Earthworm Envy

Hello Barack Obama,

With the upcoming presidential elections, we read that you enjoy a green pepper egg-white omelet.  We write a blog entitled Earthworm Envy that features omelet reviews from around the world, and we have noticed that the best omelets are made with local fresh ingredients.  Would you please take the time to answer a few questions in regards to your environmental policies and how they relate to local produce?

Here is a quote from your website:

The oil used in the U.S. transportation sector accounts for one-third of our nation’s emissions of greenhouse gases. Barack Obama’s plan will reduce carbon in our fuel supply by establishing a National Low Carbon Fuel Standard.

Food production and interstate transportation rely heavily on fuel consumption.  To help lower our nation’s greenhouse gas emissions, will you promote local sustainable agriculture and vegetable gardening?  Will you lead by example by planting or authorizing a vegetable garden at the White House?

Finally, do you have any thoughts about omelets or a recipe that you would like to share?

We will publish your response on our Earthworm Envy blog.

Thank you,

Brandon Follett and Amy Johnson

earthwormenvy@yahoo.com

www.earthwormenvy.com

THE AUTHENTICS

by Erin Ryan, The Idaho Statesman

Thanks to Brandon Follett and Amy Johnson, Barack Obama may soon share his thoughts on omelets and interstate transportation. The wandering artists teamed up in 2006 to travel, make films, bump heads (and mopeds) with ordinary people and write sociopolitical commentary cleverly disguised as omelet reviews.

Apparently, Obama enjoys an egg white and green pepper mixture in the morning, and Follett and Johnson saw this as a perfect vector to ask the presidential hopeful about his environmental policies as they relate to sustainable agriculture and economics.

All in a day’s work for the creative team behind Boise-based Earthworm Envy, a Web site that offers omelet reviews from around the world, essays, poems, blogs, links to like-minded local organizations and short documentary films on everything from Thai “ice cream” to the Cambodian legacy of John F. Kennedy’s hair.

But there is more to Johnson and Follett than multimedia gold. They are committed to living well, which just so happens to be green.

“I know what a tomato tastes like, so I can’t eat one from the store in January,” Johnson said. She and Follett grow their own or volunteer on organic farms, and what they do buy is as unprocessed, seasonal and socially responsible as possible. Bananas, for instance, are known as the Hummer of the fruit world because of the energy it takes to harvest and transport them, and Johnson refuses to buy them. And even though packaged organics seem green, Follett says they are a trendy offshoot of a deeper problem.

“The biggest thing is consumption. I think people need not to buy into the grand marketing scheme,” he said. “They want to be babysat, for legislation to be made, but you have to start with yourself. Maybe you just need to change your lifestyle … . What if I-84 is full of hybrid cars - does that change anything? And if you’re replacing your eco-friendly clothes every year because of fashion, what’s the point?”

To live as authentically as possible, they try to keep new purchases to a minimum by swapping with friends. They do not own cars and travel everywhere on their touring bicycles. Weather controls their activities to some extent, but neither feels inhibited.

“It’s a mindset change,” Johnson said. “People think I have to give up my freedom, but once you do it’s a different freedom.”

Their love of two-wheeled travel exploded during a six-month trip to southeast Asia last year, where they worked their way through Thailand, Cambodia and Laos as farmers, construction workers and teachers. They found that locals only used big vehicles for big jobs, and community support was integral to individual success.

“It’s about using what you have wisely. It’s just logic, common sense,” Follett said.

Back in Boise, he and Johnson are saving for a bike trek down through Mexico, where they will continue studying omelets and cultures that are closer to the earth.

“Our cities aren’t set up to be green, so it is a bit of a challenge,” Johnson said. “I don’t have a religion, but this is my morality. We have this abundance, so we need to take it upon ourselves to do these things. If I do have the money to buy a Hummer, maybe I’ll buy a park instead.”

I live a block off State Street in a little log cabin. I have come to refer to my noisy, congested and sometimes-violent neighbor as the little monster. The four-lane beast runs east and west connecting Boise, Eagle, Star and Middleton transforming these little towns into one big town all suckling off the State Street tit. The other day, Amy and I decided to explore our neighborhood breakfast options on State Street.

We started at The Lift and then quickly moved on to Eddie’s Diner. I will mention that the servers at both restaurants had great conversational skills and friendly smiles. From my observations, I concur that genuine smiles do not correlate with the quality of food. None of the servers came across with that used car salesperson disposition. The servers aren’t having conversations like,
“Hey Johnny, I’m gonna charge this guy $8.00 and feed him processed crap. Let’s see if he catches on that I just sold him canned beans and mushrooms.”
or
“Hey Johnny, my table just asked for maple syrup, so I gave them syrup that has no maple, only chemical flavoring. HA! HA! Cutting corners. Making money for the man.”

I believe servers can honestly sell their product with a smile because they have to assume the diners know they are ordering substandard food. For instance, at my place of employment, sometimes a customer will order a large hot chocolate with caramel syrup and extra whipped cream followed by a pointing pudgy parental finger at the rice crispy treat. The parent loudly declares so that the people in line can hear, “you’ve been such a good boy not complaining about taking your medication and passing your 4th grade standardized tests. You get the biggest and fattest treat.” The parent pats the kid on the head and thinks, “my child will never academically be left behind. Walking – now, that’s another story. My little whippersnapper must have an out of whack thyroid.”

At my job I assume the parents know the type of food they are buying puts their children at a greater risk for certain diseases and the purchase is simply motivated by the greater good of cheapness, oral fixations, and education. I happily hand over the congratulatory snack of diabetes. I can do this with a genuine smile and without my conscious bothering me because diabetes is a small price to pay if it’s the snack that motivates learning. I can deal with cracked heals and obesity but not stupidity. Big tobacco should lobby to have cigarettes used as a motivation for education. Once again here is my motto: I can deal with long-winded hacking and smelly breath but not stupidity.

Enough of this madness — no more wasting writing about the dysfunction of the food industry! I am going to take a positive approach and not take the typical lazy American approach of diddling time away; waiting for new legislation, a new president, a new religion, a new Dr. Phil or a new self help book to promote change in my life.

Within a 10-minute bike ride of our cabin, sandwiched roughly between Albertson’s and Wal-Mart is a beautiful world of omelet fine dining. For delicious omelet ingredients, there are three farms that have an abundance of vegetables and chicken eggs. The farms are City Gardens, Earthly Delights, and Peaceful Belly. In addition, Smokey Davis offers a selection of smoked meats and cheeses. Finally, for the perfect omelet setting there’s the Boise River that runs parallel to the little monster.

On my way to the Boise River, I stopped at Turner’s. This locally owned store offers a plethora of fishing gear next to a bar where a patron can get a shot of Old Crow Whiskey and a bottle PBR for $5. I figured if Turner’s did not sell some sort of conventional fuel, I could by some Vodka to burn.

To turn eggs into omelets, thanks to Back Bone Media and Tracy Wilson, I had a Brunton Vapor AF All Fuel Expedition Stove. The biggest selling point about the Vapor AF is that it can burn basically any type of fuel including butane, bio diesel and jet fuel. As a traveler, I enjoy the peace of mind knowing wherever I go there will be fuel that is compatible with the stove. Once I had figured out how to operate the stove, the flame became as easy to control as a conventional kitchen stove.

So here it is – one of the finest omelets I have ever eaten – a spinach, Idaho trout, and havarti dill cheese omelet made along the Boise River within minutes of the little monster and its big box stores.

written by Marty Camberlango, City Gardens farmer

Midnight. January 1, 2008

People all over the city are kissing at this very moment, champagne goblets clinking, plans for the future being professed. I’m at the Café de Paris, a little French bistro with one of the best patios in Boise, Idaho. I’m not on the patio. I’m in the kitchen. It’s freezing outside; there’s probably no one on the patio tonight.

But maybe… a couple cuddles in the corner of the empty patio, holding each other to keep warm, gazing up at the giant clock on the Key Bank building, counting down the seconds and excited to ring in the new year with a first kiss. For weeks the two, separately, were giddy with anticipation for this new years encounter.

I have no idea what’s going on outside the swinging kitchen doors, and the patio is completely beyond perception. Sounds are my only immediate experience of the dining room. Tonight there’s a French pianist. The chef’s father. He’s wonderful. Tonight is truly magical. The couple on the patio finally take a breath.

Table 9, a 7 top. 7 Apps. 3 spinach, 2 scallops and 2 hor’dourves plates. Starches 2 mash pot, 2 rice, 2 risotto, and 1 red pot. Cheese plates for 4. All night this code guides my every move. The kitchen reminds me of the pilot house of a navy ship: skunk bravo barring 30 degrees, turn rudder right 10 degrees, steer course one six zero…

From the other side of the swinging kitchen door come sounds more like chaos. Laughing, dancing, shouting. From my side of the door, nothing’s coherent except the piano. Hot behind! Fire plate. 86 tomatoes. “Drop 2 Fondants, please Russ!”

I’m spending new years with Russ the dishwasher and Dave the sous chef. Russ is a big guy whose python-sized forearms are covered with tattoos. On his left arm, the hunk of muscle that faces me all night is a sleeve of blue and red flames shooting up his arm from the wrist. A spider web covers his elbow like he’s spent a number of years in prison. Russ is only 23. He’s got crooked teeth and dirty blond hair. He loves metal and has never been to prison.

“Knife behind.” Dave’s the platoon leader, cooking and cutting the meat. Dave hates metal. Dave and I have a lot in common. Dave is 45. Damn good at his job, but isn’t fulfilled by the work and often claims to hate his job. I’m starting to hate this job too. On my first day, I grabbed a knife off the magnetic strip in front of Dave’s station. He promptly walked over and said, “Don’t fucking touch my knives.” Took the knife from my hand and walked away. Dave’s into fencing. I haven’t touched his knives since.

Back by the stove, Dave sautés and sauces all the entrees along with a million other things that need to be done. I’m by the swinging doors decorating plates, making salads, starching entrees, cooking desserts. At the actual stroke of midnight, I am plating a chocolate fondant.

I carefully place two half-heart shaped slivers of Granny Smith apples next to a pile of thin triangular slices of kiwi in a corner of a little square plate I’ve “artistically” splashed with mango and strawberry coulee. Surgically, I cut around the circular mold holding the brownie tower.

Lifting the brownie and mold off the baking sheet with a spatula, I think, “I hope this doesn’t break,” drop the mold and brownie into the middle of the fruit painted plate and take a deep breath. With bare fingers, I lift the red hot mold off the brownie and the plate, dust the entire thing with powdered sugar and ring the bell.

All night fondants have been breaking and it’s pissing me off. I am obsessed over it. The Fondant is the crème brulee’s decadent rival. It’s a brownie, however, not a custard. What makes it the crème del a crème is the chocolaty goo center that spills out onto the plate when lightly touched by the fork. It is here where art and chocolate mix, very French. Ideally, the chocolate consumes my fruit painting and the customer melts. I’ve never seen anyone eat the chocolate fondant. All I see are the two dark squares, supposedly windows, on the swinging kitchen doors as they snap closed. Another one out the door and another ticket completed, mission accomplished.

The sugar high must be something akin to French kissing in the freezing Boise air. Shivering from the cold, embraced in a lover’s arms, looking deep within him for warmth, she believes the tingling to mean, Yes, Yes, Yes, I’m going to have really great sex tonight. This is what I aspire to inspire with the chocolate fondant. The amount of sugar and butter used is sure to induce some kind of euphoria. On my second day at the café, the owner tells me (with an authentic French accent), “Marty, we use our hands. We make love to the food. Make it sexy!” as he showed me how to plate a salad. Le Cafe de Paris is not comfort food, it’s a romance.

At midnight, I just want to plate the last three fondants and get the fuck out of here. I don’t want to talk with Russ and Dave, and I don’t give a fuck about the foreplay of my food. My alternative reality has been ruined by a brownie…but then the maestro tickles the keys in a kind of piano player joke and everyone in the dining room laughs, even the couple on the patio. The kitchen door swings open and Taryn appears looking for table 9’s fondants. I try to catch a glimpse of the action. All I can see is gold, a guy wearing a tie, goblets of red wine and champagne and a flash of light that at first I think, diamonds? And settle on camera flash. Two fondants break and one is perfect. “Happy new year, Dave. Happy new year, Russ.”

This spring with the help of Idaho Mountain Touring, I built a Surly Long Haul Trucker. This is the bike that will take me to Mexico and beyond this fall.

The bicycle mechanics at Idaho Mountain Touring are very knowledgeable about touring, will take the time to thoroughly answer questions, and excitedly show customers how to properly maintain their own bicycles. Anyone who has a question about bicycles or needs bicycle work should be sure to talk to the bike mechanics at Idaho Mountain Touring.

Check back for exciting spring and summer weekend bicycle touring essays. If you have a bicycle touring suggestion for 2 to 3 day trips from Boise, Idaho please leave a comment.

Conversing in their kitchen while making omelets, a couple in Redlands, California agree their current church is an unsuitable place to worship God. Some people go to church to express their style in designer clothes, fancy cars, and pockets full of the latest electronic gadgets. The couple has style but not in the typical consumer sense. They decide to approach the pastor about the matter.

They say, “Pastor, do you mind if we eat omelets while you preach? We would really like to praise the Lord with our omelet style and show off how blessed we our with fresh eggs and imported fancy cheeses from Europe.”

The pastor did not want anything to do with these omelet Christians. He remembers the story about his great-grandfather, Pastor Harold, who caved in to the automobile Christians who wanted to come to church with their cars. Soon the automobile Christians outnumbered the horse, foot, and trolley Christians. In fact, as space issues arose, the automobile Christians voted to stop converting the heathens, building larger parking lots instead of a larger church.

To the atheist, this might seem like an odd, nonsensical start to an omelet review. However, one of the key components to Christ worship is the place of worship. A person who worships Christ without a proper place to kneel is like a duck without water. It was this integral part of worship that led the couple to the Mission Inn in Riverside, California.

The story of the Mission Inn Hotel and Spa begins in 1876. The Inn was primarily a hotel and spa until 1910 when the St. Cecilia Chapel and catacombs were built. Today the Mission Inn consists of a swanky chapel and four restaurants that combine the freshest and finest ingredients to make anyone’s dinning experience memorable.

The Mission Inn boasts visits by eight U.S. presidents. Of these, William Howard Taft was by far the largest. When Amy and I sat in his chair, we felt like little babies sitting in the backseat of a suburban. The only spatial relationship I have to Taft is Taft Street in Boise, Idaho. His street isn’t any larger then the two-lane Jefferson or Adams. To be true to its name, Taft Street really needs to be a six-lane street with a wide turning lane in the middle.

The last presidential portrait hanging on the wall is George W. Bush. I don’t know how much George W. Bush cares about fresh ingredients. He never mentions his love of organic local fresh vegetables only his dislike of terrorists because they want to eat Americans. If he did value fresh food, I’m sure he would turn part of the White House lawn into a vegetable garden and would declare war on global warming. His first stance would be to proclaim that all chairs or boards used in water board torture be made of 100% recycled material. To conserve water, his torture victims would be choked on gray water or out of date milk. The water or milk coughed up from the torture victims lungs will be used to hydrate the office plants. To ease Americans’ minds about the new torture technique, Bush would call the treatment, “Watering the Office Plants.”

My personal view of the Mission Inn Hotel and Spa: The restaurant offers a fantastic omelet experience! I would like to first mention that I worked at an establishment whose chef threw daily temper tantrums behind the swinging kitchen door. I’m now a fan of the open kitchen.

As you can see from the photo, the Inn takes the open kitchen to a fun level. A guest walks up to the chef, decides what she’d like on her omelet, and watches the chef go to work. Not only does the guest have the pleasure of seeing the fresh omelet ingredients but also gets to watch skillfully quick hands and enjoy the chef’s witty banter. While eating the omelet, roaming musicians will stop and grace your omelet eating with beautiful music. The Mission Inn Hotel and Spa gets four stars based on a delicious omelet, live music, and polite chefs.

the epic tale of one vegetarian farmer’s travels into the world of “humane” animal slaughter

by Casey O’Leary, Earthly Delights farmer

My ideology seized me the night before, as I sobbed and blindly transferred the girls from their usual roosts one by one into the plastic dog carrier that would be their final sleeping quarters, fumbling in the dark until my shaking hands would poke a startled squawk and give away their otherwise stone sleeping bodies. Finally sixteen, tucked away, or so I thought, and tucked myself away then, too, dreading the morning.

Upon opening the coop to the usual morning ruckus, a single set of orange wings burst out in search of sunshine and food amidst the sea of black chickens. This old girl had eluded me in the coop last night, and I tried to catch her this morning, to seal her fate with the others of her generation, who had grown too old to lay much and were going to serve as our first foray into the other side of livestock management. Yes I, the former vegan turned egg lover by the good humor and genuine farm contributions of these very same birds, was now going to (maybe) try my hand at ending their lives. I told myself it was a necessary part of raising laying hens. I told myself they had lived very wonderful and happy lives, that their suffering would be brief, and we would know once and for all whether we could in good conscious raise and care for, in all stages, a flock of laying hens.

The single orange bird flapped and ran from me as if her life depended on it. It did. After fifteen minutes of diving into the muck trying to catch her, I named her Lucky (the only one of my girls with a name), and returned to the task of the day.

Our helpers (or, rather, teachers) weren’t due to arrive until 10:00, and I decided the doomed hens deserved a last meal of tasty grass and clover, so I busied myself fencing off a little yard near where the killing would take place, so they could graze contentedly until their untimely end would come.

At 10:00 sharp, Ramon pulled up in his big truck, helping out of it his 86-year-old mother, Miren (mee-DEN), and her sister Mercedes. The two elderly Basque women, clad in colorful aprons, rushed for us, much like hens themselves, hobbling and flapping and squawking their hellos. Miren proudly brandished her favorite tool for this project, a long, sharp knife she had brought over from the Basque country. Ramon slapped Marty (my farming partner) on the back with a hearty hello, while the ladies clucked on in a dance between English and Spanish about how excited they were, how long it had been since they had helped butcher chickens, what a beautiful day it was for this.

“Ay, Ca-See, ¿Como te sientes hoy?” Miren asked me. I told her I was very nervous and maybe wouldn’t want to help at all. She swatted me on the butt, muttering, “Yes, si, si, difícil…la primera vez…”.

We led the three of them to the spot in the grass where we had set up a table with a propane stove and a big kettle. They ordered us to bring more buckets for guts and feathers, sealing my reluctance to participate into a terrified hiding while the first few girls met their fate. Slowly, I crept out to peek, thinking mostly of Miren and Mercedes, of how wise and comfortable they were, how capable and kind. They saw me watching and called me over to where they sat on stools plucking dead chickens. I watched for a moment, not even able to recognize the birds in their adept hands, soggy masses of feathers that did not resemble in the slightest the girls I had loved and cared for the past years. I sat down next to them as they expertly cleaned each tiny, bony bird with tiny, bony fingers. My large hands felt awkward and uncomfortable as I tried to pluck the stiff tail feathers, but the sisters assured me my work was satisfactory.

Ramon was teaching Marty how to slaughter a hen the way they do it in the Basque country, holding the girl between his elbow and waist, slicing her neck, and holding her as she bleeds out and dies. This extremely close contact, cradling the bird as she dies, seemed to me a very tender and gentle way to do it, and certainly a more personal one. No axe-length distance to this method. I glanced quickly at the girls remaining in my makeshift yard, worried they sensed what was coming. They did not. No idea. They were just walking around, pecking and scratching, like every other day of their lives. That made me feel a bit better.

As we sat and plucked, Miren and Mercedes inducted me into the beautiful mindset of farm women, who understand completely the connection between live and animals and food on a table, and all the unglamorous but essential steps along the way. The three of us women working in a circle, sharing stories about life, love, language and culture, is now etched as one of the fondest memories of my life. Although they did not dwell on it, the gravity and tragedy of what we were doing while socializing was tenderly present, as one of them would casually glance over at the pen of hens-in-waiting, shake her head, and mumble, “pobrecitas”, poor little things, then return to the whirr of feathers in front of her.

We slaughtered fifteen birds that day, and each soup made with one of them is deserving of a commemorative tale of its own, infused with all the stories of the life and death of the bird. And while I am still by and large a vegetarian, I do respect the place well-raised and well-slaughtered meat has at a loving, healthy table. I feel so grateful to have experienced the transformation from animal to food the way I did, instead of the way it almost exclusively takes place in this country, in huge factories behind closed doors that keep a kind-hearted population supplied with meat they would never buy if they saw the way the animals lived and died. Thank you to all the chickens who have given me wonderful eggs and meat these past few years, to Ramon, Mercedes, and Miren for sharing their beautiful skills with us, and to all of you who make conscious decisions about what you choose to put in your bellies. Bon Appetit!

Thank you, Diane Ronayne! Sunday, January 13 the Idaho Statesman published the following article that she wrote about Earthworm Envy.

Saturday morning, I call Chef Lou’s at 8^th Street to find they serve breakfast all day. I like this because time and sleepiness are usually the biggest enemies of omelet eating. I go back to bed and sleep in peace.

My first Chef Lou experience was at the impressionable age of 12. I rode in the back of my parents’ vehicle to the Western Idaho Fair. Between the goats, amusement rides, and hordes of people, I tasted my first Chef Lou meal–an ice cream potato. As a kid, the best way to celebrate the ending to a great Idaho summer was a plate of ice cream styled with cinnamon and whipped cream to look deceitfully like Idaho’s famous tuber.

Now I celebrate the end of summer with a leisurely bike ride down the Greenbelt from Garden City. The beginning of fall is one of the best times to cruise the Greenbelt: the aspens are changing color, the water levels in the Boise River have dropped to expose riverbanks, and there is less traffic to clog the narrow paved trail. My ride takes me through the Anne Frank Memorial and past the Library! to historic 8^th Street.

Something else you should know about Chef Lou: besides being the proud parent of the Idaho ice cream potato, Chef Lou runs the popular Westside Drive-in, voted Boise’s Best Drive-in for the past eight years. As you know, many successful drive-in restaurant owners tend to a pattern of clogging the roadways with more drive-ins or locating smaller versions of their restaurants in truck stops or airports. Chef Lou has broken this trend by opening Chef Lou’s at 8^th Street, which is not another Westside Drive-in but a one-of-a-kind restaurant located in a pedestrian friendly area of downtown Boise.

Chef Lou’s resides in one of the old brick buildings on 8^th Street. We settle into a comfy booth, and the host brings out a carafe of freshly brewed coffee. Footballs fly across three television screens placed in a feng shui way throughout the restaurant so that not a single diner will miss out on the televised action.

If you are trying to break a Saturday football habit of not showering, drinking cheap beer, eating cardboard pizza and taking long trips to the bathroom with your fantasy football magazine, then Chef Lou’s might be a needed change. A person can watch his or her favorite team while enjoying an omelet and frothy cappuccino.

The menu does not offer a predestined omelet selection. The omelets at Chef Lou’s are similar to fantasy football. I agree with the football fan who wants all his or her favorite players on one team. I like my omelet veggies and cheeses to not be limited by the Denver omelet team or the meat eaters omelet team. Chef Lou lets the omelet connoisseur create his or her fantasy omelet with a variety of different cheeses, meats, and veggies. I overheard one football fan say, “My first football fantasy was to be the player with the ball and have all those large men chase me and then pile up on me. Now my football fantasy is to have all my favorite football men wrapped up in an omelet for me to eat.”

Besides the bright televisions inside Chef Lou’s, the brick walls boast black and white photos of an older Boise. The pictures leave the omelet eater and football fan with a sense that Chef Lou’s will be a Boise establishment for generations to come.

look for me in the dung heap

by Jenn Siegel. A native Idahoan, 28 years old, ceramic artist by education and writer of poetry because it keeps her sane. She crafts mosaic tables, mosaic wall hangings, and knitted and crocheted items. In addition to art and poetry she runs a house cleaning business.