I live in a food desert — an actual food desert.* I’ve lived in this area most of my life and it has never bothered me that the grocery store is at least 5 miles away and the one with the best prices in town is 11 miles away. There are no buses out here, but I have vehicles that always have gas in them. No biggie. It’s just the way it is. These facts have never stopped me from having access to quality food nor has it made it in any way difficult…for ME. For MY FAMILY. Sadly, that’s not the case for everyone.

There’s been a lot of talk and writing lately about childhood hunger. It seems everywhere I look, there’s something. It’s just not something I thought much about until, I watched “A Place at the Table,” by Lori Silverbush this past weekend…and I cried. I cried for the women who worry for their children and I cried for their children’s future. How must they feel when they cannot feed their children or satisfy their cries because their tummies are empty. Feeding children is a mother’s basic charge and to not have the ability to do that is heartbreaking.

Imagine having to take 2 buses and over an hour each way to bring home fresh vegetables for your family. Imagine only having enough food to last three of four weeks in a month. Imagine that the only food you do have ready access to is over-processed and causing obesity and diabetes, without providing nutrition. Food insecurity is so pervasive that one in five children in America have no way of knowing when they will have their next meal.

Our government is involved in our food supply. Intrinsically involved. During the Great Depression and beyond, lots of money was spent in subsidizing farmers so that our country would have an adequate food supply. They created these subsidies in hopes that when our nation recovered, they would no longer be needed. These subsidies continue but rarely do they go to the farmers that produce fresh fruits and vegetables. They go towards commodity crops like soybeans, corn and wheat that is not sold as whole grains. These products are in the most over-processed foods that is available and these crops are grown by huge agribusiness holdings. These are not family farmers, these are major corporations that have no business taking our money, because they already do at the retail level in mass amounts. What started as a great idea to help bolster our food supply has turned into its own self-perpetuating monster. We are subsidizing the wrong thing.

SNAP (Supplemental Nutrition Assistance Program — formerly Food Stamps) says it “helps low-income people buy the food they need for good health.” This is a great premise; help those that need help. Yet, it so often falls short. The average SNAP benefit is roughly $4 per person per day. That doesn’t sound too bad, right? I mean, a family of 4 could be fed on $16 per day, right? Keep in mind that a gallon of milk is often over $3.00 and that loaf of bread at the store can be even more. Take into consideration that all the items that SNAP doesn’t pay for like gas, utilities, soap, toothpaste, toilet paper all have to come out of the regular budget — the one was that is so stretched that SNAP is needed. Sure, providing food on a $16 per day budget is doable, but it’s hard. It’s extra difficult when access food is restricted and even the knowledge of how to grocery shop and prepare food in a healthy way isn’t there. I know I can make my own bread and save tons of money while providing a healthier version than the store sells. I know I can prepare a nourishing soup with few ingredients and little time involvement. I can go into a grocery store and purchase healthy, affordable and tasty ingredients that can be transformed into good food. I know this, but not everyone has that kind of knowledge or even where to look if they want to learn. It’s just easier and seemingly sensible to buy more calories, especially when access is a problem. Filling the stomach becomes the priority and healthy food is a luxury. Over the past few years, fresh food has risen in cost by 40% while processed foods and have dropped in cost by close to 30%.  That’s so backwards it should be funny, but it isn’t funny. It’s tragic. And our nation will be far worse for it. Currently, a quarter of young people cannot qualify to be in the military because they are obese. One of every three of children that were born in the year 2000 will get Type 2 Diabetes in their lifetimes.

What would you do if you were hungry? What if it were your children or grandchildren? Wouldn’t you do anything you could? These are our children and we need to act.

How can we do anything when it all seems overwhelming? We can start. Just start…now.

1. See the movie. It’s an hour and a half that could change how you think. It may not be available in your area (it wasn’t in mine,) but it is available on demand at iTunes and Amazon Instant Video.

2. Take a few seconds and use this link to send a message to Congress that we urge them to support anti-hunger legislation.

3. Commit to supporting your local food bank. Charity is not the complete answer, but it is helping.

4. Be more aware of hunger in your own community. This may be the most important thing … awareness is crucial in knowing how horrible this has become.

5. Teach someone a food-related skill. Anyone. Then they can teach someone they know.

There are so many other ways to take action. Just start before it gets any worse. Everyone deserves a place at the table.

*(A food desert is defined as an area where a significant portion of area residents are low income and live 1-10 miles away from the nearest supermarket.)

Yesterday was a tough day. Tougher than I expected it to be.

You see, on August 10, my family changed forever when my dad passed away in the evening. Having fought Alzheimer’s Disease for ten years, he had finally had enough. When they say someone dies peacefully, I think I know what that means. He took in one final breath, not as if to hold onto life but I imagine it more like surprise and joy in seeing what was ahead. Who knows what people really see the moment they die, but my dad’s faith was strong and sure and my faith is strong and sure. With all my heart, I know he’s already been dancing and singing and catching up with those that went before him. He remembers everything he had forgotten and even the things he never got to know.

When he died, many of us had already mourned his loss. The body of the man that lay there that evening was not of a man recently full of life and possibility. It was of a man who had become lost to us months and months before. His death had happened a long time before, and his body had finally caught up.

His funeral was all the things he would have loved…lots of family, many friends and a great party with everyone sharing stories and laughing at so many memories. His absence was profound, but not in the way of a sudden tragedy of a short life or unexpected end. In an almost acceptable sort of way.

So, back to yesterday.

We’re leaving for an extended vacation soon and we wanted to have a get together to celebrate our daughter’s 25th birthday as well as spend time with some of the family and friends we wouldn’t see in awhile.

Several had already arrived and the party was in full swing when I heard a small knock on our front door. We have an etched glass door and when I looked up, my heart saw my dad. White hair combed perfectly, looking just so and standing in exactly the right way. In that second, I had forgotten he was gone.

As quickly as the thought came, it was gone. My father-in-law was at the door, not my dad. My head knew that, but my heart had been so hopeful.

Dinner was great and the company was incredible. Every time we all get together, the amount of laughter is second only to the camaraderie. Kids, grandkids, parents, grandparents all had a blast! Even my mom. Even me.

Truth be told, though, it was a tough day. This was our first family gathering where my dad wasn’t there. Despite the fun, my sadness was right there where I could feel it. All my own memories from all those other yesterdays lingered just under the surface of my being.

I know the tough days will be there and I know they’ll be unexpected. What I didn’t know what how it would really feel; how my heart would ache on those days. I miss his silly smile and his wicked sense of humor. I even miss how we’d fight when I was a kid. I miss his very presence.

Yesterday was a tough day. Today is easier.

“Two of the more dubious achievements of American culture are white bread and light beer.”
– Bruce Aidells and Denis Kelly (Real Beer and Good Eats)

Of all the cooking up of things my family does, one of the guys’ favorite activities is making homebrew. Hardly a weekend goes by when they’re not mashing, sparging and fermenting some sort of grains.  (Of course, one of their other favorite things to do is drink the beer they make, thus setting up this constant effort to keep the fridge full.)

Each batch of beer begins with around 11 pounds of malted grain … all in completely different levels of maltedness. From a light, toasty pale malt to a dark, chocolate-colored malt these grains are used to provide the sugar that the beer needs to ferment. After that, the beer makers discard the spent grain to either the birds or the garbage.

Naturally, as a bread maker I was saddened by the loss of all that lovely grain, spent or otherwise. I knew I could use it for bread, but the recipes I found on the internet really weren’t all that appealing to me. Most were developed by beer makers and seemed a little on the heavy side.

It took me awhile, but I finally developed a recipe that is light and chewy at the same time. I like the texture of the grain, but it’s not overpowering. This is a good bread for toast, since the grains get crunchy and the toast stays tender. It’s a good loaf of hearty bread with just the right amount of sweetness. After all, man cannot live by beer alone.

You’ve seen the commercials this time of year offering visions of families, apple pies, fireworks, American Flags, summertime parties, grilling burgers and big pickup trucks. Well, to me that’s just not completely right. Apples are a fall fruit … to me, they say Halloween, back-to-school, caramel apples, changing colors and shorter days. To me, summer is the time for Peach Pie. During a few weeks in the summer, there is no finer peach to be found — putting the rest of the year’s mealy offerings to shame.

Personally, I am mesmerized by their sweet fragrance and their beautiful color. My resistance is futile.

So, despite the heat I needed a Peach Pie. Desperately.

I use a standard 3-2-1 pie crust. 3 parts flour, 2 parts fat and one part liquid. My everyday flour is a high protein, winter wheat, bread flour. That makes a pretty dense crust and I was out of pastry flour. So, I used half bread flour and half cake flour for a rough approximation of pastry flour.

This pie’s fat was all butter. Partly because I like a crispy butter crust with peaches, and partly because I was also out of any other decent fat. Shortening, lard or a combination would work just fine. But good lard, not the kind in the grocery store. That’s just gross.

This bowl of butter looks like a lot because it is. It’s 2 cups. (I also made extra crust to freeze. Really.) I had this butter in the freezer for awhile before mixing it with the flour and the salt because you want everything to stay super cold until you bake it; this helps make it flaky. Nearly all recipes want you to make your butter look like pea size before adding water, but because I use my food processor I don’t take it that far. After adding the water, the crust becomes a better balance of butter to flour, for me. If I make pea sized butter, when I add the water it gets too small and homogenous.

I gently shaped this into four dough balls, wrapped them in plastic wrap and let them rest in the fridge. A minimum of 30 minutes is best.

Because the peaches were so ripe and easy to peel, I opted against dropping them in hot water to release the peel (make an X at the bottom, drop them in boiling water for 30 seconds and the skin just slides off.) That, and I was lazy.

I tossed the peaches with the spices, sugars and ClearJel and tossed them in the crust-lined pan.

Got it all ready to go, put it in a 425 degree oven and let it go for 40-45 minutes, until the crust is golden and the filling is bubbly.

Pretty as pie, but as my mom always told me (especially when I was being particularly obnoxious,) pretty is as pretty does. While a runny pie still tastes pretty darned good, there’s something truly satisfying to bake a pie that doesn’t spill out all over the plate…

Whew!!

Hope you find some time to make a summer fresh peach pie … it’s the perfect pie for all that perfect summer fun!

My mom could make a package of hamburger stretch so far it would cry “Uncle!” She was a master at feeding the six of us with a finesse that never let on that we really didn’t have a lot of money. In typical weeknight fashion, she’d whip out her trusty pressure cooker and something wonderful and comforting would emerge in record time. So much so that one of the first things I ever bought for my kitchen was a Presto Pressure Cooker, just like the one my mom had.

I used that pot constantly. For awhile, it was the largest pot I had and everything was cooked in it – pressured or not. When my kids were little, it was instrumental in doing the very same for me as it did for my mom. Quick, economical meals that could stretch far into our budget. It was my favorite appliance and the one I couldn’t do without.

Years passed and my kids grew up and out. While I use the pressure cooker sometimes, it’s rather gone by the wayside in exchange for newer, more modern cooking techniques and styles. The stews and braises don’t always suit an attempt at lighter cooking.

I was feeling nostalgic, the other day. Reminiscing about childhood and all the memories I have of my family. Used to be that when my brother came home to visit from the Army, mom would make his favorite — Porcupine Meatballs. As soon as I thought of it, my mouth was ready for that old standby.

I got out my cookbook. The one that was used more than any other in my kitchen pre-internet and culinary school. It sure shows it’s age and how much it was loved, doesn’t it?

While the recipe was always perfect the way it was, I changed it just a bit. My husband, son and I ate them with great delight and we all wondered why we didn’t have them more often. My son had told me he wouldn’t be around for dinner that night, but when he realized what we were having, he changed his plans! I love knowing that my kids have favorites from their childhood, too!

Try this one on a cool night or a retro night or just a night you need a quick, economical meal.

One note: For my tomato liquid, I used the wonderful Roasted Tomato and Soup that I had canned from Mrs. Wheelbarrow’s site. It is an amazing soup!

This fall, we’re going on vacation. In itself, this is not news — we vacation often. This one is not an ordinary vacation. It’s “the vacation of a lifetime.” Five weeks in Europe (mostly Italy) and doing all the things we’ve dreamed about. We’ll be in Munich for Oktoberfest. We’re spending a few nights in Venice. We’re spending a week at Lake Como and one in Tuscany. We’re visiting family. We’re taking a cooking class in Bologna. IN BOLOGNA!

We’ve been to Italy once before and we called that one our vacation of a lifetime. We were pretty sure we’d never get to go back, but once we got home we began planning this one!

So, what’s the problem?

I guess it’s more fear…fear and guilt. Dad’s Alzheimer’s has progressed dramatically. So much so, that he is now under hospice care. He’s still able to walk around the house, but there’s a hospital bed in their living room. He confuses every woman with his wife and often is angry, but there are still kisses all around.  His behavior has gotten increasingly more random (he washed all the remote controls and the telephone in the sink of hot, soapy water yesterday.) He’s just recently gotten over pneumonia and when he catches it again, it will likely be the end.

Back to our vacation. I am afraid he’ll die while we’re on vacation and my mom won’t have me there. I’m afraid he’ll die before we leave an we have to cancel at the last minute. I feel guilty for hoping he doesn’t impact our trip. I feel guilty for being gone for 5 weeks and leaving my mom. I’m afraid I’ll miss something important and I feel guilty for even thinking of all these things.

We’ve bought the travel insurance. I’ve made sure that I can be reached any time for any reason (even as simple as mom calling to tell me who won Jeopardy! or what silly thing happened at the market.) I’ve made all my plans. The fickleness of life is the only variable. The one thing I cannot control.

Where does that leave me? Fear and guilt.

By its very nature, Charcuterie is a slow food. Preparing to make it takes time, actually making it takes time and it takes time to wait until it’s ready to eat. There is nothing about the process that can be considered quick. Just think about it, even making the least time-consuming sausage takes a couple hours, lots of energy and counter space.

This past year has been a year of enlightenment and great tactile pleasure in the creation of our own Charcuterie. Even the failure of the first Duck Prosciutto taught us a great lesson on procurement and quality of the starting ingredients…after all, without a good start, the end can be no better.

What the year of Charcutepalooza has taught me most has been patience. There is so much waiting in the act of creating a work of charcuterie; yet, waiting brings rewards. Patience is rewarded. But what the year rewarded me most with was the courage to actually try to do these things and friendship to make it so.

By its very nature, Thanksgiving is a slow meal. It’s one of my family’s favorite times to get together; it always has been. This year, though, we were all very aware that this would likely by the last holiday season with our dad at the table. You see, by its very nature, Alzheimer’s is a very slow, destructive disease. My dad has been battling it for over 12 years and he’s losing. He’s losing everything and we’re losing him.  The final challenge to create a celebration using what we learned in Charcutepalooza was likely a little harder to prepare because of that, but I was so grateful for the ability to squeeze more love into each and every thing we served; because that’s how I am. The more I love my family and friends, the more I want to create beautiful food for them and this challenge was perfect for that.

For years, my family has asked if we could have a Turducken on Thanksgiving. After all, John Madden loves them and if the greatest Raider coach of all time thinks it’s a good idea, us Raider fans better agree. Usually, though, their suggestion is countered with something along the lines of, “Yeah, right! When pigs fly!”

While the pigs didn’t actually fly, but over the year they were cured, ground, smoked, dried, stuffed, stretched and by November, they made me believe I could put together a proper and edible Turducken. Edible was key, because we usually have 3 different turkeys for Thanksgiving but this year we only had the skinny Bourbon Red (affectionately called Carl, as all our Heritage birds are called) and the Turducken. It was go big or go home, and I was already home.

Boning the Turkey was much easier than the chicken, it turned out. While not much to look at, that’s the turkey layered with Merguez dressing, roasted red peppers, spinach and the chicken on top.

Second verse … same as the first; except for the lovely duck breasts I’ve had stashed in my freezer (which is now duckless.) Another layer of the Merguez dressing, red peppers and spinach topped it off. The thought of slimy, uncrisp duck skin (and chicken skin, for that matter) in the middle of the bird had me taking all the skin off of those pieces. I think this was a key move.

With Frankenbird stitched up, he got to rest awhile. Not too long, though. I cooked both Frank and Carl on Wednesday. This, by the way, was a brilliant move. I will never cook a turkey on Thanksgiving Day again. Revolutionized my whole holiday!

Frankenbird, in all his glory; warmed back up to safe temperature and looking like a normal, every day kind of bird.

I have a pretty small kitchen, but we were all jammed in there waiting to see what Frank would reveal. The oohs and ahhs were pretty rewarding, but not nearly so much as actually taking a bite. Nobody in our group had ever had a Turducken before and Frank proved to be an amazing addition to our dinner; one that is already being requested for next year. Not sure if those pigs will be able to talk me into it again, but I may be jaded.

Here’s most everyone sitting pretty, waiting for dinner. By now, it’s dark outside. The feasting has been going for hours, so you’d think everyone was pretty sated. The photo below was taken just moments after the first photo; apparently, there was still some room left.

So, when it was all said and done and the wine was drank, it was a beautiful celebration. While this may have been Dad’s last Thanksgiving at our table, there was no dwelling on the future, not even any morose thoughts of years past. We didn’t forget that the future was coming, but what happened was what always happens at our family celebrations…laughter, food, more laughter, wine and completely new memories for us to take forward into the next year.

Porcini Polenta with Melted Gorgonzola and Agneau de Noix

Ingredients

• 6 cups chicken broth
• 1 teaspoons salt
• 2 cups Polenta or medium grind cornmeal
• 1/2 c. heavy cream
• 1 c. rehydrated porcini mushrooms, chopped (save the water used to hydrate)
• 1 c. shredded Manchego Cheese
• 3 tablespoons butter
• Gorgonzola Cheese
• Thinly sliced Agneau de Noix or Jambon de Noix

Directions

This month’s Charcutepalooza challenge was all about curing a hunk of meat. Fully convinced that I didn’t have an appropriate space to hang meat for 3-4 weeks, I figured I was finally unable to complete a challenge. Right at the end, too. Rotten luck.

However, in thinking it out amidst all my whining, I realized I did have the perfect place to cure it, I’d just have to be organized (that’s not as easy for me as it is for others.) My husband had recently gotten a keg/fermenting fridge and had vacated my single door, glass-front fridge in our garage for his own, greener pastures. We hooked up a temperature controller and a hygrometer (something to measure humidity) and I got to work. Knowing full well that I would need that fridge by Thanksgiving, I naturally waited until the last possible minute to get my meat curing.

And cure I did, after all I had the whole refrigerator to myself.

All told, there was Pancetta, multiple Sopressatas and Tuscan Salamis, Bresaola, Duck Prosciutto and something I call Agneau de Noix (lamb in the style of Jambon de Noix.)

When it was finished (barely in time,) it was the Bresaola that won my heart. Truly, it didn’t take much. Bresaola and I have a bit of history.

In 2009, my husband and I spent nearly a month in Italy with his parents. At the beginning of the trip, we spent several days with his extended family…some in the house that his great-grandfather had built in the Dolomites and some in Padova, where his cousins live.

We met them in the main Piazza in Padova, where the market is held. It was turning evening and the market had begun to shut down. Vendors were closing up, there was little to be had. Barbara, Andreas and Nicola met us there and Roberto and Sylvia would join us later for the drive to their favorite restaurant.

Walking around Padova for a short time was so nice with the people who actually lived there – it was less like tourists and more like being shown a home we had never seen. The history was incredible, but they made it even more alive by showing us family places; places they worked and played and shopped.

Eventually, we met up with Roberto and Sylvia, Barbara’s brother and his long-time girlfriend. We had too many people to all ride together, so Andy told us all to “make a sandwich” with our cars, us in the middle, so we wouldn’t get lost while driving there. It seemed we drove and drove and drove. It was quite dusk and the small roads we traveled wended their way through small villages and up onto a hilltop where we stopped. The wind was picking up and thunder rumbled in the sky.

Unsure what to expect (after all they spoke some English and we spoke some Italian, but none of us much of either), we were led into a small dimly lit restaurant and were greeted joyously by the owner. Turned out that we were the only Americans that had ever been to his restaurant and he seemed more excited than we were. It was fairly crowded; a wedding anniversary party was also being held, so we knew this was a special kind of restaurant. Directed to a lovely set table in an outdoor room that had been enclosed, we sat down in anticipation. We did not have long to wait. Out swooped several servers, all bringing us plates and bowls and wine and treats that were indescribable. Things we’d never eaten before (and a couple I could live without.) White wine was served like water and there was a different kind of wine for every course…and there were so many courses!

One course caught my eye. Looking down at my plate, I knew. I’d never had Bresaola before, but I knew what a treat this would be. The taste was supple and sublime. Mine was served on arugula with parmesan and peaches. Not everyone’s plate was the same; some had grapefruit, lemons or other fruit. It was incredible! My mother-in-law didn’t finish hers, but I finished mine and hers! I couldn’t get enough; so much so that I had it at nearly every restaurant we had on our trip after that. Some were close, but none was as exactly good as that first bite; my culinary life wouldn’t remain the same.

That night was magical. The lightning show that Padova put on for us that only added to the bliss. We ate and ate and drank and drank and finished the night with a delicate sorbetto of melon and raspberry that was like a soft, cool kiss.

After eating and talking for hours, we left that night with bottles of wine and hugs from the owner and a deep appreciation of Italian hospitality that we had never experienced in our entire lives. Our lives were changed and whenever I see, smell or read of Bresaola, my mind floats back to that wonderful, incredible evening.

Bresaola-Mozzarella Roll with Basil Jelly

Bresaola-Mozzarella Roll

This is a simple recipe that doesn’t take long to put together. Well, that’s after the weeks of curing that the Bresaola takes to finish.

Start with a 1 lb batch of fresh, warm mozzarella.
(If you’ve never done this before, it’s pretty cool…check it out here)

Bresaola that’s sliced paper-thin

Arugula

Roll the mozzarella out with a rolling pin into a rectangle, about 7 x 14 inches. Layer with the bresaola and again with the arugula. Roll up tightly, jelly roll style and wrap very tightly in plastic wrap. Refrigerate several hours or overnight and slice just before serving.

This is tasty as is, but I topped the slices with homemade basil jelly. Peach would be great or even a peach jalapeno jelly (hey, I have some of that!)

The creaminess of the fresh mozzarella and the silkiness of the bresaola shines through with the tangy peppery flavor of the arugula. Topping it with something sweet just makes it all the better!

I saw her from across the room. She was perfection. Studying her grace, elegance and beauty, I wanted her. Badly. I didn’t care if she was alone and I didn’t care that others wanted her; she would be mine. Mine to ravish.

I reached her side as she quietly sat there, in the coolness of the morning. She was covered in goose bumps as if she were shivering; as if she knew she was out of place. I knew I could help her…I knew I could make her feel more comfortable in her own skin.  Most of all, I knew she and I were meant to be together. It was kismet.

She looked so vulnerable. So innocent and pure. If we were to be together, I just knew this would be her first time; she had an air about her that she’d never been touched in the way we would. What she would never know, is that it would also be my first time. My first time, ever … with a chick like her. There were no words to describe my anticipation; I was trembling as much as she seemed to be.

We had yet to meet. That’s the only thing standing in our way. Softly, I leaned over and whispered…”Darlin’, tonight, you look prettier than a gob of butter melting on a stack of hot pancakes. Can I take you home and get you outta this outfit?”

And so we did. Just like removing a sweater or a tight skirt, we dillied all morning…

We dallied all afternoon…

And we continued into the night. It was a cool evening and emotions were high…passion was tactile.

Against all mores and common wisdom, we were determined to finish what we had started so many hours earlier…

Eventually, we were sated … satisfied with what we had accomplished …

We both knew we’d succeeded in doing something magical; we were complete.

Apricot-Dijon Vinaigrette

(This makes a lot)

1 15-oz can apricots, drained
1/2 c. apple cider vinegar
1 t. agave nectar
1 T. dijon mustard
1 t. salt
1/2 t. pepper
dash cayenne

Toss all ingredients in a blender and blend until completely combined. Dress your salad to taste.

In the end, Lady Galantine and I realized we would hold each other dear and tightly in our hearts, but we could never make lives together…our love and passion is too intense to last forever. We shall meet again…maybe Paris??

A duck walks into a bar. And he says to the bartender “Got any cherries?” The bartender says “No, I don’t have any cherries.” The duck walks out, sorely disappointed.

So the next day, he walks back into the bar, asks the same question, gets the same answer.

The day after, he walks back into the bar, and again, asks the bartender, “Do you have any cherries?” The bartender, having still not figured out why this duck seems to think he may have some grapes, says to the duck, “No, and if you come back in here tomorrow and ask me if I have any cherries, I will nail your bill to the bar!”

The duck frowns, turns around, and walks out of the bar. So the next day, the duck walks back into the bar, and asks the bartender “Got any nails?”

The bartender says, “No.”

So the duck says, “Got any cherries?”

Silliness aside, ducks and cherries are perfect together. Just like ham and cheese. Just like fall and pumpkins and just like football and snacks. Football and snacks. A perfect match and two things my family takes very seriously. We don’t just watch games, we live them. Football watching is verbal, aerobic and darned near a contact sport. We wait for football season all year long and mourn its end every February. Such passion needs great snacks and this month’s challenge fit perfectly with the beginning of football season.

Duck Pâté sounded just right. Partly because I had a duck in the freezer and partly because duck, cherry and pecans all remind me of fall and fall reminds me of football … see where this is going?

I found the perfect recipe and then modified it, naturally. Pâté making is a very intentional act; the preparation, cooking and waiting all take so long. The anticipation made it feel even longer. The first football Sunday was the day.

Truth be told, I was kind of anxious how the family would take this challenge. For the most part, they’ve been pretty encouraging but none of us had ever had Pâté before. How would it taste? What would its texture be like? Would the darned thing even be edible??

Edible didn’t even describe it. It was unctuous, lovely, rich, elegant and beyond yummy. Meatloaf, this wasn’t. It was perfect on the sourdough toast…just enough sour to cut into a bit of the richness. The Pâté was gently sweet and garlicky. What an epiphany. The French were onto something here! That football Sunday will be memorable, not for the game itself, but for the snack platter we had that afternoon.

This month’s challenge was exactly what Charcutepalooza is all about for me. Trying something new that I may never have made; combining ingredients in such a way as to witness the alchemy that happens when I do. What a gift!

Duck, Cherry & Pecan Pâté

(adapted from Saveur)

2 duck breasts (about 1 lb.),  trimmed of skin and fat
3 cloves garlic
1/2-3/4 c. dried cherries, soaked in cherry liqueur, such as Heerings
2 tbsp. extra-virgin olive oil
9 fresh or dried bay leaves
1 lb. boneless pork shoulder, chilled
3⁄4 lb. bacon, chilled
1⁄4 lb. duck livers
2 eggs, beaten
1 tbsp. chopped thyme
leaves plus 8 sprigs
1⁄2 tsp. ground cloves
1⁄2 tsp. ground ginger
1⁄4 tsp. ground nutmeg
1⁄4 tsp.   paprika
1 tbsp. kosher salt
1⁄3 cup chopped pecans
12–15 additional slices bacon

1. Cut the duck breasts into 1⁄2″ cubes. Transfer duck, 1 finely chopped clove garlic, 1 tbsp. of the olive oil, and 3 bay leaves to a small bowl; stir to coat the duck pieces. Cover and refrigerate for at least 1 day and up to 3 days, to allow the flavors to come together. (The longer the duck marinates, the better the pâté will taste.) Cut the pork shoulder and the bacon into small pieces. Place in a small bowl and chill.

2. After the duck has marinated, finely chop the remaining garlic using a food processor. Scrape the sides of the bowl with rubber spatula. Add chicken livers and pulse until puréed. Add reserved duck,  pork and bacon. In short bursts, pulse until the mixture resembles coarse hamburger meat, about 20 pulses. Transfer pork–liver mixture to a large bowl. Add eggs, chopped thyme, cloves, ginger, nutmeg, paprika and salt. Mix the ingredients together with your hands until well combined.

3. Meanwhile, line the bottom of a 1 1⁄2-qt. rectangular terrine mold with 4 evenly spaced thyme sprigs and 3 bay leaves. Place bacon crosswise along the bottom and up the sides of the mold, covering the herbs.

5. Spoon the meat–duck mixture into the terrine mold and gently smooth the top with the back of a spoon. Lay 4 strips bacon lengthwise across the top of the pâté. Cover bacon with remaining thyme sprigs and bay leaves. Cover the top of the pâté with 2 sheets of aluminum foil; crimp foil around edges of the mold to form a tight seal.

6. Heat oven to 325°. Transfer terrine mold to a 9″ x 13″ baking dish. Transfer dish to middle rack of the oven. Pour in enough boiling water that it reaches 1⁄2″ up the sides of the terrine. Bake the pâté until an instant-read thermometer inserted into center reads 158°, about 2 hours. Transfer baking dish to a rack; remove foil. Cut out 2 rectangles of cardboard to fit inside rim of terrine mold. Wrap cardboard rectangles in foil and place them over pâté. Place three 15-oz. soup cans atop cardboard; let sit in water bath for 1 hour; remove. (Weighting makes the pâté easier to slice.) Refrigerate pâté (in its mold) for at least 1 day and up to 4 days. To serve, slide a knife along edges of pâté to loosen it. Invert the pâté onto a cutting board and slide a butter knife along one short edge to free the pâté from the mold. Cut into 3⁄4″ slices and serve.