Snowpocalypse Porter post-mortem

Well, the time spent in the bottle did the Snowpocalypse porter no favors.

Hard to describe, but it had a thin flavor profile which did little to bolster and round out the smoke notes. 'Phenolic' is a polite way to describe it, and like the description of the apocryphal book, "...once I set it down, I couldn't pick it back up again!"

So bottle #1 was poured and languished in half-drunk mugs in various places around the room until the following day. However, phoenix-like, it (along with bottle #2) was resurrected that evening in a simple but hearty stew of ox-tail (okay, really cow-tail, but a convention is a convention) which was absolutely awesome.

I'm pleased. It was fun to brew at the time, pleasant enough to drink along the way, a fun reminder of a unique time, and it met a good end. What else could you ask for?

Now on to other brews. Two all-grain batches teed up for February...

12-2-2012

We knelt together on the cool damp ground as the afternoon sun fell behind the forest, diminishing light slanting long shadows across the garden rows. With fork and hand we delved the dark row, groping blindly through the dirt for the few tubers hiding there un-mole-sted. For every root, a rock; for every rock, a root. And we slowly picked clod-by-clod and morsel-by-morsel, tossing away the weeds, dried stalks and tendrils. By the time we reached the end of the tiny little furrow, we had both a greatly increased pile of freshly liberated rocks and a bucket piled high with potatoes of all sizes and colors. Red, white, blue and green, the size of a pea to the size of an Irishman's clenched fist.

With our early winter prize gathered, we scrubbed the clinging dirt from our hands and from beneath our nails, then returned to the garden table to sit and share perhaps the last glass of wine there for the season. When the sun was gone and the long December twilight was faded, we took our bucket of potatoes and scrubbed them, then sorted the best to keep for later. We supped on a peasant's feast of freshly dug multicolored potatoes, boiled with a little salt and served with simple leftover turkey gravy.

Not bad; not bad at all.

Benchmarks

October 6, 2012: Fired up the wood stove for the first time of the season. I love the smell of hot dust.
October 13, 2012: First frost.
October 14, 2012: Cabernet bottled, 25 bottles.
October 15, 2012: Last hen transferred to the winter yard. Summer yard gets a chance to rest.
October 15, 2012: Sauvignon blanc started.

A Long Day in the Dairy

Sunday began bright and early with a quick post-coffee cleanup of the kitchen. Without pause or interruption, we proceeded directly into the first of a long series of interwoven projects: I delabeled the last few wine bottles we needed for the oft-postponed bottling of the Cabernet, and Mary brought in three gallons of milk from the outside refrigerator so it could slowly come to room temperature. She then skimmed the many quarts of milk on hand, gathering six pints of cream. As the milk and cream tempered, Mary packaged up an earlier batch of butter.

Then began the making of the new batch of butter. No homely churn for this task; the blender is a fine and expeditious helpmeet. In relatively short order, the butter was churned and the extravagant buttermilk set aside as a treat for the poultry. The scrubbed wine bottles were ready for a thorough washing. On to the next project—about five pounds of pure white fresh cheese, made the previous Sunday, waiting to be salted, divided and improvised upon.

The greatest measure of this cheese was simply salted and frozen as an ingredient for later. For the balance, we decided to take two tacks—Mary would make savory cheeses, I would make sweet. So together we crafted several flavors of soft, spreadable cheeses (including a savory Boursin clone and a brandied five-spice sweet cheese) which joined the butter in the freezer for enjoyment over the long dark winter.

By now the large pot of milk was ready to begin its magical transformation. We spent the bulk of the afternoon and well into the evening transforming three gallons of fresh milk into a small wheel of cheddar cheese through a process of strictly regulated heating, enzymatic action and physical manipulation that made mashing and brewing an all-grain beer look like fixing a glass of lemonade.

I would have to say there are a handful of magical transformations in the realm of the cooking arts. Mashing is one, where suddenly thick, starchy porridge becomes a sea of grains suspended in a clear, golden wort; another is the nixtamal reaction, where thick cooked corn is transformed in a different way, releasing the smell of fresh sweet corn where a moment earlier there was nothing; and cheese making, where in an instant, milk polarizes into clear liquid and a snowstorm of curds.

Did I mention that somewhere in there, we also started roasting one of our turkeys, to have for dinner?

So, by sometime after dinner, the cheddar was ready to be set aside to drain for a bit. But we're not quite done yet—still one more dairy project to take care of.

The three gallons of whey from the cheddar is heated, and to it we add a pint of whole milk. Somehow, from this meager beginning, we manage to produce over a pound of fresh ricotta! That is the most amazing step, because it really gives the appearance of getting something from nothing. (In reality, the cheddar extracts most of the casein protein from the milk with the help of the enzyme action of rennet; ricotta uses a near-boil heat and mild acidity, provided through the addition of a small quantity of cider vinegar, to capture the remaining albumin proteins from the whey). After this final magical transform, the last iteration of whey—stripped of protein but still vitamin and mineral rich—will be fed to the poultry as a supplement.

It is bedtime when we are finally done. The cheddar is undergoing its first pressing; the ricotta and butter are in the refrigerator chilling. The turkey carcass has been picked apart and the leftovers are put away. For all intents and purposes, we have spent the entire day on our feet, in the kitchen, by the stove or around the island, working together on these interwoven projects. It is all we can do to tie up the loose ends of the day, to make sure what needs to be closed up is closed up and what needs to be secured is secured. We are as sore and exhausted as had we been working in the garden or in the woods for as long a day.

And still the cabernet sits, unbottled.

How One Thing Leads To Another...

Saturday was a day chock full of overlapping errands, interconnected tasks and nested interruptions—a typical Saturday, made more hectic and frazzled by the expectation of company’s arrival in the coming week.

But certain things cannot be ignored, and the irrepressible enthusiasm of a house-bound dog who believes a walk on a sunny afternoon is imminent ranks high on that list. At one point mid-afternoon, we set our cleaning and other projects aside to take Carrie and Schroeder out for a brief walk, if for no other reason than to calm Carrie down a bit.

We set out down the gravel driveway for the usual round of peeing and sniffing (Schroeder marks, Carrie examines). As we dawdled into the pine woods—where much sniffing was required—we could not help but notice the pine litter everywhere erupting with mushrooms. The piney ground was an undulating carpet, where the pine needles were pushed up and aside by countless clusters of tan mushrooms.

They looked like ‘short stacks’ scattered through the woods—mysterious little clumps of glossy golden brown discs, some perfectly round, others missing a chunk here and there, where some woodland creature had nibbled on them. They were beautiful, and looked utterly benign in the afternoon light.

But the mystery of the mushrooms did not concern the dogs, so we pushed on through the pines, and down the lane, and wound our way back to the house and the chores and cleaning and errands, stopping to chat with the neighbors along the way. But later that afternoon, as the shadows lengthened and the evening light cooled, we revisited the pine grove, guidebook in hand.

Kneeling in the cool fragrant litter with sample mushroom in one hand and taxonomic key in the other, we carefully worked our way through the key, learning proper mushroom nomenclature, mushroom physiology and making a few false starts before tracing our way to a definitive identification: Dentinum Repandum, (also known as Hyndum Repandum, sometimes called 'Hedgehog mushroom' for its teeth on the underside of the cap)—an edible mushroom!

The 'Hedgehog' is our fourth foray into the world of wild fungi: a massive sheepshead mushroom in Pennsylvania decades ago, a solitary morel in Arlington, and another solitary morel a few years ago here.

We picked a handful, marveling at their oddly sticky surface and beautiful coloration. They became the centerpiece of our dinner, sautéed lightly in butter and folded into the center of an omelette made with a handful of the day’s newly gathered eggs. The mushrooms were delicious, delicate and tender, with a mild, subtle yet distinctive flavor.

We survived the night without ill effect, and returned Sunday evening to pick a small basketful. Some of those became part of Tuesday’s dinner, along with fresh pesto and braised carrots; with luck, we will dry enough of the bountiful crop to supply us through the winter. We even recommended some to our neighbors, who were trusting (or bold) enough to take us up on the offer—though, now that I think of it, I haven't heard from them since...

There’s something pleasingly…empowering…about trusting your land and your judgment enough to identify wild mushrooms. I'm very happy we did this; I hope we continue making discoveries like this.

Requiem for a cockerel

The other evening we dined on the first of the chickens which we had raised from chicks. The chicks arrived last April, and the newly-matured cockerels went off for butchering last weekend on Saturday and were in our freezer Sunday. It's a little weird to look at it that way—chicks to meal—but I really haven't felt conflicted in the least.

Every single day when I went out to feed the chickens, or check their water, or make sure they were safe, or any of a thousand other chores I performed on their behalf, I would look at them as individual living animals and know exactly how their lives would end. As Joel Salatin puts it, "...a good life, then one bad day."

Virtually every other chicken I have ever eaten in my life—every drumstick, nugget, finger, roast, et cetera, et cetera, has lived a short, wretched life of misery and suffering. Our cockerels ran around like crazy in the sun and the rain, ate bugs and grass and some of our favorite flowers and garden plants, showed off for one another and the hens, and got to act like real birds of planet earth—hell, they got to fly; how many 21st-century chickens can say that?

To show respect for this cockerel and to appreciate exactly what a home-raised chicken tastes like, we did him up plain and simple: a drizzle of olive oil, some salt and pepper, a little butter in the pan to baste him. We baked him for a little over an hour, and accompanied him with roasted potatoes ( also simple, with salt and pepper only) and some sauteed summer squash fresh from the garden.

His meat was flavorful and toothsome; his bones solid and well-calcified. He was small, a little smaller than a regulation NFL-football, except with drumsticks. Three of us dined on him, with a decent portion left over for another meal. His bones will make another meal by way of stock. He was a real treat, unlike the bland, tasteless, textureless meat that is foisted off on us as "chicken" by the Purdues and Tysons of the world.

We have another dozen or so of his cohort in the freezer. I am looking forward to seeing what they're like.

Dad's famous "Paw Paw Shooters"

Ingredients:

4 - 750 ml. bottles of home made Paw Paw wine*

1 BB pistol & 1 or 2 16g carbon dioxide cartridges

BB Pellets

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1. Tastefully arrange the bottles of wine (unopened) against a backdrop of canvas or landscape fabric draped over a sawhorse. They should be at room temperature.

2. Draw straws to see who shoots first.

3. Take turns shooting until no bottle is left unshattered. (Or 'NBLU' as we call it.)

4. Deposit remains in recycling bin.

5. Celebrate by drinking something good.

The prep time for the Paw Paw wine is generally what makes this such a special dish to serve, so you won't want to make it very often. But everyone should try it at least once. 

* This would also be great made with home made persimmon wine.

Another venture into unknown territory:

It's early March, and under the hoophouse there are a hardy bunch of turnips that have survived the long, rough winter. I say survived, but actually many of them haven't really survived—they are shriveled and spent, exhausted, some are simply whitish bags of brown mush topped by defeated crowns of ragged leaves. They have enough wherewithal left to send up a flower stalk in a few weeks, bloom, set seed, pass along their genes and die.

But under the warm spring sun, I can gather a few pounds of good, solid sound turnips. About half are the pure white Tokyo Cross variety, and the other half are Purple Tops. So:

Turnips (3-½ pounds cleaned and peeled)
1-½ Tbsp. sea salt
6 Tbsp whey

I shredded the turnips, and mixed them with the salt, squeezing and wringing them until the fine grains of salt dissolved and the weeping juice was thoroughly distributed through the shreds. I added the whey (on a whim, based on our experience with some mind-boggling gingered carrots). This is a lactic acid fermentation, which is a big difference from a yeast-based fermentation. I know lots about the affairs of yeast—pretty much nothing about lactic acid fermentation except what I vaguely remember from my mother making kraut decades ago.

Now the mixture sits in a stoneware crock, protected from the air with a small china plate and weighted down by a quart mason jar full of water. By tomorrow I suspect it will be obviously alive, and in a couple of days I imagine we will smell it before we ever see it. Within a week or two we should have bona fide turnip kraut (actually, I suppose it should be called sauerturnip, but whatever...) and it will increase in tartness and pungency for up to six weeks, at which point we could can what might be left.

Stay tuned.

Nixtamal ! (UPDATED)

This weekend I undertook something new out of sheer curiosity. What I did is at the intersection of cooking, science, culture and, I don't know...anthropology?

I had read about the ancient process of nixtamalization, where dried corn is cooked and soaked in an alkali solution. In various cultures, this results in Posole, Masa Harina, or Hominy and Hominy grits. The process yields a number of results: the tough outer shell of the corn is removed, as is the germ; the grain swells, becomes soft and starchy, and a number of nutrients are made available that would otherwise be sequestered. Cultures that adopted corn as a staple grain without nixtamalization, such as many groups in the American south, quickly developed deficiency diseases such as pellagra and kwashiorkor. And while this is all new and exciting and exotic to me, it's been common knowledge among countless cultures for thousands of years.

In any case. I took two cups of the whole kernel corn we use for chicken feed. I boiled it for about an hour, until the grains had begun to swell slightly. Then the recipe I had read called for adding ½ cup of wood ashes to the pot to provide the alkali.

Well, our woodstove provides a steady supply of hardwood ash, but I didn't like the idea of having little bits of stuff mixed in with the corn (for example, we dispose of dinner bones in the fire) so first I gathered about a cup of ash, sieved it, added a quart of water, shook it vigorously for a few minutes, then strained the ash solution through filter paper. The sieving and filtering process left altogether about ¼ cup of solids behind.

The effect of adding the opaque gray solution to the simmering corn was spectacular. The color of the liquid turned a clear golden orange, and for the first time, it released the distinctive "tortilla" aroma of hominy, like it had been hiding somewhere.

The nixtamalization process continued for three hours from that point. Somewhere around the two hour mark, the aroma became unmistakably that of fresh sweet corn cooking—a wonderful summertime smell to have in the kitchen in late February. At the three hour mark from adding the ash liquor, the corn grains were plump and swollen, floating in a thick golden gelatinized liquid.

I drained the liquid, rinsed the grains with cold water, drained them again, and covered them with cold water one last time. At this point, I had completed the nixtamal process, and had a big pot of posole/hominy to do something with. (The chickens would devour the leftover liquid for breakfast the next morning). I pondered the issue overnight, consulting a few posole recipes here and there. Come morning, this is what I decided:

Posole Stew:

1 medium onion, coarsely chopped
1 fist-sized chunk of Virginia ham—rind, fat and all (any good seasoning meat would do—a ham hock would probably be awesome)
3 whole dried chile peppers
1 tsp black pepper
2 tsp garlic powder
2 cans black beans, with liquid
1 tsp dried oregano
1 batch Posole/Hominy (From 2 C dried corn)
1 bottle ale*

Combine all ingredients in a crockpot and simmer on low, stirring occasionally. After several hours, remove ham and cut into small bits; return to pot and continue simmering. Season to taste—I deliberately omitted salt as the Virginia ham seems to provide enough salt on its own. The posole and black beans together make a complete protein, so the meat could be omitted for a vegetarian dish. However, in that case I would be sure to add some good olive oil to make up for the lost fat.

Conclusion? The posole stew was well-received by the panel of judges (...considering it was made from chicken feed and all...). Personally, I find the whole process absolutely fascinating, and after just one batch don't feel like I really understand what I did exactly. The transformational nature of nixtamalization reminds me most of the magic of mashing beer, where suddenly, with just a little nudging from the cook, something appears that wasn't there just a minute before. In mashing, it's the activity of enzymes...here, it's chemistry and probably some enzymes as well. It's all very cool, regardless.

I suppose I'll try it again sometime...in the meantime, there's leftovers to be put away.

* Please note this was the aforementioned "Sorghum Ale," and as a result, the stew developed an awful flavor upon standing. Please substitute any good stock, broth, bouillion or even plain water. It also solidified, so I would either halve the quantity of posole or double the quantity of liquid.  I would stay away from beer--hops does not work well in this recipe**.
** I'm actually surprised how frequently when beer is used as an ingredient, the hop bitterness dominates the contributed flavor--beer bread is a great example. It's rarely the malt, unless the beer is a stout with a strong roast and a low hopping profile. I'm starting to rethink beer as an all-purpose ingredient.

Eggnog

6 eggs separated (for best results, they should be separated by at least 2-3 feet)
3/4 C. Confectioner's Sugar
2 C. Cream
2 C. Milk
2 C. Liquor (1½ C. whiskey / ½ C. dark rum--adjust to personal preferences and availability)
3/4 tsp. Vanilla
Nutmeg for garnish
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Beat egg yolks until creamy. Add sugar and beat until smooth, scraping bowl occasionally. Gradually (in a thin stream) add cream, then milk, then liquor, then vanilla, beating constantly. Refrigerate for 2-3 hours.
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Beat egg whites until stiff but not dry. Gently fold beaten whites into eggnog mixture. Top with grated nutmeg if desired. Made this with fresh eggs, raw milk, raw cream, dark rum and Wasmund's single malt whiskey. Pretty damn fine beverage, it was.

Beyond Parody and Description

While grabbing a cup of coffee at a 7-11 this morning, I noticed, among all the various and sundry flavorings provided for coffee (not the "flavored-non-dairy-petrochemical-based-creamer-analogues," but the "let's-make-a-simple-beverage-fancy-by-changing-it-into-something-else flavorings"—you know, the ones that look like bottles of liquor with italianate names and pump tops on them?) I noticed that 7-11 now offers:

Honey-flavored syrup.

Hey, wasn't there already a 'honey-flavored syrup?' I think it might have been called "Honey?" Or am I misremembering something?

Our Thanksgiving Benediction

In lieu of saying grace or offering a blessing, we shared this quote as we all sat together for our Thanksgiving meal:

"Eating with the fullest pleasure - pleasure, that is, that does not depend on ignorance - is perhaps the profoundest enactment of our connection with the world. In this pleasure we experience our dependence and our gratitude, for we are living in a mystery, from creatures we did not make and powers we cannot comprehend."

— Wendell Berry

A lesson in linguistics

"Camarones Diabolo" is Mexican for "Shrimp served in a sauce made of pure liquid pain." Now you know.

Winging it

I gotta say that freestyling bread has got to be maybe the most impressive thing I have ever seen done in a kitchen—a kind of yeast-and-gluten based jazz, an improvisational art form that I plainly do not have the stones to try. It is an interpretive dance, dusted with flour.

Mary has been doing this of late, and Madeline does it also. Now, I baked my first loaf of bread in, what—third grade or something like that? And since then, I have baked all sorts of breads over the decades, and lots of other goodies as well. I consider myself a reasonably accomplished amateur baker. But, as I learned from my mother, I bake always using a recipe, followed with great deliberateness and devotion. How do these two do it?

It's almost scary for me to watch the bold and fearless way these women bake: intuitive, insightful, free-form, based on solid experience and whatever ingredients are at hand. Everything goes into the big stainless steel bowl in its turn (nothing seems to get measured) where it's mixed, then kneaded, then risen: a single vessel for the whole process. Four round loaves emerge from this crucible to nestle together on a big baking sheet, making a giant clover-leaved loaf, each leaf with two flat sides and a broad dome.

The motivation to bake is often some ingredient that needs to get used up; dairy-based, typically, so the breads are usually rich with cottage cheese or the equivalent. Some mix of herbs usually enlivens the flavor, often finely minced onion as well, a perfect compliment for a 1/4 rye-1/4 whole wheat loaf, like the ones we just enjoyed.

I watch it happen, and stand back and keep out of the way. It's a music I can't play...though I certainly enjoy listening, and am a willing audience.

********************
On the other hand, I am pretty good at free-style cooking.

Sunday morning I announced we were having quiche for dinner, and Mary concurred. When the time came, at the end of a long day of many hard tasks large and small, we went at it.

Mary made the crust, in this instance using the old-reliable recipe—pie crusts are treacherous and notoriously vindictive creations who won't hesitate to turn on you if you show the slightest weakness or fear or relinquish an iota of control for a moment. She prevailed, predictably.

I began making the filling by cutting up a hunk of smoked pork (like bacon but without the cure) and sauteing it; then adding finely minced onion, some finely chopped kale stems and, shortly after those, the kale leaves; then some sliced white mushrooms and salt and pepper. While that was all slowly cooking together, I beat a handful of eggs, some freshly-skimmed cream, and some cottage cheese until it was frothy. As soon as Mary had the two crusts ready, I divided up the kale mixture between the crusts and poured the egg filling over them.

The quiches were done in about a half an hour, along with a pumpkin-like winter squash I threw together. The squash was just cleaned out and baked with some cider, butter, brown sugar and spices. The two quiches and the squash together would make about three full meals for the two of us, with mostly local ingredients and without recipe (...excepting the crust...) with about thirty minutes prep time all told.

The trick is having a wonderful assortment of outstanding ingredients on hand, and a willingness to use them how you see fit. No recipe for the filling, just the miracle of all those foolproof pieces to put together like a puzzle. I suppose I could try and apply that approach to baking, but...

Nah. I'm not even going to pretend like that's going to happen. I will leave it to the two virtuosos. I know when to leave well enough alone.

Supper for a fall evening:

Home-corned brisket of local-grown beef, simmered in the crockpot with nothing but sweet cider all day, sliced thin and served open-faced on fresh baked onion rye cheesebread with just a smear of mustard.

Mixed green salad, with tomatoes and two kinds of green peppers—still from the garden.

A pint of pumpkin spice ale.

Hardly a scrap left.

My Favorite Summer Fruit Salad Recipe:

This is an all-time favorite family recipe for a great summer-time fruit salad.

For the salad:

1 orange, quartered and sliced, peel intact
1 apple, cored, quartered and sliced, peel intact
1 peach, peeled and stoned, quartered and sliced
1 C. watermelon or canteloupe balls
1 C. fresh raspberries or blackberries
1 lemon, quartered and sliced, peel intact
(Any other seasonal fruit you may have on hand—approximately 4 cups of fruit total)

For the Dressing:

1 C. simple syrup (equal measures sugar and water, boiled and cooled)
Fresh juice of 1 lemon or 1 lime
Pinch of cinnamon
Pinch of allspice
Pinch of cardamom (optional)
1 C. brandy
1 750 ml. bottle dry red wine, chilled

To Prepare:

Gentle toss fruits to combine. Combine dressing ingredients and pour over fruit; let stand so fruit is immersed in the dressing for at least 30 minutes.

Note: The dressing accumulates all the vitamins, so don't let it go to waste.
Serves 2.

Yes We Can

Ah, August.

Today: Five quarts of vegetable beef soup, pressure canned ( a first!); four quarts of ratatouille, frozen; a full tray of 'Juliet' tomatoes dried down to about a quart. Yesterday: Seven quarts of salsa canned (plus a quart or two in the fridge), comprising two varieties of sweet bell peppers, three or four varieties of hot peppers—about half torch-blistered for that fabulous smoky flavor—tomatillos, tomatoes and onions, all from our garden. Even the coriander, toasted in a dry skillet and crushed in the mortar and pestle, came from a previous year's garden.

And man, is it good salsa! Flavorful and pungent, with enough heat to earn respect without being intimidating; I can't wait to see how this tastes in the dead of winter. And in a reversion to our old style, we cut up the tomatoes, onions and sweet peppers by hand (a process that in itself took several hours) so the salsa is chunky with recognizable bits in it, unlike the faster but somehow less satisfactory food-processor version.

By now, the freezer is filling up, and we are beginning to run out of canning jars. We're trying new things this year (drying, pressure canning) in order to balance our time with the bounty we have worked so hard to obtain. It's been quite a summer so far, and by the looks of things, it promises to be a plentiful fall as well. (That's a bit ironic; we just figured out yesterday that according to the extension service, our growing season out here is a full two months shorter than it was where we used to live. That's mind-boggling to realize in our fourth growing season.)

Keeping fingers crossed...

More about Sunday morning breakfast:

A week or two ago I mentioned fresh elderflower fritters for a Sunday morning breakfast. I think we may have topped that today:

Freshly picked red raspberries, dusted with powdered sugar.
Fresh whipped cream, straight from the dairy without any intervention, just lightly sweetened.
Fresh baked shortcake, made from scratch without a recipe, featuring homemade butter and a crunchy granulated sugar topping.
Split the warm shortcake, add a layer of berries in the middle, shortcake on top, and whipped cream over it all. A cup of coffee made with freshly ground locally roasted coffee. If nothing else, the deep red of the berries against the white of the cream and the shortcake looked very 'Fourth-Of-July.'

Don't get used to this

After a long evening of lightning and thunder, punctuated by sudden sweeps of fierce rain, this morning dawned clear, crisp and cool, with last night's rain sparkling on everything.

It is the middle of June, and time to make something I haven't made in decades—elderblossom fritters.

The first step is to mix up the fritter batter, because it needs to rest a while before it's used. I am surprised to see the recipe calls for flat beer; either I had completely forgotten about that or I used a different recipe in the past. Not surprisingly, we have flat beer on hand—several quarts of it in fact, in several different styles, all of them homebrewed by one of us.

As I had chosen the mixed dark beer/stout leftovers for a batch of early-morning beer bread (sweet, with cinnamon, raisins and cranberries), I decided Phil's flat lager would be just the thing to compliment the delicate floral flavor of the elder blossoms. And, there would still be plenty of both left over for the next beer recycling project.

We were lucky enough last summer to uncover a healthy elderberry bush near at hand, just off the cemetery. With clippers in hand, I cautiously navigated the maze of berry canes, poison ivy and greenbrier until I was able to gently clip a handful of lacy, pure white blossoms.

The secret to making good fritters is to remove as much surface moisture from what you are coating with batter; it lets the batter adhere to the surface and reduces the amount of grease spattering. But the night's rain had left water droplets lodged in every nook and cranny of the complex blossoms; placing them on paper towels did little.

So I did the only reasonable thing. I put a few blossoms at a time in the salad spinner, very gently spun it up to speed, and let it slow down in its own sweet time. By the time I was done, the batter had warmed up to room temperature and the oil had reached frying temperature.

The light blossoms resisted being coated with the thick batter, but with a little coaxing, they relented. A quick frying of about three minutes on a side, and they were golden brown, crisp and fragrant. And I was right about selecting Phil's lager—it made a subtle and delicate contribution to the flavor without overpowering the blossoms themselves.

So by about nine o'clock on a brilliant Sunday morning in mid-June, the lot of us were standing around the kitchen, sipping spiced coffee with fresh milk, eating beer bread warm from the oven, and munching on fresh Elderblossom fritters lightly dusted with powdered sugar.

Not gonna happen often, but sure was good.

Dinner, June 2nd:

A salad of romaine lettuce with radishes, fresh from the garden.
Steamed radish greens with fresh green onion, sauteed in olive oil; both fresh from the garden.
Steamed green peas, fresh from the garden, served with homemade butter.
Grits casserole, incorporating fresh cheese, fresh eggs and raw milk.
Homebrewed beer.

Doesn't get any better than that.