butcher shop. cheese room. preservation kitchen. me.

tear the basil.  chop the basil.

squeeze the lemon.  chop the nut.

pour the oil.  grate the cheese.

scoop the pesto.  fill the jar.

scoop the pesto.  fill the jar.

scoop the pesto.  fill the jar.

following the natural progression from garden growing to kitchen cooking, today marked the beginning of my foray out of the fields and behind the knife.  while the name of this website is clearly dedicated to “cooking”, and my origins in my former brooklyn apartment were certainly of a similar breed, it has been almost two years now since I have given any much thought to the subject—besides, of course, as a patron of the arts, so to speak. 

the larder at blackberry farm is a gastronomical wonderland of artisanal foodstuffs.  hand crafted, masterful creations of meat and milk stand side by side with heritage breed preservation skills.  old world traditions mesh together with new world technology to create luscious foodtreats for blackberry and beyond.  these foods land not only on the plates of blackberry guests, but also to the extended family through blackberry’s online catalog, and—further still--nationwide at a Williams-Sonoma store near you.  with the blackberry busy season already upon us, and Williams-Sonoma holiday rush looming around the corner, it’s an understatement to say that the fellas in the larder are hard at work.  it’s relentless.  it’s repetitive.  it’s delicate, detailed, and exact. 

drain the whey.  scoop the curds.

fill the mold.  press the mold.

drain the whey.  scoop the curds.

fill the mold.  press the mold.

while yesterday was spent upstairs learning the art of raw sheep’s milk blue cheese, muscadine jam, smoked onion jam, and fresh pesto—today was spent downstairs in the meat locker.  for eight hours, standing in a forty-two degree room towering with stainless steel everything, my hands and my steel sliced through pork after pork after pork after fish after fish after fish.  oh, and a tray of squabs, not to be forgotten. 

three hours in, shoulders sore from hunching (rookie mistake, no doubt), fingers completely numb with chill, and my knees/ankles stiff from the near-frozen stand still, we took quick respite upstairs for a cup of hot tea.  sweet relief.

skin the fish.  pull the pin bones.

skin the fish.  pull the pin bones.

skin the fish.  pull the pin bones. 

the romanticism of old world charcuterie, or salmon chucking fish mongers down at the sea port was quickly whisked away—or perhaps beaten down—by my first two days in the larder.  this is no child’s play.  every chef, every waiter, and every eater would benefit greatly from spending two days in the larder.  the work and thought that goes into artisanal foodstuffs—especially in the american paradigm I’ve been reared in—leaves little room for surprise why most producers have taken the commercialized, industrialized, mechanized, de-humanized—and utterly homogenized approach to foodstuffs. 

it’s just so damn hard.

find the seam.  make a clean slice.

find the seam.  make a clean slice. 

follow the bone.  cut the muscle. 

follow the bone.  cut the muscle.  

two more weeks in the larder and i head to the main dining room.  the big show.  the headliner.  the real deal.  working the floor at the blackberry farm culinary barn, a relais chateuax property, and travel and leisure's number one resort in north america--without a day's experience--is something that is starting to keep me up at night.  

the reading material's are in place.  my suit is pressed.  my hopes are high.