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.

Radical Homemakers is compelling, convincing…and unsettling. What I imagined to be a book describing the choices of people I couldn’t relate to instead became a highly relevant and on-target commentary on home, food, feminism (although radical homemakers include among their number both women and men), and what it means to live in what Hayes terms an “extractive economy.”

Hayes’ definition of an extractive economy (“where corporate wealth was regarded as the foundation of economic health, where mining our earth’s resources and exploiting our international neighbors was accepted as simply the cost of doing business”) very accurately describes the sort of globalized and industrialized economy that seems to be at the root of much of what plagues modern society. Hayes writes instead about people who are embracing the idea of what she terms a “life-serving economy” that values families, communities, social justice and a healthy planet.

The seven-chapter book is divided into two major sections. In the first four chapters, Hayes provides context, including laying out the tenets that radical homemakers subscribe to: ecological sustainability, social justice, family and community. Hayes does an excellent job of positioning today’s reality within the context of history–including first and second wave feminism, the work of Betty Friedan, woman’s (i.e., the domestic) sphere, and the industrial revolution–and also describing the process by which households shifted from being units of production to units of consumption. She weaves past and present together, providing an understanding of how we got where we are today, and how eighteen individuals she surveyed for her book have gotten to a different place, an alternate destination we might all be well served to visit.

It is in the second part of the book that we meet these radical homemakers. Hayes describes them individually and collectively. She notes that not one of those she surveyed had all the skills required to embrace radical homemaking, but that each was a “wizard” at nurturing relationships that could help support their efforts to reclaim domestic skills and move towards a “homegrown” culture. Hayes also points out that radical homemakers share characteristics, including being community-oriented, lifelong learners, embracing homes as “living systems,” and in being fearless as they transitioned from the notion of an extractive economic model to a life-serving economic model. There was also a notion that success could be gauged not by how much was earned, but by how much wasn’t spent. Talk about a paradigm shift!

Per Hayes, radical homemakers go through a similar process that includes three stages: renouncing, reclaiming and rebuilding. While the work begins at home, many radical homemakers develop social capital and move into larger, more community-based efforts.

Her work offers a compelling message for those engaged in the Good Food movement, and for anyone who is feeling angst in the current economic climate. Larger-than-life questions loom: What about the current inequality of wealth in our nation and the world? What’s the economy really for? Must we believe that the viability of the corporate world is integral to social and individual progress? In an age where corporate greed and irresponsibility have left highly visible human and environmental wreckage in its wake, Hayes believes these are the questions we should be grappling with.

Hayes also asks us to examine what participating in an extractive economy costs us. Certainly our time. And maybe, in many cases, it results in a loss of community. How do we challenge strongly ingrained beliefs about what constitute wealth and poverty? Success or failure? What is really essential, and how can we reclaim the domestic skills that have been devalued and, in many cases, lost? If we answered these questions, we might be forced to embrace a different reality, pursue different educational and career paths, and in the process, perhaps create a new (and truly braver) world.

Hayes shares a message of persistence, hope, renewal and resistance to the current situation we find ourselves in. I’ve had an opportunity speak with her twice now, and I find that she herself is a radical homemaker who is deeply committed to the tenets and practices of the movement. (And it is a movement…I’ve got radical homemakers on my radar now, and they are emerging everywhere, from my packed knitting class to the dozens of messages left on our office voicemail requesting assistance with gardening and home food preservation efforts).

If you read this book–and I highly recommend it–be prepared to be challenged. The book asks hard questions, but also provides some lovely answers.

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. To be sure, the tomatoes have had a rough go. We are half way through September and most of the maters in our front porch self-watering containers are small and green. The City by the Bay is not exactly prime tomato growing country, but we can usually eek out a few precious fruits. Maybe the fall will bring us a good harvest, though we won’t hold our breath on that one. I can barely bring myself to discuss the sad state of the zucchini. We didn’t plant much, knowing what excessive producers these vines can be. But with all the dampness in the air, powdery mildew crippled the plants once they began to fruit. We harvested a couple four inchers and that was that.

The garden wasn’t an entire bust. Spring crops of greens did extremely well and we have been harvesting kale from the same plants for over six months. Peas were also prolific this year. We grew four varieties and were able to put away several jars in the freezer. I am most proud of my artichoke plants, which I grew from seed. As of yesterday I counted 19 flowers on one plant! Looks like I’ll be making that Greek lamb and artichoke stew that I’ve been meaning to try.

Thank goodness we don’t look to our garden for all of our fresh veg. Our Community Supported Agriculture boxes and neighborhood farmers market keep us from starving in a bad growing season. Our goal at Itty Bitty is not 100% self sufficiency. We grow what we can and look to our local farmers for the rest.

However, plants are not the only thing harvestable in a city. This summer we took on the sun and installed solar panels on our roof. I’ve dreamed of reigning in those rays for more than 20 years and now I can hardly believe that dream has come true. Even with the federal and state incentives, the cost of solar can still be prohibitive to most regular folks. Soon after we purchased our home in 2006, we got a couple quotes from solar installers, both of which loomed at upwards of $50 grand. Ouch! Solar didn’t look like it was going to be in our near future. Then I met someone who made group purchases of solar panels for One Block Off the Grid. These guys hooked me up with cheaper panels, a reasonable installer, GroSolar, who in turn connected me with a company that financed the panels and installation, SunRun. The deal is we pay a monthly fee to SunRun, which is only a few dollars more than last year’s average electric bill; and any energy that our panels don’t produce we foot the bill to PG&E.  Not owning the system is a wonderful arrangement for us since we are not responsible for the maintenance of the panels and that is one less thing to worry about on the homestead. Last month, we produced almost all of our electricity, only paying PG&E for energy used on three days! I’m not sure how well we’ll fair in the winter, but for now we are basking in the joy that comes with watching the numbers on the meter run backwards.

I’ve saved the news of our most exciting harvest for last. Goat milk? We officially began stealing from the mouths of babes two weeks after our goat, Lucy, gave birth to her two kids, Fred and Ginger on August 30th. They are so adorable it feels almost criminal to be taking what nature had intended for them. Well that’s not exactly how it works. Goats have been domesticated for approximately 10,000 years and are thus well bred to produce more milk than their offspring require. It’s probably a pretty good deal for the goat. They get all of their basic needs covered, only giving up the goods a couple times a day. But until the kids move to their new home in November, we will only milk the mother once in the morning. That way we can all reap a bit of the bounty. We humans won’t feel too much like nefarious thieves and the kids will grow up to be nice and strong. It’s a fair trade.

We hope your summer’s harvest has been as giving as ours.

Photo: Naomi Fiss

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.

A year and a half later I am gazing at a wondrous miracle. The seed – a symbol of my own aging, a marking of past to present, a tactile image of how it felt to seize a special once-in-a-lifetime travel opportunity – has sprouted! Upon my return and after unloading all my goodies and gifts, I gently handed over the packet of seed specimens to the only one I could trust. My boyfriend, a botany enthusiast and tender of our small farm in the Santa Cruz Mountains, surely felt the weight of this responsibility. If the icy claws of that first winter had grasped its life away, my disappointment would have been hard to conceal. And when an accidental tippage of the ceramic pot my seed now nestled in occurred, his displaced outburst was definitely that of not wanting to let me down.

But regardless of the outside influences of climate or human intervention, what are the chances that this single speck of future life would grow? It makes me ponder the genetic ancestry of the pear varietal, or the work of that first farmer who planted it. Where did it actually come from and when? Did the first seed travel a great distance, across oceans and mountains like mine did? Did past orchard owners smile in anticipation like I do every time I peer at my baby tree, perhaps wondering who might enjoy the fruit in the future?

I have since figured out that the pear I ate that day was most likely a Pera Abate, know as Abbe Fetel outside of Italy. It was named after a 15th century French monk and is now grown extensively in Italy, mostly in the Emilia Romagna region. It is elongated with golden yellow or russet skin and fragrant white pulp. Coming down to earth a bit after the initial excitement of success, I also realize that pears, like apples, are cross pollinators and need to be grafted to produce edible fruit. My little seed most likely won’t create the same kind of pear that I ate on my birthday…and whatever fruit it might grow won’t appear for a looooong time, if at all. Perhaps 15 or 20 years down the road. I could try to use my sprout as a cutting, grafting a sample of it onto another, more viable and established rootstock or tree. The good news is that pears are known to be pretty easy in the grafting department. But by no means am I an expert in this domain, and any task such as this would be left to said green-thumb boyfriend.

The reality of my seed saving daydreaming is that those ancient pear farmers transported whole cuttings, not seeds. Just like prized wine grape varietals that get smuggled across continents. It’s not like I could go stealthily pick a grape from some legendary Burgundian vineyard and expect it to grow back home, even if I didn’t get shot in the process. And so it is with my little pear project, I’ve learned. However, I don’t regret acting on my naivety in the least. I remain astounded that one tiny saliva coated seed is now a bright, shining sprout. I will continue to dwell in ideas of shared human consciousness, of unity through farm culture, of ancestral Italian heritage reawakening in my own garden.

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.

What was it doing way up there, and why would someone who centers her life on food in every way put it in such a hard to reach location?  Well, despite my enormous love of food, eating, and cooking, I have to admit to rarely using recipes.  My large collection of cookbooks, currently all packed away tightly in various sheds, are just that, a collection, more observed and admired from afar on the shelf than actually busted into and utilized.   I’ve even tried to make deals with myself, like starting a new habit of using Sunday night as recipe night and exploring the wealth of information that lies dormant on the shelf, but to no avail.  The recipe following habit just won’t stick.  My cooking style, and sometimes even baking style, is loose, whimsical, intuitive, vacillating with what is around, what I’ve learned and what my mood is more than by direction.  So the answer to why my recipe box sat in such an inaccessible spot is simply because I never look in it.  In fact, I almost forgot I had it.

But that fateful morning, as I gathered up the mess on the floor like a dropped deck of cards, I realized that it was about time to reorganize.  Over the course of the next few days I sorted through my recipes section by section, an assortment of neatly copied cards, Xeroxed magazine pages, printed online articles and of course, the requisite bits and pieces of ripped out newspaper clippings yellowed over time.  And as I snickered over why in the world I wrote down so many tofu recipes or low carb desserts I also caught my breath at the sight of my grandmother’s handwritten bunt cake instructions or her secret salad dressing that I wrote down while she dictated to me on one of the very last times she made it for our family.  What was initially an unwelcome housekeeping chore turned into an unexpected opportunity to meander through my personal food past.  It was a way to examine my own edible journey and in a larger sense, delivered snippets of time.  I flashed on scenes otherwise forgotten; my grandmother’s hand as she tipped the spice jar over her large wooden salad bowl, the record playing in the distance when I copied my best friend’s favorite chili recipe, my excitement at finding the ingredients to the best chai in the world from the vegetarian restaurant I worked at through college.  Every single item stuffed within that old pine box opened up a moment, and despite how relevant or appealing the actual recipe was that I came across, the simple fact that it called to me in some way at some point in time was what made each one special.  Through this food-focused lens, it provided retrospection and offered illumination about how I was feeling, what I was doing, and what was important to me over the years.

Since that day of destruction and rediscovery, I have actually followed a few recipes that had otherwise lay dormant.  Last weekend was honeyed sweet potato biscuits and when the recent storms blew and thundered by, I was kneading up some Slurry Bread, a classic go-to from the farm I lived and worked at after college.  Perhaps next I will chunk away at the dozens of brownie recipes I seem to impulsively acquire or finally make those New York Times chocolate chip cookies.  And maybe my experience will inspire you to take a gander at what lies within your own collection of recipe memories…

Straight out of my vast cookie recipe section, these ones are perfect for heating up a cold winter night.

“Hot Mama” Cookies

11/2 cups flour
¾ cup unsweetened cocoa powder
1 tsp. Cinnamon
½ tsp. Black pepper, freshly ground
½ tsp. Cayenne pepper
½ tsp. salt
¾ cup unsalted butter (11/2 sticks), softened
1 cup sugar
1 egg
1 tsp. Vanilla

Sift together flour, cocoa, spices and salt.  In a separate bowl, cream butter and sugar until fluffy.  Add egg and vanilla and combine thoroughly.  Mix in dry ingredients until just incorporated.  Refrigerate dough for about 30 minutes.

Preheat oven to 350 degrees.  Pinch off pieces of chilled dough and roll into 1-inch balls.  Place on a parchment lined cookie sheet about 2 inches apart.  Press a fork dipped in flour or cocoa powder firmly into top of each cookie to create a criss-cross pattern.  Sprinkle with extra sugar if desired.  Bake 9-10 minutes, being careful not to over bake.  Remove to rack and cool completely.

First off, a full kettle on the top of the stove equals an instant hot beverage at any time of the day. My morning now just requires reaching for a mug and selecting a tea bag, and the rest is already done (that is, if a certain someone has been up early and stoked the fire before I rise). The kettle also acts as a room humidifier, battling the dryness of winter. Other water based cooking may take a little bit more time and a little advance planning, but a pot on the stove will eventually boil and lead to any number of results, from hard boiled eggs, to pasta, to oatmeal. And reheating is a breeze.

But there are some dishes that seem to improve from the slower heating and fire infusion. The recipe below is an example, where flavors fused and the texture actually improved from the gradual heat. The next chapter to take on will be baking projects, perhaps using the variety of cast iron pots and pans I have inherited from my grandparents. I’m envisioning crusty sourdough loaves in the heavy covered Dutch oven or puffy pancake souffles. Steamed puddings, roasted meats, caramelized vegetables, stews; there are a zillion possibilities and a long wet winter ahead to try them all.

Fireplace Eggs

2 organic fresh eggs
Homemade marinara sauce
Grated mozzarella cheese (optional)
Olive Oil
Salt & Pepper

First, make sure you have a strong, roaring fire. In a small skillet, heat about ¼ cup of olive oil on top of the stove. Crack the eggs into the pan and cook until whites are solid (or until your desired level of jiggly or unjiggly-ness is achieved). Sprinkle with salt and pepper. Pour about ½ cup of marinara around eggs and cover with grated cheese if using. Cover pan until melted and hot. Meanwhile, place a chunk or two of crusty bread on top of stove. Eat eggs, sopping up sauce with the hot bread.

Note: Although similar, this technique is obviously different from the one Alice Waters employs in her open home hearth, seen now in a variety of publications including lunch for Lesley Stahl on 60 Minutes and a recent visit by NY Times columnist Maira Kalman. Not many of us are lucky enough to have an expansive kitchen fire pit here in the States, but open fire cooking indoors is still widely practiced around the world and is the precursor to our modern day fireplaces and wood stoves. My aim is to reclaim that energy source as a useful tool, and illustrate how easy it can be to eat from your heat.

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? The reason is a complete house remodel, which began in June, being done solely by my carpenter boyfriend and myself…less me, more him. Do-it-yourself is an understatement here, and sometimes I’m not sure how exactly we got ourselves into this. Our daily reality of plastic tarps, red tape, cobwebs and dirty everything is actually perfectly suitable for a murderous Halloween set. I should have just put on some spooky music and invited the neighborhood kids over for a real haunted house experience, deranged lunatics included.

The next couple of months will most likely get worse before they get better. But I don’t mean to complain. I know I am fortunate to have this opportunity to eventually step up from the original 400 square foot floor plan to one about double in size. And I have electricity, and running water, and the toilet is actually indoors now. What I am here to discuss is our true commitment to eating healthy, delicious, fresh meals despite the chaos around us. Many of our peers break easily at these kinds of situations, opting for burritos and pizza every night instead of braving through cooking projects. I’m not willing to cave in that way, to sacrifice my food choices and health and finances because I am stressed and tired. After all my work and arguments for locality, quality ingredients, ethically sourced food, going to the taqueria down the road for some genetically modified tortilla chips and hormone heavy sour cream every night would make me a big hypocrite. The inconvenience of a cramped kitchen, trekking out in the dark for dish duty, and limited appliances is worth the alternative. As our farm flourished this season, the canning and pickling and jam making did as well…under ridiculous conditions. But those jars labeled Summer 09’ will have that extra elbow grease and dedication infused within, making the goods that much more deserved upon opening.

Our nightly home-cooked dinners together have also become a very important ritual for us. No matter how angry, sad, upset or frustrated this chaotic construction zone makes us, we always sit down to eat together. It is just who we are and a big part of what we both believe in. To miss a meal after a fight would be a really big deal. The hot food, created by one of us, primarily with some home grown element or other, seems to act as glue, bringing out the issue and laying it to rest as we nourish ourselves.  The following recipe got us through the tomato glut unscathed, and makes for a wonderful finale for those late harvest tomatoes you might have laying around.

Oven Roasted Tomato Sauce

4 Pounds ripe tomatoes
1 small head of garlic, chopped or crushed
Olive oil
Salt & Pepper
Fresh basil, rosemary, oregano, parsley, chopped (optional)

Preheat the oven to 375 degrees. Cut the tomatoes in half and squeeze out the seeds into your compost. Lay the tomato halves cut-side up on a large, rimmed baking sheet. Generously drizzle with olive oil and crushed garlic. Sprinkle with salt, pepper and herbs if using. Place in the oven and cook until juices have released and thickened a bit, about 30-45 minutes. Smash roughly with a potato masher and pour directly over pasta, polenta, meat, vegetables, etc. or save for later. You can also let the sauce cool and then puree with an immersion blender or food processer for a smooth texture.

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.

The shows focus on the downsizing experiment of erstwhile London chef and food writer Hugh Fearnley-Whittingstall. Having moved from the metropolis to rural West Dorset, an area where good farming traditions are preserved and largely still practiced, Hugh begins an all-encompassing attempt at learning the rural life in earnest. From learning to grow (and show) vegetables, to the practicalities of keeping livestock, and some rather wild hunting and foraging forays, Hugh shies away from no adventure that has to do with procuring food. In the process, he enlists help from knowledgeable locals and engages the community in some very amusing ways, taking part in everything from a pancake race to Morris dancing and a raw nettle eating contest. But the show doesn’t end there. Once Hugh has procured the finest local, seasonal ingredients he brings it all into the kitchen and demonstrates an extraordinary breadth of knowledge in the recipes he prepares.

Fearnley-Whittingstall is passionate about good food, and his passion extends beyond the kitchen. By taking in the entire food process, from field to table, the River Cottage series’ attempt to re-connect food and cooking to the community and the natural world of which they are such an important part. This is something that is not accounted for on the American “Food Network”, where everything comes from the supermarket, and the closest you might get to any consideration of agriculture is the mention of “organic” produce. You would never see anyone on American television talking about slaughtering their own pigs, stuffing a goose neck, preparing black pudding, or cooking with local, wild foods.

But even in Europe, Fearnley-Whittingstall has drawn some criticism for his carnivorous ways. Indeed, he is certainly not a vegetarian. He hunts, fishes, and raises his own meat animals for slaughter, but he is committed to raising his animals humanely and to using absolutely every part of the animals he’s killed. His sense of culinary adventure with regard to meat matches his try-anything-once style. While this fear-no-offal style of cooking won’t appeal to everyone, it certainly ensures that Fearnley-Whittingstall’s meat rations are used to the fullest possible extent. And in the process he gives a fresh voice to traditional food preparation methods like sausage making and the dry curing of hams, to name just two time-honored practices. This dialogue about humane use of meat animals is one that Fearnley-Whittingstall welcomes, because, at the very least, it raises awareness about the issue of ethical husbandry and use of animals.

But this isn’t the only conversation that his efforts have aroused. Fearnley-Whittingstall has also been accused of painting the rural life a little too idyllic, and to be fair, this criticism isn’t entirely baseless. In the shows you never see Hugh digging holes for fence posts, or weeding, or not having the money to undertake a pet project. You never hear mention of whether or not the local participants are paid for appearing, but my guess is that they are. It’s obvious that he has the financial backing of a television network, even if you have to read between the lines to see it.

Fearnley-Whittingstall himself partially concedes the point in a quote on his website, even as he justifies the authenticity of the shows:

…at the very least we’ve tried to show rural life in a more open and honest way than some other programs, and in particular we’ve tried to show people where food actually comes from. That it’s either grown or it comes from animals; that it doesn’t begin in the supermarket in a plastic package. I guess we’re probably a little bit guilty of making things slightly rosy tinted – it’s difficult because I’m not financially dependent on farming and it would be hypocritical to pretend that I am. (Hugh makes his living, which is probably a pretty lucrative one, from selling books and creating television series’) For me, the exploration of River Cottage was about discovering a new way of life. That has certainly been very real for me and I think people round here can see that. When I began the series I still lived half in London but now I live completely in Dorset, so from that point of view what you see in the series is what’s happened in my life.

Indeed, Fearnley-Whittingstall now has his own 40 acre farm that he tends with his family and some hired help. Aside from this, he has also founded River Cottage HQ. A commercial category all to itself, this thriving, adventurous enterprise is a fully fledged rural cooking school, a working organic farm, a restaurant for specialty banquets, a set for filming television shows, and the manufacturing center for a number of River Cottage food products. Talk about agricultural diversification.

Offering courses on everything from a “Pig in a Day” butchering lesson, to “Catch and Cook” fishing workshops, and a “Build and Bake” course where participants dig clay, make a pizza oven, and then make pizzas, River Cottage HQ is re-engaging people in food issues at a basic level. It is giving them knowledge and confidence to produce and prepare food for themselves, which, sadly, is becoming a rather uncommon undertaking. It’s an exciting model that we in the states would do well to notice. And all of this has grown out of Fearnley-Whittingstall’s experiment with rural living and the interest aroused by the television shows.

Sure the shows may be a bit contrived, but what television program isn’t? Even the most ardent “reality TV” fan realizes that the outcomes of what will happen in the program are largely a known factor beforehand. River Cottage is no exception, but at least its creator has in mind a worthwhile pursuit, namely, enlarging people’s understanding about where food comes from and the possibilities for good food practices. If it takes a clever script to get people interested in the rural life and food issues, and get them up off the couch, then so be it. It sure beats another episode of American Idol.

The test for me was my three-year-old daughter. She loves the show and often asks to watch it. When she recently began gathering leaves from the woods in a basket, telling me that she was bringing them home to cook with, I smiled to myself. A lot of kids would be imitating something off of the Disney Channel or Harry Potter, but here she was foraging for food in imitation of Fearnley-Whittingstall. In terms of stimulating a child’s imagination about food and the world around them, it seems to me that a person could do a lot worse. How many other three-year-olds do you know that you can cook with nettles?

Walking up the stairs, passing under the large bell and through the front door, I can’t help but feel taken in by the legacy of this place, and appreciative that it has been preserved. A few months ago I agreed to become a board member of the school and have since discovered my heart growing more and more invested in the future of this old property. We are currently under the umbrella of our local school district, even though we are our own historic entity, which has dictated certain bureaucratic laws and regulations. But we recently learned that we qualify for a law that will finally permit us to reside as one small autonomous district, giving our neighborhood control of the schoolhouse and some grant money to keep it alive.

Of course, as admittedly the youngest adult here on the mountain, I bring to the table some bold ideas, wild dreams and a more impassioned vision for what I see as the school’s potential. When I speak of large community gardens and farm education programs, cookbooks, all locally foraged and grown celebrations, canning exchanges, outdoor movie nights and farmers markets, some of the old timers look a little bewildered and overwhelmed. In their minds I almost hear them think “Well, if you have the energy to pull all that off, go for it, but I certainly don’t!” Despite any skepticism, I can also sense their excitement and joy of being a part of something. I see this as an opportunity to make change, to promote what matters, to strengthen locality and focus on food systems that work well. I also see it as a way to create the community that we want to be in and raise future children in. We are all up here on this somewhat isolated mountain and we might as well find ways to share the space, support each other, and preserve some of the authenticity of homesteading culture that doesn’t seem that far off when the table spends 30 minutes discussing the best fruit drying techniques or comparing apple butter recipes.

This year was the 114^th Annual Alba Road Schoolhouse Fourth of July Celebration. The event is our one and only fundraiser, and has become a given to anyone spending the holiday in town. The local fire engine comes, a marching band, the boy scouts, and an auctioneer…and there is a barbeque, bake sale, book sale, and homemade ice cream. It is like spending the day in a small rural town sixty years ago, with everyone pitching in. With all the tradition, the old fashioned custom, and quality, I am saddened by details my neighbors don’t recognize. Hamburgers, hot dogs, buns, bags of iceberg salad mix, American cheese slices, tomatoes, onions, ketchup, mustard, salad dressing, Coke, powdered lemonade, Styrofoam and paper goods, plastic utensils, all of it is purchased at Costco. The longstanding essentials to this event combine some wonderful things, like the fact that all the baked beans for the BBQ are homemade contributions, same with the baked goods and ice cream. But then all the rest of the food falls into an opposite ideology…the cheaper the better with no regard to sourcing or quality. Meanwhile, we all have lemon trees, tomato vines bursting, and our own picnic ware. This is a big disconnect that my neighbors don’t see, and I am trying to change it one baby step at a time. We have already agreed to supply the salad makings from our farm for next summer. We know it is more work, more effort, more labor. But the hope is that people will notice and enjoy the flavor better, and perhaps the tide will turn.

I’ve started a potluck food journal, filed at the schoolhouse for historic record of what everyone brings. I think about how amazing it would be to read the list of food items from 1930. Did someone bring an apple pie to the September potluck back then? Probably. And perhaps the apples were from the same tree they came from this year. The former owner of our property, responsible for our old orchard gems, was very involved in the schoolhouse and most definitely created dishes to share from the very trees we harvest from now. Did the crust have lard from the neighbors pig that year or home churned butter? Maybe. Did the store bought piecrust we ate last weekend have hydrogenated shortening from some food product conglomerate? Most likely. Sadly, times have changed, but all the seeds are still there waiting for water and sun and a little encouragement to bloom once again.

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.

Asian Purslane Salad

This is a two birds with one stone kind of dish. While weeding our peppers, we just pluck a few handfuls of purslane and throw them together for dinner. It is also extremely high in Omega’s.

2 tsp. Dijon mustard
1 small squirt of Sriracha, or hot pepper flakes to taste
Juice of 1 lemon
¼ cup soy sauce
1 Tbsp toasted sesame oil
1-2 Tbsp olive oil (optional to thicken)
Salt & pepper to taste
2 bunches Purslane, trimmed into 2 inch segments

In the bottom of a large salad bowl, combine the mustard, hot sauce, and lemon juice. Add the soy sauce then the sesame oil. While mixing, drizzle in the olive oil if desired to thicken the dressing. Taste and add salt and pepper to taste. Add the Purslane and toss then serve.

Wild Blackberry Jam

About four different varieties of blackberry vines, no, I should say walls, surround the edges of our property. We have made tunnels and paths to pluck as many as possible and keep the excess (what can’t be made into pies or jam on the spot) in the freezer for a spontaneous winter berry treat. These wild strains are muskier, tart, and tend to have more seeds.

6 cups wild blackberries
6 cups sugar
Juice of one large lemon

In a large, heavy bottom pot, place de-stemmed and rinsed berries. Crush if desired. Add the sugar and cook over medium heat. Add the lemon juice and bring to a rolling boil until the jam is thick and reaches the gelling point. Pack into hot, sterilized jars and process for 10 minutes or simply store in the refrigerator.

Note: Read about canning to thoroughly educate yourself about preserving food.

Loquat Leaf Tea

Asian cultures have attributed Loquat Leaf tea to having a large amount of health benefits, including blood sugar regulation. Our loquat tree generally went unnoticed aside from random snacking on its fleeting fruit in passing. Now, we harvest the leaves, dry them on the clothesline until brittle, and snip them into thin strips. Brew like any other loose-leaf tea. Makes a delicious, tropical flavored iced tea as well.

Comfrey Limeade

1 Large bunch comfrey
1 Half gallon limeade, homemade or store bought
Water to taste

Thoroughly wash comfrey and remove stems and other fibrous material. Tear into small pieces and place in blender, adding limeade gradually with motor running until almost gone. Pour puree through strainer to remove pulp. Add water to dilute if too sweet, then chill.

Photo: bhamsandwich