John Wayne Gacy had nothing on the Colonel

I briefly considered a career in forensic pathology, until I realized that a.) with my grades, I’d never get into medical school, and b.) the smell of formaldehyde makes me queasy.

Anyway, my doting boyfriend, who puts up with my more questionable habits, like collecting animal skulls (so pretty!) and watching prodigious amounts of “Forensic Files,” introduced me to “Last Meals.”

See there? I managed to turn a completely revolting subject like murder into a food article. Check out the site…it’s a fascinating little window into the dark, culinary heart of cold-blooded killers.

[Photo love: Flickr user tarotastic]

"What breed of dog am I, you ask?"

People often ask what inspired me to become a food writer and cooking instructor. I think they expect to hear heartwarming recollections of a childhood spent beside my mother at the stove, and reminiscences of glorious holiday repasts, table groaning with the bounty from our garden. They anticipate my memories of milking goats, and tangy chevre on homemade bread for an after-school snack. They imagine my Russian grandmother frying latkes for breakfast (using eggs I’d collected from our flock of Rhode Island Reds).

And, to a certain degree, there is truth in these examples. Looking back, I’m quite certain my formative experiences with food are what shaped my career. But the reality is that, while I grew up on a small ranch, the daughter of a large animal veterinarian and a former barrel-racing-champion-turned-homemaker, my own culinary education had a few…inconsistencies.

I did watch my mom cook sometimes; she still has a way with instant mashed potatoes and can crack open a mean jar of Prego. Our neighbors had a garden, and at the age of ten, I established a roadside produce stand, yet Birds-Eye was still a staple at my own dinner table. The eggs I gathered each morning (when I wasn’t being held hostage in the henhouse by our sadistic asshole of a rooster) my mother whisked in a microwave-proof bowl, before being nuking them into rubbery oblivion. I was in college before I learned that scrambled eggs aren’t really “made” in a microwave.

My paternal grandmother was the daughter of a Russian émigré. Grandma Miller possessed a heavy New York accent, and she was—my dad will agree—the worst cook this side of Minsk. The (real, not instant) potatoes in her latkes were an oxidized grey, the resulting pancakes flabby and greasy from improperly heated oil. Small wonder I was the pickiest eater on the planet, utterly exasperating my Depression-era parents who, let’s face it, were only trying to embrace the advent of convenience foods.

The one time my mom tried making yogurt and cheese from our goat’s milk (she was having an early 1970’s back-to-the-land moment), the results were not exactly edible. In retrospect, I don’t think she realized the milk required starter cultures. So we instead drank goat milk by the gallon, and in the process my family became huge caprine aficionados. We bred our Nubian doe, Go-Go, every year, and ended up keeping several of her doelings; the bucks we donated to Heifer Project International. For my part, I adored our goats. Even when I fed Go-Go an uninflated balloon, it was with the best of intentions (it was Easter, and I thought she’d appreciate its pretty pink color).

In sixth grade, I decided to follow in my older brother’s footsteps and raise goats for a 4-H project. I bounced out of bed each morning to milk Rose, a distant relative of the late Go-Go (who died of natural causes, not from ingesting peony-hued rubber). Despite my rural upbringing, our property was located in a peaceful canyon only a couple of miles from what is today a populous, yuppified bedroom community of Los Angeles. There were a few other families with children up the road, but I was the only one living on a ranch.         

The rooms at Westlake Elementary School were packed with upper-middle-class, mostly white kids, and it turned out they didn’t share my  goaty enthusiasm. It was Jason Raciti, a criminal in the making if ever there was one, who dubbed me “Goat Girl.” It was the first week of school, and as part of our “What I Did for Summer Vacation” oral reports, I’d waxed poetic about Rose and the wonders of lactation. If memory serves, I even passed around Dixie cups of her milk for my classmates to taste.

I was waiting for my mom to pick me up from school in our elderly, wood-paneled station wagon, when Jason appeared by my side. He looked me up and down, a sneer on his handsome face. “Hey Goat Girl,” he drawled, leaning in close and taking a long, exaggerated sniff. “You smell like a goat. Why would anyone want a goat, anyway? Why do you even go to this school? Why don’t you go back to your stupid farm?”

Mercifully, my mom arrived at that moment, but before I could escape to the safety of the car and the slobbery kisses of our three dogs, Jason yelled, “’Bye, Goat Girl! Don’t forget to wear your overalls tomorrow!”

I think it’s pretty safe to say that someone, somewhere, eventually kicked Jason Raciti’s ass to Kingdom Come or incarcerated him. Unfortunately, before that could happen, I essentially became known as Goat Girl for the remainder of the year, and developed several nervous tics that abated only after we sold Rose and I instead concentrated on raising rabbits (fuzzy, rodent-like creatures were apparently on the list of “cool” pets to own). I don’t recall exactly when I allowed my goat obsession to resurface, but suffice it to say, I’m now a contributing editor at culture: the word on cheese and live in Seattle, one of the few cities in the U.S. that allows residents to keep backyard dairy goats.

So, while my somewhat dichotomous culinary upbringing played a large role in my career of choice, I usually opt for a shorter, easier, wholly truthful answer. “I became a food writer because when I was eight years old and walking my brother’s goat at the county fair, a middle-aged man asked me, “What type of dog is that?” It was at that moment I realized: most people don’t have a fucking clue where their food comes from.”

Thanks, Mom and Dad. And yeah, you too, Jason Raciti.

“You remember Cocoa?” she asked.

Photo love: Flickr user tiny_packages

“Sure. We sold her to the Olafssen’s.”

This was my best friend Ingrid’s family down the street. Her dad Leif was a jolly, strapping fellow and Swedish immigrant; they had about a million kids.

Mom: Yes, well, we gave her to them. She was permanently lame, so that’s why we had to get rid of her. And then, of course, Leif was going to eat her.”

Me (incredulous): Say what?

Mom: He was planning to feed her to the family. Dad didn’t know that when they took her. He just thought they wanted a pet.

Me: Mr. Olafssen was going to cook Cocoa?

Mom: Well, he asked Dad how long it would take to fatten her up enough to feed the family.

Me: Oh, come on. Leif was always kidding around. I’m sure he was joking.

Mom: Nooo…he grew up eating horse meat, and he had a lot of kids, so he was just being practical. Dad told him, “I think you’d better talk to your family about that idea, first.”

This, of course, led me to wonder what would have happened if Mr. Olafssen had actually carried out his unholy plan. I’d burst in their front door, as I did every afternoon. “Hey Ingrid! Let’s go visit Cocoa!”

“Um…..how ’bout a ’roast beef’ sandwich?”

The first time I realized that horses may be something other than beloved family pets/forms of transportation occurred when I was ten. My dad—equine vet, breeder of Quarter horses and mules—had taken a sabbatical and my mom, brother, and I were spending the summer in Europe, traveling around in a borrowed, pea-green VW camper van.

We had just arrived in Paris, and were wandering the Left Bank in search of a suitable place for dinner (meaning, an establishment that served french fries, because that’s one of the few foods I deemed acceptable at the time).

I was dawdling behind my family, taking in the strange Parisian sights, sounds, and smells. I heard a racket coming from a brightly-lit shop with a wide glass window and open doorway. And that’s when I saw it. I was looking straight into the back room of a boucherie chevaline, where a freshly-dispatched bay horse–hide, mane, tail, and all–dangled by its right hind leg from a hook on the ceiling. It was so big, its velvety nose nearly scraped the ground. A portly man in a white apron and rubber boots stood next to the carcass with a large knife, ready to do unspeakable things.

I stood, frozen, on the sidewalk; I probably resembled a midget version of “The Scream.” Then my parents yelled at me to hurry up, and I ran after them, too traumatized to mention what I’d seen. It didn’t help when, while they perused a menu minutes later, I alone noticed a gentleman emerging from yet another boucherie (was Paris nothing but dead animals?). The furry, comically large feet and hind legs of a hare protrouded from a paper bag in his hand (I also raised champion show rabbits–not for the table–at the time, so this added yet another session to my metaphorical therapist’s couch).

Photo love: Flickr user triplexpresso

Allow me to explain: I wasn’t in the least bit disturbed by the concept of eating horse, and I’d actually had rabbit before. What bothered me was seeing these creatures in such a raw, primal (aka dead) state. While a whole lamb wouldn’t have caused me to bat an eye, there’s something very disturbing about seeing a 1,200 pound horse on a hook. Ditto the intact hare; as an American, even one who lived on a ranch, I had a hard time identifying with the purchase of something resembling road kill for dinner.

I’ve always been very matter-of-fact about meat; I think it comes not just from traveling as a child, but from assisting my dad with necropsies of his former patients from the age of about eight on. A good time was Dad and I, dissecting one of my rabbits, trying to figure out what mysterious circumstances had caused her to keel over and die in the night. Boast-worthy was overseeing the necropsy of Lynda “Wonder Woman” Carter’s pet pony (for some reason, my classmates didn’t think it as cool as I did).

No, my issues with meat have and always will lie with the treatment of said animal in life and handling before what should be a quick, merciful death. But that’s a whole other topic altogether.

What I really want to address is horse meat. Viande chevaline, basashi (think horse sashimi ), or lo’i ho’osi (Tongans apparently do have an appetite for meat other than SPAM); whatever you call it in your country of origin, the fact remains that much of the EU, Central Asia, Latin America, and Japan have the good sense to eat horse. It’s delicious, with a slightly sweet flavor and bright red color, lean and low in cholesterol. Why the hell can’t Americans get onboard with the other red meat?

Blame anthropomorphism and our fervent equestrian culture. Horse meat had a brief domestic moment in World War II, when beef prices rose and supply dwindled. By the eighties, however, it was no longer okay, even if purchased for “pet food,” and in 1998, California Proposition 6 outlawed horse meat and slaughter for human consumption.

When I was growing up, however, there was a well-known horse abbatoir in Chino, in Orange County. As with many countries that don’t consume horse meat, the U.S. still slaughtered them (the old and sick, as well as retired racehorses and wild horses and burros) for export to countries that do, although the meat was also used to feed zoo animals. In 2007, the last horse slaugtherhouse in the U.S., in DeKalb, Illinois, was shut down by court order, and that was that–but new legislation suggests that horse slaughter could soon become legal again Stateside.

But hold your horses (sorry). Is this a good thing? The result of these closures means that there’s no outlet–humane or otherwise–for horses that can no longer be used for work or pleasure. Few people can afford to keep horses as pets due to age, illness, or injury, and horse rescues are at capacity or struggling to find funding. It’s necessary to cull herds to keep wild horse populations sustainable.

I’m not disputing the lack of humanity previously displayed by auctions and transport companies taking horses to slaughter. Fortunately, the 1996 federal Farm Bill mandated more humane conditions. Unfortunately, it didn’t go into effect until 2001.

Humane treatment aside, the loss of horse abbatoirs is a divisive issue. I’m of the opinion that it’s unbeneficial and inhumane to not have an outlet for surplus horses. This, of course, assuming the transport and facility abide by regulations; I’m also not a fan of large abbatoirs, which I believe cause undue stress to the animal.

Isn’t it ultimately more kind to put an end to their suffering, and make good use of the meat? Proponents frequently make the comparison to the millions of dogs and cats that are euthanized daily in the U.S., because their owners were too irresponsible or lazy to spay or neuter. Where do these sad creatures end up? Cremated. What a waste, in all regards.

“Right,” I hear you saying. “As if you would eat dog or cat [assuming it hadn't been euthanized and was fit for human consumption]!”

Actually, I have eaten dog, and it’s really not a big deal…with the glaring exception of how those animals are raised and treated. But as a food and travel journalist, I also have a job to do, and at times, that means your personal ethics need to keep their big fucking mouth shut.

It never fails to amaze me when “food writers” refuse to eat what’s put in front of them simply because they find it personally distasteful. Allergies are one thing, but a refusal to at least taste is a. rude, and b. lacking in journalistic integrity. Have religious limitations? Then you probably shouldn’t be food writing for the general public.

The incident that led me to this opinion occurred on the final night of a very high-end press junket to Parma. One of the city’s finest restaurants had organized a special dinner for our group, to commemorate the anniversary of the Consorzio del Formaggio Parmigiano-Reggiano. The chef had prepared a set menu: ten courses of Parmigiano-enhanced regional foods, specifically chosen to impress and show us what Emilia-Romagna was all about.

The seventh course was fileto di giovani cavallo, a rosy filet of young horse. As our trip organizer translated what was being served, an uneasy silence fell over the table.  “My Friend Flicka is on the menu?” asked an editor, her voice trembling. Within minutes, eleven of my twelve tablemates had requested beef as a substitute. I was mortified.

Believe it or not, Seabiscuit tasted pretty damn good.

Photo love: Flicker user madeleine_

’nuff said.

After a cold, dirty, exhausting weekend gathering wayward cattle and calves to be vaccinated, castrated, and branded, it was fiesta time.  A massive barbecue fashioned out of old oil drums was heaped with native red oak and per tradition, the calf “fries,” (also known as Rocky Mountain oysters, prairie oysters…testiculos) were grilled up as a snack.

The charred, crispy little morsels, tender and juicy on the inside, were tucked into a flour tortilla, slathered with salsa, and rolled up, taquito-style.  As a child reknown for her picky eating habits, there wasn’t a chance in hell I was going to indulge in an hors d’oeuvre of greasy calf cojones.

But when my dad proudly presented me with a testicle taco, how could I refuse?  To say no would be to disappoint the man who had given me life, himself a former wrangler. It was time to grow up, and grow a pair of my own.  I grabbed the dripping tortilla and bit down….chewed…swallowed.

It was good!  Smoky, salty, a little bit chewy, just a touch of heat and sweetness from the salsa, the tortilla a perfect foil for the savory juices now dribbling down my chin.

Yep.  Tastes just like chicken.

California’s indigenous barbecue

Way back before the Gold Rush, breast implants, and Keeping Up with the Kardashians, California belonged to Mexico…until the the U.S. government took possession of the soon-to-be Golden State. Spanish and Mexican colonists and soldiers, called Californios, settled on ranchos along California’s rich, central coastal grasslands.

Spanish and Mexican heritage morphed into a true California cuisine, one that
incorporated the corn, tomatoes, beans, and peppers of the New World with the beef, lamb, and olive oil of the Old World. The parilla, or grill, was the domain of the vaqueros, or cowboys, and the rancheros, or landowners. The mild, Mediterranean climate fostered a tradition of outdoor cooking still beloved by Californians today.  Rancho barbecues were a way to mark special occasions, unite family and community, and enjoy the foods of the mother land.

A traditional Santa Maria Style Barbecue (the official term used by the Santa Maria Visitors & Convention Bureau), consists of top-sirloin or tri-tip beef steak strung on steel rods and grilled over Santa Maria Valley red oak. It’s served with tiny, savory pinquito beans, grown only in the Valley, salsa cruda, tossed green salad, and toasted, buttered sweet French bread.  The meat is anointed only with salt, pepper and garlic salt, then served thinly sliced with all the fixings.

Tri-tip sammie!

Where to find it

Whether you call it Santa Maria bbq/barbecue/-style barbecue, it’s easy to hunt down if you’re in the area. A handful of restaurants have gained national fame for their versions. The Hitching Post in Casmalia (there’s also a sister location in Buellton) has been a local favorite since 1952, when the Ostini family first fired up their indoor barbecue pit (866-879-4088).
The family-owned Far Western Tavern in Guadalupe (the restaurant is relocating to nearby Orcutt in Spring, 2012) is another true blue Western institution. Ask for the Cowboy Cut Sirloin, cooked over red oak. (reservations recommended, 805-343-2211).                                                                                                                                                                                                 If you want a more local experience, check out the takeaway tri-tip sandwiches from Old Town Market in Orcutt, or Dino’s Deli in Santa Maria. There are also
weekend barbecues in downtown Santa Maria, at the Filipino Community Center (1721 Broadway) and in the CVS/pharmacy parking lot (2116 S.
Broadway). To find other meaty goodness around town, contact the Santa Maria Convention & Visitors Bureau; 800-331-3779.

How to DIY 

The famed Alisal Guest Ranch and Resort in Solvang is debuting its hands-on BBQ Bootcamp this fall, from October 27-30^th. Frank Ostini of The Hitching Post restaurants and Alisal chef Pascal Godé will let you in on the secrets to great grilling, including Santa Maria-style barbecue. To register, go to www.alisal.com.

If If a trip to the Central Coast isn’t on your itinerary, Susie Q’s Brand has all the fixin’s, from pinquito beans to wood chips, available online. Founder Susan Righetti is the daughter of Far Western Tavern’s Minetti family.

[Photo love: bull, Flickr user Pictr 30D; sandwich, Flickr user Nubby Tongue]

So, now that summer is finally here (yes, I realize it’s September but I live in Seattle), I thought I’d celebrate by firing up my metaphorical barbecue (I also live in an apartment at the moment), and share with you my tips for making a better burger.

*Remove your ground meat of choice from the fridge
half an hour before you plan to make your burgers. You’re going to be adding
stuff to it, and it will bind better if the meat isn’t too cold. Allow about
one-and-a-half pounds for four people, depending upon what else you plan to
serve. It’s always better to prepare too much than too little, and leftover
burgers are great crumbled into stir-fries, pasta sauce, or scrambled eggs.

*Open a beer (personally, I prefer cocktails
or wine but raw meat flecks and smeary fingerprints on glasseware is just not
sexy).

*Dump the meat into a large bowl. Add one egg and one or two largish handfuls of panko or breadcrumbs; make them yourself with leftover bread or score some discounted day-old stuff from a bakery or local dumpster. Storebought stuff works, too. Add another egg if the mixture seems too dry. The point of these two ingredients is two-fold. The egg adds moisture and acts as a binding agent, while the breadcrumbs increase your yield and ensure your burger won’t end up festering in your colon for the next several months.

*Be sure to wash your hands after handling the egg
and raw meat, and keep them separate from any utensils or ingredients you
plan to use on raw food. E. coli is also not sexy.

*Add to meat one large shallot, minced, and at least
three cloves of garlic, also finely minced. I always add a dash or four of soy
sauce or Worcestershire, for added flavor. Throw in a handful of chopped Italian parsley or chives. Ground lamb with mint is also wonderful.

*Season to taste with kosher salt and freshly ground black
pepper and mix well using your hands until all the ingredients are fully incorporated. To determine if your seasoning is right on, fry up a pinch of the
mixture. Form into one-and-a-quarter-inch-thick patties by scooping the meat
into your hands and gently! patting them into shape. Resist the urge to fondle
too much, as it will compact the meat, making for a dry, tough burger. If you
make them slider-sized, you’ll be able to double fist, clutching burger in
one hand and beer in the other. I may not like greasy glasses, but I’m a huge
advocate of eating and drinking ambidextrously.

I always make a slight indentation in the center of each patty, because that’s what my mom did to prevent “shrinkage.” I have no idea if this is true or not, but it does make you look like a wise old kitchen sage. You can make the burgers up to a day ahead; if you’ve got a crowd, place a sheet of parchment paper or plastic wrap between layers to prevent them from glomming on to one another. Bring up to room temperature before grilling.

*Preheat your grill or flat-top. Have another drink while you’re waiting.

*When coals are ashy and white and you’ve got some
flame going, lightly oil the grill using a damp rag dipped in cooking oil.
If you’re using a pan, get it smoking hot and brown both sides of the meat for better flavor. Try to refrain from cooking past medium rare if you’ve thrown down cash for good meat.

*Toast your buns. Artisan or Wonder Bread, they’ll
taste better and it will help prevent the condiments from making them soggy.

*One more drink. Eat. Enjoy. Make friends or significant other clean up.

Lamb makes great burgers, too!

Sourcing

Depending upon your budget and the state of your arteries, you can opt for lean ground beef (around the eight- to ten-percent fat range), or go big on
something 20- to 25-percent fat. Hamburgers are not the place to skimp on fat–it’s a necessary component, whether you use ground chuck, sirloin, or round. I recommend grassfed- and -finished beef for health, humanity, and flavor reasons, but bear in mind it’s lower in fat and shouldn’t be cooked past medium-rare.
Chuck is the most popular and economical, and provides a good fat and flavor balance. When purchasing, look for a bright, pinky-red color, and if
cellophane-wrapped, avoid anything gray, leaky, smelly, or otherwise
bio-hazardous. Tempting as it may be to purchase the preformed, opaque-packaged, phallic “chubs,” refrain. Saving a few bucks isn’t worth eating dressed
up pet food.

If you’re on a tight budget, however, even if you buy the $2.99/lb. ghetto
grind, it will be vastly improved by the addition of a truly great egg. Pasture-raised chickens snack on foraged bugs and decaying vegetation (Those of you with
McNugget crumbs around your mouths shouldn’t look so horrified) and
the results are exceptionally rich, orangey-yellow yolks packed full of all
kinds of that healthy antioxidant crap. They’re a great, inexpensive protein
source on their own, and so much better than pale, watery, flavorless
commercial eggs that are god knows how old.

Bon appetit!

[Photo love: burger, Flickr user Adam Kuban]

NECTARINE, PROSCIUTTO & ARUGULA SALAD WITH BELLWETHER
 CRESCENZA TOASTS

serves four

Four slices of baguette, 1/4-inch thick and cut
on a long bias and brushed lightly with extra virgin olive oil

Four oz. Bellwether Farms Crescenza cheese (available online and at select cheese shops nationwide; you may substitute chevre, Pont l’Eveque, or blue cheese), placed in a strainer to drain any liquid

Vinaigrette

2 t. finely minced shallot

2 T. good-quality white Balsamic Vinegar (I like the one from Stonehouse) or Champagne Vinegar

Pinch kosher salt

1/3 c. extra virgin olive oil, or to taste, plus extra for brushing on baguette

5 c. arugula

2-3 medium nectarines, ripe but not mushy, cut into 1/4-inch slices

4 oz. prosciutto, sliced paper thin (about eight slices). Tear each slice
into halves or thirds, so you have medium-size pieces that will crumple nicely on the salad.

Kosher salt and freshly ground black pepper, to taste

Preheat oven to 450 degrees.  Brush baguette slices lightly with olive oil, place on a baking sheet and toast until crisp but not browned.  Alternatively, you may grill them.

The vinaigrette:  Place the shallot, vinegar, and salt together in a small bowl and let macerate for at least 10 minutes and up to one hour to mellow the flavor of the shallot.  Add the olive oil in a slow stream, whisking to combine. Add more vinegar or oil, if necessary. If not using immediately, rewhisk before dressing greens.

When ready to serve, spread each toast with one ounce of Crescenza. Set aside. In a large bowl, toss the arugula with just enough vinaigrette to lightly coat the leaves. Add nectarine slices and gently toss one more time to coat nectarines without bruising them. Adjust seasoning if necessary.

Arrange mound of arugula on each of four salad plates, adding several nectarine slices. Gently crumple and add the prosciutto and place a Crescenza toast on each plate. Serve immediately.

© The Sustainable Kitchen ®, 2009