There's romance in growing grapes

As our second growing season nears its natural end, I've developed a bit of pride over what's become of the scraggly old horse pasture. (I admit this knowing that pride can be a dangerous thing.) The stately vines were swaying in a gentle breeze as I walked the tidy rows today. Most of the trunks are woody by now, and the ones that aren't are browning nicely in preparation for what we all know is coming, like it or not: winter.

I wish I could capture on film the entire vineyard, end to end, but I'd need a wide-angle lens or a daring pilot with a steady hand and neither are within reach today. Viewed from the road, the layout of row upon row of vines set against those quaint out-buildings makes me smile. It's an image of home that conjures those old Rockwell images of a near-forgotten America. The low building is the newest on the property, built in 1940. Before it housed vineyard tools, it sheltered horses and before that, hogs. Behind that building to the left is the chicken house and the tall building to the right is a granary. They are well-cared-for structures; hubby's source of pride I'm sure.
Neither building would have such character, though, if not for the 650 vines stretching to the road and then south, draped in fading sun. It is the vineyard that defines our home more than the lake or the garden or the lawn or even the grand Cedars. This is how this place, this home, has evolved for our family so new to country living.

A neighbor who lives two properties down and raises pigs, planted three-quarters of an acre of grapes last spring and today, on my walk down the road, I noticed another neighbor, living just to the south, has made good on his promise to till up his alfalfa in anticipation of an acre of grapes to go in next spring. Though, it appears he's tilled up more than one acre! Maybe he's thinking long range, working in plans to expand like we had before our hands were soiled by the reality of grape growing. We wish him well.

I was giving a friend directions to our place the other day and I almost told her, once she reached our road, that we were the first vineyard on the right. The first vineyard...

I believe there's a Rockwellian movement afoot on our stretch of country road.

An ancient grain with bright future...

Chef son and I mastered Gluten Free Kibbi Nayyi using both Quinoa (his choice) and Amaranth (my choice). Each substitute grain garnered us taste and texture virtually indistinguishable from the Bulghur or cracked wheat that is traditionally used in the dish. I now have gained confidence to try a Tahbouli Salad with Amaranth, which closely resembles Quinoa in taste, texture and nutrition. I like Amaranth better, though, because this weekend I learned it may be something I can cultivate myself here next summer. And who knows where that might lead?

Beyond the borders of the United States, Amaranth is used in interesting ways. In Mexico it is popped and mixed with a sugar solution to make a confection called alegria or happiness. Milled and roasted amaranth seed is used to create a traditional Mexican drink called atole. Peruvians use fermented amaranth seed to make chicha or beer. Amaranth can be cooked as a cereal, ground into flour, popped like popcorn, sprouted, or toasted. The seeds can be cooked with other whole grains, added to stir-fry or to soups and stews as a nutrient-dense thickening agent. Amaranth flour is used in making pastas and baked goods.

Amaranth seed is 15 percent to 18 percent protein and contains respectable amounts of lysine and methionine, two essential amino acids not frequently found in grains. It is high in fiber and contains calcium, iron, potassium, phosphorus, and vitamins A and C. The fiber content of Amaranth is three times that of wheat and its iron content is five times more than wheat. It contains two times more calcium than milk. Using Amaranth in combination with corn or brown rice (or wheat) results in a complete protein as high in food value as fish, red meat or poultry; great news for vegetarians.

The name Amaranth is Greek for "never-fading flower" and its flower is what caught my attention yesterday. My friend Diane has three stands of Amaranth growing in her field, though she grows it purely for ornamental value. Amaranth is a bushy plant that grows five to seven feet tall with broad leaves and a showy flower head of profuse burgundy plumes. Hers are quite striking in her voluptuous bouquets.

But what intrigues me the most about Amaranth is that it seems easy to grow and though the seeds it produces are tiny, each plant is capable of producing 40,000 to 60,000 of them. I just paid about five dollars for a 16-ounce package of whole grain Amaranth, and a 22-ounce package of Amaranth flour goes for about eight dollars. I’m not saying I’m ready to plow under all my grass to sow Amaranth, but I can do simple math. I think it’s time to do a bit more experimentation in the kitchen to see exactly how valuable Amaranth can become!

Fearlessness in the modern kitchen...

A few weeks ago, hubby and I snuck away from the farm to see the film Julie & Julia. The movie tells two stories: Julia Child’s journey to learn and ultimately teach French cooking to ordinary Americans, and Julie Powell’s journey to make a name for herself as a writer as she attempts to master Child’s tome, Mastering the Art of French Cooking. While it may seem obvious that the film is aimed toward those who, like me, enjoy cooking — and the cooking scenes carry the film — the film also offers witty dialogue and an exploration of themes that emerge in life beyond the walls of the modern kitchen.

My favorite line of the film comes early, when Julia Child is pleading for her cooking certificate after finishing coursework but failing her final exam at Paris’ Le Cordon Bleu School of Cooking. Child confides to the woman who heads the school the she is determined to teach American women French cooking. The headmistress is unconvinced of Child’s ability in the kitchen, but eventually gives into her pleas and grants her a certificate. “Go ahead and teach the Americans what you know,” the woman snips, “they won’t be able to tell the difference anyway.”

Child spent years experimenting and perfecting recipes for Mastering the Art of French Cooking, yet when she taught, she stressed the joy of working with food and urged her students and fans not to stress out in the kitchen. Cooking should be fun; so should eating! And is there a better way to enjoy life than to cook a meal and then share it with those you love? Why would anyone choose take-out meals or pizza delivered in a cardboard box over the joys that emerge from a busy kitchen? In this regard, I believe the French have one-upped us.

I spent the better part of a rainy day in the kitchen, processing and freezing garden produce and planning meals for the upcoming weekend and beyond. It’s just me and the cat here in the kitchen, which helps me stay on task though I wistfully wish I had friends or children or the children of friends with me here to share the joys and benefits of working with real food, defined as food without packaging or an ingredient list a quarter of a mile long. I can endure the quiet, though, because it is short-lived.

Two autumns ago, my cousins and I learned how to make Kibbi Nayyi from an elderly but spry Lebanese woman affectionately called “Auntie Mary.” Soon after perfecting the technique, I learned neither of my sons can tolerate the cracked wheat integral to the dish. This weekend, my son and I will experiment making Kibbi Nayyi with toasted Quinoa or perhaps Millet, if I can get my hands on some. Experimentation is what makes cooking so wonderfully rewarding; it’s also what scares most people out of the kitchen. In 48 hours, the food processor with be spinning and raw meat will be ground and spices will be mixed, either with mortar and pestle (my choice) or food processor (son’s choice). I’m unsure if our trials will lead to a breakthrough – a gluten-free Kibbi Nayyi – or not. But we will certainly enjoy the process; we will be “mastering the art of cooking,” which isn’t an accomplishment reserved only for the French.

Julia, we will not be afraid!

The many shades of grape...

This is Véraison; it represents the transition from berry growth to berry ripening. Changes are afoot in the berries during véraison; most notably, acid levels are decreasing and sugar levels are rising. In real terms, this means the grapes are becoming more attractive to wildlife. That includes me.