Shannon Hayes

Before I started Grassfed Cooking.com, I began writing the Carnivore Chronicles...Accounts of an earth-loving epicurean's savory adventures of the flesh, to journalize my grassfed grilling adventures in Argentina. Some folks are still interested in reading about that journey, so for posterity sake, here 'tis:

So here's the background. I'm working on a new book: The Farmer and The Grill. My plan is to do this great barbecue odyssey, picking through the coals and filling my plate at the alters of the great asadores of Argentina.

Our brief reprieve from farm work makes the winter season seem short, and if I'm going to be back home to work at Sap Bush Hollow this spring, I need to get moving on my travel plans. Besides. I'm hungry. And so's my kid. Bob, my husband, claims to be a little bit peckish, too.

So on January 17th, Bob and I are packing up Saoirse, our two-year-old, and we're flying down to Buenos Aires, where there's rumored to be a few nice grass-fed grill joints. We'll keep you tuned in to what happens next. But if you have questions about the meat, culinary or growing practices down there, drop us a line. And hey -- if you happen to think of something great to see ....or especially to eat -- drop us a line on that, too. We promise to report back, so check back often!

20 January 2006 5am

Is it possible that a little asado could excite a girl so much as to render her sleepless? Apparently so, as I was awake until 1am this morning fawning over the most amazing short ribs Iīve ever tasted, and by 4:30, found myself lying in bed, wide-eyed once more, unable to blot the image of the accordian cuts of beef slowly roasting away nearly a foot above a mere handful of coals.

The parilla is a brick oven with a grate that is partially suspended by a chain pulley system, enabling the asador to raise and lower the meat to control the heat exposure. Working with Nestor, my asador host in Argentina, we built a fire first under the grate, then later moved it to the back corner of the oven, leaving only a few coals. As we allowed the beef to slow roast, the fire kept us supplied with fresh coals to keep the temperature constant.

Before placing the ribs on the grate, however, Nestor insisted on first hanging them from meat hooks, a full 18 inches away from the flames. His personal theory is that the meat should stay there just until it begins to sweat, warming fully before the actual roasting begins. He likes his meat cooked evenly all the way through -- not caramelized on the outside, then blood rare on the interior, and he feels this extra step helps to ensure these results.

When working with short ribs, costillas, he explains, it is not the fire that should cook the meat, but the bones of the ribs themselves. Thus, only at the very end of the roasting time (which was about 1 1/​2 hours), did he allow the side and tops of the racks to touch the grate. He gauges doneness by examining the tissue surrounding the bones, watching for when it retracts and begins to pull away.

There are two principle seasonings for this feast: the smoke, and the salmuera , a mystical yet simple concoction applied to the ribs only in the final minutes over the coals. Nestor carries this tradition on from his extended family in Entre Rios, the rural countryside where he grew up. He explains that many "city asadores" simply salt their meat before cooking and leave it at that -- a criminal act. The key is seasoning only at the end with the salmuera. . Yes, he gave me the recipe for the concoction. But no, Iīm not sharing it. Youīll have to buy the book when it comes out ;-)

22 January 2006

Iīm losing track of the days. I am only able to figure out my time here through the meals Iīve eaten--Day 1: Milanesa and ensalada chaucha
Day 2: Asado with short ribs, morcilla rosca (blood sausage) and chorizo carcigom with roasted red peppers and ensalada criolla
Day 3: Merluza a la Criolla, bife chorizo
Day 4: empanadas

Iīm a little hung up on the bife chorizo, or strip steaks. Nestor insisted on preparing them for me simply fried, with coarsly ground black pepper on one side, salt on the other, the pan greased only with a slab of fat trimmed from the edge of the meat. As before, the flavor was lovely. Ordinarily a rather chewy grassfed cut back in the states, these steaks were surprisingly tender...Which, naturally, has launched me into a query about just how these beef are getting raised. The flavor was definitely that of grass-fed. There was none of the tell-tale mush that exposes grain-fed beef on the plate. And the cooking methods Nestor used were really no different from my own in this case. Thus, our next realm of exploration was to the butcher.

Delighted to have someone ask him about his trade, the butcher chatted away at a merry speed that was diffcult to keep up with. The issue of dry-aging the animals came up. He cocked his head in confusion. Perhaps my spanish was too difficult to understand. I explained the process of keeping the carcasses at just-above freezing temperatures for 2-3 weeks before cutting them, so as to improve flavor and tenderness.
Turns out he understood my question, but was confused by the practice. "Aging the meat makes it old," was his reply, "not tender." Here, they allow the meat to hang one day before cutting. And no wet-aging, either. This meat comes to his shop straight from the pampas as a hanging carcass. He has invited me to come for a delivery to speak with the estancia purveyor, but first we must pack our things and head up north, to the rural countryside of Entre Rios, where we will have carne con cuero, an asado where the entire beef is cooked whole, with the skin on. I will be closer to the farms there, and in the workroom of another butcher shop, but Iīll try to find my way to the back door of this Buenos Aires butcher shop to corner the estancia purveyor before I board the plane.
Meanwhile, I have another quest: the chorizo recipes. Not spicy in the least, the fresh sausages Iīm tasting are delicate and full of flavor. And no ingredients are listed when this butcher wraps the packages for us. Forthcoming about all things beef, he skips about and dodges my questions about sausage recipes. I assure him that, in the United States, I will be in no competition with him, but that doesnīt seem incentive enough to impart the ingredients. Perhaps my carnivore connections up North will be more forthcoming, but Iīve been forewarned that nobody shares their recipe. I asked the Buenos Aires butcher if there was, perhaps, a standard text I could refer to to learn the basic seasoning principles. He only laughed. The only education a butcher receives comes from studying the rapidly moving hands of his own father. There is no such thing as meat science here, he claims.

But perhaps the secret to these sausages lies, once more, with the asador. Considered a quick food back in the states, Nestor handles the sausages on his grill much the same way he handles his short ribs. They are first allowed to hang in order to acclimate to the fire, then later moved to the grate, then lowered down on a pulley until they are about 12 inches from the spartan pile of coals. There they heat up slowly for nearly an hour, being turned occasionally before the links are straddled over the grate in pairs so they can finish for the final 15 minutes. The result is a sausage that is perfectly cooked on the inside, with an outer skin that snaps splendidly in the mouth, emitting a rush of juices and flavor. These sausages are eaten as chori-pan, an appetizer to the short ribs, sliced open and sandwiched in a hunk of crusty bread, with no condiments. And, as Iīm learning with so much of the cooking here, none are needed.

Just now the sun has come up over Buenos Aires. The tin and tile roofs outside my window are littered with building debris, the occasional parrot and lots of hungry pigeons. Today Nestor and I will explore the nuances of cooking conejo --rabbit, before we pack our suitcases to make the 7 hour drive to the carne con cuero. From there, Iīll have a week with no electronic contact, but rest assured, Iīll be thinking of all the hungry Americans enduring winter back home as I stand in my sunhat and inhale the smoke of yet more asado....

31 January 2006
Parillas Parillas Parillas...Iīve been in Parilla paradise, feasting on morsels of meat slow cooked in elaborate hearth-style parillas built of bricks or tiles, the centerpieces of fantastic outdoor kitchens, or quinchos. These rooms would enable Williams and Sonoma to create an entire new chapter in their catalogs devoted to the associated product lines...the grates, the dainty shovels, coal rakes, knives, sinks, tiles...a kitchen junkieīs fantasies could be piqued.

And Iīve salivated before the simplest of parillas, simple grates and scrap sheet metal tossed on a patch of dirt or burned-out lawn, my stomach growling as I swatted mosquitoes and hunted enormous toads in the grass with Bob and Saoirse.

In the past week, as I traveled through Entre Rios, I spent my days and nights with rural families, nearly all of them farmers, some of them gauchos, all subsisting on the land by growing citrus, pigs, chickens and gardens. None of them considered themselves beef producers, yet cattle could be found wandering everywhere grass could be found -- along the sides of the roads, under the shade of the lemon, mandarina and orange trees, in the grass beneath a clothesline draped with tshirts and underwear, and along the banks of the Uruguay river, where theyīd wade in the shallow water to cool their bellies from the heat (no, there are not very many environmental/​nutrient overload considerations in this part of the world).

While butchers were occassionally about, the more common way of aquiring meat was by calling Osvaldo, a local gaucho and sharp shooter, probably the sweetest man Iīve ever met. Standing all of 4 ft 5, with sparkling eyes and rapid hands that dance over a side of beef as Rodin might have caressed the slab of marble that became The Kiss, Osvaldo makes his living in myriad ways...among them, by attending to his neighbors' slaughter needs. When a steer is ready for processing, Osvaldo comes to the field, where the farmer points out the chosen animal. He shoots from a distance of 20 meters, hits his target on one try, and proceeds with processing the beef right in the field. Everybody keeps a grass-roofed utility room with racks for hanging carcasses. Farmers hang their meat overnight, unrefrigerated, and Osvaldo returns the next day for the butchering.

But beef and chorizo hasnīt been the only meat Iīve become acquainted with slow-cooked on the parilla. Iīve been treated to rabbit braised in white wine and vegetables in an enormous cast-iron skillet; butterflied chicken roasted to perfection with crispy skin and juicy meat; onions, peppers and eggplants cooked in the coals, enormous river fish split open and salted, or glazed with tomatoes and brie in the final moments before serving, and as I mentioned earlier, the famous asado con cuero, where only the viscera, shoulder and legs of the beef are removed, allowing the meat to braise slowly in the pelt.

Iīve learned that the best flavors off the grill donīt come from the super-tender pampas beef, but rather from the older animals, allowed to roam for 2-4 years, making the meat slightly chewier, but siginificantly richer in flavor. Iīve learned about the power of fire, about how we over-use the flame in our country...In the U.S. it seems we are insistent on blackened meat when cooking with flames. I see now what a big mistake that is. We Americans seem to think we like the flavor of charcoal, when in truth, I think we use char to compensate for the fact that most of our meat, raised in feedlots, is flaccid and has no flavor. Even our coolest fires for grilling in the United States would be regarded as too hot down here.

Iīve also come to see grassfed meat in an entirely new way. So often I hear it discussed in American food circles as a "niche" product-something that appeals to a few elite foodies, homesteaders and health-food fanatics, but which has little or no relevance to the rest of the country. American food trend experts talk about grass-fed meat as though it is a mere blip on the trend timeline, something that is having its day, that will soon pass.

But being down here, and having spent last winter in Europe, I see that other parts of the world think much differently about their meat. The word I hear most consistantly to describe feedlot beef is "repugnant." Harvesting our meat off pasture is a tradition that preceeds man's first agricultural pursuits. If there is a blip on a food trend timeline, it is this 50-year-old American notion that animals can be produced in factories. These practices are ruining our land, destroying our farms, and they are making us sick. They simply cannot continue. They are the trends that must die.

Interestingly, I am hearing stories down here about a sudden decline in beef numbers. Per capita beef consumption in Argentina has traditionally been very high, but the price is now more than most people can afford. American companies are garnering vast quantities of land for soy production, and much of the grass-fed livestock from the big estancias are being exported. Argentineans, who have a significantly lower income, are now obliged to pay the same export prices that Americans are paying for this Argentinean beef.

Folks, grass-fed meat is better for us. It is better for the environment, for our communities, for the welfare of the farmers and the animals. But shipping it in from Argentina doesnīt help our farmers, and it causes problems down here, as well. I have tasted huge variation in meat flavor from all over the world, from all over our own country. Some meat is more tender, some is more flavorful. What is grown in our country by our own artesan producers is every bit as flavorful and tender as whatīs down here. To honor this great food, we need to learn this countryīs cooking techniques, then eat locally -- not import it thousands of miles.

But enough with the preaching. Nestor is out at the quincho, and tonight we are going to grill my favorite meat -lamb. Tomorrow, Bob, Saoirse and I will spend a few days in the heart of Buenos Aires exploring restaurants and museums, then weīll head out to San Antonio de Areco, gaucho capital of Argentina, to see how the cowboys handle their flames.


13 February 2006

These last few weeks have been such a blur....between learning about grilling lamb, vacio and chinchulines, trying to find the perfect restaurant asado, traveling about the country, and attempting to hunt down the perfect chorizo recipe, Iīve hardly been able to keep up with this blog. The few attempts Iīve made to post entries have been thwarted by the South American Cyber-Gods, who have a knack for disconnecting service just before I hit the save button.

Anyhow, in answer to Lucienīs query below, I did my best to hunt down the perfect chorizo. I found the Buenos Aires butchers danced around the subject a lot - they pretended they didnīt know what I was asking for. Some employees in the larger carniceros seemed open to the idea of accepting bribes, but then confessed that they didnīt know the recipes, either. Apparently these chorizo recipes are kept secret, the spices pre-mixed in seasoning packs, preventing many of the butchers from even identifying the contents.

And the subject remains a mystery with the citizens themselves. Every person Iīve interviewed over a plate of chori-pan (sausage sandwiches) offers a different guess about the ingredients: parsley. paprika. salt. pepper. msg.

I did, however, find success in the countryside. The rustic country chorizos, which vary considerably in flavor from the Buenos Aires chorizos, contain 50% beef and 50% pork, then salt, pepper and garlic. Nothing more. Elegant and simple. The basic recipe is also used for the dry-cured sausages found in the rural provinces. And these, I must admit, were far better than any of the dry-cured sausages found in the capital city. The reason was exactly as I suspected. In the country, farmers fatten pigs and kill them specifically for making sausage -- they are not using old rancid meat that doesnīt sell. In fact, pig slaughter days are still big events in the rural areas, with the kill, cleaning, cutting and sausage making all happening on the same day.

But that still doesnīt answer the Buenos Aires chorizo dilemma. Iīve concluded from my travels that the rural areas produce far tastier beef than what comes out of the pampas. The meat is not quite as tender, but the flavor is far superior. And, I must admit, the rural beef is much like the grassfed beef Íīve tasted in the United States.

And, for that matter, I must confess to being completely un-impressed with the quality of grilling I experienced at the Buenos Aires restaurants. Now, admittedly, I could only get to a few places, and there are reportedly some very exclusive restaurants in the ritzier districts that are rumored to turn out some tasty short ribs, but in general the quality was far inferior to what I tasted besides Nestorīs parilla, or from any of the rural parillas I had the chance to visit.

There were several reasons. For one thing, the Buenos Aires restaurants have to move through large volumes of meat with speed. That means that the meats arenīt given the low-slow attention they deserve, and it also means that the restaurants are not using wood fires. I did taste some charcoal-cooked asados that were quite exquisite, but the attending asadores were using extremely low fires, biding their time and ignoring the need for expediency.

I read about two famous sauces typically served with asado down here before I arrived -- chimichurri, and salsa criolla. They are lovely little delights, I suppose, and they often accompany the city asados. But after several restaurant ventures, I began to see those sauces as red flags. If a waiter presented them, I could almost guarantee that the forthcoming asado would lack flavor. The best asados were seasoned with either salt, or salt, pepper and garlic. Nothing more. And the best asados needed nothing more. And the restaurants that knew what they were doing knew they didnīt need to present the excess frippery.

So Buenos Aires wasnīt my favorite asado city, even though nearly every restaurant and street vendor posts a parilla sign. But they do have a knack for amazing chorizos, and with only 4 days remaining in my visit, I fear Iīll never discover the recipe...

By contrast to the big city, San Antonio de Areco, a lovely old town 2 hours from the city in the heart of the pampas, proved itself to be a gaucho grilling paradise. (Ok, I have to admit it....the gaucho garb is just plain sexy. And everything tastes great when youīre looking at a weathered faced bedecked in a cowboy-style beret squinting through cigarillo smoke, too broody to talk, but confident enough to keep a cool flame gently sizzling beef. **sigh**). Restuarants here are committed to the authentic parilla traditions, tolerating no big-city shortcuts. And they donīt disappoint.


But enought for now. I worked yesterday afternoon with Graciela, Nestorīs wife, to prepare a stuffed matambre, which we will dine upon tonight. My husband, who happened to notice the gaucho praise above, is sternly informing me that dinner is ready, hinting that I need to stop fantasizing and return to the table. So until tomorrow....eat well!

14 February 2006

Ok, now itīs final exam time. Today is the first test. Nestor and Graciela would like to try some typical barbecue from the states. I wanted to do pulled pork from them, but it turns out that pig shoulder is nearly impossible to locate. I went to buy the meat yesterday, and our preferred butcher told us to come back "maņana por la maņana." We went back this morning, and were told the same thing. In fact, Graciela and I spent hours this morning stepping through butcher shops and farmers markets, only to hear the phrase repeated over and over Ļ"maņana por la maņana....maņana por la maņana." We finally found one traveling butcher who had spare ribs. I grabbed them.

Chili powder doesnīt exist down here, so I had to concoct a dry rub mix from ingredients I could find. The spices I was able to buy donīt seem as fresh as what we get, but cooking overseas is always an adventure and an improvisation. The ribs are marinating in their dry rub now...letīs hope I can handle this grill and create some tasty meat. If not, I picked up a few more of those amazing chorizos. With only a couple days left, I want to eat them as much as possible, since I canīt seem to locate the darn recipe.

My challenge is to cook a southern-style recipe using the parilla. And to up the ante, Graciela and Nestor decided to make the event a small dinner party, and I have to prepare for eleven people. Wish me luck!

15 February 2006Ļ
"The most important skill, and the most important ingredient, when preparing an asado, is patience."

Nestorīs final bit of advice shrouded my shoulders as we built the fire and waited for the embers to form. It was 6pm, and the pork ribs had sat in a dry rub for several hours. The heat of the day was so thick we could scratch it with our fingernails. We shoveled the fire to the corner of the hearth, set the grill in place, scrubbed it, and then he left to play with his granddaughter.

Not completely, of course. Nestor wouldnīt know what to do on an asado night without haunting the quincho. And I expected this. As much as it was my responsibility to tend the fire and monitor the meat, I couldnīt expect him to leave the coals unraked, to not throw on another log while my head was turned. The quincho is his domain. His metal working shop is attached, and when heīs not cooking an asado, the long table serves as his office. The shovels and coal rakes sat among meat cutting boards, ledgers, calculators, and pieces of machinery.

But to his credit, for the most part, he let me be. I must confess to having a mild case of nerves all day. Cooking overseas is always an adventure. Ingredients are never the same as what might be found in the U.S., and I am forever finding myself achieving new heights of improvisation as I figure out ways to concoct feasts from whatever is available. But the steaks (pardon the pun) here were higher. Nestor and his family have sacrificed a month of their time and parted with their best family recipes. Not to mention the costs my family and Iīve incurred traveling around the country studying this way of cooking-- there are the financial costs, of course, but then there were the other costs -- the isolation my husband and daughter endured as they lived in a foreign culture with no way to talk to the people they met; the multiple cases of gastro-enteritis (spelling?) suffered from learning the difference between bad asado and good asado; the guilt I had for subjecting my two-year-old to such radical changes in her life and diet; the number of shirts and skirts ruined as I held her while she threw up on me, the nights I kept her in bed beside me to monitor her fevers from food or sun poisoning, where I wept and apologized for being so obsessed about a subject as to drag her through this. I owed it to Nestor and his family to show them that their efforts were not lost on me, but more than that, I owed it to my own family.

Sweat beaded all over my body -- my shoulders, chest, even my calves and knees. At first moving the wood around with the shovels and rakes was hard. Nestor had adjusted the fire easily to hoist out the embers, but I was having no such luck. I couldnīt reach the far corners of the hearth. The tools were unweildy in my hands. Sparks flew into my face, I jumped back and dropped my tools. They narrowly missed my bare feet. The wood toppled onto itself, the coals under the ribs began to lose their glow, and the fire was on the verge of smouldering out. Just then I noticed Nestor looking in through the doorway of the quincho. Graciously, he said nothing, then disappeared into his metal shop.

I took a deep breath, and remembered the key. Patience. Then I remembered building wood fires at home for our stove. Oxygen, fuel. Heat. I grabbed the rake and shovel again and re-arranged the logs. Underneath, I discovered some well-burned sticks, rapidly turning to embers. I broke them apart, raked them over to the pile beneath the meat, then went to sit down and take reprieve from the heat.

I sipped water as the flames of the fire grew strong once more. From there on out, I must admit, the experience became the most intense meditation of my life. Iīve experienced sweat lodges with Shamans, and not even they came close to the intensity of studying the meat, the fire, the embers, of using my hands to monitor the impact of each coal on the melting fat and muscle.

I learned to cook meat with precise gauges -- oven thermometers, meat thermometers, knobs for controlling gas flames, charts for determining the strength of heat by the numbers of charcoal briquettes, temperature charts. None of these were available to me. For the first time in my life, I had to cook using fire and instinct.

And I loved every minute of it. I loved blocking out the world and focusing on the crackle of the heat, on concentrating on the slow caramelization of the ribs. I loved the feel of my body perspiring as I came close to the embers, of the pulsing radiance as I checked the temperature of the grate.

I sat back and squinted, studying for smoke. At this point Nestor walked in. Saying nothing, he walked up to the embers and held his hand directly above them, a check-up on my work. He nodded his head in approval, then disappeared into his metal shop once more. A few minutes later he re-appeared, and presented me with my own grilling rakes, just pounded out. Heīd curved the handles especially for my grip, and made one extra-long to enable my shorter arms to reach back farther into the corners of the fire.


I was flushed with heat. Flushed with pride. I thanked him, wide-eyed with glee at having received my own tools. Then he wanted to know why I studied the embers so intently. I explained the practice in the Southern United States, of cooking more with smoke than with heat. I was offering them something different than they were accustomed to, a southern recipe, and I wanted to make sure that I seasoned the meat with ample smoke, which I wasnīt sure was possible on a parilla.

Nestor studied it with me for a moment, then disappeared into his woodshed and fumbled around a bit. I heard him chopping, then he re-emerged with a handful of green wood and bark. We put it over the fire long enough to start it smouldering, then moved it over to the embers so the smoke would perfume the meat.

Oh my God. I donīt know as Iīve ever cooked more delicious pork ribs. Earlier in the day Iīd made corn bread, beat salad and cole slaw, all foreign foods to present to a discerning and skeptical crowd. Everyone feasted heartily, pausing only to extend their compliments.

I nibbled on a rib or two, then had to retire for the night. A case of nerves and the intensity of the heat left me exhausted, unable to enjoy the fruits of my work. It was then that Nestor revealed yet another truth about asado: The asador (or, in my case, the asadora, as I was now titled), never feasts. For him (now her), the feast, the true celebration, is the process itself. The greatest joy, however, was watching Saoirse, forkful of cole slaw in one hand, firstful of pork ribs in the other. Her two-year-old tummy had far greater capacity than I ever imagined, and she sat beside me, munching away, pausing only periodically to hug me with her sauce-stained fingers and say "I love you, Mommy. More ribs, please. ĄPor favor!"

16 February 2006

Tonight is my final night here. And my ultimate final exam. A complete asado awaits me at the parilla. Graciela coached me through the salmeura yesterday. I hope I donīt mess this up, as it would be a shame if my last dinner was ruined!

17 February 2006

So howīd it go last night? Fine, I suppose. We had some troubles. Nestor didnīt want to surrender the fire to me -- He didnīt seem to want to relinquish his place by the parilla. I couldnīt understand whether it was that I was a woman (Iīve learned this is a very male-dominated activity, or that it was his quincho, or that he simply didnīt have confidence in my abilities. But finally I asked that he give me the freedom to ruin the meat. He handed me the rake and left. Turning the parilla over while I was cooking southern-style pork ribs was one thing -- that was something he knew nothing about. But doing an asado, in his own backyard, without allowing his participation -- not even his son or his son-in-law would attempt such a feat (not to mention his wife or daughter).

Was the meat tasty? Yes. It was. And everyone cheered when they finally sat down to the table and feasted. But still, there was a palpable pall over the group.
ī
I think it was sadness. We had all been together for a month, studying this subject intently. Weīd laughed a lot, enjoyed watching our respective toddlers play, and feasted abundantly. But now what? How do you come to love people as your own family, then thank them for the time and the education, then bid them "ciao" and board a flight back to the United States?

Naturally there are the utterances of "you must come and visit us," and the returned pleasantries of "we plan to," but this is a tough economy. Nestor and his family work 10-12 hour days, 6 and often 7 days a week to try to keep their heads above water. And they can barely afford meat for their table.

I hope to come back down again to be with them soon. Ours is a friendship that has been ongoing for the last 15 years. But goodbyes are still wretched events. Today the family will drive with us to the airport to bid farewell, none of us knowing when next our paths will cross.

And I will have to keep my wits about me and focus on the joys ahead -- of going back to the farm, of carrying back my recipes and my notes, of returning to my little Weber in the ice and snow of February and trying to capture some of the flavor of the delicious life we tasted down here.

19 February 2007

Wow. Here it is, one year later, and I've gotten a few notes and phone calls from folks wondering why I haven't written any more. Well, truth be told, once I got home to the states, I had my work cut out for me writing all the recipes and text for The Farmer and the Grill, we entered waist-deep into rehabbing our cabin to go solar, plus we got pregnant. My plate's been pretty full. So will the blog be back? I guess that all depends on your interest. For now, I'm due to have a baby any day now and I plan to take a brief maternity rest. But if I hear from enough of you that you want more meaty stories, I'll happily continue...

30 May 2007

Wow. The Farmer and the Grill has been out for a little over a month, and the sales seem to be going really well. A few folks looking for the book have been having some trouble finding it. They've been going to the publisher of my first book, Eating Fresh, only to find that they do not carry it.

I feel I owe something of an explanation to the audience of 3 who seem to be keeping up with this blog. As you might imagine, Bob and I spent a good portion of our savings bringing our entire family down to Argentina to research The Farmer and the Grill. But we weren't the only ones who invested in the project. As you can tell from the text above, Nestor, Graciela, and several other families spent a lot of hours with me in front of those sweltering coals, poking at meat, talking about beef, swilling wine and discussing theories about fire and embers.

When we returned home, we learned that our original publisher did want to offer a contract for The Farmer and the Grill, but that they were unable to offer us sufficient funds to cover our expenses. We would have to create the book at a complete financial loss. Although they offered the best advance they could, the book would need to sell about 6,000 copies before I stood any chance of seeing a royalty check.

And that was the best offer we could garner. The big publishers had lovely words of praise for my work, but offered dismal prognoses for its marketability. "Grassfed is just a trend." "No one really cares about this subject." "It's just another barbecue book, and there are too many of those." "There's really not that much that could be said about this subject to make a book."

I tried to maintain some professional distance from all this -- to not take the rejection too much to heart. I maintained composure for all of a few hours before I collapsed in sobs on the living room floor. The next morning I drove down to the farm and cried in my parents' living room. Then I went home and sent a letter of surrender and apology to Argentina, and cried some more. Then I had a martini and tried to forget about it.

Trouble was, I couldn't forget about it, because I was scheduled to speak at a grazing conference that very weekend. I pulled myself together as best I could and collected my notes, then went to the conference with a heavy heart.

What happened there changed everything. Like most farmers, I don't get out much. I get notes and emails now and then from folks who like The Grassfed Gourmet, but for the most part, I live in a little bubble (albeit a grassfed bubble...). Everywhere I turned that day, grass farmers were talking to me about The Farmer and the Grill, offering words of encouragement. I was scheduled to do a book signing at the end of the day, but had sold out of every copy of The Grassfed Gourmet before I even made it to the signing. I never realized just how many folks out there were reading the book. People really did care about the subject. People really did value the work. There was an audience out there, despite the opinions of the publishing houses.

Bob and I began making calculations on the back of our conference programs. What if we published this book ourselves? When we got home we called around and gathered prices on self-publishing. If we scraped down to the very last of our savings, we could hire a book designer (another fellow grass farmer), proof reader and recipe editor, and get two thousand copies into print. Bob could do text editing and illustrations, my folks could do technical editing. Saoirse, our daughter, could help with recipe tasting. Some of our best meat customers happened to be ace web designers. They launched an e-commerce site for us in exchange for steaks and sausages.

We've never risked draining our bank accounts on a business venture, but we felt we had an obligation to our friends in Argentina, to the farmers here in the states who were encouraging me to finish the project, and to our own family. - We'd logged a lot of miles and cooked a lot of meat for this effort. It just seemed worth the risk.

And so far, we've been right. Maybe, with a little luck, for the first time in my life, something I've written will actually contribute to the family income!

18 June 2007

The growing season is now in full swing. The sheep have finished lambing, and now Dad is gone all day making hay. Every week I find myself in the cutting room, boning out legs of lamb, pulling skirt steaks and stuffing sausages in efforts to keep up inventory for the weekend markets. Every Thursday my folks and the intern process fresh chickens, every Friday Bob and I heft through all the boxes of meat in the freezers, filling coolers with inventory for the farmers' market.

And then there's the non-meat related chaos. Rhubarb's just finished, and now the strawberries are in season. Granted, there's a one-month window for strawberries, but this is the week. I don't know what variety comes ready this particular week, but in my estimation, this is the ONLY week for strawberries. This week's variety is modest in size and color. They're not the gigantic state-fair-extreme berries that will start to ripen next week...nor the deep red-blue (yet flavorless) berries that kicked off the season. This is the week when the berries are perfectly sweet and tart. And so, on top of everything else, this is the week to make jam. And to freeze berries for making 4th of July Strawberry Rhubarb pies. And for drying berries into strips of fruit leather to keep in the car for the girls' snacks.

With all that's been going on, I didn't notice until yesterday that it is also the week of the solstice. STOP RIGHT THERE. THE SOLSTICE!

The solistice is sacred in our family. Sleeping indoors is forbidden for the solstice. Cooking inside would be criminal on the solstice. The solstice is about dropping everything, throwing the sleeping bags and tent in the car, packing up the girls and driving up to the Adirondacks to offer our winter-fed flesh to the mosqitoes as a sacrifice to the Gods of Summer.

We don't have time in the summer months for vacations. And with little kids, we no longer find ourselves savvy to the bush-whack and backpack scene. But we do manage to squeeze in 24 hours every June. Saoirse is finally old enough for her own sleeping bag, Ula, only 3 months, will bunk with Mommy and Daddy. We'll leave early in the morning, drive up to the mountains and stop for ice cream en route. We'll take a site on Lake Harris in Newcomb, take our first swim of the summer, then feast on enormous burgers grilled over the fire pit. We'll leave the flashlights in the car as we watch the solstice light stretch out over the lake's waters, confounding night's efforts to blacken the mountains. We will drink a bottle of wine, tell Saoirse a ghost story and listen to the bullfrogs. Provided it doesn't rain. If it does, we'll probably go find a motel. And then visit the Long Lake Diner, and hope for maybe a nice paddle for the fall equinox. I mean, let's be real. Summer sacraments don't neceessarily come with adequate Gortex and waterproof gear. Besides, we have to hurry back the next day, because we need to make 400 lbs of sausage before Saturday's market.




Do you have culinary questions for the carnivore explorer? Post them here, and Shannon will attempt to answer them as she travels the world on a quest to sample every grassfed morsel of meat imaginable. Whether it's a question about grass-fed meat at home or abroad, a sustainable cuisine quandry, or heck, even a quinoa query, our rustic bonne vivante will offer her best advice. If she has none to offer, she'll find someone who does...as soon as she's finished eating.