Roast Pumpkin Seeds

A lil' bowl of roasted pumpkin seedsRoast pumpkinseeds are a very rustic North American snack.  While pumpkin seeds are relished in several far flung parts of the world, including central America (pepitas) and Austria (kurbiskern), I think ours is the only civilization that eats pumpkinseeds in their shell.  Pumpkinseed shells are woody.  Frankly they are just barely edible, and certainly not digestible.

But I do like them.  Lengthy chewing promotes contemplation.  Rumination, even.

And though you can eat pumpkins throughout the fall and winter and into early spring, growing up I only ever ate roast pumpkin seeds at Hallowe’en.

A nifty trick for separating the seeds from the stringy pumpkin guts: throw the whole mess in a large pot of water.  If you rub the mass between your hands, you loose the pumpkin flesh from the seeds, which float to the top and can be easily skimmed off.  Dry them on a bake sheet lined with paper towel overnight.

Toss with oil.  Over the years I’ve flipped and flopped between oven-baking and pan-frying.  Certainly the oven is more gentle: it takes longer, but browns the seeds more evenly.  Pan-frying is more aggressive, and quick.  Right now I’m leaning towards pan-frying.

Traditionally salt and sugar and nothing else.  Paprika might be good, too.

Happy Hallowe’en.

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Blunz’n – Austrian Blood Sausage

A healthy portion of Blunz'n at an Austrian heurigerWhen I first had Blunz’n at a tavern in Austria I had a very narrow idea of what blood sausage was.  Most of the blood sausage I had eaten before this moment I had made myself, following recipes in Ruhlman’s Charcuterie and the Au Pied de Cochon cookbook.  These versions are simply pork blood studded with cubes of pork fat and onion.  The Austrian Blunz’n before me was radically different: it was soft and moist, but closer in texture to a dumpling then boudin noir, and it was burgundy, not black.

Before I left Austria I got a Blunz’n recipe from one of my chaperones.  I read through the recipe and thought there must have been some kind of miscommunication, as the ingredients list include “cracklings” and “pig head”.

Since then I have done a bit of reading, and Blunz’n is actually one incarnation of a broad style of blood sausages, variously called pressack, boudin, and so on.  What is distinctive about this style is the inclusion of cooked meat and skin, usually from the head and trotters of the pig, that are ground or pulled and mixed into the sausage filling.  The meat adds flavour and texture, and the skin a healthy dose of gelatin that helps to bind the interior.  This is the “crackling” that was in my recipe that I found so confusing: not the crispy pig skin that North Americans are familiar with, but soft, poached pig skin.

While the meat and skin from the head are traditional, truthfully any fatty, slow-cooked meat can be used.  One of the best blood sausages I ever had was made from leftover corned beef and beef blood.

Some manner of starch is added to the meat and skin, the exact ingredients varying widely from region to region and from house to house.  Whole grains like barley and buckwheat are common.  I was told that in Hungary they use rice.  Where I was staying, in the grenzland between Lower Austria and Styria, they use stale bread.

Everything is combined and run through a grinder.  The nexus of protein and starch, a strange but comforting unity of meat and dumpling.

 

Blunz’n – Austrian Blood Sausage – The Skeleton of a Recipe

  • 1 part minced, sauteed onion
  • 1 part bread
  • 1 part pork stock or milk
  • 3 parts cooked, chilled meat and skin
  • 1 part pork blood
  • salt and spices to taste

General Procedure

  1. Soak the bread in the stock or milk.
  2. Combine the soaked bread, onion, meat and skin and grind through a 1/4″ plate.
  3. Stir in blood to achieve a mashed potato consistency.
  4. Stuff the mixture into a broad casing (2-3″ in diameter) and poach gently to an internal temperature about 72°C.
  5. Let chill overnight before cutting.

Homemade blunz'n, Austrian blood sausage

 

 

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Fritters: A Short Endorsement

Pan-frying corn frittersA simple definition.  Fritters are made from a simple batter that is garnished with meat or vegetables or fruit and then fried, either in a pan or deep-fryer.  They can be sweet or savoury.

Why you should care about fritters.  Fritters are an important preparation to master for the following reasons: you almost always have the ingredients needed to make them; they fry up quickly; and they are a fantastic way to use leftovers, whether it’s meat like ground beef or ham, or sautéed vegetables, or cheese.

The fritter continuum.  The degree to which the batter or the interior garnishes dominate varies widely.  Let’s explore the two ends of the Fritter Continuum using corn fritters.

You can make a corn fritter by taking the kernels from one ear of corn and stirring in an egg, a tablespoon each of flour and cornmeal, and a pinch of salt.  This will make a fritter that is mostly comprised of fresh corn, barely held together by egg and starch.  This fritter is relatively dense, and gives the eater the satisfaction of popping several kernels of corn in one bite.  This style of fritter is typically pan-fried or griddled.  It is pictured above.

Corn fritters and saladOn the other hand, you could make a batter by stirring together a cup of flour, two tablespoons of baking powder, a cup of milk, a couple eggs, then fold some corn kernels into the batter.  This would make a light, doughy fritter studded with yellow kernels of corn.  This style of fritter is usually deep-fried.  At right.

The next time you are craving bar food, if you have eggs in your fridge and flour in your pantry, consider fritters.

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On the Flavour of Rhubarb

One day I was bored so I made this drawing:

Rhubarb flavour webIt contains some thoughts on the flavour of rhubarb, with the intent of deepening our appreciation of the plant, and broadening its culinary application.

Rhubarb is almost always cooked with a sweetener to balance the sharp acidity of the plant.  Brown sugar deserves special mention.  Honey also works well, which has me wondering if Sauternes would pair well with a rhubarb dish.

Most forms of dairy, whether sweet or cultured, pair well with rhubarb.  Rich dairy tempers the acidity of rhubarb.  Ice cream is especially good at this.  Salty dairy like aged cheddar can be a good counterpoint to rhubarb’s bright acidity.

Eggs work surprisingly well with rhubarb.  Picture a poached egg served on a bed of dandelion greens dressed with rhubarb vinaigrette.  Once again we have a rich, fatty substance (the egg yolk) tempering the acidity.  The subtle sulfur taste of eggs matches rhubarb somehow, too.

Where eggs and dairy meet there is custard.  Custard is a near perfect partner for rhubarb, especially when made with lots of butter and flavoured with vanilla.

We’ve all had rhubarb crumble, which suggests that rhubarb goes well with grains like wheat and oats.  I often add cold-pressed canola to my crumbles to reinforce the natural grassy taste of the oats.  The next time you have a chance to eat raw rhubarb, see if you can pick up its distinctive vegetal flavour.  This “green” component completely dissipates with cooking, but I imagine there are ways to bring it back.  Picture steaming a ham with generous fistfuls of clover and alfalfa, then eating the meat with rhubarb jam.

Nuts, another common ingredient in crumbles, go well with rhubarb.  Spices, too.  A piece of cinnamon is most welcome in stewed rhubarb.  My grandma’s rhubarb relish was infused with cinnamon, clove, allspice, and black pepper.  Ginger is a classical partner for rhubarb in the United Kingdom, usually in the form of rhubarb ginger jelly.  And we’ve already mentioned vanilla, especially in custards and creams.

I don’t often cook rhubarb with herbs, but I bet there are some interesting combinations.  The anise-type herbs like tarragon and chervil come to mind (think: rhubarb tarragon sorbet).  Also I’d bet that the evergreen flavours of juniper, rosemary, spruce tips, and labrador tea could also work, especially in cocktails (NB Three Boars, Woodwork, et al).

Citrus is a friend to rhubarb, but rhubarb is so sour that it doesn’t need the juice of lemons or limes: zest is best. I always smell candied lemon or lemon balm in muscat wines like Moscato d’Asti.  I bet there’s a good pairing with rhubarb to be had.

Of course rhubarb is often used in conjunction with other fruit.  The secondary fruit tempers the acidity of the rhubarb, and the rhubarb adds punch and volume.  I don’t typically use rhubarb with fruit that is already tart, like raspberry.  I prefer low-acid fruit with mellow flavours.  Ambrosia apples with their honey aroma come to mind.  I’ve written about the felicitous connection between saskatoons and rhubarb here.

I often think of allium as a bridge between sweet and savoury.  Cooked onions and garlic are already a pleasing balance of the two, so they can easily be used to link the flavours of, say, fruit and meat.

Pork and rhubarb was a common pairing when my father was little.  Cured meat like bacon and ham work the same magic as the aged cheddar mentioned above.  Ducks and game birds like pheasant and grouse are a good fit, too.

Raw allium can be nice in moderation.  Something like chive blossom works better than, say, red onion. The very bottom left corner of the flavour web may seem weird.  I’ve written this before, but to me wild rice smells almost identical to rooibos tea.  I know rhubarb goes well with tea (see rhubarb iced tea), and so I’m pretty sure rhubarb would go well with wild rice.

Some of the liquor pairings are no-brainers.  I’ve already posited that rhubarb goes well with evergreen flavours, so gin should work.  Rhubarb and brown sugar and vanilla are all friends, so oak-aged spirits like fine rum and brandy and bourbon also fit.  If rhubarb goes well with the smoky flavour of ham and bacon,  I wonder if there is a good smoky scotch pairing out there (NB Three Boars, Woodwork, et al).

In Italy rhubarb is used to make bitter aperitifs like Zucca and Aperol.

Speaking of drinks, Weissbier popped into my head as a good match for rhubarb because of its clove and citrus aromas.  Maybe that’s what to drink with the dandelion, poached egg, rhubarb dish I mentioned above.

I’m pretty confident in the strength of the rhubarb-floral connection.  In Austria I ate an elderberry flower fritter dusted with sugar and dipped in rhubarb compote.  I bet some fancy desserts could be concocted with rhubarb and rose water, or rhubarb and candied lilac.  To me this suggests that rhubarb might pair well with floral wines like Gewurztraminer.

Thoughts?  Corrections?  Additions?

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Leberkäse

Loaves of Leberkäse Leberkäse is an emulsified sausage mixture that is shaped into a block, baked, and sliced to order.  Picture hot dog filling, only instead of stuffed into casings it’s packed into a loaf pan.

Yes: a hot dog terrine.

For the record the name literally means “liver cheese,” but usually contains neither liver nor cheese.  There is, however, a preparation called Käseleberkäse, which is Leberkäse studded with cubes of cheese in the style of a Käsekrainer.

Where would you eat Leberkäse?  Austria and Bavaria, for starters.  More specifically sausage stands, beer gardens, grocery stores, and any other place that might hot-hold food for quick service.  The loaves are baked till they have a brown, crusty top, then kept under a heat lamp until ordered, at which time a half inch slab is sliced from the end.  Leberkäse is commonly served in a kaiser roll with mustard or mayonnaise.

I didn’t return from Austria with an authentic Leberkäse recipe, but the flavour and texture of the dish reminded me so much of North American hot dogs that I have developed my own formula from a standard hot dog recipe.  The main departure is that I substitute a small amount of the beef shortrib with pork shoulder, and add a healthy dose of sautéed onion to the mix.  And of course it’s baked as a loaf.

For meals at home I slice slabs from the baked, chilled loaf, then sear them on a griddle and eat them on a crusty kaisersemmel.  Think fried baloney sandwiches.

leberkaese_plate.JPG

 

Leberkäse

Ingredient Percent (%) for 5 kg (g)  
beef shortrib 66.7 3335
pork shoulder 33.3 1665
kosher salt 1.20 60
curing salt 0.578 29
water 20.0 1000
mustard powder 0.711 36
paprika 0.489 24
coriander 0.222 11
garlic, minced 1.422 71
black pepper 0.178 9
corn syrup 2.400 120
sautéed onion 10.0 500

Procedure

  1. Combine the beef, pork, kosher salt, curing salt, and water.  Mix briefly, then cover tightly and let stand in the fridge for 48 hours.
  2. Add the remaining ingredients.  Chill thoroughly and grind through a 1/4″ plate.  (See this post for details on grinding technique.  Properly chilling the meat is especially important for emulsified sausages such as Leberkase.)
  3. Chill thoroughly and grind through a 1/4″ plate for a second time.
  4. Chill thoroughly and blitz in a food processor in small batches until mixture is a uniform paste.
  5. Line loaf pans with parchment.  Bring a pot of water to the boil.
  6. Pack the meat paste into the loaf pans.  Cover with foil.  Cook in a water bath until an internal temperature of 150°F is reached.
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Cured Fatback – Lardo

Cured fatback on toast.This post is about cured fatback, most commonly known by its Italian name lardo.

Fatback is the subcutaneous fat that covers the pork loin.  Resist the urge to say “back fat”: it’s called fatback.  Industrially-raised pigs are intentionally grown very lean, so the fatback is typically only an inch thick.  Craft animals can have three inches of fatback or more, and of course these animals taste better and are better for you.  These are the animals you need in order to make lardo.

Two autumns ago I got a side of Tamworth pork from Nature’s Green Acres.  The fatback was two and a half inches thick in some places.  It was the first pig that I ever cut that trully deserved to have its fatback cured and enjoyed on its own, instead of, say, simply being ground into sausage mix.

The procedure for curing fatback is exceedingly simple.  Cut the fat from the lean meat.  Rub with salt, sugar, herbs, and spices.  Rosemary is common.  I used thyme, juniper, bay, and black pepper.  Next store the fat in a cool, dark place for six months or longer.  A cool, dark place could be a centuries-old Carrara marble box in a dank Tuscan cellar, or it could be a drawer in the bottom of your fridge.  In the latter case, put the salted fat in a Ziploc bag and cover tightly with aluminum foil to keep out light.  Light promotes oxidation and develop off-flavours in fat.

Six months later your slab of fat is ready to taste.  My first taste of lardo was in a salumeria in San Daniele.  Raw pork fat sounds so outrageous to my Anglo-Saxon ears that I expected an audacious flavour and grotesque texture.  Truth be told lardo is an extremely subtle preparation.  It is mild, sweet, subtly cultured, faintly lactic, and above all creamy.

My homemade version turned out similarly, though I think I was a bit heavy-handed with the sugar.  And the exterior was extremely salty: the first few slices were frankly inedible.

I’ll use this word again: subtle.  Lardo is so subtle it promotes contemplation. How could something so crude in preparation be so nuanced in flavour and texture?  Even when sliced very thin, there is a quiet, delicate crunch of connective tissue with each bite, which yields to the creamy fat, which cools your tongue as it melts.

A civilized preparation, this cured fatback.

A slab of cured fatback, or lardo.

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Vermicomposting

This is a guest post by the Button Soup Sr. Backyard Correspondent Lisa A. Zieminek.

 

My name is Lisa.  You might remember me from such posts as “Candied Lilac” and “What to do when your boyfriend hides food experiments all over the basement” (link not available).  Today I’m here to talk to you about worms – not the kind that you get from eating street food in Thailand; the kind you use for composting. That’s right, we’re going to talk about vermicomposting.

Vermicomposting is a fancy name for putting worms in a bin and letting them eat your food scraps.  It’s a great option for people who live in apartments or don’t have space for an outdoor compost.  In our case, vermicomposting allows us to compost throughout the winter.  Otherwise we would just be adding stuff to our frozen outdoor compost pile, but it wouldn’t really do anything until the spring.  Also, who wants to trudge through the snow in -30°C to add stuff to a compost bin.  Once the gardening season rolls along we have a bin full of super fertile soil-amending goodness.

I set up our first worm bin this past January.  Setting up the system was really easy.  Probably the hardest part of the whole set-up was naming all of the worms.

worm names

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

All you need to set up your very own worm bin is an opaque plastic bin, a drill, some newspaper or cardboard,  a shredder, and some worms.  Drill holes in the sides of the bin.  This will allow some airflow so the worms don’t get too moist:

photo (7)

You can also drill holes in the bottom.  This will allow any excess moisture to drain out of the bottom of the bin.  Actually you want to prevent your vermicompost from getting so wet that there would be water draining out, but the holes are there just in case.

photo (9)

Next, find some newspaper or cardboard.  This will act as bedding for the worms.  This should be plain newspaper (not glossy inserts) and regular cardboard.  Run it through a paper shredder.  Soak it in water, then ring it out so it has the wetness of a damp sponge.  Fluff it back up and put it in your bin.

shredding

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Basically your bin is ready for worms now.  I bought my worms at Earth’s General Store. They are a little pricey, but you should only need to buy them once: eventually you’ll have enough worms to make multiple bins for your own house, plus make bins for all your friends.  The type of worm normally used for vermicomposting is Red Wriggler, or Eisenia fetida.  You can add the worms to the bin, along with a couple cups of soil.  That’s it!  Your bin is ready to go.  You can start slowly adding food scraps to the bin.  Most information I read said the worms can eat about half their weight in food each day (so if you bought a pound of worms, they can handle about a half a pound of food each day).  They might take a little while to get used to their new home though, so start with small amounts of food.  They like fruit and vegetable scraps, coffee grounds and tea leaves, and ground up egg shells.  It’s best if the food is cut into smaller pieces.  Don’t feed them citrus, dairy, meat, oil, or salty foods.  Try to avoid putting seeds in the bin as the worms can’t break them down and they might sprout when you go to put the worm castings in your garden.

Speaking of worm castings (aka worm poop), once you’ve had your bin for a few months you’re going to want to harvest the nutrient-rich castings for your garden.  There’s several methods to do this.  The only one I’ve used so far involves placing some food on one side of the bin. Then, stop feeding the worms any other food for the next few weeks.  The worms will all migrate to the side with the food, and the other side will be mostly worm-free castings that you can take out for your garden.

diagram

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The worm castings are a great addition to your garden.  They contain micronutrients and trace minerals.  They also provide beneficial bacteria and microbes to the garden.

castings

Once you’ve harvested the castings, you can also take the worm filled side of the bin and split it in half between two bins.  The worms have been reproducing while they’ve been making all those castings, so you should have a lot more worms than you started with.  And then from here on out the growth is exponential.  Worms bins for everyone.

Some of my more squeamish friends are not so keen on the worm bins.  The first question seems to always be “BUT WHAT IF ALL THE WORMS GET OUT OF THE BIN AND GO INTO YOUR BEDROOM AND GET INTO YOUR BED???”.  The worms don’t want to get out of the bin.  They like it where it’s moist and dark and cool.  If they somehow did get out, they would promptly try to get back in.  And if they couldn’t, they would probably dry up and die.  I think it is VERY unlikely that Allan and I will ever wake up and see a worm staring at us from the bedside table.  Crickets on the other hand – crickets will get out of the box and live for several months hiding throughout your house.  But that’s a story for another day.

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Rhubarb Iced Tea

The Tyranny of the Lemon

I like lemons.  Tarte au citron and lemon meringue pie are two of my favourite desserts.  A quick squeeze of lemon adds friendly punch to everything from salads to roasted chickens and pots of tea.

However.

To me lemons are the epitome of our thoughtless dependence not just on imported ingredients, but imported cuisine.  Every week of the year the happy yellow fruits are shipped by the ton into our city to spread the insidious influence of Mediterranean and Californian food.

What is frustrating about our lemon dependence is that our region and its local plants do “sour” very well.  We are awash with tart, flavourful ingredients like apples, highbush cranberries, sour cherries, rhubarb, and all the cordials, wines, and vinegars that can be made therefrom.  There is a time and place for lemons.  In Edmonton, those times are few and far between.

A glass of rhubarb iced teaA Simple Start to Overthrowing the Lemon

Lemons hold a particularly firm grasp on our drinking habits.  I’m thinking especially of classic cocktails, lemonade, and iced tea.  A tart syrup made from any of the above-mentioned local ingredients would be most welcome in iced tea in lieu of lemon.  Rhubarb, though, is my favourite.  It is tart, flavourful, and adds a pleasant rosy blush to the drink.

Rhubarb Iced Tea
a big barbecue batch

Ingredients

  • 5 L water
  • 34 g black tea bags (about 10 bags)
  • 1 kg fresh rhubarb, chopped (rhubarb varies widely in acidity, so this quantity will have to be adjusted according to your plant and palate)
  • 400 g white sugar (this quantity will also have to be adjusted so that the sweetness properly balances the acidity of the rhubarb)

Procedure

  1. Bring water to a boil.  Add tea bags, reduce heat to maintain gentle simmer.  Maintain simmer for 4 minutes.  Remove tea bags.
  2. Add rhubarb and sugar.  Stir to dissolve sugar, then cover the pot and let stand until cooled to room temperature, a couple hours.
  3. Strain out the rhubarb.  Chill the iced tea overnight in the fridge before serving.
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Quick Pickles

Quick-pickled cucumbers, carrots, and beets.Quick-pickling is simply cooking vegetables in vinegar, in contrast to traditional pickling methods that require fermentation or canning.  Quick pickling is generally done to small pieces of vegetable, such as sliced onion or carrot, as opposed to large pieces like whole cucumbers.  The cut vegetables, raw or par-cooked, are exposed to a hot brine of vinegar, sugar, and salt, then left to infuse for a greater or lesser amount of time depending on the vegetable and how it has been cut.  Since the vegetables have not been fermented or extensively heat-treated, the pickles are not shelf-stable and need to be stored in the fridge. The specific process changes from vegetable to vegetable, but I always use the following recipe for the pickling liquid:

Quick Pickle

Ingredients

  • 500 g water
  • 500 g sugar
  • 625 g vinegar
  • 30 g kosher salt

There were four quick pickles on the Eat Alberta tasting board: carrots, beets, and cucumbers, as well as the red onion garnishing the whitefish salad.

Quick Pickled Carrots. For vegetables that are tender and mild enough to eat raw the goal of quick-pickling is to sufficiently acidify the vegetables without cooking out their satisfying crunch.  Examples of such vegetables include carrots, bell peppers, cauliflower, and radish.  The process is simple:

  • Combine the water, sugar, vinegar, and salt in a medium pot.  Heat and stir until the sugar and salt are dissolved.
  • Add the sliced vegetables.  Bring the mixture to a simmer, then immediately remove from the heat and let stand at room temperature to infuse.
  • The exact infusion time will depend on how the vegetables were cut.  Very slender strips of vegetable should be sufficiently acidified by the time the pickling liquid reaches a simmer that they can be strained immediately.  Thick-cut vegetables can sit in the hot pickling liquid for several hours, or overnight.

Quick Pickled Beets. Some vegetables, like beets, need to be cooked before being quick-pickled.

  • Cover the beets with foil and roast in a 425°F oven until tender when pierced with a fork.  Peel the beets and discard the skins.
  • Combine the water, sugar, vinegar, and salt in a medium pot.  Heat and stir until the sugar and salt are dissolved.
  • Add the beets.  Bring the mixture to a simmer, then remove from the heat and let stand several hours.

Quick Pickled Cucumbers. The pigment in green vegetables is especially volatile, and becomes drab when heated.  For this reason I often “cold pickle” green vegetables like cucumbers, green beans, and asparagus.

  • Combine the water, sugar, vinegar, and salt in a medium pot.  Heat and stir until the sugar and salt are dissolved.  Chill the mixture thoroughly.
  • Pour the chilled pickling liquid over the sliced cucumbers and refrigerate for 48 hours.

Pickled Red Onion. Pickled onion is a great garnish for canapés and charcuterie boards.  Pickled red onions are often made with red wine or red wine vinegar to reinforce the natural purple of the vegetable.  I only use cider vinegar in my kitchen, so for vibrant pickled red onions I re-use the pickling liquid leftover from beets.  This is what makes my pickled red onions a deep, electric fuchsia.

  • Reserve the pickling liquid from the quick-pickled beets.
  • Add sliced red onion to the pickling liquid.  Heat in a medium pot.  Once the mixture reaches a simmer, kill the heat and strain off the onions.
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My Quinoa is from Saskatchewan

Quinoa grown in Saskatchewan, Canada

I’m strongly considering printing and laminating the above photo so I can carry it in my wallet and periodically offer it as evidence.

I’ll start at the beginning.  In some ways I hate quinoa.  Not quinoa the food, but quinoa the fad.  Like açaí berries, quinoa is a “super food” promoted by nutritionists as if everything that your body needs to be healthy could not possibly be grown in the province in which you live, but needs to come from the canopy of the Amazon rainforest, or an Andean plateau.

On the other hand, from a strictly gastronomical point of view I really like quinoa.  It’s tasty: it has a nutty flavour, sometimes verging on peanut butter, often with a piquant bitterness.  It’s extremely simple to cook.  So yes: I purchase and consume quinoa.

And every so often when I admit this someone informs me that my consumption of quinoa is disenfranchising farmers in South America.  That my gluttonous consumption of the pseudo-cereal is driving up the price so that Bolivians can’t afford it and are increasingly relying on cheaper junk food.  That the money I spend on quinoa has pressured farmers in Peru to convert what were once diverse agricultural lands to fields of just quinoa.

Then I say that I can’t have disenfranchised South American farmers, because Lisa’s mom bought us fifty pounds of quinoa from a company in Saskatchewan called NorQuin.

Then they reply that quinoa can’t grow in Canada, and that a Canadian grain farmer told them so.

Then we stare at each other incredulously and uncomfortably.

The picture at the top of this post shows the quinoa in my cupboard.  As the labelling suggests and the website testifies, it was grown in Canada.  If anyone is interested, I’m going to get some t-shirts printed that have that image on the front.  On the back it will say, “Save Peru, buy Canadian Quinoa.”

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