Amy Sippl

This is the fourth post in the series “Great Grains” highlighting unusual whole grains and easy ways to incorporate them into your diet.  Check out posts on bulgur, millet and rye as well. 

Is it a grain or is it a vegetable? Is maize the same thing as corn? What counts as the “whole” grain form? Corn gets such a bad rap—Is it even healthy for you? 

This is the third post in the series “Great Grains” highlighting unusual whole grains and easy ways to incorporate them into your diet.  Check out posts on bulgur and millet as well. 

Rye has been on the brain of many Twin Cities foodies since the opening of Rye Deli in the Lowry Hill neighborhood of Minneapolis. It opened in November and the menu and namesake hints at a secret about the world’s second favorite grain. Rye is a classic. It’s familiar, it’s hearty, and it has staying power. Rye has been in a kitchen mainstay for ages and it’s ready for a comeback. 

This is the second post in the series “Great Grains” highlighting unusual whole grains and easy ways to incorporate them into your diet. The first post in the series, “The Beat on Bulgur” can be found here. 

Struggling to decide what’s for dinner? How about a stop in the bird seed aisle on the way home? Tonight, millet is on the menu. 

What is millet? 

 Like most people who enjoy spending time in the kitchen, conquering new ingredients is something I live for. Earlier this month I decided that 2012 would be (cue fanfare music) “The Year of New Grains.” Between the growing debate about gluten-free and the emerging research about diets rich in whole grains, I figured now was as good of time as any to add a few into my kitchen repertoire. As of 2011, I could make a mean oatmeal and occasionally my brown rice came out better than Elmer’s glue. 

So where does one start on a whole grain adventure? Wikipedia, of course. As it would happen, there are 18 whole grains on the unofficial list. Definitely enough to last me through 2012. Earlier this month I started at the top with bulgur, a grain that’s never made an appearance in my kitchen before.  

Last January I was ogling my co-worker’s lunchboxes as they enjoyed citrus, bananas, and vegetables from places I could only dream about living. Gone were the red ripe watermelons and fresh salads that made local eating easy in June, July and August. Just after the New Year, we had to start rationing our 10 remaining bags of frozen broccoli, what we thought was enough to last us through a Minnesota winter. Last January I was completely unprepared for the wintertime locavore life.

I love homemade jam. When we were kids, my brother and I used to stand outside next to the garage with steak knives, whacking the leaves off of rhubarb stems (in hindsight, this probably wasn’t terribly safe). Ever since then, I have delighted in standing over the pot, watching berries or peaches or rhubarb become a delectable condiment…with the assistance of a LOT of sugar. The sugar never bothered me then, and it usually doesn’t bother me now. But, as I’ve gotten older and my taste buds have shifted, I’ve definitely been using less of it. 

Last May I started some serious planning for canning season. I had lists, recipes, and all the right plants for the community garden plot. Armed with the Ball Blue Book and a brand new water bath canner, I had dubbed it the year of the Mason Jar. This was going to be the canning season of all canning seasons, with more than 20 different recipes to try. It’s easy to get overly ambitious after being shut in the house for a long Minnesota winter.

I happened to bump into the October 31 issue of Wine Spectator magazine this week and found an editorial by James Molesworth called “Are Locavores Also Locapours?” Although the local food movement has pushed farm fresh produce to the menus of top restaurants around the country, local wines have yet to do the same. By tracking a New York winery’s struggle to make it on big-city wine lists, he argues that consumers are willing to pay extra for local food on the table but are willing to put almost anything in their glass—just as long as it says Italy, France, or Sonoma on the label.