Stock
2 lbs. beef chuck roast on the bone
1 ham hock
2 beef marrow bones
1 gal. water
1 onion, split with the skin on
1 carrot, washed but not peeled
2 ribs celery with leaves if available
1 parsnip, peeled if the outside has been waxed
Several dill sprigs
4 bay leaves
6 parsley sprigs
Soup
2 large beets
2 leeks, sliced and soaked in cold water for 20 minutes, then rinsed and drained
1 16 oz. can plum tomatoes
1 small can tomato paste
2 lbs. small potatoes, diced
4 cups red cabbage, shredded
2 ‘Granny Smith’ apples, peeled and diced
2 parsnips, peeled and diced
2 carrots, peeled and sliced
1 turnip, diced
1 celery root, peeled and diced
2 cups white beans, cooked (optional)
4 cloves garlic, minced fine
Kosher salt, freshly ground pepper, sugar, lemon juice, apple cider vinegar
Finely chopped parsley, chopped fresh dill
Sour cream
Using cold water, combine all the stock ingredients in a large stock pot and bring to a boil, skimming foam occasionally. Reduce heat and simmer two hours, adding another quart of water if necessary. Strain the stock into a clean pot. Reserve the beef and ham hock and discard the rest.
While the stock is cooking, roast the beets. This gives them a tremendous concentration of flavor. Just wash them and leave the skin on. Put beets in a shallow baking dish and sprinkle with kosher salt and olive oil. Roast in a hot oven, 425 degrees, until the beets are fork tender. This could take as long as an hour or more depending on the size of the beets. Cool, pull the skins off, and dice.
Now you have a pot of strained stock and some cooked beets and lots of prepped vegetables. Heat the stock to simmer and put the celery root, leeks, potatoes, turnips, carrots, and parsnips in the stock. Let it simmer for fifteen minutes then add the cabbage, apples, and garlic. Simmer another fifteen minutes then add the tomatoes, tomato paste, beets and beans. Simmer another fifteen minutes, then start the seasoning process. I usually start with 1 T. each kosher salt, sugar, lemon juice, and vinegar. Note that I didn’t salt the stock originally. When you have the balance of sweet and sour that suits your taste buds, cut the reserved beef and ham into bite size pieces and add to stock. Let the whole thing stand at least an hour to let the flavors marry, then re-season with salt, pepper and any additional sour you think it needs. Bring back to a boil, then serve hot with a dollop of sour cream, dill, and parsley on each serving for garnish. As it makes so much soup, this is a great dish to prepare, portion out in bags, and freeze.
Five
Ernest Powell came down the stairs to the kitchen. This morning there was no smell of fresh-baked bread from his bread machine. There were, however, six neighbor ladies all talking at once.
His wife smiled sweetly. “Ernest, you can take the kids to school, can’t you? We missed the bus, what with all the chores to do this morning. They’re outside putting the cloths on all the tables.”
Ernest kissed his wife on the cheek. She blushed and so did several of her friends. “Of course, I’ll take them in town. But won’t those tablecloths blow away? You gals are getting ahead of yourselves.”
“Oh, your son thought of that,” Betsy Powell said proudly. He’s got a rock on each corner and a few in the middle for good measure. Those table cloths aren’t going anywhere.”
Ernest poured himself a cup of coffee. “How did we get mixed up in this conference anyway?”
“Look who’s talking, the famous bread maker himself,” Betsy said. “Remember, when the committee members from Kansas City came out to see Walter about him giving a tour.…”
Ernest grinned. “I know, I know. Walter mentioned it at the grocery store and I couldn’t get over there fast enough the next day. Walter’s not the only one with an agenda.”
His wife tucked his shirttail down in his jeans in the back. Then she turned him around and snapped his suspenders. “So you volunteered your wife and her church group to cook lunch for a bunch of chefs that have their recipes in all the magazines. Thanks so much.”
Ernest put his coffee cup down. “Well, they gave us ten dollars a head for lunch, and if I know you all, you did it for four or five. That gives you some money for your church Christmas fund. And these fancy bakers will have the best lunch they’ve ever had, for any amount of money.”
“Don’t try to sweet talk, me, Ernest Powell. You get now, or the kids will be late for school.”
Ernest paused at the kitchen door. “I’m heading over to Walter’s for the tour. I’m curious what old Walter is up to these days. Ladies, I do thank you so much. I know you’re going to wow them.” Ernest stepped out and smiled. God had made a beautiful morning. “Kids! Let’s go. Last one in the truck has to drive.”
* * *
It was early but they were lost. Iris and Heaven were on a gravel road looking for the sign to the Grains Research Institute for Peace, GRIP for short.
Iris was the lookout. “If I didn’t know better, I’d think Kansas was just one vast experimental farm. So far we’ve gone past signs to the Kansas State University experimental farm, the Extension Service experimental farm, and the Soil Conservation Service test soil plots. What in the heck is all this experimenting?”
Heaven looked smug, “Well, because I’m on the host committee for this conference, I went to the Board of Trade last week and saw my friend David Gibbs, to set up the tour and all. I watched this fascinating film, all about buying long and selling short, soybean clones, and white winter wheat. Agriculture has become very big business, honey. I don’t think these bakers have any idea what happens before they get their sacks of King Arthur.”
“And what, pray tell, is King Arthur? Oh, Mom, there’s the sign for GRIP. Turn left, and what’s the peace allusion in the name?” Iris asked.
Heaven turned the van and raised a cloud of dust. “King Arthur is a popular high-gluten bread flour. The flour and wheat biz is just as boutique and trendy as other parts of the food business. We beat the buses from Kansas City.” She parked the van under a shade tree and looked around. Near a limestone building a group of men and women were standing around talking. One of them, a middle-aged man with a shock of silver hair, waved and broke away from the crowd, heading for Heaven and Iris. “As for the peace part, Walter Jinks was a very famous peacenik who was one of the organizers of the big March on Washington during the Vietnam war,” Heaven explained as they got out of the van. “Now he thinks he can bring about world peace by fixing agriculture. Or something. I’m sure we’ll hear the whole story soon.”
Iris pointed to a large cloud of dust coming their way. “We didn’t beat them by far. That must be the buses.”
Walter Jinks reached them first. “I happen to know that you’re Heaven Lee,” He said with a twinkle in his eye. “I’ve eaten in your restaurant several times when I’ve passed through Kansas City, and I’ve seen you bustle around the dining room. I also know your brother. Good man, Del.”
Heaven reached out her hand and shook Walter’s. “This is my daughter Iris McGuinne. We spent the night at Del’s last night. That’s why we beat the rest of the group. Del says you won a genius grant last year. A belated congratulations.”
Walter smiled. “I figured it out. The prize, and I do appreciate it, believe me, averages out my income to about $27,000 annually for the last twenty years.”
Heaven nodded. “And that means there were some mighty lean years. Well, I can hardly wait to learn what your research has produced. I hope those lean years are behind you now.”
Walter’s face had a very serious expression. “The work is far from over, Heaven. Excuse me while I go greet the rest of the guests,” he said and walked toward the buses that had j
ust pulled up and stopped in the drive.
Heaven watched as face after famous face climbed down the steps of the two big coaches. There must have been close to a hundred people descending, many of them cookbook authors and bakery owners and pastry chefs from well-known restaurants. At that moment, Pauline swooped out of bus number two, laughing and talking with someone Heaven recognized vaguely. Pauline spotted Heaven and Iris and headed their way. Heaven was glad to see that Pauline, usually a little shy, was openly having fun.
“How was the trip?” Heaven asked.
“Did you see who I was talking to?” Pauline asked. “That’s one of the two women who started that bakery in Santa Fe last year. They were featured in Food and Wine last month.”
Iris giggled. “Pauline, surely you’re not a groupie?”
Pauline giggled back. “Every bus seat had someone sitting in it that was famous, to a baker at least. Either I had read their cookbook or seen them on the Food Channel. Is this what it’s like when you go to a party at your Dad’s house, celebrities everywhere?”
Iris rolled her eyes. “They’re just Dad’s buddies. No big deal.”
Heaven was tickled that to Pauline, Noel Comiss from Top Hat Bakery in New York was as much a star as Keith Richards.
One of the GRIP graduate students walked by asking them to come over for a short presentation. The whole crowd was moving toward rows of metal folding chairs next to the house.
Heaven glanced at her watch. It was almost nine-thirty. “What time did you have to leave Kansas City, the crack of dawn?” she asked Pauline.
Pauline smiled. “Remember, H, this group is used to getting up early. We left at seven-thirty from the hotel. They had a portable espresso machine in each bus and bagels and stuff. It was fun.”
Soon the whole group was assembled more or less where they were supposed to be. Walter Jinks also had coffee available, in a big stainless steel percolator on a card table. Heaven and Iris had just filled up two Styrofoam cups when Walter Jinks walked to the head of the group and clapped his hands together to get their attention.
“I want to welcome you to the Grain Research Institute for Peace. I’m going to talk briefly—and my students will tell you how rare that is—about what we do here and then we’ll take a tour of some of the fields. I know your time is limited and that you’re also touring the Studies Laboratory up in Manhattan.” Walter’s voice changed tenor, suddenly there was a bitter edge to it. “You couldn’t visit two more different facilities in one day.” He looked as if he were going to say more but changed his mind. As he talked he started walking slowly around the crowd.
“I want to change the world and I need you to help me. You see, Ernest Powell here, and his relatives, altered the course of civilization.” Heaven was surprised to see the tall farmer sitting in one of the front rows. He must have arrived when she was talking to Pauline. Walter had stopped right in front of him and was pointing dramatically at Ernest. Ernest shifted in his chair and blushed. “In 1874, the first Mennonites came from Russia to Kansas to escape religious persecution. With them they brought ‘Red Turkey’ winter wheat, a strain from the Black Sea. Who could predict that it would grow so abundantly here on the North American prairie?” Walter asked. “It has grown too well. We have done our job as the breadbasket to the world too well. And because of it, through erosion we are losing tens of millions of acres of cropland every year. We are poisoning the North American continent with salts left in the fields from fertilizers, pesticides, and irrigation. And ironically, the more damage we do, the higher our production soars, at least for now.” Walt’s voice boomed with the delivery of a good Southern Baptist minister.
Heaven looked around. He had the crowd in the palm of his hand and he was going to bring it on home. “But it can’t go on forever. Long after we have reached bedrock here on this prairie, our topsoil gone, long after we have used up all the fossil fuels and the airplanes and automobiles are rusting and silent, human beings will still need their daily bread. Perhaps then, sustainable agriculture will be a priority with the world powers.” Heaven realized that she had never really seen farms and farmers in such exalted light before, as an indication of how history was going. The pros sitting around her had obviously realized agriculture’s importance, however, even if Heaven hadn’t. Their eyes shone with some sort of religious zeal.
Walter was preaching to the choir. “There are two ways to solve this dilemma,” he said. “And they both involve herbaceous perennial seed-producing cultures. Yes, perennials instead of annuals, such as wheat and corn. Oh, we could breed these annuals that we know and love to be perennials. But have we really solved the problem? Don’t we still depend on monoculture agriculture and the dangers that it represents? We used to have dozens of strains of wheat cultivated in the United States. Now there are only six, with ‘Red Turkey’ wheat by far the most prevalent. What if ‘Red Turkey’ wheat develops a disease fatal to its strain? How will we feed America then, much less the world?
“Instead of depending on this doomed monoculture, twenty-five years ago I began work on the second way, which is to develop native grasses and grains to be planted side by side and harvested together, a natural granola right from the fields. It is the way nature designed this prairie around us right here in Kansas, a polyculture. And this is where you come in. You are the most influential bakers in this country, indeed as I recognize some of our European guests, I would say the world. I ask you to taste the breads that my staff has prepared for you today, and to take the ten-pound sacks of our special perennial polyculture flour home with you. Please feel free to call us for more samples when you get home. We must break the tyranny of wheat domination!” Walter ended with a bang, glaring at Ernest Powell as if he had singlehandedly ruined the universe.
Out of the back of the farmhouse came several students with baskets of various styles of bread created with Walter’s grain and grass combinations. There were regular leavened bread and flat breads. The flat breads, resembling homemade lavoosh, looked appealing to Heaven. Everyone rushed the tables to get a taste. There were also big chunks of butter and some jams that looked homemade. Soon gallon jugs of apple cider appeared. Walter was surrounded by bakers who spotted a new trend. They all wanted to be the first on their block to create a perennial polyculture loaf. Heaven, Iris, and Pauline moved around Walter to get some samples. They ate in silence for a minute, then Iris spoke first. “Well, I hope I’m dead and buried before we have to start eating this all the time.”
Heaven chuckled. “Just slather some of this farm butter and ‘Damson’ plum jam on it. It’s not so bad, and even if it is, these celeb bakers will be able to make something good out of it. These cracker ones are better than the raised breads. The raised breads are kind of heavy. Maybe they need more yeast.”
Pauline was taking this taste test very seriously. Heaven was already planning to hide their complimentary sacks of Walter’s flour when they got back to the restaurant. “The problem is…” Pauline started.
She was interrupted by a handsome blonde man. “The problem is that only wheat flour has the gluten that gives bread the light texture that we love,” the hunk said in English heavy on the German accent. All three women batted their eyes instinctively. “God knows I have struggled with this problem myself for years. The rye flour does not have any gluten to speak of. Left by itself, it gives a heavy, lifeless loaf.”
Pauline’s eyes shone with recognition. “Now I know who you are. You’re our keynote speaker, Dieter Bishop. You won the Coupe du Monde last year.” She turned to Iris. “The Coupe du Monde is the bread competition in Europe.”
Dieter tipped his head to the side, assessing all three women as if they were pastries in a Vienna coffee house. “And who might I have the pleasure of discussing this most important subject with?”
Heaven wondered if the important subject Dieter meant was the decline and fall of wheat versus rye or his recent success on the bread-contest circuit. She gave him the benefit of the doubt and
assumed he wasn’t totally self-absorbed. “I’m Heaven Lee, Dieter. This is my daughter, Iris McGuinne, and this is Pauline Kramer, the pastry chef and baker for my restaurant in Kansas City.”
“Ah, yes,” Dieter said, taking each hand in turn for a quick Prussian bow. “And do you cook or bake bread, or are you a front of the house owner?” he asked Heaven.
“I cook,” Heaven said. “And I’ve just started trying to learn bread making, so I am all too familiar with the key role gluten plays in this whole sordid story.” Dieter and Pauline looked at her uncomprehendingly. A sense of humor about their occupation did not seem to be a trait of bread bakers.
Iris rescued them. “It’s just a joke. Mom doesn’t think bread is sordid. Let’s go get on one of those flatbed trucks for the tour, shall we?” she said hoping to move things along. It was getting hot out here in the fields. Iris was ready for the next stop on the tour and she hoped it was lunch.
As they walked to the trucks, Dieter and Pauline deep in talk about lipids in bread, Heaven punched Iris on the arm and pointed. “Speaking of sordid stories, it looks like Ernest didn’t like the one painted by Walter.” The two men were in a heated conversation, Walter trying to get away and Ernest holding onto his arm.
“Poor Ernest,” Iris said. “I bet he wishes he’d never got involved with this end of the business. He should just stick with growing the wheat.”
“I’m afraid we’ve lost Ernest, honey. Once you’ve seen the lights of show biz, its hard to go back to the farm. Ernest is a bread-baking star in his own right.”
Iris’s eyes twinkled with mischief. “Bright lights, show biz, hard to go back to the farm. It sounds like you know this story from experience, Morn.”
“Look who’s talking, Miss My-boyfriend-is-Stuart-Watts. I don’t see you suggesting we move back to Kansas.”
Iris jumped up on the back of the truck with graceful ease. She held out her hand to her mother. “No, its fun to visit, but I wouldn’t want to live here.”
Bread on Arrival Page 6