An urban vegetarian in the land of meat
August 10, 2008
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Mauve and merveilleuse, the house terrine
“In the city she’s a vegetarian, but here in the country, she puts entire pigs in her body!”
And sheep. And geese. And this is how my dear friends describe me, as an urban vegetarian.
Each day on my way down to the kitchen garden, I ride past a gaggle of geese that live in a large enclosure with views to the surrounding mountains, the river and a wall dotted with 12th century water wheels. On walks up in the mountains we encounter herds of sheep foraging for chestnuts and in another nearby microclimate, we find them nibbling and kicking up loads of dust perfumed with wild thyme. Considering the quality of life led by the animals here (and the lives of those that tend to them), it seems downright unethical not to tuck in.
Here in Occitania the quality of every single link in the supply chain, from the living animal to the prepared meat dish that I’m about to taste, is fuelled with a love of quality, a quality that gives honour to the environment of both the humans and the animals, a very high quality of the food craft, something stronger than love for the materiality of the ingredients and their ambling route to the end product, and a praiseworthy understanding of how to optimally use every single part of an animal once you’ve taken its life. It seems to be common practice here, and common knowledge. Meat without one secret. Thank you, Beautiful Beasts! For what it’s worth, you have become memorable!
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Charmed garden during twilight dining
debra at 11:26 | Comments (0) | post to del.icio.us
It’s not a cheese, it’s a drug
August 3, 2008
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Yes, you can totally get high off of cheese! We scored this slab of dairy perfection off some savvy lady cheese dealers on the market. Brung it on home, but where to put it, save the obvious eating off the wrapper with spoons?
Fridge too cool, kitchen table too hot. And I’m not lying or amplifying, exaggerating or embellishing when I report that just putting this little cheese on the table begat vivid fantasies of installing a cheese room!
Dear Gosh,
I know you read my blog regularly and hope you don’t mind posing a question to you in this way. Our recent acquisition of a munster-style bite of heaven got us to pondering why some cheeses seem to not travel very well. In particular, we’re wondering about how to optimally store (and eventually keep with us at all times) this munster-style cheese. Any information and tips you could give us would be appreciated, you know how we love our cheese course!
Thank you.
Love,
Your ever-luvvin’ fan of raw milk dairy products
debra at 8:42 | Comments (0) | post to del.icio.us
Desertification
July 29, 2008
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But before there was desertification, there was humidification. A path sketched through the bergamot.
This is a painful entry for me to write because I’m suffering from a garden identity crisis. I started out this morning wanting to say something about the humidifying effect of planting green manures/cover crops and the desertification that ensues when I remove these covers to plant the ‘real’ crops. These eventually grow big, fill out, provide shade, and re-humidify the soil again. But in my garden ‘desertification’ has taken on another meaning, namely that I regularly desert my garden for months at a time, often in planting seasons, and allow the green manures to grow too large, requiring labour intensive transplant therapy upon my return.
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Before: a beautiful yet unproductive wilderness, or a garden gone to hell in a handbasket?
At this time of the year down at the kitchen gardens, everyone is enjoying harvesting an abundance of summer produce. Neighbour Pedro has grown monster pumpkins, big and round like his wife. Row after row of only 12 sorts of vegetables border my 1,50 meter high mess of… cover crop. On the other side, Sidi El Gouche is already into his third harvest. He’s digging up crates of potatoes and planting swimming pool-sized beds of coriander in the shade of his fig. He’s got crispy croquante lettuces, plenty of onions and corn, and the watermelons trail along the back end at the edge of Caizergue’s sand field. Bordering my hot mess of permaculture, El Gouche has three long rows of heavily laden raspberries lazily leaning against bamboo racks.
And I have alfalfa. And fuqn excellent soil.
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After rolling back only two rows of alfalfa, I’ve produced a hay mat and a desert. Once my ‘real crop’ seedlings can see over the top, I’ll put the flattened hay mat back on the beds to prevent weeds and to rot into new soil.
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Under the alfalfa mat, pure rotted goodness
When I left the garden last March, it was still too cold to plant vegetable seedlings and I had strewn alfalfa to grow as a dirt-enriching live mulch. You reap what you sow, and in my nearly 160m2 of kitchen garden, with my obsession for soil health and richesse, I had sowed alfalfa amidst the plants that I abandon each time the work calls me back up North; dahlias, rhubarb, sorrel, horseradish, strawberries, raspberries, currants, lavender, the other flowers, the other herbs, and the stick forests of mint and bergamot that line my water channels.
I thought I’d be back a bit after the Ice Saints to plant the seedlings of proper vegetables that humans like to eat, but my projects kept me away for more than 4 months. So when I arrived mid July, I encountered a jungle of alfalfa tangle so thick that I was unable to walk through it. On the upside, there were also clouds of bees feasting on beautiful blue and purple flowers and because the ‘weeds’ I had planted had grown so big, they had done a good deal of ‘pre-weeding’ by elbowing out the others. I should also mention that treading on alfalfa and bergamot produces wafts of smile-inducing summer perfume.
Each time I return after deserting my garden for a long time, it’s always the same. My neighbours turn up to check out my reaction to the abundant plant growth, and my friends roll their eyes and say, ‘I knew you’d call it that’, each time I use the word biomass when referring to the intentionally planted weeds I mean alfalfa.
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The bottom of the alfalfa roll looks like lace. Fresh, it’s 60cm thick. Dried, 20cm. It will rot away in a season increasing soil by 5cm.
Although beautiful, my garden is not producing much in the way of edibles because I had neglected to plant any in April (or May, or June). Instead I planted alfalfa in March. And this I repeatedly tell myself, so as not to feel terrible that my harvest this summer consists essentially of one hella fat wad of hay mulch and good soil (well there’s also the berries and the sorrel). The neighbours stand around asking when I’m going to put all that fabulous soil to good use.
The garden is lush, and my feet get wet at the bottom of the plant canopy, like in a miniature rain forest. Because I have free and unlimited water (for the time being) and neighbour Sidi El Gouche willing to water for me (Insha’Allah), I cannot be certain, but I believe that planting this way increases the soil’s ability to retain moisture. Indeed, it is hummus-rich and still wet. Under the plant cover, the sticks I laid down on the yet unplanted beds have rotted and kept the shaded beds completely weed-free. The tilth is exceptional and you could dig with your bare hands if you wanted to. Before planting the seedlings, I part a path through the biomass with my arm and roll back the alfalfa into a giant, ‘felted plant mat’. The ‘other’ desertification of my garden begins and it sucks up all of my upper body strength.
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The rolled alfalfa hay mat drying in the canal, in the distance, Pedro’s productive potager
Maybe I should simply accept that by deserting my garden for so long, a harvest comprised of experiments with ground covers, live-mulching, humus richesse and huge quantities of organically grown and artisanally hand-rolled hay matting is an excellent harvest. But it remains embarrassing that the three gardeners whose plots border mine, and who essentially grow hydroponically with chemical fertilisers on pale coloured sand, produce basket upon basket of vegetables and fruit. Delicious vegetables and fruit.
Which they most generously give to me; bag upon bag of testerone-steeped chard, lettuce, sweet onions, and monster zucchinos. And I have nothing to give them in return, unless you consider the opportunity to gossip about the crazy lady and her deserted permaculture garden a generous trade. Comment dit-on ‘potager conceptuel’?
In the 4 months that it needs me most, I regularly abandon my garden to play busy-busy 1100 kilometers away. I wink and call my garden a permaculture garden, but lest I give it a bad name, I should probably state that permaculture does not mean deserting your plantings and letting your garden go to pot.
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Self portrait w/garden going to pot. Jolie, non?
debra at 12:56 | Comments (8) | post to del.icio.us
