In my refrigerator is an oven-roasted chicken that I bought more than a week ago. On the package, it says, “No preservatives,” followed by smaller print, “vacuum sealed for freshness,” and in the smallest and lightest print, “use by October 9, 2007.”
I’m not sure by what miracle of science this chicken is giving me a six-week window for consumption. But I do know that I’ve stashed it out of view, into a vegetable drawer, while placing food and foodstuffs with shorter-term expiration dates in more visible spots. The chicken’s waiting for an evening when I’m short on time. I can “heat-n-eat” it, like it says on the package. I know from past experience that it tastes quite good.
After countless meals surrounding things like the chicken, or frozen lasagna, or Indian food straight from a box in my pantry, or even the occasional shot of cheese-from-a-can, I’ve become pretty distanced from thinking about the source of what I’m eating, the chemicals that go into my food and the fact that my stomach may be developing its own half-life.
I was actually shocked on a recent trip to Boise, Idaho, when my boyfriend’s mother showed us her garden. Abloom with beautiful tomatoes, cucumbers, eggplant, zucchini and more, the garden sits next to a compost pile where they place the unused food and scraps to help it grow. It seemed almost fairy-tale-like—so much so that the thought of eating directly from the garden somehow seemed ... unnatural.
As soon as the thought crossed my mind, I was kind of ashamed. To be so caught up in life to be completely distanced from the source of life-sustaining nourishment seems so self-centered and self-serving.
Then again, we live in the middle of the desert. It’s not lush like Boise. Even if the soil were ideal for farming, we’d still have the temperatures to contend with.
While mulling all this, a few local farmers I’ve met over the years popped into my head, along with Anderson Dairy, which has been serving Las Vegas for 100 years. After talking with some friends, I began thinking about the slow-food movement. It’s a philosophy that values locally grown food that’s not detrimental to the environment and gets from away from the homogenization and industrialization of what we eat. Started in Italy in the 1980s in response to a McDonalds opening in Rome, the slow-food movement is everything fast food is not. Where fast food is processed and everywhere, slow food is regional, fresh and takes time and thought to prepare, and is consumed in a communal manner. It values flavor over efficiency.
In these times of contaminated dog food and toys filled with lead, it makes sense that people want to know just what they’re putting in their mouths and where it came from.
I decide to put myself to the test, and see it if it’s possible to eat locally.
Why not? I’ve still got a month before I need to eat that chicken.
My own backyard
My first stop is Slow Food USA’s website (www.slowfoodusa.org). When I see that there’s no Nevada chapter, I begin my research independently. What better food for a desert dweller than the fruits of our own sands?
“Ow.”
“Ow.”
“Ow.”
I’ve just pulled off two paddles of Indian fig cactus—a kind of prickly pear—thinking that I could easily avoid the stickers. Wrong. The stickers are everywhere, in every finger. I alternate between tweezing them and putting on gloves.
“Ow.”
If I have this much trouble just picking the cactus, I shudder at the thought of removing the stickers before cooking it. But I’m determined.
The plant I’m surgically altering was recommended by Tommy Lee out at Cactus Joe’s, where I’d visited earlier that day. Though I’ve driven by Cactus Joe’s countless times, each time thinking that I ought to stop in there, this was my first visit. Out past Blue Diamond on Highway 159, there’s not much in the area aside from seven acres of hardy cacti and, well, Joe.
So when I began my search for an edible cactus, that’s where I went. I’ve tried and enjoyed the “nopalitos” (sautéed cactus) at Lindo Michoacan, but now I was looking for a desert plant I could slaughter and cook myself.
On the drive out to Joe’s, I began to better understand the idea of the slow-food movement. Heading west on Charleston, past Red Rock and Blue Diamond, amid the bendy Joshua trees and imposing mountains, the drive itself was medicinal. It’s easy to forget that such beauty surrounds us.
I pulled into the dirt lot of Cactus Joe’s, a dusty, giant park of ceramic pots, stone turtle stepping-stones and a seemingly endless varieties of cacti. I could have spent hours here, but I didn’t. Because Tommy Lee—Joe’s nephew—showed me exactly what I needed. (After introducing me to the menagerie of onsite pets, like Lindsay Loham, the 3-month-old potbellied pig, Brigitte Bardot, the French bulldog, Aretha the pug and Fred the cat.)
“Technically, you can eat any cactus as a means to survive,” Lee said as he led me past a teddy bear cholla, fuzzy with a thick coat of prickles. “Even the teddy bear cholla, if you skin off the stickers. From what I hear, it’s supposed to have a high vitamin C content.”
While I’m willing to do some work to prepare a cactus, this seemed beyond my capability. I don’t want to have to buy gloves to cook dinner, I thought.
He took me to the Indian fig, which is a member of the prickly pear family. In lieu of the nopales cactus (which they don’t carry), this is the one I want, he told me. So that’s the one I took.
But now that I’m trying to prepare it, the prickers beg to differ. I abandon the Indian fig leaves (I can replant them and they’ll keep growing) and walk outside to my very own backyard cactus garden, where prickly pear cacti grow like wild flowers. I’ve had them before, and now, thanks to the hazards of the Indian fig, I’ll have them again.
I select three plump, green paddles and take them inside for thorn-removal. I have to cut out each and every sticker before making fajitas.
Even with gloves on, I manage to get a few pricks. With a knife, I cut under and around each and every thorn, and think, No wonder people don’t eat these things. Zucchini are much faster. And less dangerous.
After about an hour of cutting, I place the cactus in a boiling pot and cook it for about 10 minutes, until it turns a deeper green and the pot is coated in cactus slime. Then I wash it, sliced it, sauté it with onions and red peppers and serve it with refried beans and cheese in tortillas.
It tastes okay, somewhere between a green bean and a green chile. Parts of it are still pretty tough. And I can’t help but have phantom sticker pains while I eat. My boyfriend feels the same way.
“We don’t have to eat this again,” he proclaims when we finish. I agree, and then tend to the stickers I still feel in my fingers.
Farmer’s Markets
There are three farmer’s markets throughout the week that bring us fresh fruits and vegetables from California, Arizona, Utah and Nevada. On a recent Wednesday evening I go to Bruce Trent Park to see how close to home their wares were.
I arrive to the tempting smells of barbecue and kettle corn and the gleeful shrieks of well-fed children. Walking past tables of fresh-baked bread and fudge, I make my way to the first vegetables in sight. As I pick through the Thai eggplants and green peppers, I ask where they came from. “Fresno,” I’m told. They’re the first of two Fresno stations.
“Fresno? Nobody goes to Fresno anymore,” I mutter under my breath, quoting one of my favorite lines from Airplane.
The next fruit and veggie tent is smaller but just as promising, with herbs like peppermint and spearmint, tomatoes, squash, garlic, jalapeno peppers, and more. The cantaloupe is sweet enough to smell.
“Where are you from?” I ask.
“Alamo, Nevada,” the woman tells me. “About 90 miles north.”
Perfect. I select a variety of fruits and vegetables from the Buckhorn Ranch, filling two grocery bags. The total? Eight dollars.
“See you next week,” the woman tells me. “When you want more of that cantaloupe.”
She’s right. I cut into it when I get home, and it’s candy-sweet, with a hint of vanilla. I decide to dry out the jalapeños and store the garlic. I vow to turn the squash into something in the coming days.
Later, while snacking on genuine Las Vegas fudge that we’d picked up at another booth, our cat, Susan, starts making noises that are more urgent than usual. Plump movement catches my eye, and I see that Susan and Bonnie (also a cat of ours) are batting around a fat little mouse they’ve brought in from outside.
They’re hunting!, I think. Screw their Whiskas kibble—this is their own cat-version of a slow-food movement! Kill, kill, kill ... eh, who am I kidding? Not wanting to clean up after a bloodbath, I scoop up the chubby mouse and return it the wild outskirts of Summerlin.
Gilcrease Orchard
For some reason, I was convinced that the pick-and-pay area of Gilcrease was closed. The orchard received quite a bit of press last year when a portion was sold for residential development, and it turns out that a part of the old pick-and-pay area is, indeed, closed. But I’m thrilled to find that there’s still about a block of orchard open for picking.
I pull in, parking in front of a large metallic building, where a man is painting a mural of a mountain. I pay the $2 entry fee and am instructed to drive along, picking what I’d like.
So I spend Friday morning navigating dirt roads, musing on the oddity of sweating profusely in the 100 degrees while picking fruits and vegetables from this remarkable Las Vegas orchard. There are rows and rows of fruits and vegetables to choose from, each as long as a city block. Lizards peek out from under squash blossoms, where the squashes are the size of toddlers. Cantaloupes sweeten the air, while apples dot trees and tomatoes color vines. I walk among the giant cucumbers and find that watermelon and eggplants are mixed in among them. There are pumpkins, ripening for kids to pick in time for Halloween, and fresh apple juice is sold by the pint, quart and gallon.
There are two other carloads of people out here. But aside from an occasional laugh or bellow, the main noise is the buzz of flies and the crush of dry grass as I walk around, filling my bags until they’re too heavy to tote.
At the end is the pay station, where prepicked items sit out. I select two pears and a cantaloupe. As Karen rings me up, we discuss edible cactus. She and another customer give me tips on how I can burn off the stickers rather than pick them out, then eat the fruit raw, in salad. They talk about cactus jelly and cactus wine, and their enthusiasm makes me want to try to make different things with cactus, to adapt and appreciate my environment more. It’s these experiences that make shopping locally so much more of an experience—a slow but meaningful rendezvous. Here we are, in the middle of the desert, picking our own food and trading tips about how to best enjoy it.
My haul came to about 15 pounds of food—and the cost is only $7.63. That’s better than any grocery store price I’ve seen since the 1980s.
Across from Gilcrease, on Grand Teton Drive, a sign catches my eye: “Fresh Eggs,” it says. No phone number or hours are listed. It just says that when the gates are open, eggs are available. Today, Friday, the gates are not open. I ask Karen, at Gilcrease, about it, and she says they’re generally open early on the weekends. I plan to return.
When I get home, I look at the items with a sense of amazement. There’s a squash that fills my arms, two cucumbers I can wrap around my shoulders, a bag full of apples that I’ll bake into cobbler, two giant pears, two small watermelons, a cantaloupe and an eggplant.
I flash back to my moment in Boise. Despite its freshness, I’m still skeptical that this food will taste good. It has nothing to do with Gilcrease—I know from experience that they grow great products. But picking my own fruit makes me a responsible party in how it tastes. So I eye an apple, thinking of how it’ll surely be fine in pie, but not confident it can stand on its own.
One bite proves me wrong. It’s sweet, juicy and delicious. The perfect snack after the morning of work it took to bring it here. The cucumbers? Best I’ve ever tasted. The cantaloupe and pears? Delicious. The watermelons I picked were too small and aren’t ripe yet, but I know now, for next time. And I save the giant zucchini and eggplant for later. I put it with the squash from the Farmer’s Market.
The next morning, I drive back to the egg house, looking forward to a local source of protein. The gates are not open. I dutifully return on Sunday, less optimistic. Still not open.
I pull into a nearby Von’s and settle on some organic eggs from California.
R.C. Farms
The smiling pig logo at the entry to R.C. Farms is fitting. The devious irony (happy pigs make tasty pork?) comes direct from the humorous and good-natured Bob and Janet Combs, who own the farm in North Las Vegas. Here, there’s room for 3,500 pigs, along with an array of chickens, cows, cats and dogs.
The pigs are the colon of Las Vegas, consuming the slop that’s left over from buffets on the Strip. Here, a steady cycle of excess is complete, with the swine dining better than many local households. Without R.C. Farms, the food would go to waste.
As adults, the pigs become pork. The majority is shipped to the Midwest, to Nebraska. “It’s like sending sand to the beach,” Combs says, referring to Midwesterners’ love of pork and ham. He also does some local business. But, he stresses, he does not take orders. Instead, people can come out to the farm and pick a live pig or cow. Then the staff of R.C. Farms can give them guidance, in terms of cutting and cooking. “It’s happening more and more,” Bob says. “People are disgusted with boxed and processed meats.”
Which brings us to the blackened 70-pounder that’s lying in the roaster with an apple in its mouth. Bob and Janet invited me out to the farm to join them for a pig roast. My excitement at the prospect overcomes most of the queasiness at the idea of eating a pig at its own home. I’ve become friends with the Combs’ over the years and jump at any chance to visit their beautiful farmhouse-home, which is decorated with stuffed creatures of all varieties—a moose, deer, coyote and various birds.
Everything Bob and Janet do is based on recycling, from these mounted animals to their actual dwelling, which was built using WWII ammunition cans.
After about eight hours of roasting, the pig is ready. Bob expertly slices around its back leg area. The party gathers around, watching in awed fascination as he cuts, the darkened skin crackling as it gives way to the tender meat below.
It’s tasty, this buffet-fed pork. It’s tender and less salty than any pork I’ve had. It’s by far the freshest meat I’ve ever consumed, with better texture and flavor than I’m used to. That makes for a good complement to the challenge of eating an animal that grew up right outside the door and is now being smelled, cooked, by its friends and family.
But that’s something that meat eaters should be aware of. In the days of boneless chicken wings and McRibs, we prefer to not think about the life that our food had before our hunger came along. Plus, it’s far more convenient to visit the store 24 hours a day and select fruits and vegetables and meat that have traveled hundreds of miles, burning valuable gas en route and derived by a work force you’ll never meet, than it is to visit an out-of-the-way orchard that’s open from 7 a.m. to noon, or to find a farmers’ market that fits your schedule, or to return to a closed gate that advertises occasional eggs, or to pick a pig you’d like for dinner.
But it is getting easier. Whole Foods has begun a program emphasizing locally made and grown goods (its definition of “local” is within a seven-hour drive). Right now, the Henderson store is selling watermelon from the Amargosa Valley, and plans are in the works for more fresh products in the coming year. Earlier this year, Whole Foods partnered with the UNCE Orchard (West Charleston store) for stone fruit and is partnering with King Ranch (Henderson store) for locally grown grapes and potted herbs.
Other local products the stores carry include Lorenz salad dressings, Dave’s Fabulous BBQ Sauce, Natural Beauty body-care products, Pete’s Locally Grown Wheatgrass, Just Like Sugar natural sweetener and Simply Divine skin-care line (West Charleston store only).
Patience, perseverance and scheduling are key when you’re trying to dine on foods grown close to home. I still have an eggplant, squash and an array of fruits on my counter, waiting to be eaten, despite the fact that I’ve done more picking, cooking and baking this week than any week, ever. It’s not easy, eating green.
I’d hoped to have an entire meal made of purely local items. But scheduling that proved impossible. Instead, I sprinkled different items throughout the week. And there was a sense of pride that came with each one—even the cactus. Whether I picked it myself or I’d interacted with the person in charge of growing or raising the food, there was something special about every local thing that I ate; an added dimension and a back story.
I’d much rather mindfully eat locally grown eggplant than an anonymous vacuum-packed chicken. I know I can’t hide fresh items in a vegetable drawer and pull them out at my convenience. But I can save time by having the eggplant as a side dish with the chicken, mixing slow food and heat-n-eat, picking and choosing and trying for a meal that’s more balanced and, at the very least, based in awareness. It’s at least a start to life in the slow lane.
Kate Silver is a frequent contributor to the Weekly.
Cactus
(better for planting than eating)
• Cactus Joe’s Blue Diamond Nursery, 12740 Blue Diamond Road, 875-1968, www.cactuscactus.com
Fresh fruits
and vegetables
• Las Vegas Farmer’s Market, Bruce Trent Park (Vegas Drive and Rampart), Wednesdays from 4 p.m.-8 p.m.; and at Gardens Park, 10401 Gardens Park Drive near Town Center Drive and Desert Inn Road., Tuesdays from 4 p.m.-8 p.m., 562-2676, www.lasvegasfarmersmarket.com
• Henderson Farmers’ Market, 240 Water Street, Thursdays, 9 a.m.-3 p.m., 579-9661, www.hendersonfarmersmarket.com
• Gilcrease Orchard, Whispering Sands Drive and Tenaya Way, 645-1126, www.gilcreaseorchard.org
• Whole Foods Market Las Vegas: 8855 West Charleston Blvd., 254-8655; Henderson: 100 S. Green Valley Pakway, 361-8183, www.wholefoods.com
Fresh pork and beef
• R.C. Farms, 555 E El Campo Grande Ave North Las Vegas, 642-0350