Open Farm Day - An Epicurean Elite Field Trip

I often forget Maine is home to hundreds of farms, actively producing a wealth of locally-grown products, whether they are creamy cheeses, stoneground mustards, ripe zucchinis, or soft angora yarn. I tend to think of “farmer” as being the trade of people in Aroostook county, that faraway place where potatoes are grown, or Washington county, where my family and I would pass by alternating blueberry fields and cranberry bogs on our way to my grandparents’ house. Today’s Open Farm Day, sponsored by the Maine Department of Agriculture, afforded me a chance to visit some farms that are more close to home, learn about how they’re run, and sample some tasty treats. Elise had created a bountiful itinerary which maximized our farminess, giving us “four hours, five farms, and nine kinds of awesome.”

Our first stop was Sweetser’s Apple Barrel and Orchards, run by Connie and Dick Sweetser, and their son Greg. The farmhouse will be celebrating its 200^th birthday in 2012, and has housed six generations of the Sweetser family. Connie was our lovely tour guide.

The trees had bunches of green apples here and there on them, but in sparse amounts. The crop has been hit hard this year by the early spring thaw and mid-May frost. Statewide, 50-60% of the apple crop is down, and the Sweetser farm is showing even deeper losses. Nevertheless, the Vista Bellas, a summer variety I’d never heard of before, were just starting to come out, along with some ripening Gravensteins. We strolled past neatly trimmed rows of McIntosh, Cortland, Red Delicious, and Golden Delicious apples. Their brochure has an impressive list of 39 different apples they grow, and their availability between July and November.

As we walked beside Connie’s rumbling John Deere, we learned about the 100-year-old trees on their property, the former slaughterhouse down the road that had “the best sausage,” and the man who’d stopped by their farm earlier in the year to put a whiskey bottle or two around some apples. One had shriveled up in its liquor bath, in faint reminiscence of B-horror film props of jarred placentas, but the other was flourishing in the trigonal glass bottle.

Our next stop was Pineland Farms. We drove past a portion of their lush, 5,000-acre fields with various barnyard animals frisking about and visited their market. There was a stunning array of fresh vegetables, cheeses, mustards, pickled things, breads, pies, and anything else a farm could produce. They had an abundance of cheeses (made on-site) for sampling. Unfortunately, their onion-garlic jack had no more samples left, but I was able to get my toothpick in some cubes of smoked jack, swiss, and salsa jack.

Then we drove a short ways down the road to an incredible alpaca farm, Queen’s Land Farm Alpacas. We were greeted by a young farmhand-in-training named Lindsay*, who told us all about the alpacas on her family’s farm. They were much smaller than I’d anticipated, and completely adorable, with names like UpperCut and Chief. There was a pregnant alpaca who was due any day, though it was hard to imagine an alpaca inside her svelte belly.

These were also the first barnyard animals, with the exception of cats, who seemed to really have a handle on their toilet training—they kept it to one confined area, leaving the rest of their pen relatively doody-free.

There was an incredibly sweet alpaca named T.C. (Tonka's Crown) who had a bit of a Parkinsonian handicap. The owners, Matt and Kate Tufts, weren’t sure if his head tremor was a hereditary defect or if it was the result of contracting a meningeal worm. They had him gelded just to be safe, which led to an interesting conversation with Lindsay:

Lindsay: “It’s not really like spaying. They make it so they can’t have babies anymore.”

Elise: “Like what they do with sheep?”

Lindsay: “I don’t know, but they cut it off.”

Elise: “I see.”

Lindsay: “And put it in a bucket of water.”

We couldn’t figure out what the bucket of water had to do with anything, but T.C. didn’t seem any worse for the wear. He sniffed us and gave little kisses whenever we put our faces up to the fence.

Lindsay gave us a little tour of their chicken house and found a hen named Rainbow to pick up and let us pet. (There was another named Sparkles, which lead to a sneaking suspicion Lindsay might’ve had a hand in the naming of these birds.)

She explained that a neighboring farm had had its chicken flock reduced from 200 to 100 because of a fox, and that the same fate had met the one rooster the Tufts had had on their farm. Now one of the hens has grown a comb and basically become something of a hermaphrodite.

Next, we went to Cashmere Cabin at Elmledge Farm, which had cashmere goats, angora rabbits, and some beautiful horses. A woman sat spinning cashmere into yarn on the front lawn as she chatted away with friends. Elise and I were shown around by a member of the Richards family, and were greeted by two massive horses in the barn. We got to pet Jim, the even-tempered sweetheart in the middle stall, while Pete gazed casually into the distance.

Behind the barn was a fenced-in area where the goats scampered about wherever they pleased, taking the time to laze about in a bathtub or two. They were extremely friendly and especially interested in nibbling any bit of skirt, jean, or purse they could sink their teeth into.

The family had four rabbits in their backyard hutch, two white ones and two grayish-black ones. The owner explained that, in the summer, their fur needs to be pulled out every week or so in order to avoid matting. I was surprised to learn they don’t shave them, they simply pull the fur out and use it for spinning. Elise was brave and petted a bunny of her own accord!

Our final visit was to Windy Hill Farm in Windham. We arrived a bit too late to see the miniature donkey and the pygmy goats, but still left with some excellent wares: honey (with a honeycomb!), beet greens, and a porterhouse steak for Elise, and some sweet potato butter for me. (I still can’t think about the words “sweet potato” without remembering that horrible Oprah moment.) We shared a tasty Needham in the car and headed back into Portland, just as some stray raindrops began falling.

*Lindsey, Lynsey, Lynzey, Lyndzay, Lyndsey, Lyndsay?

Hugo's

For our first supper club adventure, Rob Evans' Hugo's was picked from the hat.
While the restaurant itself is conveniently situated on the corner of Franklin and Middle Street in Portland, there were a few obstacles in getting there, namely, a giant hole in the middle of the street.


Once we had maneuvered around this gaping street maw, we found ourselves inside the famed establishment. The host was very courteous, and led us to our seats right away.


The tables were simple. One votive candle. One rose stuck in upright in a kind of Japanese-looking box with pointy things to hold the simple arrangement. Even though the salt was terribly necessary, the little wooden bowl in which it lived was adorable.

Our waiter Patrick was friendly, genuine, and informative. In addition to this being a tasty meal, we were going to learn some stuff about what we were going to ingest.

We started with fizzy water and menus, but were overwhelmed. Patrick informed us of the blind tasting options - either six or eight courses (portions sized appropriately), based on what was at the farmer's market that morning. Good thing supper club's on Wednesday - Portland Farmer's Market day!

The blind tasting sounded like the best way to truly experience this famous chef's awesomeness, and chose the six-course. We decided also to add wine pairings to our courses.

Patrick seemed very excited for us, and a few moments later brought us some tiny biscuits with local butter, and some French sparkling wine vinted by Benedictine monks (Saint-Hilaire Blanquette de Limoux). I wish I had a good photo of the biscuits; they were as tasty as they were adorable.

The amuse course (fancy word for appeteazer?) was served in a chilled votive holder on a doily. Inside was not a candle, but exquisite jelly made from ham stock. House cured ham gelée, more precisely. It was topped with orange crème fraiche, and there was a layer of olive tapenade on the bottom. Garnished with a precious pea shoot.
It was a little intimidating at first, for a regular-type-person like myself. Ham jello? Well ok! It was cold, and the gelée itself was not really a solid unit. It was more like hundreds of tiny beads of translucent savory flavor. I tried to get all three flavors - the orange, ham, and olive - on my spoon tip with each taste, to really experience the melding of it. It was excellent. With the portions so tiny, and the silverware tiny as well, it really encourages the diner to not eat so much as taste, and pay attention to the experience. It is like learning new colors you have never seen before.

The first real course, for which I did not end up having a decent photo, was a pair of salmon preparations. On the left was salmon tatare with puffed sushi rice, and on the left was a sliver of salmon belly cured with dashi, and a sprinkling of mustard powder.

I do not typically choose salmon when I am in the market for fish, whether to cook at home or enjoy out. However, I am an open-minded sort of lady (one has to be, I think, to agree to spend a silly amount of money on six courses of who-knows-what), and I went right at it. I have never had tartare, but enjoyed the texture more than I thought I would. The contrast of the puffed sushi rice (think more substantial version of rice crispies, without the sugar) was interesting. The salmon belly was, essentially, sashimi. It has a bit of a fishy, seaweedy taste to it, which was from the dashi. It was good. I am not longer apprehensive to get salmon when I am out.

Our plates and soiled forks removed, we were served Spanish Licia Albariño. In my notes I said it was a Portuguese Vinho Verde, but I don't remember why. Either way, it was light and lovely.

As we sat enjoying the crisp, fresh tasting wine, we were next served lobster consommé with some fava beans and peas sitting in it, and three lobster-stuffed rotoli with lemon stuff on top.


The rotoli were like little tubes of oddly-textured pasta with a seafood filling that had the consistency of canned cat food. I realize by saying this I am probably a plebian, but this whole course was just not my style. The fava beans and peas were raw, and nothing against raw food but they felt weird. Maybe you can wow people from away with lobsteresque broth with tubes of sadness sitting in it, but I live here, man. More wine, please.

And more wine arrived! This time Portuguese Quinta Do Feital Auratus, which was similar to the last wine, but I liked it more. It had more flavors. I wish I had taken better notes on the wine at the time, because that sad little description is all I've got.

Along with this wine, was, as far as I'm concerned, the crowning achievement of the kitchen staff for the evening. Almond-crusted fluke with hollandaise piped out of a ... hollandaise gun, with pickled red onion sauce, thinly slices turnips in colors, confit potato (which I believe translates to several miniature home fries)... holy crap. That was the best fish I have ever had. I weep at the mere thought of its thorough deliciousness. No photo I took could capture the beauty. I tried. My camera failed.

Next wine was the first red. Croney Estates Two Ton Pinot Noir from New Zealand. (Check out their web site - turn off the music in the bottom left hand corner, then press buttons in the top right to hear sheep calls at their various emotional states.)

This wine paired a variety of Guinea Hen offerings. It was very much like Iron Chef and the secret ingredient is Guinea Hen.

From left to right in the photo below: breast meat with crumbled skin, an onion with Guinea Hen gravy and little beet cubes, roasted thigh meat with shiitake mushroom slivers, and a fried wing. The fried wing seemed out of place. My favorite was the tiny slab of thigh meat.



Each of the Guinea Hen preparations were atop a long bed of wheat berries . I do not know if I have ever knowingly consumed wheat berries before this. They are tasty, however, there were more than an adequate number here. Wheat berry overload.

Next came more wine. Ten year-old Mas Amiel Maury. It is not a port or sherry, but it has similar gravitas. It is French, anyway, and indicative of what was to follow in the next course - First Dessert.

I have never had foie gras before this evening. I was titillated yet apprehensive. It's essentially liver. And that's gross, right? Not when it is foie gras mousse with brandied cherries, crumbled biscotti and Banyuls Sabayon (which is sort of like a foamy egg and dessert wine -based sauce) on top.

It was really awesome, and it sort of broke my heart to see on the menu they wrote pickled cherries instead of brandied. Pickled? Really? That makes it sound far less appetizing than it was. It was interesting to have a meaty-based dessert, but it was delectable and fancy. It worked well.

The last wine of the evening was a black Muscat from the Quady Winery in California called Elysium. On their Web site they have a video of a winemaker describing how they press Elysium.

Last course : blueberry blini with mascarpone foam. Essentially, the cutest little blueberry pancakes ever made with Maine blueberries, blueberry jam, lemon confit, and a cloudlike dollop of mascarpone fluff. It was brilliant.

With our check came tiny Campari and rosemary popsicles. To sweeten the blow of the cost of our evening's decadent extravagance.


All in all, it really was a lovely evening, and an amazing journey of palate and mind-expanding culinary adventures.


Here's a link to our menu.