The Field to Table Cookbook: Gardening, Foraging, Fishing, & Hunting by Rizzoli International Publications

The

Field to Table Cookbook Gardening, Foraging, Fishing, & Hunting

Susan L. Ebert

foreword by Jesse Griffiths welcome

BOOKS

Introduction “For people to love the earth, they must first touch it,”

When I arrived at the Rodale campus in the late ’80s,

Bob Rodale once told me about his passion for teaching

J.I.’s son Bob Rodale helmed the company, serving as Ed-

I had joined Organic Gardening magazine’s editorial

over Rodale Press’ ten or so magazine titles, as well as its

people to garden.

staff in the summer of 1988 as a young, soon-to-be-di-

vorced mother of two, following my graduate work at UT Austin and a six-year stint at Texas Monthly.

Overwhelmed by finding myself a single parent with

two very young children, and the three of us to support, I had returned to gardening for the spiritual sustenance that sustained me in my youth: helping plant, tend and harvest

itorial Director for Organic Gardening, and also presiding book division and the Rodale Institute, a 300-acre organic farm. Bob was also an ardent skeet shooter and a damn

good shot—a USA Skeet Shooting Team member in the

1968 Mexico City Olympic Games. While that would

keep most folks well occupied, Bob made time to take his influence worldwide.

In 1990, present-day Russia was still the Soviet Union,

alongside my Mamaw Grace and Papaw Dorsey. The emo-

and its people were starving in a resource-rich land ham-

a bonus—providing most of the fruits and vegetables we

struck a deal with USSR officials that he would fund a

tional healing of reconnecting with the earth served up ate, from the time Scott and Cristina could eat solid foods.

I’d been an unabashed devotée of Organic Gardening for

some time, so earning a slot on the magazine’s editorial staff thrilled me; when I got the call, I gathered up my

pered by inept chemical-based farming methods. Bob sausage factory if they would agree to let him publish Noveii Fermer, a Russian-language version of his beloved Organic Gardening.

I would work only two short years under Bob’s tute-

babies and took off lickety-split.

lage before his untimely death, but they were life-chang-

had founded his magazine just a few years earlier, he

years, committed to the belief that good health begins

J.I. Rodale launched Organic Gardening in 1942. If he

could have called it simply Gardening. Think about that.

Up until 1940, all gardening was organic. But that

changed in 1939, when Swiss chemist Paul Hermann Müller discovered that the organophosphate DDT, first

synthesized in a laboratory in 1873, killed nearly every

ing ones. I remained at Rodale Press for another six with healthy soil and clean water from which healthy

people, plants, and animals grow; to helping reconnect both children and adults to the primal joy of nurturing

seeds to fruition; and to promoting the health benefits of food that is not chemically polluted.

“It is so pure, so simple,” Bob Rodale said. “You CAN

crawling or flying insect. Utilized by the Allies to kill ty-

live a longer, happier, healthy life; you CAN take better

vor with U.S. farmers and gardeners. From then to DDT’s

children.”

phus- and malaria-spreading insects, DDT soon found fabanning in 1972, more than 1.3 billions pounds were

care of our earth; you CAN leave a better world for our

When I departed Organic Gardening to return to my be-

spread on U.S soil, with vast and longstanding conse-

loved Texas in the mid-’90s, I accepted a post as publish-

Agency for Toxic Substances and Disease Registry, trace

me to hunt, fish, paddle, and adventure in breathtakingly

quences. According to the Centers for Disease Control’s levels of DDT can still be found in soil, plant, and animal samples today.

er and editor of Texas Parks & Wildlife magazine, which led wild places, from the Red River to the Rio Grande Valley.

As I rambled across the Lone Star State, the increasing

amounts of chemicals and drugs I saw being fed to live-

gushes from a faucet but a treasure to be conserved and

me. Should not the protein my family and I consume be

sources—legumes ’n’ lighting!—not manufactured from

stock in captive feedlots at first alarmed, then shocked as organic and chemical-free as the fruits and vegetables I grow and procure?

My answer, naturally, was a resounding yes. This vow

transformed the acts of hunting and fishing into sacred missions, far richer and imbued with much deeper meaning than simply being afield. These wild creatures I loved,

studied, and pursued would grace my table. I would offer my prayers of thanks to them—and often, my tears

as well—and I would accept my role as part of the food

cherished. Where nitrogen is fixed from its two primal

petroleum. Where animals roam the prairies, grasslands, meadows, and marshes, and grow as nature intends, without injections of chemicals, antibiotics, or hormones. Where grasses and grains draw nourishment

from healthy soil untainted by glyphosate, 2,4-D, and other pesticides and herbicides. Where there’s no longer

a need to use the term “organic gardening” because, as it was in our grandparents’ day, there is no other kind.

With the natural world as my grocery store, I expe-

chain, as I did long ago on my family’s farm.

rience a splendid sharpening of the senses: The faint

yond merely touching the earth, as Bob had taught me,

Nitrogen for my garden! The shiver down my spine that

Through hunting and fishing, I learned to move be-

to embrace it and its wild inhabitants.

I gain glimpses—as I walk, paddle, hunt, fish, and

explore the breadth of Texas—beyond our manufactured,

digital lives: within our grasp is a holistic life with animals, plants, soil, water, and sky in harmonic balance in

nature’s cycle. Where water is not just something that

whiff of ozone that warns of an imminent lighting strike: tells me a bobcat is glaring at my back; the split-second

decision to gauge a whirling rapid ahead and choose a course where the fastest water flows, dodging boulders

with heart pounding; the freeze-then-flee escape from

an imminent rattlesnake strike. The backflips my heart does at the testosterone-fueled gobble of a turkey in blue-

bonnet-festooned meadows; the ear-tickling rush of teal

As do many of you who love to cook, I have an insatia-

wings over a predawn marsh. The zing of the reel as a

ble hunger for cookbooks—and probably own more than

wild dewberries I pluck from the vine and plop into my

to that the scores of magazines I keep for reference, plus

redfish chomped my plug; the sensuous lusciousness of mouth, an explosion of juicy sweetness. My culinary odyssey yields countless treasures, imbued with memories,

with which I fed my family, friends, and myself . Home cooks are indeed the bridge between the natural world and the family table.

fifty, many strictly wild game and fish cookbooks. Add dozens of gardening books, foraging books, and a prolific

set of field guides, as well as the preserving quartet of books about freezing, canning, curing, and drying, and the library grows even more unwieldy.

What if, I thought, I had just one book: One that had

Thus armed for an all-out effort to hunt, fish, forage,

the basics of which animals to hunt when; what species

I challenged myself to create delicious meals with non-

roots, and leaves were prime for foraging? And what if it

and garden as much of my family’s table fare as I could, GMO, organic ingredients, for dishes that are as healthy and chemically free as possible.

To my delight, the classic recipes of my state and

of childhood are even tastier—and more nutritionally

dense—when prepared with wild fish, game, plants, and organic produce.

Not only were there six flags over Texas (Spain,

France, Mexico, the Republic of Texas, the Confederate

of fish to target in each month; what native nuts, berries, also had tips on year-round organic gardening, since our

climate is so generous with its growing seasons? And, of course, at its heart would be more than 150 recipes

with menus combining each month’s most prized fare, and how to best preserve wild game and fish, and fruits

and vegetables at their peak, so they could be savored all year long.

According to the National Institutes for Health, wom-

States of America, and the United States of America)

en spend twice the time men do in preparing and cooking

tive Americans and 28 major ethnic groups also enrich

our family’s nutrition. So, it would be a mother’s—and a

whose foods became part and parcel of our culture, nathe vibrant stew of our cuisine. I draw a bit of richness from many: From Mexican feral hog tamales and

German wild duck sauerbraten to Cajun catfish court bouillon and Kentucky wild game burgoo, this book

will sweep you up in a culinary waltz through the di-

a family’s meals, and, doing so, bear the responsibility for

wife’s—cookbook—yet one that men would find equally useful. It would be a cookbook with recipes to cause

adults and children who once turned up their noses at wild game to clamor for it.

Taking my place in the food chain by choosing to

verse cultures, eco-regions, game animals, saltwater

harvest wild protein by my own hand has blessed me

ing season of my home state. And happily, because of

the creatures of our wild harvest. They taste of the rain-

and freshwater fish, wild plants, and year-round growthis rich diversity, the majority of these recipes translate well to other parts of the U.S.

Although my tastes lean toward a protein- and plant-

based diet, breads and desserts deserve a wild and organic makeover, as well. What’s not to adore about wild persimmon kolaches made with jam you’ve put up yourself; a Texas oyster “Peacemaker” slathered with

homemade remoulade on fresh-baked organic bread;

or a decadent non-GMO bourbon-laced sorghum pecan pie, with a flaky crust of leaf lard from a wild hog you’ve processed yourself?

with a deep appreciation of the natural world, and for bow-sherbet sunrises lighting the rush of wings over a

marsh; of long, deepening sunrays in the gloaming casting skeins of golden light across a buck’s shoulders; of the

earthquake tremble of a drumming gobbler. They taste of

crystalline rivers chortling over rocks; they taste of the sea. Something so pure and wild deserves to be treated

with respect: prepared with the cleanest, freshest, most wholesome ingredients available.

I never was able to find that book, so I wrote it here

for you.

Mesquite Flour Biscuits with Prickly Pear Tuna/Chile Pequin Jelly Yields 8 biscuits 1 package dry yeast

2 cups organic all-purpose flour ½ cup mesquite flour

1 tablespoon agave nectar 1 teaspoon baking soda

1 teaspoon baking powder 1 teaspoon salt

¹/³ cup lard, plus 1 tablespoon, chilled

¾ cup buttermilk

To do the day before: Dissolve the yeast in ¼ cup lukewarm water, and add a drizzle of agave nectar. Sift the flour, mesquite flour, baking soda, and salt into a medium mixing bowl.

Cut in the lard with a pastry blender or with two forks (the heat of your hands will melt it too much). Stir in the yeast mixture, the agave nectar, and enough buttermilk to make a soft dough. Cover with plastic wrap and refrigerate overnight. The next morning, preheat the oven to 450 degrees F.

Knead the dough lightly on a lightly-floured surface to about ¾-inch thick, and cut the biscuits with a biscuit cutter, a 6-ounce juice can, or a small juice glass. Place a 9-inch pie pan over low heat, and melt 1 tablespoon lard in it. Remove the pan from the heat, and place the biscuits in the pan, turning them once to coat both sides with the lard. Let them rise for 10 to 15 minutes in the pan, then bake for 12 to 15 minutes, or until the tops are golden brown.

THE MESQUITE As much as Texans disparage mesquite for its tire-puncturing and cattle-and-horsewounding thorns, water-robbing deep roots, tenacity (cut one, and like Mickey’s broom in “The Sorcerer’s Apprentice,” a gazillion will burst forth) and other noxious habits, its blooms make delicious wild honey. Its wood is cherished by both craftsmen and barbecuers, and the bean pods can be ground into a high-protein, low-glycemic, gluten-free flour. Harvest the dried bean pods in fall, and let them dry completely before grinding them into flour. They are so tough that they will destroy a food processor or blender, so best to take them to a gristmill— which we are fortunate to have nearby— or buy mesquite flour already ground. Once the tough pods are ground, the sweet flour tastes much like graham crackers. Texans both love and hate mesquite. J. Frank Dobie, Texas folklorist and writer, proclaimed “I could ask for no better monument over my grave than a good mesquite tree, its roots down deep like those of people who belong to the soil, its hardy branches, leaves and fruit holding memories of the soil.” On the other hand, pioneer and founder of the famed Waggoner Ranch, W.T. Waggoner, said, “Mesquite is the devil with roots. It scabs my cows, spooks my horses, and gives little shade.” Both mesquite and prickly pear increase production in drought conditions, causing consternation to ranchers but a tremendous food source for wildlife—especially deer—during the gap between summer fruits and fall mast production of fat- and nutrient –rich acorns, pecans, walnuts and hickory. The Caesar Kleberg Wildlife Research Institute is currently educating ranchers on why these nutrient-rich native plants should not be eradicated. Reckon mesquite is J.R. Ewing’s equivalent among Texas trees … even when you despise the gol-durned thang, you just gotta admire its many gifts and great tenacity.

See Prickly Pear Tuna/Chile Pequin Jelly recipe, p. 52)

Anticuchos de Pato con Salsa Amarillo (Spicy Duck Skewers with Yellow Sauce)

If you find yourself with skinless duck breasts, try a South American twist: 16th-century Spanish conquistadors delighted in Peru’s delicious anticuchos—spicy skewers of grilled beef heart. I’ve discovered that these are even more delicious made with wild duck. The popularity of anticuchos has spread from the Andean states, where they’re found on street food carts and in street food stalls, and into Texas and the Southwest, where we’ve fallen in love with the dish’s sunny, aromatic dipping sauce, spiked with cumin and turmeric. Serves 6 to 8 as an appetizer 4 teaspoons smoked paprika 2 teaspoons cumin

2 teaspoons turmeric 2 teaspoons sea salt

2 teaspoons freshly ground pepper

2 pounds skinless duck breast, trimmed, and cut into 3/4-inch chunks 4 tablespoons red wine vinegar 2 yellow bell peppers

¹/³ cup green onion, chopped from the bottom third of the onion 2½ tablespoons white vinegar 1½ tablespoons olive oil Juice of 1 lemon

2 cloves garlic, chopped

¼ cup finely chopped flat-leaf parsley Blend the paprika, cumin, turmeric, salt, and pepper thoroughly in a small bowl. In a separate large bowl, combine the duck cubes, vinegar, and half the spice mixture, and toss with your fingers to coat the meat. Cover and refrigerate for at least 3 hours. Meanwhile, soak 8 wooden skewers in water until you are ready to cook.

If you have a gas range, blister the whole peppers over a flame, turning them with tongs until they are scorched on all sides. If not, cut the peppers in half, remove the ribs and seeds, and arrange on a baking sheet. Broil them for 5 to 8 minutes, turning so that they blacken evenly on all sides. Using tongs, place the still-hot peppers in a small bowl, cover tightly with plastic wrap, and “sweat” them for 10 to 15 minutes.

Remove the blackened skin and any remaining seeds under a stream of cool water, and coarsely chop. In a blender, combine the peppers and half the remaining spice mixture (a quarter of the original mixture) with the green onion, vinegar, olive oil, lemon juice, garlic, and 1 tablespoon water. Process until smooth, and pour into a small serving bowl. Thread the duck onto the wooden skewers. In a small bowl, mix the parsley and the remaining spice mixture, and press the rub evenly into the meat. Grill on a charcoal or gas grill until medium-rare, turning only once. Serve with Salsa Amarillo (see recipe, page 85).