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  • Alpine Cattle Drives

    Alpine Cattle Drives

    I ended the cattle drive around 1995. I couldn’t keep it up. It was too much work. We had a growing farm and a growing family and we just couldn’t justify it any more and it made me sad.

    When I was young, our every summer was spent driving our herd of cattle to alpine grazing at Goat Meadows (aka Miller Creek ). We thought it was normal for children to push big old bellowing cows up a mountain. We were little ruffians with rocks and sticks and running shoes. We darted and loped across the brushy hillside, cutting off escape, alway trying to make the cows think we were impassable.

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    Dad was alway there, in charge, and always at the back, patiently trying to instruct us on the instincts of cattle and how to use them to make this job easier for all.

    When my sisters and I were small, we mastered sleeping on horseback double (although that may have been mostly me.) I remember how a horse’s shoe can turn the pitch black into daylight as they struggled in the dark on the steep rocky trail. We took a lot of these trips in the dark, after Dad’s work day on the farm was done. Our old workhorse type horses had no problem travelling in complete darkness.

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    The cattlemen had a cabin in the Second Meadows where we would  camp and cook and play while the adults did the hard work of cutting out trails or building bridges.

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    Our destination was the Third Meadow  which overlooks the Pemberton Valley. Our cows knew the way and once their memories of last year in the meadows kicked in, it became a slow walk to paradise.

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    Coming into the Third Meadows was uplifting – the smell was  amazing of alpine flowers and grasses. The view opened up to grassy Meadows, and far below at the end of the Second Meadows was the massive Miller Glacier which roared constantly on the breeze  lifting from the Second Meadows.

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  • Passion Prevails

    Passion Prevails

    My childhood subconscious began manifesting my green thumb life long before I understood the benefit of my compost chore or using the excuse, “I’m thinning them out” when caught eating baby carrots. When you grow up surrounded by gardeners you’re bound to inherit some level of love for the same hobby.

    Basically, I’m a full pledged geek when it comes to everything plant related.

    For example… I have pulled illegal U-turns moments after spotting a nursery. I carry pruners in my car to pluck wild flowers bouquets from ditches. I save plants from becoming garbage and give them new homes. I take pictures while traveling of unrecognizable vegetation so I can come home and identify them… and so on.

    (Insert crazy garden lady photo here.)

    It was during my years as an on again off again landscaper that solidified my love affair with horticulture. The jobs I held in between seasons never really satisfied my soul. I genuinely missed cleaning dirt out of my nails.

    One instance that really stands out in my head happened while emptying my pockets after a day of work in the city. Out came my keys, my wallet and a whole bunch of deadheaded flowers. A big smile graced my face upon seeing the blossoms. I had visited a nursery on my way home but for the life of me could not remember committing the act. No doubt it was my subconscious giving me a little nudge. I gave my two weeks notice the next day and promptly returned to my happy place slinging dirt.

    Now I’ve really come to realize that I glow when I talk about gardening. I mean I get giddy like a little schoolgirl talking about this shit. (Giggity)! The other side of my coin is that I love to cook and preserve all the wonderful things that come out of my backyard and our bountiful valley but I’ll save that for later.

    In January I figured there was no point in fighting the feelings anymore. Time to take my passion by the reins and just go for it! And although I’m not exactly sure what will grow from this adventure one thing is for sure: I want to share my love of gardening with people, inspire them to grow their own food and experience the simple pleasures that come with the failures and the successes along the way.

    Welcome to my journey back to dirt.

  • Burn Your Plan

    Burn Your Plan

    A very long time ago, I passed a man on a couch at Burning Man Festival. It was so late it was almost morning, and the sun had just begun to paint the edges of the mountains with the faintest of light. The man struck up a conversation. And as I warmed my hands at the small fire he had lit at the edge of the road, he told me something that has come back to haunt me more times then I would like to admit.

    “You know” he said, hanging in the pause to build up the effect, “sometimes you have to plan your burn… and then burn your plan.” 

    In this rural, beautiful, messy, animal filled life- where some of the beautiful things you want to create never happen because you have to fix fences instead, and you show up at the grocery store wearing boots covered in muck no matter how hard you try to remember to change them- burning your plan is inevitable. And actually, I think it makes for more love filled creations most of the time. In being willing to let the universe lead the dance every now and then, we make space for magic to happen. And when we have magic, well then anything is possible. We do need a bit of a plan to start with, otherwise we would never get out of bed in the morning, a container and a direction in which to move. But then the more we can be open to running with what happens in the moment, the more our creations and actions can start to suddenly seem a little bigger than ourselves. And that’s always a good thing.

    I run a horse and nature based teaching business called Mountain Horse School. This past week I ran 4 days of March Break camp for an amazing little group of kids. I was so proud of the design for this camp: I had found the most amazing natural art activities, and had planned everything out as far as two weeks ahead. But then I found I was unable to source one crucial item for each creation. Then the weather was freezing and that changed the plans I had made too, and one of my horses was terribly grumpy, and so I pulled him halfway through camp and let him watch from the bleachers. Given the circumstances, we did the only thing we could: we improvised.

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    When things got a little too frantic, we held chickens in our laps and waited until they felt safe enough to close their eyes…

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    My newest mare Besa (who is not yet trained to ride and was NOT part of the plan for camp) kept insisting she be included. On the last day as we were getting ready to do horse painting she asked again. I looked at her big black head hanging over the gate, and weighed my options and risks. I was doing something more than that too: I was feeling towards her and towards the empty space between us, to see what might want to happen out of the moment. The look in the mare’s eyes was definitely an invitation.  Ok. I thought. The kids have enough horse sense that if something goes sideways, we will all be able to stay safe. We’ve been studying their behaviour and body language all week, and imagining our way into their thoughts. It might be neat to have them involved in the process of introducing Besa to something new. 

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    Juliette introducing Besa to the colour fuchsia.

    Not only did Besa decide it was ok to be painted, she stood in a kind of trance, with a look on her face that I have only seen in horses who are very, very deeply concentrating on the work at hand. She didn’t even shiver her skin when the first wet blue brush touched her skin. And now, two days later, she has not rolled, and the colours shine brightly out from her white coat.

     

    If you are driving out in the meadows this week and see a black and white horse with a brightly coloured wing, apple, and heart on her side, you are not losing your mind. You are seeing my plan as it has gone up in flames, and the much more beautiful genuine  messy thing that has come in to take its place.

     

     

     

  • Patty B, Pemberton Wedding Duck

    Patty B, Pemberton Wedding Duck

    The sounds of spring are in the air. Birdsong fills the yard, and the egg incubator hums in my living room. Every spring we carefully place colourful, fertilized chicken and duck eggs in the racks and wait patiently, until we can hear, with ears pressed to warm shell, the muffled rustles and faint peeps of tiny birds inside.

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    The ducklings and chicks we hatch are egg layers – we generally won’t eat these birds, but sometimes a male duck will find its way into the oven. Our layers are almost like pets, and those with standout personalities or traits often get names.

    Last year, about a month before our wedding in September, we decided to incubate some duck eggs out of the spring season to bolster our flock after a lot of losses to raccoon and bobcat. Only one duck ended up hatching out, and since the little guy was going to be alone in the brooder, I decided to take the tiny duckling under my wing. We started calling the duck Pat since we didn’t know if it was a boy or girl. Then we changed tactic and tweaked the name to Patty B to help sway the universe into giving us a lady egg layer instead of another randy male.

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    We aren’t going to have kids, and you may laugh, but being a duck mom was super intense. I have no idea how mothers of actual, tiny humans do it!

    When she wasn’t with me, perched on my shoulder, Patty B was in a large pen outside the French doors of my home office. Every time I put Patty B back into the pen after a walk around the yard, her frantic cries would break my heart and inevitably I would be back out there for another visit. In retrospect those regular walks around the yard, with the slapslapslap of her tiny feet windmilling behind me and our chilly wades into the backyard slough so she could dip and dive through the muddy water probably saved me from a total “crash and burn” in the lead up to the wedding.

    As the big day drew closer and our walks got longer I hatched an idea – what if Patty B was part of the wedding procession? Training began in earnest with longer walks around the yard and then, eventually, forays across the small bridge into the backfield where our ceremony would take place.

     

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    Anastasia Chomlack photo

     

    The wedding day finally dawned…and it was windy and rainy. September 9, 2017, happened to be the first time it rained since Patty B was born…actually, I think it was the first day it rained all summer! Luckily, we had a break in the weather before the outdoor ceremony began and as my wedding party and I gathered just across the bridge, my dad opened the door to the pet carrier to release Patty B. She dashed out onto the muddy path with excited chirps and peeps and began slurping muddy water up her bill. Mud! Worms! AWESOME.

    It was time to start down the aisle, and my flower girl and bridesmaids began their slow march down the field. It was time for me, my dad and Patty B to make our way down to the rest of my life. But Patty B was having none of it.

    I gave one last “C’mon, Patty B!” before sighing and giving up. The show had to go on. We walked down the field and suddenly as we were coming up between the rows of guests I heard a small boy cry out, “Is that a DUCK!?”

     

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    Anastasia Chomlack photo

     

    YES. Patty B made it down the aisle with me after all.

    Most of the animals we raise have a pretty low-key life compared to the wedding adventures of Patty B. But, we tend to every animal at Bandit Farms with care, love, and respect whether we are raising them for their eggs or to eventually harvest for meat. I’m not a duck mom to everyone but being close to our food sources is a privilege I will never take for granted.

    Also, in case you were wondering, Patty B turned out to be Pat…but don’t worry, we won’t eat him.

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  • A Pemberton Food Story

    A Pemberton Food Story

    Food was one of the reasons my partner and I decided to move to Pemberton in 2011 after only being here a handful of times. We had been growing food in our community garden in Whistler. We also made our weekly bike ride to the farm market on Sunday for a couple of years and I swear getting to know the people who grew our food made it taste better.

    We didn’t realize it at the time but when we moved to Pemberton we were dinks (dual income no kids). Armed with an abundance of time and money we were eager to tear up our lawn in the Glen and get started on our first labour of love. A couple of loads of soil later and our veggie garden was born, complete with a PVC greenhouse and vertical herb planters. Within a year I left a cushy (albeit ill-suited) office job to work on a local organic farm. There my love of Pemberton and slow food grew to new levels. I knew intellectually farming would be hard work but nothing could have prepared my body physically. As hard as it was at times it was incredibly therapeutic to be working in the elements day after day. I got stronger physically and mentally as the months passed. I spent many days weeding and planting and harvesting in good conversation with new friends. I gained a deep appreciation for the dedication and perseverance it takes to be an organic farmer and hence a steward of the earth. I learned from my experience growing food that it’s not always perfect, straight and neat. It’s scrappy and messy and mucky and absolutely gorgeous all at once, just like life.

    In 2014 our dinkdom concluded and our hearts grew with the birth of our daughter. The abundance of time ended as did my days on the farm, in the mountains or spending my days making food in the kitchen . They were replaced with early am nursing sessions, diaper changes, a whole lot of raw love and a good sprinkle of depression. There were tough times and bliss-full times but one of the things I looked forward to was our weekly CSA harvest box from Ice Cap Organics. I would wake up on pick up days as giddy as a kid on Christmas morning. I knew how hard people had worked to get those boxes filled with a rainbow of nourishing veggies, eggs, chicken even flowers and it felt good to be sharing it at the table each day as a new family.

    Here we are three years later and life is opening back up again. We have a new plot at the community garden to experiment, learn and teach with. Now those days making food in the kitchen are shared with our daughter who knows where her food comes from and loves to help cook it. I have the pleasure of cooking food at a local organic eatery called Stay Wild. Just like working on the farm my life is uplifted every time I’m there. Relationships with the women I work with and the people we serve are just as enriching and nourishing as the food. As I write this and think about food and Pemberton I am reminded of Lisa Richardson’s article where she spoke of, “the opportunity food offers us, to grow – not just out there in the soil, but as humans”, and I am thoroughly grateful we decided to call this fertile place home.

  • Dreams of Chicken Soup

    Dreams of Chicken Soup

    pexels-photo-772518.pngI just got over a wicked flu. Flat out for pretty much three weeks. One night as I was trying to get some sleep, in between coughing up a lung and blowing my nose, I could not get Chicken Soup out of my mind. I was visualizing me putting the whole chicken in a large pot of water, simmering it all day. I think I could even smell it! I could not stop thinking about it.

    The next morning I dragged my sick, sorry butt out of bed and tromped straight across the  yard to the barn where my freezer lives. I pulled out one of Nicole Ronayne’s amazing chickens and threw it in a pot with the last of my onions from my garden, carrots, celery and a boat load of garlic! Even just the smell of it simmering made me feel better. It was loaded with all the goodness that my sick body needed and I could not get enough of it. Breakfast, lunch, snacks and dinner until it was gone. It’s just so funny how our body knows just what it needs. Soups and stews along with gallons of hot teas. Warming our bodies from the inside out. Fighting those nasty bugs.

    Our Mom’s and Grandma’s knew what they were doing. Food can heal whether it’s our bodies or our soul. Food does much more than just feed us. It can comfort and nurture as well. Food and wellness go hand in hand as well as food and sickness.

     

     

     

  • Pemberton (by Way of India) Curry – 3 Ways:

    Pemberton (by Way of India) Curry – 3 Ways:

    If I ever write a cookbook it will be called Why the Heck Not? Culinary Adventures Without Leaving Home.

    I am an improviser, both in cooking and baking. Sometimes the results are forgettable, but sometimes everything works. This curry worked. It was a matter of getting “rid” of odds and ends in the freezer and using up odds and ends in the fridge. Curry, like soup, is a good destination for those odds and ends. I will endeavor to contribute recipes to Traced Elements that call for ingredients that come from Pemberton – or can be grown in Pemberton. This curry is a winner: Pemberton Russet potatoes, Pemberton asparagus, parsley, and tomatoes, Pemberton-raised chicken and chicken broth.

    The three ways part is this: the curry can be served over a bed of rice or quinoa. However, if it is simmered down, it can be a samosa filling (samosa dough recipe and samosa-assembling and baking method is courtesy of Shelley Adams’ awesome first cookbook Whitewater Cooks).

    Then finally, because I love soup, this curry can become a warm and satisfying one. I do not own a microwave, so leftovers are much easier to heat, eat, and enjoy if you just add a cup or two (or more) of chicken broth to them.

    Versatile Pemberton Chicken Curry with Asparagus and Tomato:

    Ingredients:

    3 cups Pemberton-raised cooked and diced chicken breast or thigh meat*

    2 cups sliced Pemberton-grown green gage plums (pits removed)*

    1 large yellow onion, diced

    2 tbs olive oil

    2 cloves Pemberton-grown garlic

    2 large Pemberton-grown russet potatoes, baked, cooled, peeled, and diced*

    1 large Pemberton or Lillooet-grown beefsteak tomato, diced*

    2-3 cups Pemberton-grown asparagus, cooked and diced*

    1 cup minced parsley

    2 tsp salt

    2 tsp pepper

    2 tsp curry powder

    2 tsp cumin

    1 can full-fat coconut milk

    3 tbs gluten-free soy sauce

    2 cups low/no sodium chicken broth*

    *Indicates this ingredient came directly out of my freezer.

    Method:

    Use a large heavy-bottomed stainless steel soup pot or a cast iron stew pot. Add 2 tbs olive oil and warm up on medium-low heat. Add diced onion and minced garlic. Let it cook slowly on low-medium heat so the onion caramelises. Do not rush this part. When the onion and garlic mixture is golden brown, turn the heat to medium, and add your diced chicken, sliced green-gage plums, diced tomato, parsley, asparagus, and potato. Let it sauté around so the flavours mingle and cook. Then add your cumin, curry powder, salt, pepper, and soy sauce. Sauté a few minutes more. Finally, add your coconut milk and 2 cups chicken broth. Let it simmer 10 minutes.

    **If you are making samosas, let the mixture simmer until there is not too much liquid as that will make the samosas too watery and will not stay formed. At the same time, you don’t want your curry mixture too dry either. Just remember your curry mixture will be encased in raw dough and baked so you don’t want the curry mixture to soak through.

    If you are making curry you are almost done. Cook a pot of basmati rice or quinoa and pour your curry over it. You may want to garnish with a chutney and papadum! I would like to make my own chutney but for now it is Major Grey’s from the supermarket.

    And if you are making soup, you will want to add 2 to 6 cups more chicken broth, depending on how thick you like your soup.

    Samosas (Yields 12):

    Samosa dough ingredients (adapted from Shelley Adams’ Whitewater Cooks – her first cookbook)

    3 cups spelt flour

    ½ tsp salt

    ½ tsp baking powder

    ¼ tsp turmeric

    ¼ tsp paprika

    2/3 cup cold butter cubed (for those of you who like to measure ingredients on a kitchen scale, that works out to be 152 grams)

    2/3 cup cold water

    1 egg, beaten

    Method:

    To make dough:

    Place all dry ingredients in food processor and pulse to combine. Add butter and pulse until mixture resembles sand granules. Then slowly add enough water until the dough comes together (you may not need all the water). Wrap dough in plastic wrap and refrigerate for one hour.

    To assemble samosas:

    Roll out dough on a piece of parchment paper until quite thin. You will need extra spelt flour to sprinkle so your dough doesn’t stick to your rolling pin. You don’t want thick dough or else your samosas will be too heavy and stodgy. Cut out portions of dough using the lid of a sour cream container (about 4 inches in diameter). Remove your circle and place on a parchment lined baking sheet. Place a scant ¼ cup of your curry mixture in the centre of your dough circle and fold the circle in half, making a half-moon. Crimp your edges. Do this with the remainder of the dough and curry. Makes about a dozen. Then brush all your samosas with an egg wash using a pastry brush. You will likely have curry mixture left over, and you can freeze that for future meals, as long as your chicken was not previously frozen.

    Bake your samosas in a 350F oven for 30 minutes. Serve with chutney.

     

  • Nonna’s Kitchen Table: Mangia! I Love-a You!

    Nonna’s Kitchen Table: Mangia! I Love-a You!

     

    The table, for me is the trunk of the family tree.

    In her  post “The Imperfect Table”, Lisa Richardson challenged us to “reclaim the table.”

    I was intrigued by that statement. It was an opportunity to investigate the perception I have of my own scruffy dinner table situation.

    First, I thought of the meaningful and diverse experiences I’ve had while seated around a table with others. The common thread woven through so many very different experiences was the uplifted and complete feeling from simply showing up, sitting together and sharing a meal.

    The kitchen table – an ordinary yet omnipresent piece of furniture, in an infinite variety of shapes, sizes across cultures and this planet – for gathering and eating the food that has been graciously provided by mother earth herself.

    Now that I have a family of my own, I look back with deep appreciation for the commitment my family had for gathering together every evening to share space, food and conversation.

    When I visualize myself as a kid with my family, we are usually sitting around a table. My family roots are European – Italian and Eastern European.  My siblings, cousins and I were all born in Canada, but we’ve always been enveloped into the dining culture of Italy.

    One table shines above all others for its weighty contribution in shaping my sense of what it means to gather in the spirit of food, family and togetherness – Nonna’s kitchen table.

    “Nonna” is the Italian word for Grandmother.

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    My Nonna’s table represents all that is good and pure about sharing space with the people in your life who spark joy and happiness.

    Nonna’s table, and kitchen, remain a timeless constant in my life of change.

    Physically, it is a vintage enthusiast’s wonderland.

    For my psyche, it is a meditative place of calm and serenity.

    The décor is firmly lodged in the disco era and has been since I was a kid… perfectly preserved and immaculately cared for. Four swivelling vinyl bucket chairs sit around the glazed marble-look tabletop with lace cloth, atop the vibrant 1970’s linoleum. Mandatory gold framed painting of fruit and wine looks down from the wall.

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    This table holds the imprint of four generations of Di Valentino’s gathering, breaking bread and eating pasta, laughing, crying, supporting, loving and holding space for each other. This table has facilitated a rise above language barriers – the offer and acceptance of food and “caffè” was the only phrase required to communicate the boundless love between grandchild and Nonna.

    I bring this priceless wisdom, gleaned from forty years of eating at my Nonna’s kitchen table, into my life and my child-raising. Whatever may have happened during the day is put on the back burner. What is brought to the table is food, love and eye contact.

    Sometimes that love has peeled and chopped, sautéed and baked for hours. Other times that love has ripped into a box of bunny shaped pasta and tossed it into a pot.

    Either way, the expression of love at the kitchen table is tangible and I feel deeply that this is one of the greatest gifts that I can offer.

  • Southern Style

    Southern Style

     

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    For those who do not know me, my name is Raven. I own a little bakery in one of the greatest mountain towns ever, Pemberton in British Columbia. I have a deep love for gluten, wheat, and all that it brings to my life. Today initially I wanted to write on a traditional favourite from where I grew up in the Southern Appalachian mountains, cast iron skillet cornbread. But as I sifted through this wheat-lover’s cupboards I found I had all the ingredients except my beloved wheat flour. What was I to do? With complete reluctance to change my topic, I let my topic change me.  Because for some reason there was, in the deep lost corners of my cabinet, a small bag of Gluten Free Flour.

    One of the very real and important things I want to say about my love for cornbread is that it comes to me with a remembrance of home, of the Appalachian mountain culture and all that I hope to share with you over time.

    It is important to me that food represent something more than nutrients. It is, as Elizabeth David said, and this is a very loose quote to be sure…

    “every bite we eat is not just food, it’s our culture, our history, our memories of ourselves, of our families, of times when we were particularly happy.”

    So today, I created for myself a new memory.  I hope you too, as you cook for yourself, your family and friends, find the time to honor and create memories of food filled with life and memories.

    So I now give to you my recipe for Gluten Free Skillet Corn Bread.

    1. The most important step is get a cornbread skillet.  Like this one that my mom gave to me when I first settled down. It’s of great value but not of the  monetary kind, and is only as good as the time you put into it, the “seasoning.”IMG_6626
    2. Gather all your ingredients, as organic as you can afford and as local as it can be.
    3. Next, turn on your oven to 425 degrees F.  Then put your cast iron skillet onto the your stove top on med low heat.
    4. Add 1/4 cup of a high heat tolerant oil.  I prefer grapeseed,  but please just no olive oil. While your oil is warming —
    5. Grab a med mixing bowl, whisk, spatula, and a measuring cup.
    6. Then, add into your bowl, 1 cup of buttermilk, 3 large eggs, 3 tablespoons of organic sugar, 1 1/2 teaspoons of salt, 1 tablespoon of baking powder, 2 teaspoons of baking soda and whisk it up.
    7. Note: after many years of cooking I do not mix my dry ingredients all together.  If you have that compulsion, it is ok.
    8.  Now add 2 cups of stoneground yellow organic corn meal, followed my 1 1/2 cups of my favourite wheat flour replacement Cup4Cup.  I do believe in this product and it is an amazing.
    9. Whisk it all together to make a batter…now add 3/4’s of that what-should-now-be-very-warm oil from your skillet and mix in.
    10. Take your spatula and pour the batter into your hot skillet.  The idea is that we are doing two things — frying it a tiny bit, as we love to do in ol’ Dixie, but we are also keeping your cornbread from sticking.
    11. For 4-5 mins let it cook on the stovetop, then put it into the oven until its done.  How long’s that you ask? At least 30 minutes, but it depends on your oven. Just until you stick a knife into it and it comes clean.
    12.  Your cornbread finally is done when you flip it out of the pan in awe and admiration that it actually did not stick to the pan.
    13. How do you eat it? With butter. Lots of butter! Who am I kidding?!  Gluten free, maybe, but without butter what do we have?

    r-xx

  • Cook Book Club ushers in the spring, March 21, 7pm-9pm, featuring Oh She Glows Every Day

    Cook Book Club ushers in the spring, March 21, 7pm-9pm, featuring Oh She Glows Every Day

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    Cook Book Club has a very simple formula for fun.

    Cook Book Club happens once a month.

    You make a shareable plate, from a selected cookbook, and show up, to Stay Wild, at 7pm.

    You meet a bunch of other people, sample a bunch of other dishes, and decide whether the cookbook is for you or not.

    No cost. No stakes. No pressure.

    A fun, free, social night out. A community potluck. A chance for food to bring us together.

    Bring your own napkin, or nibbling plate. It’s a Zero Waste event, so that Stay Wild will want to continue to host us!

    The March meeting will take place Wednesday, March 21, and the feature cookbook is Angela Liddon’s Oh She Glows Every Day.

    The library has a copy. Or borrow a friend’s. Or pop by Stay Wild and browse their display copy and snap a photo of your chosen recipe.

    Let us know what you’re thinking about bringing in the comments below, or on the Facebook page event. 

    Last month, our highly organic (i.e. loosely organized) approach meant no doubling up, and 11 different dishes/beverages to try.

    Hope you can make it.