cover the dough with plastic wrap and refrigerate for 30-45 minutes.

Remove the dough from the fridge, as well as the cold butter. Place the butter between two sheets of plastic wrap and bang the hell out of it with a rolling pin, flattening and softening it. What you’re looking to do here is create similar textures in the dough and butter – both soft and pliable, both cool.

Flour your work surface and roll the dough out in the shape of a large cross slightly larger than the butter; it should be big enough to enclose it completely. This confused and distressed me greatly in culinary school, as I couldn’t visualize what a large dough cross would look like. Really, it’s more like a blob with four smaller blobs protruding from each pole. That helps, I’m sure.

Form the butter into a square and set it ontop of the dough, directly in the middle. Fold each edge of the dough (each “point” of the cross) over the butter, sealing it like a package. Pinch the edges lightly to close completely. Roll the dough out to a rectangle about 22 inches long (flouring the workspace as needed). To achieve this, roll only length-wise, not width-wise.

Fold the dough in thirds by folding one edge in halfway, then placing the second edge over that one.

Give the dough a quarter turn, so that the “openings” are facing right and left, not up and down.

Roll out the 22 inch rectangle again, working lengthwise and not width-wise. Repeat the third-fold process, and wrap with plastic wrap. You’ve now given your dough two full “turns.” Rest the dough in the refrigerator for at least one hour.

Remove the dough from the refrigerator and repeat two more turns by rolling out a rectangle, folding it in thirds, turning it a quarter-way, then doing that again. You’ve now completed four turns. (Good for you! Pour yourself a glass of wine!)  Rest the dough in the refrigerator for at least one hour.

Remove the dough from the refrigerator and complete two more turns (You’ve got the hang of it now, don’t you? Also, maybe the alcohol will help.) Rest for one more hour and … you’re done!

At this point, you can either use it immediately or wrap and store it. If using it within a couple of days, the refrigerator is a perfectly acceptable place for it. If it’ll be a while, just wrap it very well and freeze it.

To actually use the dough, simply proceed as you would with regular puff pastry: roll it out to your desired shape and take it from there. If you’re cutting it (as I am, into circles to cover pot pies, or in strips to twist and season), cut straight down and do not “saw” at the dough. That will seal and trap the lovely layers of butter and dough, prohibiting them from puffing up.

But I did miss it. I thought about the city at times, and the way it used to surge and buzz through my body, starting at the nape of my neck and pulsing deepest in my belly. I used to feel a jolt of electricity as I exited my building, glancing each way without really looking at anyone, tucking music into my ears. And there I’d go, to work or to run or off on errands; anywhere important. Anywhere quickly. I loved tramping around the city, so long as I didn’t have to interact with the people in it. The energy of the pavement was enough to intrigue me.

I visited New York last week, eager and willing to let it swallow me whole again. This time, I thought, it won’t spit me out; I’ll just press harder on the roof of its mouth, separating its jaws wide enough for me to climb out on my own.

Wouldn’t you know, the damn thing didn’t even nip my foot.

Everything seemed different, less enticing than it once had: the magnificent skyscrapers reduced to groaning hunks of metal and glass, the infinite possibility of encounter a heavy burden of preparedness, the multitude of personality an irritating lesson in self-branding. Even the food scene, once so utterly intoxicating, left me feeling ho-hum, with its $17 cocktails and fried asparagus (can’t I just have it fresh?)

Plus, I couldn’t stop thinking about the farm.

I’ve been spending a lot of time there, in part because I like the people, but also because it feels good. I’ve never been hungrier to learn something and, lucky for me, they’re very willing to teach.

I arrived home from the city on Friday afternoon and made my way to Greyrock. I heard the cows before I saw them (and admittedly smelled them before I heard them) and I felt a sense of peace once more.

On Saturday night with dinner creeping closer and no real plan, we rummaged through the pantry for inspiration. A handful of whole wheat pappardelle seemed like a good idea, especially with the abundance of frozen ground beef and canned tomatoes that lined the shelves.

A simple ragu, Tim suggested, would be easy. And it was, although until that point, I hadn’t realized just how difficult I make cooking.

“Vegetable peeler? You don’t need no stinking vegetable peeler!” he scolded good-naturedly as I held up a handful of carrots with a guilty sort of dejection written all over my face.

Of course. Scrub them well, and you needn’t toss the nutrient-rich skin.

“Do you want me to submerge the beef in water to thaw it?” I asked.

He looked at me and scratched his head. “I guess you can – if you want. But I was just going to shave it thinly and throw it right in the pan.”

Of course! I had been cooking with a strict set of rules embedded into my brain for so long that I forgotten the true hallmark of a good chef: common sense. That’s something even the frenetic, fancy-pants cooks of New York City know.

For the most fleeting of moments I felt a familiar tug of frustration at knowing less than I wish I did – a firm sort of pressure – and then a release.

So I didn’t entirely fit in here. But it felt better than any city ever did, and this time the feeling started at the crown of my head and skipped all the way down to my toes.

Simple Beef Ragu
Serves four

• 1 tablespoon lard or olive oil
• 2 small onions, diced
• 2 average-sized carrots, rinsed and diced
• 1 tablespoon dried rosemary, chopped
• 1/2 teaspoon red pepper flakes
• 8 ounces ground beef
• 2 cups canned tomatoes
• Salt, pepper
• 1 pound whole wheat or regular pappardelle

Heat a cast iron skillet or sauté pan over medium heat and add the oil or lard (Hey; we’re on a farm. When in Rome …) Toss in the rosemary and red pepper and cook, stirring occasionally, until the vegetables are softened and fragrant, about 7-8 minutes.

Add the ground beef and use a wooden spoon to break it up as it browns. Once the beef is cooked through add the tomatoes, along with their juices. Cook, uncovered, for 5-8 minutes to let the flavors marry and meld.

Meanwhile, bring a large pot of salted water to a boil. Add the pasta and cook until tender with a bit of a bite. Strain the pasta – reserve a bit of the cooking water if you wish, to add to the sauce – and add it directly to the skillet.

Use tongs to mix everything together, then season to taste. Serve immediately.

Stu and I have ended our relationship – on the most amicable of terms, I assure you – and now there is time where there wasn’t, quiet where voices were and words, only words where pictures once resided.

We’re both happier; more so than we have been for a long time.

As with any failed situation, there were lessons to be learned. Those we’ll keep close to our hearts as we travel to new places and meet new people. We wish one another well and we have to admit there was some damn good food along the way. Like the lamb burgers we tricked his daughter into eating, or the gingerbread cake we both shoved into our mouths on secret midnight trips to the kitchen.

Almost a year ago, we took a trip to Vermont and, on the way home, stopped at a restaurant for drinks. I placed an order for chickpea-polenta fries, which were all but screaming my name, and then spent the next half-hour hoarding my portion for fear that they’d be snuck from me if I so much as blinked. They crop up in my memory every so often and in my mind’s eye – err, mouth – remain as delicious as ever.

There’s really two points to this story: the first is that Stu stole my food a lot, and it always distressed me greatly. But that’s all water under the bridge now, and to be honest, I only had myself to blame. I should have eaten faster, or gotten better at sneaking olives and baguette butts into my pockets.

The other point is that these were very, very good fries. Absolutely worthy of theft. I would do legitimate time for these.

I don’t know why I never attempted to make them until now. My recollection of the flavor profile is a little blurry, but I know two things for certain: there were chickpeas and there was polenta.  The owner of Flour City Pasta, Jon Stadt, gave me a bag of his coarse-ground cornmeal this weekend at the Syracuse market, and as he passed the heavy brown paper package into my hands, I suddenly remembered the fries.

It just so happened I had also purchased a bag of brick-red dried chilies earlier that morning, so into the mix they went as well. Reduce the amount of chilies or eliminate them entirely if you’re not into heat. I used canned chickpeas, but you can cook your own if you’re a better person than I am.

This recipe makes a lot of fries; more than I could ever hope to eat alone (trust me, I tried.)

Happily, I can think of more than a few friends with whom I can share.

Chickpea and Polenta Fries

Note: these don’t contain potatoes, nor are they fried. I don’t care, and am still going to call them fries.

• 4 cups chicken stock
• 1 1/2 cups coarse cornmeal
• 3 dried chilies or 1 teaspoon chili powder
• 1 teaspoon salt
• 2 cups cooked chickpeas, drained of liquid
• 1/4 cup olive oil, plus 1 tablespoon

Preheat the oven to 350 degrees.

Bring the chicken stock to a rolling boil in a large saucepot. Once at a boil, slowly stream in the cornmeal, whisking constantly. Add the salt and chilies and reduce the heat to medium-low. Cook for 35 minutes, whisking often and scraping the bottom and sides of the pot. Once the cornmeal becomes a thick and solid mass that pulls away from the sides of the pan, it’s ready. Turn off the heat and remove the chilies, if there’s anything left of them. If they’ve broken down and become a part of your polenta, all the better.

Meanwhile, pour the cooked chickpeas into a food processor and give them a whirr until creamy and smooth. With the processor running, add the 1/4 cup olive oil in a slow stream. Scrape the pureed chickpeas into the polenta and stir to mix together completely.

Coat a rimmed cookie sheet or jellyroll pan with the remaining olive oil and spread the polenta-chickpea mixture into it. Use a spatula to spread it evenly over the entire pan.

Bake in the preheated oven for 40-45 minutes, until set and lightly golden, with a gentle spring-back when touched. Let rest for five minutes, then slice into 1/2″ by 2″ pieces. Serve warm.

But I don’t have one, so I tend to avoid cooking things that require uniformly thin slices. Like potato chips, for example. I wish I made potato chips. I just don’t have the patience to run my knife through gnarly russets, being painfully careful to avoid overly-thick slices and accidental half-moons. I suppose certain cheffy types will roll their eyes at this (cheffy types love intricate knife work), but I’ve always been more of a cooky type myself.

So the recipe here isn’t really a gratin – not by the strictest standards, anyways. A gratin is traditionally comprised of, as I imagine you know, thin slices of potato layered with cheese and and drenched in a garlicky cream sauce. At least that’s how I learned to make it in culinary school.

What I created wasn’t so much cheating as it was rethinking a classic (Can we call it “deconstructed gratin?” That sounds like something a cheffy type would do.) See, I roasted a winter squash until it was tender and then blended it with cream and shredded Gouda cheese. When you think about things in terms of ingredients, I really just tucked them all in closer together: instead of separate layers, I had one homogeneous, very cheesy, very delicious dish. Who wants separate, messy layers when you can mash it all together? In fact, the more I think about it, the more I’m convinced this is the American way. Mandoline-shmandoline.

The squash, which has a bit of a candy sweetness, begs for salt and fat. The Gruyere steps in nicely here, and the cream tags along because, well, why not? Diet food this ain’t, but with a name like “gratin,” would you really expect anything otherwise?

Butternut Squash Gratin
Serves 4-6

• 1 medium butternut squash (to equal about 2 1/2 cups of cooked squash)
• 2 teaspoons butter, divided
• 1 cup heavy cream or whole milk
• 2 garlic cloves, peeled and smashed
• 1 sprig fresh rosemary
• 1/3 cup grated Gruyere cheese, plus two tablespoons
• Salt, pepper

Preheat the oven to 400 degrees.

Slice the squash in half and scoop out the seeds. Place each half on a baking sheet, cut-side up. Add half a teaspoon of butter to the hollow of both. Season well with salt and pepper and roast for 30-35 minutes until fork tender.

Remove the squash from the oven and let sit until cool enough to handle. Scrape out the flesh into a food processor (discard the skin) and puree until smooth, scraping down the sides of the processor with a spatula once or twice.

Meanwhile, add the milk or cream, rosemary and garlic to a saucepot. Slowly bring to a robust simmer, then strain out the solids.

Pour the flavored milk or cream into the food processor with the squash and mix together. Add the 1/3 cup of cheese and pulse a few more times to combine. Season again with salt and pepper.

Bump the oven temperature up to 425.

Coat the insides of a small casserole dish (hell, you could even use a glass pie pan) with the remaining butter and spread the squash mixture evenly into it. Sprinkle the remaining cheese on top. Bake in the oven for 35-40 minutes or until a golden-brown crust has formed. Serve warm.