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After a long break, I'm back to blogging - this time about the thriving food scene in the Southern Oregon's Rogue Valley!

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~The Wayward Chef

The Cult of the Clay Pot

When people think of clay pot cooking, most often, they think of grandma’s ceramic casserole or crock-pot. But for those in the know, clay pot cooking invokes impassioned responses and cult-like zeal. “I found my first clay pot, a French triperie, [for cooking tripe], at a shop in New York City years ago. I didn’t even know what tripe was!” exclaimed iconic food writer, Paula Wolfert. The Sonoma, California resident and self-proclaimed clay pot “junkie” has been collecting clay pots from her travels around the world for over fifty years. “It’s a personal sickness” she confessed, “I have hundreds of clay pots”.

The history of clay pot cooking runs as rich and deep as civilization itself, from ancient times to present day and from Indonesia to Egypt. Even the United States has its own history with earthenware. ‘Boston’ Baked Beans, originally a native American dish, were cooked in earthen bean pots. Traditional micacious pots of the American Southwest Indians have a cult status all their own. But clay pot cooking is getting a renewed look as of late as chefs such as Deborah Madison and Richard Olney extol the virtues of these earthen wonders in their cookbooks. Steve Sando, founder of Rancho Gordo Heirloom Beans in Napa, readily admits to his obsession. He’ll use any one of his eighty-plus bean pots on a daily basis. Tom Wirt, of Clay Coyote, recently launched a line of clay cookware and believes that as people make more conscious food choices, they’ll want cookware with a conscience too. On a recent walk through Sonoma, Paula Wolfert quipped “of all the gin joints, in all the towns, in all the world…” upon stumbling upon the new store, Bram. Bram, the Egyptian word for a clay pot, is dedicated entirely to clay pot cookware from around the world. The timing and location couldn’t be more auspicious as Wolfert’s latest cookbook, Mediterranean Clay Pot Cooking, (Wiley, 2009), is due out this fall.

What fuels such an emphatic following? Enthusiasts claim that clay pots lend a taste of the earth to whatever is cooked in them; a “fingerprint” of the clay, Wolfert calls it. La Chamba, the jet-black earthenware from Columbia, is smoked in rice husks, imparting a smoky flavor into the pot’s contents. Mineral qualities are said to infuse into the dishes cooked in the clay pots from Egypt, Morocco and Mexico. Micacious clay pots are said to lend a “sweet” or “balanced” quality to whatever is cooked in them. As well, clay distributes heat evenly and then holds its temperature making it ideal for cooking low, and slow, and developing flavor; whereas, cast-iron or steel pots continue to heat up unless they’re moved away from their heat source. Enthusiasts often describe feeling an almost ‘primal connection’ to their food when they cook with clay. Although Wolfert is quick to dismiss the notion that clay pot cooking is anything more than a niche market for an impassioned group of cooks, some might beg to differ…

The chef has moved!

I admit, I'm a slacker blogger! But, if you're really jonesing for me - you can read my latest article from The Crew Report on the Top 10 Kitchen Gadgets every chef needs! It's posted over at my new blog (which is still mid-rebuild)...

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http://blog.thewaywardchef.com/articles/

And, and, and... very soon, I'll be a regular food writer for their website www.YotCru.com

Cheers,

Cristina

What’s next?

Since leaving the yachting world, I feel that my blog has been left adrift, without the wind to guide it. I just can’t write about what I cook and eat on a daily basis. Without the element of adventure, I'm feeling a bit lost. It’s not that I don’t have great fun in my kitchen - on the contrary - but there are a million blogs out there talking about what so-and-so has cooked up in their kitchen today… In yachting, everyday brought something different – like a massive storm, or the arrival of a famous guest just when all of my galley equipment decided to stop working, or the chance to shop in some crazy, local market. Some days were scary, some were frustrating, and many were insanely fun! But, I’ve grown accustomed to sleeping in my own bed at night, and not having nine roommates, and I don’t plan on returning to the yachting world again anytime soon. So, time to look for a new adventure, wouldn’t ya’ say?

I’ve been a complete recluse for the past four months writing a proposal and converting my Caribbean adventures into a book. The proposal writing process is a project in and of itself! It’s coming along – and I have a very persistent editor needling me and making sure that I don’t sit on it for yet another year and a half. But, it’s time to earn an income again and seek out some new inspiration! Some chefs find inspiration in manipulating food with machinery and chemicals, alla Grant Achatz or Hester Blumenthal; creating bubble gum flavored smoke, or peanut butter and jelly flavored spheres of indefinable ooze. That’s cool, but it’s never been what gets me excited when I’m playing in the kitchen. I draw a lot of inspiration from my environment - cooking on a yacht, perusing foreign markets, building a kitchen in a warehouse, or out in a vineyard, or even on a safari (which always sounded like grand fun to me and which I haven’t done – yet). I like the factor of unpredictability. It keeps me on my toes.

So where to next? That is the question…

Simple pleasures

My Bottarga arrived! With the patience of a five-year-old on Christmas morning, I ripped the package right open. There, before me, was a gorgeous, soft, amber cake of salted, pressed mullet roe. It smelled divine, like the ocean: briny, slightly fishy, reminding me of salted anchovies. Never having eaten Bottarga before, this was not to be just another average day - this was an occasion!

In Sardinian cooking Bottarga is traditionally cooked in, or grated on top of, pasta. In Lebanon the Bottarga is sliced thin, drizzled with olive oil, garnished with a slice of garlic, and then eaten with soft triangles of pita bread. But, I decided to go with the Sardinian preparation – with fresh made pasta, of course.

I rolled, cut, and cooked about a half-pound of fresh linguine, minced a few cloves of garlic, a handful of parsley, and finely diced about two tablespoons of the Bottarga. Then, I poured a generous amount of good quality olive oil into my pan, added the garlic and about a half teaspoon of red pepper flakes and let that cook to infuse the oil. Once the aroma of garlic filled the kitchen, I added in the Bottarga and let it sizzle just long enough to release its flavor. My salivary glands were just beginning to get happy in anticipation. I added the cooked linguini and enough of the pasta cooking water to marry with the infused olive oil, tossing it well to create a light sauce. With its subtle, briny, oceany, and stinky funk, fresh grated Pecorino seemed like a winning choice to compliment the Bottarga.

Now, don't think me greedy. Although I could've been quite content keeping this little treasure to myself, I did invite a few girlfriends over for lunch...

I served the pasta alongside a crisp salad of raw artichokes, preserved meyer lemons, and Ricotta Salata.

Finally sitting to eat, I twisted the long tendrils of linguini around my fork, making sure each ribbon of pasta was sufficiently speckled with Bottarga. I took my first bite. Heaven. The Bottarga was much more subtle than I had imagined. It lent the perfect hint of briny-saltiness to the pasta, and melted in my mouth.

Lingering over the platter of pasta, working our way through a few bottles of vin gris, chatting about life, and gardening, and food, it was a perfect meal and a perfect day. Oh, and for dessert, we did what I would assume any proper Italian would. We tore apart big, crusty pieces of peasant bread and dragged them through the salty, Bottarga and garlic infused oil from the bottom of the pot and ate that too.

Mmmm, if life were only this sweet every day (I'd never fit into my pants again)...

Food For Thought

Every year, for the past 5 years, I've gotten this asinine idea in my head that I’m going to fast. How healthy of me, right? Last year, I tried fasting at a special “cleansing” resort in Thailand. Even surrounded by dozens of other fasters, I broke down after three days and gave into my desire for solid food. Why, I asked myself, would I come all the way to Thailand and not eat? Good question. And why, again, when I am in a beautiful location with a bounty of incredible produce and ingredients at my fingertips would I willingly choose to abstain from eating? I honestly don’t know. My nutritionist tells me that my hunger is a monster that I need to let die. But, I want food! Asking a chef not to eat is like a asking a racecar driver to slow down on the racetrack. Not possible.

I’ve tried distracting myself from thoughts of food. I fertilized and cultivated the patch in the backyard where my vegetable garden will soon be. But, vegetables = food. I go on walks: past my favorite coffee shop, past my favorite restaurant. I read books - about food. Even the Internet is not safe! Last night, I’d punched in my credit card number and clicked “purchase” before I even realized what I was doing. And now, as I slurp my way through veggie broths and green juices, easing myself back into the world of solid food, I eagerly await a shipment of Sardinian Bottarga di Muggine. I think I’m going to put this whole fasting notion to rest, once and for all. I sense a plate of Spaghetti alla Bottarga in my future…

Landlubber

The ground beneath me explodes as I rip a handful of weeds from the rich, dark soil. A lacy netting of roots clings for dear life to a giant dirt clod. I knock the extra dirt off on a nearby rock and throw the weed into my rapidly expanding weed pile. I’ve never gardened before today! In fact, I’ve killed almost every plant I’ve ever owned – which really consists of only about four. Ever. In my entire life. Last week I killed a pot of tulips given to me as a house-warming gift by my step-mom. I completely forgot to water them. Plants don’t like it when you forget to water them.

Fragrant purple lilacs drip from the bushes on my street; cherry and quince trees explode with pink puffs; the apple and peach orchards look like fields of popped corn – pass the butter! The farmers market stalls are filled with transplant seedlings for tomatoes, peppers, herbs, and baby lettuces. The first asparagus of the season has arrived at the local Co-op. It’s amazing being so close to so many local, yummy edibles. On the yachts, almost everything is imported. Too often, the produce is shipped thousands of miles across the ocean to wherever in the Caribbean, or Mexico, or elsewhere, the yachts are provisioning. It’s not always feasible or possible, when you’re responsible for feeding 18 people a day breakfast, lunch, dinner, and cocktails, to make it to the little farmers market on some tiny island to shop everyday. And, those special people that own those multi-million dollar yachts, or are paying thousands of dollars per day to charter one, don’t like to here the word ‘no’ when they request organic white peaches. In February. In the Caribbean. Uggg. But to be back on land again, hooray! It’s like e venerable, local feast at my fingertips! I love being so close to my food source again! I want to grow things, to eat, but nothing in my previous 30+ years of big city living and the past four years spent on the water has prepared me for the agrarian utopia I now live in. So, how do I begin?

I planted 4 pots of herbs today; mint, lemon balm (for tea), lemon thyme, and savory. My landlord is an arborist, so my house is hidden away in a little forest of beautiful trees and shrubs, which means that I don’t have much in the way of direct sunlight. But, I do have a small, sunny patch in my backyard, near the fence. So I’m thinking of putting a few tomato plants, maybe some sort of winter squash, like acorns, butternut or pumpkin and lots more herbs, maybe some lettuces; my very first edible garden. Let’s hope I don’t kill it!