The Bioregional Kitchen
Northern Kingdom
by Steven Schwarz
Snow was falling--large, white flakes that meant cold, cold weather on the
way...
Bio-regionalism is both theory and practice, and can be way of life
for some of us here in Northern Michigan. The gathering and drying of spring
and fall mushrooms; walking the hills with gun and dog, rod and reel, knowing
where to find game and sustenance; tending the summer garden and perennial
beds; hauling, cutting, and stacking the eight cords of assorted hardwoods
for winter heat - this is the real work of living, the "doing of things"
that John Haines speaks of in The Stars, the Snow, and the Fire.
Winter in Michigan is a time of great adventure in an incredible, surprisingly
accessible landscape. The endless opportunities for skiing and snowshoeing
are reason enough to stick around and get snow-crazy. Hardy souls who revel
in a good blizzard and deep snows know that staying warm and healthy in
the Michigan woods takes a lot of energy. Respectful and wise use of natural,
sustainable resources allows us to use them to their fullest potential in
the bioregional kitchen.
Last month a friend of mine returned from a job out West as a sea-kayaking
instructor. Jon had been eating pasta and rice for three months straight,
dried fruits and nuts and only the occasional high-energy bar. To say the
least, he was due for some REAL food. I decided to prepare him a special
Michigan meal of game, wild mushrooms, local wine, homegrown herbs, greens,
garlic, and potatoes.
From my freezer, I removed two grey-phase ruffed grouse, commonly called
"pats" by bird hunters. Grouse has always been table fare fit
for kings, the greatest of game birds. Grouse come in two color morphs,
grey and red-phase, the latter being far more common in the northland. I
put these very close to the woodstove to thaw and took two bottles of Bernie
Rink's Pinot Noir from the wine cabinet. After removing the corks, I set
them on the table to air. This helps to mellow the recently bottled vintages
that are common in our local wines. It's also handy in case the chef falls
weary of his toil and needs a little liquid inspiration.
In the oven, preheated to 500 degrees, I set two giant bulbs of garlic
in olive oil to roast for half an hour until golden brown and soft. I then
peeled and boiled six Bardenhagen potatoes in salt water as the aroma of
the roasting garlic infused my small kitchen. When the spuds were tender,
I mashed them with the garlic, a stick of butter, salt, pepper, and some
scalded whole milk (from the Bardenhagen farm as well). I paused for a moment
to have some wine and a spoonful of taters. One of the many duties of the
gourmand is to make sure that the wine goes with each and every aspect of
the meal.
In the stoneware pan that I use for baking the grouse had thawed. Dried
French thyme, cracked pepper, garlic-infused olive oil of my own design,
a three year-old balsamico made from decent leftover red wine, a whole sweet
onion and some stock from a previous grouse fest joined the birds in the
stoneware. Before slow-roasting, the pair are broiled for five minutes,
developing a nice brown crust from the carmelized sugars of the birds, garlic,
and oil.The searing of the top allows juices to flow in from the bottom
yet not bubble out from the top, keeping the birds fork-tender and moist
during their cooking time of two hours at 250 degrees.
From the freezer in the basement I had gotten three Landjaeger sausages
made by a local master of charcueterier. After a little contemplation, I
resolved to poach the venison sausage in Schwarz Pilsener--homebrewing is
a vital component of the bio-regional kitchen. For the sauce, Great Lakes
Dijon mixed with raspberry-blossom honey from my co-worker Jean Schaub's
hives, fresh-grated horseradish, and minced home canned pickle. This would
be served on a crostini of bread from Leland's Stone House Bakery covered
with the Leelanau Cheese Company's raclette.
With two antique apples from a bushel I'd happened upon in an overgrown
orchard while hunting with friends in late October, I set about preparing
a timeless dessert. The French spy's were only partially cored so the brown
sugar and butter I filled them with to bake at 350 degrees wouldn't leak.
It's now five o'clock, almost dark on this shortened winter day. All
has gone well with the preparations.
To accompany the grouse friccassee, I've soaked thirty morel mushrooms in
warm water and a bit of the roasting-pan juices. The rest of the jus is
brought to a boil, then reduced for a traditional Chasseur or hunter's sauce
with the morels, some red wine, and carmelized onion added. Last but not
least, I toss a salad of baby indoor spinach greens, an organic vine-ripened
tomato of gigantic proportions, extra virgin olive oil, sea salt, cracked
pepper, and my very own tarragon vinegar.
I set the table while waiting for Jon to get here from his cabin on the
north end of the lake. He arrives, carrying so gently in the crook of his
arm a bottle of '49 Le Grade, a claret from Graves, west of Bordeaux. The
meal takes on a special, almost ritualistic significance. Men have been
sharing fine food and wine for centuries and our self-procured foodstuffs
have turned into a meal fit for nobility, yet so simple and available. Virtually
everything I use tonight for this feast I've grown, hunted, bartered, or
simply picked from the woods. We have pooled our resources and produced
a wonderful spread that is rarely seen in this day of boxed and plastic-wrapped
foods.
After our meal, we finish up with strong black coffee laced with Canadian
whiskey, and our dessert of baked apples and homemade ice cream. Jon and
I discuss the merits and hardships of subsistence living and conclude that
it is the only way. Sure, I live with running water, electric lights, and
other niceties of the industrial age, but there is something extremely gratifying
about hunting and gathering; in truth, it brings you much closer to the
land.
Jon and I end the evening with a long walk along the lakeshore and a couple
of pipes. We look north under a canopy of stars and realize there's nowhere
else we'd rather be than right here. The conversation is right, our bellies
are full, and we've spent our time, a resource that we all have, well.
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