Beth Dooley - In Winter’s Kitchen

ALSO BY BETH DOOLEY

Peppers, Hot and Sweet

The Heartland

Savoring the Seasons of the Northern Heartland

The Northern Heartland Kitchen

Minnesotas Bounty

Meat and Potatoes

2015, Text by Beth Dooley

2015, Cover art by Josh Birdsall

All rights reserved. Except for brief quotations in critical articles or reviews, no part of this book may be reproduced in any manner without prior written permission from the publisher: Milkweed Editions, 1011 Washington Avenue South, Suite 300, Minneapolis, Minnesota 55415. (800) 520-6455 www.milkweed.org

Published 2015 by Milkweed Editions

Cover + interior design by Mary Austin Speaker

Cover illustration by Josh Birdsall

Author photo by Mary OBrien

15 16 17 18 19 5 4 3 2 1

First Edition

Milkweed Editions, an independent nonprofit publisher, gratefully acknowledges sustaining support from the Lindquist & Vennum Foundation; the McKnight Foundation; the National Endowment for the Arts; the Target Foundation; and other generous contributions from foundations, corporations, and individuals. Also, this activity is made possible by the voters of Minnesota through a Minnesota State Arts Board Operating Support grant, thanks to a legislative appropriation from the arts and cultural heritage fund, and a grant from the Wells Fargo Foundation Minnesota. For a full listing of Milkweed Editions supporters, please visit www.milkweed.org.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Dooley, Beth, author.

In winters kitchen / Beth Dooley. -- First edition.

pages cm

Includes bibliographical references.

ISBN 978-1-57131-881-7 (ebook)

1. Cooking, American. 2. Local foods. I. Title.

TX715.D6872 2015

641.5973--dc23

2015033774

Milkweed Editions is committed to ecological stewardship. We strive to align our book production practices with this principle, and to reduce the impact of our operations in the environment. We are a member of the Green Press Initiative, a nonprofit coalition of publishers, manufacturers, and authors working to protect the worlds endangered forests and conserve natural resources. In Winters Kitchen was printed on acid-free 30% postconsumer-waste paper by Edwards Brothers Malloy

For Kevin

Matt, Kip, and Tim

IN WINTERS KITCHEN

IN WINTERS KITCHEN

I n late summer of 1979, my husband, Kevin, and I loaded a U-Haul in Princeton, New Jersey, and headed to Minneapolis. Why? friends wondered. Didnt we already have plenty of great prospects in our hometowns? What about our families, the bustling New York metro? They could understand Los Angeles or Chicago, sure, but Mindianaolopis, as my dad called it, was flyover country, land of interminable winters and a lot of corn. Kevin, a fresh-out-of-law-school attorney, was drawn to the Twin Cities vibrant business economy and lack of big-city commute. And we were both attracted to Minnesotas lakes and trails, the piney woods and big rivers. I had already left my job with a large New York publishing firm to take on freelance writing assignments, work I could do anywhere.

So, like generations of women before me, I went west with the man I loved to create a new life and make a home. Id loaded up our starter furniture and wedding gifts as well as my grandmothers worn bread trencher and dented copper bowl, familiar tools of my past that seemed essential to my future.

In my beloved grandmothers kitchen, with its chipped blue cabinets, rolling wooden floor, and smells of coffee, oatmeal, and cooling pies, Id learned to knead bread dough until it was soft as a babys bottom and simmer raspberries into jam thick enough to coat the back of a spoon. When I was small, wed drive Route 35 to her home on the Jersey Shore and at each farm stand shed chat with Dolores, Bonnie, or Joyce; sniff peaches; thump melons; and check the princess corn, pulling back a few leaves to inspect its pearly kernels. While she shared recipes clipped from the Newark Star-Ledger, Id toe at the dirt with my sneaker, pet a scruffy dog, and lug the basket back to her blue Cadillac, seats sticky from heat. My reward was a sun-warmed peach so ripe its juice dribbled down my arm. When finally we crunched over the stones in her driveway and stepped into the soft briny air, our evening hungers surged. Shed sizzle meat patties from Arctic Meat in the black cast-iron skillet and steam Spikes Fish Markets blue crabs in the red enamel pot; Id peel the fuzzy fruit to top with sweet cream delivered to her back door by Jeff of Borden. Every ingredient came from a person and place with a name. Just before sitting down, Id carefully slice those blowsy, delicate Jersey tomatoes into fat wheels: tomatoes that remain, for me, the taste of summer itself.

The year before we moved, Id been writing for the weekly Princeton Packet, covering home and garden features like the Baptist churchs hundred-year anniversary potluck, as well as the beat no one wanted, the Planning and Zoning Board meetings. These civic gatherings, focused on land-use issueswater drainage, setbacks, building codeswere long, contentious, and fascinating. Residents fought to hold development at bay in an effort to save lush farmland while the real-estate lawyers, with flip charts and projections, promised increased tax revenues, new schools, and community centers. I watched as, quick as a cold snap in autumn, the bucolic landscape gave way to malls and condos for New York and Philadelphia commuters. By the time we left Princeton, the farm stands along Route 35 were gone. To find a Jersey tomato youd have to grow your own.

As we fit the last box into the trailer, delaying our goodbyes, I offered to host Thanksgiving. My dads favorite holiday involved our extended family and assorted friends and, for as long as I could remember, had been held in my parents home. But Dad squared his shoulders and gamely said, Sure. Why not? When he promised to fly everyone out, I sighed in relief and excitement. I had a date and a focus to frame this adventure, a purpose and deadline by which to get my turkeys in a row; Thanksgiving would be my guide star to a new place.

Kevin and I barreled into the land of the Jolly, ho ho ho... Green Giant with a bouncy, week-old brown Labrador pup, Hershey. Through Ohio, Indiana, and Illinois, acres of monotonous neon-green corn rolled by. These large tracts looked nothing like the uneven patchwork of crops on the small farms in NJ. In fact, what was growing here was not edible corn but the ingredients for sodas and food products. Where were the people? Where was the food? We pulled off the highway in search of a diner, and drove along ghostly main streets of empty storefronts, anchored by gas-station convenience stores. The only produceapples individually wrapped in plastic, bruised bananas, and shriveled orangeswas tucked on a back corner shelf. White-bread sandwiches in clamshells and hot dogs spinning on heated rollers: all looked pretty grim.