Salt Preserving, the February Food in Jars Challenge!

This month's food in jars challenge was a simple and exciting delight! I must admit that this terrified me at first. I slowly warmed up to it and got really excited. When I finally got going - I got three challenges - four recipes - done in under two hours!

The first recipe I made was Salt Preserved Egg Yolks. Having a flock of our own free range chickens this seemed a wonderful opportunity to take our homemade pasta nights to a new level. I used the recipe from Hunter Angler Gardener Cook found here: http://honest-food.net/salt-cured-egg-yolks/. I chose to use 6 eggs because it fits nicely in a muffin pan. I will update the blog with a new post when they come out of hiding on 2/31.
The process is easy. You separate the eggs. You line what ever container you are using with a half inch of salt (I used sea salt but you can use Kosher as well) and create a divot that you will place your yolk in. Once they are all in, bury them in salt, put them in the refrigerator, and wait one week.

The second recipe I made was Salt Preserved Lemons. I more or less followed the recipe on Food in Jars found here: http://foodinjars.com/2011/02/preserving-lemons/ but being a very visual person, I perused the web for recipes that had more pictures as well. This was another very straight forward process.
Step one, thouroughly wash and scrub your lemons. I wanted to scrub harder since mine seemed rather waxy but didn't want to upset the zest.

Step 2, you cut the nubs off either end of the lemons and then quarter them ALMOST all the way but keep them intact. I did make the mistake of cutting a few all the way apart, but just continued.

Put a good layer of salt on the bottom of your jar and then, holding the lemon over the jar, spread roughly a teaspoon of salt into all the cracks and then pack it into the jar.

Add salt after each layer of lemon. Feel free to use pressure to get them in there because the point is to draw out the juices from the fruit. I used 10 lemons and packed them into Quart Mason jars, about 5 lemons in each.

The jars sit out on the counter for 3 days before moving into the fridge. The goal is to have them covered in juices by the end. Here is my jars after two days. 

I am a little concerned about the salt leaking out of it and the lids not being airtight as a result, but I do not want to go to metal lids and bands because of the corrosion the salt will cause. We will have to see in a day or so. I am HOPING that i can fit them all in one jar before they go in the back of the fridge for three weeks. We will see and I will update with a new post.

The last recipe I made was two herb salts. I thought this was a wonderful way to make rubs for meat and to help stretch those herbs out even longer - whether it is store bought or garden grown - herbs so quickly wilt and rot. I used the following links for encouragement, A Raisin and a Porpoise and The Prairie Homestead. This was very straight forward : combine 1/2 cup salt and your bunch of de-stemmed herbs in a food processor.
This is my cilantro and then rosemary salts laid out after being processed. 

 Lay it out on parchment paper or on a dehydrator shelf, and dehydrate until all the moisture is removed. I used the oven since I don't own a good dehydrator yet (I killed my old one trying to dry out left over tempura fry). I set my oven to 200 degrees and left it in for about 1/2 an hour then I turned the oven off and left it in. (truth be told I had to go out).

The next morning they were thoroughly dried and shelf stable so I  jarred and labeled it.

I look forward to using there on some pork tenderloin or even smoked Trout this spring. Yum! I can't wait to see what the March Challenge will bring - jellies and "shrubs"? Hmm it has me thinking.

WOMANIFESTO by Libba of https://libbabray.wordpress.com

These are not my words but they resonate to the deep rumblings inside me. It speaks to the intensity of the reawakened activist in me. It is the fuel that flames the resistance movement. It is the resistance. Thank you Libba

https://libbabray.wordpress.com/2017/02/08/womanifesto/comment-page-2/#comment-12787

WOMANIFESTO

Congratulations.

You have woken the witch that lives deep inside me.

You have removed the slumber chains from the giant of old.

You have handed me a box of matches and no chaperone

And a world made of lies and polyester.

Congratulations.



You have barked up the wrong bitch.



Proclaim it:

I have shucked off the good, southern lady’s cloak,

Of the homecoming court, the cheerleader,

The preacher’s daughter, hands gentled in her lap.

They tied it at my neck with a bow, a Gordian girl-knot,

When I was young and bossy and sure-footed

“For protection,” they said.

Whose protection? I wondered.

Enough.

I have sent that shit out to the dry cleaners

I will not pick it up

They can sell it for a profit from a rack on the street.

From now on,

I’m exposing the raw pink edges of my true skin to the sun.

Some things can’t be prettied up.



I used to be embarrassed by this side of me:

Messy. Expansive. Unraveled by rage.

The barroom brawler holding out a broken bottle

With a shaking hand

Blood jumping to a punk-rock soundtrack in my soul

Eyes so alive they had to be narrowed to keep the light of all that truth

From burning up the room.

These mornings when I wake,

I feel as if I have eaten a breakfast of gunpowder and a handful of stars

The combination roiling, anticipatory, explosive

My mouth ready to spew out a universe of fire and

An ancestral memory of the silenced women who came before,

Rotting in their shrouds, long dead under the ground

Still angry.



No one seems to understand:

That rage has to go somewhere.

Some girls cut. Some girls starve.

Some fuck strangers, tell themselves it’s freedom, not numbness.

Some guzzle gin when no one’s looking.

Some girls swallow their rage down and vomit it back up with the

penetration of a reprimanding finger, stifling the voice,

an Inside Job

The internalized, reflexive police force

Body violating body,

Forever and ever

Amen.



I have done all of those things:

Starved. Cut. Boozed. Fucked and run.

I’ve punished myself the way

the world wants to see its women

punished.

Spoiler alert: It’s exhausting.

No.

You exhaust us.

No.

You. Are. Exhausting.

You. And your bullshit.

You, the Senators and Churches.

You, the old men holding the law hostage to your whims.

Blind Justice?

Nah. That bitch sees fine.

Puts the blindfold on herself now.

Stockholm Syndrome, you know.

Happens after a while.

Shrug. Step. Repeat.

Jazz hands.



They told me not to raise my voice.

So I learned to swallow all my sharp words.

They told me not to be disagreeable.

So I learned lipstick and smiling, a catechism of femininity.

They told me I was shame.

So I learned to feel shame.

They told me not to curse.



Yeah. Good luck with that, motherfuckers.



Oh, beautiful for spacious goddamned skies

For “fuck off” and “bite my ass”

Thundering across the parched grasslands of my tongue

Like middle-finger mustangs who won’t be tamed.

Cursing was the first language of my anger.

The poison apple spit out, not choked in.

A weaponized mouth and a sharp wit

To establish a DMZ—“You shall not pass.”

That foul mouth has saved me from myself.

Try to take it from me, motherfucker.

I double-goddamn-dog-dare you.



Oh, my anger needs room to roam.

I will spread my legs on the subway seat

Let it take up space.

I will turn up my coat collar and skulk the streets,

Hands fisted in pockets, knuckles turned towards the world, ready.

Oh, it’s on.

I will call up to my sisters at their windows,

“Yo! Leave the dishes in the sink,

and the pantyhose to drip from the towel bar.

Leave your shame on the floor

So they’ll see it first when they come inside,

Expecting you

but finding you

Gone

nothing but a slipped skin, a

warning

To remind them that they were right to fear you

All along.”

Then, soft as a lover:

“Come out into the streets, all you messy ones.

All you angry, hurting, had-enough ones.

It’s time.

Come on out. Come out.”



I have awakened to reclaim that girl.

The one refusing the cloak at her throat.

I am an angry woman with a voice

And a foul mouth

And a pen as cutting

as the jagged teeth of a bottle

that has been broken too hard against the bar

and is now a weapon

in a barroom brawl.



Your move.

Come at me, motherfuckers.