COPIA: An Appreciation

Posted on April 30, 2012 by Carol

COPIA

Last weekend I visited COPIA: The American Center for Wine, Food and the Arts for the final time. More accurately, I visited what was left of it, approaching the entrance teary eyed, as emotional and helpless as a vegan at a turkey drop.

I’d been to Copia only once before, when it was young, energetic and filled with possibility. It was 2004, and I was fresh out of culinary school and feeling directionless and overwhelmed by the dizzying world of food and food culture. I needed some of the optimism Copia offered. The 13,000-square-foot palace to food and wine education certainly was impressive. Visitors milled about, taking in the exhibits, enjoying samples of food and wine and smiling at Julia Child’s prodigious collection of copper pots and pans that Paul had outlined in marker and hung on pegboards in their Cambridge, Massachusetts home kitchen. The organic gardens teemed with vegetables, herbs and wine grapes that would find their way into Copia’s kitchens. Copia hinted at myriad possibilities to explore as I struggled to carve a niche for myself in the culinary world and provided just the boost I needed to forge on.

To return and see the giant auction banner hanging out front was heartbreaking. When the lady at the desk asked, “May I help you?”, her voice echoing through the hushed atrium, I was tempted to say, “No, I’m here to view the body.” Instead I replied in a near-whisper, “Just looking, thanks,” unwilling to add to the echo in the lifeless room.

This glass grape sculpture suspended in the atrium was snapped up for $3,500 at auction but cost much, much more.

I perused a catalog detailing everything on the auction block. Glancing through it was like taking a peek at the results of an autopsy. Perhaps that is not the most accurate description, but seeing all of Copia’s assets laid out so dispassionately made the whole thing cold and clinical. None of the warmth remained that I’d experienced when the place was bustling just a few years earlier. Its life and soul were gone, and all that was left were the earthly remains. Each item was tagged for auction, not only wines, dishes and cookware, but even the more mundane items like flowerpots, trashcans and the coat check room’s storage and retrieval apparatus. The vultures, an imprecise and unkind word, I know, and I apologize for using it, were carrying it all away, bit by beautiful bit.

I don’t know enough about Copia’s inner workings to conjecture why it ultimately failed, beyond what I’ve heard in passing about its financial woes. I’d visited only once, so why did I feel such an overwhelming sadness? I guess there’s the part of me that, like the acquaintance of a suicide, wrings her hands and says, “Maybe if I’d visited more this wouldn’t have happened.”

Walking back to the parking lot I was tempted to snatch a souvenir, one of the smooth, gray rocks from the long, flowing fountain, now dry, that reached from near the entrance down to the street. It would have made a fine paperweight. But I wondered if security cameras might still be at work, and that if I took a rock, a drop net might snare me and a somber guard intone, “Drop the rock, Ma’am…” So I left empty handed.

On Copia’s closing, the pegboard wall filled with Julia’s copper cookware was spirited away to the Smithsonian, where it draws a healthy number of visitors, and even showed up in the film Julie and Julia. Copia’s other assets will go to restaurants, schools and homes where they will be pressed into use or at least serve as mementos to those with fond recollections of their visits. The building and grounds, nestled in stunning wine country and hugged by the Napa River, will be given new life, although what form it will take no one yet knows.

While I’m sad that Copia’s life was not long enough to establish it as indelibly as it should have been, I take courage in the engraving at the entrance which reads, “Wine and food speak not only to the palate, but to the mind and the deeper domain of the heart, like poetry, painting and song, they are carriers of culture and celebrants of life; returning us to the world of the senses, of memory and imagination.”

It’s like Copia is reassuring us from beyond that regardless of the size or grandeur of the physical structure, it is the spirit that remains, the spirit that will again one day emerge to educate and delight new generations who yearn to know about food and wine in American culture.

That's it, for now...

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CSA, at last!

Posted on April 6, 2012 by Carol

Friday, 6 April 2012, 7:37 a.m. PDT: The beginning of a new era. Today we awoke to find a box of freshly picked fruits and vegetables waiting on our front porch, our very first CSA (community supported agriculture) delivery. Christmas on Good Friday!

Cosmo checks out our first CSA trove--turns out he fancies arugula!

The sight of a humble cardboard box full of fruits and vegetables sitting outside the door might not seem like much to some folks, but to me it means several things, all of them positive:

It means less for me to lug home from the farmers’ market. I’ll still go, of course, but I can cross some things off the list and focus on bringing home others.

It means someone in the know is handing me an item I might not buy very often and saying, “Here, give this a try. It’s good.” I seldom pick up arugula, but I have a bunch of it in the crisper drawer now. And I’ll find a way to use it. We may decide we like it so much we can’t imagine doing without. And if we don’t, that’s okay, too.

It means supporting local growers by saying, “I value what you do, and I’m willing to sign up, so you know in advance that you can count on my money to help you feed me well.”

It means an assortment of food that is all organically grown. I don’t have to wander the produce section of the neighborhood gigantomart puzzling over the labels and wondering if the companies behind each of them can be trusted.

It means a significantly smaller carbon footprint is made when we buy locally grown produce, because it’s not being shipped from across the country–or worse, from another continent entirely. And food that travels only a few miles to get to your table will be picked when it’s ripe, which means the flavor and texture will be better. No case of the mealies and the lacklusters to disappoint us.

Mainly, for me it’s a step toward the way I grew up on the farm, with an abundance of fresh food. Of course we didn’t grow oranges, lemons and avocados on our Tennessee farm, but most of our food was available to us by stepping out the back door, or reaching into the pantry for something we’d picked and put up in August to eat in mid-winter. CSAs draw on the bounty of the neighborhood. You can fill in the rest however you like.

If you’re not taking advantage of a CSA and you want to know more about community supported agriculture, visit Local Harvest’s website. There’s a place to enter your zip code and see which CSA is closest to you.

Welcome to the San Fernando Valley, CSA! We’re very happy to have you here.

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Reinventing Leftovers

Posted on March 20, 2012 by Carol

Ratatouille--a great dish & a great building block!

“Leftover.” Sigh.

It’s one of those sad words like “also-ran,” “almost” and “runner-up.” Okay, but not as attractive as something else. While some foods are actually much better the second, third and fourth days, the sound of “leftovers for dinner” just doesn’t inspire.

That’s why I like the French term, rechauffe, which means to re-chafe or reheat. Let’s face it, everything sounds better in French.

“Honey, what are we having for dinner tonight?”

“Oh, it’s a lovely new French dish I’ve discovered called rechauffe.”

“Sounds great!”

Sometimes even ratatouille requires a little help when we’ve had too many servings of it. Since it’s a labor intensive dish, I tend to make it in really large quantities. It freezes and reheats just fine, but at times I need to do more than reheat–I need to reinvent.

This was the case last night when I was facing a large pot of ratatouille and the bits and pieces of other meals.

pastatouille?!

So I pulsed some of the ratatouille in the food processor to a rough chop, sautéed some onions, chopped some sun-dried tomatoes and mixed them all together on the stove top to heat. I also reheated some roasted garbanzo beans and garlic, and poured it all on top of a bowl of whole wheat spaghetti. Then I plunged a slice of fresh buffalo mozzarella into it and let it soften.

Himself loved it. I loved it. Mission accomplished.

Some of the best dishes simply have no recipe and are difficult to reproduce. Dishes like this are one-of-a-kind. Happy accidents. While I seldom get to enjoy such things more than once, they inspire me to keep experimenting, to see what great new dish I can devise. They remind me that leftovers don’t have to be ho-hum. They can be the promise of another great meal.

 

 

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The Power of Baby Steps

Posted on March 18, 2012 by Carol

 

Helena's turning kitchen & garden scraps into eggs...

“What are you going to write about Edible Institute?” my friend Helena asked as we meandered up the mountain road back to her house after a day of learning about responsible behavior in the growing, handling and consumption of food.

It was not a trick question, but still, I didn’t have an answer for her. At that point I was overwhelmed by the deluge of information I was trying to absorb.

Put on by Edible Communities, Edible Institute is a weekend-long event at which all the buzzwords like organic, sustainable, green and biodynamic are tossed around by people who don’t just talk the talk–they seriously walk the walk. Heavy hitters in the realm of food responsibility and justice who spoke to us included Barry Estabrook, Tracie McMillan, Jonathan Bloom, Gary Nabhan and Nikki Henderson to name but a few.

It is easy to be overwhelmed by all that needs addressing. There’s massive food waste, corruption, hunger, greed, lack of incentive to do the right thing, squandering of limited resources, exploitation of the labor of migrant workers and of children both domestically and abroad, not to mention the feeling of futility that arises in the face of it all. The list seems endless, but the people who were discussing these problems were not merely hand wringers. They are movers and shakers in the area of food justice. While they spent significant time enumerating the litany of problems, they also outlined ways in which we are capable of fixing them.

Personally, I’m an advocate of baby steps as a way to move forward. They help me go from standing still to movement, which can be the most difficult part of any enterprise (ol’ Mr. Newton was spot-on about inertia and momentum). Baby steps keep me focused and help prevent me from faltering too easily. Because of time and money constraints, it’s difficult for the average civilian to go whole hog into every aspect of living a cleaner, greener more responsible and humane life. So baby steps are a good way to begin. A good way to make the entire trip, if need be. As the adage goes, “The journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step.”

I found the answer to Helena’s question in the four hens in her yard and the two pails of organic recyclables in her kitchen.

Helena's Egg Squad

Her hens gladly gobble up fruit and vegetable trimmings from the tin in the kitchen labelled “for chickens,” along with spindly plants from the garden that have outlived their usefulness. In exchange, the hens provide eggs that have been produced from their healthy, non-chemically contaminated diet.

Breakfast courtesy of The Egg Squad

The garden receives the “not for chickens” tin’s contents of coffee grounds, tea bags and other bits that provide nourishment for what’s growing there.

givin' peas a chance...

At Edible Institute we learned that a full 40% of the food produced in the United States goes uneaten, enough to fill the Rose Bowl every day. A handful of kitchen scraps might not seem like much, but the chickens and garden create food from stuff that would have taken up space in the landfill. And there’s something about producing your own food that makes you a lot less likely to waste it.

Helena’s chicken-and-garden set-up helps provide a variety of food for her table. It gives her something fun and instructive to enjoy with her grand kids. It’s a good excuse for being outside, enjoying fresh air, sunlight and nature (although the gophers are providing a little more nature than Helena’s happy with at the moment!). And seeing her set-up encourages me. I’m sure I’m not the only one who has been heartened by a glimpse into her yard farm, which she built a piece at a time.

Just think of any monumental task you might undertake. Losing weight. Getting fit. Learning a new language. Mastering the guitar. All of these things must be accomplished in increments. You know, baby steps. It takes awhile to build up momentum. But we can get there one step at a time. Maybe it’s growing a few herbs this year and adding some tomatoes next. The size of the step isn’t as important as making sure a step is taken.

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Irish Soda Bread You Will Love

Posted on March 13, 2012 by Carol

texture without toughness

St. Patrick’s Day is Saturday, and all over I hear people expressing unenthusiastic sentiments like, “Oh yeah, St. Patty’s. Guess I’ll have to make some soda bread.” Their tone of voice reveals a grit-your-teeth-and-do-it dread of a bread that is really quite good–if it’s made right. Turns out that’s a mighty big IF.

But soda bread doesn’t have to be hard enough to prop the car on while you change a tire. You just have to know the secret, which is this:

a fresh, hot loaf

*Once you’ve added the buttermilk to the dry ingredients (including that all-important baking soda), you must get the dough into the hot oven as quickly as possible. If you dawdle, the leavening power of the buttermilk-and-baking soda combo will be spent, and the resulting loaf will be dense and hard. This means you must have everything ready up front, and, most importantly, the oven must be preheated to the correct temperature before the loaf goes into it. If you are organized and work quickly, the resulting soda bread will be light and airy and something you’ll want to make and enjoy year-round.

Irish Soda Bread
Yield: 1 loaf

This recipe is adapted from one by Myrtle Allen of Ballymaloe House in County Cork, Ireland.

3 1/4 cups whole wheat flour

1 1/4 cups all-purpose flour

2 teaspoons kosher salt

1 1/2 teaspoons baking soda

a scant 1/2 cup of rolled oats (the real stuff, not those little packets of instant breakfast goo)

about 2 1/2 cups buttermilk–reserve about an ounce to add only if the dough is too dry

butter to coat the baking sheet

Before you touch those ingredients, do the following three things first:

  1. Preheat your oven to 425ºF and position the rack in the middle.
  2. Butter a sheet pan and set it aside.
  3. Lightly dust a cutting board or other smooth, clean work surface with a bit of flour and set it aside.

Now it’s time to get down to business…

Sift the two flours, salt and baking soda into a large bowl, mix them well and then stir in the oats.

Make a well in the center of the dry ingredients, pour in the buttermilk and stir to combine (add a tablespoon or two more buttermilk if it’s too dry or a bit more flour if it’s too wet).

As quickly as possible, turn the mixture out onto a lightly-floured work surface and pat it into a round of about 8 or 9 inches in diameter–this isn’t yeast bread, so don’t bother kneading it; just be sure the ingredients are all combined.

Release the fairies!

Take a sharp knife and cut an X deeply into the dough all the way across in each direction, cutting the dough almost completely into quarters. (Depending on which bit of folklore you believe, cutting the X in the dough lets out either the fairies or the evil spirits. If you see either, please e-mail me!)

Place the round of dough on the buttered sheet pan and bake it in the preheated oven for 15 minutes. Then reduce the temperature to 350ºF and bake for an additional 20 to 25 minutes, until the bread is golden brown and sounds hollow when you rap the bottom of the loaf with your knuckles.

Move it to a rack immediately and let it cool there, so moisture doesn’t condense on the bottom.

Even if you don’t make the traditional bacon and cabbage or corned beef, this bread is fantastic with a bowl of hearty soup, a glass of Guinness and a good semi-firm cheese, or with a simple smear of butter (not the ugly M-word!) or jam.

Enjoy!

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