Nick Bergus

I read The Omnivore’s Dilemma and came away with, I though, I good picture of how the Farm Bill works against us.

As much as I hate to cite a single author in two consecutive posts, Micheal Pollan’s bookdid a lot to spark foodie — and media — interest in the Farm Bill. (I’m too lazy to link to him or his book. Go to the previous post if you’re that in the dark.) And since the discrepence between what that legislation subsidizes and what is in the public’s best interest has been covered in detail.

But the Physicians Committee for Responsible Medicine makes it ever clearer with one simple visual. On the right, the USDA’s Food Pyramid. On the left, what the US government subsidizes through direct payments to farmers and programs like school lunch and food stamps.

It puts what Nadine Fisher told me (notably “I don’t know that the Food Stamp Program has adapted to anything.”) into a whole new light for me. Yes, that teeny tiny point on top is for fruits and vegetables.

Via Serious Eats

From a piece in The New York Times comes this gem from Michael Pollan, author of The Ominvore’s Dilemma, in response to the question “What did you most want when trick-or-treating as a child?”

I well remember my disgust whenever someone offered me a homemade brownie or, worst of all, an apple. Halloween is the high holy day of high fructose corn syrup. And if we can keep it to one or two such days, why not?

Who else but the man who wrote the definitive story of corn would go straight for the high fructose corn syrup angle?

Update

A story in the Los Angeles Times calls the sugar high — or, more appropriately, the high fructose corn syrup high — a myth. This runs contrary to anecdotal evidence I could cite, but the scientists probably know what they’re talking about.

My intention to meet a pig, kill it and eat it was the reason I started and named this blog.

I decided to meet, kill and eat because of my own realization for how distant we all are from the food we eat. (That I could build this into a multimedia project that would earn me a degree, and hopefully a job, was certainly some of my motivation, too.)

The realization came when I had just wanted to make sausage. So I went to my local supermarket armed with little more than knowledge from the recipe I had.

At the meat counter, I asked for a five-pound hunk of pork shoulder butt, a cut from the

My intention to meet a pig, kill it and eat it was the reason I started and named this blog.

I decided to meet, kill and eat because of my own realization for how distant we all are from the food we eat. (That I could build this into a multimedia project that would earn me a degree, and hopefully a job, was certainly some of my motivation, too.)

The realization came when I had just wanted to make sausage. So I went to my local supermarket armed with little more than knowledge from the recipe I had.

At the meat counter, I asked for a five-pound hunk of pork shoulder butt, a cut from the top of a pig’s shoulder with a high fat content almost perfect for sausage. The request met a blank stare from the clerk. He wasn’t sure what I was talking about. He called his boss, who wasn’t any more helpful.

We have over 17 million pigs in Iowa and this man, who cut and sold their flesh for a living, could not answer simple questions about the pieces of Hormel hog he was offering me.

And now how can I justify writing thousands of words and cutting minutes of video and posting dozens of photographs when Verlyn Klinkenborg, on today’s New York Times op-ed page, writes so beautifully and so touchingly and so movingly in just four paragraphs?

Via Michael Ruhlman

As much as I like the flavor of scotch, I started drinking it because of the image of scotch.

Scotch — always on the rocks — is what suave, tough-guy reporters and private eyes drink.

To me, a good bottle of scotch is like a good book: the urge to consume it quickly must be fought lest you suddenly find the bottle empty. Once the bottle is gone, I’m left with an empty feeling that always comes when there is no more of that good thing.

Possible the best bottle of scotch I’ve had — especially for its price — is the 12-year Bowmore Islay single malt. It has a heady flavor of smoke, and is smooth and hints of sweetness. Well worth the $30 or so it will run you.

I got the bottle from my parents (along with the usual warnings about heavy alcohol users on one side and teetotalers on the other), on the recommendation of Eric Asimov, for my birthday six months ago.

And last night I finished it off. (It paired beautifully with the Milky Way bars and Whoppers.) And now I’ve got a little empty feeling inside.

Traditionally, pigs slaughtered in the fall become the hams that are hung through the winter, spring and summer. To become the best prosciutto they can, the hams depend on the cooperation of the Italian weather.

“But every week, the best prosciutto year starts in our building,” says owner Herb Eckhouse. Every Friday at La Quercia, 500 hams begin the journey that will last nine months. After trimming and salting, the hams go through a series of heated and cooled rooms, each set to simulate a different season.

The first is winter. It is cool and dry. The hams are still raw and plump. Then comes spring, more moisture and warmer temperatures. The salt has worked its way into the muscle and drawn out water. The air carries begins to carry an earthy sweetness. Then comes summer.

Summer is the largest room with dozens of rows of racks on each side, each representing week in the prosciutto’s life. It is warm and musty.

“It’s still exciting to me. I’m still tuned in,” Eckhouse says. “My reaction is ‘Oh my god, are we gonna get all these things sold?’ But I don’t worry as much as I used to.”

Indeed, things are looking good for the Norwalk, Iowa, prosciutto makers. Eckhouse and his wife Kathy have garnered attention from the national press. Whole Foods sells their cured meats nationally. Paul Bertolli, Alice Waters and Mario Batali have said glowing things about their products. Bon Appétit recently named them Food Artisans of the Year.

Even with the heaps of praise, Eckhouse admits they’ve yet to be as celebrated in their home state. So did they return to Iowa to do this?

Eckhouse, an Iowa native, smiled. “It’s where the pigs are.”

Iowa has its world-class products. Maytag Dairy Farms‘ blue cheese and Niman Ranch‘s pork come to mind. But perhaps the greatest example is La Quercia.

Kathy and Herb Eckhouse’s two-year-old prosciutteria supplies cured pork to Whole Foods, Alice Waters and Mario Batali. The Los Angeles Times and The New York Times have sung its praises. Robert Parker — yes, that one — offered up his tasting notes with favorable comparisons to the great hams of Europe. Vogue’s food critic Jeffrey Steingarten called it “The best prosciutto you can get in this country, imported or domestic.”

I’m driving out to see the place Wednesday and to grill Herb and Kathy about their five years of prosciutto experiments. Their experimental hams were first cured in a refrigerator, to simulate a Parma, Italy, winter. Then they were hung to cure further. In the couple’s finished basement.

I’m curious to know if they ever cracked open a ham after nine months to a year of curing to find it rotting from the inside out.

I hate getting that is made up of a gazillion sticky little cloves. Impossible to mince. And I’m not going to throw a bunch in my Cuisinart with some olive oil and keep it in my fridge just to have it rot. Nor an I going to buy jars of overpriced, pre-minced cloves.

So when I found some garlic at the farmers’ market that came four cloves to the head, I was overjoyed that I would not have to swear off garlic.