When I grow up I want a wood-fired cookstove.

Many of you know, that for a significant portion of October I was in rural Northern California. During my time on the Klamath River,I saw and experienced many things that I consider out-of-the-ordinary. Helping Yurok tribal members set gill-nets in the river. Going to sleep nightly, wondering if "The Bear" had wandered off the mountain that evening, and would he be munching on the figs, apples, and pears in the orchard, thirty feet from my tent. I cooked on a wood-fired kitchen stove for the first time. The stove, filled with Tan Oak, and applewood, became my pet project in my time on the reservation.

Five o'clock in the morning; I wake up, chop some of the oak, wash my face and hands, and head to the kitchen. I pile a bit of newspaper in the small box beneath the wood burning chamber, add some kindling, and light the fire. I add two small logs after the kindling catches, and cross my fingers. We had no coffee maker on site, so I would make giant batches of Turkish-style coffee each morning. Boil one gallon of water, and add 10 ounces of fine-ground Italian roast. I let it simmer for 15 minutes until it reached rocket fuel strength. Then the tricky part: I had to add one cup of cold water and a pinch of salt to settle the grounds. This was just to get my morning cup o' coffee.

Taking this much time in the kitchen teaches you a lot about proper preparation, and patience. Just cooking a breakfast scramble was a Herculean task. No longer was I concerned with par-cooking, dicing, emulsions, or the Maillard reaction. My mind was cleared of culinary pretense. The flavor of an oven-roasted Boar loin, glazed with figs and Bourbon, took on a whole new meaning. The scent of oak kissed everything
that came out of that kitchen. Potatoes, simply roasted with butter, garlic, salt and pepper had an "otherness" to them, that I hadn't experienced otherwise. The same evening I roasted the Boar loin, I started a small cooking fire, just outside the house. When the bed of coals was properly hot, I cleared a small opening in the center. In went a small pumpkin, stuffed with apples, butter, salt and honey. Forty-five minutes later it was done. I had wanted a side dish, what came out of that small fire was more akin to a rustic dessert. Dusted with cinnamon, and a little additional honey, it was the perfect compliment to the wild flavor of the loin. The rich smoke flavor of the loin was complemented by the simplicity of the apples and pumpkin.

The dichotomy of the wood stove still intrigues me. Yes, I was cooking in a kitchen, but everything I prepared had taken on the quality of food prepared by my ancestors.

I can't turn back now. The experience, for better or worse, effected me too deeply. I want that same simplicity in all my food. Well, maybe with a little more flair. However, I want those qualities to remain. Take fantastic wild ingredients, paired to compliment each other, and cooked in a way that your Great-Grandparents would recognize. Forget all about the parlance of modern presentation. Ingredients should look like what they are, otherwise we tend to forget that what we're eating used to be a living breathing creature.

In this day and age we are bombarded by blatant commercialism, advertising, pre-prepared frozen dinners, value-added cereals, and pasteurized cheese "product". These have caused us to lose sight of what dinner used to mean. Our parents even knew what it meant to sit down to a meal. It meant that something had to die to feed us. Someone else had to break their back to grow the potatoes, carrots, onions, and celery that accompanied the roast beef, sitting on the table in front of you. In all of this joy at the table, there was suffering at its heart. Food should be a labor of love, just don't forget about the "labor" part. We've made it so easy to eat now, that no one thinks about just how hard it used to be to get dinner to the table.

Give thanks to the Animal and the Farmer that raised it. Go to the Farmers Market, if only once in a while, and talk to the men and women that work the soil for your dining pleasure. Grow a garden of your own,(organic of course) just to feel the dirt under your nails, to feel the heartbreak of a lost crop, or the joy of a bumper harvest.

All I am suggesting is taking a step back. If we take this step back, maybe it can send us two or three steps forward, in a better direction.

This is why I want a wood-fired cookstove when I grow up.