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Archive for the ‘Western U.S. lifestyle’ Category

Brook and Rose LeVan raise heritage turkeys on their Colorado ranch.

Brook and Rose LeVan raise heritage turkeys on their Colorado ranch, Sustainable Settings.

Every year at this time, my family and I duke it out over the turkey. It’s not about, “Should we brine it or deep-fry?” or, “Do we baste it with cultured butter made by blind Norman nuns or massage it with a dry-rub of hand-harvested spices grown on an 8th-century Kerala plantation?”

Sorry to disappoint, but with the Miller’s, the conversation always comes down to this (the following are direct quotes I’ve received from family members this month):

“I found a pre-brined turkey at Trader Joe’s. ”

“Why would you pre-order a turkey? You’re the only one who cares about its upbringing.”

So, despite the Butterball currently residing in my parents’ refrigerator (my flying in from out-of-state makes lugging a fresh turkey from a friend’s farm logistically impossible), I’d like to share my recent Edible Aspen article on pasture-raised turkeys.

In this big, complicated country of ours- where we have so many choices with regard to our food supply–  it’s about doing the best you can. Armageddon will not occur when said Butterball lands on the dinner table- but I firmly believe that as consumers all, we have a moral obligation to educate ourselves and our children about where our food comes from. As consumers, we deserve to have access to that information, regardless of our socioeconomic status. Wholesome, responsibly-raised and -grown food shouldn’t be a luxury for anyone, but realistically, we must rely upon integrated agriculture to feed our growing domestic- and global- population.

Worrying about how my Thanksgiving turkey was raised is a First-World problem, and for that, I’m thankful. Happy Thanksgiving, America.

Photo love: Epicurious

Photo love: Epicurious

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Salar de Uyuni, Bolivia- get there via the frontera town of Tupiza.

Salar de Uyuni, Bolivia- get there via the frontera town of Tupiza.

When Refinery29 asked me to write a feature on the “Top 29 Affordable Trips to Take This Summer,” the criteria was to keep the cost under a hundred bucks a day.

My personal travel budget- even when I’m not on assignment- falls far south of that number, but since I wasn’t allowed to include “sleep in your car” or “camp out in five-star hotel bathroom,” I had my work cut out for me.  I’m the kind of traveler who keeps baby wipes (so versatile!) in my daypack at all times and embraces the logistical challenges of Third World public transit. Not exactly what my editor had in mind.

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18-hour bus ride back to Kathmandu following two-week trek and whitewater trip, sans shower. Happy place.

Still, it wasn’t difficult to come up with 29 entries where you’ll get more than your rupee’s/bhat/dong/dollar’s/riel’s worth. My love of these places is the result of a synergystic melding of their aesthetic and cultural attributes, combined with memorable food/people/outdoor adventures. Consider this post an inspirational guideline for what’s possible, no matter how anemic your budget. Happy travels.

A half-day motorbike tour of the Vietnamese countryside cost $10 (and I learned how to make rice paper if this writing thing doesn't pan out).

A half-day motorbike tour of the Vietnamese countryside cost $20 (and I learned how to make rice paper if this writing thing doesn’t pan out).

 

 

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It may come as a surprise to learn that Colorado now ranks second in the nation for the most distilleries (after Washington state). We’re more than just craft beer and ski resorts, baby.

I had the good fortune to research (ahem), curate, and write Edible Aspen’s inaugural Colorado Craft Distillery Guide, which just hit the stands in the Winter issue.

Photo love: Wood's High Mountain Distillery

Photo love: Wood’s High Mountain Distillery

From small-batch eaux de vie made with farmstead fruit to one of the nation’s greenest distilleries, we’ve got the intel on where to find the best tasting rooms, tours, grain-to-glass spirits, and bar programs in the state (with some recipes, to boot). Happy hols, y’all.

These heirloom potatoes become award-winning vodka. Photo love: Woody Creek Distillers

These heirloom potatoes become award-winning vodka.  Photo love: Woody Creek Distillers

 

 

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Photo love: Fruit Maven

Photo love: Fruit Maven

“How do you retire from doing what you love the most?”

Glenn Austin, a 72-year-old seventh-generation peach farmer, recently posed this rhetorical question as we wrapped up our interview for an Edible Aspen feature. He and his wife of 55 years had just taken their first non-work-related vacation, and while they enjoyed the trip, they were happy to return to their 26 acres of high-altitude paradise on Colorado’s Western Slope.

Peach farming reminded me of the six years I spent slinging stonefruit at Bay Area farmers’ markets– a formative and formidable time when I was trying to find my footing as a cooking teacher and food writer. In 2000, I was four years out of culinary school and living in Berkeley- epicenter of the nation’s sustainable food movement. I was working multiple jobs to get by, while simultaneously launching a home-based cooking school and journalism career. Back then, my energy was boundless, and my back a hell of a lot stronger.

What I most wanted at that time was a job at the farmers market, both for the education and industry contacts. It was difficult to infiltrate the ranks of the vendor community, because the most-coveted farms had little employee turnover. I’d gotten to know some of these folks in between teaching, waiting tables, and working in kitchens, and I yearned to become part of the tight-knit market clan.

Home is where the farm is. Photo love: Jason Dewey Photography

Happy place. Photo love: Jason Dewey Photography

Deliverance came one afternoon when I was getting my weekly dog fix from the puppy at Frog Hollow Farm’s stand. Owner “Farmer Al” Courchesne’s peaches were the stuff of legend in the Bay Area; his luscious stonefruit appeared on the menus of the region’s most influential restaurants of the day, including Chez Panisse, Oliveto, and Zuni Cafe. A peach, Al was fond of saying, “is like sex in a fuzzy skin.”

I’d gotten to know Al’s wife, Becky, as an occasional customer (their stuff ain’t cheap). Perhaps she was just sick of me molesting her dog but rarely purchasing fruit, or maybe she took pity on me. Whatever the case, Becky hired me and thus began my glorious career as a part-time peach and pastry pusher. For over half a decade, I worked three markets a week in Berkeley and San Francisco, year-round.

I gleefully did manual labor, unloading and loading the farm truck, setting up tables and pop-up tents, hefting up to 50 pounds of fruit at a time, and tying down loads. My hands were callused, my nails perpetually dirty, my body bruised, my skin a cancer-cultivating hue. Al was a mercurial taskmaster. But I loved the job. I was also totally ripped, my refrigerator overflowed with peerless product (bartering being the raison d’etre for working low-paying market jobs) and I had a wonderfully diverse group of friends and colleagues who shared my passion for food and family farms.

Death-gripping a pretzel, age two.

Death-gripping a pretzel, age two.

By 2003, I’d transitioned to food and travel writing (Becky, more than anyone, is responsible for encouraging me to do so), and contributed to several Lonely Planet guidebooks. The following is an abridged excerpt from World Food California, for which I wrote an essay on the Berkeley Farmers Market:

If…waiting tables is a challenge in Berkeley, then try selling food products at its farmers’ markets…due to any number of food sensitivities, aversions, allergies, purported allergies, or political statements. When Becky, a gifted pastry chef, started making organic jam and pastries from the farm’s fruit, she was fulfilling a longtime dream of turning the raw ingredients growing right outside her kitchen into edible offerings that reflected the soul of the farm.

I severely underestimated the high-maintenance requirements of Berkeley’s food militia, but despite the occasional verbal assaults from pissed-off vegans and early-adopting gluten-phobes, most of our customers were pretty cool. The people-watching never failed to disappoint. Entertainment came in the form of observing Berkeley’s resident weirdos, busting thieving kids and derelicts (my nickname was “The Enforcer”), and trying to prevent customers from double-dipping when tasting our jams.

The defendants at the SF Ferry Building farm shop. Photo love: Edible Excursions

Becky’s tarts on display. Photo love: Edible Excursions

“Freeloaders and freaks, homeless and housewives, children and chefs…the market is a truly special place to work. To be surrounded by people so connected to the land and so committed to preserving California’s precious resources, growers of exquisite produce, food artisans of a quality equal to any found in Europe; these are the reasons I stay...There’s a camaraderie that exists amongst the market vendors. We’re a family. We support one another. I’ll trade you some first-of-the-season Burlat cherries for some of your haricot verts.

The market offers a respite from the urban racket. It’s an oasis of green, earthly things, a refuge from the ever-growing parade of strip malls and tract homes that threaten to engulf our agricultural land. I can think of no other community so deeply dedicated to supporting sustainable agriculture, or of so many chefs and consumers enamored of cooking and eating the fresh, the seasonal, the local.”

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Some Colorado Easter Egg radishes.

As much as I loved the market, I began a slow but inevitable burn-out. I called my conundrum the “velvet handcuffs” because I didn’t know how to a leave a secure job (Becky and Al were nothing if not supportive of my writing career, allowing me to take off as much time as needed for assignments) with decent pay (Al believed in rewarding hard work). I spent nearly two years agonizing, until the combination of a bad breakup and a collapsing housing market made the decision for me. It was time to move on.

Eventually, I ended up back in Colorado, always my longterm goal. I love my rural life in the Rocky Mountains, in a valley nationally renown for its sustainable agriculture. But I’d be lying if I said I don’t miss being part of a market community, and the happy exhaustion that comes at the end of a long, physically demanding work day. I’ll never get used to the short growing season, lack of indigenous citrus, and crappy tomatoes. My fridge is far more anemic, since my freelance budget doesn’t permit splurges on walnut oil, fresh chestnut flour pasta, duck fat, or dry-farmed heirloom produce- bartered items I once took for granted.

Yet, moving here has finally enabled me to earn a living as a writer. True, writing softens you in ways the physical demands of restaurant and farm work don’t- muscle tone and posture are the first to go, followed by the ability to think quickly on your feet and interact with other Homo sapiens. But writing also hardens you. To rejection, setbacks, and living paycheck-to-paycheck. Writing isn’t an occupation for those with weak constitutions, a shitty work ethic, or lack of passion. But then, neither is being a chef. Or a farmer.

“How do you retire from doing what you love the most?”

I don’t know. I hope I’m never able to tell you.

Glenn and Tony Austin. Photo love: Austin Family Farm

Glenn and Tony Austin. Photo love: Austin Family Farm

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Nepal, April, '15

Nepal, April, ’15

Backpackers are, as a species, short on money and space. We’re also often short on time, what with needing to make tight bus (see above), train, and janky plane connections, awakening still drunk at check-out time, or urgently needing a toilet (or bush, rock, or roadside) after eating dodgy street food.

Thus, things like showers, laundry, and basic hygiene often fall by the wayside. In my 15 years as a travel writer, I’ve oft found inspiration amongst fellow nomads- as well as come up with a few genius ideas myself- with regard to repurposing items or turning specific-use products into multitasking workhorses.

Presenting my top five travel hacks for dirtbags, tested and approved by yours truly. Happy holiday weekend!

Photo love: Elite Daily

Photo love: Elite Daily

1. Airline-size booze bottles for shampoo and body wash

While it’s shocking I didn’t come up with the idea myself, I recently discovered this hack after several dirtbag chef friends crashed at my apartment. I wasn’t remotely surprised to find a mini bottle of bourbon in my shower; what amazed me is that it was filled with castile soap (perhaps the most epic multitasking product on earth). Brilliant.

Photo love: Amateur Outdoorsman

Photo love: Amateur Outdoorsman

2. Carabiners to carry extra items on your pack

I draw the line at stuffing sweaty, smelly, muddy hiking boots in my pack. That’s why I like to clip ’em to my day pack for transit (because only fools entrust their pricey footwear to the random sketchballs who handle checked baggage). Does it piss off my seatmates, who are forced to huff the fumes (see Hack #5)? Of course. Tough shit. ‘Biners are also ideal for holding wet swimsuits, shopping bags, and other stuff.

Photo love: ToysR'Us

Photo love: ToysR’Us

3. Baby wipes

Not just any brand will do. It’s Pampers Sensitive Baby Wipes or nothing (especially if you have, you know, sensitive skin…or a vagina). It was my tentmate on the Inca Trail who turned me on to this basic travel hack. Not only ideal for an improved version of the so-called Mexican (insert minority slur of your region’s choice) shower, they’re also aces at removing road grime, makeup, sunblock, deodorant marks from the tank top you’ve been wearing almost daily for a month, degreasing hair, and blotting up the gallon of cooking oil (?) that exploded all over your pack while it was in the hold of a clapped-out Cambodian bus. Wiping the backsplash from your ass after using a fetid squat toilet? Priceless. If you travel with nothing else, make it these puppies.

There is a point to this photo. Keep reading.

There is a point to this photo. Keep reading.

4. Sarong

For a few bucks, you have a lightweight, non-bulky souvenir/beach towel/bath towel/blanket for over-AC’ed buses/sunshade/pillow/sling/tourniquet/face mask for choking developing nation pollution/on-the-fly changing room/padding for the hematoma on your tailbone from an ill-fitting pack. Bonus: It will last forfuckingever.

Your average Bolivian toilet

Your average Bolivian toilet

5. Free sample sizes of perfume/cologne

Beyond handy for travel hook-ups (carry in your pocket!) and destinking clothes, stanky hostel rooms, befouled restrooms, sweaty shoes, midewy backpack interiors, your hair and bod after one too many days on the road, and to use in place of deodorant when you run out, mid-trek.

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Meet Alison Krauss; last year's name them was "music."

Meet Alison Krauss; last year’s name theme was “music.”

To know me is to…know I have a thing for goats. Get your minds out of the gutter; I just mean that I adore caprines. Intelligent as dogs, with the individualized personalities of mules (two of my other fave furry critters), they’re also milk-making machines that yield the main ingredient for some of the world’s most delectable cheeses.

As if these aren’t reasons enough to dig goats, there’s nothing on this earth- nothing!– as adorable as their offspring. This is why, every spring, I willingly deprive myself of sleep and pull all-nighters at the dairies of cheesemaker friends near and far, so I can selfishly have 24/7 access to baby goats, and the birthing, bottle-feeding, and cuddling that go with.

Sweet dreams are made of this.

I’m lucky to have award-winning Avalanche Cheese Company as a neighbor; last year I helped out with kidding and had the honor of being one of the first guests in the historic, renovated farmstay cabin at their dairy in Paonia. Formerly, it was cheesemaker Wendy Mitchell and family’s part-time home; they now live in Aspen full-time since she opened her insanely awesome restaurant/farm shop, Meat & Cheese. Which isn’t to say Wendy’s not still totally involved with life at the dairy and creamery, because she’s one of those freaks of nature possessed of boundless energy, ideas, and entrepreneurial prowess (luckily for us, her consumer base).

Happy hour at the cabin (cheese & salumi welcome basket included). Photo love: Avalanche Cheese Company

Happy hour at the cabin (cheese & salumi welcome basket included). Photo love: Avalanche Cheese Company

As the new Blog Creator for Edible Aspen, I ensured our first post was about Avalanche’s agriturismo, because their kidding season just kicked off and there’s no better time in which to spend a day or three on the farm. You can help out with the chores (no more bottle-feeding; this year, they’ve switched their herd management to the all-natural method of leaving the kids with the does until their weaned, more on that in my Edible post). But you can still spend time with the babies, chill out in one of the most scenic- and least-touristed- parts of Colorado and most important, totally get your goat geek on.

For booking info and the full post, click right here, s’il vous plaît.

Happy chevre season, and thanks to culture: the word on cheese for the link lovin’.

 

 

 

 

 

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Photo love: Slow Food London

Photo love: Slow Food London

Sometimes, I get to do really cool things like attend swanky events that would normally exclude a holey-jean-wearin’ dirtbag. Such was the case this past weekend, when I attended the second-annual Rare Craft Collection curated by The Balvenie Distillery (located in Dufftown, Scotland). The nine-stop tour hit Aspen’s historic Crystal Palace to feature an exhibition of 21 hand-crafted American artisan products– from hand-caned ping pong tables and bagpipes (natch) to chef’s knives. The highlight, however, was a master tasting class of The Balvenie’s exquisite collection of single-malt whiskies.

I’m a bourbon drinker, and prior to Saturday, I thought I hated Scotch. I know, it’ s a total chick thing to say: why drink peaty, dirty, leathery, when you can have toffee, vanilla, and honey? Turns out Scotch whisky varies wildly in character, depending upon the region is which it’s produced. This, among other things, is what I learned at the master class led by The Balvenie Brand Ambassador (and helluva mean bagpiper) Lorne Cousin. The 120-year-old family founded-and-run distillery is one of a few still doing things old-school, growing their own barley, malting and smoking it, and distilling it by hand (not by computer); they even have their own cooperage.

I also learned what monkey shoulder is, the glory that is a $200-a-bottle, 21-year whisky aged in a Port cask, why blends are the the ho’s of whisky production, and what Scotsmen really wear under their kilts (it’s not what you think). Want to know the dirty details? Read my recap of the evening for Curbed Ski.

PS. Pair this stuff with a an aged Gouda or Cheddar, and you will experience Nirvana.

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