About this time last year a friend introduced me to Wild Fermentation. I was familiar with the title, but when he described the book as a life-changing read, I decided to finally check out the library’s copy, which had tattered edges and splattered pages. (I love getting a well-loved library book; it’s an instant bond with other nameless, but like-minded OKC residents.)

After scanning through the first third of the book — the part that explains the history and basic science of fermented foods (many of which are my favorite things: beer, sourdough bread, cheese, yogurt) and the author’s interest in them — I knew I needed my very own copy.

The first recipe I tried was for sauerrüben (like sauerkraut, but with turnips instead of cabbage), since turnips were in season and are pretty cheap. I picked up a couple of pounds from W Bar M at the OSU-OKC farmers’ market.

Feb. 20, 2011

Grated turnips and sea salt packed into a crock, covered and weighted.

Evidence of fermentation after three days.

I tasted the sauerrüben every day. I decided the flavor was right on day six, but the fermentation slowly continues in the refrigerator. My palate hasn’t quite adapted to enjoy sauerrüben on its own, but it’s a delicious complement to meats, especially barbecued brisket.

“This unctuous, giving gastronomic tool will become all chefs’ and cooks’ friend, finding untold uses in the kitchen. No fridge should be without its jar of Trotter Gear. … Nuduals of giving, wobbly trotters captured in a splendid jelly. One can sense its potential even now.“

—from A Healthy Jar of Trotter Gear in “Beyond Nose to Tail” by Fergus Henderson and Justin Piers Gellatly

I did sense the potential, but mostly I was intrigued by the seemingly magical ingredient listed in many of the book’s recipes. And how could I resist that delightfully descriptive language?

Even as I embarked on this cooking adventure, the ambiguous description left me unclear as to the end-product. I imagined it spread on a baguette. I actually planned on taking trotter gear to a potluck! However, I didn’t give the trotters enough time to cook, so I ended up resorting to Plan B: a carton of Braum’s ice cream. Thank goodness, because trotter gear is essentially a concentrated soup stock made gelatinous from the slow-cooked bones. It is pork jelly or aspic, and — I’ve learned — it is intended to add flavor and “mouthfeel” to sauces, gravies and soups, or perhaps a pot of greens.

I let the trotters cook until they were “totally giving,” about eight hours in a “gentle oven” (which I deciphered as 250˚). I did not have “nuduals of trotters.” The recipe directs the cook to pick off all the flesh, fat and skin, but I couldn’t find any flesh and decided against keeping the bits of fat and skin. I poured the liquid into jars. Once chilled, the fat rose atop the jiggly pork Jello. I scooped off the fat and reserved it for frying some greens pies. Or perhaps I’ll make some biscuits with it.

And a “healthy jar,” indeed! The recipe yielded about three quarts of trotter gear, most of which I froze. I shan’t be without trotter gear anytime soon.

Feet from Doug Hill’s pigs in Jones, Oklahoma.

I have fond memories of making radish sandwiches with my grandparents in Minnesota. We would generously slather butter on sandwich bread and pile on thinly sliced radishes. These sandwich lunches have such a special place in my memory; I’ve probably mentioned them several times. After we finished the buffet of sandwich combinations — you know how grandmas are food-pushers — we would make a “dessert sandwich” with layers of butter, peanut butter, and maple syrup.

I also enjoy sliced radishes on a toasted and buttered baguette. What else do you do with radishes?

Check out my earlier post (as well as the comments) on vinegar-making for helpful tips and informative web links.

We were a TV-less household for almost two years. (But not really in the purest sense; we sometimes caught our favorites — Glee, 30 Rock, and The Office — on Hulu.) I really enjoyed the big box’s absence. Or, at least I thought I had. Curling up on the couch tonight and watching 30 Rock on a screen across the room was pretty damn enjoyable. I was actually giddy. Maybe now I’ll finally be hip to pop culture? Doubt it.

I popped up some corn and popped open a beer and happily loafed away the evening.

I used Elise’s technique for “perfect popcorn,” but instead of canola oil, I decided to experiment with using rendered chicken fat. It was delicious. Now, if I could just get my hands on some Oklahoma popping corn.

I didn’t know how to tell you, so I’ve put off this post for some time. I killed my vinegar mother—the gelatinous substance that turns wine into vinegar. Over a year ago I acquired a mother from Jackie Dill, the self-sufficient, wise wildcrafter of Coyle, OK. And since I was so grateful that Jackie shared her mother with me, I’ve felt guilty about wasting it.

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My basic understanding of the vinegar-making process is this: a mother is the name for the bacteria that develops on fermented liquid. She eats up the alcohol and creates acid. This could happen just by ignoring an open container of wine for weeks or months, until the right wild bacteria finds the wine—same concept as sourdough yeasts and the open fermentation of beer. Maybe this bacteria is more prevalent in certain geographic areas? I’m not sure. Regardless, you can speed up the process by buying or acquiring a vinegar mother like I did. The mother is put in a glass or ceramic container or an oak barrel and is fed a diet of red or white wine. You need to pick which wine you’re going with and stick with only that type. You can keep her alive indefinitely by feeding her alcohol.

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There seems to be two main approaches to feeding the mother: 1) add a glug of wine to your mother every day or so or 2) add a bottle at once and let the mother do its thing. I chose the latter and ignored the mother to a fault. I have to admit—I was intimidated by this whole process, which is, I think, why I neglected/forgot about the hungry, vinegar-making blob at the back of my pantry. I basically starved her to death since she eventually ate all the alcohol and I didn’t give her any more. Although I killed the mother, I was still able to get some delicious red wine vinegar out of the experiment.
My first try at vinegar making has been an education I hope to build on once I get another mother.

The vinegar mother that I got from Jackie Dill. It came in pear wine vinegar.

I strained and reserved the pear wine vinegar so I could use the mother to start my red wine vinegar. I covered the container opening with cheesecloth and slid it to the back of the pantry. Instead of fearing and ignoring the vinegar for 9 months, I should have tasted the liquid every couple of weeks to check its progress.

Out of sight, out of mind. Nine months later I finally strained the mother out and pasteurized the vinegar. In retrospect, it was hasty to assume the mother was dead. I should have tried to keep her going by adding more wine.

My vinegar-loving friend Nicole and I had a taste test between my store-bought and homemade red wine vinegar. As you can see, the homemade vinegar is much deeper in color and body. Its taste is rich and mellow compared to the store-bought vinegar, which makes my eyes water and my mouth pucker.

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If you’re interested in learning more, these websites are helpful:
http://www.gangofpour.com/diversions/vinegar/vinegar1.html
http://www.foodandwine.com/articles/the-virtue-of-homemade-vinegar
http://chefsblade.monster.com/training/articles/782-making-vinegar-with-a-mothers-love
http://www.squidoo.com/Vinegar_Starter_Culture

It’s a tiny amaranth plant. It doesn’t look like much yet, but look what it can become!

Last summer I collected amaranth blossoms from Kamala’s garden, put them in a paper bag, and hung the bag in the basement over the winter. By springtime, the flowers had dried and the seeds could easily be shaken loose. In mid-April I planted the seeds along a small section of our fence line. I did the planting in a very haphazard fashion: at first I used a trowel to loosen the dirt and remove some grass, then I got impatient lazy and just sprinkled the seeds on the ground. I watered in the seeds that day and then promptly forgot about them. So I was pleasantly surprised today to see that a few plants have emerged. I would love for them to take off; maybe I should give them a little love.

This month’s recipe might be a little off-putting if you weren’t raised eating animal organs. Not that I was—no, I was raised on Hamburger Helper and broiled skinless chicken breasts. But I’m adventurous in the kitchen, eschewing bungee jumping and rock climbing for lard rendering and food preserving.

The time came to challenge my­self to consider the waste involved in my omnivorous eating habits. Offal, which according the Oxford Companion to Food, literally means “off fall”—the pieces that fall from a carcass when it’s butchered—has be­come the dregs of the meat industry or fodder for shocking television pro­grams. Why are roasts acceptable fare, but not hearts? Didn’t our ancestors make use of the entire animal? When did we get squeamish enough to shun edible parts of the beast that gave its life to become our food?

I ran into a roadblock not long after embarking on this culinary adventure. I procured beef heart at the OSU-OKC farmers’ market, but I wasn’t entire­ly sure what to do with it. I wanted to give this heart the best possible chance to be delicious, but unlike other food items, there weren’t any user-friendly cookbooks or websites offering much-needed hand-holding guidance on preparing offal. Luckily, I found a gold mine in the 1975 edi­tion of the Doubleday Cookbook that my mom had given me. The book contained evidence of our society’s forgotten “nose to tail” eating habits.

To prepare the heart for stuffing, author Jean Anderson instructed me to rinse it, trim away fat and veins and marinate the muscle if it seems par­ticularly tough. Trimming requires an extremely sharp knife and a fair amount of detachment. Unlike the anatomical ambiguity of flank steak or loin chops, heart resembles…well, heart. And perhaps detachment wouldn’t be as necessary with other types of offal, given that we assign emotions to hearts.

Trimming the heart took longer than I expected, which led me to the theory that perhaps offal fell out of favor not just because Americans got squeamish but because offal was a casualty of our fast-food culture. A quick rub and sear won’t do—it takes time to make offal appealing.

I had some good-spirited friends over to try the spread: stuffed heart with gra­vy, creamed carrots and onions, ched­dar-garlic biscuits and salad. Emotions ranged from hesitation and doubt to enthusiasm. My husband joked about ordering pizza if the dish turned out to be a miserable failure. But guess what? It wasn’t a failure.

A common fear is that beef heart will be too tough, since it’s such a hard-work­ing muscle. But a three-hour braise ren­dered the meat tender and flavorful, and the pan juices made a rich, deep-brown gravy. My friends and I were relieved and pleasantly surprised that the heart was decidedly edible, if not quite tasty. At a typical dinner party, surprise and relief might not be the goal, but in this case, I considered it success.

If you are interested in trying offal, you might first have a difficult time acquiring it. If you are lucky enough to have a butcher in your community, check there or at an ethnic grocery. It would also be helpful to get acquainted with a local rancher at your farmers’ market or visit the food co-op to see a wide variety of offal. Since there’s little demand for offal, it is usually an inexpensive alternative to prime cuts of meat.

Braised Stuffed Heart
Slightly adapted from The Doubleday Cookbook, Volume 1, 1975 edition.

:: 1 (4–5 lb.) beef heart
:: 1 t salt
:: 1/4 t pepper
:: 2 T butter
:: 2 cups beef broth
:: 2 T flour, blended with 2 T cold water

Stuffing
:: 1 cup yellow onion, minced
:: 1/3 cup carrot, minced
:: 2 T celery, minced
:: 2 T butter
:: 1 1/2 cup rice mix, cooked
:: 2 T parsley, minced

Put the fresh or thawed beef heart in the freezer for about 20 minutes. Firm meat will make the trimming process a little easier. Prepare the heart for cooking (by rinsing and trimming away the fat, veins and silver skin) and pat dry. Pat the meat dry with a paper towel, then rub it inside and out with salt and pepper. Let it stand while you prepare the stuffing.
Stir-fry onion, carrot and celery in butter in a heavy skillet over moderate heat for 8–10 minutes until golden; mix with the cooked rice and parsley. I opted to use beef-flavored rice mix for extra flavor. Spoon loosely into the heart cav­ity and close the opening with poultry pins and string or bind it with cooking twine.
Brown heart in 2 tablespoons of but­ter in a heavy kettle or dutch oven over moderate heat. Use tongs to carefully rotate the heart, to ensure all surfaces get a good sear. Add broth, cover and simmer slowly about 3 hours until ten­der, turning 1–2 times during cooking. Check the pot occasionally and add a little water if necessary.
Lift heart to a heated platter, remove pins or string and keep warm. Stir flour paste into kettle and heat, stirring con­stantly, until thickened and smooth. Add salt and pepper according to taste. To serve: slice the heart crosswise, not too thin, and pass around the gravy.

This essay and recipe also appeared in the February 2010 issue of Oklahoma Living.