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Slow Food in the Press Archive
"Slow & Steady" by Deborah
Madison
Originally published in Organic Style Magazine, September
2004, reprinted with permission.
The plan was simple: We would all arrive at the Algo Nativo
farm in the late afternoon. Cooling glasses of blackberry-mint
iced tea in hand, we would tour the 14-acre spread trucked
in a green valley carved by the Rio Grande about 45 miles
from Santa Fe. After our hosts, Eremita Campos and her daughter
Margaret, had shown us around their vine-covered outdoor kitchen,
we would assemble at long tables and fest on heaping platters
of slow-roasted meats and fresh farm vegetables. It was to
be a long convivial evening of food, wine, and conversation
under the stars. At least, that was what was supposed to happen.
This was the second annual harvest dinner of the Santa Fe
chapter of Slow Food, an international group dedicated to
fostering local and artisanal foods and traditional ways of
cooking. During the year, our 55-member chapter, which I helped
found, hosts events that showcase regional specialties-farmstead
cheeses, grass-fed bison-but the crowning affair is a leisurely
sit-down dinner featuring local vegetables, meats, and recipes.
Last year's gathering, in summer at the Campos farm, promised
to be special.
Eremita and Margaret are famous at the Santa Fe farmers'
market for their dozens of varieties of heirloom tomatoes
and eggplants, as well as for their beautiful beets, blackberries,
and wild greens called quelites. "We didn't want to grow
the same old corn and chiles as everyone else," says
Eremita, a third-generation farmer, about their decision to
focus on long-forgotten heirloom vegetables. Margaret, who
also runs a cooking school on the farm (comidadecampos.com),
had planned a traditional New Mexican meal, including chicken,
goat, and pork, cooked overnight in two beehive-shaped adobe
ovens, or hornos.
A Disaster Averted
The day of the party was a scorcher, with huge storm clouds
building and rumbles of thunder, but after months of drought,
it could have been just another day of "all blow and
no show," as one of our Slow Food members put it.
Even in normal weather, New Mexico is a difficult place to
farm. Late freezes can kill crops just as they're starting
to set, and hail can destroy a season's harvest in minutes;
the summer's drought had made it even harder. Walking around
the farm's cracked and dry fields, I saw the damage everywhere:
More than 900 tomato plants had succumbed to wilt, and there
were few blackberries and raspberries on the bushes. Still,
our hosts had gathered enough food from their plots and neighboring
farms for dinner.
We had set up the tables by the outdoor kitchen Margaret
uses for her cooking school. Shaded by an arbor, or ramada,
she had spent the morning grilling vegetables and stuffing
poblano chiles. I had just hung up after calling another Slow
Food member to beg him to please bring shade umbrellas so
that we wouldn't die in the heat.
Then the heavens opened up, with a huge clap of thunder.
Rain blasted down, turning the river into a torrent and the
fields into mud, and soaking the tables. All we could do was
stand on the porch and stare. The roasting meats were protected
in the hornos, but I was frantic to figure out how to dry
the tables. Eremita chided me for worrying. "Relax. Enjoy
the rain," she said, thinking of the parched plants in
her fields. "Aren't you happy?" Well, of course.
But what a mixed blessing?
A Dinner to Remember
The rain came to a halt as abruptly as it had begun, just
before the guests were expected. We sprang into action - carrying
the wet tablecloths to the dryer, wiping down dishes, and
sweeping puddles of water off tables and chairs. The phone
rang, but with bad news: At a restaurant across the river,
the propane tanks had fallen into the muddy water and were
threatening to break free of their hoses. Fire trucks were
on the scene, causing congestion at the main bridge to the
farm. All of our guests were stopped by the commotion. Margaret's
fiancé, David Sandoval, hopped on a tractor and headed
along the long dirt road in our direction, only to discover
that a flash flood had blocked that route with water, mud
and rocks. A few enterprising folks made their way to a suspension
bridge upriver and crossed over to the farm on foot, but the
wine, beer, umbrellas, ice and another 40 guests were stranded
in their cars. Even though the rain had stopped, it looked
as if our evening would be a disaster.
But it wasn't. David managed to smooth out the worst parts
of the road with his tractor, and soon people began to arrive,
giddy with the downpour and the novelty of actually using
their four-wheel drives. The sky still sputtered, but no matter
- we used the sun umbrellas to protect us. As the hot air
has turned chilly, we gathered around the hornos for warmth,
starting in hungrily on our appetizers - delicate roasted
poblano chilies stuffed with fresh goat cheese from the farmers'
market.
Then we devoured slabs of mozzarella made that morning and
topped with a pesto of Eremita's dried tomatoes; bocadillas,
or bites, of farm vegetables grilled on skewers over coals
were served with a creamy goddess dressing. After the frenzied
anxiety of the past two hours, everyone relaxed all at once.
Roberto Mondragon, singer, storyteller, and former lieutenant
governor of New Mexico, pulled out his guitar and started
singing Spanish ballads; a few people danced in the wet grass.
The sun began to set, and it was time to settle. Eremita
and Margaret took up their hoes and began to chip away at
the mud seals that held the doors of the hornos in place.
A blast of warmth and fragrance filled the air as our hosts
reached inside and pulled out ears of corn, whole chickens,
and cloth-wrapped shoulders of goat and pork-all grown or
raised organically on the farm or nearby.
We made our way to the tables, decorated with fragrant garden
flowers.
The chairs were a little wet and the menus blurry, but no
one cared once Margaret and Eremita started carrying out platters
of smoky shredded meats and baskets of thick bran-flecked
tortillas. On they came, all the traditional foods of New
Mexico. Bowls of soft-as-can-be pinto beans, calabacitas con
maiz or summer squash with corn, and dark, sweet ears of roasted
corn from the hornos were passed down the length of the table.
What a feast!
The speeches began. Margaret stood up and toasted her mother;
her mother toasted the rain. Another guest piped up with a
story about the start of the Slow Food movement. Others chimed
in, but before the meal was taken over with talk, Margaret
intervened, urging Roberto to play guitar and sing. As we
listened in the gathering darkness, we ate bowls of delicious
blackberry ice cream accompanied by New Mexico's traditional
cookie, the anise-flavored, cinnamon-dusted biscochito, and
we savored the sweetness of the moment.
Suddenly it was late; people began saying their good-byes
and drifting away. We could hear the last car making its way
down the rutted road, see its headlights bouncing up into
the trees and out over the river. Margaret, Eremita, and I
talked quietly under the ramada, all of us happy for the great
experience, the extraordinary meal that came with a wonderful
bonus. In addition to the soft sounds of Roberto's guitar
there was something new in the air: the roar of the river
and the promise of continued farming brought by the long-hoped-for
rain.
Deborah Madison is cofounder of the legendary Greens restaurant
in San Francisco and the author of six cookbooks, including
Local Flavors (Broadway)
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