Of the Spring in Spring

The National Weather Service issued a freeze warning for parts of northern Wisconsin a couple nights ago.  That would not be a notable fact were this September, or mid-May; but the calendar insists that we're still a few days from the end of March, a month during which, in northern Wisconsin, the average low temperature is in the low 20s, i.e., well below freezing.  In the average year, then, no warning would be necessary for a March freeze.  Average, this spring is not.

The freakishly warm spell has held on for long enough that I think most of us have entered early May mode.  The trees here in northern Dunn County are leafed out past where they often are at the opening of the trout season, first Saturday in May.  Stinging nettles are up a good four inches in the Bide-A-Wee woods, and I'll be checking our wild asparagus patch, on its southerly slope, in the next few days.  I just hope that the fruit trees don't bloom for at least a couple more weeks--it's hard to believe that we're going to get through April without a hard frost, which would be devastating for any fruit crops in flower.  (As a side note, we completely missed the sugaring season this year, and we weren't alone; if you can grab some syrup at last year's prices, I'd advise you to do so.)

We'll just have to wait to see how it all shakes out, whether the other shoe's going to drop.  I found it really disturbing, I have to say, that spell of days near 80 degrees before we'd even reached astronomical spring.  One shouldn't have to worry about where to park with dogs in the car prior to the vernal equinox, unless it's to worry that they'll be cold.  In the last few days of cool mornings and highs in the 60s, I've come around a bit.  This time of year can be dismal, waiting for the dull brown landscape to snap to life after the snow has gone.  We have fast-forwarded through that phase this year, for sure.

One big plus to the mild winter and early spring is an uncommonly early start to the foraging season.  I happened upon this gorgeous watercress patch a couple of years ago on my typically meandering drive between Saint Paul and Bide-A-Wee.  A dirt road led me along a winding way, squeezed to one lane under a railroad trestle, opened into a pretty little valley, followed a narrow, twisty stream, and just past where the road crossed the stream, off to the left I saw a broad ribbon of vibrant green.  Stopped the car and saw a path, got out and followed it to its end--just forty or fifty feet off the road--where a spring sprang forth from the limestone.  My heart sprang, too; there is something about a spring that buoys the spirit, always, something so hopeful there.

Something hopeful, and delicious: fresh, succulent cress, with its distinctive, peppery bite and earthy undertones, for all that it grows pretty much hydroponically.  The pepperiness can be overwhelming by the time summer truly comes along; early in the year, as now, it is perfect, assertive without being overbearing.

As I was picking the cress I noticed a tiny commotion in the water at my feet, and came to see that the spring was teeming with scuds, very, very small freshwater crustaceans that are indicative of excellent water quality (and beloved by trout as one of their favorite foods; some theorize that pink-fleshed trout get that color from consuming these wee shwimpses, but I've pulled white- and salmon-fleshed browns from the very same stretch of water, so I wonder about that hypothesis).

Speaking of water quality, I should note that eating wild-foraged watercress is a bit of a controversial topic.  A stream that flows through livestock (particularly sheep) grazing grounds may harbor  the common liver fluke or sheep liver fluke, a parasite which uses freshwater snails as a host during part of its life cycle, and snails in turn favor watercress beds as habitat.  How a liver fluke goes about its business is really, really gross.  You would not want to find out through personal experience.  This is one reason that it's best to harvest cress as close to the source of a spring as possible--the picture just above, that's the the spring flowing out at the base of a small limestone outcropping.  I picked my cress no more than twenty feet from there.  With reasonable care and common sense, you can enjoy wild watercress through the spring months.  I've eaten plenty of it, and never suffered ill effects from it--or from any other wild foods, for that matter.

Also, I find it impossible to walk away from a spring like this without splashing my face with pure, cold water, and drinking a cupped handful of it.

We put the season's first portion of cress to use in the simplest possible way--raw and undressed as the bed for grilled pork that I glazed with a mixture of maple syrup, cider vinegar, garlic, and a bit of sambal.  The juices from the meat and the sweet-spicy glaze wilted the cress as we ate.  Just a lovely, flavorful start to the foraging season.

Whatever this uncommonly early spring portends, it's a delight to find wild greens back on our table.  Now it's the cress, stinging nettles, dandelion greens.  We be on the lookout for sheep sorrel, that wild asparagus, wood nettles (which I'll bet are already up in southern Minne'Sconsin), fiddleheads.  I've even seen a report of morels starting already in southern Wisconsin.  Crazy days....

Text and photos copyright 2012 by Brett Laidlaw

Of Croutons, Rusks, and Pain Perdu

I've thrown out my share of bread in my time, I'm not proud to admit.  There are times, especially in winter, when the indoor air is so utterly arid that a half a loaf may linger on the bread board until it is so petrified, you could hammer nails with it.  There are ways to salvage such an artifact, as peasant folk all over the bread-eating world know, but they're not necessarily the most delicious ways to enjoy bread.  I'll turn to these extreme methods once or twice a year, and feel virtuous for it, but a certain amount of bread does see the inside of the trash can in our house.

I'm trying to turn over a new leaf in this regard, and here's my approach:  If there's bread left from the previous baking when I bring out the starter to begin a new batch, the stale bread gets re-purposed.  One truly delightful re-use of old bread is to make croutons and rusks.  No point in discoursing broadly on the uses of the crouton, except to say that homemade croutons made from excellent bread have about as much in common with the store-bought kind as a Smithfield ham has with Oscar Mayer pre-sliced deli meat.  C'est a dire:  nada.

Rusks, on the other hand, may be less well known.  Basically, it's twice-baked bread.  When I cut up a loaf of bread for re-purposing, I cube up the crumb for croutons, and the crusty part (with a bit of interior included), I cut into strips about three inches long and three-quarters to one inch wide.  Croutons and rusks all get baked together, tossed in olive oil, with perhaps a crushed clove of garlic or two, some herbs (thyme or rosemary, classic) in a 400-degree oven for about ten minutes, check and stir after five.  Once baked and cooled, I keep them in a plastic bag--just tasted a couple samples from last week's batch with my tea:  excellent.

Rusks are good to nibble on their own, or to dip into anything dippable--tapenade, hummus, bagna cauda, baba ganoush.  Rusks and something to dip into make a delightful happy hour snack.

And then, of course, the other best-loved way to polish off past-its-prime bread is what we call French toast, and the French call pain perdu, "lost bread."  I sprang from the bed one morning this past weekend and got straight on to concocting a batch.  Along with some fried Bide-A-Wee apple slices (we've had some excellent keepers from last year's harvest), and some home-smoked bacon, a fine way to start the day--with a contented belly and the satisfaction of having done the best by an honorable loaf.

Text and photos copyright 2012 by Brett Laidlaw

Petit Salé aux Lentilles

This will (probably) conclude the late winter pork fest, and end it on a lovely note, indeed. Petit salé aux lentilles-- simmered salt pork on lentils--is a traditional preparation from the Auvergne region of France, which is situated pretty much smack in the middle of the country, just a little south of center. The Auvergne is the source of some of the most celebrated French cheeses, including Bleu d'Auvergne, Fourme d'Ambert, Salers, Saint-Nectaire, and Cantal. It also produces some wonderful charcuterie, as Mary and I were forcefully informed by a rather aggressive Auvergate sausage vendor at the marvelous National Antiques and Ham Fair which we attended a few years ago on the Ile de Chatou just outside Paris.

I think the music of the name itself is as appealing as the comforting combination of savory pork and lentils. And I think it has intrigued me these many years because, well, it's not the sort of thing we eat around here--except that it is, since it's not that far a stretch from something like lentil soup with sausage, my old-time favorite dish at the Black Forest Inn, back in my Whittier days (I liked it because it was good, and because I was poor; good to see  it's still on the menu, and still cheap at a mere $4.50 a bowl).

Petit salé, "small salted," refers to the salt pork, and the recipes I've consulted indicate that this could be one or more of several cuts--pork belly, shoulder, hock, country-style ribs. The dish also usually includes smoked sausage--I'm a big fan of the uncured smoked bratwurst from Pastures A Plenty. The key to this dish is to make your own salt pork, and this is complicated, so please pay close attention:

Step one: Apply salt to pork.
Step two: Wait.

I can go through that again, more slowly, if you like.

Since I was on a mission to use up excess pork belly, that was my choice for this dish--also because it was the versions using salted belly that originally caught my interest. When we talk salt pork we're once again in the realm of a traditional method of preserving meat--as with bacon, ham, rillons and rillettes, confit of goose, duck, or pork--which we now appreciate for the unique flavors that those methods impart. We don't really put up a barrel full of salted fowl sealed in fat to last us through the winter, or have a slab of bacon hanging in the rafters. But to look at the amount of salt used in many recipes for this type of thing, you'd think we were still trying to preserve these meats for posterity. I see books and websites that literally call for burying duck legs in salt for days, curing pork belly in massive amounts of salt for days prior to smoking, and I just consulted a website where the recipe for salt pork called for over half a cup of salt per pound of belly--I used one tablespoon per pound....*

To make the salt pork, then: you'll need a piece of pork belly. I used a pound, and while I was thinking the finished dish would serve four, it was really more like three hearty servings; you'd want to do a pound and a half of belly for four servings. You'll want fairly lean belly for this--look for a piece that's about half and half lean and fat.

Starting with a pound and a half of pork belly: Cut the pork belly into three pieces. Sprinkle 1 1/2 tablespoons of salt evenly over the meat on all sides. Cover and refrigerate for at least 24 hours, turning it over a couple of times if you think of it. Mine wound up sitting in the fridge for six days; the delay was the result of various life complications including the move, and a dog who for some reason enjoys consuming various utterly indigestible items, such as dish towels and bike gloves. But since it wasn't buried in salt, it did not become too salty. It was, in fact, perfectly seasoned after that time, but probably didn't change much after the first couple of days.

The simmering of the pork takes a while, an hour and a half to two hours, so plan ahead. You could also simmer the pork a day or two ahead, in which case cooking the lentils and finishing the dish will take around an hour.

I took one liberty with the classic method, which was to slice and fry the pork belly after simmering to brown it well, but on one side only. This gave an attractive appearance to the browned side, rendered a bit more fat, and lent a lighter texture to the belly. The veritable Auvergnate version would not be fried.

Petit Salé aux Lentilles
Serves four

1 1/2 pounds salted pork belly, in three pieces
1 small carrot, chopped
1/2 small onion, chopped
1/2 a rib of celery or a bit of peeled celery root, chopped
some leek tops, chopped, optional
2 whole cloves
½ teaspoon whole black peppercorns

Place pork and aromatics in a large saucepan with water to cover. Bring to a boil and simmer for an hour and a half to two hours. (Strain and save the flavorful stock; you'll need a cup of it to finish this recipe, and the rest will make the base of an excellent soup, maybe using leftover lentils.)

For the lentils:

1 1/2 cups green French lentils, such as lentilles de Puy
1 medium carrot, chopped
1 small onion, chopped
1 rib of celery or a bit of peeled celery root, chopped
some leek tops, chopped, optional
salt and freshly ground black pepper

Rinse the lentils and place them in a saucepan with water to cover. Bring to a boil, blanch for one minute, then drain and rinse the lentils. Return them to the saucepan (it should be large enough to accept the expanded lentils, pork belly, and a couple of sausages). Add the carrot, onion, celery or root, optional leek tops, a solid pinch of salt and a few grinds of pepper. Cover with water by two inches, bring to a boil, and simmer for 20 minutes.

Finishing:

3 smoked sausages, like smoked bratwurst (smoked polish or andouille would also be good)

Remove the pork belly from the pot where it has been simmering and drain well. Cut each piece in half, as if you were cutting very thick slices of bacon. Heat a skillet and brown the belly slices well on one side only. Add the belly to the lentils, along with the sausages and a cup of the strained belly-simmering liquid. Simmer for 20 minutes. Taste and adjust for salt and pepper. Remove the sausages and slice them on the diagonal 1/2-inch thick.

Use a slotted spoon to place a bed of lentils in a large, wide bowl. Add a little broth, if you like. Top with a piece of pork belly and two or three slices of sausage. Serve with good mustard (grain or dijon), cornichons, and crusty bread or toast.



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* Looking critically at recipes and methods is something I always try to do, rather than just following instructions slavishly, even though the preparation may be long-established and time-honored--well, actually, especially in those cases. Those are the dishes that often need updating. One of the things I'm most proud of in my book is the streamlined, accessible instructions for smoking, fermenting, making confit, mayonnaise, etc.


Text and photos copyright 2012 by Brett Laidlaw

More Fun With Pork Belly: Rillons

Prior to the era of nose-to-tail/free-range/locally sourced/compassionate carnivorism, before this time of intense scrutiny of all things ingestible, when it seems as if there's a semi-professional charcuterie in every other pantry, pork belly was basically just the punchline in a hoary old Midwestern gag.  "Pork belly futures up a quarter," in the daily radio report from the mercantile exchange (on WCCO-AM eight-three-oh), epitomized all things quaint and farmy, and a way of life which, to the residents of the burgeoning metropolis, was about as relevant as covered wagon days.

All we knew of actual pork belly was bacon, and since that was the chemical-laced, water-logged, pre-sliced stuff hermetically sealed in plastic and cardboard, sometimes with only a representative single slice showing through the packaging, we surely didn't know that it was cured, smoked pork belly; hell, we might not have even known that it came from pigs.

Enter the cult of bacon, the time of lard love, of reverence for homely cuts and eating low on the hog.  Pork belly has found its time to shine.  And shine it does, what with all that fat, it really can't help it.  In fact, while it was ardently embraced by chefs eager to elevate the rustic and the local, it may have already begun to decline.  The problem with pork belly has nothing to do with its inherent lovableness (see above, that endearing fat), but perhaps that it's hard to coax subtlety from something that is so wholeheartedly what it is.  Like an overly cheerful companion on a long car ride, its very virtues can become cloying.  I recall a dinner not too long ago when I plated up a beautiful meal of braised pork belly for Mary and me, and we both started in with yummy noises a'plenty; but before we had finished half our portions we both set down out silverware, patted at our shiny chins with our napkins, and in unison uttered, "Woof."  The richness was just a little too much.

But lately I've discovered a new and excellent way with pork belly.  What I've "discovered" is in fact an extremely old method of preparation, one that, as with duck or goose confit, was originally a method of preservation: rillons, a specialty of the Loire River valley in France.  It's marinated chunks of pork belly which are browned and then simmered a good long while in fat.  Now, if you're anything like me you're already thinking that sounds pretty good, but here's the clincher:  the result is remarkably light and highly, highly edible.  The lean meat becomes as tender as a well cooked pot roast, and the fat turns ethereal.  This is seriously good pork, mes amis.

As with confit of fowl, the method is extremely simple, though the process may seem daunting, involving as it does large quantities of hot fat.  But here you can do quite a small batch, using a pound and a half of meat or so, and it's very manageable, and well worth it.  Because the cooking liquid isn't pure fat but rather a combination of fat, water, and wine or cider, it's not unnervingly oily.  Bonus:  since the chunks of belly render as they cook, you actually end up with more fat than you started with, and that lovely, fragrant lard is a splendid cooking medium for eggs or potatoes, or for making authentic and delectable flour tortillas.  Mary used some in cornbread that we had last night with our brisket and beans.

I've made rillons twice in recent weeks.  I took my basic method from an intriguing website I've just started reading, Cuisine Campagne--hey, she's tapping birch trees this week! Very cool. It's in French, but you can "translate" it, and while the resulting English is pretty tortured, you can get the gist. In my first try I used white wine and a combination of duck and pork fat; second time around, I kept it ultra-local with cider and all pork fat. Both times it was excellent, I really can't compare. Both the wine and cider add a tangy note to the finished dish, which further mitigates the unctuousness.

How to serve: In the Loire, rillons are often part of an assiette de cochonailles--a platter of pork pieces--served as a first course or filling lunch. You might get some pieces of rillons, a little pot of rillettes (I'm not sure what that rill- root means; anyone have a guess?), some sausage or a slice of terrine, some ham, headcheese--much like the now ubiquitous charcuterie plate, but entirely cochon-centric. With highly flavored red meat products, you might automatically think red wine would be the thing to drink--think again: in the Loire white wine rules, made from the sauvignon blanc (Pouilly-Fumé, Sancerre, Quincy) or chenin blanc (Vouvray, Saumur, Touraine) grape varieties. The crisp acidity of these wines goes beautifully with the assertive pork flavors.

I turned my rillons toward Alsace:  the first batch made a nice addition to the choucroute garnie I recently wrote about. The second time around I also matched pork and cabbage, but this time the rillons stood alone on a bed of oven-braised fresh red cabbage (which was local stuff, Wisconsin-grown, purchased at Seward Co-op).  Here's how that worked:  I had the rillons luxuriating in the solidified cooking fat in the fridge.  I pried a few pieces out and let them sit at room temp so most of the remaining attached fat could melt off.  I shredded a couple cups of cabbage and spread it in the bottom of a baking dish, placed the rillons on top of that, stuck it in a 400-degree (guessing) oven.  After five minutes or so I stirred the cabbage so it was evenly coated with fat released by the rillons, and baked for 25 to 30 minutes, until the rillons were very well browned and the cabbage was tender with still a little bite.  After removing the rillons I added a splash of cider vinegar and some salt and pepper to the cabbage; serve it forth, it was great.  (The little galettes in the pictures were a spur-of-the-moment concoction of potato, apple, and shallot tossed with butter, cider vinegar and maple syrup, baked in little tart molds; not a bad result for a first try, but it could use some refinement.)

There you have it, more reasons to love our friend the pig.  I ordered too much pork belly for the smoking demo I did at the Hay River Transition Initiative event, so things have been very porky around here, indeed.  In the fridge I've still got a couple pieces of salted belly that will become petit salé aux lentilles, another traditional, rustic French dish that has always intrigued me, but which I've never made.  You will likely see the outcome right here.

Salut!

Rillons

1 ½ pounds pork belly in 2-inch cubes
¾ teaspoon salt
1/8 teaspoon confit spice (i.e., quatre épices )
Pepper
1 bay leaf crumbled
½ teaspoon thyme leaves

1 tablespoon duck fat or lard
½ cup duck fat or lard
¾ cup dry hard apple cider or white wine
1/2  cup water

Mix the pork belly with salt, herbs and spices, and marinate several hours at room temp or overnight refrigerated. Heat oven to 325. In an ovenproof dutch oven or large saucepan brown the belly pieces well, on all sides, in the 1 tablespoon of duck fat or lard. Add the additional ½ cup of duck fat or lard, the cider or wine, and the water. Bake for 2 to 2 1/2 hours. The pork should be very tender but not falling apart.

Remove the pork from the fat to drain on a wire rack if you want to use it right away. To store, place the pork pieces in a glass or ceramic container and pour the fat over them. They will keep for two weeks or more in this way.


Text and photos copyright 2012 by Brett Laidlaw

The Hay River Transition Initiative's Second Annual Traditional and Green Skills Day

I've harbored the desire to move to the country for well over a decade now. It's a fantasy shared by many, I know--that dream of getting back to the land, finding a simpler life in harmony with nature's rhythms, yada yada yada.... On a mild spring morning with the apple trees in bloom and abuzz with bees and hummingbirds, it seems like the most appealing of existences. How could you want to live anywhere else? How could you stand to? But then there are those other moments--a pick-up truck with a blown-out muffler comes barreling down the road, someone chucks a Bud Light can out the window, and the truck's radio is blaring some I-got-drunk-&-nasty-again song by Hank Williams Jr. (oh, why does he have to have that name?!?), but what you hear is the opening notes of "Dueling Banjos"....

Which is to say: There's the natural environment, which is easy enough to comprehend, whatever challenges it may present; and then there's the human one, which is, I dare say, considerably more murky and troubling. It was the latter that gave us qualms about moving full time to a rural area, but over the last four years of part-time country life our doubts have almost entirely been laid to rest. One event that really helped seal the deal was  the first Traditional and Green Skills Event, put on by the Hay River Transition Initiative last March.

"By harnessing the collective genius of our community members and through principals such as reskilling, open space meetings, and relocalization, we will be a more resilient, vibrant and sustainable community," reads the HRTI's website, and what that translates into, in practical terms, is a bunch of really cool, dedicated, talented people working together to keep their rural community vital and growing. I'll refrain from invidious comparisons, but I already feel more connected to my Wisconsin neighbors, as widely dispersed as they may be (we own 53 acres now, but we're still land-poor by Dunn County standards), than to the Saint Paul neighborhood where we've lived for over 15 years. Out there, neighbors really need and value each other; also, lots of the folks we know in Wisconsin are there on purpose, having relocated from the city for the same reasons we're heading east. They are living very intentional lives, and to me that makes them extremely interesting, enlivening.

Well, this is a typically long-winded way of saying that the second annual HRTI Traditional and Green Skills Event is taking place on Saturday, March 3, from 9:00 a.m. to 3:00 p.m. at the Prairie Farm High School. Seminars include mushroom growing, solar ovens, chainsaw repair, cheese making, rain gardens, backyard chickens, beekeeping, wilderness skills, fruit tree grafting, and much, much more. I'm teaching a class on smoking basics in the first morning session--I'll demonstrate the cool way to open a pack of cigarettes, stylish ways of holding your cancer stick, how to choose a fine stogie, etc.... Yeah, uh, it'll be bacon and trout smoked on an ordinary home grill, smoke roasting chicken and pork--a very basic intro to demystify the smoking process. That's in the 10:00 to 11:20 slot.

The cost for the whole day is ten bucks! That includes coffee and baked goods in the 9:00 to 10:00 wake-up/meet & greet hour, AND a chili and bread lunch! Three stimulating instruction sessions, breakfast, and lunch, for TEN...MEASLY...DOLLARS! $25 for a family of up to five! Are you freakin' kidding me? Well, it's a great deal, and you will learn a lot, and meet wonderful people. You need not be a country bumpkin to attend--furthermore, you aren't even required to register in advance, though the coordinators and instructors would certainly appreciate advance sign-up, if you're able to commit. I will warn you, though--if you attend this event you just might find yourself shopping rural real estate on the way home....

The charming town of Prairie Farm is about an hour and a half's drive from the Twin Cities. I can give directions for the basic or various scenic drives if anyone's interested in coming out to the event.

My Beautiful Choucroute

(With some technical issues resolved, we carry on....  See bottom for details.)

Choucroute garnie, the classic Alsatian dish of simmered sauerkraut topped with smoked meats and sausages, is not the sort of thing I want to eat every week, or maybe even every month.  Though its name features the fermented vegetable base (choucroute is French for sauerkraut), it's a rich and meat-heavy meal, delectable when properly prepared with best ingredients, and ideal on a cold winter's evening, preferably after a few hours on the ski trails, or working in the woodlot.  We make it with great anticipation, and relish every tangy, porky bite, maybe two to three times each winter.  We make a big pot, even just for the two of us--the leftovers are even better than the first round.

Another thing I love about choucroute is that it's an ideal dish to simmer atop a woodstove. The gentle, even heat slowly renders the sauerkraut savory and tender, with still a bit of bite, and perfectly infuses the cabbage with the flavors of the meats that "garnish" it. There's some time involved in the prep, but once it's all assembled and bubbling quietly away, it's ready when you are.

If you've thought ahead to ferment your own 'kraut, choucroute garnie is a suitable reward for your forethought. You rinse the 'kraut in several changes of water to take away some of the sourness and salt, then you squeeze out as much water as you can so the cabbage is fairly dry. In a big heavy pot you've got some chopped leek, onion, and carrot sweating down in excellent bacon fat (best) or duck fat (just as good) or oil (acceptable). To this you add the squeezed-out 'kraut, then some dry white wine and chicken stock--perhaps a cup of each. I toss in a bay leaf, a couple of whole cloves, three or four crushed juniper berries, a few sprigs of thyme, a few grinds of coarse pepper. Nestle a small piece of excellent bacon in the middle of it, and let it cook, covered, for a good hour. That's the basis, and can be prepared days ahead.

Rillons marinating prior to cooking.

Then on choucroute night, I begin by browning my meats. I had a couple of chunks of our home-smoked bacon, of course, and another homemade meat item, rillons. Rillons are succulent cubes of pork belly that have been cooked a long while in pork fat and duck fat, wine and herbs, very much in the manner of rillettes, except that for rillons the belly cubes are browned first, and left whole at the end, rather than shredded as for rillettes. Both rillons and rillettes are particularly associated with the cochonailles of the Loire valley around the towns of Tours, Amboise, Saumur. Cochonailles means things made from pig; I'll have more to say about this in an upcoming post.

The golden porky loveliness of finished rillons .

The sausage components were purchased--really nice smoked sausage from Pastures A Plenty  via Seward co-op ; and kalberwurst from Louie's Finer Meats of Cumberland, Wisconsin, an institution in west central Badgerland.

After browning the meats I cleaned up the pan a bit--I like my choucroute to stay nice and light in color, and if there's too much brown stuff in the bottom of the pot it turns dark; tasty but aesthetically unappealing, to me. So the pre-simmered 'kraut goes back in the pan, perhaps with another slosh of wine, or just a bit of water to keep it moist. Then the meats are tucked in, and it cooks at a very gentle simmer for at least a half hour, or until you're ready to eat.  Oh, cook some potatoes ahead, and add them to warm in the last twenty minutes or so.

Crusty bread, a glass of riesling or pinot blanc. There it is, my beautiful choucroute:

Text and photos copyright 2012 by Brett Laidlaw
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Re technical issues: When I went into Blogger yesterday to write this post, I found I was unable to type in the main text box. The little twirly daisy symbol, that doohickey that tells you the computer is "thinking", just kept going round and round, never stopped. I could type in the title box, the labels, see a preview--everything but actually type my post. Next day, today, same deal. Fortunately I have a computer genius in the house, and Mary resolved, or circumvented, the problem by installing Google Chrome as my browser. Now all is well, for the time being. Hopefully this will be helpful information if anyone else in blog world encounters this same problem.

We Bought the Farm

Well, we bought a farm. Sort of a farm. It's definitely farmish--sheds, a pole building, barbed wire fences, a heated cattle watering dealio, and some kind of animal feeding station that looks like a playground carousel. We are as surprised as anyone.

We had been planning a move to the country for some time, but until last November Plan A involved building a house on the Bide-A-Wee land. We had a hilltop site in mind, we had talked to a house designer, then an architect. Things seemed to be coming together until.... Until all of a sudden they didn't seem to be coming together. We weren't thrilled with the designs, we couldn't see the whole picture--it was a vision thing, and a practical thing, a philosophical thing, a money thing. From heights of elation and anticipating ground-breaking in the spring, we were back to zero, or maybe sub-zero. We were bummed.

But late last summer a house had come up for sale, literally a mile down the road from Bide-A-Wee. An old house, several times added-on, with some attractively rustic outbuildings, at the foot of a steep hill. The lower part of the hill was planted in corn or soybeans; higher up it turned to mature hardwood forest. On the west side of the house were tall cottonwood trees, so the place was shaded on hot summer afternoons. The whole set-up seemed extremely pleasant; I had often admired it as we drove by.

On the deck, evidence of internal destruction, which began the day we bought the house.

Still, we resisted looking at it. Our goal was to build our own house at Bide-A-Wee, we said; why waste our time, the realtor's time, looking at some house we knew we weren't going to buy. Well, in fact, at one point we made an appointment to see it, then cancelled it. Then a couple of weeks later the realtor--the sister of one of the owners--called us back. If we had any interest in the house, she said, why didn't we just go have a look. By this time all the coming-together-ness had come un-together. We went to see the house the day after Thanksgiving.

The outbuildings: I see a brick oven in the pole building at right, and gardens adjacent.

It wasn't love at first sight, but it was definitely like. The main floor rooms--kitchen, living room, bedroom--were spacious (though the decor needed some updating). The upper level was a warren of cozy rooms with slanted walls, dormer windows, painted plank floors--a seaside cottage feel in rural Dunn County. And there were those sheds. Red ones. Two deer stands. A black walnut tree. Plus 33 more acres, 20-plus of mature hardwood forest--oak, maple, cherry.

Who doesn't love a red shed with a corrugated roof?

Maybe the clincher was the fact that when we stood on the Bide-A-Wee hill and looked down the valley, what we saw at the end of the valley, that was this property, what I've come to think of as Harlson Hill.

Cutting to the chase: We made an offer in early December, went through a little back and forth, reached a deal. Went through various inspections--for a while there, no one could find the septic tank; troubling. We got it all sorted out on a pretty short timeline, and closed on the place on January 30.

Griffon heaven.

We've still got some work to do on the "new" place before moving in. We had a new maple floor laid in the kitchen there, and existing wood floors refinished, this week; at the same time, we were having stairs refinished in Saint Paul--all of which left me exiled, dog-sitting, at Bide-A-Wee, as griffon hair and wet polyurethane are best kept well apart. Not such a dismal fate, but I was eager to get on with...everything. We're still hoping to be installed at the new country estate by the end of this month. There will still be a fair amount of work to do inside the house, and then garden planning, the anticipation of foraging in our new woods--a brave new world, all round!

So now you know why communications in these pages have been a bit sparse of late, and likely will be so for a while. Once things are a bit more settled, there will be much to report.