Roadbelly: A New Michigan-Centric Foodie Magazine

By Chris Siciliano

We're helping spread the word about Roadbelly, a hip new Michigan-centric foodie magazine currently in the works from a collection of the area's most creative (hungry/thirsty) people. Here's the description from their website:

Roadbelly is about uncovering real, honest food & drink, and telling the stories. A crew of more than 20 creative, award-winning individuals from photographers, writers, editors to illustrators, programmers and designers have committed to launch RoadBelly. We strive to motivate. We hope to inspire. We are for purpose, NOT for profit. You won’t find any ads in here. Roadbelly is awesome chefs and grassroots eats. Slow food, surly brews, meads, and more. So hitch a ride with us as we seek out pure, edible, drinkable joy.

A free, downloadable preview of the magazine—including a story I wrote on bread/baking—is available now on the Roadbelly homepage, with the first full-length print edition coming this summer. Learn more about the Roadbelly mission by watching the video below.

Roadbelly Website Promo from John Boros Productions on Vimeo.

Don't Take Stock, Make It

The method and importance of reintroducing homemade stock into everyday kitchen practices.

By Wes Eaton

Stock is a simple, yet too often overlooked part of kitchen practices. Meaty bones, carcasses, grizzle, and trimmings are not only left out of much of the packaged products now available across America, but when they are brought home, they are often neglected and ultimately wasted. Why is this so? The decline of stock-making practices results from both structural changes, as in changing retail and meat packing practices that prioritize individual, boneless/skinless fillets, as well as from a shrinking understanding and appreciation for both the practice and purpose for making stock in the home.

What I want to do here is begin to point us toward ways of addressing the latter of these issues, the knowledge gap in stock-making practice and purpose. To do so, I want to emphasize the simplicity of making stock, and arranging a stock making practice that allows us to truly make this an “everyday” (or, more likely “every-week”) kitchen practice. I also want to draw upon two of may favorite sources of kitchen lore and science, Sally Fallon’s Nourishing Traditions, and Harold McGee’s On Food and Cooking, and share a bit about the ways stock nourishes, protects, and heals our bodies.

Falling somewhere between myth and science, homemade stock, concocted from fish, poultry, and ruminant bones, grew infamous for its nourishing, health benefits well before the scientific, industrial, and accompanying medical revolutions. Today, however, retail stock, and its sisters restaurant broth and soup in general, are demonized as MSG- and salt-laden health risks. Yet in reality, stock is nourishing in at least three important ways, as pointed out by Fallon. First, meat stock contain the minerals, such as calcium and potassium, from bone, cartilage, marrow, as well as vegetables. The slow process of simmering, and the addition of a small amount of acidic vinegar, help draw this out. Second, the gelatin which the simmer isomerizes into solution, has the special property of attracting liquids, making foods easier to digest. Moreover, the gelatin, in combination with the other ingredients in stock, heals the mucus lining of the small intestine, which is regularly inflamed and damaged by other things in our modern diets.

Finally we come to taste and cooking qualities. Stock, which is best stewed slowly on stove top throughout a blustery day, adds exquisite depth to soups, stews, and other dishes like risotto and quinoa. Stocks can be clear or cloudy, depending on cooking processes, but all stocks carry their concentrated ingredients in a full bodied, gelatinous, and rich form, perfect for thickening sauces.

To make stock, McGee instructs us to begin with cold water, which allows the proteins of the meat to heat slowly, and therefore fall out of solution, allowing the cook to skim off extra foam and particulates, leaving a generally clear liquid if the boil is not too vigorous. My stock, however, is often cloudy. What should be added to stock? Remember, the idea is to dissolve, through simmering, base components of vegetables, meats, and bones, into a homogenous liquid. There are generally four categories of stock: beef, chicken, fish, and vegetable. McGee points out that the meat itself contributes the depths of flavor, while the bones and skin provide the gelatin; so a bit of both seems prudent.

There are countless arrangements of recipes, so here I want to share my particular practice of making chicken stock. I use the word practice to emphasize that this is more than a recipe, and more than simply a procedure, but rather, as a household practice, chicken stock is part of our family’s routine. First you need a bird, or more specifically, a carcass. Being the holidays, there ought be plenty of turkeys, for instance, to go around. Once or twice a month we purchase a broiler from Rakowski Farms and use this meat and stock throughout many of the weeks’ meals.

Once the bird is cooked, and we roast a whole chicken, and the meat largely removed, situate the carcass on the bottom of a stock pot—arguably the most important tool in the kitchen, next to fire. Per McGee, add cold water. How much depends on the size of the bird, but at least halfway. Heat the mixture to a boil and skim off coagulated proteins before adding additional ingredients. These ought to include, at the least, a couple tablespoons of vinegar or wine to help break things down (this will cook off), carrots, celery, and onions. For spices, leave out the salt. This way you can always salt your ensuing recipes to taste. Instead, add a few bay leaves, black peppercorns, fresh parsley, fresh or dried sage, and a spring of fresh thyme. Continue to simmer, uncovered, all day. Use your discretion, but the longer the better. If you reduce the volume too much, you are producing fumet or demi-glaze that can later, however, be reconstituted with water. 

When you are satisfied with your stock, it's time to prepare it for storage (if you are not using immediately for the split pea soup recipe I give below). To do this, pour the contents of the stock pot through a colander into a large mixing bowl or other storage container to cool. I recommend utilizing the back porch so as not to warm your fridge. Once chilled, you will notice two things. First, the fat will have risen and hardened on top. You can scrape this off and discard, or cook with it if you are using duck. Second, in this cooled state, the stock will resemble straw-colored jello, thickened from the gelatin. To store, I recommend scooping into gallon freezer bags and flattening these on their sides for easy stacking, or keeping in the fridge if you plan to cook within the week. Frozen stock keeps for months, so mark your containers with dates and rotate. Keeping stock on hand will help you make this into a part of your own cooking and eating routine.

Chicken Stock 

• One or more chicken, turkey, or game bird carcasses, trimmed of fat but heavy on skin and trimmings
• Celery, carrots, onions, scrubbed and coarsely chopped
• Bay leaves, peppercorns, fresh or dried sage, fresh thyme, fresh parsley
• Cold water at least half way up the pot 

Split Pea Soup 

• 2 tablespoons butter
• Large finely chopped onion
• 2 minced garlic cloves
• 7 cups chicken stock
• Large smoked ham hock
• 1 slice of smoked pork/ham
• 1 pound split green peas
• Fresh thyme sprigs
• Bay leaves
• 2 carrots, peel and cubed
• 1 celery rib, cubed
• Black pepper 

In a dutch oven (preferably cast iron), warm the butter, saute the onions and then add garlic and cook for no more than an additional minute while stirring. Next, add remaining ingredients, but leave out the carrots and celery. Raise to a boil, then simmer 45 minutes until peas are tender, but not mush. Next, remove the pork steak, and using a fork, shred and store this in a tupperware to keep from drying out. Add the celery and carrots. Cook for additional 30 minutes then remove the bone, bay leaves, and sprigs, and add back in the shredded meat. Season with salt and pepper if need be.

Canning Fall's Tomatoes

By Weston Eaton

As the harvest continues to unfold, I want to share with you one of my favorite rites of seasonal passage: canning tomatoes. The point I want to stress overall is the simplicity of canning. Not only is canning an inexpensive practice, but the actual process takes minimal time, effort, energy and resources. In essence, I am making an argument against the way you likely have come to understand or form an opinion of canning—as a technical and painstaking practice that demands specialized knowledge in order to avoid the pitfalls of contamination, spoilage, poisoning, or, moreover, as a time-consuming and ultimately nostalgic and unnecessary “hobby” that went out of fashion with electric stove tops. While canning certainly could be (and has been) looked at from those perspectives, I offer something different: canning, tomatoes especially, is a simple activity—or better, practice—that ultimately nourishes not only your body, but your spirit. Furthermore, I point this out because I feel many people choose not to can because they assume they are not up to the challenge of learning a new craft, or investing the time or resources into the equipment. I will spend the rest of this short article explaining my canning practice in order to demonstrate an alternative possibility.

First, to can, one needs canning equipment. The essential list consists of a canning pot (most hold up to 7 quarts jars at a time), canning jars, lids and bands, a jar funnel for packing jars and keeping the rim clean, and a tong style jar lifter. I also really like my serrated tomato knife. You can certainly buy all this new—it is not expensive. Or you can simply ask family members or seek out supplies at garage sales. Remember, the popularity of canning right now is at a cross-over: while many folks have canned in the past and now discontinue the practice, a new generation, interested in preserving and making food at home—possibly for very different sets of reasons—is picking up and extending the practice. For instance, at last Fall’s “TomatoFest” in Little Rock California, their survey found a surge in folks seeking canning tomatoes, indicating that more first time canners are getting into canning. My point then is lots of canning equipment—especially jars—are out there, possibly right under your nose.

Second, I take up the issue of tomatoes. I am certainly no expert here. In fact, during nearly every trip to the farm market I discover something new I had previously overlooked or ignored. For instance, for years I have been canning traditional “paste” varieties of tomatoes, like Roma and Rome. Recently, however, the guys at Turtle Creek turned me on to Super Fantastic, Mountain Spring and Mountain Fresh. While there are volumes that could be written about these (new to me) varieties, in general they are medium to large, globe shaped, red with yellow hues, and delicious, meaty tomatoes. If you are a Celebrity, Early Girl, or Brandywine fan, I highly recommend trying something new from the market or in your garden. Most importantly, these are great tomatoes for canning as they are firm enough to retain their shape when transporting and when slipping into canning jars. Timing is also important in regards to selecting tomatoes. Right now, for instance, we have a glut of tomatoes, meaning farmers are looking to sell at good prices. I always check or ask to pick through seconds, as when canning, it’s simple enough to remove bruised or blemished sections. This will greatly reduce already nominal costs.

Now I want to get to the root of this article, which is about the process, and the philosophy that underlies my particular canning process. Notice that I am not going to talk in detail about the chemical transformation that takes place when one cans. It is enough to know that canning sanitizes food in such a way that the food is preserved for years. Let me start then with Charlie Papazian, the father of modern home brewing. Throughout his influential book The Joy of Home Brewing, Papazian tells us, “relax, have a home brew.” As an once avid home brewer, I can tell you this is good advice. Making beer indeed can be a complex process, but it can also be a relaxing and simple practice. With his motto, Papazian reminds us that we have a hand in constructing the experience, as in the experience is not alone determined by the technical, material nature of the process. The exciting news is that canning tomatoes is far simpler, by all accounts, than brewing beer. While I of course recommend looking into more detailed sources before putting your Fantastics under the lid, here’s the exact way I approach the process.

First, don’t make canning such a big deal. Don’t, for instance, buy four bushels and twenty boxes of new jars for your first go around. Instead, try a dozen heirlooms and a couple quarts of some paste tomatoes—just enough to fill the canner for one go around. Start by getting your gear in place. Wash your quart jars in soapy water and have them clean and ready. Fill your canner no more than a third of the way to the top, bring the water to a boil, and, if you like, heat more water in your stock pot in case you need to bring the water up higher once the jars are in place. In a small sauce pan, heat your lids. Have your jar tongs and rims in place.

Now that the gear is all set, we can turn to the fruit and canning process. I prefer to blanch, core, and halve my tomatoes before packing into jars. This is a simple process involving a pot of boiling water and a bowl of ice water. The idea is that by dunking your fruit into boiling water for 15 seconds and then removing them to the ice bath, their skin will simply fall off. To do this I first make a small, cone shaped incision at the stem to remove the top of the core (not the middle of the core like an apple). At the bottom, blossom end of the fruit, I make a small “X” with my tomato knife to help the skin come free in the bath. After a few seconds in the ice bath, remove the skin with your hands, halve the fruit, and pack into your jar using the jar funnel. Continue until your jar is filled to within 1/2 inch of the top, pressing down to remove excess air. No need to add anything else. Wipe the jar lip clean to ensure a good seal, place on the lid and loosely seal with the band, and set aside until the rest of your jars are filled. When all jars are ready, use the tongs to lower each jar and secure in the canner. Bring the water back to a gentle boil, and be sure to adjust the water level to just below the bands. Boil for ten minutes, and, using your tongs, remove to a towel covered counter clear of cool fall breezes. As you turn off the kitchen light and retreat to your study, take delight in each “pop” indicating a properly sealed jar and preserved future meal.

Me, Myself, and Pie: A Lesson in Baking

Good enough to eat!

By Weston Eaton

Baking a pie from scratch is not as easy, nor as difficult, as it sounds. What I want to do here is entice you to do so, especially if you have never done so before. Like baking a loaf of bread, or fermenting a jar of pickles or a few gallons of wine, the result is a product now richly embedded with your own energies, efforts, expectations, and desires. My argument is that in baking a pie from scratch, these attributes come through all the more in the final product.

But what does “from scratch” really mean? With the growing farm-to-table craze, this is a useful question. One does not have to grow their own wheat and mill their own flour to bake a pie from scratch. Nor does one need to grow their own fruit. While I cherish such ideals, they are not practical for most people. Instead, I crudely define baking from scratch as the practice of sourcing and preparing ingredients that have undergone only the minimally required levels of processing. In the case of pie, this means starting with fresh fruit or vegetables and, for the crust, basic baking ingredients like flour, salt, lard and water. Doing so results in a fundamentally different kind of pie than one baked with store bought pie crusts or canned/frozen fillings. This is not to say that the latter cannot be used to make great pie. My point, instead, is that making a pie from scratch produces a product that is in essence far more the physical representation of your efforts and your care.

Below is my recipe for one peach pie, handed down and altered, but essentially a very basic rendition of what I feel to be the quintessential dessert pie. Why peaches? Beyond their glorious taste, peaches are in season. I’ll first give the recipe and process for pie crust, and then for the pie filling. After this, I’ll give some detailed directions and some additional tips for baking. Quick note: I advocate using lard in lieu of vegetable shortening, especially if you can find some from a local farmer. Like margarine and butter, shortening is not a healthy substitute for animal fat.

Pie Crust:

• 2-1/4 Cups flour (all purpose)
• 1/2 Teaspoon salt
• 1 cup minus 2 Tablespoons Lard
• about 1/3 Cup very cold water

Pie crust, like other pastry, is a little intimidating. Unlike cookie dough, we cannot simply put these ingredients together with a Kitchen Aid mixer. Instead, the process calls for “cutting” lard into the salted flour and then adding cold water to achieve a ball of dough cohesive enough for rolling out with a pin.

Here’s what you want to do: First, preheat your over to 425F. Next, mix the flour and salt together in a large bowl. Then, using a pastry knife, or two butter knives, cut the lard into the flour until the texture looks like coarse meal. Next, sprinkle the cold water (I put mine on ice) a little at a time into the mix, while continuing to cut things together. Form the mixture into a ball. The pastry dough should be smooth and malleable. The tricky part of the whole thing is getting the ratio of water right. Too much water and you’ll have sticky and eventually tough crust. Not enough water and you’re rolling crumbly dough. Add flour or more water if necessary either way. Wrap the dough in wax paper or saran wrap and place in the fridge for at least a half hour. You can you use this time to prepare your fruit. Additionally, you can now freeze this pastry dough for future use, making your next pie just that much simpler. Here’s the simple mix I use to make peach pie filling:

Pie Filling

• 5 Cups skinned and sliced fruit, mostly peaches, some nectarines.
• 1 Cup sugar
• 1/2 Cup flour
• 1/2 Teaspoon cinnamon
• 2 Tablespoons butter (for on top the filling)

To prepare your fruit, the best thing to do is buy peaches and nectarines a few days ahead of time and set them out on the counter in a brown paper bag to ripen. You can either blanch your peaches or simply peel by hand. When peeled and sliced, mix all ingredients together except butter. You can add this once the crust is in place.

When the dough is chilled, remove from the fridge, slice in half, and prepare to roll out the dough. To do this, you’ll need a rolling pin and some flour-dusted counter space. The goal here is to roll out your dough without it sticking permanently to the counter. Doing so requires flour—but not too much or, again, the dough will become tough. Start by forming your half ball into a squat disc. Flour your pin, then roll center to edge forming a circle. If tears, cracks, or irregular shapes occur, simply overlay the separations and continue to roll. As I begin rolling, I fold back the dough and add a bit more flour. At any time you can turn the pastry to make sure it is not sticking. Next, to get the crust in your 9-inch pie pan, fold the dough in half and then in half a gain, then unfold in the pan. Press down gently and trim excess with butter knife.

With your bottom crust in the pan, pour in your filling and top with butter. Roll out your top crust the same way, unfolding over the filling. Trim and seal, using your thumb to form a scallop or fork. Cut a few slices for ventilation and, finally, brush with whipped egg white and sprinkle on a palmful of sugar.

Baking essentially requires 45 minutes—or until the crust is golden brown. I suggest covering the crust with foil to prevent burning, but to do so in a way that prevent the egg whites from sticking, try adding the foil after 15 minutes of baking. When the pie is done, let it cool on a rack. This pie should be frozen if not eaten within a few days. Serve with vanilla ice cream and a hot cup of coffee. Share with someone you respect. As they stand agape, tell them they, too, ought to bake their own pie from scratch.

Recipes Revisited: The Mighty Bread & Butter Pickle

Delicious!

With the harvest coming in, we thought now would be a good time to revisit some recipes we published last summer. First up, a recipe for a hamburger's best friend, the bread & butter pickle.

By Wes Eaton

The bread & butter pickle is a tangy, crisp fall and late summer favorite, yellow from turmeric, with a nuanced tang from vinegar and mustard seed. Cured in the jar, these sandwich toppers will add a touch of rustic homeyness to your usual fare. I’m putting up a double batch right now and encourage you all to do the same. Keep reading to learn how!

Here's a list of things you'll need:

• Canning supplies (canning jars, bands, lids, canner)
• 4-6 pounds pickling cucumbers
• 2 pounds medium white onions
• 1/3 cup canning salt
• 2 cups sugar
• 2 tablespoons mustard seed
• 2 teaspoons Tumeric
• 2 teaspoons celery seed
• 1 teaspoon peppercorns
• 3 cups vinegar
• 1 bag ice 

Start by planting a garden. Okay, a little late now, so start at the farmers market, or even the grocery store’s produce section. We're in the heart of August, so fresh pickles will only be around a few more weeks. Ask for and choose firm, dark green, ‘box’ shaped pickles, no longer than six inches. Slice chips to a width of less than a quarter inch with a serrated tomato knife for authentic ridging. Peel and slice the onions thin and mix all together in a large bowl with canning salt. Cover the veggies with ice. This quick cold brine extracts excess water from the pickle chips and contributes to lasting firmness and crunch. Place in the fridge for an hour at least and then drain and rinse.

Driving out excess water with salt

Meanwhile, wash your canning jars in hot sudsy water while bringing your canner bath to a subtle boil. As the time nears, place remaining ingredients in another large pot and bring to a boil. Add the rinsed pickle chips and onions and return to a boil. With everything heated up, its time to carefully pack your jars, wipe the lips, screw on the lids and process in the boiling canning bath for ten minutes.

A medley of flavors

Let your jars cool somewhere away from cool late summer breezes. Patiently listen for the lids to pop in, indicating a good seal; it may happen quick, but could take an hour or so. Those that don’t seal can be stored in the fridge. This should give you plenty of time to reflect on your efforts--good food you carefully prepared yourself, with ingredients of your own selecting and choosing. Satisfaction is what I’m talking about, with product to show for your efforts. Laying down preserved food, much like laying down wine or beer, affords you a sense of participation in the creation of your daily surroundings--the stuff that makes up your reality. An existential leap? I’ll leave that up to you. As for the flavor and snap, it's a no brainer for fans of the mighty bread and butter pickle.

Sealing the time capsules

Former Siciliano's staffer Weston Eaton is currently pursuing a PhD in Sociology at Michigan State University. He lives with his wife and dogs in Grand Rapids, MI, where pickles aren't his bread & butter, but bread & butter are among his favorite pickles.

Treats from the wild

Okay, time for your obligatory disclaimer: never eat anything you find in the wild unless (a) you know exactly what you're doing; or (b) you're with somebody who does. Always, always, always consult an expert before ingesting tasty vittles from the forest floor.

Morels, king of spring edibles

By John Barecki

As we begin to see a consistent spring weather pattern in West Michigan—cool nights, rainfall, warmer days—we can start to keep our eyes peeled for the delicious wild edibles available to us in our lovely selection of forests and parks, namely, the wild leek, the fiddle head of the ostrich fern, and, grandest of all, the morel mushroom.

My girlfriend Rachael has been my teacher in the realm of wild edibles and this being my first year of true foraging I've been amazed at what we've found. We have been searching since that crazy heat wave back in March with no luck outside of the dryad's saddle, which some consider lowly in comparison to the prized morel. The dryad's saddle, also known as the pheasant back because it resembles the bird's feather pattern, is a shelf polypore that grows on dead logs. It has an uncanny scent of cucumber or watermelon rind. We learned to harvest the smaller 2-inch diameter ones for frying up and eating, and the larger ones for using dried in stocks and soups. A lot of foragers dismiss this one because they grow at the same time as the morels, but to Rachel and I, they are not just delicious but a heck of a lot easier to find.

A good day in the forest

Keeping that in mind we set out a few days back to find enough edibles to create a forager's pizza—fungi, leeks, and fiddle head ferns. Finding the Dryad's to be too old and dry I decided to climb some of the hills, because as most stories go "something caught my eye." As I got to the top of the hill, there it was, the first of the many yellow morels that we collected that day, thirty of them altogether. After a small freak out we gathered ourselves and the rest of the ingredients to make the most gourmet pie we have ever eaten. Homemade white sauce, Siberian elm samaras, morels that were fried first for ease of digestion, leeks, garlic, and fiddle heads created this tasty dinner. To top it off we used Phocas cheese from Cowslip Creamery, the cheese makers at Lubbers Family Farm.

After much hiking these last couple months I had just about given up on these delectable forest fruits, morels in particular. But in the end my patience paid off and the reward so far has been awesome. If you are one that is not inclined to look hard enough for these creatures, you can grow your own oyster mushrooms from the kits that we sell at Siciliano's. They take a little over a month to grow and will fruit at least three more times after first harvest (they are quite delicious too). I'll soon be writing about that as well if you're not convinced. Either way everyone should be out and about in the forests and parks we have. It's spring. Enjoy it while it's here!

The morel in its natural state

The morel in a state of transition

The morel in its preferred state,
with leeks and ferns

Memorable meals: aboard Amtrak 370, the Pere Marquette

By Chris Siciliano

At precisely 5:20pm on a Tuesday afternoon, Amtrack 370, the Pere Marquette, with service from Chicago to Grand Rapids, pulled away from Union Station. An hour later, as we rolled past the rusted-out, starkly beautiful landscape near Gary, Indiana, Gena and I unpacked the various foodstuffs collected that afternoon in downtown Chicago. The meal, arranged haphazardly on the fold-down trays in front of us, included these tasty tidbits:

• A small container of Tuscan bean salad in pesto dressing and a good chunk of Parmigiano-Reggiano, both purchased at the small Italian eatery across from our hotel.
• A generous wedge of rustic bread, which the counter lady at a Belgian bakery sliced from what had been, earlier in the day, an enormous 4- or 5-lb loaf. By the time I got there, only a quarter of the loaf remained, and I took half of that.
• An olive medley from a gourmet shop in Old Town. This place had bread for sale as well -- good-looking baguettes with excellent caramel color -- but I resisted the bread here in order to visit as many different food shops as possible.

(Included on this list should have been two cans of Wisconsin-brewed Simpler Times Pilsner, which, for the money, is a surprisingly fresh and flavorful beer. In my haste to check out on time, however, I left them in our hotel room's mini fridge. Hopefully the maid enjoyed the beer just as much as we would have.)

If it seems a simple meal, that's because it was, made memorable for precisely that reason: simplicity. Ripping chunks from the crusty bread to use in lieu of silverware; popping olives one by one into our mouths, not knowing exactly where to put the pits; breaking chunks from the hard, crystalline cheese with our fingers -- it doesn't get more basic. Nor does it get much better. I'd be lying to say the train itself did not add tremendously to the experience.

Why is it this relatively short ride from Chi-town to hometown filled me with such nostalgia? Considering how few times I've traveled by train in my life, and how long ago (ten years or more), you'd think the experience for me would be a novel one. Instead the ride felt oddly familiar and even comforting, as if the trip is one I often make, which, of course, is not the case at all. 

When my grandmother was a girl, she and her sisters and their father went to Detroit each year to watch the Tigers play. When they went, they went by train. She tells the story sometimes and I think my train-related deja vu exists as a direct result of it (her story) and others like it. Much has changed since my grandmother's day, and though the rate of change only accelerates, there remain certain important touchstones between then and now, the train being one of them. Unhurried yet unrelenting, it plods across the land with the same insistent, steady rhythm that it plods across both time and our imaginations.

A welcome answer to the frenetic pace of life today, traveling by train not only connects us to the past, it allows us to slow down and enjoy the simplest of things, a meal of good bread, cheese and olives most of all.

View from the train: pickle vats, Bangor, MI

Goose Island, Honker's ale, Chi-town's own

Our first stop

Don't care who you are, that's impressive

City at night

Chris Siciliano is a writer, teacher, and managing editor of the Buzz. He lives in Grand Rapids, MI, the last stop for the Pere Marquette departing from Chicago. All photos courtesy of Gena Max.

A personal history of bread and baking

By Chris Siciliano

Roseburg sourdough

The first time I baked bread was in early September, 2008. Gena and I had just moved into a house in the Rosewood neighborhood of Columbia, South Carolina. Cola-town, South Cackalacky. The official home of boiled peanuts (awesome) and Palmetto Bugs (not so awesome). This was our first place together and already we were less than enamored of our landlord. Not a bad guy, just more enthusiastic in his landlording than we were used to, stopping by often and without warning. It was our first place together and we knew already that, despite our landlord, we had made the right decision. Gena planted tomatoes and zucchini beside the garage out back. I watched the backyard pecan tree with anticipation, waiting for the nuts to fall, not yet knowing how well they would complement golden raisins in the rustic French farm loaves I later taught myself to bake.

The first time I baked bread I was just beginning my last year in graduate school (English), working on my thesis, taking two classes, and teaching another. I spent most of my day at the computer, pecking out page upon page of lesson plans, essay analyses, essay responses, emails to students, professors, classmates, family, friends, etc, etc, etc. Only occasionally did the tap, tap, tapping of the keyboard taper off into oblivion, and if that awful keyboard-silence marked the end of something, it was more likely the end of my rope than it was the end of my daily workload. I've heard it said that graduate school is not like real life, that real life exists only outside the boundaries of the University. Real life or not, in graduate school the work is difficult and unending and it often turns your brain the consistency of bread dough. Now that it’s over, I find I sometimes miss it badly.

Whole wheat pecan golden raisin

The first time I baked bread I needed distance from the essay I was writing. Pacing the house from room to room, I was looking for a way to divert my attention: a worn-out baseball glove and tennis ball; a guitar played poorly; recurrent visits to the ever-tempting bounty of the refrigerator—almost anything would do, even the glossy pictures in an old cookbook. Two weeks earlier, a friend had gifted Gena a book about bread, an outdated relic from the 1970’s and something I’d totally ignored until then. In it though were wonderful full-color photographs of obscure (to me) breads and pastries, pretzels, bagels, and flatbreads. Captivated by those delicious-looking photos, I decided to try a recipe, the first and supposedly easiest in the book: basic Italian white bread. Who knew that from just one loaf full-blown obsessiveness would emerge.

The first time I baked bread I used too much flour. I didn’t know how to measure correctly and, when the recipe called for three cups, I packed them so tight it took damn near an act of congress to get the flour loose again. Not surprising then that the dough was far too stiff to knead easily and ultimately made for an overly-dense, too-dry bread, much like an aromatic paving stone. But man alive did that stone taste wonderful! Gena likened it to the rustic, crusty loaves she ate while studying years ago in Malta. I noticed similarities, albeit distant, to the perfect bread of my memory, the bread my grandparents made—and still make, five loaves at a time—for us grandkids on holidays, get-togethers, and weekends up-North. The golden crust. The creamy white crumb. And the smell. The slightly nutty, slightly sweet aroma of, well, fresh-baked bread. There's simply no better way to say it.

Roseburg sourdough crumb

Big eared bread

Humans and cereal grain and even yeast must have co-evolved, adapted over millennia to work together perfectly, a team on which each member does its part to improve upon the whole—grain to provide the sustenance, yeast to make it more palatable and to preserve it, humans to organize and endlessly replicate the dance. A triangle so beautiful even Pythagoras would blush. For my money, beer is evidence enough of this symbiosis. But if you’ve ever smelled a kitchen during bake-day, you’ll notice something elemental seeping phantom-like through your neural pathways, a scent to call up the shadowy specter of early civilization, even times before. If Ben Franklin was right and beer is proof that God loves us, then fresh-baked bread is proof that heaven exists—what else could smell so good?

And this is why, on some level, my first homemade loaf of bread left me feeling troubled. When I pulled it from the oven, I was absolutely astonished to find that the recipe had worked, that I had made bread—bread!—in my own kitchen, with no special equipment, and with only four, readily available ingredients: flour, water, yeast, salt. No factory necessary. No machinery. No chemicals. Until then I didn’t think it any more possible to make bread at home than I thought it possible to build my own car, or refine my own oil, or compose my own symphony or…well, you get the idea. The problem though is that bread is so easy. Flour, water, yeast, salt. Mix, knead, rise, bake. That’s it. That’s all there is to it. There are nuances, sure, and ways to complicate the process. But there is no mystery. Why is it then I believed that producing bread, the very staff of life, was beyond my ability, that like a new pair of socks, bread could only come from (a) my grandmother or (b) the supermarket. This disconnect bothers me still. And not just a little. It makes me wonder what else I can do. It makes me wonder why the disconnect at all.

The first time I baked bread was an experience nothing short of revelatory. I was proud of my inaugural loaf to an absurd degree, misshapen and dry though it was. A more recent attempt produced not one but three loaves, and not your basic white bread either, but rich-tasting five-grain sourdough with flax and sunflower seeds. These were much better tasting than that first historic paving stone, and better looking too. Anyway, I’m hooked now, thoroughly addicted to the pursuit (and defense) of good bread. It sounds crazy I’m sure, but to me, when I really think about it, there are few things more important. It’s the staff of life, for crying out loud. What could be more vital?

Five-grain sourdough

Unabashed breadhead Chris Siciliano is a writer, teacher, and the managing editor of The Buzz. He lives and bakes in Grand Rapids, MI, where there's always something rising. A version of the above post appeared last year on Chris' now-defunct blog, The Bread Defender. Reprinted with permission.

Man's Weekend

By Chris Siciliano

On a Friday in February, 2011, fifteen men traveled up US-131 and converged for a two-night stay in a cottage not far from the Croton Hardy dam. The occasion was the third annual “Man’s Weekend”, a late-winter retreat for the beard-growing members of our species only. Those familiar with the hallowed tradition of camp de la deer (deer camp) would undoubtedly recognize several overlaps between it and our group’s private holiday: whiskey, cards, food, and farting were all in abundance, interrupted only for a few short hours Saturday, when half the company strapped on snowshoes to venture out into the forest, blazing trails through the snow where previously there were none. Even then we had beer with us, and good one’s at that, two bottles of cellar-aged Kentucky Bourbon Stout, which we passed from man to man while gazing out at the frozen surface of Hardy Pond.

Man’s Weekend. Those who might be offended that such a thing exists, rest assured: misogyny this ain’t. Besides a beard and beer gut, all who attend have at least one trait in common, great love and respect for the women in our lives (go ahead, ask them). The fact is an event like Man’s Weekend is a deeply necessary thing, the kind of relief valve hardworking folks need this day and age. At its core, it’s nothing more than a chance to cut loose for a few short days, to drink beer and BS with the boys, to smoke cigars, to suck down bacon, to tell stories, to tromp around the woods, to stand around fires, to sit at poker tables, to curse and carry on in the exact way frowned upon—with good reason—by polite society. Without Man’s Weekend, without deer camp, without the man cave, without the fantasy football league, without whatever it is you and your friends do to stay sane (men and women both), who knows from where and how else that relief would come.

Highlighting specific incidents from man’s weekend is unnecessary—it’s just not that interesting to people who were not there. However, we can and should for reasons of posterity recount the food and drink, cataloging the tasty vittles and suds so that the bearded generations to come might know how to continue this tradition.

Kraut, meat, bread

Dinner Friday included six full pounds of kielbasa from Lewandowski’s Market, boiled first then roasted in the oven. We then sautéed 1.5 quarts of sauerkraut in olive oil, adding a pinch of sugar and maybe a little salt too. Though the sauerkraut was my contribution—I fermented it myself it over a period of months—my father, Steve (the boss), took control of its preparation. Whatever he did he did it well. The kraut was the best I ever had, with a touch of sweetness to take the edge off the otherwise pleasing sour tang.

Along with the kraut and kielbasa we ate thick slices of homemade sourdough wheat bread and washed it all down with many pints of beer, either Sierra Nevada Celebration Ale or Founders Endurance, both poured from icy-cold 1/6 barrel kegs (5.16 gallons) that we set outside in the snow. The beers were the perfect accompaniment for this kind of hearty meal. Though the Endurance was sharper and lighter than its maltier counterpart, each showed the necessary hop backbone to cut through the fatty richness of the kielbasa.

On Saturday, when we woke up hungry, former Siciliano’s employee Tommy Huizing took control of the kitchen, whipping up a classic breakfast of flapjacks, bacon, scrambled eggs, and fried potatoes. I sliced and toasted a loaf of my cheddar-jalapeno sourdough, which normally receives high praise. This morning however my old standby was overshadowed by a new invention—the Man’s Weekend breakfast taco. Former Siciliano’s employee Wes Eaton caught the wind of divine inspiration when he wrapped one of Tommy’s famous flapjacks around a strip of bacon and some banana. Liberally doused with home-rendered maple syrup, this hand-held delight proved to be one of the more remarkable culinary moments of the weekend. The salty, crispy bacon both tempered the syrup's sweetness and  complemented the soft "give" of the banana. Trust me, this is something you'll want to try—the result is true perfection.

Proof of the divine

Before breakfast was on the table, Wes was already making dinner—a venison roast that would slow cook for hours with various root vegetables until all individual components melded into a singular, fantastically earthy taste. When it was finally time to eat, the meat and veggies were so tender you could cut them with a spoon. The natural juicy drippings were rich and satisfying, especially when sopped up with yet more slices of homemade whole wheat sourdough.

As if that wasn’t enough, there were two huge pots of soup simmering all day on the stove. The first was Grandpa Sam's exceptional take on minestrone, a beefy, big-bodied alternative to the all-veggie version that did not disappoint. The second was a smoky, fiery jambalaya with loads of chilpolte peppers. This dish had heat to it, and not a little, and it made for a great excuse to return often to the third and final beer on tap: Founders Harvest Ale.

By Sunday we had all had our fill and it was time to put the wraps on another successful Man’s Weekend. We cleaned the cottage, collected our things, and said our goodbyes, slightly sad to be leaving, but ready too for real life again. Man’s weekend is long enough.

Cheers!

Special Thanks

To Kyle Dood for the Founders sixtels and maple syrup, to host Steve Siciliano for the Celebration Ale, to Greg 'Swig' Johnson for the kielbasa, to Doug, John, and Zack for the Jambalaya, to Jason 'the vet' Chudy for the roasted corn, to Wes for the venison, to Larry for teaching Wes to hunt, to Tommy and Brandon for breakfast, to Alex for the KBS, to Mark for the Stella Artois (Stella!), to Grandpa Sam for the soup and for refilling all our beers.

Chris "The Perch" Siciliano is a writer, teacher, and the managing editor of The Buzz. Recently he relocated to Grand Rapids with his fiance, Gena. Chris would like to apologize to all attendees of Man's Weekend he did not mention here by name. Likewise, he would like to apologize to all attendees of Man's Weekend mentioned here by name. He can be reached at cjsiciliano@gmail.com.