Purple Potato Salad with Sunchokes, Eggs, and Creole Cream

This dish is one of those immensely satisfying uses of interesting ingredients from my local farms and artisan food vendors, on a beautiful day simply dripping with promises of Summer. The weather this weekend was so mind-numbingly perfect - light breeze, low seventies, clear skies - that I'm almost positive nobody in the city accomplished anything more than a park stroll and a picnic. Which is, incidentally, exactly what I think a weekend should be.

In a comical contrast to last weekend's rainy, freezing market Saturday, this week's market was one of the best attended in my memory. This is the first year the Portland Farmers Market has ceased allowing pet access in the market, and it was clear to see why - there was hardly enough room for the shoppers! Every farmer I talked to was all smiles, joking about how the ups and downs of the weather effect the market as much as the farm.

This weekend we were all like new crops, reaching our leaves up to the sunny warmth, and getting our nourishment from the water, soil, and sun of Oregon. And nowhere was it more evident than the PSU market.



I picked up some of my favorite market finds - purple Peruvian potatoes! - from Prairie Creek Farms' booth. These little jewels are a relatively recent cross between the All Blue and Russian Blue varieties, and feature a striking blue-purple center with white rings. Inspired, headed off to find another basket of sunchokes. I had a salad in mind, and nothing was going to get in my way.

Well, that is, until I was distracted by the return of Pam Kraemer and the Dulcet Cuisine table! If you haven't heard of Dulcet's ketchups, sauces, spice rubs, and mustards, I'm sorry. If you have, you'll know that they have on of the friendliest, taster-friendly booths at the market, and sophisticated, locally-crafted condiments. I picked up some Creole Mustard and set off the finish tracking down the ingredients for my feels-like-summer Purple Potato Salad!



I peeled and chopped up 2 pounds of the purple potatoes, 1 pound of sunchokes (which I didn't peel), and simmered the tubers in a big pot for 15 minutes. I drained the roots and let them cool to room temp in a big bowl. I hard-boiled three eggs, chopped them up, and diced half a purple onion. Throwing everything into the bowl and lightly tossing, all I had to do was whip up a dressing. In a small bowl, I mixed a half cup of plain yogurt, two tablespoons mayonnaise, a tablespoon of the Creole mustard, two tablspoons of cider vinegar, salt, and pepper, and drizzled this over the potato/sunchoke mix. Yum.

Wouldn't this be perfect for a Passover or Easter lunch? Such pretty colors - just calling out to be eaten while sitting on a blanket in the middle of a park, getting absolutely nothing accomplished. And not regretting it one bit.

The rain will be back, the cool will have a bit more fun with us before this kind of weather is the norm, and I won't be able to sit here with a hint of a sunburn, avoiding my classwork for much longer. But we can soak it up while we can, and taste the flavors of summer, even in April. Eat well, friends. Enjoy the sun.

Quesadillas with Leeks, Turkey, and Sheep Cheese

This is one of those meals birthed from an iron-chef-esque hurried hunt for lunch. What's in the fridge? Tortillas... sliced turkey... ooey gooey sheeps cheese... and a leek. How can I use these random ingredients to make something passable in the ten minutes I have before class? Ah, the totally nontraditional quesadilla!

I spread some of this delicious sheep's milk cheese called "Valentine" on some corn tortillas. The cheese is from Ancient Heritage Dairy in Scio, Oregon, and you can find their awesome sheep and cow cheese every weekend at the PSU farmers market. Their dairy sheep are some of the happiest animals on earth, and the dairy's slogan is "Raised with respect, nourished to nourish you." Their sheep's milk feta is my absolute favorite, anywhere. But that's for another day.

I sauteed the leek in olive oil, but I didn't add any salt - if you're using a creamy cheese like this one, the flavor is already in there - and threw them on the cheesey tortilla. I topped it off with a slice of turkey, and popped it in a hot pan for a minute on each side. A dash of hot sauce, some cilantro, and a dollop of yogurt and I was ready to eat.

I'm not enamored with the hot sauce I've got right now, and I'm thinking of trying some of Dulcet's sauces instead. They have a Sweet Orange Chile Mustard that is killer on a sandwich. I hope they'll be showing up at the market soon!

It doesn't take hours to cook fresh, local food. Take it from a busy college student on a budget. Speaking of which, I've got class in ten minutes! Gotta run, Eat well!

Sunny Sunchoke Pickles

The first time someone served me sunchokes (also known as Jerusalem artichokes), it was pureed - a sort of creamy mash with a nutty flavor. The next time I ate them, they were served as creamy sunchoke mush... and the next, well, I think you get the point. What do you do with a little root that looks like a potato or a piece of ginger, and is sold as an "artichok" (see below)? Apparently, you mash it with butter. Don't get me wrong, I love things mashed with butter. It's one of my favorite ways to eat, well, anything, but it also seems a shame to mask the interesting shape and flavor of this relative of the sunflower by treating it like a potato with an identity crisis.

I wanted to branch out a bit, so I pickled mine! I'm not going to claim this was complete ingenuity - people have been making sunchoke relish and pickles for centuries, but I was pleased to make something fresh and crisp from the oft-mashed veggie.



It seems that the culinary world is a bit confused by this tuber, and if you look at its history, you shouldn't be surprised. The sunchoke is one of the few tubers native to this part of the world - indigenous peoples of America have been growing and eating sunchokes for centuries. Apparently, the Europeans were subject to rumors that the plant was dangerous if eaten. Some brave soul decided to try one anyway (maybe in a game of truth or dare), and figured out that it was mighty tasty. After this, the story goes that some French explorer took some plants back to an Italian friend, who, upon remarking that its flavor resembled an artichoke, named the tuber "girasole articicco," meaning, "sunflower artichoke."

Like a game of telephone gone goofy, English speakers flubbed up the name and called in a Jerusalem Artichoke - though they have absolutely no connection to the holy city. Ah, but the name stuck, and perhaps the early myths of the danger have survived through history, because these tasty guys are still on the fringes of the culinary world. Don't worry, they are only myths. The sunchoke is the root of the Helianthus tuberosus, which looks like a mini sunflower. Also, they seem to be a good starch alternative for diabetics, because the substance that allows the tuber to make it through the winter, inulin (not insulin), breaks down into fructose instead of glucose during digestion. Sunchokes are completely safe, even if they won't be winning any beauty contests.

It was pretty empowering to make a batch of pickles, even if they were simply refrigerator pickles that didn't require any special sterilization or months of waiting. My roommates weren't too happy that I made the house smell like vinegar and spices, but by now they are used to my kitchen escapades and didn't complain. Much. A week in the fridge, and these pickles were ready for eating. They are so good, I've thrown in a bunch of veggies to the juice to pickle-ify them. The sunchokes themselves taste a bit like artichokes with the texture of jicama. A great way to try the weird looking tubers from the farmers market, with no danger at all. Well, except that vinegar smell.

Good luck, and Eat Well!

Oakley's Sunchoke Pickles

2 pounds sunchokes
1 red bell pepper
1 quart water, plus 1 cup
4 tablespoons salt, divided in half
3 cups cider vinegar
2 tablespoons sugar
1 teaspoon peppercorns
1 teaspoon celery seed
1 teaspoon mustard seed
1/2 teaspoon turmeric

Cut the sunchokes and bell peppers into thick slices (about 1/4 inch), and combine with the water and 2 tablespoons of salt. Let soak overnight in the fridge. Drain and rinse well.
Bring the cider vinegar, 1 cup of water, the remaining 2 tablespoons of salt, sugar, and all the spices to a boil for 6 minutes. Plug your nose and alert your roommates.
Pack a jar (or jars) with sunchokes and peppers, and pour the hot vinegar mixture over the veggies up to 1/2 inch below the neck. Place any remaining spices in the pot into the jars. Allow to cool, cover, and store in the refrigerator for a week before eating. These will keep for about 4 weeks in the refrigerator. Enjoy!

Sirloin Tacos with Red Cabbage, Scallions, and Cilantro

Eating seasonally is a funny project. During the winter, the farm finds are so fundamentally winter that it's difficult to break out of the soup/stew/casserole/roast recipes. But here I find myself dipping my toes into the first spring produce, and I'm making tacos with flavors I'd usually associate with a summer grill.

It may be a rebellion against the typically heavy foods of winter, the anticipation of sunny days on the horizon, or the abundance of fresh cilantro at the farmers market, but I found myself craving spicy, fresh, latin flavors this month. While my herb garden is sprouting, I'll be able to find everything I need, made and grown locally in Portland at the farmers market. That is, everything but citrus, the singular kink in my locavore chain. Most sacrifices are bearable - I don't really need avocado, I have no cravings for pineapple, but I miss citrus like I miss my parents. I should investigate those indoor lime trees.



I had some organic top sirloin strips (butcher cast-offs from some special order, always a good find) and some gorgeous red cabbage, fresh cilantro, some thick greek-style yogurt and scallions as big as leeks. Pulling a stack of corn tortillas from the fridge, the natural decision was tacos!



I sauteed the scallions with cumin, chili powder, and pepper, and seared the steak until it was done. After I warmed the tortillas, I piled the tacos with the cabbage, cilantro, yogurt, and a bit of hot sauce. No real recipe here, just fresh flavors and spices you like. If I had thought ahead, I might have marinaded the steak, but this was just a quick lunch and it was plenty flavorful. The scallions caramelized and the cabbage had great color and crunch.

My only complaint with this dish was the tortilla. I had to pick them up at New Seasons, and while they were organic and wholesome, they were probably made last week. I miss the big latino super-grocers in Southern California, where you can get a HUGE stack of still-warm tortillas, bulk pico de gallo, and all the citrus you could eat for pennies.

I need a place to get great, fresh tortillas in Portland. Any suggestions?

Here's to slightly warmer days and fantasies of cocktails by the beach. Eat well!

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A Love Song for Portland

TThis is the second week of the farmers' market, a day to separate the produce friends from the fanatics, as the rain poured down in a 38 degree chill. Everyone had these conspiratorial smiles on their faces as they sought out their spinach and leeks, sharing in each others' giddy stubbornness in refusing to let the weather keep us from our Saturday fix. The veggies seemed happy enough, and we got our first rapturous glimpses of rhubarb and asparagus amidst the onions, roots, and greens.

Drenched to the core, I felt like a golden retriever at the beach as I shook my soaked hair before I raised my camera, wrapped in a plastic bag, to snap shots of the day. Note to self: Jackets with hoods are NECESSARY. A playful feeling shocked through the small crowd - we gave up caring about our appearance and became kids, jumping in puddles, drinking apple juice from the jug, and eating chocolate covered mint patties fresh from the mint farm. The smell of the smoke from Mark Doxtader's Tastebuds pizza and bagel brick-oven made the whole scene feel like a camping trip, as we took every chance we could get to huddle together under tent coverings. That being said, I can't remember a campfire ever producing bacon and leek pizza with the best crust in the Northwest.



By noon, the lines for Pine State Biscuits were still shockingly short, and those for the coffee carts wound their way beneath vendor awnings and oversized umbrellas. Everyone seemed to have the same thought on their minds - holding a hot cup of caffeine is the only way to make this bearable. As I reached into my pockets to pull out the requisite $1.25, my hands were so cold they could hardly muster the dexterity to search for coinage - so the Funky Monkey baristas (cart-istas? vendristas? Addiction Pushers?) got their tip and then some. As I filled up my cup with french press brew, topped off with Norris' Dairy cream, I couldn't help but whisper, "Damn, I love this town."



A snapshot of my love affair with this city: Coffee in my hand, Leeks, cabbage, goat cheese, fresh made noodles, scallions, cilantro, and steamer clams from the coast in my backpack, babies bundled up with bearded, tattooed daddies holding umbrellas while they eat freshly made artichoke tamales, bluegrass music wafting over the sounds of water pouring off tented produce stands, and the farmers who brave this weather all week to bring it to the heart of a big city that thinks it's a small town.



A huge pool of water escapes from the awning above me, lands on my head, and as I start shivering, I take another sip of my coffee, wipe off my poor, abused camera, and laugh - this is what it's all about. The weathermen have pointed to rain every day for the foreseeable future, and we'll be smiling our way through it. A few weeks ago, Business Week named Portland, Oregon the Unhappiest City in America. Looking around this morning, I have to say they were quite mistaken. They obviously haven't been to our farmers market at the beginning of Spring.

I love you Portland. Eat well.