Civil Eats

More than any other book I’ve read in recent years, Shannon Hayes’ Radical Homemakers has forced me to examine my life choices and question my assumptions about career and consumer culture. In an era of unprecedented economic turmoil, climate change, and damaged ecology, most of us feel a sense of urgency about the need to effect fundamental and radical change in our lives. Hayes believes that this process begins in the most local place of all: the home. And she’s provided case studies of individuals–the radical homemakers in the title–who are making the kinds of changes we all need to make, describing the processes they are going through, and profiling their work to reclaim the art of domesticity while living in the midst of a consumer culture. Read More

Here in San Francisco, we expect cold, foggy summers. I’m sure you’ve heard the ubiquitous quote wrongly attributed to Mark Twain, “The coldest winter I ever spent was the summer I spent in San Francisco.” Though no one is quite sure who authored this line, truer words have never been spoken. This summer took the cake though. While the rest of the country was blistering under oppressive 100˚ plus heat, we Friscans were wrapped in blankets contemplating using the fireplace in the middle of July. I promised my daughter that I would take her to the pool every day that surpassed 75˚. We went swimming twice. And the fog! It’s been like a lingering chest cold, hanging on long past its due course. In our neighborhood, we’ve hovered at a balmy 61˚ throughout the entire season. Cue tiny violins.

With such dreary weather, we had little hope for the garden producing much. Read More

I have committed theft…and am proud of every minute of it. It all started on my 30th birthday a couple of years ago in a rented Alfa Romeo on a road trip across the Tuscan hillside. The victim was a sweet, juicy yet firm pear at the peak of its season. Desperately wanting to capture the fabulous adventure I was having and in an effort to perhaps hold onto the inescapable ticking of time, I gently spit out the last pear seed into a small pocket of paper and tucked it into my backpack. A week later, after an extended stay on a working cheese farm and vineyard, I duped customs officials in Milan by declaring nothing, inwardly flushing with trepidation that they would discover the two blocks of aged pecorino, vacuum-packed sleeve of boar salami from Terre Madre or gasp! my precious stolen seed. I slipped through without a bit of confrontation and began the process of dream vacation come down. Read More

It was a blessing in disguise, one of many construction zone disasters that actually resulted in triumph.  One recent morning I walked into the only room that remains somewhat set up for day-to-day activities during our total DIY home remodel, sectioned off by hanging canvas tarps, gutted walls, electrical wires, naked bulbs and lots of dust, and on the floor lay splinters of wood and scattered index cards.  It looked like a crime scene from the movies, someone looking for my secret papers, but instead was my old, neglected recipe box that had tumbled off its absent-mindedly placed location on the highest shelf. Read More

Although it is hardly a novel technique, our new, modern wood-burning stove has opened up a whole world of culinary experimentation to me. Before now the click of a knob or turn of a dial seamlessly preceded any cooking task, but with the crackling wood and cozy smoke scented aromas that fill our living space, I feel inclined to utilize the raw heat for more than warmth. It has defined true slow food, really driving home the concept of weaving time, energy, labor, and craft into a wood fired meal while consolidating our resource consumption instead of compiling it. It is the ancient practice of hearth cooking in today’s modern America, and anyone who still heats their house with fire can easily incorporate it into their daily food preparation plans. Read More

My kitchen has been whittled down to about 50 square feet.  Standing room only to say the least is our new cooking protocol, making collaborative meals a thing of the past. The kitchen counter is rapidly shrinking as more and more household items get piled onto the rare space, along with the dirty dishes in our bus tub that have to get washed outside. My elbows tuck in closer when chopping and I have to set the toaster oven on the floor by the power strip that reaches the single outlet in operation. The large vintage Viking range, a mere foot away, makes for a hot and sweaty prep station if cranked up during the dinner hour, so even on these chilly autumn evenings our faces flush with any kitchen task. What has restricted our game, you might wonder? Read More

Now, you might expect that with a title like that, this article would be written by some kind of apologist for the entertainment industry. On the contrary, I hate to watch television. Typically, I would rather be doing almost anything. Preparing my taxes, sitting in traffic, having teeth pulled, you name it, and I’d take it over passively sponging up the content-deficient, advertisement-laden drivel that constitutes the bulk of what’s on American TV. I know I’m not alone in my cynical feelings toward this most revered institution. We hear quite often about the “dangers of too much television,” for children, and for adults, and these fears are not unfounded. There is a growing mountain of evidence to substantiate the dangerous effects. But it’s a frustrating reality, because television, like any other tool, can and should have its good uses.

A couple of years ago, a good friend of mine began telling me about the “River Cottage” series’ of shows that was airing on British cable television. (“Escape to River Cottage”, “Return to River Cottage”, “River Cottage Forever”, “Beyond River Cottage”). I was mildly curious, but as you might imagine, I didn’t exactly run for the TV. As it happened, I was loaned copies of each series on DVD. Despite my skepticism, it didn’t take long and I was hooked. As something of an aspiring homesteader, albeit a very inexperienced one, this was television I could use. Read More

There’s a little red schoolhouse up the road from my house. It is picture perfect, quintessential in every way of any number of historic schoolhouse stereotypes in design, and our neighborhood has immense pride for it. The one room space holds a piano, an antique wood stove, some old child-sized desks bolted to the floor, a few glass cases with local natural artifacts (think owl talons, mountain lion teeth, hawk feathers, snake skins, etc.), and lots of black and white photos of past students, teachers, and residents. The Alba Road Schoolhouse was in session after being built in 1895. It now serves us as a library, meetinghouse, lecture hall, and general gathering place for our small mountain community. And best of all, for a monthly potluck where we come together, old and young, organic and conventional, to break bread and get to know the people we live near. Read More

The great stakes and pains of planting our mini farm does not escape one day in our minds. Gigantic effort, sweat, sometimes some tears, all to ensure the bounty we see rolling in like tidal waves at this height of the season. Far from unappreciated, the bags of tomatillos, buckets of pears and plums, and fat bunches of basil bombard our tiny kitchen that has recently been cut in half in the midst of home construction. Every spare minute is now spent canning, pickling, seed sorting, drying, and pretty much always eating, just to make sure nothing goes to waste. The ironic thing about some of the products rolling in and out of our kitchen is that we never lifted a finger in their creation. Amazingly, a large portion of these preserving projects I find myself immersed in has a foraged subject. Mysterious appearances of wild edibles are being recreated into highly enjoyable farm goods and menu items here at the homestead. I will share a few with you. Read More