Duck Hunting

Looking back over the past year and a half of posts, it might seem that here at FOTL headquarters we've managed to run down and sample all manner of wild foods out there for the taking this side of the ungulates. But in reality, we've barely scratched the surface. The rhizome of a buckler fern, for instance, remains an unknown quantity, as do camas bulbs, and unlike some recent gastronauts at the famous Herb Farm, this forager has yet to taste our local slimebag, the banana slug.

A few days ago, however, I filled a major gap in the repertoire. Marty called it my lacuna, and it had been gnawing at me for a while because it's such a Pac Northwest specialty: Geoduck.

Say what? Pronounced gooey-duck, which translates from the Salish into "dig deep," this largest of the world's burrowing clams is a poster child for my region's eccentric character. "Now tell me about those clams again," my dad says to me each time he visits Seattle. Yeah yeah, we've got some big clams with a funny name.

But geoducks are more than that. They're an unusual delicacy appreciated by clam connoisseurs the world over, most of whom seem to live in the Far East. Secreted deep within their sandy lairs, geoducks live long lives (in excess of 100 years) and grow to tremendous size, with reports of 'ducks weighing as much as 14 pounds. Though found up and down the West Coast, it is in Puget Sound where the geoducks reach their apotheosis, accounting for as much as 2 percent of the Sound's total biomass.

The problem is getting at them. A typical geoduck is a couple pounds and buried about three feet beneath the substrate. Most are beyond the intertidal zone, but those that choose to set up house closer to shore are within range of a stealthy clammer during the lowest tides of the year.

This past Thursday was our last minus tide of significance for 2009's daylight hours. I met my friend Jon Rowley that morning on the ferry to Bainbridge Island. He would be my guide. Besides being the man who introduced most of the civilized world to Copper River salmon, Jon is also a big-time evangelizer of geoduck. We drove to a beach near Quilcene owned by Taylor Shellfish, which has an oyster rearing operation on the property. Ed, one of the staff, assured us that geoducks should be exposed on the lowest stretches of beach. In our rubber boots the three of us headed for the clam beds with a couple sections of 30-inch diameter PVC pipe.

PVC pipes? Soon I would understand their role in the proceedings. It didn't take long to find the half-dollar sized shows of a couple geoducks. As instructed, I made an impression in the sand with the pipe, dug out the perimeter, and then fitted the pipe back into the circular trough. This humble section of pipe, I now realized, would be my sole fortification against an incursion of wet sand that continually attempted to reclaim my hole. As I dug out the area inside the pipe I worked the PVC deeper into the sand and eventually placed another section on top. Fifteen minutes later both sections, one on top of the other, had disappeared down into the hole.

That's when we noticed the tide. We were past the turn and now the water was coming up again. Fortunately I had constructed something of a sea wall with my diggings. Waves lapped at the berm. "You better hurry up," Jon said calmly. A few more shovelfuls and I got down on my belly to inspect the hole. An average person will extend his arm past the shoulder before having a shot at a 'duck. One of Ed's colleagues at Taylor would tell me a story later about how his brother held him by the ankles and lowered him into a hole. He was 11 years old at the time and their 'duck weighed in at an appropriate 11 pounds.

About this time I started to get a sinking feeling. The tide waits for no man. Muddy water now filled my hole to the brim. All our effort seemed to be for nought. "Feel around down there again," advised Jon.

"What am I looking for?"

"You'll know when you find it," he said cryptically.

I dug some more, but fatigue was setting in. Despite my PVC bulkhead, each shovelful seemed to be replaced by a steady stream of mud and sand seeping back into the hole. The rising tide was quickly eroding away my berm. We had a few more minutes at most and then the entire operation would be underwater. Already I was composing a blog post in my mind about failure. Out of breath, shoulders and arms aching, I flopped back down on what remained of the beach to take another measurement, if only to get a moment of rest. I had my ear to the water as I reached deep into the hole—and there it was! A rubbery hose-like thing in my grasp. I've got it! I yelled out like a little kid on a treasure hunt. I shook the neck back and forth and worked the clam out of its burrow, finally holding it up in triumph. Every part of me was soaking wet.



Geoduck Ceviche

To clean a live geoduck, immerse it in boiling water for eight seconds. Now you can pull off the thin sheath that protects the siphon. It slips off like a condom, in case you were wondering. Slice off the siphon at the base and nip off the last half-inch or so of the dark tip. This neck meat can be used for sashimi or ceviche. Extract the rest of the clam with a paring knife, cutting the adductor muscles on the inside of the shell. Throw away the bulbous gut and use remaining meat in sauté or stir-fry.

For the ceviche I poked around on the Web a bit. I wanted mine to have kick like Jon's, so a hot pepper would be essential. But I was also looking for some sweetness. Two recipes stood out, Xinh Dwelley's and Bobby Flay's, and so I borrowed bits of each. The ingredient amounts below are rough estimates; adjust to your own taste. I used less than a pound of neck meat.

1 geoduck neck (siphon), about 1 lb, thinly sliced
1/4 cup red onion, diced
1/4 cup sweet red pepper
1/2 cup cucumber, peeled & chopped
1/2 cup papaya, peeled, seeded & chopped
1 serrano pepper, seeded and finely diced
1 clove garlic, minced
1 handful cilantro, stemmed & chopped
1 tbsp fish sauce
1 tbsp brown sugar
1 tbsp toasted sesame seeds
1-2 limes
salt

1. Combine garlic, hot pepper, fish sauce, and brown sugar into small bowl. Stir with juice from half lime.
2. In large bowl, cover sliced geoduck with juice of 1 lime, stir, and let sit for 30 minutes.
3. Add contents of small bowl to large bowl and add onion, pepper, cucumber, papaya, and cilantro. Stir and season with salt.
4. Chill and serve.

For more 'duck entertainment, watch this trailer for the movie Three Feet Under and this cleaning and cooking demonstration from the Discovery Channel's "Dirty Jobs" show.

Pickled Sea Beans

A couple weekends ago I attended an oyster fest on Samish Bay complete with sea kayaks, local beer, midnight skinny-dip, and a bluegrass band that retired fireside to play late-night requests. Good times. In addition to being fed ridiculous quantities of fresh oysters, clams, Dungeness crab, and salmon, the beach boasted a patch of sea beans stretching for hundreds of yards. The property owner, who runs ACME seafood, told me to have at it. We packed my daughter's sand pail the next morning before driving home.

Sea beans (Salicornia sp.) are known by many names: beach asparagus, glasswort, pickleweed, samphire. They're a succulent, salt-tolerant plant that grows along beaches, marshes, and mangroves around the world. In my region we find sea beans near the high tide mark along sandy or pebbly beaches. Fresh, they make a crunchy snack while clamming, and retain that pleasing crunch even after cooking. The flavor, if it can be called that, is subtle, a salty taste of the sea with a hint of wild green. I like sauteed sea beans mostly for the texture, the bright color, and the salt, as in an oyster succotash.

Sea beans also make an excellent garnish. Pickling them means you can have sea beans whenever inspiration strikes. I looked around for pickling recipes, of which there are few, and settled on two styles: Far East and Southwest.

Spicy Pickled Sea Beans

For the Southwest I adapted a fairly standard pickling recipe for spicy green beans:

4 handfuls sea beans
4 red chiles
6 garlic cloves
pinch peppercorns per jar
pinch coriander seeds per jar
pinch mustard seeds per jar
4 sprigs fresh dill
1 1/4 cup water
1 1/4 cup white wine vinegar

1. Sterilize jars and lids in boiling water.

2. When jars are cool enough to handle, add pinches of coriander, mustard, and peppercorns. Pack half full with sea beans. Insert chiles, garlic cloves, and dill around outside edges. Finish packing with sea beans.

3. Bring water and vinegar to a boil. Ladle over the sea beans leaving about 1/2-inch head space. Wipe jar edge clean and screw on sterilized lids.

4. Process in a boiling water bath for 10 minutes. Remove and allow to cool completely at room temperature. Check lids for proper seal. Store for at least one month before using to allow flavors to develop.

Yields 2 pints.

Asian Pickled Sea Beans

For the Far East I used Matt Wright's recipe.

sea beans
rice vinegar
1 tbsp sugar per cup of vinegar
3 1-inch slices ginger per jar
1 star anise per jar

Figure on using at least 1 cup of vinegar for 2 half-pint jars. Oh, and rice vinegar and rice wine vinegar are essentially the same thing, in case you were wondering.

1. Sterilize jars and lids in boiling water.

2. When jars are cool enough to handle, pack with sea beans. Insert ginger slices around edges and a single star anise at top.

3. Bring rice vinegar and sugar to a boil. Ladle over the sea beans leaving about 1/2-inch head space. Wipe jar edge clean and screw on sterilized lids.

4. Process in a boiling water bath for 10 minutes. Remove and allow to cool completely at room temperature. Check lids for proper seal. Store for at least a few days before using to allow flavors to develop.

Word of warning: If you don't own a dedicated canner with a rack (i.e. you use a big 'ol pot instead, like me) be very careful with your jars to avoid breakage. I discovered this the hard way. Because the contents of the jars—the sea beans—are packed cold, your jars can experience a terrible fate called thermal shock and pop their bottoms off. Not pleasant. Keep the jars in the hot sterilization water until ready, pack them, don't overscrew the lids (you know what I mean), then place carefully in the pot before bringing to a boil. In restaurant/software speak, this is called a "soft launch."

And don't forget to use any leftover sea beans post-pickling. They make a salty garnish, or you can saute them in butter and garlic with a drizzle of lemon juice for a side dish. To leech out some of the salt, try blanching and shocking in two changes of water.

Salmon Head Soup

"When the buffalo are gone, we will eat mice, for we are hunters and must have our freedom." - Chief Sitting Bull

Wouldn't you know the day I forget my camera is the day my boy catches his first salmon off the beach—on a Snoopy rod no less. (The photo at left is his second salmon off the beach, taken the next day. He's looking a little more blasé about the whole thing.)

Riley let out a whoop when the fish hit his lure, and I'm sure I probably thought it was a false alarm, some weeds or a bottom snag. But then I saw the Snoopy rod doubled over. Next came the yelling and screaming and carrying on. Other anglers on the beach interrupted their casts to take notice of the commotion. I ran over and set up a station behind the boy, making sure the fish didn't rip the rod right out of his grip. He reeled and kept the tip up like a pro. Pretty soon the fish was in the surf and I figured for sure it would break the line. But Riley held on and pulled that salmon right up onto the beach. The kid knows what to do.

We ate the fillets in two sittings. The heads I saved for something special.

My kids are big soup eaters. Because we live near Seattle's International District, at a tender age they discovered noodle houses and the "subtle yet profound" pleasures of an Asian noodle soup, as one blogger has jokingly put it, parroting cooking shows like "Iron Chef." These soups are so tasty and cheap that I never really considered trying to make my own before, but after reading Hank Shaw's post on the "nasty bits" of fish, I just had to give it a shot. Besides, we're fishermen here at FOTL. When the salmon are gone I suppose we'll fish sculpin; in the meantime we can do honor to our catch by eating every last morsel.

I haven't cooked many fish head soups. None in fact. Luckily we have the Interwebs from which to draw on a nearly bottomless well of inspiration. Two recipes in particular, in addition to Hank's, informed my final improvisation: [eating club] vancouver's Mama's Fish Head Soup is home cooking at its best, and gave me the courage to use canned Szechuan prepared vegetables; a column by Steve Barnes from Albany, N.Y.'s Times Union convinced me that the double-strain was the way to go, and that aromatics such as green onions and cilantro would give the broth extra depth when applied after the first straining.

The advice was good. I have to say, if you'll allow me, this soup was every bit as good as soups I've had in the I-District. Those of little faith might get spooked during the proceedings, especially when the salmon heads are rolling around in there with the leeks and other stuff, going to pieces and spraying their bones about willy-nilly. But that's what the strainer is for. Ever glanced into the kitchen of a back alley noodle house? Not a good idea. But all the crazy stuff going into that bubbling cauldron will eventually get strained out, leaving—yes—a subtle yet profound broth in its place.

Hank's Salmon Head Soup is in the Japanese tradition. We like that—but my kids are most enthusiastic about the many varieties of Chinese noodle soup, so I went down to Uwajimaya to see what ingredients I could dig up. Sure enough, they had the sketchy can of Szechuan prepared vegetables (some sort of radish, I think). I also got some udon noodles, our nod to the Japanese style. Here are the ingredients in full:

2-3 salmon heads, cut in half
2 tbsp peanut or vegetable oil
1 tsp sesame oil (optional)
1 3-inch thumb of ginger, peeled and sliced
2 leeks, tops discarded, chopped
4 green onions, chopped
4-5 cloves garlic, chopped
2 Thai red peppers, thinly sliced
Chinese cooking wine
2 tbsp fish sauce (optional)
rice vinegar (optional)
aji-mirin (optional)
1 can Szechuan prepared vegetable (optional)
1 can bamboo shoots
1/2 head Napa cabbage, shredded
1 handful cilantro for garnish, stemmed, with stems reserved
1 package Asian noodles (e.g., udon, soba, ramen)

Despite the long list and the double strain, this is actually a fairly easy soup to make without the sort of pitfalls that can bedevil other soup recipes.

1. Over medium-high heat, brown fish heads and ginger in oil for a few minutes, turning at least once. De-glaze pot with a splash of wine and add chopped leeks, garlic, and half the green onions and red peppers. Saute together for several minutes.

2. De-glaze pot again with another splash of wine, then add 8 cups of water and optional fish sauce. Bring to a light boil, reduce heat, and simmer for 30 minutes.

3. Strain contents, picking and reserving as much salmon meat as possible. Return soup to simmer. Adjust for salt. Add half the remaining green onion and the cilantro stems. (Optional seasoning: Add a tablespoon of each: Chinese wine, rice vinegar, aji-mirin; add a few heaping tablespoons of Szechuan prepared vegetables.) Simmer another 15-30 minutes.

4. Strain soup a second time and return to low heat to keep warm. Dole out reserved salmon meat into bowls, along with noodles, a handful of shredded cabbage, and spoonfuls of both Szechuan prepared vegetables (optional) and bamboo shoots. Ladle soup. Garnish with green onion, cilantro, and Thai red pepper. Serves 4.

Prepared Szechuan vegetables will be hard to find unless you have access to an Asian market. If you can find 'em, I highly recommend. I also recommend the optional seasoning, though you'll be tempering the fish flavor in the process. A second strain with green onions and cilantro stems (or similar aromatics) is de rigeur; this is where the umami effect really kicks into high gear. If you've eaten in a quality noodle house, you know what I'm talking about. How do they do it? I once wondered, savoring every last drop of broth in my bowl.

Now I know.

B.C.: It's not just a comic strip

We made our annual pilgrimage to a friend's cabin on Thetis Island recently. Thetis is two ferries away from Seattle, in the Gulf Islands of British Columbia off the east coast of Vancouver Island. It's pretty much an all-day affair to get there, but once you're there, oh boy is the effort worth it.

We lucked out this year with low tides in the mornings, making clam digging the first order of the day. The butter clams, which apparently hold the toxins of red tide longer than other species, are off limits—even though there hasn't been a red tide in recent memory—but littlenecks are plentiful and as big as I've seen them anywhere.

Bottom fishing is another regular distraction. Flounder, greenling, rockfish, and lingcod all haunt the lower depths. One of the kids even caught a dogfish. In the ensuing melee of trying to land and release it without losing a digit, the little shark thrilled its antagonists by snapping the rod in two with its jaws. Down, Fido!

Besides the usual chowder and oyster po 'boys, we made a cioppino one night, cooking the catch of the day (flounder, littleneck clams, mussels) in a tomato-wine broth gussied up with chopped fennel bulb and saffron. The other key ingredient wasn't a food item—it was the camp stove that made the cioppino seem all the more authentic (if I can use a term that normally curdles my appetite).

The kids, or some of them at any rate, experimented with their taste buds and their courage. Steamed sea lettuce drizzled with soy sauce over a bed of couscous wasn't so bad after all, a few admitted. And a small gill-hooked flounder didn't even require utensils.

There was one big difference between this year and previous: our young charges eventually tired of clamming and fishing, announcing their desire to go after bigger game. In keeping with the practical tenants of The Three-Martini Playdate, we parents heartily encouraged them during one evening's cocktail hour, suggesting they cease running around underfoot and fully investigate the woods out back. Next thing we know, a small mob has armed itself with sticks and is in pursuit of the rather tame local squirrels and robins.

The next few days saw steep technological changes—not unlike those occurring over the course of millennia—as the little primates used their enhanced cranial capacity to invent a variety of tools/weapons, including bow-and-arrow and spears with honest-to-god spearpoints. Though the rodents and birds escaped harm this year, we shudder to think what future trips will hold for the hapless critters of Thetis Island.

Broiled Halibut with Red Huckleberry Compote

What the heck is a compote anyway? I dunno exactly, but I made one with these beautiful red huckleberries foraged not too far from home in a park loaded with hikers who pass these bushes by in numbers that must make the poor huckleberries think they suffer from an extreme case of cooties.

Because they're more tart (tarter?) than most other species of huckleberry, red hucks are good candidates for jam or sauce. Plus, they look terrific atop a cut of meat or fillet of fish. Probably the most enduring way to enjoy huckleberry sauce (or compote) is with a game bird or pork loin, but don't write off the "fibbies," as my daughter calls them. Last year I made a somewhat different sauce for rockfish; this time I aimed for something a little chunkier. It's a sweet sauce, so depending on your tolerance for sugar, you may want to adjust.

1 1/2 cups red huckleberries
1/4 cup port
1/2 cup sugar
1 tbsp balsamic
1/8 tsp cinnamon
1/8 tsp nutmeg
1 tbsp lemon juice
4 6-8 oz halibut fillets (or other white flakey fish)

1. In a saucepan bring ingredients to a boil over medium heat, lower heat, and reduce until syrupy. Keep warm until ready to serve. Makes enough sauce for 4 servings.

2. Slice halibut fillet into serving portions and arrange on a greased broiling pan. Season with salt and pepper, brush on melted butter, and drizzle with lemon juice. Broil 4 to 6 inches from burner, about 10 minutes per inch of fillet thickness.

Biggie Props to the Locals

Himalayan blackberries may steal most of the culinary applause 'round here and everywhere else, but the Pacific Northwest—besides being a mushroom magnet—is home to many other delicious berries, most of them native. If you live in the Puget Sound region, my advice is to get outside NOW and scour lowland woods.

I went for a walk the other day in second-growth foothill forest west of the Cascades and found thimbleberries, trailing blackberries, and red huckleberries. Thimbleberries (Rubus parviflorus) I've written about before. They make terrific jam if you can exercise the necessary self-control to get them home. (I didn't.) Same goes for trailing blackberries (Rubus ursinus). (Did.)

Though not as prolific as the invasive Himalayan, these impish blackberries are native to the Pacific Northwest, have excellent flavor, and their appearance is more pleasing to me. Himalayas are the Mark McGuires of the blackberry world: pumped up to the point of raising suspicion. Trailing blackberries are the Ken Griffey, Jr.'s, circa 1995: lean, defined, with pop and a winning smile.

I use Himalayas for my baking. You need a lot of berries to make a pie or cobbler and the Himalayas are good for that. (Hint: if, for aesthetic reasons, you want a few of the Himalayas to keep their shape even after cooking, make sure you pick a handful of red or under-ripe ones.) The trailing blackberries, on the other hand, I prefer to eat fresh. Look for trailing blackberries in areas of disturbance: clearcuts, burns, slides. They're common in second-growth forests, especially along trails.

Red huckleberries (Vaccinium parvifolium), another native Northwest berry, are the first huckleberries in the region to ripen. Crops can vary considerably from year to year, and even in a good year, such as this one, there's significant variation in the size of berries from bush to bush. It pays to scout for bushes with larger berries. And the bushes can be quite tall for huckleberries—up to 4 meters high. Look for red huckleberries in lowland coniferous and mixed forests.

Admittedly, picking huckleberries can be tedious work, so relax, get comfortable, and just soak up the atmosphere of the woods while you pick. On this day I had winter wrens, vireos, and an opinionated Pacific-slope flycatcher to keep me company.

Summertime, especially when it's hot out, is made for fresh, local ingredients simply prepared. Who wants to spend a lot of time in the kitchen when the mercury's topping 90 degrees—or 100 for that matter? I love summer pastas with tomatoes, garlic, and basil cooked merely by the heat of the pasta. Similarly, a dessert of fresh fruits bathed only in a little cream (or half 'n' half, as was the case) is a perfect way to enjoy the season's sweet treats. For this one we used Berryman's Twin Springs Farms peaches along with trailing blackberries and red huckleberries gathered mere hours earlier. Great colors, even greater taste.

Good 'n' Plenty ('n' FREE)

We're nearing the peak of blackberry season here in Seattle. The Northwest is justly famous for its blackberries. For whatever reasons having to do with climate and temperament, the non-native Himalayan blackberry (Rubus armeniacus) thrives in these parts, to the point of being an OBnoxious weed. Really, the only way you can keep it down is by running your own herd of goats. They take over abandoned lots, park margins, unkempt backyards, and just about any other nook and cranny where they can gain a foothold and spread their thorny canes.

But let's look at the good side. Blackberries are delicious. They effortlessly combine that sought-after one-two punch of pucker and sweet that is the holy grail for many a dessert chef. Discerning palates pay nearly as much for a carton of blackberries in season as the more delicate and finicky raspberry—yet unlike raspberries, blackberries are all over the city, free for the taking.

I'm continually amazed at how under-utilized this resource is. People, we're famous for our blackberries! Go get some. I usually combine blackberry picking with a swim in Lake Washington. They're at their sweetest and juiciest just as the region is at its hottest. Driving around the city, I see them pretty much everywhere. It's not like you have to travel to some distant neighborhood park or outer suburb to find them.

Blackberry Crumble

This is an easy recipe originally written for peaches. Use whatever fruit you want. The baking time seems long, but you want to make sure you get that crispy edge. Oven temps vary, so keep an eye on the topping; when it's nicely browned it's done.

4-5 cups fresh blackberries, rinsed
6 tbsp cold butter, cut into 1/2 inch chunks
3/4 cup brown sugar
2/3 cup flour
1/2 cup rolled oats
1/4 tsp salt
1/2 tsp nutmeg
1 tsp cinnamon

1. Grease an 8x8-inch baking dish. Layer bottom evenly with berries.

2. Combine dry ingredients in a large bowl. Cut in butter with pastry blender or knife. Sprinkle over berries.

3. Bake at 375 degrees until lightly browned and crispy on top, about 45 minutes. Serve with whipped cream or vanilla ice cream.

By the way, Himalayan blackberries are available through much of North America, but if you happen to live in the Pacific Northwest, treat yourself to our native species, the trailing blackberry (Rubus ursinus). Unlike it's argumentative cousin, the trailing blackberry doesn't grow from thick canes or pack such vicious thorns. You'll find it creeping along the ground in less disturbed areas where the non-native species hasn't had a chance to out-compete it. The fruit, many berry connoisseurs would say, is even more flavorful than the Himalayan, though it takes more work to gather a meal as they're not so plentiful.

In any case, blackberries of all species make a perfect summertime dessert on a hot evening. Don't forget the ice cream.

Crawdadfish Boil*

A good ol' Louisiana style crawdadfish* boil means a couple things to me. Above all, it means good times, like that first visit to New Orleans when my friend Tipton and I were driving cross-country and taking in a Cubs game at Wrigley. After a few tall ones in the bleachers we decided a detour due south made perfect sense and 24 hours later we were crossing the Lake Pontchartrain Causeway into the Big Easy and soon sitting in front of a mound of cooked crawfish at Franky & Johnny's—my first taste of the mudbug.

The other thing a boil means to me is disaster narrowly averted. My second visit to New Orleans (also during a cross-country adventure) was with Warpo. We caught Mardi Gras, or it caught us, and when it came time to flee we barely made it to the county line before the wheels fell off. Actually, it was the alternator. We pitched a tent on a dry spot in an otherwise boggy lowland haunted by a locquatious hoot-owl and hoofed it to a nearby barn on the side of the road where a local boil was in progress. Now maybe it was because our transport had failed us, or perhaps it was the mournful droop of weeping willows across fetid ground, or even those Poesque protestations from that blasted owl, but I was pretty convinced this might be our last meal. The bayou looked, sounded, and smelled ready to swallow us up for good. When I get nervous I eat, and on that night I ate like there was no tomorrow. Really, I'll never put away so many crawdadsfish* again. The next day, though, a new alternator materialized out of the swamp and we effected our escape to another Bermuda Triangle of sorts, Taos, NM, where the funky fresh Cadillac Seville shit the bed once more, a story for another time.

More recently, when my pal Bill told me that crawdadsfish* could be fished out of the reservoir near my folks' place in Colorado, I knew another boil was in the offing. It was our last weekend in the Rockies and I had friends coming up from Denver and Boulder. What better way to wind up a month-long getaway than a crawfish boil?

Cowboy showed up with plenty of Ska beer ("Lip up fatty!") and Betty brought her acerbic sense of humor, which goes well with lots of ice cold beer and crustaceans in the shell. Me, I set the traps Thursday night after fishing the Yampa River and picked them up the next morning. A feast of cat food and fish pellets did the job: We had poundage of the mudbugs scuttling around in the traps.

Lacking my usual spice cabinet, I picked up some Zatarain's liquid Shrimp & Crab Boil and the basic ingredients: Andouille sausage, corn, small red potatoes, mushrooms, onions, garlic, and a few lemons. We purged the crawdadsfish* with several changes of water; some say to use salt in this process (the crawdads don't like it and spit the salty water out, along with the usual mud and debris) but we found it unnecessary. Really, the only complicated part was the timing. You want to use a big stockpot and bring to a boil and cook for several minutes most of the ingredients and spices minus the crawdadsfish* and corn. Then you add the crawdadsfish* and boil for another 5 minutes or so before killing the heat and allowing everything to steep, covered, for at least 20 minutes to soak up the spices. The longer the spicier.

The problem in my mind was how to time the corn. I'm in the 5 to 7 minute camp. Among the many web sites I reviewed, such as this one, none seemed especially concerned about chewy, overcooked corn. Though the boil starts to get a little blurry in my memory at this point, I seem to remember we took some precautions, which involved keeping the ears of corn separate in the pot, removing them after 5 minutes of boil, and then returning them at the end for a few minutes of steeping. A wire basket helps in this task. In any event, the corn turned out perfect, with spiciness and crunch intact.

Per usual boil etiquette, we drained and poured the contents out on newspaper and feasted in the great outdoors. I don't have to tell you it was good. Eating crawdadsfish* is a primal experience along the lines of pig roasts, crab feeds, and other messy, carnivorous hoe-downs en plein air that everyone should try, except maybe vegans and vegetarians. Pinch tail, suck head, drink beer. Repeat. After recovering the next day, we cooked up the leftover crawdadsfish* in quesadillas with green chiles.



* According to my Tweet pal Anne: "Don't let a Loisiannan hear you say 'crawDAD'! It's crawfish, chere! :)"

Wild Mushroom Stuffed Brook Trout

Fishing is always at the top of the agenda when we visit my parents in Colorado. In years past my boy has demonstrated mastery of the Scooby-Doo rod, so this time out he insisted on a flyrod. I had visions of tangled line, a bird nest leader, and tears, but instead Riley threw a tight loop with his two-handed grip and effortlessly put a black woolly-bugger fly in the strike zone. The result: a beautiful brookie destined for the oven (not the ginormous rainbow in the photo at left, which was released unharmed).

Usually we pan-fry our trout. But with a haul of wild mushrooms gathered on a hike in the Gore Range the previous day, including oyster mushrooms and aspen boletes (known to locals as orange-caps), we decided a stuffed baked trout was the way to go.

A word about aspen boletes (Leccinum insigne): Most books and web sites list this species as edible. Coloradans regularly eat this common variety of porcini. However, the Colorado Mycological Society recommends caution. Every year the Rocky Mountain Poison Center receives complaints of gastro-intestinal distress following the ingestion of orange-caps, with some cases requiring hospitalization. In the Northwest there are similar complaints that derive from the consumption of Leccinum aurantiacum. I've talked to a mycologist who believes that a small percentage of the population at large—maybe just a few percent—is allergic to the genus Leccinum in general. Most people seem to eat these mushrooms without difficulty, and indeed, immigrants from mushroom-hunting cultures (e.g., Eastern Europeans) eat them with abandon. As with any new species of edible wild mushroom, it's recommended that you nibble on just a little bit (cooked of course) to make sure you're not allergic.

To make this recipe I had to de-bone my first trout, a technique I had never attempted because it's easier to remove the backbone and ribs after the fish is cooked. But a trout that has been fully de-boned and butterflied before cooking makes an elegant presentation, and a stuffed trout in particular begs for butterflying. I found this helpful YouTube video and then got to work.

For the recipe I used this one, and as you can see, even brazenly lifted the photographic composition. Note that I've changed the amounts to suit my tastes (more mushrooms, for instanse, and the addition of parsley) and instead of serving 8, my version is for 2.

2 pan-sized trouts, butterflied
2 pieces bacon
1/4 cup onion, diced
1/2 cup mushrooms, chopped
1 tbsp fresh thyme, chopped
1 heaping tbsp parsley, chopped
1 slice bread, toasted and crumbled
lemon for juice and garnish
salt and pepper to taste

Fry the bacon and remove from pan when crispy. Crumble bacon into a bowl. Saute onion in bacon fat a couple minutes over medium heat, then add mushrooms and cook for another four or five minutes, making sure mushrooms expel their moisture. Add thyme and cook for one more minute. Spoon onion-mushroom mixture into bowl with bacon and add bread crumbs. Mix together. Squeeze lemon juice over butterflied trouts and season with salt and pepper. Spread half the stuffing onto lower half of one trout; repeat with other trout. Fold over each trout like a sandwich and secure with toothpicks. Place on greased foil in a broiling pan and bake at 400 degrees for 15 minutes.

Last time I saw the folks I cooked them Bourbon & Pecan Encrusted Trout. That was tasty, but the Stuffed Trout, we all agreed, was extra special. I'll be serving this to friends back in Seattle for sure.

Pinch the Tail, Suck the Head

Good thing I have a family of foragers to back me up or I might starve.

We're on the last leg of our Western Odyssey, near Steamboat Springs, Colorado, visiting my parents. My friend Bill, who hooked us up with ice fishing gear last winter, was at the ready when we pulled into town with several crawfish traps and a bucket of bait. Thanks Bill!

I had big designs on a pond that turned out to be a bust, but meanwhile my boy Riley was already scoping out another spot and caught a crawdad by hand, making him the envy of several other neighborhood kids trying to net the feisty little beasts.

This one crustacean may be hardly a meal, but it was a big deal to an 8-year-old kid, who demonstrated good form in devouring his catch with Cajun gusto. And this one crawdad is also a sign of things to come. Stay tuned...