Ms Cook’s Table

I have been eating by way of a CSA for over 10 years and so occasionally, I jump when someone asks me what a CSA is. Admittedly, I live to talk and write about Community Supported Agriculture, but recently when a friend said that he just couldn’t conceive the plan; I rededicated airtime to a preseason explanation of the concept – along with an iron clad caveat.

The origins of CSA are often credited to a group of Japanese women in the 1960s who became concerned about food quality and some environmental issues of conventional farming. Their group was called Teikei translating to “food with the farmer’s face on it.” The current concept appeared in the early 1980s when Jan Vander Tuin, from Switzerland, brought the idea to his friend Robyn Van En who had a farm in Massachusetts. Within four years, their 30 member CSA grew to 150 subscribers. Today in Japan, a mature movement with millions of members continues to expand. Similar programs have taken hold in parts of Australia, Hungry, India, England, Holland, Brazil, Argentina, Venezuela, France, Denmark and Germany.

Reportedly there are somewhere in the neighborhood of 13,000 CSAs in North America and the idea continues to quietly grow.

The CSA relationship is based on the grower and the consumer. The consumer registers with a CSA farm and becomes a member committing financially to the farm. Having spent a year as an intern on such a farm, I learned that a wonderful, diverse share of food is available to anyone who longs for a tie to the land.

I’d like to recommend some compelling reasons to register for a CSA this coming season:

You and the children in your life can learn about the origins of your meals.

You can reduce your personal use of fossil fuels.

The survival of local agriculture is critical to preserving farmland near metropolitan areas and your investment towards this end can make that difference.

CSA practices including use of heritage seeds and soil ministry will guard against monotonous eating and promote healthy farm practices.

Newly harvested, the flavors you purchase will have a regenerating affect on your life.

David Cox of Bountiful Blessing Farm will begin deliveries for his 22-week CSA on the first week of May and will continue until the end of September. Subscribers will pick up their ½ bushel of veggies on Thursdays, from 8:00 a.m. until 12:00 at Columbia Fresh Farmer’s Market. One can sign up for a season with a registration payment of $25.00. In total, the season costs $550 and arrangements may be made for a dual payment plan.

Good news - our national love affair with instant gratification can even be maintained by this weekly basket as long as you have a bowl and an iron skillet. David will provide the valuables, that is – green beans, tomatoes, cucumbers, squash, okra, corn, beets sweet pepper and fresh herbs to name a few.

Ask my people - during summer, if I’m not conjuring a bowl of chopped, raw salad goodness then sautéing does the trick because mouths cannot get fed any faster than by either technique. In fact, since the 18th century, the inexpensive iron skillet has been the perfect partner for freshly harvested vegetables since iron takes less time in which to cook its contents and the skillet is a premium dietary source of iron.

Go for it, you’ll be surprised how you’ll gobble it all and be waiting for more and if you’re out of town for more than a week, then bless lucky friends with some vitamins. Time’s a wasting - after all, David says, “ the tomatoes are sprouting right now.”

RESOURCES:

CSA registration – David Collins, 686 Dry Prong Road, Williamsport, TN 38487 – 931-583-2701

Iron skillets of every description – Ted’s Sporting Goods, 806 South Main Street, Columbia, TN 38401 – 931-388-6387

Outside, I grasp the means of creation.
Inside, I collect from the spring of my soul.
Chang Tsao

Occasionally, a tiny pocket in my mind will burst forth with colorful memories that are dear and the tears flow. I took such a journey not long ago when a friend invited me for a women’s retreat inside an uber desirable community along the Florida panhandle. All was of meticulous forethought and stellar design. Stunned, I collected evidence of man’s ability to develop beyond a once rudimentary vision of leisure. Even so, a story from a few decades back jockeyed for position.

The summer of 1959 bubbled into primary focus. My brother and I are in the back seat of a Volkswagen Wagon bumping along - in rhythm to the paved clay of Highway 45 South. The red interior is crammed with my mother’s monogrammed luggage and a few bags of groceries. My parents are taking us on vacation to Destin, Florida. Since my brother and I do not have a frame for this visitation; we only hear that we’ll get to see the ocean. “A mystery,” eludes my mother, so immense that “you’ll just have to wait and see it for yourself.”

We’re meeting another thirty-something couple and their children for our first trip to the beach. Once we pass the Florida state sign, we crane our tiny necks like bobble heads until we catch sight of white sands and blue waters. Tingling all over, I pick up a vision of glorious seaside along Highway 98 and we ride for what seems a very long time beside virgin beach territory until we are rewarded at twilight with the mark of our destination – a giant neon pirate heralding The Spyglass Inn.

In totality, the pirate was the only thing that smacked of extravagance as the cinder block, mom and pop motel included practical drains in the floor of each room. My sleepy headed young mother was self motivated each morning to wake my brother and me at dawn to search the beach for seashells. She carefully tore open tiny boxes of Kellogg cereal, pouring milk inside – we were fortifying for an adventure. Skipping along the white sand with my shiny tin pail, I celebrated my mother’s joy as she, with my brother on her hip, extolled the wonder of what we might stumble upon at the shoreline.

Oddly, food was not so special in this age of new-founded conveniences. In growing regularity, my women folk were all about the can, the box and the freezer. We took our own charcoal grill and devoured many a hamburger and hotdog in the sand. We treated ourselves to a night out at Captain Dave’s and The Wharf, no doubt fried anything and everything du jour.

The guardian pirate of The Spyglass Inn is long gone with many other original panhandle destinations. Nowadays, a visitor can only imagine the unbroken and pristine drive that adorned the length of Destin and on along, all the way to Panama City.

I search for remnants of less sophisticated times and The Red Bar in Grayton Beach always satisfies my longing for the beachy rustic of my inner child. The owner, purchase-person and waiter have awareness of vacation ambience that says, “empty your head, celebrate lazy vacation days and eat some delicious food.” I slide into a booth amid a room of other era castoffs and wait for the mahi mahi sandwich, encircled with an onion ring and French fry medley. The server adds that the mahi mahi and grouper entrees have been caught in these parts and offers a salad because the homemade dressing is not to be missed.

I sigh. I am happy to have known these white beaches before development, but appreciate the knowledge of good food preparation that has issued forth as a by-product of expeditions into an ever-evolving future. “We were the first in these parts to offer mixed salad greens,” says Calvin Bradley, the Red Bar shopper. Now that is the kind of progress that my tin pail past can handle.

The Red Bar’s Tomato Basil Dressing

3 cups of pure olive oil
1 ½ cup of red wine vinegar
½ cup of brown sugar
¼ tomato paste
1 teaspoons of fresh chopped garlic
1 teaspoon dry basil
½ teaspoon of dry oregano
1 tablespoon of Worcestershire Sauce
2 egg yolks

In a large bowl put the egg yolks and whisk using a wire whip until the eggs turn light yellow.
Add the oil slowing whipping continuously.
Add the red wine vinegar and all the other ingredients.

A friend from college days wrote me last week via Face book. With longing, she relayed that her grown son who was paralyzed as a young teenager in a hunting accident had passed on to the place where he was free. She had assurance that a throng of angels greeted him, but I thought - what about my loving friend who after years of heartache and physical labor is now in deep grief. She once said that through the years, she made her way with the vitality of Hebrews 12:1 – “and let us run with endurance the race that is set out before us.”

Grieving is lonely work. Words fall short. Increasingly, I find that a healing kindness presented in a handmade dish of food can support us while the loss we suffer is absorbed into who we will become. Elders have known this and showed the way.

I wish that I could take my friend a platter of crème puffs.

Just as water has the ability to wear away the hardest stone, custard and choux pastry can bring even a cynic to terms with momentary joy. Only the purest of ingredients can conjure this confectionary presentation for those we love. The labor required is in itself a way to discipline excess. While time intensive, this delicacy is best when offered occasionally in life - only when we take the time to make them ourselves.

Recognition of the powerful crème puff came by way of a childhood flirtation. My parents were very disciplined about our sugar intake, no soft drinks or candy, but as my cherished dentist Bill Malone regularly commented, “it paid off.” Nevertheless, my favorite set of paper dolls included a confident and statuesque mother. My preferred “getup” for the mother was a practical blue dress and whimsical apron with arm extending and ending in a platter of tantalizing desserts. I said to my own real mother, “What are these,” and she said, widening her eyes, “Crème puffs.” I was elated with wonder and so was my mother because subsequently, she became well known in certain dinner party circles serving her own impressive platter.

Somewhere along painful middle school, I found solace in the kitchen, beginning with a Jiffy cake mix and culminating with the upper-crusted crème puff. Once on a snow day when we had all the ingredients at home, I attempted both the custard and the choux pastry. The reward was splendid and I felt that the result aligned me with Le Cordon Bleu when in fact; I had scarcely left Sunnyside Drive in Columbia, Tennessee. As a rustic home cook, I rarely produce a dish that engenders such appreciation, so thank God; it’s best made with local eggs.

Clearly, this lifetime has taught me that even crème puffs have their place in the world and probably never more than for a wordless presentation to friend in need on Valentine’s Day. Knowing that Italian Chef Panterelli developed puffery in 1540 can only shed ancient confidence on the novice who chooses to stir together the pieces of the broken hearted soul who is experiencing the loss of a love.

Pastry Crème (a custard)

2 cups of whole milk
¼ cup of cornstarch
¾ cup of sugar
2 eggs
4 yolks
4 tablespoons of butter
2 teaspoons of vanilla

In a mixing bowl, dissolve cornstarch in ¼ cup of the milk.
Combine the remaining milk with the sugar in a pan and bring to a boil.
Remove from heat.
Beat whole eggs then the yolks into cornstarch mixture.
Pour 1/3 of the boiling milk into the egg mixture, whisking constantly and then strain.
Return the remaining milk to a boil.
In a stream, pour hot egg mixture into the milk whisking constantly.
Continue whisking until the cream thickens and comes to a boil.
Remove from the heat and beat in the butter and vanilla.
Pour the cream into a stainless steel pan.
Press plastic wrap against the surface and chill immediately.

Pate a choux pastry

1 cup water
1 stick of unsalted butter
1 teaspoon sugar
¼ teaspoon salt
1 cup sifted all-purpose flour
4 eggs plus 1 egg for wash
Powdered sugar

Preheat the oven to 375 degrees.
In a large saucepan, bring the water, butter, salt, and sugar to a rolling boil over medium-high heat.
When it boils, take the pan off the heat.
Stirring with a wooden spoon, add the flour at once and stir until all the flour is absorbed. Return the flour to the heat for a few seconds to evaporate some of the moisture.
Scrape the mixture into a mixer with the paddle attachment (can also be done by hand) and mix at medium speed.
With the mixer running, add one egg at a time, stopping after each addition to scrape down the sides of the bowl.
Mix until the dough is smooth and glossy. The dough will be thick, but should fall steadily from the beaters.
Spray baking sheet with vegetable oil or butter.
Shape puff any size you choose, standard is about 2 inches across.
Whisk remaining egg with 1 ½ teaspoons of water and brush the surface of each puff.
Bake approximately 40 minutes or until browned. Try not to open the oven door.
Let cool on the baking sheet and carefully slide off with a spatula.
Cut an opening in the top and spoon in custard.
Sift powdered sugar on top.