Nuts by Alice Clayton
To Peter—for becoming my husband four days before this book became real.
Acknowledgments
This entire series came into being one afternoon at the Schlafly Farmers Market in St. Louis, Missouri. Mr. Alice and I were there on our regular Wednesday with our reusable bags, cash in hand, ready to support our local farmers and get some fantastic food to boot. And, as it quickly does where I am concerned, it dissolved into debauchery. Debauchery because standing behind the table in a new stall was the cutest mother-lovin’ farmer I ever did see. He was tall, handsome, and scruffy in that adorable way, and he was holding the largest cucumber I’d ever seen.
No joke.
By the time I got up to the front of the line, Mr. Alice wondering why I was giggling so, I’d outlined a brand-new series centering on farm to table . . . and farmers on tables. In my head, I began to rifle through a catalog of possible titles.
Lettuce Do It.
Beet It.
Hey That’s My Cucumber You’re Holding.
Thank goodness, I went with the slightly less embarrassing but no less ridiculous Nuts. By the time we’d gotten into the car, bags full of beautiful locally produced vegetables, fruit, bread, poultry, sausage, and these adorable little hand-held apple pies (you know I love an apple pie), I’d begun thinking of possible places I could set this new series. Hudson Valley, New York, seemed like a perfect fit. The more research I did in the area made it feel even more perfect, and other stories began to suggest themselves. I spent a week playing up there with my bestie Nina Bocci, and we explored beautiful little towns like New Paltz, Hyde Park, Tarrytown, Sleepy Hollow, and were introduced to one of my very favorite places on the planet, Mohonk Mountain House. More on that later. . . .
We also had the privilege of touring an absolutely incredible farm in Pocantico Hills, just outside Tarrytown. Blue Hill at Stone Barns, a restaurant and agricultural center, is a place everyone should get to explore at some point in their lives. This place is 100 percent the inspiration behind Maxwell Farms, and it’s a truly magical place. They’re innovative, they’re driven, and most of all, they’re respectful of the land they farm and the animals they raise.
The next time I visited the Hudson Valley, I took the Metro North train out of Grand Central, and was blown away at not only how beautiful a rail line it is but how quickly you can go from being in the most exciting city on earth to the perfect quiet stillness of sleepy river towns. I was hooked on All Things Hudson.
Back at home, I was getting to know more and more of the farmers that I would see each and every week at the farmers market. I know the guy that raises my chickens. I know where to find the absolute best blueberry jam around, and I know the woman who makes it. And I know a guy who can make a kielbasa so good you’ll want . . . well . . . another kielbasa. This farm-to-table thing, it’s not just a trend—it’s the way it used to be, a community knowing where its food is coming from and making the choice to support it. It’s better for us, better for small farmers, better for the land, and holy shit does food taste different when it’s grown with love and thought and respect.
And good-night nurse, there are some great-looking farmers out there . . .
Thank you to everyone who helped me bring this book into the world. The usual suspects like Nina and Jessica, Micki and Christina, who listened to me panic and pushed me through it. Thank you to all the experts in their field who patiently answered my private questions, my farming questions, my would-this-grow-together questions. Thank you to the people who grow our food and make it wonderful for us.
There are farm shares and CSAs in cities and towns around the country. Look for them, google them, seek them out. Try something new, cook something in a new way, and ask questions. And if you see a great-looking farmer holding his cucumber, for the love of God send me a picture.
Alice
XOXO
Chapter 1
“Okay, let’s see. Dashi broth is done. Bok choy is roasting; shrimp are a’poachin’. Gluten free as far as the eye can see,” I told myself, leaning on the stainless steel counter in the most beautiful kitchen ever created. If you liked midcentury California modern. And who didn’t? Miles and miles of stainless steel and poured polished concrete.
Countless appliances and chefs’ tools sat against the herringbone subway tiles, shiny and untouched by their owner’s hand. Touched only by my hand— private chef and banisher of the evil gluten in this land of blond and trendy. Specifically, Hollywood. Specifically, Bel Air. Specifically, the home of Mitzi St. Renee, wife of a famous producer and chaser of that most elusive of brass rings . . . never-ending youth.
And at thirty-two (who would have thought that someone only five years older than me could talk down to me like it was her job), in a town where thirty was the benchmark for older men marrying for the love of tits, Mitzi was obviously concerned about her age. Holding a honeydew, I paused to consider said tits. Said tits were attached to a beautiful woman. Said tits were attached to a not-very-nice woman. Said tits were attached to an *, truth be told.
I shook my head to clear it, and started to cut up the melon. One-inch cubes with crisp edges; no rounded corners here. Next up were cantaloupe balls, rounded and plump. No ragged hollows; simply perfect balls. I heard how that sounded in my head, snorted, and moved on to the watermelon triangles. Acute. Obtuse. Did Mitzi appreciate the knife skills that went into her fruit bowl? Doubtful. Did she notice the culinary geometry that composed her a.m. energy burst? Probably not. No one noticed the perfection of my melons—but everyone sure noticed hers.