southwest edible colorado A quiet refuge from your electronics since 2010
No. 23 Winter 2016
THE TRAVELING GOAT STUD Love in a Puddle of Gravy Modern-Day Artemis Part II No-Pressure Pressure Cooking The Lunch Lizard
LET YOUR LIFE BE EXPRESSED TO ITS FULLEST WITH UPPER CERVICAL CHIROPRACTIC
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CONTENTS
4
6
BRAISED MUSTARD GREENS By Bonni Pacheco
INNOVATIVE LOCALS By Kati Harr
10
16
20
LOVE IN A PUDDLE OF GRAVY By Sarah Syverson
MODERN-DAY ARTEMIS Part Two By Rachel Turiel
LOVIN' ON THE RUN: A VISIT FROM THE STUD By Kate Husted
24
NO-PRESSURE PRESSURE COOKING By Rick Scibelli, Jr with Recipes by Lauren Slaff
28
A HIP FOOD TRUCK FOR THE YOUNG and underserved By Sharon Sullivan
32
DIY: VANILLA EXTRACT By Rachel Turiel
Norma Coppinger, 81. A 42-year veteran of public school kitchens. See page 10.
EDITOR'S LETTER
W
inter lends itself to reevaluation. The short days tweak moods with weak light. The low-hanging sun asks, “when I am back, what will we do? Where will we go? And how will it be better?” This morning, a cloudless winter sky is filtered to a blueish-gray by my window shades. In my unheated office, I can see my breath. The space heater, six inches to my left, sends a weak breeze creating one hot spot on my left thigh. On my desk I see a discarded Koozie from warmer days. I see a brochure from an acupuncturist, an unidentified key, scissors, two identical notebooks, several scraps of paper with hieroglyphics scribbled on them and a precarious pile of wrinkly receipts. I keep all of this out of fear. Old phone numbers (often with no name associated). Miscellaneous notes. Business cards. Lists. Never in my life do I recall referring back to any of this detritus, yet I still hold on. I worry it will be only after I throw that anonymous number away that it will occur to me it was vital to my very survival. ‘Oh yeah, that was that guy’s phone number. Well, I am as good as dead now.’ “You should let me help you organize yourself,” my loving wife, an Olympic-level organizer, often says. She knows exactly how much our electric bill was two Januarys ago because it is filed under Electric Bill. But here is a word to The Organized from The Disorganized: Organize us today and the slightest breeze will blow us off course tomorrow. “You just start from zero with every issue, don’t you?” Chris Brussat, this magazine’s copy editor said, shaking his head in humored disbelief. I am certain Chris knows exactly where his birth certificate and social security card are at any given moment. “How else would I do it?” “You plan. You have templates for the whole year. You just plug in content as it is produced.” Well, here is the problem, Planner Pants: The future me will undoubtedly not like any template the present me produces. Thus I would be doing it twice. Plus, I find a lack of planning very motivating. I don’t say this aloud. My brain synapses don’t quite connect. It feels like there is a Sparkler sizzling in my skull. What I think is: ‘That is a great idea that I will never do.’ Oh, how 2016 could be different, though. I will file things. I will plan. Map. And list. I will be emotionally consistent, grounded and at ease. I will see four, five and six issues ahead. I will glide through my universe with crystal clear clarity. Or not.
I once found my car keys in our refrigerator. My phone in our chicken coop. In 2014, I hid a portable hard drive for safekeeping and, to this day, cannot remember where I hid it. The me who put it there apparently left and has yet to return. But there is one thing I don’t seem to lose, and that is my perspective. Consistently present here is the me that is grateful for everybody who makes this magazine possible. Every single one of you. Rachel Turiel, Michelle Ellis and the above-mentioned Chris Brussat – all of whom, issue after issue, turn nothing into something special. Thank you to our writers (we are hard on you), our photographers (you deal with high, yet unexpressed, expectations) and our fastidious distributors. Thank you to our loyal and growing readership. And our advertisers who believe in print journalism and our stubborn philosophy. We thank you. So where do we go from here? How will we be better? We trust that good stories have universal appeal. And we feel an obligation to keep meeting expectations – ours and yours. So that is our plan – to simply continue to mine our region for narrative gold and improve on ourselves. We have already had one planning meeting for 2016, which is one more than we had last year. Of course it included beer. We hashed out future story ideas and I took copious notes. I know they are around here somewhere.
Rick Scibelli, Jr., Edible Southwest Colorado
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ON THE COVER Edible writer, Kate Husted, unloads Zahav, a billy goat for hire, from the back of her flatbed Dodge at her off-the-grid farm in Bayfield, CO. Zahav's job for the next month will be to impregnate Husted's flock of does. As billy goats go, Zahav is laid back and agreeable. He is also handsome and smells to high heaven – the latter being a good thing when you are a billy goat and trying to attract a girlfriend.
southwest
edible colorado MANAGING EDITOR Rachel Turiel
EDITOR AND PUBLISHER
HAPPY HOUR
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Rick Scibelli, Jr.
CO-PUBLISHER Michelle Ellis
COPY EDITOR Chris Brussat
WRITERS Sharon Sullivan, Kati Harr, Sarah Syverson, Bonni Pacheco, Kate Husted, Katie Klingsporn
PHOTOGRAPHY Rick Scibelli, Jr., Michelle Ellis, Bonni Pacheco DESIGN Rick Scibelli, Jr.
INTERESTED IN ADVERTISING? Rick@ediblesouthwestcolorado.com Michelle@ediblesouthwestcolorado.com edible Southwest Colorado 361 Camino del Rio Suite 127 Durango, CO 81303 Edible Southwest Colorado is published quarterly by Sunny Boy Publications. All rights reserved. Distribution is throughout southwest Colorado and nationally (and locally) by subscription. No part of this publication may be used without written permission of the publisher. © 2016.
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Braised Mustard Greens Courtesy of The Butcher & Baker Café in Telluride, CO
Story and Images by Bonni Pacheco
T
o accommodate their growing clientele, The Butcher & Baker Café in Telluride moved from their quaint space on Colorado Avenue to a new, roomier location just a few doors down. The new space evokes a city atmosphere in a small mountain town, bustling with locals and tourists. With more room for guests, owners Megan Ossola and Cinda Simons added dinner to their breakfast and lunch seatings. The fare at The Butcher & Baker Café is constantly evolving and their dinner specials are beguiling. A recent favorite was octopus and French gnocchi with oyster mushrooms, caramelized celeriac purée, dill oil and a Pinot Noir reduction. In addition to the move, the owners also welcomed Chef Dylan Hay, 28, into the kitchen. These changes last December proved to be visionary: the restaurant is thriving. When he was 17, Dylan Hay worked as a dishwasher in Lawrence, Kansas, and later made his way west to Denver, Colorado, to pursue a career as chef. There, he worked in the kitchens at EuclidHall Bar & Kitchen as well as Stoic & Genuine, a popular restaurant specializing in classic and innovative seafood cuisine. At both locations, he worked under Chef Jennifer Jasinski. Chef
Jasinski is a James Beard Foundation award winner for Best Chef Southwest 2013 and was a student of Wolfgang Puck. Hay spent the most time under the mentorship of Jorel Pierce, a student of Jasinski. Pierce has appeared on television’s Top Chef and Top Chef Masters. Once ready to implement his new skills, Hay moved to Telluride to work as head chef for The Butcher & Baker Café. Hay pulls from a variety of international flavors while maintaining the restaurant’s reputation for cooking everything from scratch. At The Butcher & Baker Café, Hay has ample opportunity to remind customers what a home-cooked meal tastes like. “I am all about local ingredients and cooking sustainably. Cooking at this level is where the passion is for me and it is this passion that drives me to utilize different ingredients and play with flavors from all around the world.” Hay shares a simple, delicious recipe with us: braised mustard greens. This mildly spicy, cruciferous vegetable is at its peak during winter and spring, and lends variety to a classic southern food side dish. It pairs harmoniously with braised or roasted meat for the holidays. 6
METHOD At The Butcher & Baker, we use our house-cured pork belly for this recipe, although bacon will work just fine*. To begin, cut the pork belly/bacon into lardons. Julienne the shallot and slice the garlic into thin strips. Place a stockpot on the stove and add the bacon lardons, cooking them until they begin to render fat. Add the shallots and garlic, and sweat them. Add the red pepper flakes and brown sugar. Stir constantly, then deglaze the pan with the white wine. Add mustard greens to the pot. Stir and cook until wilted, then add the chicken stock. Cover pot and let the greens cook for a few minutes in the stock. Season and serve warm. Serves 3 to 4 (sides). Julienne: Long, thin strips Lardons: Small strips Sweat: Instead of browning, cook on lower heat and let the moisture draw out. Sweating is completed right before they become translucent. This is a term used often when cooking aromatics such as garlic and onions. *If desired, set aside extra pieces of crispy pork belly for garnish.
INGREDIENTS 2 pounds local mustard green mix 1/4 pound pork belly (optional) 1 shallot 2 cloves fresh garlic 1/4 cup dry white wine 1/2-1 teaspoons red pepper flakes 1 tablespoon brown sugar 1 cup chicken stock Salt and pepper to taste
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SOUTHWEST COLORADO WINTER
2016
Photos by Bonni Pacheco
Innovative Locals By Kati Harr
A
lpendough cookie dough had me at step number one in their directions for baking: “Eat raw cookie dough.” If you say so! After all, who am I to argue with directions? For those of you giving raw cookie dough consumption the salmonella-side-eye, rest assured that indulging straight from the spoon is a worry-free endeavor. Sarah Spence and Andy Mcklean, founders of the Durango-based take-and-bake cookie dough company, are believers in a plant-based diet, meaning no eggs, butter or other animal product culprits. Launched by Spence and Mcklean (partners in both business and life) in May 2015, Alpendough cookie doughs are gluten-free, vegan, and organic and come in three classic flavors: Snickerdoodle, Chocolate Chip and Double Chocolate. A self-described “cookie monster,” Spence wanted to be a baker since she was a kid, baking with her sister after school. Though there’s been a huge influx of pre-packaged gluten-free and vegan cookies on the market, she found there was still a niche for the take-and-bake doughs. Why gluten-free and vegan? “Well, I’m not actually glutenfree,” Spence admits, “but we didn’t want to have to worry about cross contamination, and I believe greatly in the positive environmental impact a vegan diet can have on the planet.”
Speaking of environmental impact, Alpendough strives to be as environmentally friendly as possible. The company packages the dough in recyclable containers and regularly reuses materials such as boxes and bubble wrap from local grocery stores to ship their product. Environmentally and dietary-restriction friendly? Most people can back that up, but…how does it taste? I baked all three flavors to take to a work meeting – a decidedly non-vegan, gluten-loving crowd. Some of the comments I received? ‘This is the best chocolate chip cookie I’ve had in a long time.’ ‘Did you make these from scratch?’ ‘Wow, that is one tasty snickerdoodle.’ Alpendough’s Double Chocolate flavor is rich and deeply chocolaty with just enough chocolate chips studded throughout to raise it to the next level. Their Chocolate Chip flavor is classically delicious; the dough’s not so sweet to overpower the melted chocolate chips and they are equally good fresh out of the oven as they are the next day. The Snickerdoodle flavor has great balance between spicy cinnamon and sweet sugar cookie, crunchy on the outside and soft on the inside. The cookies are soft and chewy fresh out of the oven, becoming crunchier as time passes. They’ll keep their softness if stored in an airtight container, though. Continued on page 8
Photo by Rick Scibelli, Jr.
January 22-23, 2016
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“The most exciting thing to happen to coffee since the espresso machine,” is how The Pie Maker co-founder and coffee guru Tim Stubbs describes the nitro cold brew coffee offered at his bakery in Cortez, Colorado. Nitro cold brew is coffee that is cold brewed – the coffee beans are left for up to 16 hours in cold rather than hot water – and then served from a nitrogen-gas-pressurized keg, much like Guinness or Boddington beer. Cold brewing is said to reduce acidity and bitterness, and serving it stout-style gives it a frothy head and creaminess not found in regularly served cold brew. The Pie Maker, founded in 2012 by Shani Winer and Stubbs, joined the nitro coffee craze and began offering the refreshing beverage to the public in June of 2015 – peak cold coffee season. This was after months of experimenting with cold brew recipes and “reverse-engineering” the keg system via Internet research and some brewer friends of Stubbs. “The process was fun and exciting – lots of taste-testing, figuring out the nitro process, trial and error,” Stubbs says. “We’re the first in the area to offer this product and it was great to create it all in the shop from scratch.” The brew has been “extremely popular,” according to Stubbs, especially in the summer months when people are looking for a cool pick-me-up on a hot day. There was concern that popularity would die down in the cooler winter months, but then Stubbs had the thought, “Plenty of people still drink beer in the winter, so why not nitro brew?” And he was right. There is still a loyal, dedicated following that comes in daily for their nitro fix, even in grey and chilly weather. So, what’s it all about? To begin with, the brew waterfalls from a stout-style tap into a clear glass so you can better appreciate the frothy, foamy head that forms. Immediately after pouring, the brew has very little scent, but after sipping for just a few minutes, a deep and clean coffee aroma becomes more apparent. Because the coffee is cold brewed, there is no bitter aftertaste that usually accompanies black coffee. The velvetiness from the nitro almost gives the illusion of having added cream and sugar to the cup and the lack of acidity is immediately obvious. The brew itself is smooth and silky, with a luscious, creamy mouth feel. The perfect accompaniment to a sweet slice of homemade pie. 6
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Love in a Puddle of Gravy By Sarah Syverson
I
n the heart of Montezuma County, at the very core of a small and vibrant elementary school in the center of Cortez, lies a pulsating epicenter. This epicenter is responsible for keeping the delicate engine of academia running. Without this vital systemic organ and the team that keeps it gliding along, all student educational advancements would come to a terrifying halt. The halls would instead be filled with endless crying, tantrums, and numerous other low-blood sugar challenges. The epicenter? The Kemper Elementary School cafeteria kitchen. And its valiant crew? The Lunch Ladies of Kemper. 8:15 am: The kitchen is aflutter with activity. Pots clang onto the eight-burner gas stove and bubble with the beginnings of a homemade gravy while little green trays rattle away to a fresh, clean start in the industrial dishwasher. Four women wearing worn maroon aprons work like a synchronized swim team, moving about the small kitchen space in choreographed movements. Breakfast has already been served to a flurry of 5-10-year-olds and the women are focused on the next task at hand – lunch for more than 450, including 130 parents tagging along.
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SOUTHWEST COLORADO WINTER
2016
Norma Coppinger
Photos by Rick Scibelli, Jr.
 
Counterclockwise from the top left: Ursula Upton, Margaret Schmalz, Donna Baker and their faculty-favorite cinammon rolls. 12 edible
SOUTHWEST COLORADO WINTER
2016
Full sushi menu including Nigiri, Sashimi, Traditional Reggae Rolls Specialty Rolls and Cocktails
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In the center of the kitchen is the gentle matriarch of the group, Norma Coppinger. A forgiving smile lights up the soft lines of her face and clear blue eyes hold 81 years of stories. Forty-two of those years have been spent cooking, baking and feeding the ever-growing and evolving students of Kemper Elementary. She has quelled a lot of hunger in her time. Together with Norma, this team of ladies regularly dishes up two feasts a day for more than 300 ravenous little beings. Top that with serving each course according to strict USDA school nutrition regulations for under $1.25 per meal; most of us would drop the ladle and run for the hills. Not these women. They seem to be composed of 2 parts steel, 1 part homemade soup of the day, and a dash of good humor for the long haul. 9:30 am: Lunch prep is fully underway. While her kitchen comrades Ursula and Donna dollop soft tufts of whipped cream onto hundreds of slices of freshly-baked pumpkin pie, Norma is engrossed in creating a homemade gravy that will make any kid feel like they’ve just landed at Grandma’s house. In a down-home, Zen master kind of way, she carefully stirs the savory concoction, sprinkles in spices, tastes, considers, and stirs again. She is unwavering in her pursuit of the perfect composition for her tiny eaters. There is something deeply comforting in watching Norma work. You long to be there all day, with your chin and fingertips resting on the counter, stomach growling in anticipation of the flavors wafting through the air. 11:10 am: Margaret, the fourth in Norma’s ironclad lunch lady 14 edible
SOUTHWEST COLORADO WINTER
2016
team, is commanding the dishwasher like a fighter pilot, cleaning up the last of the pots and pans as children’s chattering voices begin to fill the cafeteria. Voracious kindergarteners begin to swarm. Hungry little eyes stare up at Norma and her team while they dole out portions of turkey, gravy, hot rolls, and cups of fresh fruit and veggies. The ladies work with the efficiency of a highly-trained military team. Scoop, swoop, drop, and repeat. Parents that used to be Kemper students 20 years ago smile in recognition as Norma plops a serving of homemade goodness onto their plastic lunch tray. Love in a puddle of gravy seems to be the special of the day. 11:45 am: Norma calmly wipes her brow and glances down the line of students. Fourth graders in ever-ascending height follow third graders. Their health and vigor are a testament to Norma and her team’s scratch cooking and nutrient-packed meals. Scoop, swoop, drop, and repeat. There’s no time to dawdle. 12:35 pm: The lunch ladies are wrapping it up, having satiated the last of the miniature humans and their adult counterparts for the day. Norma washes down the metal countertops and shuffles slowly into the inner sanctum of the kitchen to survey what other tasks remain. She’s tired. You can tell by the slight bend in her shoulders and weariness in her eyes. Standing on hard kitchen floors over a hot stove for years on end takes its toll. But she’ll be here tomorrow morning at 7 am along with the rest of the crew to do it all over again. Because that is what lunch ladies do. And what Norma has done for the past 42 years. They are the silent heartbeat of the school. Quietly giving strength to the littlest souls that are busy with the everyday business of learning. 6
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16 edible
SOUTHWEST COLORADO WINTER
2016
Modern-Day Artemis Part Two
By Rachel Turiel
T
here are realities about standing over an animal, newly dead, that I am not prepared for. First, to call that bull elk, slumped and emptied of breath, “inanimate” seems a misnomer. There’s the way the muscles, unhusked from hide and already more meat than agent of movement, occasionally and rapidly twitch. Second, one hour post mortem, a release of internal gasses roars so startlingly and without warning from the animal’s mouth that I flinch and duck. My husband, Dan, and I are hunched over the body of the bull elk I just shot. It is a cloudless October, my first hunting season. Aside from the occasional distant plane overhead, there’s no sign of humans anywhere.
My emotions – a simmer of shock, grief, amazement – cling like a jacket I can’t remove. Yet, I am thankful for the straightforward business of field dressing, tending to the visceral parts and pieces that were the elk’s and are becoming ours. It’s like tantric animal positioning: right hind leg raised over my back while Dan slices meat from bone; left shoulder propped against my hip. The animal’s hooves waver below my face. They smell of osha leaves. “We couldn’t have asked for better conditions,” Dan fairly sings while unstitching the left hip ball joint from its cupped socket with his knife, “a clean kill, plenty of daylight, a big bull elk.” I can’t help but think the conditions were straight lousy for the animal itself, who two hours ago was raking antlers against spruce saplings, blowing out bugles, broadcasting his virility to any cow elk not yet spoken for. “And, such an exciting hunt,” Dan murmurs. His knife spills blood to the ground. dddddd
dddddd
We awoke at 11,300 feet in the dark cave of morning, Jupiter and Venus outshining the starry masses. By 6 am, layered in camo, rifle loaded, quick calories installed in packs, we’re hiking. Despite restless, nerve-addled sleep and only a few quick sips of forced-down coffee, adrenaline proves to be an excellent motivator. Before the sun even scales the eastern peaks, we hear bulls bugling in the distance. Their eerie mating songs start in deep tenor and climax in a soprano’s scream, capped with a series of grunts I can only describe as lusty. “Those are the big boys,” Dan whispers. And just like the posturing, sweaty lead guitarist busting a solo with accompanying crotch grab, each hooved musician responds to the last in an escalation of male prowess. We follow the bugles, which are coming now in rapid succession. Hunting requires moving through the forest with one’s aperture of focus exquisitely narrowed. Everything in front of you matters: those fresh tracks, that musky smell, the wind’s trajectory, and – whoops – your own stark white hands pointing downslope like a hoisted banner of your humanness. “Hands down,” Dan hisses. We move along a high trail, the rifle an awkward appendage reminding me of what could actually go down today. A mile further, the bugles wane, but jacked on hope and with no better plan, we continue, now mincing downslope over fallen logs, through thorny current-bush enclaves. Then, above us: the sound of hooves on rock. Across a gulch stands a bull elk at the edge of a talus field, straw-colored coat spotlit in the early sun. Game on. He disappears into the trees and we creep toward him so excruciatingly slowly – stakes skyrocketing by the second – that I’m paradoxically out of breath. My eyes are saucers on my sober
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face. We stop 100 yards from where we last saw him and kneel in the duff. Dan issues cow calls, the cervid equivalent of “hey big boy, why don’t you come up and see me sometime,” while I position the rifle on a rest, and wait for the bull to emerge. Each minute is a nerve-wracking eternity. He thrashes saplings with his antlers. We wait. Dan makes cow calls. Repeat. Up until now, everything was theoretical. I had practiced various shots with the 30.06, but slamming bullets into a paper target is like spinning a globe and calling it traveling. And then this: movement behind trees heading in the direction of the open talus slope. Safety off. Deep breath. Heart banging. Large, tan elk emerges, vitals in perfect view. Crosshairs align. My multi-pronged mental checklist condenses into one swift, decisive action. Two shots later, he drops. I flip the safety on, put the rifle down, and cry.
SOUTHWEST COLORADO WINTER
2016
Half the day is passed dismembering this beast. Four mammoth legs in canvas game bags are stumble-hefted and hung on a spruce limb in the deep shade. The enormous tangle of digestive organs is literally rolled, sloshing, out of the body cavity. I am glad to be present for this, gazing so intimately at this creature: the immense gumdrop-shaped heart, the lungs lacy with alveoli (both tunneled by a killing bullet), the rubbery trachea that once shuttled breath from outside to inside. It hints at our own animal mortality – that underneath our vibrant lives, we too are muscle groups bounded by elastic fascia, blood vessels of all sizes looping like trails throughout our bodies. Dan hands me a shiny nibble of raw tenderloin; it melts on my tongue, bright and gamey. The grey jays arrive, vanguards pluck-
We stop to eat last year’s deer jerky, and in our semi-hallucinatory hunger, we’re both certain it tastes exactly like prime rib au jus, an accompanying crusty French bread somehow layered in the slabs of dry, furrowed meat. Dan and I talk only a little, quietly, and are treated to continued bugles tearing through the mountain silence. An elk herd appears a couple hundred sheer vertical feet above my kill site. “What would you do if we were still hunting? What approach would you take?” my hunting coach asks, pointing out the steeply positioned animals. “Pack up and order a half cow from James Ranch.” We see three young spike bulls jostling through the forest together. They’re old enough to be kicked out by their mothers, but not old enough to mate. “They’re not even allowed to hang out with the herd?” I wonder aloud. “Not even,” Dan replies. Each afternoon, I return to camp feeling more a part of this wild place, more entitled to this meat. The game bags hang in the shade of an old spruce tree, chilling overnight, dripping blood mid-day, until the final shuttle is complete. The (adapted) Bob Dylan lyrics, “after we took from you everything we could steal,” run repeatedly through my mind. We take from this elk: 4 legs, 2 backstraps, 2 tenderloins, liver, heart, ribs, brains, hide, antlers and two teeth. On our last day, I wake early and sit outside the tent watching dark smudges of timber fade to morning. I savor my view of Jupiter and Venus as if it’s a last meal. We dismantle camp and pack the truck with all the things that spilled out of it five days earlier, plus hundreds of pounds of bull elk. I feel the sense of an ending, returning to my modern life with its multi-pronged demands. The sun inches higher and two Clark’s nutcrackers bomb through camp chasing each other. Soon, there will be stories, butchering, feasting, and celebrating. But for now, I shed my wool and fleece camo, put on my mom uniform, and head back down the mountain. 6
ROW CANYON CARCHAEOLOGICAL CENTER
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ing red threads of unguarded flesh, their posse whistling from tree boughs. The ravens, aloof, circle overhead, keeping watch. When our work is complete, I ask Dan to give me a moment alone with the animal. I fling myself to the earth and pray. Gratitude and promises spill forth. This surprises me, and yet, seems the most natural and necessary response I can muster. We hike back to camp with our first load of meat, packs pummeling our shoulders, retracing part of the morning’s route now transformed by more than the sun’s angle. For the next four days we walk. We walk the same 5-hour roundtrip every day from camp to kill site and back. In: light and loose. Out: packs groaning with the gravity of meat. Landmarks – “tree bridge,” “boy scout camp,” “bear den hill” – become talismans marking our progress. Every morning, 20 or more ravens are gathered at the carcass, some feasting, others perched nearby, meat-woozy and reveling. A black bear shows up, curious. A golden eagle flees the scene. I like to think of all the unseen others taking their turn: chipmunks gnawing minerals from bone, bacteria dissolving intestines, blood spilling nitrogen for next year’s osha plants. At first, I can’t shake the sadness, the notion that we duped this wild beast with our human cunning and high-tech tools. And though I’ve participated in slaughtering our chickens, that felt like an agreement: room and board in exchange for eggs until the arrangement was biologically null and void. This bull elk and I had no such prior understanding. Meeting him up close held many surprises: his long, delicate eyelashes, curly ear fur, and his hide’s dusty, earthy scent. And yet, the question, for me, is not about eating meat or not. Rather, it dwells in the muddied depths of taking responsibility for the deaths of the animals I eat; which, at first glance, is infinitely more unpleasant than obliviously placing an anonymous shrink-wrapped cut of meat in my shopping cart. Carrying this bull elk on our backs becomes the simple rhythm of our days. Life hasn’t felt this straightforward and purposeful since my children were babies and I was nursing them around the clock, literally keeping them alive. I begin to trust the appropriateness of my remorse, while also noticing that the walking loosens grief from my mind, clearing space for gratitude, satisfaction, curiosity and awe. We step slow and labored through the forest, weighted down with the most ancient of tasks, though buoyed with the gifts of purpose, intimacy with our food, and the best meat on this planet. My mind laps up this pace of living. For these four days, I don’t worry, strategize, or brainstorm about my children or livelihood. I don’t think about world news; the news is here. Parts of my brain that have been hyperextended for years simply relax. Clans of juncos are swept from one fir tree to the next by our approach. The sweet-spicy scent of spruce bark is ignited by the sun.
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Lovin’ on the Run: A Visit from the Stud By Kate Husted
Sandra Hilton, right, helps load her billy goat, Zahav, into the back of Kate Husted's truck.
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his morning, booted and bundled, I step out my front door and am smacked with the perfume of a billygoat. Eau de Billy is like a mix of cowboy boot stuffed with moldy cheese and drizzled in a testosterone vinaigrette. Soon I hear the choked warble of a young doe, who comically lost her voice after twenty-four hours of screeching for a mate. The barnyard is a sensory tsunami when the he-goat comes to town. There are plenty of good reasons not to own a billygoat. Besides the stink, they’re ornery. They possess the weight and will to break through fences and bust human limbs. For a dairy farmer, they serve one function: to impregnate does. When they’re not busy doing that, they oaf about, eat a ton, and cause jailbreaks. Thus, for the servicing of my small dairy herd, I choose to rent. For one month each autumn, I invite a billy to share my home and hay. It’s ideal to choose one with a good temperament, and I’ve been fortunate to employ such a goat year after year.
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2016
Photos by Rick Scibelli, Jr.
His name is Zahav. In moments of affection, I call him “Z.” He’s a fine lad who stands tall, massive horns curling robustly from his head, fur flowing in all the right places. He’s rarely aggressive, throws very few head butts in my direction, and hardly ever rears up in an attempt to mount me. This morning, when he thought breakfast was a little late, he took out his frustration on his enclosure and bashed his skull into it repeatedly. The sight of our fence violently undulating caused my husband to cry out in alarm, and me to run for the hay barn. Once well fed, Zahav congenially follows me about my business, pausing thoughtfully by my side while I pound T-posts and drill reinforcing screws into the fence line. His eyes fix on me and sweetly suggest: rub my head. I know that touching him will saturate me with his stench, for which mere soap and water are no match, but his charm is strong. I extend a cautious finger and scratch the base of his horns.
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This coziness between us only occurs if Z isn’t busy fulfilling his purpose. Does go into heat during the fall and winter months, once every 3 weeks. It lasts 2-3 days, and is an all-encompassing event for all parties involved. She follows him devotedly, her tail fluttering enthusiastically back and forth. Zahav drinks his own pee, making sure to splash plenty on his face. The doe can’t get enough of the smell this produces; she nuzzles him and accepts his French kisses. He follows her while performing the mating dance: marching with both front legs completely straight, making the sound of a young boy with an imaginary machine gun, wagging his tongue obscenely in her face. They mate quickly and often. If they become separated, everybody knows about it. A deprived doe rolls her eyes wildly, lolls her head backwards at an impossible angle, the tips of her horns grazing her spine. She extends her tongue and bellows. Zahav also cries, sounding surprisingly pitiful. When this romantic three-day date comes to an end, the relationship abruptly turns cold. Z keeps tabs on the scent of the doe’s rear end (sampling her pee), but she swats him like a fly, making her distaste known. Once I’ve seen Zahav make the rounds of my herd, and I’ve dutifully recorded the dates of each encounter, I coax him into the back of my truck using the illusion of control. We make the ambling pilgrimage down country back roads to his home. I pay his owner, a fellow goat lady, $20 per doe bred. We chat about the year’s events: does kept or culled, goat meat recipes, home remedies. On a dairy farm, time moves in circles. A new cycle begins with Zahav’s visit, with conception. Afterward, the milking season wraps up and the girls take off the last months of their pregnancies. Life is quiet as the snow falls. In spring, kids are born, and milk production is renewed. When the oak leaves appear, the girls spend their days grazing. I milk and make cheese, milk and make cheese. When fall comes again and the oak leaves burn with color, I sell or butcher the kids. Soon after they’ve gone, Zahav appears, to sow the seeds of another round. His cameo in our lives is a staple of the season, a watermark on the dipstick of our year. We pass through birth, productivity, death, and conception like the spiraling arc of his horns. 6
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No-Pressure Pressure Cooking .
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here is a story on my wife’s side of the family that involves a baptismal party, her father, a pressure cooker and an explosion that left a pot full of chicken parts plastered to a ceiling. “I heard a loud bang,” my mother-in-law said. “He had filled it too full. He was just trying to help.” And so goes the pressure cooker. The antiquated apparatus that can either produce fall-off-the-bone chicken or trips to the emergency room. “It has a reputation for being complicated and dangerous,” says Lauren Slaff, a chef and culinary instructor. “But this is unwarranted. The new models are foolproof and affordable. And the results are amazing.” Pressure cookers are like the anti-crock pot. Both essentially do the same thing but one takes all day and one takes 25 minutes. A roast? Approximately 40 minutes.
“You should get a good sear on the meat before pressure cooking so it doesn’t end up tasting boiled,” Slaff says. And this is true with any braise, which is what pressure cooking essentially is, minus three or so hours. It is a forgone conclusion among the bean lovers in our region that the only way to effectively cook an Anasazi (or pinto) bean at our altitude is with a pressure cooker. “The results can be creamy but if you’re not careful, it can be mush,” Slaff says, warning that overcooking can be a problem. Play around with cooking times erring on the side of caution. Underdone? Seal it back up and return it to the heat. No problem. So, fear no chicken parts on your ceiling. Rediscover your grandmother’s microwave. You can land a modern (and safe) unit for less than $100. – Rick Scibelli, Jr
Cowgirl Beans Courtesy of Chef Lauren Slaff
INGREDIENTS (Serves 6-8 as a side dish) 2 cups Anasazi (or pinto) beans, sorted and soaked
METHOD Drain and rinse soaked beans and place in a pot (or pressure cooker) with fresh water to cover by 1½”. Add the onion, garlic, minced pepper, bay leaves and epazote to the pot. If using traditional method, bring to a boil, then cover and reduce to a simmer, cooking for 1 hour, stirring occasionally. For pressure cooker method, cover and seal with lid. When it has reached pressure point, reduce heat and cook for 30 minutes. Do not open or stir. Next add the beer, stir and either continue simmering 30-45 minutes or reseal pressure cooker and repeat last step for another 15 minutes or so. When beans have reached desired texture, remove bay leaves, and stir in the chipotle, vinegar, salt and pepper to taste and cilantro. Taste and add more salt or vinegar as needed.
overnight 1 medium onion, chopped 4 cloves garlic, crushed 1 jalapeño or 1 Serrano pepper, seeded (or not, if you like it fiery) and minced 2 fresh bay leaves 1 bunch fresh epazote (if you can’t find this Mexican herb, substitute with cilantro) stemmed and chopped (about ½ to ¾ cup) 1 bottle Ska Pinstripe Red Ale 3 to 4 tablespoons chipotles in adobo, finely minced or pureed 2 tablespoons sherry wine vinegar Salt & pepper to taste ½ cup fresh cilantro leaves, chopped (more for garnish) 24 edible
SOUTHWEST COLORADO WINTER
2016
TELLURIDE
C R E AT I V E S E A S O N A L F A R E Proprietor chef Chad Scothorn
IN
H OT E L C O L U M B I A 970.728.1292
THE
M A K E YO U R R E S E RVAT I O N S AT W W W . C O S M O T E L L U R I D E . C O M
Green Chile Braised Lamb Shanks Courtesy of Chef Lauren Slaff
METHOD Pat dry shanks and season generously with salt and pepper. In a stockpot or pressure cooker, heat just enough oil over high heat to coat bottom of pan. When oil is hot but not smoking, brown shanks on all sides until a nice brown crust is achieved. Remove shanks and lower heat to medium. Add onions to pan (and a little more oil if needed) and cook until brown and soft, scraping brown bits from lamb as you cook. When onions are nicely caramelized, stir in garlic, cumin, oregano and coriander, cooking until just fragrant. Add Worcestershire and green chiles and sauté for another minute. Add tomatoes and stir. Return lamb shanks to the pot and add just enough stock to bring liquid halfway up the shanks and no more. For traditional method, bring to a boil then lower to a simmer, cover and cook for about 1½ to 2 hours until meat is tender. For pressure cooker, cover, seal and bring to pressure then lower heat and cook for 30 minutes. Test for tenderness and cook an additional 5-10 minutes in same fashion if needed. When lamb is done, remove shanks to warm bowls (preferably with some creamy polenta on the bottom) and test the sauce for seasoning. Season with salt and pepper as desired and then ladle over shanks to serve.
Photo by Lauren Slaff
INGREDIENTS (Serves 4 ) 4 locally-raised lamb shanks 1 medium onion, chopped 4 cloves garlic, crushed 1 tablespoon ground cumin 1 tablespoon dry oregano (Mexican, if available) 1 teaspoon ground coriander 1 teaspoon Worcestershire sauce 2 cups roasted green chiles, seeded (or not) and chopped (or from a jar or frozen, no biggie) with liquid
This dish and Cowgirl Beans would be even better with some fresh chopped cilantro, sliced radishes and a couple wedges of lime.
2 cups fire roasted diced tomatoes, with liquid 1-2 cups beef or chicken stock salt & pepper grapeseed or other high-heat oil for browning lamb
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SOUTHWEST COLORADO WINTER
2016
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28 edible
SOUTHWEST COLORADO WINTER
Photos by Michelle Ellis
2016
A Hip Food Truck for The Young and Underserved By Sharon Sullivan
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rand Junction third-grade teacher Mike Frazer can relate to his students being hungry. “I grew up in the same atmosphere as a lot of my kids here,” says Frazer, a stocky, 30-something with glasses and wavy, reddish-brown hair held back with a black headband. When he was growing up, Frazer’s family relied on food stamps, the generosity of church groups, and food banks to get by. When he asks his students what they had for dinner, they often say “a bag of chips.” “One thing that’s important, is not just food, but quality food which can be time consuming and expensive – a 99-cent cheeseburger versus 20 minutes cutting up a salad,” says Frazer. Free and reduced meals offered during the school year help address the issue of child hunger. Summer food programs reach fewer kids – typically 500 versus 9,000 – meaning children return to school in the fall malnourished and unable to focus, say teachers. A loss of grant funding has reduced or eliminated summer food programs, prompting action from the Western Colorado Community Foundation (WCCF), a philanthropic nonprofit that serves seven Western Slope counties. Nationally, 20 percent of children qualify for free or reduced USDA-funded lunches. In Mesa County, 42 percent of children are eligible for the federally-subsidized meals. “I am alarmed and appalled there is so much hunger in this community in 2015, in this rich nation,” says WCCF executive director Anne Wenzel. “We have a donor who passed away and left money for basic needs. What is more basic than hunger among children?” Last spring, the Community Foundation provided $58,000 to purchase and retrofit a mobile food truck to deliver meals to lowincome neighborhoods for seven weeks during the summer. Known as the “Lunch Lizard,” the colorful truck is decorated with golden desert scenes, including a green collared lizard clutching a red apple. “Food trucks are trendy,” points out WCCF’s Tedi Gillespie. “We wanted it to be attractive to kids, friendly, embraced by families. We did not want to be seen as a truck with industrial food donations.”
Dan Sharp, director of food and nutrition services for Mesa County School District 51, was already on the foundation’s radar for his innovative efforts at changing the system by making lunches from scratch, using locally-sourced foods when available. Together, he and the community foundation researched mobile meal programs state- and nationwide. Sharp helped design and retrofit the Lunch Lizard, and mobilized school district staff and resources. The food, kitchen prep and two staff for the truck are funded through the USDA Summer Food Service program, which reimburses the school district for hot, nutritious meals made in a school kitchen and delivered to low-income areas. Frazer volunteered as a neighborhood liaison during last summer’s pilot program. The Lunch Lizard delivered free meals four days a week to five different low-income neighborhoods in the Grand Valley. The Lunch Lizard’s apples are grown locally at Bolton’s Orchards and Organic Whacky Apple in Hotchkiss. The organic tomatoes are from Breeden Farms. Pinto beans used in the tacos come from The Beanery in Delta. Sharp hopes to incorporate even more locallygrown foods. Sunny Gonzales brought her daughter plus the five children she babysat last summer to the food truck where it stopped at her apartment complex. “They loved it,” Gonzales says. “Every day, I got begged ‘can we go? Is it time yet?’” Rather than allow the truck to sit empty during the school year when free and reduced-cost meals are available at many schools, Sharp decided to take the Lunch Lizard to three public schools where hot lunches are not served. On a recent warm fall day, the food truck pulls up to the Opportunity Center, a school for at-risk teenagers who have been expelled from other schools. Driver Marlea Kammers opens the side window where she places a bowl of apples and cut-up oranges while her assistant sets up a portable table where students help themselves to salsa,
Sixty percent of Opportunity Center students qualify for free or reduced-cost lunches, says the school’s outreach achievement coordinator Mark Young. “The kids love it. I have kids who don’t have food at home.” At R-5, another alternative high school where students work half the day, attend college classes or volunteer, 50 percent of the students qualify for free lunches. Seventeen-year-old Harley Gurule says she doesn’t bother with breakfast. Before the Lunch Lizard started delivering meals to R-5, she didn’t eat lunch either. Though she lives with her mother, they don’t share meals. “She takes care of her business, I take care of mine,” says the teenager. “I get hungry some days. It helps a lot having food. If I’m hungry all day, I won’t be thinking about anything but food. As long as it’s edible, I’ll eat it.” Children line up eagerly when the Lunch Lizard arrives at the elementary school. “I’ll take a taco, salad and apple,” pipes up a third-grader standing behind several students lined up at the truck window. “I want green eggs and ham,” quips another boy. The foundation is already fundraising for a second truck for the summer program because one truck can’t serve all the needy areas. “A well-balanced meal is something a lot of people take for granted,” says Frazer. “The consistency of the truck is great. [A meal] is one less thing the kids have to worry about. If I’m struggling with a student’s behavioral issues, the first thing I ask is ‘when was the last time you ate?’” 6
Grand Junction third-grade teacher, Mike Frazer.
ranch dressing, napkins and utensils. Today’s menu includes the popular “Street Beef Tacos.” Peanut butter and jelly sandwiches are also available for those who prefer the old standby. Fresh fruit and vegetables come with both meals. Offerings on other days include hot dogs and coleslaw, burgers and tossed salad, grilled cheese and steamed broccoli. “They like broccoli, because they like the homemade ranch dressing. In fact, most of the food is made from scratch,” says Kammers. “There are no more chicken nuggets. We make roasted red potatoes instead of French fries. Teachers tell you [the students] are able to settle down better; they seem to focus and do better in school. We like to feed not just their bellies, but their souls as well.” Terry Schmalz, right, wrangles her flock up to Marlea Kammers and the Lunch Lizard food truck
DIY PANTRY
Stop Buying and Start Making:
VANILLA EXTR ACT By Rachel Turiel
P
erhaps we all remember our squat-limbed younger selves balanced on a stool, uncapping a bottle of our mother’s vanilla extract. Inhaling the mysterious and intoxicating scent was like a hundred birthday cakes floating past our eager noses. Although “vanilla” is often code for “plain,” the aroma, biology and history of vanilla beans suggests a more intriguing story. Vanilla beans – long, dark, and slender – are the seedpod of the orchid, Vanilla planifolia, native to Mexico (now grown most commonly in Madagascar and Indonesia), and once cultivated as an aphrodisiac for Aztec royalty. Incidentally, this particular flower is the singular exception to 20,000 other orchid varieties which produce nothing edible. For only twelve frenzied hours, the vanilla orchid flowers, fleshy and pale yellow, are open and receptive to fertilization. Immune to this world of automated efficiency, the blossoms are still hand-pollinated by growers using a sliver of bamboo and a well-placed thumb. A full year later, after maturing, curing, sweating, fermenting, and drying, the beans are ready for use – oily, leathery and cloaking the most expensive seeds on the global market. The name comes from the Spanish word vaina, meaning sheath or pod. The vanilla bean contains several hundred different chemical compounds, each working in concert to perform the enigmatic magic of intensifying and brightening other flavors. But, what does this mean? Katie Burford, owner of Durango ice cream shop Cream
Bean Berry, says, “vanilla, in small doses, adds depth and complexity to many recipes.” In essence, vanilla extract can make chocolate more itself, cookies more multi-dimensional, and ice cream seem sweeter without any extra sugar. Beware imitation vanilla obtained from a byproduct of pulp in papermaking, or, sorry to report, the anal glands of mature beavers. (Take-home lesson: pay extra for the real thing). Real vanilla extract is made from the prolonged courtship of vanilla beans, alcohol and time. Making your own will always be cheaper than buying at the store. And with an ample stash, you’ll feel more emboldened to splash it into your sweet creations. Plus you get to slit open those fragrant pods filled with the sticky paste of seeds, leaving the aroma lingering on your hands for hours. 6 INGREDIENTS 3-5 whole vanilla beans (sold at most natural food stores) 1 pint vodka, bourbon, or rum (vodka is traditional) METHOD Slice the beans lengthwise and place in a pint jar. Cover with your choice of alcohol. Let sit for 1 to 3 months. When complete, uncap and use, leaving beans in jar. As your vanilla extract recedes through use, splash some more vodka on the beans.
Mesa Verde Country 2000 Years of Local Foods
1870 BEEF:
20 A.D. CORN: Planted by Ancient Puebloans. Today: Ute Mountain Ute Tribe farms 3,000 acres of Bow and Arrow cornmeal.
1930’s egGs: 258,965 dozen milk: 2,104,339 gallons produced annually. wheat: Blue Bird Flour launched.
established. Today: 15,000 head raised annually.
1904 McElmo Canyon PEACHES: Win national awards at the Saint Louis World’s Fair. Today: U-Pick at heritage Orchards.
2015 farm to table restaurants vineyards, pubs, and more...
1972 Cortez Farmers Market opens. Today: Five local markets, winter through fall.
1,200 Farms 5 Farmers Markets 3 Vineyards/Wineries 4 Brew Pubs 1 Distillery 5 School Gardens
follow our roots mesaverdecountry.com