and Jessica Prentice’s approach in 
. Many consider 
to be the seminal work in this area. As with fruits and vegetables, I work hard to find local animal products, though sometimes I have to make an exception for one reason or another, for example, because I’ve found no better domestic dry-cured ham than the 
assures me that one can continue producing vegetables, albeit less common ones, throughout the winter in one of our northernmost states. Further, the French have relied successfully on the potager for year-round produce for ages.My day job heated up in early spring and hasn’t slowed down one bit, leaving me far less time for food writing. But fear not. I’ll be back. And I am still thinking about food whenever a spare minute presents itself and have been able to sneak in some kitchen time at least a few times a week. Some of my favorite kitchen work in the past few months has been
I have been meaning to give you this recipe for a few weeks. Not yet having done so, I find myself in the unusual state of hoping winter will stay and chill us just a few days longer, until I can share this recipe with you. As such, my heart saddened a little as I saw the pale pink blossoms while walking with Elinor through the park a few days ago. But I was fortified to see the daffodils with their green blades still merely stretching for the clear, blue sky, not yet smiling up at us with their open-topped top-hat blossoms. A false prediction of snow last night, what would have been the first in 35 years in San Francisco, was also encouraging. So I have made it, pushing the “publish” button while it is still a nippy 40 degrees outside, cold enough to need a cup of steaming tea to sip and to wrap myself in a woolen blanket.
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Oregon—Portland, specifically—is home. Growing up, it meant summer afternoons spent picking from neat rows of small, glossy strawberries or tangles of blackberries, which left my hands stained purple and forearms stinging from crosshatched scratches. In the winter, we would trudge up snowy forest roads deep into the Mt. Hood National Forest, insulated bottles of hot chocolate (and the requisite permit) in tow, until we found the perfect Christmas tree. The ocean, mountains, high desert, and idyllic pastureland were all within an hour or two, and we took advantage of them all.
Originally known as “Ouragon,” Oregon is beautiful country, but I left it in 1998 in exchange for a state known for its turnpike, shore, and the gnarled accent of its citizenry. It is a good state, and I grew to appreciate it, defend it, even. But after four years, we moved north to Rhode Island and farther north again to Vermont. Eventually, my face grew tired
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Transporting butter across state lines with the intent to combine with intoxicating liquors. Not a crime, but it should be, given how balmy and festive hot buttered rums are, particularly when made with homemade butter. They are just the thing whether the thunder is shaking the house on a wet Oregon Coast night (our experience the last few days) or the heavy, white clouds are laying down their fifth foot of snow today or you are all together at last. Pick up a bottle of serious rum and mash together the base, most of the ingredients for which you likely have on hand. Then wrap yourself in a downy blanket, cue my favorite Christmas song, and sip away. Happy Christmas, gentle readers.
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My love affair with dairy fat has been going on for at least three decades behind metals beaters pirouetted in pillows of cream and slippery pieces of butter-stained paper.
As it turns out, my earliest memory in the kitchen is of the most famed dairy fat of all—butter. I am standing at my grandmother’s refrigerator, its long, almond-colored right door pushed back entirely, reaching on my tiptoes for a stick of butter. Curling my little fingers over the smooth, vellum-like wrapping, I persevere until I nudge it off the shelf and onto the floor. I rescue the austere little package from the linoleum and pull back paper slowly, expectantly, and hold the slick sheet in one hand and the pale yellow brick in the other. Naturally, I bite off a generous, creamy knob from one of the bar’s perfect corners. Then I wrap it back up with the precision of a four-year-old and go about my morning. As for why I elected to eat butter straight up, I have no recollection whatsoever. But I do recall that bite sending me into a state of genuine satisfaction. Oh, was I pleased with myself.
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