Are these groceries worth 6 bucks?

Logan Square, which borders my neighborhood to the east, now boasts a food co-op. Given my growing commitment to supporting local food systems, I was excited to check out the The Dill Pickle Food Cooperative. For those who don't know, a cooperative grocery store is, as the website states, "an independent, democratic organization that is owned, operated and financed by its members". My friends who live in Hanover, New Hampshire get to shop at their amazing local cooperative grocery store. That place is established and huge, and prices are reasonable, although nowhere close to the prices of factory-farm-supplied national grocers. I knew whatever I found on this stretch of Fullerton Ave was not going to be anywhere close to the Hanover emporium. But I had high hopes! The website thrilled me:

The Dill Pickle is a cooperatively owned and governed neighborhood grocery store that aims to provide sustainable, local, and organic goods at an affordable price in Chicago’ Logan Square neighborhood.

I visited on the first weekend it opened. It was a soft opening and clearly there were kinks that had not been worked out (the line was painfully long). I was not overwhelmed by the selection or the prices. I left disappointed (and empty handed because of that line), but open minded. I needed to go back when things were less hectic, when I could poke around, talk to the staff. I got off work early today, and returned to the co-op.

I really, really wanted to like the store. I am, however, still uncertain if the co-op even comes close to living up to its thrilling mission statement. "Local" and "affordable" are probably the most dubious claims at this point. In the produce area, I saw "local" on exactly three things: mushrooms, apples and shallots. A majority of the shelf real estate was dedicated to organic packaged foods, most of them national brands. I didn't see any local claims on the bulk bins.

Now, on to the affordability issue. The produce prices are farmer's market prices. To my (middle-class) eye, they are not unreasonable, but certainly not a bargain. The prices wouldn't make regular Whole Foods shoppers blink. But, "farmer's market prices" echoes the ongoing issues facing local food systems in poor neighborhoods. Even though Logan Square is gentrifying, most folks who live nearby (especially to the west), aren't going to pay a dollar for a single onion when they can get a 3 pound bag for 99 cents at Cermak Grocery. Now, here is where everyone chimes in about the taste and health-giving benefits of high-quality organic food, but I for one am not prepared to say that these prices are affordable to a family of six living on minimum wage. So is this a neighborhood grocery store, or a convenient pseudo-Whole-Foods-outpost for the higher-income folks that live in the vicinity? Even more egregious to me was the mark-up on processed and prepared foods. For example, a local yogurt brand was priced two dollars above the price at Stanley's, a nearby produce market. I simply don't understand this differential in profit-margin.

Finally, we need to discuss the chicken: the small, frozen, cut-up twenty-two dollar chicken, that the co-op was selling. I have been thinking a lot lately about the premium price commanded by local, organic meats. I'm beginning to wonder if the emperor has no clothes. I am willing to pay more for higher quality. I understand that small farms can't match the volume of factory-like farms, and need to build in a larger profit margin. But is the meat really worth four times as much? Along these lines, I found this blog post very provocative, as well as the impassioned discussion in response to it. It basically questions some of the profit-margins expected by local farmers, and challenges the extraordinarily higher prices of locally-raised meat. I'm not sure where I fall on this issue yet, but a wisp of doubt has begun to creep in. I still feel that the best available value for local meat is a CSA, if you can keep up with the amount of meat you get. I guess my mistake was in thinking that the co-op would act somewhat like a CSA, and that by collective purchasing, we would get CSA, not retail, prices.

So, the activist in me is shouting, "Become a member of the co-op! Voice your opinion! Vote to change the price on that yogurt bottle!". Membership costs 250, that can be stretched to 50 bucks a year over 5 years*. 50 dollars a year! Two chickens! There are some member discounts and no fixed work requirement, but the main return is the warm glow of investing in this well-intentioned start-up and a vote at the table*. I am torn. I support it in theory, but the reality is scaring me off. I'd rather spend that 250 bucks at the farmer's market, direct to the farmer, or on seeds to grow my own local produce. I wonder whether I should finance a store catering to hipsters that buy twelve dollar organic vanilla extract. But if more folks like me joined, maybe we could change that. Is this where I want to put my energy?

*Corrected info, thanks to comments!

Winter Garden Project Update

Planning for my winter garden projects can often mimic planning for the actual garden itself. A long season stretches out ahead of me. In a fervor of excitement and overconfidence, I forget my work obligations, my family obligations and my budget constraints. Example: I actually printed out blueprints for a 6 foot long grape arbor, imagining I could set it up in my basement prior to the spring. A whole month of winter has gone by, and nothing has been done except lying on the couch imagining myself lounging in the dappled shade of fruit-laden vines. I have tabled that project for the moment. Anyway, that's where I want to put a chicken coop....someday. Here's the project updates, mostly to remind myself for next year, when I get carried away again.

1. Worm Bins

The worms have been relocated to the basement. They lived with us in our front hall for the first few weeks, but I was forced to send them into the netherworld of our house. First, the bin did smell. It wasn't a bad smell, but it was definitely not odorless. Before the worm bin enthusiasts jump all over this one, I promise that I did set up the bin correctly. It wasn't too wet, it had enough bedding and I was careful not to overfeed. But, I would come home after work, and my whole house was permeated with a gentle "rotting leaves" kind of smell. Not unpleasant, but also not the ambiance I'm shooting for in my living room. Second, in the interest of my worms' health, it was also better to move them a little further out of reach. Having them that close to the kitchen definitely led to the temptation to overfeed. The basement is more conducive to a weekly or biweekly burial of vegetable scrap. The rest just goes into one of our outdoor composters to freeze over until spring. The worms are just not breaking down the amount of vegetable matter that I thought they would. Maybe this is because they are new to their bin, and it is winter. I will keep an eye on this, but for now, they are barely scratching the surface of our daily compostable scraps.

2. Cold Frames

I have decided where the cold frames are going, and have measured out the area. They will get pride of place in a spot adjacent to the asparagus bed, since it gets some of the best southern sun in my garden. Something happened with the heavy rains in the fall, and this normally level section of my garden was regraded into a micro-slope. Now, I am trying to figure out how to prevent a spring bog in this little 3X5 ft area. I am probably going to dump a good amount of compost on there in the next few weeks, and let it over-rot until the spring, Lasagna-garden style.

As for the frames themselves, I have enough wood scrap around to build the base, most of it old shelving from the closet I re-organized this summer. I had planned to use some old storm windows as the top of the frame, until I started my library research. Jeff Ashton, author of The 12-Month Gardener, argues against use of recycled windows in cold frames. Kids, he warns "at some point, will climb on top of a cold frame, or kick through some other home-spun glass contraption. Apparently, the allure of a raised platform...is too much to resist...I've heard horror stories...kids, animals, or adults who were cut because they fell onto the frame, climbed on top and broke through, or sat on the frame thinking the glass would hold their weight". While I do usually try to avoid the "danger at every turn" approach to parenting, Ashton's warning seems wise. I am the mother of an avid climber, and can only imagine the damage that shards of glass could do to his little legs. So, I am planning on a reconnaissance mission to the hardware store to see what types of fiberglass or plastic I might be able to use.

I think this cold frame project is in reach before the cruel winds of March roll in, and my fingers get itchy to plant radish seed. I have a whole list of other things I wish I had the time to do over the winter: the grape arbor, a home-built wooden cheese press, seed starting shelves in my sunniest window, a chicken coop for the long-awaited chickens, and, most fancifully, a small urban greenhouse. That greenhouse will likely not materialize in the next few years, but I just found a cool jar, so my son and I will create a terrarium. Right after I finish those cold frames.

How to say latkes in Korean?

Last night was the first night of Hanukkah and, much to the delight of my little boy, we lit the candles on the menorah. The real festivities will come tonight, however, when I make latkes and we have a chance to play dreidel. Hanukkah is one of the few Jewish holidays we observe in our hybrid family. My husband and I are philosophical and religious mutts, with parents who are atheist, Jewish, and Lutheran. Having trained in cultural anthropology, I wince a bit at our patchwork of holiday observations. Do these traditions lose their meaning when they are removed from the context of one specific religion? As a mother, however, I can put these academic anxieties aside. It is such a joy to see my son's face illuminated by candles, his usually active body made peaceful by contemplation of the flame. I imagine my husband as a small child, doing the same with his mother. What can be wrong about continuing this family tradition?

Hanukkah celebrations usually involve foods fried in oil, to reference the miracle of the oil lasting eight days. While the idea of homemade doughnuts always tempts me, I hate deep-frying in my kitchen. Every surface gets greasy, and my ventilation system leaves something to be desired. Pan-fried latkes, potato pancakes, are my usual choice. But what recipe to use? Thin or thick pancakes? Matzoh meal or no? Onions chopped or grated? These debates can reach rabbinical levels of debate among Jewish cooks.

In the winter, my own mother, the daughter of German and Polish immigrants, always made thin, wide potato pancakes, loaded with applesauce. These days, I eat Eastern European foods mostly for nostalgic reasons, to remember her. A taste of borscht or a bite of these pancakes sends me back to nights in a warm winter kitchen with my sisters after basketball practice. But her latkes were, rest her soul, greasy. Eastern European foods seem a bit dense and under-seasoned to me now, and I usually choose to prepare spicier and lighter recipes for my family.

Mark Bittman, my beacon of sensible and delicious cooking, solved the latke problem for me. I found a recipe for Korean vegetable pancakes in his book The Best Recipes in the World. They are crowd pleasers, and very kid-friendly despite having a kick of kimchi in the batter. The soy based dipping sauce works much better, in my opinion, than heavy condiments like applesauce or sour cream. Bittman suggests a pinch of cayenne or a chopped hot pepper in the batter, but I just rely on the spice of the kimchi. For best results, the potatoes and carrots need to be coarsely shredded. The grating disk of my Cuisinart works really well. As a final note, to the seasonal eaters and root-cellaring homesteaders out there, any winter vegetable works here. I've made these with parsnips, sweet potatoes and even radish.

Korean Vegetable Pancakes

(adapted from Mark Bittman)

2 potatoes, peeled and grated

3 large carrots, peeled and grated

4 scallions, chopped

1/2 cup cabbage kimchi, drained and chopped

1 egg

2 Tbsp flour

Salt and pepper to taste

Oil for frying

Dipping sauce (recipe below)

1. Put potatoes and carrots in a large, clean dishcloth. Gather the cloth, and twist until the vegetables are pressed tightly. Squeeze out as much moisture as possible. Combine in a bowl with everything but the oil.

2. Preheat the oven to "warm" or 200 degrees. Line a cookie sheet with several layers of paper towels. Heat a few tablespoons of oil in a large skillet and add the batter in large spoonfuls. Fry until browned on both sides (usually 6-8 minutes total). Drain on the paper towels and keep warm in the oven.

3. Serve with the dipping sauce.

Dipping Sauce

2 scallions, minced

1/3 cup soy sauce

2 Tbsp sesame seeds, toasted

1 tablespoon finely grated ginger

1 Tbsp sesame oil

1 Tbsp sugar

1. Combine all the ingredients in a small bowl and set aside.

Cracking open the jars

After I finish canning, I have absolutely no desire to actually eat what I canned. First, I am simply dazzled by the neat rows of pickles and preserves. I can't bear to break up the display. Second, after spending a weekend elbow deep in fragrant concord grape juice, my senses are so over saturated that I want nothing more than milk and bread for a few days. I need to recalibrate. Finally, if you are canning properly, this means that you are at the peak of the season for whatever produce you hope to preserve. Why eat the processed version, when you have an abundance of the fresh one right outside your door?

The memories of the canning weekends have faded, and holiday celebrations have started, so my jars are beginning to disappear from the pantry shelves. I tried a lot of new recipes this season, mostly from Eugenia Bone's new book Well Preserved. On the negative side, I have finally decided to stop canning apples. I just like them raw. No one in my family likes applesauce, no matter how much I gussy it up. I tried Bone's spiced apple recipe, and am underwhelmed by the results. It turned out dry and horribly sturdy: it maintained its shape when shook from the jar. On the brighter side, her recipe for pear, port and thyme conserve is a definite keeper. Not only does it boast a rich flavor, but the texture is varied: the raisins are soft, the pears are ripe but firm , and the almonds are crunchy. It would taste good turned into a sauce for pork or duck, but my son and I like it best rolled up in crepes.

My work requires me to be out the door early most mornings, and to compensate, my son and I get up early, usually around five or six. We then have at least two hours together before I need to leave. I do my best to give the mornings an unhurried feel. I have found that one of the easiest ways to slow down is to make breakfast together. Of course, with a two year old, "together" is a challenge. Crepes work well: I do the stove work, and his chubby little hands now roll the crepe around the filling with expert finesse. We have recently started filling them with the pear conserve. The thyme in the recipe gives the crepes a savory edge that avoids turning breakfast into an overly-sweet dessert. If I have one quibble, it is that I cut the pears too thick. Next year, I'll go for a smaller dice. I also will make more jars, as I am already starting to eye my waning stores with concern. In the spirit of careful rationing, this morning I suggested we use our Concord grape jam to fill our crepes. My son would have none of it, and seemed to scoop more of the pears on than usual in protest. Oh well....we'll eat lavishly, then wait for next fall to roll around.

Pride and prejudice

It is a truth universally acknowledged that an urban gardener in possession of a good portion of shade must be in want of a new shade plant. Hostas only go so far, and already they command a large area of shady real estate in my garden. "Large" is, of course, a relative term, when one considers my narrow Chicago lot. Earlier this fall, I summoned previously hidden wells of plant cruelty and heavily edited my backyard beds. I divided, I dug up, I composted. Now, I am left with some gaping holes, mostly part-sun to light shade. I have finally cleared the way for a nascent obsession: hellebores.

Now, I admit, I tread fashionable ground on this one. It is like admitting a nascent obsession with butchering, locally-sourced cocktail ingredients, or Grizzly Bear's latest album. I am making an effort to accept that I am an ordinary dilettante gardener, and that I should stick to the tried-and-true plants noted in gardening books for their ease, economy and reliability. Who am I to be too proud to plant begonias and impatiens? How dare I be a snob about hostas, especially when they brighten up otherwise dank corners in my yard? But, I do have a kernel of prejudice for the ordinary. I welcome work-a-day plants in my garden, but long for some corners of "plantsmen's plants" and rare specimens. This is not unlike the aspiring cook's habit of serving a comfort food like macaroni and cheese, but lacing it with a rare ingredient like truffles. The dish may seem ordinary at first, but take a bite and you will understand that the cook knows something special, has taken the time to offer a precious taste.

Ever since I laid eyes on a "Lenten Rose" at a nearby fancy-pants nursery this past season, I have been plotting my entrance into the world of Helleborus. Reading of them in Our Life in Gardens only stoked the flames of enthusiasm. I was scared off by the price last year -- the plants are expensive, partly because of burgeoning demand and partly because they are a challenge to produce quickly on a large scale. As usual, I am now ashamed of my chintziness: once they are well-situated, this is a plant that keeps on giving. Plant Delights Nursery gives a wonderful testimonial of a hellebore garden from the 1940's surviving despite being home to a frat house for over 50 years!

I firmed up my budgetary resolve for this upcoming season, and was ready to spend for a few good plants. If it meant less pots or annual flats, so be it. Then, as I was perusing the first of the seed catalogs, I noticed a package of H. orientalis seed for a couple of bucks. Impulse seed purchases began early for the 2010 season. Of course, it was only after they arrived that I started to do my research. Germination can take over 18 months! Only the freshest of seeds should be planted! I scanned the hellebore websites with growing dismay: impassioned gardeners battled over the minutiae of germination, but all seemed to agree that it was best started in the spring or fall. So, I was faced with a dilemma. I could hold on to the seed for direct sowing in March, or I could try to kick-start the process now. I worried that holding on to it would compromise the "freshness" factor. I worried that starting it now would leave me with tender seedlings at the wrong time of year, should my efforts succeed. I do recognize the irony of my worry over a two-dollar packet of seeds, when I had previously decided to drop a hundred bucks on mature specimens in the spring.

I decided to plunge right in. The source of the seeds offered little instruction as to the best method of germination, so I will have to go with the Internet on this one. I went with the most authoritative post on one of the gardening forums, who advocated for Tom Clothier's method. Soak the seed in warm water, then subject them to months-long cycles of warm and cold, with the aid of your refrigerator. The first cycle will probably take about 5 months, which will hopefully give me some seedlings in April, just in time to put outside with protection. We'll see what happens. I applaud the seed-sellers who managed to lure me into a seed impulse buy before the year even turned. But, should this experiment work, this gardener will be ever sensible of the warmest gratitude towards the company who, by bringing her into the world of home germination, had been the means of uniting her with hellebores.

Bean sprouts

Any book of of winter gardening projects usually dedicates a page or two to home-grown sprouts. Sprouting seeds at home is more than a winter pastime, and you hardly need the excuse of snow on the ground or a case of January gardener's malaise to break out the mung beans. They taste better then store-bought and they are cheaper. At nearby supermarkets, a small bag of limp, watery sprouts will set you back at least 2 dollars! At nearby Asian markets, there are bins of cheaper sprouts, but I lately have also begun to question the healthfulness of any store-purchased sprouts. These little guys are a set-up for food borne-illness: moist environment, balmy room temperature air, and every shopper digging into the bin. The dregs at the bottom look like an E. coli dream. To my growing chagrin, stories of salmonella contamination on sprouts have been surfacing in the national media every few months. All this is to say that home-grown sprouts are the way to go.

The one drawback of sprouting at home is that it requires some advanced planning. If you want Vietnamese spring rolls or vegetable pad thai this very night, you will have to forgo sprouts. Occasionally, I substitute julienned cucumber or carrots, but neither matches the crisp texture of mung bean sprouts. With a few days of forethought you can have a bowlful of juicy bean sprouts, all for a few cents and free of diarrhea-inducing pathogens.

I buy my mung beans in bulk from the local Korean food emporium. I also notice that the seed companies sell bags of organic sprouting seeds, albeit at a much higher price, and I'm sure the local health food stores sell them as well. I do not know if these mung beans hail from Asia or if they are locally-grown....for more committed locavores, this is a topic that needs investigating. Soak a handful of the seeds in a bowl of cool water over night. In the morning, drain the seeds and put them back in the bowl. Here, I should note that books, the Internet and Youtube all give instructions for purchased or homemade sprouting contraptions involving screens and cheesecloth. I have had excellent results just using a bowl, and suggest that you save your time and money and do the same. If you want the thick sprouts you see at the store, you will need to weigh down the sprouts with a bowl of water or weighted dinner plate. If you don't mind skinnier sprouts, then just cover the whole bowl with a cloth. Every morning and night, rinse the beans, drain them and then cover them up again. In four or five days, you will have a giant bowl of sprouts.

The mung beans I sprout still have their green skins -- if you want to be rid of them, submerge your sprouts in a big bowl of water and agitate. The skins will rise to the top and you can skim them off. I have stopped caring about this, but if you want them to look the "right" way, go for it. After that, dry the sprouts really well (a salad spinner is the easiest method) and then stick them in the fridge. You will have crisp, fresh sprouts for days -- easy to toss into any stir-fry or Asian noodle dish. Their light juicy taste is a welcome addition to dinner, especially if one has been eating seasonally and consuming mostly cold-weather brassicas, greens and root vegetables.

The world of sprouts extends well beyond mung beans, but I am just not that big a fan of alfalfa sprouts on sandwiches and other such California-cuisine flourishes. If you are interested, I highly suggest perusing the Youtube videos on home sprouting. There are some hilariously earnest instructional videos, touting the health-giving benefits of all sorts of home sprouts. These videos usually feature people that look like they have sprung straight from a 70's commune, Birkenstocks and all. Bust out the macrame materials, the Moosewood Cookbook, and have yourself a retro sprouting afternoon.

Sourdough starter

In third grade, I attempted sourdough biscuits for my entire class as part of a project on Alaska. They didn't turn out well -- hard and flat -- but I did learn an important lesson: serve any bread hot and dripping with melted butter, and most people will eat it, no matter how hard or misshapen it is. Over the years, I created many starters from various recipes. Most suggested a paste of flour and water, leaving it open to the elements to capture the wild yeasts floating around. The end product was unsatisfactory in terms of both flavor and texture. Usually the sour taste was absent or off, and the bread rose poorly. I wanted the wild, local flora that I had harnessed to yield a perfect bread, but I never came close. Some of this had to do with my beginner bread-making skills, but it also had to do with the quality of the starter. Perhaps if had captured wild yeast from San Francisco's touted microclimates, the flavor would have been better. I enjoyed the process and the idea of what I supposed to be making, rather than the actual finished product.

So, dear reader, I cheated. While visiting my best friend in New England, we went on a big family outing to the King Arthur Flour company. That store is a baker's paradise. It sells all the tools and raw materials you could ever want, although I am a little disappointed in how many pre-made mixes they were hawking. High on a shelf in the bread section, I found a tiny envelope of LA-4 French Sourdough starter. I bought it, for an astounding 10 dollars for 5 measly grams. King Arthur sells this starter as a single-use product that you add to a sponge dough to create an "assertive sourdough flavor". A little bit of research revealed that they were merely selling a dried version of the "right" wild yeasts. There was no reason not to refresh it and reuse it, except perhaps that you wouldn't keep paying too much for more of their product. The only caveat I found was that over time the "wrong" wild yeasts might infest the starter and the flavor would change for the worse. Since the envelope gives you enough for at least 5 starters, I don't think this will be a problem. And clever DIYers out there suggested that while the starter is still young and the flavor is "right", you spread some of it on a cookie sheet to dry, crumble it up, and store the powder as a source of the future "right" yeasts.

The bread it produced was great: sour, chewy and a decent rise. Admittedly, I added a tiny pinch of standard commercial yeast for good luck. I basically just created a sponge (a slurry of starter, water and flour) and let it sit for a day. Then I mixed it into a wet dough (more flour, some salt, pinch of commercial yeast). I saved a bit of the sponge to rebuild the starter. After that, I followed the basic principles of Jim Lahey's "no-knead bread". Lahey's method of baking in a Dutch oven works quite well, approximating the environment of a blazing hot stone or mud oven. I just borrowed Build Your Own Earth Oven by Kiko Denzer and Hannah Field from the Chicago Public Library. Building a bread oven from my own mud is on my home project life list. For now, given the restrictions on our space and our fire insurance policy, I will bake my bread in a Dutch oven.

Now my little crock of tasty sourdough starter is bubbling away on my counter. I'm not sure it is something I'll be using on a weekly basis, as my son and husband favor softer, sweeter breads. I am satisfied that I have finally achieved good homemade sourdough flavor, albeit with a boost from King Arthur. I am going to try the starter in our weekly pizza dough, and imagine the day that I'll be baking it in my hand-built adobe oven. My dreamed-of goats will be prancing around me as I do this. For now, I'll settle for a prancing toddler.