Jill Winger - The Prairie Homestead Cookbook

simple recipes for
heritage cooking
in any kitchen

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To the special souls who possess the grit to transform from a reader into a doer

We naturally fear what we dont know. The American love affair with pseudo-food and convenience, promising to extricate us from the visceral monotony of domestic culinary duties and farm chores, has now morphed into remorse. We bought a promise of ease and leisure only to find nutrient deficiency, unpronounceable ingredients, and dubious additives.

More and more people question this trade of domestic duty for corporate and industrial care. More and more of us are skeptical about the type of food and farm care this century-long trade created. As we opted out of historical participation in food and farming, the skills and knowledge went to the grave as our elders passed away. Common knowledge is no longer common.

I dont know much about computers or video games. I dont even know much about fashion or Hollywood celebrities. But I know what a heifer is. I know you dont need a rooster for hens to lay eggs. I know how to plant tomatoes and how to make applesauce. I know the difference between a raccoon attack on chickens and an opossum attack. I enjoy leftovers, and carrots with some telltale dirt still clinging to their little hairy roots. I know how to keep pigs in an electric fence, how to dig a pond, and what good hay smells like. These rural arts and skills too often get shoved to the margins of our sophisticated society.

In this unsettled time, in limbo between what was lost and a return to personal involvement with food and farming, fear of the unknown now rules the day. Questions like How do you make a hamburger? and Why are you short of eggs in November? require coaching. The compounded and profound food and farm ignorance most Americans now face leads to food fears. What to eat, how to cook, where to buy create tension and turmoil in families and workplace potlucks.

When the distrust of the food conglomerate orthodoxy and frustration of not knowing anything reach the stomach-turning point, literally, here comes Jill Winger, hand-holder and cheerleader for personal responsibility and home-centricity. I have preached forever that the foundation of an integrity food system must be laid in domestic culinary arts. All of us simply need to know more about food and its production in order to stem the trajectory toward nutrient deficiency, foodborne pathogens, and techno-fragility.

But its such a tall order, this desire and imperative to rediscover lost arts. The Prairie Homestead Cookbook might be the best friend and coach for a fearful pilgrim into the lost arts of home and hearth. The pictures bring tears of appreciation that mingle with salivating eagerness. Written in a welcoming and nonjudgmental style, this is far more than a cookbook; its a callback to do-it-yourself food. Dont let the word homestead in the title put you off. If youre locked in an urban condominium for now, you have plenty of practical ways to quit supporting foods dark side. Jills winsome and inspirational demeanor will have you diving into sauces and pickles before you have time to realize you dont know how to do this. Thats a good thing.

With calm reassurance and Ive been there and done that encouragement, Jill brings you to success regardless of your starting point. This wonderful book hands the gift of can-do to anyone ready to embrace the kitchen and the corral. Lots of cooking insights, great recipes, and a good smattering of homestead gardening and livestock advice drew me affectionately through the pages. I know youll be eager to see what this tried-and-true homesteader has to say because the best antidote to fear is knowledge. Thank you, Jill, for helping thousands of aspiring participators overcome their trepidation and become doers. Fire up the stove, don the apron, pull on the boots, and bring the bucket. Its a world of healing and discovery; let the journey begin.

JOEL SALATIN

Going back to a sampler life is not a step backwards.

YVON CHOUINARD

Two City Kids and a Compost Pile

Splashing in the creek, chasing fireflies at dusk, and living life at the end of a dirt road. Nope, that wasnt my childhood. I wasnt raised a homesteader. In fact, I didnt even grow up out in the country. Like many folks, I have homesteaders and farmers on branches of both sides of my family tree, but my childhood was spent in a regular little neighborhood on a small lot in rural northern Idahono acreage, no chickens, and no big red barns.

My upbringing may have been suburban, but I had a fascination with all things country right from the start. While all my friends were playing dress-up, I pushed a wheelbarrow around our tiny yard and pretended I was living on a farm and mucking stalls. (Yes, really.) The other girls giggled about their latest crush while I doodled sketches of my future barns and corrals. In high school, the thought of Saturdays spent roaming the mall bored me to tears. I much preferred using my weekends to help local ranching friends build fences and clean pens. I never really fit in with the crowd, but I never really wanted to either.

Ive been obsessed with horses since I was two years old, so after graduating from high school, it only made sense to pursue a career in the equine industry. Instead of staying close to home, I packed up my F-150 truck and drove to Wyoming to begin a grand adventure 1,100 miles away from everything and everyone I had ever known. I was scared to death, but promptly fell in love with the ruggedness and wide-open spaces of the Cowboy State and swore to never leave. A few years into that adventure, I met my future husband, Christian. It was a totally romantic first encounterI was shoveling liquid cow manure in the college arena the first time he laid eyes on me. Now that I think about it, it had to be some sort of a foreshadowing of our future lifestyle. He wasnt raised on a farm or ranch either, but our early dates were filled with talk of our shared dreams of owning land and cattle someday. He proposed on horseback and we were married soon after.