Dosa the Good Times

 Have you seen the little piggies crawling in the dirt,
And for all the little piggies, life is getting worse.     George Harrison

In 1969, members of “The Manson Family” broke into a Beverley Hills mansion and murdered five people including the pregnant actress Sharon Tate. The killers stabbed their victims with knives and forks and then wrote the words “Pig” and “Piggy” on the walls with Tate’s blood, just as their leader Charles Manson believed the Beatle’s song “Piggies” instructed. While that brutal misinterpretation shocked America and sent songwriter George Harrison into a depression, it was not without precedent. The destinies of human and piggy kind have intermingled for several thousand years with consequences both beneficial and tragic.

Contrary by nature, pigs were the hardest of all livestock to domesticate – taking 2000 years longer than sheep. They were worth the wait. Since they don’t digest straw, grass or leaves, pigs never threatened crops like sheep and cows did. Because pigs enjoy the same foods as humans, they were practical once civilization began producing agriculture surpluses.

Human and piggy kind share much more than diet. During the famines of the Middle Ages, highwaymen infamously butchered travelers and sold their meat as “pork,” which is also what cannibal societies through the centuries said it most resembled. 19^th Amazon natives called human meat “two legged pig,” which is also what 20^th century feminists said it most resembled, though only the male species. Of all animals, pig’s milk is most like human’s milk, but we never drink it because it’s all needed by piglets, who are harder to wean than any other animal – except humans. Human and pig skin share so many genetic characteristics they are interchangeable in lab tests, explaining why human babies are more comforted by footballs than by other balls. Because of the similarities, surgeons have historically honed their skills on pigs and the most successful experiments with injecting human genes into animal sperm have been done on pig sperm. Which is good news because pigs are the best cloning candidates to grow organs that can be transplanted into humans without rejection.

Until recently, efforts to separate human and piggy kind have been futile. In the 12^th century, a Parisian pig tripped a horse, fracturing the skull of the king‘s son. A royal edict then forbid the raising of pigs in the city, but no one heeded this law for over 400 hundred years. Bacon trumped fear of a king’s wrath elsewhere too. Trying to control the pollution in 14^th century London, King Edward forbid slaughterhouses in the city. His edicts were ignored. Germans were more practical – pig sties were forbidden in Frankfurt front yards in the 15^th century, but not in backyards because pigs performed a vital function cleaning up human garbage. That’s why they were still a familiar sight in New York City streets through the Civil War.

Piggy kind thrived in America. Like pioneers, pigs were impervious to the hostile frontier. They even loved the hot humid climate of the South where their numbers grew so fast they became a common commodity for the first time, as humans took note. In 1720, William Byrd wrote that Virginians ate so much bacon and ham they became hoggish themselves, “prone to grunt rather than speak.”

In Iowa, pigs became the perfect complement to sustainable farming. Our fertile soil produced surplus grains, enough to sell and to feed to pigs, who then grew so fast they could be eaten and sold while still growing the herd. Railroads brought immigrants into Iowa and took hogs out. Carl Sandburg didn’t call Chicago “butcher of the nation’s hogs” for nothing. By the time pigs became literary stars — symbolic of both the best and worst of humankind in “Lord of the Flies” and “Animal Farm” — they were virtual barnyard dogs, man’s best (edible) friend. They kept his place clean, chased off predators and gave their all of flesh, blood and bone that he might live. O holy pig.

Then, in the last three decades, mankind betrayed his best friend – locking him up in confinements of filth and cruelty that would surely nauseate our farmer forefathers. Dispossessed of dear reason, pigs cursed us back with pollution, bacterial horrors and the sad recognition that we are no longer good stewards of our common DNA. Today a typical confinement hog produces six gallons of waste daily and a large hog confinement crams 100,000 pigs together — so tightly that they eat the tails off the pigs in front of them. Do the math and you have so much neurotic crap that it’s small wonder confinements begat brand new microbes deadly enough to kill a million a fish at once.

My grandfather, a good steward and Iowa pig farmer, liked to say “20th century, hell. I could pick a better century out of a hat blindfolded.” I think he’d get a kick out the 21st century.

 Heritage pigs are coming back and next Sunday, April 19 five of them will be the stars of Cochon555, a judged feast that five top Iowa chefs will prepare at Sticks (3631 SW 61st Street, Des Moines), for The Leukemia & Lymphoma Society: Iowa Chapter in honor of Will Krueger. Matt Steigerwald (Lincoln Cafe) , a transplanted Carolinian who worships pig meat, Tag Grandgeorge (Le Jardin), a charcuterie master, Bill Overdyck (Centro), who makes rillettes to die-for, Andrew Meek (Sage, soon to be at Sbrocco), a two time James Beard semifinalist and Jamie Monaghan (Embassy Club) will each use a whole hog and feed the audience.   

  “No beast is a cook.” James Boswell

In the heyday of the Enlightenment, James Boswell defined human beings as “the cooking animal.” He had to hide this thought though in unpublished footnotes. The prevailing intellectual dictatorship insisted on describing our species by more ennobling characteristics – like judgment, rationalism and the “passions of the mind.” Cooks had been the scourge of such elitists since classical time. By concluding that humankind distinguished itself from the rest of nature by the singular trait of transforming food with fire, Boswell rounded our species off by an all too common denominator. Cooking had probably been the primary occupation of half the people who had ever lived. So it was dismissed as the work of women, slaves and drudges.

But it wasn’t always that way. Six thousand years ago in Egypt, the world’s first chemist discovered that yeast, flour, water and heat created bread. That scientific breakthrough created civilization, freeing humans from the all-consuming quest of hunting and foraging for their food. Ancient Egyptians, Asians and Sumerians all treated cooks, and brewers, like royalty. It took some 2500 years before philosopher types began casting cooks in negative light. Socrates and Plato riled against them for distracting people from “nobler pursuits.” Not all philosophers agreed with them.

When Diogenes the Cynic chided Plato for going to Sicily, the epicurean capitol of the ancient world, Plato defended himself by proclaiming that, while there, he only ate raw foods and he always slept alone.
“Why then go to Sicily?,” Diogenes asked, cynically.

The western world has been ambivalent about cooks and cooking ever since. Today elitists will speed dial for hours in order to reserve a table, six months in advance, at restaurants where chefs like Thomas Keller or Ferran Adria perform S & M tricks on food. Yet the best selling cookbooks of the day all simplify entire meals to fit inside 30 minute time frames. While young food lovers will go $60,000 in debt to earn a degree from a top culinary college, the most popular restaurants in our suburbs are invariably flashy, corporate franchise templates that produce nothing creative from their kitchens. While farmers markets gain popularity, making more people aware of richer varieties of foods, the average American now “dines” more than once a day at a fast food joint. Yes, that’s once a day, not a week. And every year now colleges report that fewer students know how to cook anything at all.

So, summer is the time to reap new respect for cooks and cooking.

And for cooks, summer begins when it’s warm enough to light the smoker or the grill outdoors. No other season puts us so in touch with our foods. Today, thanks to the growing popularity of backyard grilling, more people cook in summer than during the other three seasons combined. The black dirt of Iowa still yields the bounty that made our state a magic word in 19^th century Europe and inspired many of our ancestors to cross oceans and mountains for the chance to grow food in it. Stemming from the not-so-distant days when we were a rural state, our summer cycle of fairs and festivals still celebrates our foods and our cooks. They have become the keepers of the hearth that nourishes the Egyptian miracle, the 6000 year old culture of cooking.

In summer we’re reminded that the caretakers of the culinary arts are not restricted to the kitchens of our better restaurants. While fine dining is not endangered, the more important art of preparing simple food with extraordinary skill is. As our “Living Legend” series and our “Fairs and Festivals” story point out, many twentieth century cooks tired of the hard work it took to practice that art, and they pawned it as soon as the Clarence Birdseyes, the Henry Boyardis and the Harlan Sanders of the 20^th century offered them convenient short cuts.

Today, the old art of simple food lovingly prepared is practiced mostly by non professionals. It can be glimpsed at barbecue competitions, county fair pickling contests and state fair bake offs. It is honored at food festivals like Old Threshers’ in Mount Pleasant, Houby Days in Cedar Rapids and the new Bacon Festival planned by Living History Farms and the Iowa Culinary Institute. But convenience has overwhelmed its practice at the restaurant level.

 Most Iowans can no longer distinguish how much better a freshly laid, free ranged hen’s egg tastes. Or that fresh food has so much more flavor than frozen, let alone canned or processed. And that nothing should ever be fried in anything that has been “hydrogenated.” Most of us have forgotten that only ripe fruit, high fat butter and pure rendered lard can make perfect pies. Or that it’s worth waking up at two o’clock in the morning, and again at 4 o‘clock, to check the embers and the temperature in your barbecue pit. Most of us don’t understand the rewards of driving a thousand miles to check out a superior source of chilies, or dry rub, or country ham. Or that it’s important to keep alive the debate whether steaks should be blotted with paper towels, rubbed with salt, or blown with a hair dryer – to insure the perfect sear.

During Iowa summer, such questions will be argued by those who care enough about that lost art of cooking simple things with love and expertise. So celebrates the people who have kept the faith – the extraordinary cooks of Iowa summer. Whether they be rising stars, competition circuit junkies or homemakers, they are all preserving knowledge too valuable to be lost. This is the season of Iowa cooks, from our backyard decks and our motorcycle night drive-ins to our most sophisticated new restaurant and most prestigious blue ribbon bake-off. Avail yourselves of the bounty.

Or, why then be in Iowa?

Jeremy Morrow is back.

 The chef-restaurateur has done as much as anyone to create a quality restaurant scene in Des Moines with Bistro 43, 43, Star Bar, Azalea and Zen. Too many cafés made him more of supervisor than a chef and burned him out. He tried selling insurance briefly before realizing he needed to cook. He does that again at Town Hall Tavern on Eighth Street in West Des Moines.

“I moved to Des Moines to open up Toscano’s for Jimmy Lynch. That was across the street then, where Skybox is now. So this represents the closing of a cycle for me,” Morrow said.

Eighth Street has also come full cycle. Lynch and Paul Trostel, the most influential Des Moines restaurateurs of the boomer generation, also began their careers there. Trostel moved on after opening Cork & Cleaver, but Lynch became the face of the street with Jimmy’s American Café, Cabo San Lucas, Toscano, Eighth Street Seafood and Pain Pane. For most of two decades, Eighth Street remained the hottest strip in town, even as the suburban zeitgeist sprawled west. By the new millennium, Eighth Street had lost its groove. Lynch retreated downtown and other places came and went, too fast — Danielle, Garcia’s, Fratello’s, Coaches Corner, Bordo’s. Piff.

In the last six months, Eighth Street turned a new corner. Tandoor reopened, better than ever, with talented chef Sheik Naseem as owner. Skybox Lounge opened last fall with Matt Pearson running a cutting edge (see Side Dishes) kitchen. It transcends the usual sports bar with sports car road rallies and tent parties for Kentucky Derby planned. Jimmie’s American Café and the remodeled Walnut Creek Inn now anchor a genuine restaurant hot zone, with four excellent cafés within half a block.

In a building that originally housed Happy Chef, Town Hall puts Morrow back where he is happiest. He remodeled the Sticks-created atmosphere of Cabo San Lucas, which had been undisturbed through three previous restaurants. Arty Mexican décor was sanded and painted in earth tones. It takes commitment to turn two thousand dollar tables into two hundred dollar tables. Similar commitment is shown to nouvelle cuisine, which sneaks onto a menu of American comfort foods. Beef tongue hash with frisee and fried egg, fried green tomatoes with mozzarella, buttermilk biscuits with ham gravy and shrimp and cheese grits all show off Morrow’s Tennessee roots. Blackened tofu with pesto and a “steak and eggs” dish that employs homemade pastrami with panko crusted eggs, show off his culinary edge.

They share a menu with eclectic comfort (every dish costs less than $15, the average dish is priced less than $10) foods. Pecan crusted fried chicken (an 8th Street icon), perfectly seared Angus burgers, Niman Ranch steaks and smothered Eden Farms pork chops comforted me with Old Iowa familiarity. Pozole (hominy stew) and pupusas comforted me with New Iowa staples. Chicken and waffles brought South Central Los Angeles comfort food to town.

Covered with excellent bourbon pan gravy, stuffed meat loaf had a spectacular crunchy crust plus melt-in-mouth stuffing of spinach and cheese. It was plated with good garlic, mashed potatoes and crisp onion rings. Ribs were not Jethro’s class yet. Mine had not been smoked long enough to produce a ring, nor to break apart with the hands. Too many dishes came with the same sides. French fries did not travel well on “to-go” orders, but homemade potato chips did. Slaw was dominated by sharp blue cheese.

Banana pecan bread pudding and fried apple pie (fresh apples in a puff pastry) were everything one expects from a top Southern chef. Chocolate pudding was for fans of heavy chocolate. One Food Dude tip — $13 chicken and waffles included a hind quarter of deep fried chicken with half a waffle pie. A fried chicken kid’s plate included the same chicken pieces with French fries instead of waffles, for just $6.

Colcannon Treats Potatoes and Cabbages to the Luxury of Butter and Cream

“Did you ever eat Colcannon, made from lovely pickled cream?

With the greens and scallions mingled like a picture in a dream…

Oh, wasn’t it the happy days when troubles we had not,

And our mothers made Colcannon in the little skillet pot?”    from an Irish folk song

My mother’s Irish family cooked so much colcannon on their O’Brien County farm that Mom resolved to never eat it again as an adult. However, when I tasted it, at age 40, it triggered inexplicable feelings of love and comfort so long forgotten it took two of Mom’s older sisters to explain them to me.

My aunts recalled that colcannon had been my first solid food and that my great grandmother spoon fed it to me in her rocker while I sat on her lap, a mere infant. Somehow, in the smithy of my tongue, she had forged a Celtic awe for potatoes and cabbages, butter and cream that could be lovingly summoned four decades later, by the taste of this most Irish of casseroles.

Great Grandma Kelly is long gone, as are all her children and all her grandchildren, but her colcannon is my touchstone to the underworld of my ancestors. Too humble for modern times, this dish has been forgotten by most Irish-Americans. I want my grandchildren to love it, but how can anyone get excited about the potatoes and cabbages they find in supermarkets today? The varieties of these foods have been limited to a boring few, usually the most cost efficient to a single purpose. Most potatoes are grown only to make reliable frozen French fries. Most American cabbages are bred for cole slaw that will be overwhelmed with imitation mayonnaise.

Slowly, like the repopulation of Ireland, these things are changing, as gardeners discover new worlds of possibility in potatoes and cabbages. Seed Savers Exchange in Decorah now has 650 varieties of potato in its collection, ranging from All Blues to creamy Yellow Carola’s and Cranberry Reds. They sell Early Jersey Wakefield cabbages that have been farmed in America since 1840, grow 15 inches tall and weigh four pounds. Their Mammoth Red Rocks have only been here 115 years, but they often weigh 7 pounds.

Every man in Iowa is an immigrant’s son who carries some inexplicable genetic craving for a lost taste his great grandmother hauled across oceans and mountains. In many cases, the particularity of their seeds were lost for a generation or two, but thanks to the seed savers of the world, and to distinct cravings that skip generations, they are retrievable.

With this in mind, I wandered the roads of Iowa the last two years looking for ingredients similar to what my ancestors might have found in Ireland, to prepare a colcannon that could make grandchildren smile. In Fairfield, I bought milk from Francis Thicke’s organic Radiance Dairy, where the cows graze outdoors all year, in tall grass and clover, and the milk is never homogenized. In Woodward, I found butter made at Pickett Fence Creamery, from cows that grazed all summer.

Erik Sessions, who farms organically north of Decorah, supplies many of that food-conscious town’s fine restaurants, plus the Oneonta Food Co-Op. We bought some of his fall cabbages and marveled at both their flavor and their storage value. Since Sessions is a neighbor of Seed Savers, we assumed his cabbages were heirlooms.

“Actually, with cabbage, I have found that the F1 hybrids are more uniform in performance, something that matters to my customers. The thing about cabbage flavor is luck and seasonal. The most flavorful cabbages are the ones that have experienced a couple of frosts in the Fall. The next best are the early Spring ones that have not experienced any hot weather.

Sessions told us that the cabbages that turned our head were a storage #4, which he plants for late harvest in the fall, and which will keep in the refrigerator all winter. His other favorite cabbages are the small conical “Arrowheads,” which are best in Spring, the Savoy Kilosas, and Super Red 80’s, which do well Spring through Fall.

Sessions starts his cabbage indoors in flats and advises at least 1 inch cells. He suggests heavy feeder, either compost of fertilizer, at the seed stage and again at transplant.

“At that time, flea beetles are the biggest problem for organic cabbage, so I put down hoops and lay floating row covers over them until the hot weather drives the beetles away. Then the white butterflies are laying eggs, so you need to watch for them, hand wipe them off before they become caterpillars or use a Bt spray, which is organic and targets the caterpillars.

Potatoes, the essence of colcannon, were the hardest thing to find. Seed Savers Exchange founder Diane Whealy told us, “We have a huge potato patch 25 to 30 varieties. I know there is a perfect potato for lefse, because the Norwegian population of Decorah has found it. It needs to be extremely dry. But I am not sure about Irish potatoes.”

We experimented with everything from fingerlings to Yukon golds and Inca blues, but nothing performed like nineteenth century Irish potatoes were supposed to — mashing effortlessly when steamed until their jackets crack.

Then we met Penny Brown Huber of Ankeny who grows an Irish heirloom potato first planted in America in 1917. Kerr’s Pink (available from Ronniger’s: (208) 267-7938; www.ronnigers.com) have snow white flesh despite their name. The texture is very fine-grained with round, light pink skin and delicate little red eyes. The Irish call this potato “floury,” referring to the performance we sought.

“I really like the yield of these potatoes,” Huber told us, adding that she tills her soil three times, the third time running a trench through the seed, which she then hills up.

“We always plant Easter weekend, no matter when Easter falls. That is an old farm tale I inherited. We usually take potatoes out in June and you can harvest these before the plant dies. People often think the plant has to die first, but that isn’t the case, especially if you want to harvest smaller potatoes,” she said.

A Brief History of Potatoes and Cabbage

Most closely related to tobacco and tomatoes, potatoes are weird. They have been cultivated, particularly in altitudes too high for corn, for over 4000 years. In France, they were shunned until Louis XVI began wearing potato flowers and encouraging his court to eat them. Before then, the French thought they caused leprosy. The Irish, British and Russians were more worried about starvation than leprosy, so they embraced potatoes like long lost kin.

Irish immigrants brought potatoes to New England in 1719. Though they grew wild from the southern part of the USA to the tip of Chile, they did not become a commercial crop here until recently.

Cabbage comes from a family that includes: kale, Brussels sprouts, cauliflower, kohlrabi, and broccoli. The original wild cabbages came from the Mediterranean seaboard, a sunny, salty, rocky clime not unlike a desert. Hence the plant developed cactus-like qualities, learning to retain water in its leaves. Its waxy cuticles and thick leaves became Darwinian success stories.

After Romans brought cabbage to Britain, they proved to be as adaptable to cold climates as to hot, rocky ones. They thrived in Europe’s Middle Ages, when a head could keep a family alive for weeks. In China, two popular species developed: the oblong Chinese cabbage and the non-heading bok choy. When the Mongol hordes taught Europeans how to pickle it, sauerkraut was born and sausage found its soul mate.

Why It’s Eaten on St. Patrick’s Day?

Romans brought cabbage to Ireland as if summoned by modern St. Patrick’s Day revelers. Cato wrote this about it:

“If, at a banquet, you wish to dine a lot and enjoy your dinner, then eat as much cabbage as you wish, seasoned with vinegar before dinner, and likewise after dinner some half dozen leaves. It will make you feel as if you had not eaten and you can then drink as much as you like.”

O’Brien County Colcannon

Serves 8.

Originally called kale-cannon, this 400 year old dish is the highest form of potato worship in the Irish kitchen. It mixes potato and cabbage with copious amounts of fresh butter and cream. Ham and scallions are usually added.

1 head green cabbage, chopped

4 pounds potatoes suitable for mashing

1 cup cream, or whole milk

A quarter pound unsalted butter

Half pound of ham, or corned beef

4 scallions, chopped finely

Sea salt and fresh cracked pepper

Wash potatoes and cover in a pot of cold salted water. Bring to a boil. Then tip off two thirds of the water and allow potatoes to steam till the skins break. Mash (peeled or not) with butter and cream, plus sea salt and fresh cracked pepper.

Steam cabbage separately, draining when it gets soft. Stir cabbage, scallions and meat into potatoes. Make a well in center and add more butter

The Cathedral of Whiskey & BBQ

Anyone who has looked at their dramatic black and white logo knows Jack Daniels Distillery is in Lynchburg, Tennessee. Who the hell though really knows where Lynchburg is? The tiny town is far enough from Nashville that I had to break one cardinal rule of travel - I left my hotel too early for the complimentary, club level breakfast.  

Two and a half hours later I discovered that Lynchburg is a delightful little burg whose soul reason for being is to welcome the pilgrims to Jack Daniels. The whiskey distillery is set in hills so tall you can see Alabama. Every Fall, this is the final stop on the competition BBQ circuit. So it’s a holy cathedral to devotees of the American food culture.

Our tour guide was marvelously named Morgan Stillman. He told us he as a former farmer and dedicated whiskey drinker.

“You got to have whiskey in a small town cuz that’s all we got to make the time go by,” he explained.

Ironically, Lynchburg is in a dry county, liquor has not been legal here since 1909, and yet, all kinds of concessions have to be made because of the economic impact of the distillery.

Morgan reminds us, “This place pays $13 million a year in federal taxes, let alone other taxes,” as we watch charcoal being made in a huge bon fire of stacked maple logs. The fire was started fire with 140 proof whiskey which elicited a few EPA jokes from our docent.

Morgan shows us: a 1919 fire engine, “We got modern equipment, but we ain’t used it;”

And the house that Jack built, “They must a been pretty lit when they built it cuz it leans to the left pretty bad.”

Jack Daniels was a 61-year-old bachelor when he died. Jess Motlow and his sons then took the company to international prominence. All together, there have only been six master distillers, and all came from within 6 miles of the distillery, all but two from within 2 miles.

Morgan tells us that since it’s the first Friday of the month, all employees get free whiskey.

Tip # 2: Every Friday, between May 1 and October 1, the distillery hosts a mountain top BBQ, with hickory smoked pork shoulder, chicken and all the usual trappings of Q, including live music. The pavilion is a huge open air venue with unbelievable views. The Q is pretty darn good too, so good in fact that we talked them into sharing a few recipes from the “little lunch” we had there.

While celebrating the joys of pig butt, I asked Morgan:

“Why is the whiskey called Old # 7?”

“My theory is it was probably the maximum number of girl friends Jack kept at any one time.”

After lunch we watched the six day fermentation process, in 40,000 gallons stills. We visited the barrel aging room, “where whiskey gets its color, not flavor.”

“Each barrel pays $13.50 in federal tax,” we heard, surmising that Morgan doesn’t much care for taxes.

After fermentation, the grain mash is recycled to local cattle. “The cows are famously happy in these parts. Keeps ‘em from kickin’,” Morgan explained.

Finally we saw the mellowing room where the whiskey is filtered, through the charcoal we saw being made earlier. In the case of Gentleman Jack, it is twice filtered.

“The difference between bourbon and Tennessee whiskey is filtering in charcoal.”

A British tour group was excited to hear that master distiller Jimmy Bedford had been sited on the property, They were told that his autograph on a Gentleman Jack or single barrel bottle was worth $400 on E Bay. It’s legal to buy whiskey here, just not to drink it in public, I think.

Single barrels are for sale, too, 53 gallons for $9,000. “Only $7,500 in states without so many taxes,” Morgan reminded us.

We were told that George Strait had just been here to pick out his annual barrel for aging. I settled for a bottle of Gentleman Jack with Mr. Bedford’s autograph. I have no intention of selling it on E Bay.

Geology & Whiskey

After the 1792 Whiskey Rebellion in Pennsylvania, many Irish and Scottish settlers came looking for respite from federal tax collectors. Those rebels had a tradition of distilling rye whiskey, but the Kentucky climate was too hot and humid for that grain.

In the bluegrass area, they discovered a divine coincidence of geology and weather — perfect for making whiskey. The limestone soil was ideal for growing corn, a rebel grain at a time when wheat was the grain of sophisticates and international trade, and when rye was the poor man’s wheat. Plus the limestone-enriched water was superior for distilling spirits.

Note: whiskey is spelled with an “e” in Ireland, but without an “e” in the United Kingdom and Canada. Probably because sons of Eire predominated in Kentucky, bourbons use the Irish spelling because my grand mothers were Irish.

Today’s Bourbon Trail extends 80 miles southeast of Lexington and is home to 17 distilleries. The name predates statehood; several present counties of Kentucky were in Bourbon County, Virginia. Most bourbon is made with 70 % corn, though only 51 % is required. Bourbon also must be aged in charred oak barrels for at least two years. I visited two distillers who make super premium products.

Buffalo Trace

In Frankfurt, Buffalo Trace Distillery hugs the banks of the Kentucky River. Originally named Old Fired Copper, they have been making bourbon here continually since 1787. (During Prohibition, they wrangled a special permit to make whiskey “for medicinal purposes.”) The grounds encompass 119 acres and 114 buildings dating to 1881.

They offer tours six days a week, year round. Among their distinctions, they were the first distiller to ship whiskey down the Mississippi River, to use steam power for distilling and to heat warehouses. They are currently the only distiller: to use five whiskey recipes; to create vodka from organic corn; and to have a computer-free still house.

After repeal of Prohibition, Albert Blanton began producing single-barrel bourbon for himself and his friends. In 1984 the distillery became the first to commercially market single-barrel bourbons. They changed their name in 1999 because the site was once a major crossing for migrating buffalo. When renamed, they introduced their super premium Buffalo Trace Kentucky straight bourbon.

Approximately 30-35 barrels of aged whiskey are selected from the middle floors of three warehouses. If anyone on their tasting panel rejects a sample, the barrel is voted off the island. Only 25 to 30 barrels are chosen. The others become Blanton’s, W. L. Weller, Old Charter and Eagle Rare

Buffalo Trace also distills an organic corn vodka.

When I visited, a tornado had taken the roof and wall off the warehouse, but not a single drop was spilled from the massive wooden beam old-aging home. Our tour guide told us that the grain leftover from the whiskey making process is so valued by cattlemen that it sells for more than the original cost of the grain!

“That works out great for everyone but the pigs. We used to just give it away to local hog farmers,” he remarked.

Woodford Reserve

In the middle of the horse country near Versailles, Woodford Reserve spreads out like a centerfold for Southern Culture. The buildings, built by Irish and Scottish stonemasons, rise from a creek hewn valley while a thoroughbred-in-residence gallops

the hills.

His name tops anything else that could be written about the place — Distill My Heart.

This is the only distillery in America that still uses the three copper pot method, with sweet Kentucky (limestone filtered) water from deep wells. Copper stills are the best conductors of heat and are also malleable enough for gooseneck tops, which helps in distillation, and for purification.

Copper is slow though, so only a small distiller can use it. Woodford Reserve is the slowest, oldest and smallest in USA. At peak times, it produces 105 barrels of whiskey a week. By contrast, Jack Daniels produces 2100 barrels a day.

“They joke that they spill more whiskey than we make,” said David Scheurich, plant manager. David told Wro that the best of each batch of whiskey is called “honey pot” and that Woodford Reserve uses cypress plank in their vats, not stainless steel like most of the industry.

A little history — Kentucky was a border state in corn as well as slavery. Boone County White was the secret to old fashioned southern cornbread. It reigned from Tennessee south. Hardier Flint was ubiquitous north of the Ohio River. In rebel fashion, bourbon corn was different. The modern corn that most resembles the original Kentucky bourbon corn is #1 Yellow. David said that’s the only corn used in Woodford Reserve.

It’s grown on contract by a single farmer who lives a few miles away. No other corn is grown in the area, so nothing can cross pollinate the GMO-free crop. Three tanks graduate the alcohol content from beer to wine to whiskey levels (15% to 22% to 80 % alcohol respectively). Wro was told that Ronald Reagan is still a hero here — for getting rid of the cumbersome tax process, still symbolized by now-decorative double padlocks.

Woodford Reserve also has their own cooperage and is thus the only whiskey maker that chars the heads of their barrels, where 30 % of the surface lays. Their stone aging warehouse is also unique. But, the real distinction of Woodford Reserve, at least from a foodie’s perspective, is the magical way they use whiskey in their kitchen.

Terrace brunches here, during warm weather months, feature the work of chef-in-residence David Larson, mentor to the fresh and local food movement that has elevated Lexington cuisine

Like other bluegrass chefs from the fresh-and-local school of thought, Larson features much more local product than whiskey — Blue Moon garlic, John Medley’s free range pork, Judy Schad’s goat milk cheese and Bill Best’s heirloom produce on the day of our visit. Larson laughed about how he came to be resident chef to the distillery.

“I delivered two box lunches and never left,” he said. “I was dragged kicking and screaming into cooking with bourbon. But people now treat super premium like they do fine wine, and I have to believe that Woodford Reserve is the best of the batch. I taste tobacco and leather in it.”

As he prepped his way through a delightful, whiskey flavored lunch, Larson dispatched tips and insights. Here are three shots worth:

~ I used to think it was only good in sweet applications, but I learned that it’s a catalyst to flavor. I think this whiskey is similar to cinnamon in that it takes flavors literally all over your tongue;

~ Grilling chicken over whiskey barrels is similar to aging whiskey. You are caramelizing sugars;

~ I always add Woodford Reserve to Béchamel (white sauce). I think it brings out umami (Japanese word for the fifth savory taste), the flavor of glutamates.

Makeovers Are the Hot New Thing

Whiskey has always shown symptoms of bipolarism. In Ireland, where it originated, it was spelled it with an “e.” Since the first whiskey makers in America were mostly Irish, both bourbon and Tennessee whiskeys are spelled that way too. But Scots spelled it without an “e,” and Canadians followed their lead. So, American and Irish whiskeys are spelled differently than Scotch and Canadian whiskies.

Until recently, the spirit’s complicated personality was easy to understand. Unlike vodka and gin, whisky never compromised its mature products with gimmicky flavors. Scotch was either single malt or blended and its distinctions were as clear as its vintage. Most single malt varieties came from barrels that had been aged 10, 15 or 20 years. Now 21^st century drinkers have to cope with mysterious “3D” labels. These blend three different vintages of scotch, but distillers don’t reveal how old any of them are. What’s that about?

By law, scotch malts must be dried by peat-fired kilns, creating more smoky flavor than American whiskeys have. Some scotches develop smokiness with age, others do the opposite. When deep smoky flavor became popular, Bruichladdich tried to cheat the fashion curve by blending older single malt vintages with younger, smokier ones. Then other scotch makers began adding flavors, pouring aged whisky into barrels previously used to age wines — port, sauternes, tokaji, burgundy, Madeira and Malaga. Cognac barrels were briefly used, but that proved a disaster. After vintage single malt scotches began selling for more than $5,000 a bottle on the internet, some distilleries began reproducing “replica” scotches. That pretty much ended after it was discovered replicas were based on clever forgeries.

The new strategies were leveraged by debt, as big international corporations bought many centuries-old family distilleries. They needed income growth, which meant new products. Bruichladdich now plans to bring out a whole new line of aged single malt whiskies annually. Other than Glenlivet, few Scottish distilleries are holding the line on the traditional methods of aging. So some serious scotch drinkers in America are switching to single barrel bourbons like Elijah Craig or Blanton’s, and to Tennessee whiskies like George Dickle and Jack Daniels. Former Iowan Fritz Maytag’s Old Potrero has even revived the 18^th century art of single malt rye whiskey.

But for the most part, the new business strategy is working. In an age when fashion changes seasonally, distilleries can’t afford to wait 10 years to discover if their timing synchronizes with consumer taste. Compromised premium scotches have prospered the trend-driven American market. Sales of single malt scotch grew 19 % last year, making that one of the fastest growing segments of the $ 45 billion a year spirit industry. Premium whiskey is reclaiming liquor store shelf space lost to vodka and gin during the martini craze, which analysts say has finally peaked.

Whiskey Law

Scotch must be made in Scotland from 100 % barley that is dried by peat-fueled kilns and aged in wood casks at least 3 years. (Whiskey loses 2 % of its volume each year of aging, known as the “angels’ share.”)

Bourbon must be made from at least 51 % corn and aged in charred white oak casks to a maximum of 125 proof.

Tennessee whiskey must be filtered through ten feet of sugar maple charcoal prior to aging.

Rye whiskey must be made from at least 51 % rye.

Irish whiskey must be distilled in Ireland or Northern Ireland and aged in wood a minimum of 3 years.

The Lily of Duality

From the moment its first white tips peak out from their underground home, asparagus lives a double life. It is the first vegetable of Iowa spring, sprouting with the crocuses. Yet, it is now available year round. In the last 15 years, the percentage of home grown asparagus in American supermarkets dropped from 70% to 35%.

Asparagus is a lily that has grown wild for thousands of years, so much so that no one knows where it originated. It still grows wild in many parts of America, thriving along riverbanks and lake shores. The Ancient Greeks foraged for it, like we hunt that other great harbinger of Iowa Spring - the morel. By 200 B.C. though, Romans cultivated asparagus and noticed its most distinctive duality.

While nearly all flowering vegetables bear both stamens and pistils (male and female cells) on the same plant, asparagus has plants of different sexualities. About half have only staminate flowers; the others only pistillate flowers. Both kinds must be grown near each other if seeds are to be obtained.

Our asparagus eating habits also have a duplcitous nature. There are just two types of asparagus to choose from, though either can be grown from the same plant. White asparagus, the favorite of Europe and particularly of Germany, is protected in the field from sunlight by reflective tarps. Green asparagus, the American choice and dominant variety of Iowa, is never covered, so that sunlight turns the spears green with chlorophyll.

Similarly, about half of us prefer thin spears, which grow later off a plant. The rest of us, particularly serious chefs, insist on thick spears, the early bloomers and those often from pistillate plants. The only drawback to the thicker spears is that parts of them need to be peeled.

Even the nutrition of asparagus is two faced. It is high in folic acid and a good source of potassium, fiber, vitamin B6, vitamins A and C, and thiamin. It has no fat, nor cholesterol and is low in sodium. A half cup of raw asparagus has only 15 calories. However, if you cook it, the calories increase by half again that number, as the protein increases when heated.

Asparagus loses quality very rapidly after harvest; sugar content declines and the amount of fibrous material increases. Hence there are two methods of picking it. The woody lower stems of imported supermarket asparagus retard the spoilage, but must be cut a couple inches under ground level. If you pick the plant to eat it within a two days, just snap it off above ground, and eat the entire spear.

Iowa’s Best

In Germany, the white asparagus of Beelitz has a legendary reputation. The French prize that of Argenteuil near Paris, and from Villelaure in Provence. Italians cherish the spears of Bassano del Grappa and the English argue between those of Sussex and St. Enodoc. Iowans who bother distinguishing among asparaguses, are partial to that grown near Fraser, in Boone County.

Each Spring, the Greg and Polly Rinehart Family sells fresh organic asparagus at farmers markets in Des Moines and Ames, and to some of the best restaurants in Ames. Greg Rinehart told us that asparagus is one of the fastest growing foods in the world.

“We have a 4 acre field of asparagus, it’s 20 years old now. We pick asparagus daily because it can grow an inch an hour at 70 degrees Fahrenheit. So you can get 12-14 inches of growth overnight during a week. As the season progresses the milk weed hides the asparagus,” he said.

Greg gave growers these tips:

“Plant in full sun and well drained soil. Mow it over in Summer and burn it off in the Spring to stimulate growth. We grow organic asparagus, but we have 10 kids, 7 of them still living at home, so we can pick daily and weed too. It takes three years after planting before you can pick anything and four years before you have a real harvest,” he offered.

“Later in the season, to reproduce itself, the plant puts out more ferns than stalks, so you have to pick around the ferns,’ explained Polly.

“We hand weed a lot,” added Greg.

Elizabeth Rinehart, 9 at the time this was written, put asparagus harvesting in perspective.

“It sort of peaks out of ground and you just snap it off. It’s not as easy as peas though, peas are the easiest because you don’t have to get your hand dirty,” she revealed.

In other parts of Iowa, asparagus growers prefer chemicals to hand weeding. Jean and Nathan “Mac” McCrary have a large 7 year old bed in Shenandoah. Mac advises burning down the bed and disking it, which turns the soil without plowing it, before applying weed killer in autumn.

“Then, hope it rains soon after that. If it waits too long to rain, your crop will be done for by May, instead of June,” he explained.

Mac told us his favorite method of cooking asparagus is to cut it in 1 to 2 inch pieces and microwave it for about 2 minutes, then butter, salt and pepper it.

The Quest for Madame Pompadour’s Soup

With the perfect climate for asparagus, as well as some good dairy farms, Iowa should be the epicenter for that legendary soup, cream of asparagus. We went to half the corners of the state to visit with three of its best chefs, with different takes on the soup that Madame Pompadour used as a love stimulant.

Just off the square in Shenandoah, “The Sanctuary” describes itself as “Lunch, Desserts, Coffee, Gifts, Interior Design and Landscaping.” When Jim and Lucy Clark bought this 100 year old church and Christian Science reading room, they opened as a gift shop with their offices under the stained glass windows. Then they added a few home made food items and “Now days, I don’t even do much interior design work,” admitted Lucy.

“We don’t really have a chef, instead we have about six of us who cook,” explained cook Annette Beason, who gave us her word of mouth recipe for her fresh asparagus soup.

“I don’t write things down or really measure things either, I cook the way my grandmother did. Begin with fresh asparagus, we get ours from Jean McCrary, who has a huge patch in Shenandoah and brings us about five pounds at a time. I cook about 2 quarts of cut up asparagus in a quart of chicken stock, for five minutes. Then I add a quart of 2 % milk mixed with Half & Half and stir in my roux. (The roux is made by melting butter and white flour in equal amounts and browning the mixture.) You just add enough till it thickens.”

In the opposite corner of southern Iowa, Martha Wolf and Sue Saunders began selling their baked goods out of their home kitchen in Fort Madison, as a way to cope with divorces.

“It was a glorified bake sale at first, and probably as much therapy for Sue and me as anything else,” explained Wolf.

By the end of 1995 they moved into a 100 year old building on 7^th Street and opened the Ivy Bake Shop, which now draws three fourths of its business from out of town. A chalkboard menu, a screened-in porch with river views, tin ceilings, oak floors and lots of brass create a 19^th century wistfulness. So does their “pure butter and cream baking,” which sacrifices shelf life for the deep flavors of yesteryear. Wolf told us that they use spring asparagus in spinach salads and quiches, but their favorite treatments are the simplest.

“Just bake them lightly and serve naked, or with dip.” she said.

She believes that asparagus soup needs some weight.

“We start simmering the asparagus in a mostly vegetable stock, with some chicken stock. Puree the mixture as soon as the asparagus is hot. This is the Ivy Bake Shop, so we add heavy cream and thicken the soup with a roux.”

Joel Lopez of Des Moines prefers a classical French asparagus soup with the most fresh and local slant in Iowa.

“I cook to order on the run, like a short order cook. So I always have a beurre manie ready,” he told us as he kneaded equal quantities of the ultra rich butter from Pickett Fence Creamery in Woodward with organic flour from Paul’s Grains in Laurel.

“Use fresh picked asparagus and snap it off above the ground. You can taste the difference between fresh picked and day old. So use the freshest asparagus you can find. I make my soup by sautéing shallots, garlic and onions in oil, then just barely browning the beurre manie, while simmering cut asparagus, without the tips, in chicken stock, about ten minutes. Then blend the asparagus and stock, and fold it into Pickett Fence’s (un-homogenized, antibiotic and hormone-free) cream, in the top of a double boiler. Stir in the sautéed vegetables and the beurre manie until it thickens. Add some asparagus tips when you serve it,” Lopez explained.

Ivy Bake Shop’s Asparagus Spears with Tomato Basil Dip

Asparagus

4 pounds asparagus, stalks peeled and rubbed in olive oil

Sea salt and lemon pepper

Dip

1 cup mayonaise

Half cup sour cream

2 Tablespoons tomato paste

Juice from half a lemon

Half a cup of chopped fresh basil

Bake asparagus in 350 degree oven for 8 – 10 minutes, making sure they are still stiff.

Blend the mayo, sour cream, tomato paste, lemon juice and basil

Serve spears with the sauce on side for dipping.

Food of Love?

Before asparagus was used for food, it had quite a reputation as a medicine for the prevention of bee stings to heart trouble, dropsy, toothache and, particularly, as a sexual stimulant.

~ A 16th century Arabian love manual gave an asparagus recipe.

~Jacob Boehme developed the “Doctrine of Signatures,” in the 1600’s. Supported by Paracelsus, the father of chemistry, this philosophy believed that God made herbs and plants resemble those parts of the human anatomy they were intended to aid. Hence, the phallic asparagus was the Viagra of the Age of Reason.

~In 18th Century France, Madame Pompadour ordered asparagus soup for sexual vigor.

~In his book “Food,” Waverley Root devoted a entire section to the sex life of the asparagus.

~Casanova, Rasputin and Princess Diana were reported to believe in sexual properties of asparagus.

Planting Tip

Asparagus is best grown from 1-year-old plants or “crowns” planted in January or February. Crowns grow from seed planted in flats or peat cups in October, for January transplanting, or they are transplanted from an existing asparagus bed. To get healthy, vigorous plants, buy 1-year-old crowns from a nursery or garden center, or order them from a seed catalog. It takes 1 year to grow a good crown.

Products and Cafés in This Story

Ivy’s Bake Shoppe, 622 7^th St., For Madison, 319-372-9939, www.ivybakeshoppe.com

The Sanctuary, 207 South Elm, Shenandoah, 712-246-5766

Rosario’s and R.C.’s Catering, 2002 Woodland Ave., Des Moines, 515-327-0475.

Paul’s Grains, 2475 340th St Ste B, Laurel (www.paulsgrains.com) 641-476-3373

Pickett Fence Creamery, 1447 S, Woodward, 515- 438-2538

“Seeing is deceiving.  It’s eating that’s believing.” James Thurber

Grandpa could never say no to my grandmother, so he sold his O’Brien County farm during the Great Depression and bought a motel in more cosmopolitan Ames. A piece of his heart remained on his farm though, at least until he returned many years later. On that bitter homecoming, everywhere Grandpa looked he saw that corn and beans had over run all other crops. “Like weeds from Hell,” he said.

“Where’s my apple orchard? My strawberry patches? My grape vines? Where are my potatoes?” He asked those questions many times during his remaining years, even in the hospital as he lay dying.

In the modern Iowa of GMO’s (genetically modified organisms) and livestock confinements, Grandpa could drive from Ames to Spencer without ever seeing a pig, a cow or a pasture. He joked about the 20th century, saying ” I could pick a better century out of a hat blindfolded.” So I laugh, and cry a little, now imagining what he might say about 21^st century agriculture.

Hopefully, that is changing, slowly.

Iowa’s food identity is in transition again. Grapes are back, so much so that the Des Moines Wine Festival is a totally sold out series of events, and a bona fide tourist attraction. So are two state vineyards that hosted 25,000 visitors last year. In the last ten years Iowa farmers discovered grapes were a hedge against the tyranny of corn and bean prices. Farmers also rediscovered environmental advantages: Grapes prevent erosion.

An herbicide lethal to grapes helped chase that crop from Iowa in the late 1930‘s, when this was a top five grape state. Ironically fear of the same technology that created 2-4D has helped return diversity to Iowa agriculture.

For four thousand years farming was a self sustaining labor. Farmers saved enough seeds from harvest to plant the next two Springs. Man and beast provided labor, God provided sun and rain and the cycle perpetuated itself, feeding the people and their animals.

That changed before Grandpa died, with Iowa at ground zero. A technological revolution created hybrid seeds, pesticides, herbicides and machines that now lay 32 rows of seed simultaneously. The number of American farmers declined and the size of farms rose dramatically. Iowa’s rural population peaked in 1870 and, except for a brief blip in the Depression, it has been in constant free fall ever since then. Between 1900 and 2000, the average farm in America went from 147 acres to 435.

Such numbers added up to craziness, with big mortgages on all the extra land and modern technology that Big Ag required. Industrial farming became so efficient that the laws of supply and demand drove prices into the dirt, until huge government subsidies propped them up. Farmers needed to pay off those mortgages so they could produce more food than all the people and livestock in America could eat or buy. Most farmers took outside jobs. Over 90% of farm household incomes now come from outside jobs, the most in history.

Most folks were oblivious of this insanity until food started tasting bad and poisoning people. New diseases like e coli sprouted within the new food system. A counterrevolution began slowly, and again in Iowa. Dick Thompson of Boone founded Practical Farmers and farmers like Wayne Paul converted.

“All those chemicals, that didn‘t seem like God‘s work,” the organic grain farmer and miller from Laurel told us, explaining his 1970’s conversion to organic farming.

Because of the popularization of farmers markets and chefs who believe in fresh and local foods, small sustainable farms made a comeback in Iowa this decade, leading to a new diversity of crops like those Grandpa raised. They also created a new efficiency – the smallest U.S. farms (under 27 acres) have more than ten times greater dollar output per acre than larger farms!

If sustainable farming is God’s work, then the sterile seeds of patented GMO’s are the devil’s. It’s a much repeated political myth that GMO’s can exist side by side with organic crops, a belly laugh of a myth in a state where the main crop is corn, the super slut of the plant kingdom whose windblown seed has bastardized the DNA of pure bred crops as far away as Oaxaca.

This devil is in the details. If an old school farmer can not save and replant his own seed, as his fathers since Abraham did, then agriculture is no longer the work of the Lord’s children but just an impersonal business of corporate lawyers and their lackey legislators. And we will all soon be asking,

“Where are my apples, my strawberries, my grapes?”