Hunting and Thanksgiving






As a child of the coalfields in the 1970’s, Holidays could be stressful. Valentine’s Day required that you have a girlfriend, a terrible burden for a youngster to handle. Easter required new clothes and an interminably long day spent in church services while all you could think of were all the new creatures cavorting in the forest, following the old trails. July 4th meant that I must, must, play baseball. I hated baseball. Any chances of my enjoying a sport that incorporated a small, but deadly ball hurled at my person at speeds in excess of a speeding car were ruined by my father’s insistence that I catch it.

One such Holiday, which included a demolition derby (loved it!), a lot of locals performing antics on newly acquired dirt bikes (equally entertaining), lots of hotdogs, Chow Chow, homemade chili, pickled eggs and peppers (the highlight, really) really stands out to me. As usual, a brisk and competitive game of baseball was initiated by some of the younger men and older boys. Sides were chosen, with me being picked last and banished into far left field, where I was happily captivated with the natural wonders of rocks, soil and the marvelous ecosystem of insects.

To my dismay, just as I had discovered a small anthill occupied with the eusocial little creatures, all rushing madly and in perfect synchrony, I heard my name being called. I looked around. There, to my greatest of horrors, hanging in the sky like a bolide capable of rendering the next greatest extinction, was the baseball. Headed straight for me. Solutions danced through my young mind. Pretend it’s not there? I was quite deaf, hence the yells; so could I imagine I couldn’t hear the calls? Walk away? Continue eating my hotdog, abandoned and previously forgotten, now covered in the tiny relatives of wasps?

Through it all, my Dad’s commanding whistle shattered my contemplation of possible paradigms, which included a black hole and parallel universes. I knew what he was ordering, but hoped for the impossible: For him to order me not to catch this incoming meteor. To just walk away. Run, even. I sighed. He signaled in no uncertain terms that I was to catch the ball. I did. I walked to the pitcher’s mound as the small crowd cheered and screamed, for I had apparently won the game. I handed the ball to my Dad and vanished into the comforting silence of the forest, where there were no such emergencies, only the peaceful cycle of nature.

Christmas had its own horrors. It drug on forever and the buildup to the BIG DAY was insufferable for a child. With my head spinning in glorious, delirious, fantastical possibilities that are driven into the very souls of bambinos by the relatively new Hollywood-Inspired wave of commercialism, I was inevitably disappointed in the reality of Christmas.

Thanksgiving, to my mind, was the most glorious of Holidays: A simple celebration of thanks. An opportunity to cook, taste new foods, open jars of pickled treats wafting of summer. It was a time for peach jam, which we were not allowed to touch until then, spread on Sourdough Bread, a reminder of long days of hazy sunshine, whippoorwill calls and the sound of tiny insects celebrating their short existence as only they can.

It was a time to sing Christmas Carols early in the season, a day of prayer and most importantly, food. My Mom would prepare a glorious turkey, fresh cranberry sauce and sourdough stuffing. She would have pickled eggs, onions and late season ramps, redolent with the smell of fall.

It was also a time of hard labor. Pigs were selected and harvested, rendered into manageable parts and parceled out in a division of work. Fall Capons, fat from acorns and rest, were quickly dispatched and plucked. The final cords of dried oak would be split, usually by my brothers and I, a satisfying task in the cold of early winter. The staves would resist our mauls with their shrill creaks of protest, but we were hardy and strong, in those days before video games, flat screen televisions and social media.

Thanksgiving was also a day to hunt. I was never cursed with the fever that grips some in the primordial task of the kill. My parents recognized in me at an early age a tenderness and reverence for living things that was unusual in a seething soup of manly activities. I preferred feeding the chickens over eating them. I loved the piglets, the occasional cow, tiny chicks in the spring and all growing things. I was often bullied for my projected weakness, which could rapidly become a terrible mistake for the perpetrator. I was not afraid to fight.

Nor was I hesitant to harvest animals when need persevered over the Anthropomorphism that was rapidly becoming part of our society, for better or for worse, coupled with the popularity of Disney movies and a disconnect from our food sources funded by capitalism, government and demand. My family had taught me to be a woodsman. By age seven I was at home in the forests, knowledgeable of the ways and haunts of every member of the constant cycle of life and death in nature. I had no illusions of where our food came from; just as I had no misconceptions of the reality of Santa Clause.

This Thanksgiving, my health relatively stable and feeling well for the first time in two years, I participated in a goose hunt. I was happy to be a part of the tradition of the Eastern Shore and contribute to the accumulation of nutrition for the rest of the winter. I also found, with great relief that my childhood traits were still with me. I still shoot only to kill. I appreciate each magnificent animal for what they have given us and the ultimate sacrifice in what was to our ancestors a serious venture to provide nutrition for their families.

I enjoyed it very much, and I was reminded of how blessed we are in this country to have a choice between supermarkets and harvest. We can choose how we wish our food to arrive on our tables and in our larders. Not many countries can replicate this feat. It gives me pause as one who is inherently distrustful of food that is not prepared by myself or loved ones: We still have a choice.

Which includes medium-rare goose marinated, cooked and served over a cranberry, red onion, Black Twig apple, garlic and shallot reduction sauce!





Food Preservation, Gifts and Bare Feet

My grandmother had preserved food her entire life, both out of necessity and pride. She canned, cured, dried and salted everything while the “Signs” were right. She did nearly everything in accordance with the subtle variations and seasonal changes evidenced in the world around her, along with the stars and moon. I’m by no means scoffing at this notion, however dated, and wish that I had paid more attention when I was a kid running amuck around the yard, heedless of the danger presented by massive boiling vats of water and post-WWII pressure canners that were on the verge of exploding at any time.

On one particular day, when I was even more reckless than usual, she swatted me with her wooden spoon and told me of the story of a boy who, just like me, ignored all the signs nature and didn’t pay enough attention to the dangerous tasks at hand. His grandmother warned him repeatedly to be more careful, but he laughed and danced about the glowing vessels, secure in his youth and nimbleness to keep him from harm.

The boys speeding feet landed him in serious trouble on this day, as he tripped and fell over a small piglet who had wandered into the canning area, as young pigs are want to do, seeking out the leftover mash and wonderful remnants of days of food preparation. Unluckily for him, he fell face first into the caldron holding the scalding liquid, and spilled it over his head.

His grandmother covered him in lard and lavender, dressing his wounds with chamomile and wild honey, as her ancestors had done for generations. There was no hope for the boy in this life, as his burns were too severe. Instead of allowing his soul to pass into the underworld where the boy would grow to be a man in pain and his scars would be belittled by the evil men around him, she prayed that his spirit be sent into the body of a young deer. The gods answered her prayer, and delivered the brave little boy’s woul to the deer, where he was free to roam and play, and the deer could never be killed by hunters, as it was sacred.

My grandmother waved her giant knife at me. “You be careful too, young Ron, as you can be sent into a young deer.”


Hopefully you have enjoyed the last few posts on getting ready for the Holidays and Canning for gifts. As I’ve given credit earlier, most or my recipes are borrowed or modified from “Canning For a New Generation” by Liana Krissoff. Her recipes are a huge departure from the “Ball Canning Guide,” which is invaluable in learning to safely store food in jars if you become seriously interested. One of my favorites, which I traded for a Cincinatti Chili Recipe, is for Red Onion Jam, which has a wonderfully sweet and tangy flavor and pairs well with Flank Steak, Grouse and Wild Game. The recipe is as follows:

Red Onion Jam


Four pounds of Granny Smith or other tart green apples. If you’re not sure, ask the person in charge of Orchard Husbandry, usually the owner or manager. A few Crab Apples thrown in for good measure add a bit more tartness to the Jam.

One pound of red onions, with papery peels,
The zest and juice of two lemons,
Two cinnamon sticks,
Three cups of sugar,
One half cup of molasses,
Two and a half cups of white vinegar and
About three cups of water.

Roughly chop all the onions and apples, leaving the peels, seeds and cores intact. Dump everything into a large kettle and bring to a hard boil. Reduce the mash to low, and allow it to simmer until everything is broken completely up and the peels have separated from the apples, about thirty minutes to an hour.

Line a very large colander with cheese cloth, taking care that the cloth can’t slide into the vessel when you pour all the mash in. I use a three gallon metal bucket when I strain the mash to make sure I don’t have a ton of leakage around the edges of the strainer.

Jam 2

Allow the mash to strain for at least a half hour, stirring occasionally but not mashing on the solids. This will force seeds and other unwanted solids into the liquid, which will turn out to be a beautiful rose color when you are done. It’s worth the extra time!


Process the jars and prepare them for canning. This recipe makes about four half pint jars, or four cups. Using a one cup ladle, carefully (!) pour the liquids into the jars using a funnel. I love using half pint regular mouth or wide mouth jars for this recipe, as it really shows off all the work you’re putting into it! Process in boiling water for about five minutes and place on paper towels to cool for twelve hours or more without disturbing them. Resist the temptation to turn them on their side and move them around for pictures. There will be time for that later!


There is some common sense to be utilized in canning and I’ll share some with you:

  • Wear shoes. For God’s sake, just put them on.
  • Invest in proper canning tools. Even if you only can once, they can make a difference between a pleasant experience and a trip to the hospital.
  • Make sure your intended canning pots are sufficiently deep to allow for not only the jars, but a few inches of water to cover, and enough space to avoid splashing. Boiling water + splashing + bare feet = pain.
  • Do NOT drink while canning. I don’t give a shit what the Italians say.
  • Plan your work area. Work in one direction only, from preparation to sanitation to the finished product. You don’t want to be constantly crossing yourself while you work.
  • Do NOT attempt to can while watching your children alone. Take a look at the story above. You don’t want junior to turn into a white-tail buck do you? If you are a companion or partner in the canning operation, get a sitter.
  • Do NOT leave the pots and pans alone on the stove. Not for one second. The moment you do is when they will all boil over at once.
  • Utilize the proper racks and grabbers to remove jars and lids from hot water. No matter how tough you may be, you WILL throw away a hot object upon contact.
  • Nothing is worse than a burn. Except burning your children.
  • Be careful, be slow and don’t rush. If you feel yourself rushing or cutting corners to finish before soccer practice or a Holiday activity, stop. A little iffy preserves can be refrigerated. Skin takes a long time to rejuvenate.

Scared? Good. Now get off your butt, grab a bunch or a little fresh produce, and get to work making Christmas presents. You will be the talk of the town and everyone will love you for it. It’s the gift that keeps on giving!

Pura Vida! Happy Holidays!


Apples and Holidays

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My father was determined when I was a kid to grow apple trees. I do mean determined. I think he planted around sixteen to twenty apple trees of all different types. All of them were from Stark Bros., a proven supplier of fruit trees of all kinds. On a lark, he also ordered a few peach, cherry, plum, pear and crab apple trees. Try as he might, the apple trees never grew. We watered them, picked bugs off them, and in the end, sprayed them with pesticides. Nothing worked. Every single one of them fell victim to one single species of worm that ate through the trunk of apple saplings.

We had visions of candied apples, apple butter, applesauce, apple jam and all things related to apples as fall approached, but it never happened from our trees. We dutifully went back to our Grandfather’s little farm and canned his wild apples. They were probably better anyway.

A few years ago, my wife and I gave jams, jellies and apple butter to our loved ones for Christmas. She also started giving out small jars of wild raspberry, blackberry and peach jam. I experimented with tomato jam, and we were off and running. In a world that simply cannot be satisfied with “bought” gifts, we discovered an alternative to socks and underwear.

There is simply something magical about the smell of apple butter cooking over a stove. It brings back memories of childhood, of places real and imagined. If you are lucky enough to do it outside, the real way, then the wood smoke will wake up something primal and buried and happy. You’ll stay up 24 hours, grinning and sipping hot ciders, tasting apple butter and sauce; and if you are smart, sipping on an occasional brandy or good whiskey.

I’m going to be honest here. Canning is neither easy nor for the faint of heart. Throw in a toddler, a phone ringing and people knocking at the door and it can be damn overwhelming. But it’s fun. Nobody does it anymore. You’ll have the satisfaction of doing it yourself, and get some damn good results, too. There’s nothing better than giving something you’ve made yourself to your loved ones, knowing that they will enjoy it.

Steve and Linda Blades, along with their daughter Olivia, were the first people I met at the farmers market in Easton. They were friendly, helpful, and full of advice on where to go to get what, where to eat and invited me to their orchard, Blades Orchard. So, the next day, under a raw and blustery sky, I set sail into the great unknown: The real Maryland.

Olivia taught me how to use my smart phone and the proper way to eat an apple. All of it.







I have to say, I’ve never stretched a bushel of apples so far. Applesauce, hot jalapeño and apple jam, spiced apple jelly, apple preserves, red onion and apple jam, apple sauce, and apple pectin were all stretched out of those apples, with a lot more to go. Let’s not forget how many we’ve eaten. 🙂


Quick and Wonderful Spiced Apple Butter (Modified From “Canning For A New Generation by Liana Krissoff.) All the apples were from Blades Orchard!

This makes about three pints: Easily modified to make more.


Six pounds of apples, I used a blend of Black Twig and Pink Lady, two of my favorites. Cored, but not peeled.
Two cups of apple cider, preferably from the same orchard.
About one and one-half cups of sugar.
One teaspoon of ground cloves. (I use a coffee grinder.)
One tablespoon of cinnamon. (Ditto on the grinder.)
One-half teaspoon of allspice.
Two star anise.
One cup of blackstrap molasses. (Available in the deep south everywhere, or from online food purveyors. Try Amazon.)
Two tablespoons of fresh, finely ground coffee beans. I use Black Lightning from Strange Coffee Company.

Add everything in an 8-Quart pot and bring to a boil, stirring occasionally, until the peels have separated from the pulp. Grab an immersion or wand blender and blend until it’s smooth. Taste it. Add some lemon juice if needed.

Transfer the mixture to a crock pot or slow cooker, set it on low with the lid askew a bit, and let it cook for about twelve hours, until it’s thick and dark.

Prepare your jars for canning. Wash them in warm soapy water or the dishwasher and place them in a large stockpot. Preferably the one you started the apple butter in. Bring them to a boil (do NOT try to add them after the water is boiling). Remove them carefully and place on paper towels to avoid making a mess. Place the lids in a small saucepan and ladle boiling water from the pot over them to heat. Ladle the applesauce into the jars, leaving about a 1/2 inch of headspace. Seal with the lids and bands, finger tightening each one. Don’t tighten too much, the air needs to be able to escape during processing. Bring the water back to a boil, and place the jars in the water gently! Process for about ten minutes, remove from the water and don’t disturb them for about twelve hours. Enjoy! Make your neighbors happy and give some away. Or not.

Sobriety and the Holidays

Sober Holiday, Numero Uno.

Sober Holiday, Numero Uno.

I’m now approaching my second year of Holiday Rejoicing as a sober individual. It’s been a long time since I’ve had anything alcoholic at all, and by some evil twist of fate, my HE (Hepatic Encephalopathy) prevents me from consuming more than two liters of fluid per day. Do you know how hard that is? I’ve always drank as much water as I could during the day, especially when working in coal mining, which is a miserably dehydrating environment or when working construction outside in the dead of summer, with the sun beating down mercilessly on any exposed skin. So, it’s rather strange for me now to carry around a half-liter bottle so I can make sure I don’t consume to much liquid!

The Holidays are stressful on everyone. Sober or not. They are a time of great joy, merrymaking, traditional dinners and gatherings of family members, and more often than not, they are a wonderful environment to make a fool of yourself on the third (or twelfth) glass of wine. It’s anonymity in an acceptable environment!

Last year, I was mostly shielded, rather intentionally, from the stress of making other people uncomfortable while drinking around me. I worked all through the holidays, most of the time belied by my colleagues as I motored my way through another shift. Two wonderful friends of mine who more or less adopted me as kitchen moms, kept an eye on my rapidly failing health with great alarm. It was a welcome relief from the inevitable question that hosts had to ask themselves if I was invited: “Should we serve alcohol? Should we hide it? WE can still drink, right?”

It was uncomfortable and exhausting. In a professional kitchen, nobody asks personal questions. Unless you open yourself up to them. You don’t have to explain to anyone that you don’t drink. Just don’t. The world marches on. Nobody modifies their behavior, or more importantly, feels the need to, in your presence. I like that. You are free to be whomever you want to be. Much like coal mining, working with real watermen, cooks only judge in terms of liability. Can you or can you not do your job. If you can perform while drinking a handle of tequila a day, then so be it.

My greatest achievement as a cook happened on Thanksgiving morning of last year. Sober only about five months or so, I was still suffering through the remnants of damage done and learning to accept the harm I had caused to my body. That morning, I was in charge of breakfast. I prepped for dinner the night before, and in true professional cooking reality, prepped for breakfast too. It was a late night and an early morning. I fell into bed beside my sleeping wife after kissing my son, still very much a baby then and didn’t stir until my alarm went off quietly in my ear. I was still in the darkness, planning the day. My short-term memory was getting worse and my Ascites was becoming obvious. I wasn’t sure I could pull it off.

Delores saved me that morning. Every single time I started to lose control, she swooped in and righted the ship. Together, we threw 112 plates on the pass in 90 minutes flat. All from scratch. No easy eggs, each plate to order. Pancakes, waffles, chicken and waffles until I ran out 20 minutes in. Sausage, bacon and corned hash were cooking on the grill alongside eggs, each order somehow perfectly clear in my mind. I became a machine. Time literally stood still. I could do no wrong. As orders piled up, plates started to the pass faster and faster and faster, until even the wait staff began to take notice. Runners began to tread cautiously, worried they would break the streak.

I was finally pushed off the line by Chef. Loaded down with Thanksgiving Day orders ready to go, many of which I had prepped the day before, they impatiently stormed my work area as I cooked around them until the last breakfast order was filled.

As I stumbled away from the line, people started to clap. Delores started it, I think. The wait staff joined in. The kitchen manager, Marcus, followed suit. He had stared open mouthed at the number of orders coming off the line for nearly a half hour.

Then, just like that, we moved on. I crashed for a moment on the loading dock, breathing carefully and trying not to faint. We quietly sipped our coffee, watched the snow fall through the fog and I shared a cigar from chef with the few outside with me. Conversation went back to the usual: Who is going to get drunk at the employee party and who may or may not sleep with whom, always a lively topic. My sobriety went unnoticed, uncelebrated.

Which is what I wanted.

This year, I will be invited to lots of gatherings, hopefully. I also hope that the topic of my recent battle with alcohol is forgotten. Someone will be uncomfortable, no doubt, and feel the need to explain to me that THEY are NOT AN ALCOHOLIC. They don’t drink this much, hardly ever, and they feel bad for drinking around me, and so on.

During that moment, I will slip quietly away to last year, when nobody knew and nobody cared.

Moving, Holidays and Cooking

A common thread that we find and are trying to address is one simple fact: Holidays are stressful. There are the ever-rising expectations of children to possess the latest and greatest electronic talking iPhone or whatever is being forcibly crammed into the optical nerves of the young as the Thing They Must Have Because Everyone Else Has It. Throw in a few families, some divorced couples, adults maxing out their credit cards in the presence of a plethora of alcohol, and the holidays can be disastrous. I’m telling you it doesn’t have to be. I must believe that.

Since my illness I have lived by one simple premise: Live each day to the fullest and appreciate every moment of it. Instead of throwing myself in the all-to-easy escape of blame and vision confined to rear view mirrors. I refused to wallow in guilt and self pity. It’s mostly worked.

Lately though, I’ve been a bit of a fish out of water, so to speak. The more appropriate analogy would be a bobcat in the water. I moved from my beloved mountains of Appalachia to a whole new world. The Eastern Shore of Maryland. The home of rockfish, oysters, duck hunting, sailing, fine shotguns and hardy people. People shaped and forged by the sea and land, just as people are all over the world. We are all products of our environment.

Moving to a new area during the Holidays while you are suffering a major setback in a potentially terminal illness and having a legal battle with the moving company, who didn’t move us left me drained and weak. I arrived sick, lonely, a bit delirious, and almost antagonistic. After a few weeks, my natural curiosity returned. Cooks everywhere, all over the world, have this inquisitiveness. We simply have to see what our environment is like so we will know what to cook! Surfers, climbers, farmers and everyone living close to the land have the same affliction.

I went fishing. We didn’t catch anything and I didn’t care. I was on the water, surrounded by the astonishing sight of blue. Blue everywhere: The water, the sky, the fish we didn’t catch but saw breaking water, the horizon; which was broken with sunlight hues of different shades of blue, it seemed.

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My exploration bug was unleashed. When cooks move to a new area, it is a panicky experience. You’ve left all your contacts, relationships with food suppliers, farmers, ranchers, small dairy farms and your own carefully tended gardens behind. I wondered, “What will I eat?”

Thankfully, due to the connections that all cooks, farmers, and all the other people at the still-beating heart of food and their innate kindness to strangers of all kinds, it didn’t take long to find out. We found meat suppliers…



A guy that makes unbelievable soups. My favorite is the stone soup, by far. A story later on this…


An unbelievable breakfast.


I had a few strange lunches, but this one took the prize. I ordered a hot dog and I received this rather unexpectedly. It’s an all beef hotdog, wrapped in cheese and pretzel dough and then deep fried. Served alongside pickled eggs. Why not?


Finally, I found what I was looking for that particular day. An apple grower. I met them at the farmer’s market and they cheerfully invited me to their orchard, exhibiting the hospitality that I have encountered all over the eastern shore in the few weeks that I have been there. I’ve found that people who live close to the earth, no matter where they abide, have one thing in common: Food. They sent me on my way with one bushel of assorted Black Twig and a variety of tart reds. Christmas presents await beneath their shiny, natural, waxless, local, unpolished, amazing surfaces. Of course I ate 3 or 16 before I got home and they were as I expected. Marvelous. They also hooked me up with a rare treat: Apple Doughnuts. In Nolan’s words, “Yeah, yeah, wow!!”


He’s a happy boy.

Chicken Stock


It was another deep Fall day. I don’t know how else to describe those days of late autumn, when the trees have sadly dropped their colorful accessories to the ground like millions of tiny faux diamonds abandoned as the beautiful debutant moves away to a new party and a new season. One with wood smoke; cold, long nights; and the winter Holidays.

Deep Fall is a melancholy time, but it is also one of my favorites. It’s a time of hunting, harvesting, gathering and storing for the winter to come. We usually aren’t completely prepared, those of us who enjoy thinking we live off the land around us, and it comes as some surprise when the first snows are upon us.

Firewood is stacked in the shed. A pig is happily fattening himself in the lot, enjoying his days of pampering and care before he makes the ultimate sacrifice so that we may nourish ourselves through the cold season until spring. The chickens are grumpily pecking around the yard, irritated by the sudden change in weather. There is a turkey or three scavenging in the back lots, with their wild brethren close by, awaiting harvest time.

It’s a wonderful time, a scary time, a time to rejoice in what you have accomplished and look forward to a New Year as the ball drops to mark another trip around the sun.

Then there are the Holidays. Oh, dear, God. The Holidays! The word brings both joy and a shudder in most people. Professional cooks are stealing themselves for long, hot driven shifts that will leave them exhausted, staggering, footsore and happy all at once. Suburban Moms are wondering just how they are to manage the schedules they set for themselves months ago, when this time of year seemed so far away. Chasing children, carpooling, working, cooking, buying: It is a time of great stress.

Then there is chicken stock. Take a day off. You can still work. You can still answer the phone, check email and have a productive day. The day you are stressed, overworked and overwhelmed by the stress of the season – make stock.

Chicken stock is a staple of our diet. At least it should be. It makes risotto better, gravies richer, soups more delicious, and everything better. Chicken and dumplings are suddenly unbelievable. Chicken noodle soup becomes divine.

Don’t use the shit they sell in the store. Organic or not, it’s mostly salt. It is flash steamed with mechanically separated chicken, condensed into a liquid, end loaded with tons of sodium. It’s not any good. I’ve never looked at a box of chicken broth and thought, “I’m going to drink that!”

Homemade chicken stock has depth, flavor, and character and makes you feel safe and warm and fuzzy and sleepy and happy all at the same time. It’s like a favorite blanket by a fire. It’s also crazy easy to make.

You’ll need a couple of chicken carcasses, or, better yet, four chicken backs and a pound or so of liver, gizzards and hearts. Carrots, celery, garlic and herbs round out the basic recipe. The wonderful thing is, you can easily modify it to your taste! Here is my basic recipe:

  • Four chicken backs (I buy mine at the market).
  • One pound of assorted chicken liver, hearts and gizzards.
  • Eight carrots, tops removed, one-inch chop.
  • One half-pound of celery, one-inch chop.
  • Assorted root vegetables such as turnips, parsnips and radishes.
  • Rosemary.
  • Thyme.
  • Sage.
  • Garlic, four heads, peeled and split in half.
  • Then, my secret ingredients: Ginger, (About two ounces by weight or a small root, peeled and chopped), Cinnamon sticks (four), Dried hot peppers (I use four, if you want it hotter, go for it), Eight Bay Leaves, two lemons (cut into slices) and two apples, cut into slices). Two leeks, cut in a one-inch dice with the tops discarded.
  • Peppercorns, salt, garlic salt, cucumber salt, oregano, paprika and other spices to taste.


Place the chicken in a five gallon heavy stock pot. Using about two tablespoons of olive oil, stir and cook until lightly brown, but NOT burnt. This will turn your stock an unsightly dark brown and leave a bitter aftertaste.

Throw in the onions, garlic, celery, root vegetables and simmer for about ten minutes. Dump everything else in. Fill the pot with water and bring it to a low boil. Reduce to a simmer. Walk away. Stir every hour or so to make sure nothing is sticking to the bottom. Enjoy a house full of wonderful smells. Go for a walk. Taste the stock. Season to taste.


Reduce by half, about two gallons. Strain the solids carefully without pressing them. This will add cloudiness to your stock.


Pour into containers of your choice and either freeze of refrigerate it. Pour yourself a cup. Or two. Sit on the couch with a book and a remote control. Pretend you are snowed in and you just made it all on a wood stove, as my mother did. Here are some tips for storage:



There are endless ways to store stock. You can freeze it in one-pint wide mouth jars (this is important, some jars will break when freezing), freezer bags, ice cube trays, and refrigerate it for about three weeks. It’s great for everything but cereal. Maybe even cereal.


Enjoy your holidays!!

Do We Really Want to Eat the Rainbow?

About ten years ago, my new boss and older friend charged into my office with a look of confrontation. He slammed a small report on my desk. “Sign this!” It was an order, not a suggestion. I shrugged, nodded my head and began reading the document. “Don’t READ it! Just sign it!” I was a bit flummoxed. “Why not proof it?” His face was a little red and he was somewhat perturbed. A master poker player, it took years of study to gather a tell on his emotions, but I could. I pressed a bit. “Is there something wrong with it?” I turned it upside down and pretended to study it. I’d already seen a few typos and corrections that needed to be made. He looked at me in consternation. “I’m asking you to sign it, not read it. I’ve worked on that THING (He spat the word out like it made him sick) for days and I want it gone.”

I signed it. Nothing happened. The world didn’t end, we didn’t get sued, nobody bombed us again and all went back to normal. But that thing bugged the hell out of me.

I have a serious weakness. Despite all my worry over what to feed my family and what to eat myself in order to promote good health and a positive lifestyle as free from the system of doctors, pills, processed food, supplements, subsidies and everything else that compromises us on a daily basis, I like Skittles.

Especially the sour ones.

I like the rainbow. I can taste it. Sometimes, to my wife’s astonishment, I crave them. I consume them in secret. I hide them. Then I fret that they are there and wonder when I should eat them. A walking textbook example of an addiction. To a hard shell candy. I admit it.

Until today. My son and I were running errands, playing around in the yard and basically just enjoying this surprisingly beautiful November day. As was my custom, I picked up a box of Skittles.

IMG_0535[1] I readied myself for the explosion of sourness on my taste buds. I may have been salivating a bit. I’m not sure. I did make sure that Nolan was asleep in his car seat and so would not witness his Dad succumbing to temptation like Samson with a stripper. I didn’t want to wake up bald, powerless, blind and chained to a post.

On a whim, I flipped the box over. I read the ingredients.


What the snowball? Each package says that there are 160 calories per serving. It is marked on the front of the box. That’s not bad, right?  Not bad. I suppose, if you are ok with eating nine different food dyes, corn syrup, hydrogenated palm kernel oil (what the hell is that?), corn starch, tapioca dextrin, sodium citrates, wax and citric acid.

Let’s dig deeper. What is a serving? The back says that each serving is one-quarter of a cup and there are 2.5 servings per box. Some quick math gives me 400 calories per box Holy shit. That’s more than a hamburger. For fun, I measured the contents of the box. By volume, which is what the serving size implies in units, it’s volumetric. So, I poured them into the handy OBO measuring cup from Susan is a great source for kitchen tools and samples to work with. She gave me this after a visit to my station in the kitchen where she discovered that I didn’t have a measuring cup.


This is where things started to get even weirder. Much like my old boss with his report, I was starting to wish I hadn’t read the damn ingredient list. Now I just wanted to throw it away. Yes, the picture is fuzzy, like those “Mysterious Mythical Creature” photographs. Why is Bessie always out of focus?  By my measurement, and like Tony Stark, my math is always right, there was less than a half a cup in the whole box. There should have been 3/4 of a cup. Was there still 400 calories in the box?

Now, the challenge: What to do with it Some ideas bounced around in my head. Throwing it outside and measuring in years how long it would take to break down in a natural environment was one of them. But I was still hungry. So I melted them. I was expecting a sticky syrup, and my challenge was to make a sweet and sour chicken dish.


Melting didn’t take long at all. I added enough water to cover in the measuring cup, then placed it over low heat. In about 15 minutes, the strange chemical combination was actually boiling! That was disturbing, espcpecially given that it was over low heat. I pressed on in the name of science. I poured it back into the nifty measuring cup by OBO, which allows you to read measurements sideways (How cool is that!) and let it stand for two hours. It was still a liquid. I feel like Alice.


So, I placed the goo in the fridge and waited on it to cool. After an hour, it was still a liquid. I tasted it. it didn’t even coat the spoon and it did NOT taste like sour skittles. In any way. I tasted like cereal milk that didn’t have any milk. I most certainly did not want to feed this concoction to my family, and I no longer wanted to eat it myself. My strange addiction, gone.

I poured the thing down the drain for someone else to deal with. Much like my report that I signed so long ago. Sometimes, it’s best not to know. But, knowledge is power, right? Would the knowing affect the eater? Probably not.

I know this: I’ll never eating that shit again.

Next up Who knows? I promised a chicken stock post on Friday, and I shall deliver. Let’s see how my strange new world effects my story telling tomorrow.