If you're a foodie in Jackson Hole, I bet you've been doing some foraging. As soon as spring lazily arrived with warmish days and a break in the storms, I was obsessed with finding wild morel mushrooms.

Although it's been far from a banner morel year, I managed to find just enough to sustain a few dinner parties with friends. This was my ultimate spring locavore dish:  Baby arugula and nasturtiums from my herb garden, homemade egg pappardelle (using pristine Snowdrift Farm eggs), freshly made ricotta (courtesy of the cows at Paradise Springs), and morels courtesy of the Jackson Hole ecosystem.

Now I've moved on to Stinging Nettles. My first full-fledged spring CSA share from Snowdrift Farm was dispensed with a warning:  Wear gloves when touching the nettles. Boil the leaves. But not too long or you'll end up with a murky witches' broth. Too little and your throat will sting. And don't throw away the boiling liquid.  

This was just the spring foraging challenge I had been looking for.

While choosing morels is relatively straightforward--just discard the "falsies" with the caps that appear, well, more circumcised than uncircumcised. And don't eat them raw lest you'll get a non-fatal yet uncomfortable tummy ache.

With Stinging Nettles, which are easy to find and harbor no toxic imposters--the risk comes with the preparation. These deceptively benign greens look like something you'd toss in your salad. But eat them raw--even touch them with bare hands--and you are asking for an irritative skin condition that feels like you swallowed a sunburn.  

Nettles need to be boiled to eradicate their irritative formic acid, but how long to boil is a matter of debate. Wild food blogger Hunter Gatherer Angler Cook boils for just 3 minutes before plunging the greens into an ice water bath. Another forager believes just a one-minute boil is sufficient. Local foodie Sue Muncaster threw her nettles into a pot of beautiful Sesame Chicken Soup and blogged about it on Dishingjh.com. (I'm recommending a 4-5 minute boil; my 3 minute nettles left me with a mildly irritated throat for the rest of the day.)

Tossing nettles into my cauldron, I did feel a bit like a witch. Then I thought of my Nonna, Michaelina Barranco, feeding a family of 6 in central Sicily, in the depths of the post-war depression. Surely she foraged for bitter greens in an attempt to extend her meager rations of food. After she moved to New York, my 7-year old self was routinely disgusted by the pot of greens simmering away on her back burner.  

As my nettles bubbled away, I set the timer for 4 minutes and contemplated how best to eat them. "What would Nonna do?"

Meat was scarce in Sicily back then, but Nonna always had chickens and therefore an abundance of eggs. Garlic, onions, a hunk of sheep's milk cheese, and olive oil could always be found in her larder. And possibly--although this is a bit of a stretch as she had all those mouths to feed--a handful of leftover pasta. Like my half-cup of orzo from last night's supper that I'd squirreled away in the fridge.

Hence the Stinging Nettle Orzo Frittata was born, just in time for a late breakfast on the deck.

Tossing the little cubes of local sheep's milk cheese on the frittata once it was almost set, I put it under the broiler to puff up and brown.  (Did Nonna even have a broiler? I'll have to ask my Uncle Sam, the only one of her children still with us.)

Later that day, I wanted to hunt for Stinging Nettles in the field. Guided by my foraging mentor and pal Susan, we headed into the  Big Hole Mountains of Idaho. It takes only a few minutes to identify their mint-like jagged leaves, and soon you'll discover that nettles are everywhere around here. (On the Jackson side, look for them while hiking up your favorite blue runs at the Jackson Hole Mountain Resort.)

The dogs were no help at all finding nettles, but they thoroughly enjoyed foraging for birds on that pristine slope.  

Wait, but what about the nettle broth that I was told to save and drink--the ultimate spring tonic?  I took a few sips and it was just not my cup of tea. I gave one jar to my friend Darcy, who traded me a home-grown chicken (it was even plucked and freezer ready). I threw in a baggie of fennel pollen to even up the deal. After all, I thought the Nettle Tea tasted like cat pee.

My second jar was poured over the herb garden per Susan's recommendation. Tomorrow I'm off to find more nettles--I'll fold them into fresh egg pasta and toss them with my precious morels.  

No stinging nettles? Substitute spinach, Swiss chard, or dandelion greens instead.

Serves 2

Breakfast in bed on Mother's Day is nice, but I bet most moms would rather have a Rhubarb Margarita.

You probably have a wild patch of rhubarb nearby; it grows like a weed around here.  I am not a huge fan of the tart perennial, so mine grows tall, flops over, and is forgotten until the following spring.

Not this year. Since I've figured out how to spike my drinks with Rhubarb Syrup, I've become quite a fan of the stuff. All I need to do is cut the stems into pieces, place them in a pot with water and sugar, and simmer. In less than an hour, my underrated weed transforms into a tart, pink syrup that makes a perfect spring tonic.

If you are like me and don't go in for sweet drinks, you'll love the bracing and refreshing Rhubarb Spritzer. Fill a cold tall glass with ice, half rhubarb syrup, and half sparkling water. Garnish with an orange slice.  

Or rim a glass with sugar and make a Rhubarb Margarita, on the rocks. If your family does not get the hint and whip you up a drink from the garden, you may have to take matters into your own hands.  The Rhubarb Syrup will keep for up to 3 weeks in the refrigerator.

Makes 1

It being May, I've started to dig around in my garden. I was hoping to make you something that screams spring, something crunchy and bright that I've pulled from the ground. The only likely candidate is my rhubarb plant, a dutiful perennial I inherited when I moved to Jackson nineteen years ago. I'll be transforming it into your next favorite cocktail when it gets a tad taller.

In the meantime, how about I give you a tour of my favorite garden? Last winter I attended cooking school at Rancho La Puerta, a fitness spa just south of the border from San Diego. Guests are served incredibly delicious vegetarian food from the 6 acre organic garden, planted by the founders in the 1940s, before anyone even knew what organic meant.  

These gardens have been lovingly tended for over seventy years in the shadow Mountain Kuchumaa, Tecate's sacred mountain. 

Cooking classes at Rancho La Puerta start in the garden as guests are charged with gathering ingredients for the meal. Ellen and I--escaping the Jackson Hole winter--could hardly contain our glee at pulling fresh food from the ground. 

I can only dream of such specimens sprouting up from my Zone 3 high altitude Wyoming garden.  

Salvador Tinajero is the head gardener at Rancho La Puerta. A rock star of a gardener, he believes that plants have personalities. I never tire of listening to Salvador wax poetic about his radicchio, which he says needs lots of elbow room. Or hear him describe the sex life of the fennel plant, which he sees as a symbol of tolerance. 

Salvador gave me a handful of Nasturtiums seeds--those bright and peppery edible flowers--as we walked through half an acre of the yellow and red blossoms. I promised him I'd smuggle the seeds through customs and plant them in the ground in Wyoming. He laughed, loving the idea of spreading his beloved plants so far north. 

Once we were done playing in the garden, we headed into the kitchen to cook. Joan Nathan was there to teach classes on healthy Moroccan cooking.  Her first class began with a lesson in preserving lemons; I knew she and I would get along just fine. Not only has Joan authored ten cookbooks (The New American Cooking earned a James Beard award), she is an expert on Jewish food and has spent time all over the Middle East peering into kitchens and learning to cook dishes authentically. I followed her everywhere, trying to learning everything I could. 

Joan taught us how to take a nose-to-tail approach to beets: roasting the beets with cumin and cilantro, and braising the green tops in paprika and harissa, the ubiquitous hot sauce of Morocco.

Joan uses preserved lemons liberally in everything to add a bright citrus "ping" of flavor. She sprinkles them on roasted fish, purées them into her salad dressing, and adds them to her lentil soup.  She even incorporates an entire preserved lemon into her famous hummus.  

I'll keep all of Joan's recipes on the back burner for now; they'll be perfect mid-summer when the farmers' markets are overflowing with produce. 

This week, big bundles of rainbow chard from the grocery store will have to do. Slivered and gently sautéed in olive oil, the chard gets tossed with pasta and Sicilian White Pesto--made with pistachios, pine nuts, walnuts, garlic, oregano, red pepper flakes, and golden raisins.  It's nutty and sweet, garlicky and spicy, a combination of flavors you just have to try.  

Salvador would be happy to know that my smuggled Rancho La Puerta Nasturtium seeds are sowed in the ground waiting for the fickle sun to warm up the soil. Soon we'll all be seeing green. 

The Sicilian White Pesto is adapted from a recipe by Eugenia Bone in her book Well Preserved.  I changed it up a bit, adding pistachios and red pepper flakes, and increasing the amount of golden raisins. The sweet golden raisins are essential to balance all the nutty, garlicky flavors of the pesto, so be sure to seek them out. 

If you can't find good pine nuts (or they are prohibitively expensive), use more walnuts instead. 

Leftover pesto can be stored in an airtight jar, covered with a film of olive oil, for up to 10 days.

Serves 3-4, with about 1 cup of leftover pesto

After hiking Snow King yesterday in the rainy snow, getting pelted with groppel all the way up, I came home frozen and hungry.  I wanted soup and I wanted spring, preferably all in the same bowl. 

Springtime in a mountain town can lead to all sorts of cooking dilemmas:

The chilly weather gives you an insatiable appetite yet you are in the midst of a cooking rut. 

Your brain is ready to move forward with bright, crunchy, green foods, but your body still craves carbohydrates and your fridge is full of root vegetables.  

You can't decide if you'd rather cook or nap.  

Whether you live here or not, you may need a food hug this week too; Lemony Chinese Chicken Noodle Soup will envelop you in warmth and spice.

This soup is soothing with its slippery rice noodles and tahini-spiked broth.  And it's easy--perfect for those low energy days. But the best part is that it hints of spring and the fresh food to come. 

It may be cold and snowy, but there are signs of spring everywhere.  The pea-green shoots of my garlic bulbs, planted last fall, are peaking up through the snow in my garden.  The rhubarb is starting to show its beet-red head.  My first CSA share arrived from Snowdrift Farms with some of the best greens and just-laid eggs I've had all winter.  The chickens over there must be happy. 

And Rosie took a little break in the decidedly spring-like lily pads on our walk along the Snake River levee. A family of river otters dove and played nearby, just out of her reach. 

Let's face it, the only cure for the springtime blues in Jackson Hole is to head south to a place where the the sky is blue and the earth is dry.  If that's not an option, make a pot of Lemony Chinese Chicken Noodle Soup and settle in. Summer should be here in just a few months. 

Originally published in 2002 in Bon Appétit, I've spruced up this soup with grassy asparagus and preserved lemon slices--you can substitute lemon juice and rind instead. 

It may be awhile since you've found perfect asparagus, so here's a few prep tips:  

Snap off the woody ends of the spears like a wishbone.
Blanch spears in salty boiling water for about two minutes, then      immediately plunge them into an ice water bath. 
 
Be sure to add  the asparagus and the rice noodles at the last minute--you don't want to end up with limp spears and mushy noodles, do you?

Serves 6

As I write, Gunner sprawls at my feet, his chin pressed to my foot, his long legs draped on either side of my chair. He swipes at my right hand with his paw, pulling it away from the mouse. As my hand goes back to the keyboard, he swipes at me again. He's bored, and wants to go out to play.

If you've been reading here for awhile (and thank you, by the way), you may have seen Gunner and his sidekick Rosie bounding across fields in search of game birds, chasing me through the woods on my mountain bike, and waiting at the top of a ridge while I skin up the snowy slope.

There are no adventures planned this morning. I am working, thankful to have projects and deadlines keeping me busy, and Gunner--recently diagnosed with bone cancer--is resting, trying to ignore the pain in his leg.

I take a break from my writing so Gunner and I can have our merienda, or second breakfast, a habit I picked up in Mexico.  Mine:  half an avocado drizzled with pistachio oil, sprinkled with flaky salt. (Read here about how avocados are a mood elevator.) His:  a barbecued pig's ear, the last of the 4H pig purchased last summer, the ear thoughtfully saved by my butcher for a dog like Gunner. 

And we are baking a cake. I say "we" because Gunner is my constant companion in the kitchen. As I move from my office to the kitchen, he follows. As I stand at the stove, he lies at my feet, favoring the heated tiles between the sink, refrigerator, and stove. I step over and around him as I grab baking powder from the cupboard, an orange and a lemon from the fruit basket, and I move his rear end to access the cupboard that houses the measuring cups.  

Gunner likes to be in my way; he often gets a little scratch on his tummy with my foot as I pass by, or a rub behind the ears when I take a break.

The kitchen always draws me in when I am sad. Even though my appetite has been drowned out by the grief that sits in my stomach, I want to cook. I find solace standing in front of the stove, stirring a big pot with a wooden spoon, folding together the ingredients for a cake, and rubbing Gunner's head with my foot.

Baking a cake, I have found, is especially consoling.  I chose this Marmalade Cake because it requires several aroma-inducing steps.  An orange and a lemon are boiled for half an hour, then whizzed in a food processor until they are the consistency of thick marmalade.  The heady aroma of citrus is released into the air, soothing my nerves.  

I toast the almonds just a bit longer than usual just so I can smell them that much more intensely as I pull them from the oven, and grind them in the food processor. 

I choose my youngest, spiciest olive oil for this cake--a Californian olio nouvo with a grassy bite. Then almonds and flour are folded into sugar and eggs, followed by the "marmalade" and the olive oil. 

As the Marmalade Cake bakes, I join Gunner on the floor with my book.  He is happy to have the company, a dog who always needs to be leaning and pressing against one of his favorite humans. I am happy to have my book, Pukka's Promise--The Quest for Longer-Lived Dogs, which by serendipity landed in my post office box this week, as a gift from my friend, the author Ted Kerasote. His new book about dogs is not meant to be a tearjerker, yet I find a passage in each chapter that makes me cry.  

Ted's book is the story of his dog Merle, the famous free-thinking dog in Merle's Door, and his quest to find a new dog after Merle passed away. It's about how we take care of our dogs, and why so many are dying young. But the part that makes me cry, as I sit on the floor with my beautiful dog and his horrible prognosis, is the way Ted writes about how we love our dogs.

It's a lot like being in love.  We create our own special world, the two of us. We communicate with glances, tone of voice, touching, and in Gunner's case--lots of staring and swiping with paws. When the dog is gone, that world is gone forever, never to return, even if there is another dog that wins us over. 

"Let's check on our cake, shall we?", I ask Gunner. He likes the sound of my voice and rallies to standing as I peer into the oven. "It looks good, and it smells nice, doesn't it?" The sweet smell of lemon and oranges and toasted almonds poofs from the oven, and Gunner's nostrils twitch to get a whiff. He lifts one eye, and then the other, wanting to keep the conversation going.

Just baking the cake has lifted my mood, but my appetite is still flat.  I'll take the cake to dinner tonight with friends; seeing friends who know and love Gunner, having them cook me a nice meal, having a little red wine--that will be sure to galvanize my appetite. 

Gunner still has plenty of adventures ahead--soon there will be pheasants to chase, leisurely days spent floating and fishing the Snake River, and all sorts of good-smelling things to dig up in the yard. Radiation therapy will shrink his tumor so he'll be able run and play without pain.  In the meantime, I'll be baking a lot of cakes.  

This cake is adapted from a recipe by Molly Wizenberg, author of A Homemade Life, and creator of the blog Orangette.  Olive oil cakes like this can be tricky at high altitude; they always seem to sink in the middle. I've made this cake at least a dozen times, tweaking it as I go, and I finally have a version that is perfect enough to share. 

If you haven't read Molly's blog or book, please check it out!  I adore how she writes about food and life, and her recipes are keepers. She has another book coming out this year, and there is a chance--fingers crossed--that she'll be visiting our community in the near future to give a talk.

Adapted for 6500 feet; if you are baking at sea level, use the amounts in parentheses.  Use organic lemon and orange since you'll be eating the rind.

Last month, Cookbook Club did not cook from a book. Instead, we piled into Grace Chin's cozy yurt to learn how to make Chinese potstickers the authentic way, wrappers and all. 

Grace laughs when she muses about what her friends back in Boston must think of her living in a 320 square foot yurt in Jackson Hole--with her boyfriend, 11 year old son, and 13 year daughter. "They must think I am suffering out here, totally off the grid", she says, as she shows our Cookbook Club how to make potstickers the way her grandmother showed her mother.

Grace's yurt--tucked in a quiet neighborhood between Wilson and Jackson, Wyoming--was the perfect setting for our cooking class.  And no, we were not suffering at all in Grace's yurt, an oasis of efficiency and warmth. The main living area measures just 17 feet in diameter, but there was ample room for everyone to work as the skylight overhead showered us with moonlight.  In fact, by the end of the night, we were all ready and willing to downsize and move in.  

There's a master bedroom, a mud room, and a roomy kitchen and living area open to the center. Pillows strewn everywhere invite you to sit down and relax. There's even a garden of seedlings in the back room, getting ready for spring. 

Grace's children each have their own room, where they climb to their lofted beds under the yurt's skylight. From their treehouse-like perches they can spy the owls flying above, peak at each other sleeping, and watch as their mom cooks for them downstairs. Grace bakes her own bread, cooks all their meals from scratch, and on special days, there are homemade potstickers.

I've made potstickers lots of times--my kids love to help forming the little dumplings, then eating them hot from the pan--but I have always used pre-made wrappers purchased at the grocery store.  Why hadn't I ever made my own dough, a process not unlike making pasta?  I needed to have someone like Grace show me how it's done.

The mystery of making dumpling wrappers was revealed as Grace made a simple dough of flour and hot water, kneaded it until it was soft, and left it to rest in a covered bowl. As the gluten in the dough softened and relaxed, we mixed the pork and cabbage filling.  

The Napa cabbage is blanched in boiling water, and then the vitamin-rich water is used to make the dough.  This is one household where water does not get used frivolously--her kids fill 40 gallon jugs from a neighbor's well, then haul it to the yurt on their sleds. 

With the pork and cabbage filling mixed and at the ready, it was time to check the dough--it should gently bounce back when indented with a finger--and make the wrappers. Grace cut the dough into three portions, and poked a hole in the center of one, forming a doughnut.

The doughnut is gently stretched to a 1-inch diameter, then pinched off into 1-inch blobs of dough.

Using a floured board, each round of dough is rolled out with a small dowel.  Grace taught us one of the secrets for making perfect potstickers: Roll out the edges thinner than the interior. This makes the dumpling easier to seal, yet strong enough to hold ample filling. 

We were getting good at rolling out the dough; it was time to learn how to fold a potsticker.  A few teaspoons of filling is placed in the center, then the round of dough is folded in half and sealed at the center. 

With the center sealed, the rest of the dumpling is pleated closed, then Grace squares off the ends so that the potsticker will stand up straight in the pan.

Grace likes cooking postickers in her cast iron frying pan. I usually use a wok, but I loved how the cast iron made the dumpling bottoms extra crispy. Any oil with a high smoke point works well--grapeseed and peanut oils especially--but canola oil is fine. When the oil is shimmering, the potstickers are crowded cozily into the pan.

When the bottoms are a crispy golden brown, the pan is filled with 1/3 cup of water, covered, and the dumplings are steamed for about 10 minutes.  

We settled into a potsticker assembly line: Some rolling out the dough and stuffing the dumplings, others hovering over the frying pan, punctuated by breaks at the table dunking hot potstickers into Grace's dipping sauce of soy sauce, vinegar, and chili oil.  Until all the potstickers were gone.  

Which reminds me of another potsticker making secret:  Don't make potstickers alone.  Like gnocchi and tamales, potsticker making is best shared amongst friends and family who love tinkering together in the kitchen. Luckily, my Cookbook Club is full of such folks.  

What else was on the menu for Cookbook Club that night?  Just wine, potstickers and wine.  With no other foods to distract us, we were pleasantly surprised at how many of the addictively crispy dumplings we could put away at one sitting.

Hanging out in Grace's yurt reminds me of the words of TreeHugger.com founder Graham Hill, who's recent New York Times essay--"Living with Less.  A Lot Less."--talks about going from a life that is unnecessarily complicated by too many things, to living in a small space: 

"My space is small. My life is big." 

Pork Filling

• 1½ lbs. ground pork
• ½  of medium head of napa cabbage
• 3 T. finely chopped green onions
• 2 tsp. minced fresh ginger
• 3 T. soy sauce
• 3 T. sesame oil
• 1 tsp. salt
• Optional: 5 Chinese shiitake mushrooms, reconstituted and chopped
  

Bring a large pot of water to a rolling boil. Cook cabbage for approximately 5 minutes until slightly translucent. Remove cabbage and run under cold water until cool enough to touch. Chop very fine (or use food processor).

Mix all ingredients together in a bowl.

Dough

• 5 cups all purpose flour
• 1 1/3 cups boiling water
• 2/3 cup cold water
  

1. Add the boiling water to the flour and mix well with a fork until all flour is moistened. Add the cold water and mix well. Knead with your hands until the dough is soft and smooth (approx. 3 min). It should not be sticky so add flour as necessary. Shape into a ball and cover with a clean dry towel and let rest for 15-20 min. 
   


2. Knead the dough again until smooth. Break off about a third of the dough. Shape into a ball, then flatten slightly into a circle and poke hole in the middle with your fingers and shape into a doughnut. Squeeze dough until you have a very large doughnut of about 1 inch thickness. Cut into approximately 1” pieces. 
   


3. Take each piece and stand it on end so that one cut side is face down on the board and the other face up. Press down to flatten slightly. Then take a rolling pin and roll each piece until it is about 2 – 3 inches in diameter. Put some pork filling in center. Fold circle in half and pinch-pleat the edges together to form dumpling shape. Repeat until all dough is used up. 
   


4. These can be frozen by placing them on wax paper covered cookie sheets and freeze solid for 1 hour before emptying into Ziploc bags. 
   

Frying

1. Heat about 4 T. vegetable oil in a 12-inch frying pan on medium heat until shimmering. Add the dumplings. They should sizzle slightly when placed in the pan. Fry for about 3 minutes until bottoms begin to brown. Then pour in 1/3 c. water and cover immediately. Steam/fry for 10-12 min. until water has evaporated. Serve with dipping sauce.
   

Here's my recipe for Dipping Sauce:  1/4 cup soy sauce, 1 1/2 teaspoons sesame oil, 1 Tablespoon vinegar, 1/2 teaspoon chili paste (such as sambal oelek

When I have a dinner party, I always plan dessert first. So it's fitting that I am telling you first about the perfect end to a Moroccan meal; the rest will have to wait.

Last weekend I cooked for a dozen or so friends from my Moroccan-inspired repertoire--there were blood orange margaritas and bacon-wrapped dates. There were jumbo slices of cumin-crusted cauliflower with a tahini sauce. There were chickpeas smashed with preserved lemons, rainbow chard sprinkled with preserved lemons, and spicy Moroccan chicken skewers doused with a sauce of--you guessed it--preserved lemon vinaigrette. 

After all, preserved lemons are Morocco's greatest culinary contribution to the world.  They may be Morocco's greatest contribution to the world, period, according to Mourad Lahlou (see below).

There was my new favorite farro salad with dates and almonds, and a coriander-spiced mash of butternut squash that paired amazingly well with the Bordeauxs we were pouring.  

All these recipes will have to wait. My friends insisted that I share the recipe for the cookies first. Ironically, this was the fastest, easiest, simplest dinner party dessert I have ever made. Moroccan Almond Cookies are chewy, yet they retain a nice exterior crunch. Reminiscent of my favorite Sicilian amaretti cookies, these not too sweet two-bite cookies are the perfect end to a spicy--and über-healthy--Moroccan meal. 

These cookies wouldn't be served for dessert in Morocco where it's not part of the culture to end a meal with sweets. But in the afternoon, when friends and relatives are making the rounds to visit, these cookies would be served at tea with a platter of fruit, a bowl of pistachios, and maybe some honey and dates. 

Hence the easiest dinner party dessert I have ever thrown together.  The Moroccan Almond Cookies were devoured in between bites of sweet and sour kumquats, tart gooseberries, and the rest of the wine. 

It wasn't until I had made my fifth batch in as many days (they kept disappearing before I could take their picture) that I realized these cookies are the perfect dessert for gluten-free guests. If it weren't for the tiny splash of egg white that holds them together, they'd also be vegan. They just may be my favorite cookie of all time, gluten-free or gluten-ful. And that says a lot from a chocoholic like me. 

Makes about 24 cookies

This recipe is adapted from Mourad Lahlou's book Mourad New Moroccan.  I've adjusted it for our Jackson Hole altitude of 6500 feet.  If you live closer to sea level, follow the amounts in parentheses.  

There are two brands of almond paste available locally, and both work well.  The Solo almond paste comes in an 8 ounce can; the Odense almond paste comes in a 7 ounce tube.   

Freezer full of wild game meat?  Me too.  All winter I've been transforming our cache into stews, curries, lasagnes, chilis, bolognese, and upland bird pot pies.  Looking to put a new spin on my wild game meals, I've been turning to the fresh flavors of Greece--oregano, allspice and cinnamon, feta and garlic, eggplant and tomatoes. 

Moussaka is a layered casserole of eggplant, potato, and cinnamon-oregano-spiced meat sauce, all smothered in a creamy béchamel spiked with cheese.  My Wild Game Moussaka is a far cry from the greasy moussaka of my youth, eaten in Chicago's Greek Town with medical school friends drinking ouzo and shouting Oompa!  My version is a notch healthier--the eggplant is baked not fried and the sauce is full of lean bison and antelope meat, anti-inflammatory spices, and tomatoes.  To make it even healthier, you can replace the béchamel sauce with a sprinkling of feta, which also forms a nice, crusty lid. 

The classic Greek Moussaka is traditionally made with lamb, but it turns out it's even better with wild game--bison, antelope, elk, and venison. The spices nicely balance the richness of the meat, and the tomato and béchamel sauces keep it from drying out. The result? Crowd-pleasing comfort food made with healthy ingredients. A mid-winter dish that begs to be shared. And a new way to love your hard-earned wild meat. 

Wild Game Moussaka is the perfect dish for this last stretch of winter in Jackson Hole. The skies are bright and the days are long, but it's still below zero in the morning.  There is a promise of spring in the air, but we still want hearty food that is nicely spiced when we come in from the cold.  

No stash of wild game in your freezer? You could use ground lamb like the Greeks do, or ground bison from the grocery store. But if you know a hunter, I bet he or she would be willing to work something out. Here Out West, the barter system is still alive and well.

Making moussaka is a lot like making lasagne, as the layers need to be prepped separately.  Here's how I break down the steps:  

I make the sauce first and let it simmer while I prepare the rest.  It can even be done a few days ahead of time, and improves with age.  

Next, I salt the eggplant, which helps it release its water content and keeps it from getting bogged down and greasy.  (I also make an eggplant-free version of moussaka for my kids, who are just going to pick it out anyway!)

I preheat the oven and put on a large pot of water to boil the potato slices. 
When the potatoes are in the water, I pop the eggplant in the oven.  By now my sauce has been simmering for about 20 minutes, and I taste it and adjust the spices.

I make the béchamel sauce, and set it aside.

Finally, I assemble the moussaka and put it in the oven, and sit down to a nice glass of wine while my house fills with the rich cinnamony aroma.

Serves 6-8, and you should have leftover meat sauce

Homesick for Mexico, that's what I am.  It's been two weeks since I stepped off the plane from Tepotzlán, a small town in the mountains of central Mexico, and I can't stop filling my house with food memories:  The cinnamon-spiked cafe de olla, the milky almond and rice horchata, and the perfect tamales. 

It's not just the food I miss, although Tepoztlán is a food lover's paradise; a place where it is possible to eat squash blossoms at every meal.  Where you can discover a new fruit each day.  Where elderly women are up with the sun to grind corn at the neighborhood mill for the morning meal.  I miss seeing them amble up the pre-Hispanic cobblestone streets with their pails of masa. 

In Tepotzlán, the rhythm of the day is set by meals that are shared. I miss the papaya on my breakfast plate, and the hand-patted tortillas for lunch.  I miss the tiny squares of guanabana paste, served with cheese for a midmorning snack. 

I miss wandering through the central market, sneaking photos as the delicate morning light filters over the produce stands, arranged by the vendors like works of art. And shopping for chiles, pottery, spices, and wooden spoons with my new friends. 

I miss my morning walk to the Temple of Tepoteco, the first century home of an Aztec king at the summit of a 2000 foot climb. A daily walk for the locals, by the end of the week I'd run into new friends that I'd met.  (Yes, Jacksonites, just like Snow King.)

Mostly, I miss the friends I made while taking writing classes at Under the Volcano, and cooking classes at Cocinar Mexicano.  Luckily, I brought some of Tepotzlán home with me.  I have the recipes. 

I love to collect recipes when I travel; for me, they are the best souvenirs.  So the first thing I did when I got home was to have friends over for a tamalada--a tamale-making party.  You see, Tere and Magda, my cooking instructors, had taught me the secret to perfect tamales, and I couldn't wait to share. 

The Tepoztlán style of tamale is light and airy, packed with vegetables, fresh cheeses, or sweets.  A thin coating of masa is smeared on a softened corn husk.  The fillings depend on what's fresh at the market:  Shredded zucchini blossoms with diced zucchini, epazote with peppers and cheese, or fresh corn with huitlacoche (a corn fungus with the fragrance of sweet corn).

Tere's first rule of making perfect tamales is never to do it alone. It is not that tamales are difficult to make; making masa dough and assembling tamales takes less than an hour. The tamale-making ritual is symbolic of all that's important in Tepoztlan food culture:  A special occasion, a celebration of abundance, a chance to gather and visit while mixing and folding, wrapping and tying.   

More of Tere's rules for making perfect tamales:  You must smile while placing tamales in the pot. Take a penny and bless the pot with the sign of the cross, then toss the penny to the bottom. While the tamales are cooking, you'll hear a tinkle-tinkle-tinkle from the penny.  If the tinkling stops, it will alert you to add more water.  In other words, listen, be present, and hover over your precious pot of steaming tamales.

The sweet tamales proved to be my new favorite food. In Tepoztlán, dulce tamales filled with pineapple, prunes, or strawberries are not just for dessert.  Locals eat them out of hand as snacks, typically as a merienda, or second breakfast. I fell in love with our sweet prune tamales, the masa whipped light with butter instead of lard, and laced with anise seeds. At home, I've been stuffing them with squares of dark chocolate and dollops of fig butter.  

I keep my Tepoztlán recipes close at hand to put a bit of Mexico into each day.  Sipping my gringo version of cafe de olla (made by boiling cinnamon sticks and pouring the nut-brown water through my coffee machine) reminds me of my food writing instructor, the one-and-only Betty Fussell, and how I soaked up her wisdom each day during class. 

When I toast dried chiles on a comal to make a classic red chile sauce, I think of Marta, who loves chiles so much that she purchased 6 kilos to take back to the Phillipines with her. 

I can't drink tequila without thinking of all my amigas:  Perre, Amy, Cathy, Marta, Felicia, Dorothy, and Dawn, who made me laugh and laugh and laugh as the Mexican sun set. 

And when I make tamales with my Jackson amigas, and hear the penny tinkling in the pot, I think of Tere's smile.  Though sampling great food while traveling is often the purpose of my trip, it's not nearly as important as the people I meet.  Cooking and sharing food with new friends make the best travel memories.  Recipes make the best souvenirs. 

At Cocinar Mexicano, we made our masa dough the traditional way, by soaking boiled dried corn in a lime solution, a process called nixtamalization.  The corn is then drained, and ground into a paste in the food processor.  Masa made this way has the fullest corn flavor, and an interesting coarse texture.

In Jackson Hole this time of year, there is no dried corn to be found, so I made my masa using the second best method:  dehydrated masa mix. This is not masa harina, like you would use to make tortillas.  The Maseca brand of dehydrated masa can be found in local grocery stores, and the flavor is sweet and earthy.  Take a hint from Magda:  To improve the texture of the Maseca masa, add a handful of fresh corn to the masa dough.

Even easier:  Go to the Tortilleria mi Pueblo behind the Gun Barrel restaurant and buy 1 pound of masa dough already made by the lovely Mexican women there.

I make my masa for tamales with lard, and I don't feel badly about it.  (I also use goose fat, if I can get it, which is oooooh so good.) Good fresh lard rendered from pork fat will give your tamales the best flavor, and it has less than half the cholesterol and less than a third of the saturated fat of butter. Don't settle for the lily-white lard in the grocery store.  Take a trip to the impeccably clean Alameda Mexican butcher shop on Alpine Lane in Jackson.  I found all the ingredients I needed for my tamalada, including the Maseca, panela (fresh cheese), epazote (a bitter cilantro-like green), and freshly made lard for a pittance. I also found much fresher corn husks than I had purchased at the grocery store. 

You can fill your tamales with whatever you fancy.  We swooned over our parsnip and butternut squash tamales.  Shredded lamb pairs particularly well with mole sauce, guajillo sauce, and salsa morena.  Leftover chicken or turkey are perfect with tomatillo sauce. 

This recipe makes more than a dozen tamales. The tamales will keep, tightly sealed in a plastic bag, for 5 days in the refrigerator, or up to 3 months in the freezer.

Makes more than a dozen sweet tamales

This recipe is adapted slightly from Good to the Grain by Kim Boyce.  Smear fig butter on a turkey panini, a whole wheat scone, a piece of toast with Brie, or use it to fill your tamales. 

Visit my friends: 

Visit Cathy Barrow at Mrs. Wheelbarrow's Kitchen.

Read about Cathy's Candied Kumquats in this article she wrote for the New York Times (while sitting under a kumquat tree in Tepotzlán):  Giving an Odd Little Fruit a Sweet Lift.

Visit Perre Magnus at The Runaway Spoon, for all things divinely Southern.

For cooking classes in Tepoztlán, you must cook with Tere, Magda, Rosi, and all the talented women at Cocinar Mexicano.

For writing workshops in a fabulous location, check out Under the Volcano.

The bison hunt was my idea, not my husband’s.  Don’t get me wrong, he loves to hunt, and works hard to fill our freezer with antelope, elk, venison, wild birds and sheep.  But bison hunting, for him, seemed about as challenging as shooting a sofa. 

I nagged…appealing to his practical side.  “Think of all that lean, healthy meat. We wouldn’t have to buy beef for a year.” 

So while he was not particularly thrilled when he drew a bison calf permit, I immediately sifted through the recipe index in my head, dreaming of Bison Bolognese, Bison Osso Bucco, and Bison Zinfandel Chocolate Chili.

For ten consecutive days leaving the house at 5 am, my Mountain Man stalked the bison herd on the National Elk Refuge by bike, on skis, and on foot. Most days, he didn’t even see a bison. Bison hunting was apparently much more challenging than it had seemed. The Refuge is a huge area to cover, and the herds are skittish and spread out. Snow was needed to move the animals into the hunting area. 

Finally, on New Year’s Eve, he spied a straggling 2-year old bull, struggling to keep up with the herd. A youngster amongst giants, weighing in at only about 400 pounds, he was vulnerable this first year on his own without his mother. 

The kids and I were headed out to ski when we got the call:  We were needed to help bring the bison in.  We bundled up, packed snacks and water, and piled into the truck, knowing we would be gone until dark. We drove as far as we could into the National Elk Refuge just north of Jackson, and then headed out on foot.

He was still warm when we got to him, his blood seeping into the snow.  My heart felt a pang when I touched the wooly pelt, much softer than I could have imagined. The boys and I marveled at this beautiful animal.  We were glad he had died swiftly with one shot to the heart, and that he would be spared suffering in the overpopulated herd this winter. 

Our bison was not easily moved via sled or rope, so we called in a team of horses to bring him to the truck. A local cowboy was ready to give us a hand, and the boys rode out with our bison, their hands buried in his fur to keep warm. 

Our bison is back from the butcher, neatly labelled and tucked away in the freezer.  As I grab a bundle of meat to make my favorite chili, I can't help but be hit with a wave of gratitude for our young bison, remembering his musty smell, luxurious fur, and how he died that day in the brilliant sunshine. 

This chili is no ordinary bowl of red. The Mexican chocolate and the fruit of the Zinfandel bring out the rich flavor of the bison. The dried cranberries are oddly perfect added to the pot. 

The first time I had this chili, my friend Melanie was simmering an enormous pot of it as the snow piled up outside her Jackson home.  It never fails to evoke in me that feeling you get when a friend is cooking you something wonderful. 

Serves 4-6