my pandemic wild side

Text + photos by Lisa Golden Schroeder

Wild American plums flourishing just around the corner

My neighborhood walks are a meandering five squarish miles —a near perfect 10,000 steps. I live on the outskirts of a large Midwestern metro; close enough to commute comfortably for work, far enough to feel like I leave car exhaust well behind as I wind my way around the northern edge of a large lake, heading to my country road. A road that leads to an apple orchard, a road that sits companionably between two semi-rural golf courses.

As March 2020 resolutely marched towards enveloping us all in a hazy cocoon of fear and consternation that we couldn’t buy toilet paper, I found myself venturing out in an in-between season I rarely explore. Late March and the better part of April in my world are often grey, more than chilly, sometimes coated with wet snow that refreshes the frozen landscape of my slowly awakening garden. But as everything quickly shut down, my work included, I had to escape the Groundhog Day inevitability of catching up on old episodes of “Homeland” and needlepointing myself to some semblance of comfort. While my still-employed husband toiled away on his makeshift desk of two TV trays in our family room, my big event each day was seriously bundling up and walking. And walking. And walking. 

Skirting the edges of my neighborhood

The confines of my neighborhood are nothing new to me. For nearly 30 years I’ve created rambling loops, starting at my front step. I trace cul-de-sacs, bump up against county boundaries, and skirt the outer margins of golf greens. This year as I trudged along those familiar, very quiet streets, the air had a frosty, otherworldly feel. And I began to notice fragrant wild blooms I swear I didn’t see last year, marveled at the limey-green wild grape vines unfurling themselves around fledging foliage, and spied fingertip blossoms of berries hiding deep within brambles that protect the rugged ditches alongside parts of the orchard road. My passing fancies surrounding wild foods, with time on my side, became an engrossing preoccupation. Anything I could safely identify as edible was in my sights.  

Mysterious white blossoms

As spring segued into balmier summer, I shed layers and kept walking. And it became hard to get through a seamless wander without stopping, plucking, or returning to an intriguing spot with my car, so I could harvest a container of something to experiment with. My plant ID app was in full swing, assuring me that what I carried home was what I thought it was.

I found my extended backyard is like an organic farm—sans farmers. Of course, this notion is novel only to me—plenty of people forage for food out in fields and woods every season. But sticking close to my invisible borders, I woke up to a veritable green grocery filled with luxuriantly available eatables. 

The perfection of wild grape leaves, plucked from vines that extravagantly twined themselves around anything standing still.

Fermenting tender green leaves can happen throughout the summer season as new growth unfurls on available vines.

Fragrant basmati, ground lamb, citrusy sumac…so worth the time.

Lessons learned…

Wild grape leaves are particularly easy to brine or ferment. I love stuffed grape leaves, and my own jars of carefully rolled leaves eclipsed what I buy at the Mediterranean market. 

By early autumn, cunningly beautiful bunches of miniature, seedy grapes are fun to press into bottles of glorious juice. And I saved several bagsful of grapes in the freezer, to simmer down to a silky grape molasses.

Blackcap + golden raspberries = a peachy hybrid that I’m guessing is cross-pollination of domestic and wild varieties. I scored an enormous cache of them (admittedly trespassing momentarily at the outer reaches of a neighbor’s property), along with a small basket of crimson gooseberries. I wrangled with thorny branches that climbed old oaks and created nearly impenetrable embankments along roadside easements. I stirred up a huge berry mash—adding just enough organic sugar, not worrying about seeds—and simmered it into sparkling jars of multi-berry preserves. Oh, I also remembered a stash of northern wild blueberries in the freezer, so those joined the party.

The romance of elderberries, beloved as wine, cocktail syrups, and in healthful tonics, caught my imagination; I was certain I’d seen the unique berry clusters but didn’t recognize them at first. I spent a few hours scouring some of my regular haunts—and was over the moon to find a long run of elderberry bushes banking the back side of the neighborhood. I realize now that I clipped the bunches a little too early, as the berries could be sweeter. But I invested the time to carefully strip the berries from their purple stems, cook them down with a little honey and spices, and strain them into a deeply crimson syrup. I have a single bottle, that I’m not sure I love, but it’s worth another go next year. 

Those white blooms I noticed in April were not mysteriously rogue crab apples, but the tangled branches of Prunus Americana—wild plums—found not on the Banks of Plum Creek but flourishing as a thicket, flanking an out of the way bend in the road. They were revealed when my town’s road maintenance crew aggressively mowed down stands of dusty sumac along the lane. Once diminutive plums appeared, I had my ah-hah moment and was thrilled with the thought of my own secret grove. But fearful I’d lose the harvest to birds before I had a crack at them, I gathered a big bag a little too early. Ripened on my counter, the still slightly astringent fruit was labor intensive to process, but my new pantry stash of tangy-sweet plum ketchup and a huge jar of vinegar fermented from plum skins and pits were well worth the effort. 

I finally satisfied my fascination with ground sumac—I’ve loved Middle Eastern food long before it became a thing—so harvested the brick red drupes from the Staghorn sumac trees scattered throughout my walking routes. My first batch was too early—the seeds dried but wouldn’t easily strip away from the branches. I ground them up, but they lacked the citrusy aroma and flavor I wanted. Round two was better—I’d been put off by the little hairs that surround the seeds as they ripen, but that’s the doneness test for harvest. The ground spice is wonderful in the rice and toasted pine nut filling I made for my grape leaves. 

Time is the secret sauce for making the most of what’s found in the natural world. I became a food processor in the first order, which was surprisingly satisfying. Instant gratification during a time of uncertainty. My mom’s old food mill, a dented canning kettle, a clutch of canning jars, my long-forgotten food dehydrator, and diligence were all the tools I needed. Looking back on this growing season, I have a renewed appreciation for how beautiful and priceless the world is—no matter where we live. 

This year? Choke cherries, mulberries, figuring out more wild greens to add to my salad bowl or stir-fry…I’m hoping soon we’ll all be ready (and able) to embrace life again. 

real life blues

“Don’t trust blue food, it doesn’t exist in nature,” or so say advocates of avoiding blue raspberry icies or electrolyte-filled sports drinks. But one glaring exception will dominate nature in the coming weeks…whether in lush gardens, along rocky ledges of wilderness islands, or studding wooded bluffs on the edges of forest burns. Blueberries, destined for pie, pancakes, or just bathed in cream, are a highlight of late summer foraging. Each year we scout the wild blueberry bushes that fill the Northwoods, diligently checking our favorite spots beginning around the 4th of July. And frustratingly, many years we miss the peak—try as we may to slip through the narrow window when the dusty blue clusters are so ripe it’s best to keep an eye open for black bears vying for the same prize. 

 Back home, in my own garden, I’ve been an abysmal blueberry farmer—never seeming to get them fertilized quite right, so my annual harvest is generally sparse. But as a kid living in the Pacific Northwest for a while, we had blueberry bushes along our back fence that produced prolifically. Even as a middle-schooler, I loved gathering and cooking the sweetly tender berries into dessert sauces or crushing them up with honey and cinnamon for spooning over cornmeal pancakes—no doubt inspired by my grandparents, who lived in wild blackberry country and made berry syrups and jams to no end. My mother, deeply in tune with peaches, churned out buckets of stone fruit ice creams. A bowlful of frozen peach-perfumed scoops, topped with a chunky blueberry compote, is probably one of the best flavor combos of summertime.

Photo originally for the Minneapolis Star Tribune…baking/styling by Lisa Golden Schroeder, photo by Dennis Becker.

It’s nearly time to start plucking the ripest sun-bathed berries, whether spying them in the wild or in a neighbor’s yard. Don’t let them pass you by.

Norwegian-style waffles need nothing more than fresh berries & a sprinkle of torn garden mint… food/styling by Lisa Golden Schroeder, photo by Dennis Becker.

Grilled lamb rack ribs are richly perfect with a pickled woodsy chanterelle & blueberry chutney (recipe here). Food/styling by Lisa Golden Schroeder, photo by Dennis Becker. From Untamed Mushrooms: From Field to Table.

a toast to bread...from my Gammee's western kitchen

I grew up in the western part of the United States, at a time that was only about 50 years removed from the rough and tumble years of the early American frontier. I’m a fifth-generation baker, from a long line of strong women who survived and successfully raised families, in what was considered the wilderness of the Great Plains in the latter years of the 19th century and early years of the 20th century. Gammee, my great-grandmother, was truly a renaissance woman, who married late in life and lived and worked independently as a single woman at a time when respectable women married quite young. The family tales of her adventures in Cheyenne, Wyoming in the years when the exploits of the infamous Buffalo Bill were in the eastern newspapers are best left to another day! Born in 1870, Barbara McIntyre was the daughter of a Scottish railroad man and a Swiss mother, living in Nebraska during the pioneering days of early homesteading and ranching. This was still the edge of western expansion in the United States, where living was rustic, and women’s work was never done. Barbara finally agreed to marry her long-time love at the age of 38, after he eventually agreed to stop his hard-drinking ways. Her only daughter, Janice Wills, was my grandmother and first baking teacher. But in her time, Gammee (as Barbara was known in the family—I rarely heard her referred to by her given name) was considered the best cook in western Nebraska. Like all the hard-working women of her era, she daily turned out copious amounts of bread, lamb stew, beef-and-barley soup, and other hearty farm fare from her wood-burning stove. But she was also the first cook in her county to eventually get an electric stove in the early 1900’s. She lived close to her daughter and her family her entire life, teaching my own mother to bake and do needlework—and she passed away just days after my birth. My mother says she waited to die until after she knew if I was a girl or a boy—and I feel blessed by her to be a part of this long line of women bakers.

One of the first things I learned in Gammee’s daughter’s kitchen was to bake yeast breads; a weekly routine that never varied during my years at home. I never ate store-bought bread at my grandmother’s house, and rarely in my mother’s kitchen during my early years—though my mother made a modern concession to slathering margarine on our toast, while my grandmother only toasted our breakfast bread in the oven, with real creamery butter. My mother, an early healthy-eating advocate, only allowed us to eat whole-wheat toast or fresh fruit after school. My own inventive technique for making a slice of toast when I was 12 years old seriously tested my mother’s patience. In the name of convenience, I decided it was quicker to spread margarine on slices of bread BEFORE I popped them into the electric toaster. Thus ruining two toasters before my mother figured out what I was doing. She soon relegated me to baking pans of quick breads that could be eaten warm from the oven, saving her toaster from my after-school experiments.  And my favorite breads (after my mother’s family sourdough starter-based French baguettes) were indeed the more interesting “quick” loaves we’d make to serve with soups or just snack on—grainy breads leavened with baking powder or soda that could be whipped up in less than an hour. 

 The art of making quick-rising breads like biscuits, soda bread, muffins or cornbread is to handle the dough or batter quickly and gently. In fact, the less you do to it, the better the final outcome. And they do not require rising time like yeast breads. Quick breads were first developed in parts of the world that could only grow soft wheat, which, when ground into flour, was not suitable for yeast-leavened loaves. There are two types of quick bread: batter and dough. Both kinds are fast, easy and perfect for beginning bakers. Gammee, Grandmother (the more formal endearment my grandmother Janice liked), and my mother Ferol, all baked these quick breads regularly. Banana bread, prune cakes, gingerbreads, cornbread…every imaginable kind of quick-leavened baked good, from savory to sweet. During this hopefully fleeting time of staying closer to home, one of the top-searched recipes online, surprisingly, is for banana bread—a true nod to home cooks embracing comfort baking at the most intimate level. 

past field notebook: circa spring 2016

Pheasant Back Mushrooms (Polyporus Squamosus)

April 27, 2016

Michael (Karns) took Dennis (Becker) out to hunt for lingering black morels. After the early explosion of the fleeting black variety (Friday, April 22), the golden/yellow morels will pop within the week once the nighttime and soil temps hover at 50-55˚ F. While out scouting for that first hunt Michael also ran across pheasant back mushrooms—absolutely gorgeous shelf-style fungus with a patterning on the caps that resembles the feathered back of a pheasant. Or as my husband noted, a fall grouse. Nevertheless, the pheasant backs tend to appear early alongside/near morels—and if a morel hunt is a bust, it’s truly not if a nice harvest of pheasant backs lands in your backpack.

After Dennis took beautiful studio photos of the pheasant back treasure trove they traveled to my kitchen. They ranged in size from nearly 10 inches across to just 1-1/2 to 2 inches. I trimmed the thick stem ends again after giving them a good rinse (when Michael harvests he’s meticulous about keeping any mushrooms very clean—cleanly cutting them and using a brush to remove excess soil—so they weren’t terribly dirty.) Since I didn’t have a specific recipe in mind for them yet, I coarsely chopped them, measured and weighed them, then sautéed them in a combination of really good butter and a splash of extra-virgin olive oil. Because they are so thick and meaty I kept the heat at medium for several minutes until the mushrooms began to give up their moisture, then increased the heat to medium-high. I seasoned them with a handful of coarse salt + a generous grind of black pepper, then I stirred them frequently until they were nearly dry and beginning to brown and crisp up around the edges (8-10 minutes). I cooled them, packaged them up well, and popped them in to the freezer for the future.

Buttery Pheasant Back Mushrooms

            2 tablespoons butter

            1 tablespoon EVOO

            5 cups (about 1 lb.) coarsely chopped Pheasant Back mushrooms

            Coarse sea salt and freshly ground pepper

sour berries--stuff of Viking dreams?

I’ve dabbled in foraging for wild edibles for years. But mostly for berries and quickly identifiable greens that I stumble upon on our forays through the Northwoods. And going way back, I was convinced we had lots of pin cherries just outside our cabin window, inspiring me every year or two to consider making jelly. But keeping kids from falling off the dock always sidelined my best intentions. 

This past summer I renewed my vigor in plucking brilliant crimson clusters along our dirt road. But my curiosity was piqued when my husband commented that some of the berries around the back of our cabin were more orange in color, in keeping with mountain ash trees. So I got serious consulting a field guide and a few online sources—carefully inspecting the trees, leaf configurations, and berry stem color. And found that I indeed had gathered mountain ash berries, not pin cherries (there IS one pin cherry bush on our property, so I feel a bit vindicated.) I also learned they aren’t considered choice in the world of wild fruit, but definitely had some interesting possibilities. Being stubborn, and very mad at myself for just missing out on a haul of gorgeous, fully ripe service berries and very early blueberries (I was caught flat-footed with nary a bag or basket), I was loath to waste the berries I’d just spent an hour picking. Leery of whether they were ripe enough to do anything with, I hoped that the unusual summer weather might work in my favor. Field guides said the berries usually ripen late summer, but spring began late with a lot of early rain, followed by unseasonably intense heat. By mid-July most of the wild berries in our area were ripening up, weeks ahead of what I’d typically expect. 

Photo by Lisa Golden Schroeder

 As I poked around looking for more insights, the name “rowan” popped up more than once—a Celtic reference to Ireland and Scotland where there’s archeological evidence that the berries were gathered by Vikings who landed there as a safe haven during their years of marauding through Europe. The rowan tree was considered sacred in Celtic mythology—it’s the Tree of Life and symbolized courage, wisdom, and protection. While on our shores, Native Americans often dried, then ground up the berries to add to stewed foods. Here in the U.S. there are two varieties of mountain ashes, the American and European. I’ve seen both in the Blue Ridge Mountains as well as northern Minnesota. Mountain ash berries are generally not eaten fresh; their bitterness begs for the attention of an intrepid cook. In nature they have a history of being cold-season food for birds, since the berries will continue to hang on the tree long into winter. If they survive long enough, they may begin to ferment, sending birds like cedar waxwings into spiraling flights of intoxicated fancy.

Snow-capped berries were still decorating trees in late December…photo by Lisa Golden Schroeder

My cache of berries came from the American Mountain Ash—note the red stems holding the fruit. Photo by Dennis Becker, styled by Lisa Golden Schroeder

One of my favorite sources for wild foods info, from someone whose kitchen skills I admire, is Chef Alan Bergo (www.foragerchef.com). He not only scours the forest and fields for well-known and more obscure edibles, he documents his kitchen play beautifully—down to tested recipes and photos. I was pretty sure that if anyone had done something with mountain ash berries worth eating (or drinking), he probably had. And sure enough, he confirmed that the berries are indeed quite astringent (easily confirmed by tasting one) but are interesting enough to transform into a jam, a jelly, or bottles of homemade wine. I did see this in a British newspaper food section, but I’m not convinced it’s a good use of time—you can make wine from just about anything, but you may not want to drink it. I might consider making a sweet-tart syrup to flavor up sparkling water like a shrub or just preserve them in a syrup for garnishing cocktails in place of pickled onions (a Gibson martini or gimlet anyone?) One suggestion Alan offers is to freeze the berries before using them, possibly replicating the effect of a first frost—which seems to boost the natural sweetness hidden in the tiny berries. So I spread my clusters out on wax paper-lined rimmed sheet pans, covered them well, and laid them in my chest freezer for a little hibernation. 

An idea that intrigued me was to pickle them, in a sweetened vinegar brine spiked with whole toasted spices and a little fresh ginger. Alan traditionally water-baths his pickled berries for longer storage, but they can also be frozen. He suggests stirring them into sauces (think about a creamy sauce for Swedish meatballs) or serving them sprinkled into a salad with sweet beets, a rich cheese, and wild greens. I think they’re lovely served with roasted winter meats or wild game. 

PICKLED ROWAN BERRIES

Makes about 4 (1-pint) jars

 SPICES

1 tablespoon yellow mustard seeds

8 coriander seeds

6 black peppercorns or ½ teaspoon grains of paradise

4 allspice berries

2 whole star anise

BERRIES

2 ½ cups water

1 ½ cups champagne vinegar

1 1/2 cups sugar

1 (1-inch) piece fresh gingerroot, thinly sliced

9 cups fresh or frozen ripe rowan (mountain ash) berries, stripped from their stems

Toast the dried spices in a dry skillet over medium heat until fragrant; cool. Pick over the berries, removing any that look old or shriveled. Rinse them well to remove any debris. Mix the water, vinegar, sugar, and ginger in a large kettle; bring to a slow boil and stir until the sugar is dissolved. 

Add the berries and toasted spices, then turn off the heat. Using a slotted spoon, fill clean canning jars with the berries, pouring in the spiced brine so the berries are covered. They’ll keep in the fridge up to a month or stash them in the freezer for your next dinner party.

Photo by Dennis Becker, recipe/styling by Lisa Golden Schroeder

Watercolor by Lisa Golden Schroeder

Unassuming Cauliflower

Farmhouse Shepherd’s Pie features mashed Yukon gold potatoes + cauliflower to top a hearty chicken & veg filling…photo by Dennis Becker, recipe/styling by Lisa Golden Schroeder

Kale, Brussels sprouts, broccoli…these flashier vegetables have led the menu charge for less plate discrimination over the past several years. But a fair-haired sibling, no dumb blond, is taking the veggie side of the plate by storm. Cauliflower is king right now; just its name is intriguing—what kind of flower? This large head of creamy white florets is a certified member of the same cruciferous veggie family (named for the four equal-sized petals in its flowers that could be viewed as forming a cross-like or crucifix shape). And has become the new “it” side dish, as big chunks roasted with lots of garlic or thickly sliced and grilled, like a steak. I’ve always liked the taste of coarsely chopped raw cauliflower in salads, but not as much doused with thick cheese sauce—a 1950’s American favorite. Though that led to my learning to make a real cheese sauce with my mom as a teenager.

            At my own house, steamed broccoli was my go-to when my kids were little. But as cauliflower gained favor, I started to add it to big pans of roasted vegetables. And was surprised at how quickly the cauliflower florets disappeared, even before the sweet butternut squash or wedges of tender red onion. Like other members of its family, cauliflower has a bitter edge to its flavor. But it’s milder and when roasted with a nice drizzle of olive oil it becomes almost buttery—really quite comforting and delicious without the heavy coating of cheese. It can be a blank canvas for all sorts of seasonings, transforming into a luscious Indian side dish with sweet spices and tomatoes or pickled with hot chiles as a condiment for hot Italian sandwiches or tacos. It just makes me happy to see a somewhat old-fashioned vegetable like cauliflower rise up to stardom, joining its more assertive brethren. Its elevation to a riced side dish (lovely if you caramelize chopped leeks and a garlic clove or two before stirring the chopped or grated cauliflower into the skillet) or even as a pizza crust (I have to hand it to whomever thought that variation up) is pretty spectacular. 

Nothing bland about cauliflower…watercolor by Lisa Golden Schroeder

Photo by Dennis Becker, recipe/styling by Lisa Golden Schroeder

            This family of “cole” vegetables (besides cauliflower, cabbage is an important member) are really quite unique, because we eat so many different plant parts. Within the cruciferous vegetable group, we commonly eat the flowers of the plant (like cauliflower or broccoli florets), the leaves (mustard greens, collard greens, turnip greens, and kale), the stems and stalks (broccoli stems and stalks), the roots (turnips, rutabagas, and radishes), and the seeds (mustard seeds). Which can really boost the number of nutrients we can benefit from if we practice eating widely and diversely.

Give these recipes a spin if anyone at your house still needs convincing that cauliflower is anything but boring…

Farmhouse Shepherd’s Pie

Garlic Lemon Barbecued Chicken with Roasted Cauliflower

Mushroom XO Sauce with Roasted Cauliflower Steaks

Oven-Roasted Veg Linguine

non-partisan zinger

In this time of divided allegiances, I want to focus on good things. Like mourning the end of my garden while simultaneously celebrating the tiny victories of preserving bits and pieces of it. The tangle of woody herbs on my front step are a lesson in hearty constitutions: resinous rosemary, velvety sage, and aromatic verbena. No wonder the flavors of these persistent herbs love the foods of late autumn and winter. Stuff that grows together go together. As I gently cosset these last hold outs for our Thanksgiving feast, I'm reveling in the last of the spiky, shiny green leaves of my lemony verbena. Think about it. Anything lemon is assertively non-partisan, happily pairing with savory or sweet.  

© Lisa Golden Schroeder. Fresh verbena leaves dry beautifully or provide a deeply lemon flavor to scent fish and vegetable dishes or desserts.

The aroma of pungent lemon is the bottled lemon oil we used to polish my mother’s antique walnut Victorian furniture, an indelible sensory memory. We had lemon trees in our spartan Arizona backyard too, calling out to be covered with a shroud of plastic by me and my siblings when the desert temperatures fell below freezing. As I got older, I raided a boyfriend’s mom’s ancient lemon tree on late winter days to harvest neglected lemons that weighted down the heavy branches or fell to a bruised, overripe mess all over the hard desert floor below. I squeezed by hand quart upon quart of tangy lemon juice to stash in the freezer. There’s nothing much better than icy cold lightly sweetened lemonade made from those nearly dried heat-ripened citrus, infused with finely chopped hot chiles. Lemon is imprinted on my olefactory storehouse of ah-hah fragrances. A perfumy symbol of smells that take me back to nice places.

Our lemons and hedges of wild rosemary were loving partners in the desert; vibrant yellow zest against the pale indigo violet of rosemary blossoms, rays of brilliant sun skimming off the dusty greenish-grey rosemary needles. I remember running my fingers along the stems to raise their warm scent, then plucking the leaves to crush with liquid lemon and flowing local honey, a harvest from the bees that drank deeply from the rosemary flowers. Agave syrup would have been an agreeable ally, but something of the future. Then, agave was a plant in our wild front yard, the name of our street, and a desert wellspring for fermented juices like mezcal and tequila.

I eventually graduated to sipping lemon zinger tea in college—crimson with crushed dried hibiscus petals. At the time I didn’t understand the relationship of a flower from south of the border and lemon. But both are worshippers of the sun Gods. I just knew the tart flavor perked up my mind and cleared out the cobwebs of academia.

© Dennis Becker; gardener Lisa Golden Schroeder

So finally to the hero of this story: lemon verbena. One of the first herbs I grew in my fledgling newly-wed garden. It climbed the sunny south wall of our first house, along with towering sprays of tansy (a mostly vain attempt to keep the ants from marching into our kitchen.) The coarse-leaved verbena gave up a tangy scent; long narrow leaves on strong woody stems—more bush-like than herbal plant-like. A sophisticated fragrance from somewhere in my literary memory, dried to make tisanes. Herbal infusions that delicate ladies in Victorian novels or in French sitting rooms seemed to favor. Evidently caffeine would be too invigorating.

So as my first gardening year came to a close I became serious about preserving anything I could, including any and all green leaves. Binding up long sprigs with rubber bands and hanging them in the basement from wire hangars to slowly dry; infusing simple syrups with luscious combos of verbena, lavender, and rosemary; and simmering coarsely chopped leaves and stems in heavy cream to whip, make ice cream, or scent creamy puddings. Plus lightly crushing up dried leaves for herb salts and not to be forgotten, verbena leaves for powerfully rejuvenating cups of tea. The volatile essential oils of verveine citronelle make it a prime candidate as a flavoring agent. Click here for some versatile ideas.

© Lisa Golden Schroeder. Use verbena blossoms to scent cream or a simple syrup to use in unique cocktails.

No Summer Stonefruit Left Unturned

Sure, berries might reign supreme, melons are adored by honeybees, and cherries demand accolades, but nothing beats summer stone fruits in my book. A perfumy peach, nectarine, or apricot still warm from the sun and dripping with juice. Or a rosy-fleshed plum, still firm enough that my teeth snap through the dark skin yet the inside is so tender and sweet-tart one is never enough. I lived for an entire summer as a broke student on lunches of nectarines, cottage cheese, and Rye Crisp—thriving on the luscious fruit (the name for nectarine is derived form the Greek nektar or “sweet liquid”.) Another long ago summer I spent a few weeks in Greece, buying the most amazing peaches at the outdoor markets in Athens. Then frequenting the dairy shops that sold gorgeously rich whole-fat yogurt that I ate with a hefty spoonful of the required local honey. I’d never tasted anything so good and it flummoxes me still that it took so long for real Greek yogurt to arrive on American shores.

© Dennis Becker, recipe + styling Lisa Golden Schroeder (Grilled Chicken with Nectarine-Red Onion Relish)

I do have to admit I’ve never been a full fan of peach fuzz, so lean towards loving smooth-skinned nectarines a fraction more. Some offer a spicy edge to their juiciness that most peaches don’t have. Wild peaches originated in China and were small and sour (and quite hairy I’m told). But the Chinese cultivated them and they became a symbol of longevity and immortality and were revered enough to travel the world in the pockets of wanderers. The Chinese cultivated wild plums too, in a dizzying variety from quite tiny to as large as a baseball; round, elongated, or heart-shaped. Plums flourish in many places, with France embracing both fresh and dried pruneau in classic pastry recipes like an almondy frangipane tart. But California is home to my very favorite, the Satsuma, which is Asian by origin and has a dark red flesh that’s addictive—both sweet but slightly sour depending on how ripe it is.

© Dennis Becker, recipe + styling by Lisa Golden Schroeder (Herbal Honey Glazed Chicken with Stone Fruits)

© Lisa Golden Schroeder, plum blossoms

© Lisa Golden Schroeder

I’ve grown up with stone fruits living large in family recipes. My mom has a passion for churning homemade peach ice cream; a spiced prune cake is a required hostess gift for all picnics; bushels of Santa Rosa plums are pitted and wedged up for freezing—then transformed into warm fruit compotes to serve with roasted meats in the winter. Damson plum jam, with a splash of French Armagnac liqueur is just right slathered on toasted bread with a smear of farm butter. And a peach or nectarine pie, thickened with tapioca and lightly sweetened with honey and a sprinkle of freshly grated nutmeg, is the definition of summertime.

© Dennis Becker, recipe + styling by Lisa Golden Schroeder (Grilled Chicken with Spiced Plum Compote)

Recipes posted the Kitchen Handbook...

the truth about creativity

The scenarios are similar. Here I am again, in a studio kitchen facing a frozen pizza or other homogenized fare in the middle of my workspace. Inspiration is pending. Or my client insists on showing their product the exact same way as they have for fifteen years, otherwise “our customers won’t recognize us.” Even worse, I’m handed a wonderful magazine, cookbook, or film job—and I freeze. The freedom is almost too much; where do I start? 

How can we all keep our appetite for discovery keen? Feed our imaginations so we can allow ourselves to see wonderful possibilities in something unformed, ordinary, or even ugly? Battle the stress of deadlines, tight budgets, and unrealistic client expectations?

Creativity exists within everyone. It’s the bread-and-butter of what I do as a stylist, yet often we suppress it with an inner voice of judgment or feel we must express it upon command. Michael Ray, a Stanford professor who speaks about creativity, believes there are five qualities that define it: intuition, will, joy, strength, and compassion. To stimulate those qualities, it’s necessary to have faith in your openness to see and do new things, free yourself from your inner censor, carefully observe the setting, and ask important questions. He and others agree that creativity is not a moment of epiphany that produces a brilliant idea. It is a way of life.

©Phil Bode, styled by Lisa Golden Schroeder. A test day to experiment with textures and light.

Stocking Your Toolbox

Over the years, the most truly creative styling professionals I’ve talked to agree that being prepared for a job sets the stage for creativity. As a character in Madeline L’Engle’s novel A Wrinkle In Time says, “We can’t take any credit for our talents…it’s how we use them that counts.” By knowing my stuff—cooking technique, food science, specifics about a job, making lists, reading the recipes or knowing the product, shopping well and within the client’s budget—I can then clear my mind and open it to inspiration. 

Horror and science fiction writer Stephen King wrote a marvelous book about the craft of writing. He cites an old popular movie, A Raisin in the Sun, as an example of a grounding moment in the creative process. A character in the movie cries out:  “I want to fly!  I want to touch the sun!” to which his wife replies, “First eat your eggs.” What a nice, commonplace analogy for laying the groundwork for creativity. King also devotes a chapter to the concept of filling your psychological toolbox with basic skills. If you haven’t learned the elements of your craft, then the artful part can’t be fully developed.

Another aspect of this is communication. When a job is booked, the first step is talking with everyone involved. Collaborating with the entire team along the way, defining what needs to happen to achieve a client’s goals, lays the groundwork for trust and confidence—and art will bloom.

© Phil Bode, styled by Lisa Golden Schroeder

The Spirit of Creativity

Maureen McKeon, a highly successful food stylist in Melbourne, Australia, created a pyramid for working toward creative outcomes at a seminar on visual culinary artistry. Her pyramid base was devoted to dreaming—being expansive in thought about the world of creative options. The next step was design—narrowing the choices to the ones that are realistic and controllable. Step three was to decide—choose two or three of your best ideas and be ready to implement them.  And the tip of the pyramid was to do—execute your best idea. We need to allow creative thought to seep into our thinking, and then take the process one step at a time.

She also spoke about the goals we strive for when in the studio, beyond creativity.  We always need to remind ourselves who our audience or target is for the image.  Is it reality or fantasy? Are we conveying information or a message? Can we achieve a visual hook that will draw the viewer in for a closer look? Is there approachability and appetite/sensory appeal? Can we use surprise or humor?  Keeping these questions in mind can help drive the choices we make in our creative dreaming.

A long-ago issue of Australian Vogue had a black-and-white ad for Rolex watches on the back cover. The image featured Helmut Newton and his wife June (known professionally as Alice Springs)—both notable European fashion photographers.  The tagline on the ad was for perpetual spirit: “It’s not just what they see that surprises, but how differently they see it.” The same can be said for all of us—we each interpret projects in different ways, but a balance is struck when all the issues, goals, and personalities involved weigh in and evaluate the direction of the shoot. But independent visions can reach beyond the expected and give a view of a subject that may surprise and delight.

©Phil Bode, styled by Lisa Golden Schroeder

The Art of Composition

Composing or plating food is just arranging the parts so that a unified, harmonious whole is created. This can be done skillfully and with technical consistency, but it’s creativity and point of view that bring style. Personal preferences, regional, and ethnic associations will also bring a unique approach to presentation. Following trends may be a guide at times, but generally is a futile way to fuel creativity. Just because a look or style is “hot” doesn’t mean it will work for all applications. I strive to do the unexpected when I can and do not sacrifice good taste to appearance. The more complicated the plate composition, the stronger the sense will be that the food has been over-handled. Beauty can lie in minimalism—the freshest, seasonal food presented simply. And as always, beauty still lies in the eye of the beholder.

One of my favorite food photographers often surprises me when I bring a styled plate to the set. He spins the plate 180 degrees, despite my protests about what I had designated as “camera front.” Nearly without fail the camera’s view of the food is often much more interesting and natural than what I had planned.

aubergine passion...a love-hate affair

I have a long, checkered history with eggplant. I know people who blanch at the mention of it, others that love it in every way. For some reason it fascinates me as one of those vegetables that cries out for finesse and care in how it's handled--nothing complex or difficult, but in need of real discrimination in method and time. I believe it's a sometime victim of bad cooking technique; when done well it's addictive. If not, it can be nasty, a textural disaster.

My first taste of eggplant was a beginner's version, sort of like an experience with training wheels. Eggplant Parmesan (not truly Parmigiano, as in using true Italian Parm) at an Italian-American restaurant, where it was so buried in thick tomato marinara and molten cheese I'm surprised I even knew there was eggplant on the plate. But it was there, with enough meaty texture to distinguish it from the rest of the sauciness, but with no defining flavor of its own (eggplant is often the “meat” in lots of vegetarian recipes). I was sold on the fact that it was a veg-only dish (this was in my college veggie days, when my palate was drowned in eggs and cheese, worried about getting enough protein) in a sea of heavily meat-centric offerings. But my next foray was by way of a vegan boyfriend and a tiny Middle Eastern place that seduced me with their little plates of silky puréed dips. And smoky roasted baba ghanoush, luscious with sesame tahini and a splash of spicy olive oil, bowled me over. 

chicken caponata rigatoni (click here for recipe)   photo: Dennis Becker

I soon graduated to stewing up a lovely Turkish sweet-and-sour eggplant relish, similar to a Sicilian caponata, that I found in a Sunset cookbook. I served it up as part of appetizer buffets I'd cater for neighbors that entertained a lot. He had worked in California for an agricultural conglomerate that grew scads of cauliflower, lettuce, and other veggies in the central valley. Their interest in my budding culinary skills sent me to San Francisco for a stint in the test kitchens of Dole Foods before I graduated from college. 

sizzling deconstructed ratatouille platter (click here for recipe)      photo: Dennis Becker

French ratatouille took me down the final road to lovingly embracing anything made with eggplant. Living in Paris, as a student tenant of a generous French family, I had only a two-burner cooktop in a converted closet as a kitchen. Of course I cooked all day at school, so doing much more than heating water for coffee really wasn't of much interest. But when my family was away at their country house in Brittany, I modestly (and on the sly) entertained visiting American friends in their kitchen. I didn't dare do too much, so bought a poulet rôti at the neighborhood market rôtisserie, some of my favorite bread (pain au seigle, a dense rye with walnuts) at the boulangerie, and armloads of late August vegetables at the market. Eggplant and its seasonal cousins, meltingly ripe tomatoes, tender zucchini, and sweetly crisp bell peppers, filled my string shopping bags. A huge bouquet of fragrant basil and some rosemary and fresh garlic followed. I chopped and simmered up a huge pot of ratatouille to serve with the chicken. I'm sure that because I shared the repast with dear friends who brightened a somewhat homesick point in my time abroad, it was probably one of my most memorable meals in France. Oh, and I can't forget one of the best parts was the bottle of Chablis, so different from the innocuous white table wine I'd tasted at home, that cost just a few francs. Its minerally dryness was perfect with the vegetable stew and crispy chicken dripping with rich juices.

I do feel like aubergines follow me around. I stumble upon them grilled on pizza, baked to creaminess alongside hibachi-style teriyaki dishes, shallow-fried with bread crumbs for vastly improved versions of eggplant Parmigiano, or sidling up to a Greek salad or pita-wrapped gyros as a super-garlicky melanzanosalata spread. But maybe it's because the minute I see eggplant as part of a menu or the lynchpin to a simple meal, I'm transported back to lots of other really good times at the table.

To get you started loving this versatile fruit (yes, it’s botanically a fruit, a member of the nightshade family like tomatoes), look for ones that are firm to the touch, have shiny skin and no brown spots. Farmers markets offer up an astonishing variety to explore. Sort through long slender Japanese eggplant, small white round ones (the varietal that looks like fat eggs with stems, the inspiration for the fruit’s name), or rotund globes with purple stripes. Conventional kitchen wisdom is that eggplant skin is inedible—it can be tough on larger ones, but not always. You can decide if you want to peel it off. Other common advice is that its flesh should be salted and allowed to drain away bitterness before cooking, but I’ve found that most eggplant these days don’t need that extra step if you buy them when they’re harvested at their peak in the autumn.

lunch with julia

Happy birthday Julia! As the 10th anniversary of her death passes, remembrances of Julia Child on her August 15th birthday take me back to 1983. When now I realize my lunch with her was very close to her 71st birthday—and we celebrated my graduation from culinary school in Paris together.

My not-so-secret dream when I was in college was to go to cooking school. But I was pursuing what I thought was more legitimate study: a four-year degree in science. As a chemistry major I had higher aspirations for a career in medical research. But I was working my way through school in the garde manger of a private club kitchen, at a French cookware store selling (and buying) high-end culinary tools and assisting traveling cooking teachers, even catering cocktail parties for my parent’s friends. Finally recognizing my unhappiness at school, my mom asked me what I really liked? My immediate reply: “To cook.” So she steered me to the school of home economics, where all my science credits transferred into a Bachelor of Science in nutrition and food science (a consumer service-based version) in 1981. I landed a job in a large corporate test kitchen—but not before grudgingly filling out an application for an “international culinary fellowship” my mom had found in one of the many cooking magazines she had strewn about our family room. I never thought I had a snowball’s chance of getting it, but gathered the letters of reference from my college advisor and the chef I worked for and mailed it in—minutes before moving halfway across the country.

Fast-forward about 10 months, I’d just gotten home from work, and my phone rings. It’s my mom, absolutely giddy because she’s just talked to Julia Child! Julia, the giver and mentor, had established a fellowship for young Americans who already had some culinary skills and advanced education, but needed what she considered important French classical training. With the goal that it would bring them back to continue her work educating Americans about appreciating and making good food. She had awarded one or two already, with the recipients heading to Paris. When my mom called, she said that Julia would be calling shortly (of course the phone number on my application was my parents' home). And she did. We had a brief conversation that consisted of her asking “are you still interested in going to cooking school?” and my reply of “YES”! But I had the small problem of a job and despite 6 years of high school and college French, pretty limited language skills. So I negotiated an unpaid leave of absence, spent some concentrated time at the Alliance Française, and winged my way to Paris the next year. I attended LaVarenne Ecole de Cuisine to earn an advanced culinary diploma. British food writer Anne Willan, who founded LaVarenne, was a tight friend of Julia’s. So for the short life of the International Culinary Fellowship (it morphed into other scholarship programs) the handful of lucky wanabe chefs ended up at Anne’s doorstep. The highlight of my time in Paris was my graduation, when Julia and Paul Child came to school and had lunch with my small group of fellow graduates. Julia sat at the head of the lunch table, which was the same table we ate at every day at the end of morning class. I sat at Paul Child’s right, and I truly believe I’ve never met anyone so dapper and gallant. We had a raucous meal, lots of laughter, and when Julia lifted her soup bowl to drink the last drop of a shrimp bisque we’d made, we all felt like family.

Throughout the years I experienced what so many of us who knew her did—a kindness and true caring about colleagues who were passionate in the same way she was about sharing our knowledge of cooking, good food, and wine with Americans. We kept in touch; I have a collection of the 3x5-inch postcards with her logo and typed missives she’d send whenever I reached out to her to share a professional success or personal milestone (getting married, having babies). All signed with her familiar scrawled “Julia” at the bottom. We had the kind of collegial relationship of a mentor and mentee, but I’ve always thought of her as my fairy godmother and that I’m just one of her many acolytes.

I sent Julia and Paul a box of a "secret" family Christmas cookie...my great-great grandmother would have approved.

 Postscript: I've had a few people ask what I thought of the movie "Julie and Julia." First off, I wish I'd had the idea to do what Julie Powell did! Secondly, Meryl Streep totally channeled Julia (even though she's much shorter in stature.) Thirdly, I completely disagree about the assertion at the end of the movie that Julia didn't acknowledge or like what Julie did. Julia loved anyone who cooked and I can't believe that she would not have really liked that Julie truly used her books like college textbooks.

midsummer 'mallow madness

When I was a kid, there were sweets things I was passionate for: my grandmother’s chocolate chip cookies (and plebian chocolate chips by the handful, nothing fancy), miniature Milky Way candy bars at Halloween, watermelon-flavored hard candies and sour apple candy sticks. Small solid chocolate Easter eggs were pretty good, but not so much the large chocolate-dipped marshmallow eggs the Easter bunny served up as my sibs and I got older and the bunny got tired of filling overflowing baskets. We weren’t a camping family, so the mysterious transformation of marshmallows from firm white pillows to charred, sticky sweet stuff wasn’t even on my radar until I was much older. And even then I regarded the fun of spearing store-bought marshmallows with dirty sticks and poking them into a smoldering fire as marginally entertaining—and just okay on the “gotta do this more often” barometer.

It wasn’t until my own kids appeared on the scene and we’d bought our lakeside log cabin in the northwoods that the allure of marshmallows became apparent. My three boys are as in love with the outdoors as their dad, spending long summer days in the fresh air canoeing, fishing, and communing with bugs, dirt, and anything cooked over open flames. And gooey marshmallows are on the top of the list. So as time marches on, I’ve gotten with the program, graduating from handfuls of cheap chocolate chips to cheap chocolate bars (milk chocolate, no less), melting over molten marshmallows. Squished between the most kid-friendly crackers—so much more than the sum of the parts. There’s no aspect of roasting marshmallows and making s’mores that doesn’t sooth even the most jaded grown-up palate into a child-like trance.

I know that a big part of the American experience of s’mores is the convenience of grabbing a box of crisp honey grahams, a pack of milk chocolate bars, and a plastic bag filled with pillowy marshmallows—the quintessential campfire trio. But what if you played with making one of those elements yourself? Homemade marshmallows are quite a revelation—more defined in flavor, especially if you use a good vanilla extract, not so cloyingly sweet, and more pleasingly dense than the machine-made fluff.  You can make your own graham crackers too, but we’ll save that for another summer day (or zip over to Food52 for a tutorial from dessert guru Alice Medrich.)

The simplest version of your own marshmallows will be your favorite (click here for my fave...)        

                                                                                                            marshmallow making photos: Dennis Becker

tackling an artichoke

Artichokes are one of the first seasonal foods I remember eating. Living in northern California, just a breath away from where artichokes filled the inland fields, made them abundantly available. Not the ultra-expensive luxury they are where I reside now, where ice-laden bins burst with gargantuan, spiny globes that cost as much as an appetizer in a good restaurant. But when I was in elementary school, and my family was living pretty frugally since my dad had gone back to college, we just ate local and seasonal. Because it was cheap, not trendy. And artichokes were never a luxury, just something to look forward to once the holidays were over. The labor intensity of eating a steamed 'choke never crossed my mind--they just were what they were. Whoever thought about eating what basically are thistles must have really been hungry. My mom never clipped the sharp "prickers" as my sister called them. Getting a few stabs was just part of the fun, a rocky stepping stone on the road to the heart of the matter. Dipping the ends of each leaf was also part of the fun--I guess the same kid-appeal of any finger food. Melted butter was always an option, but the number one choice at my house was a homemade dressing of Miracle Whip (never mayo) and ketchup. Pale coral in color, thick, rich & slightly sweet. In later years, once I was long gone from artichoke country, the food I craved when I was expecting my first child was an artichoke--steamed in a bit of wine and lemon juice. Consumed, leaf by leaf, with nothing at all, just the slightly tart flavor as my teeth pulled the ends off each one. And anticipating the prize at the center of it all--a tender heart, not to be shared. Though I was afraid my husband might die of heart failure before the baby was born since he ate nearly a stick of butter with each of his own artichokes.

Fresh from the fields of California

Roasted Baby Artichoke & Potato Salad (click for the recipe)                                                    photo: Dennis Becker

Homesick cooking school doodle.