My mother has, in the last year, gotten sort of obsessed with arugula pizza, and it’s gradually infected us as well. Tutta Bella makes a particularly good one, which we had recently on a day when my parents and I converged on Seattle. A very simple pizza, it was topped only with prosciutto, a bit of tomato and cheese, with fresh arugula leaves added after cooking so they stayed fresh.  When Jon and I stopped by the Dunbar Gardens farmstand last week, that pizza being fresh in my mind, a huge bunch of fresh arugula called out to me and demanded to be made into dinner.

I had been thinking in terms of putting the prosciutto on the pizza before baking it, then adding the greens partway through. But I noticed over on Epicurious that another option is to bake the pizza with nothing but cheese, then add the prosciutto and greens after it comes out of the oven. We tried it, and it was very successful – instead of crisping up, the prosciutto melts softly into the hot cheese, and the arugula perches on top, wilting only slightly where it touches. A little awkward to eat, perhaps, but you can always use a fork to snatch extra leaves off the plate. We ate the leftovers for breakfast the next morning with…yup…a fried egg. Fantastic.

We finally got out to Samish Island last week to check out a new addition to the local food scene, Golden Distillery. We had just stocked up on bread, cheese and salami in Edison and were heading for Taylor Shellfish in preparation for Christmas Eve dinner, so it made for an easy (and scenic) detour.

It’s a small operation, and the owners are happy to give you a tour of the premises. They grind, brew, distill and age all their ingredients on site, using entirely Washington-grown grain and fruit.

We met the distillery dogs, who take their job as greeters very seriously. And we tasted our way through the current lineup, which includes single-malt whiskey, several brandies and a white barley whiskey called White Gold. My favorites were the White Gold, which had a clean flavor and light burn, and the Cabernet brandy, which was just a nice smooth brandy, very easy to sip.

 The apple brandy, which is made from locally grown Jonagolds, has a very different flavor from most apple spirits – instead of an overall essence-of-apples effect, it really does taste of Jonagolds. Interesting. The raspberry brandy is distilled from Pasek Cellars raspberry wine, something we used to like a lot but have lost our taste for. I gather it’s popular with many women customers, but not really my thing.

Over all, I think they’re doing some nice work. And it’s a good excuse to go driving out to Samish Island.

Our friend Katharine, who seems to be determined to keep us in rabbits, tracked down a source for local, farm-raised bunnies and brought us one. This one, unlike the one we braised last week (which she shot in her garden), was a tender young thing and nicely fat, which opened up the cooking possibilities considerably. I decided to follow my friend Laura’s suggestion and fry it like chicken. I found a recipe for Buttermilk Fried Rabbit on the site Hunter, Angler, Gardener, Cook, and given that I’ve never even fried chicken before, I thought this came out very well.

Jon took apart the rabbit the night before, carefully following these excellent instructions. I tossed the parts into a bag with the last of our buttermilk, plus some paprika, thyme and cayenne, and let it sit overnight.

After scrubbing some of our newly harvested purple potatoes and getting them safely into the oven, I started frying. I put two cups of flour and a teaspoon of salt into another ziploc bag and tossed a few goopy, buttermilky rabbit parts in the flour to coat them, then slid them into a pan of hot oil and cooked them until they looked golden and crunchy. I was able to do the entire rabbit in two pan-loads, which took nearly an hour all told.

I ate several of the boneless belly pieces hot off the rack. They were excellent (very reminiscent of mcnuggets – not that I eat mcnuggets), but I immediately started craving ranch dressing. We didn’t have any, so we ended up eating our fried rabbit with Frank’s Hot Sauce, as well as our roast potatoes and some blanched purple pole beans. We opened a bottle of Greek white wine that happened to be handy, and it worked amazingly well.

I really don’t know why Americans don’t eat rabbit. There’s definitely a factor of “oh, it’s too CUTE to eat” which is part of why we don’t eat much lamb as a nation, either. But it’s really hard to find rabbit in grocery stores – we asked once at our usual market and I think they could special order it frozen for us if we gave them enough notice, and it cost an arm and a leg. Weird.

So when a friend of ours, a local farmer, asked if we wanted to take one of the rabbits she’s been shooting to keep them out of her vegetables, we said Definitely. Even before we received the rabbit, I started looking through my British and Mediterranean cookbooks for possible recipes. We haven’t had much experience cooking wild game of any sort, so I wanted to get a feel for the most common treatments. Rabbit isn’t a strongly gamey meat, but it’s still liable to be stronger-tasting than, say, a farm-raised chicken, and the meat is very dense and low in fat, so it requires some care in preparation.

Braising seemed to be the way to go, although I did find some instructions on roasting (best for young bunnies), as well as some advice on barbecuing (just the rabbit saddles for that, apparently). We weren’t sure of the age and potential toughness of this rabbit, so I picked a really tasty-sounding braise from the beautiful cookbook Olives and Oranges involving lemon peel and fresh rosemary, which seemed like it would make anything delicious.

First we cut up the rabbit. It had been thoroughly cleaned already, so we just had to whack it into pieces. I was keeping an eye out for the bullet, but it must’ve gone with the head. I added salt and pepper, then seared the meat in olive oil in a heavy Dutch oven in several batches, setting the pieces aside until they were all nicely browned.

A little more olive oil went into the pan, then I added two smashed garlic cloves, four branches of rosemary, and one whole lemon’s worth of zest, cut in wide strips with a vegetable peeler. When the garlic began to turn golden, I added a cup of white wine (Domaine des Cassagnoles, as that was what we had handy), and scraped up the fond from the bottom of the pan.

The browned rabbit pieces went into the liquid, largest pieces first, and I added a bit of water to just barely cover the meat. When the liquid came back to a simmer, I put the lid on and stuck the whole thing in a 350° oven for an hour and twenty minutes, which gave me plenty of time to have a drink and chop some kale.

When the braise was done, I lifted the rabbit pieces out onto a platter, then boiled down the liquid on the stovetop until it was down to a cup or less (I pulled the rosemary stems out first). I also mashed the garlic a bit so it was more integrated into the sauce. I scraped the reduced liquid out onto the rabbit, and we were ready to eat.

We had the rabbit with some simple soft polenta and a pile of Tuscan kale sauteed in olive oil, with plenty of juices and lemon zest pieces on top. The lemon was fantastic, sweet and almost candied and dissolving in the mouth. We had two wines that we were trying, the Cassagnoles I had used for the braise and a lovely, funky French Cinsault that was recommended to us. The white went gorgeously with the lemon sauce, but not as much with the rabbit, which was dark and very much like turkey leg meat (except for the belly flap, which tasted exactly like duck – hey, it’s Turducken!). The Cinsault went perfectly with the rabbit but drowned the lemon sauce. So we alternated. It worked fine.

This is a great recipe for rabbit, but I think it would also be fabulous as a shorter braise with chicken, or a longer one for pork. Any excuse to eat all that lemon zest. So what should we do with our next bunny?

Why are so many foods marketed to kids made of plastic faux-food crap, anyway? Walking by the “lunchables” section of the supermarket makes me queasy. Some kids never get to find out what real food looks or tastes like, which irritates the heck out of me.

I recently invented this soup, and its become one of our favorites – as it turns out, really just a version of pasta e fagioli (Italian for noodles and beans, also known as pasta fazool). It also happens to be one of the easiest soups I’ve ever made, with the exception of the kind that involve opening a can or two. The first time I made it with freshly shelled borlotti beans from Colony Creek Farm (which were incredible), and the second time I used some locally grown, cupboard-aged Calypso beans (like little Yin-Yangs) that had taken up embarrassing residence in my pantry. Good thing dried beans don’t go bad very quickly.

I’ve found that this soup is best when the beans are as soft and creamy as possible. I recently started using a technique that Cook’s Illustrated worked out: soaking the beans in brine, then rinsing them and cooking them at a very slow simmer. It produces incredibly smooth, creamy beans with a soft skin. Well worth doing if you have time to soak them.

This is a seriously warm and comforting soup for a cold, difficult day.

Pasta Fazool

• 1 cup beans, dried or fresh-shelled, or 1 can of white beans
• 1 bay leaf
• 1 pound hot Italian sausage (uncased)
• 2 carrots
• maybe some celery
• some chicken stock, or just water
• 1 cup dried macaroni noodles

If using dried beans: Eight hours before, soak the beans in a bowl of water with a large spoonful of salt mixed in. Before cooking, rinse them thoroughly.

Put the soaked or fresh shell beans into a pan with the bay leaf and cover with water. Bring just to a boil, then turn down to a gentle simmer and cook for an hour or until tender. Time will depend on how old and crotchety your beans are.

Dice the carrots and celery and saute them in olive oil in a soup pot. Add the sausage and cook until the pink is gone (or you can cook the sausage in a separate pan if you want to skim off some of the fat). Add the beans and their cooking liquid, then add stock or water until there’s plenty of liquid in the pan. Bring it all to a boil, add the noodles and cook until they’re as done as you like. Add salt if desired. You could add a can of tomatoes as well, if you like.

Eat right away, or stick into the fridge for later reheating. The longer it sits, the better it tastes.

Last weekend we were delighted to have the chance to visit Martiny Suffolks, the farm from whence comes the lamb we’ve been eating all summer. As part of the Skagit Festival of Family Farms, many small farms up and down the valley opened to the public for the day, including great places like Taylor Shellfish, Golden Glen Creamery, and Gordon Skagit Farm (to see the festivities at Gordon’s, check out this post at Willow Basketmaker). There were all sorts of activities, but we were there for the free samples and to give a few sheep noses some scritches.

We probably would never have ended up as customers if Linda Martiny (who owns the farm along with Mike Donnelly) hadn’t decided to try running a booth at the Mount Vernon Farmer’s Market this year. We saw the sign for local lamb on the first day and made a beeline, immediately buying a selection of chops and ground meat. We ended up buying half a lamb, and I suspect it will only be the first of many.

Martiny Suffolks is in Birdsview, a lovely area tucked into the valley bottom along the Skagit River. There are small farms all around, surrounded by the sudden foothills of the North Cascades. Just down the road is an Angus Cattle farm, and up the other way is the Ovenell’s ranch. There are plenty of trees and lush green grass, paradise for a herd of sheep.

Linda and Mike raise Suffolks, as you might guess from the name, and sell them for both meat and breeding stock. They’re a very common meat breed, and very tall and handsome, with narrow, pitch-black faces and legs. Back in the day when I raised 4-H lambs, most of my classmates raised purebred Suffolks, but I usually had some sort of Suffolk-Hampshire cross-breed (I should find the picture of myself with Smiley, one of the oddest-looking sheep ever).

In the barn there were some two-week-old lambs, who would have been irresistible if their mother hadn’t been standing firm guard against anyone even looking that direction. She really gave me the hairy eyeball.

For the purposes of the open house, some sheep-raising colleagues brought along a few other breeds to show off. I was smitten by the Scottish Blackface sheep. Compact, with adorably freckled legs, they also have cute curly horns and are very sturdy.

And there was food! Someone had put together tiny triangles of pita filled with a single bite of lamb and a bite of cheese, with a bowl of tzatziki sauce on the side. Linda was hard at work (as long as we didn’t keep distracting her) skewering marinated chunks of lamb and grilling them. And there were bits of lamb bratwurst and breakfast sausage as well.

Even though an open house like this isn’t quite like visiting the farm on a regular working day, I really think it’s worthwhile to give the customer a glimpse of their meat as a well-cared-for living animal. Not only does it help dissolve the disconnect many Americans have between their food and where it actually comes from, but it’s very reassuring to those of us trying to eat ethically, to see a clean, well-run business whose owners take their responsibility seriously to produce quality meat.

Plus, sheep are just plain cute.

Just a reminder to anyone in the general neighborhood: this weekend is the Skagit Valley Festival of Family Farms, when many of the local small farms open their gates to visitors and feature tours, activities and goodies for the general public. If you want to visit a working farm or see where your food is coming from, now’s your chance. There will be hayrides and corn mazes and all kinds of fun stuff. Make a day of it!

The list of participating farms can be found here.

This was a good pizza.

It evolved naturally, inspired more or less equally by our usual Middle Eastern Lamb Pizza, the cover of the latest Food & Wine, and a recipe in Tessa Kiros’ book Falling Cloudberries. I knew I wanted to try a pizza with a leek-based sauce (I’m on a leek kick right now), but I wanted spiced lamb on it as well. In the end, it wasn’t quite like any of the source recipes, becoming something quite perfect all on its own: a melange of braised leeks tossed with hot pepper and tamarind-spiced lamb, layered with mozzarella and adorned with small ripe tomatoes, all resting on a chewy part-whole-wheat crust.

Savory and wonderful as the pizza was, there was something that made me stop mid-chew and stare at my plate for a minute. I realized that I knew where everything on that pizza had come from! Leeks and gorgeous fiery red peppers from Hedlin Farms in La Conner, lamb from Linda Martiny, local mozzarella, Shepherd’s Grain Stone-Buhr flour, salad (with flowers sprinkled in it) from Frog’s Song, and tiny tomatoes from our deck.

The only products I couldn’t put a face to were the salt, yeast and olive oil (well, okay, and the tamarind and cinnamon). I think that’s pretty cool.

Plus it was an incredible pizza.

September is the month of corn. Trucks are parked by the side of the road, heaped high with ears of sweet corn and signs saying ten for a dollar (otherwise known as “Please! Take it!”). Coworkers bring in bag- and boxfuls to work, in desperate hope that someone will be willing to deal with the overflow.

When there is extra corn in the house, but I don’t really feel like eating it straight, spoonbread is a nice option. I’m not a big fan of fresh corn in cornbread, but spoonbread is more like an informal souffle with a bit of cornmeal in it. The version I like to make has both fresh sweet corn and roasted green chiles, as well as plenty of cheese, and the effect is rather like chile rellenos, with more of the fluffy coating and less of the chile. You get both a bit of crustiness and a rather pudding-like interior, and it makes a great accompaniment to roast chicken.

Ideally you should use anaheims, or other mild green chiles. Poblanos would be a great choice for a little more heat. On this occasion all I had were some big (and very hot)  jalapeños, so I limited myself to two so the spoonbread wouldn’t be too fiery. You can either roast them in the oven (like I do with bell peppers) or toast them over an open flame with tongs.

This is such an easy dish to put together, being very tolerant of adjustments, that it could easily be adapted to all sorts of flavorings and accompaniments. It could be made plain, with a sharp cheese, or flavored with anything you might put in a souffle or quiche: mushrooms, scallions, herbs, and so on. A bit of crumbled sausage or bacon might be really good, come to think of it. Minus the meat, it would make a great vegetarian main course, with plenty of greens alongside.

I may have to start making spoonbread other times besides corn season.

Double Corn Spoonbread with Chiles

adapted from Georgeanne Brennan’s recipe in The San Francisco Chronicle Cookbook

• 2 Tbsp butter
• 6 Anaheim chiles or 2-3 jalapeños, charred, peeled and seeded
• 1/2 cup grated cheddar (or more, if you like)
• 3 eggs, separated
• 2 ears of corn
• 2 Tbsp cornmeal
• 2 Tbsp all-purpose flour
• 1/3 cup milk
• 2 Tbsp sour cream (if you have it handy, otherwise omit)
• 1/2 tsp salt

Preheat the oven to 350°. Butter an 8 inch square baking dish with half of the butter.

Roughly chop the chiles and spread them in the bottom of the baking dish. Scatter the grated cheese over them, reserving a small handful for the topping.

Beat the egg whites until you get soft peaks.

Cut the kernels off the ears and combine them with the yolks, cornmeal, flour, milk, sour cream and salt. Mix well, then gently fold the whites in. Pour it  carefully into the pan with the chiles and cheese. Scatter the reserved cheese on top and dot with the remaining butter.

Bake for 25-30 minutes. Serve right away.