The baby broilers are screaming for food. In hopes of appeasing them, I climb into their temporary nursery and 500 white puffballs immediately attack my boots, making it extremely challenging to move to their various feeding dishes. Most aren’t very bright – they would get their food a lot faster if I were able to walk – but sometimes I am made the fool when the escapees dart just beyond my reach and I am left grasping air.

Yet again, I ask myself, why am I here? I am a rising junior at Davidson College, and I could have had a flashy job in New York City or be a sophisticated intern on The Hill. Instead, I left my 1,500 friends at Davidson to share some soil with 1,500 birds, 30 cows and 70 sheep – all of which aren’t nearly as friendly as the people I left behind. I learn of my friends’ adventures in Beirut, at Cambridge and in the south of France when my phone catches the weak signal. I am alone – and really, really dirty.

My passion is food. I love it, and not just eating it (although that is my favorite part). In fact, I created an environmental studies major that includes every food-related class Davidson offers. Food has led me to most of the books on my bookshelf, to new and unique specialty shops and artisans around town, and to numerous farms. I am a vat of worthless food knowledge – did you know carrots were never originally orange; rather, they were bred to be so hundreds of years ago? I know where and when every farmers market is in the city and could tell you about almost every restaurant in town. Yet, until this point, I had never produced an ounce of food, not even a backyard tomato plant or bit of basil.

Adam Moody changed all of that. In addition to his farm in Browns Valley, Ind., Adam owns and operates three full-service butcher shops in the suburbs of Indianapolis, my hometown. You cannot find these kinds of meats in a grocery store. Adam isn’t a certified organic farmer and he doesn’t tout any other name. He simply believes in sustainability, both environmental and economic – hence, the butcher shops. As one of his employees, Michael O’Donnell, explains, “You gotta take care of the land; it is as easy as that.”

You see, everything grows from the land, so it is of utmost importance to treat it well. A farm is a full-circle operation, in that everything occurs there – feed grows, which then nourishes the animals, who then provide income for the farmer to start the cycle anew. The Moodys grow corn, soybeans and spelt for their animals. Adam says, “I understand why people put livestock on concrete – it’s easy!” But the easy path is not something in which Adam believes – he knows he could make more money faster, but he also knows it degrades the health of the animal and, in turn, that of the human consumer. It’s also not environmentally sustainable. So, instead, his cows spend their days walking and eating in the pasture. “You must show people that it can be done, that it is possible to run an economically and environmentally sustainable operation,” he says, expanding on his philosophy. You can be green, but you must also make some green.

My first trip to his butcher shop was during the start of my summer vacation. On that day, I asked my usual questions about the meats – which, I will admit, were rather detailed. Soon enough, Adam was asking me questions. Not 10 minutes later he offered me a home on his farm, because, as he said, “If you want to do anything in the food world, you must know where your food comes from.” He would pay my room and board – all I had to do was work. Maybe it was the Vicodin I was still on from a recent surgery, but I said yes.

And so, two weeks later, I packed my bags and headed west, about an hour out of town to the intersection of corn and soybeans. Indianapolis isn’t usually thought of as a large city, but compared with Browns Valley, I lived in Shanghai. Upon arriving at the farm, I was immediately put to work.

Days started at 7 a.m., and 6 a.m. to beat the heat if we needed to pull weeds. This farm has chosen not to grow genetically modified soybeans; instead, it grows the beans like our grandparents did – sans Round-up. So, there are weeds –  which we pulled from the rows, and rows, of beans. Although a bit hard on the back, it was a nice way to get to know my two new friends: Isaac, Adam’s son and manager of all on-farm operations, and Michael (not the same one from the store), a mechanical engineer who, while pursuing a doctorate in sustainable-energy technologies, realized that the only truly sustainable option was to change conventional farming techniques. Before he could preach what he believed in, though, he had to practice.

Living on a farm was a different world. Luckily, I was used to living in a dorm room, so my “shack,” as it was lovingly called, was fine, albeit a bit hot and muggy. To say the least, AC would have been appreciated on days when the heat index hit 115 degrees. Our day was over when the work was done. Unfortunately, farm life seems to carry an infinite amount of work – luckily, though, it always gets dark … eventually. The culture was different from what I knew and from what I was expecting. Technology was ever-present. IPhones served for all forms of communication and as the only access to Internet.

But even with technology, we were always at the mercy of nature. It seemed as if everything depended on how wet or dry the ground was. Despite working harder than I ever thought possible (one evening I wrote in my journal, “Rainier cherries are the elixir of life” – clearly, the heat and exhaustion had gotten to me), various Moody relatives who live or work for the farm in some way didn’t seem to have much – that is, if you measure “much” only in the monetary sense. Others, however, may deem them kings because they give away beef as presents.

I also found that some things on the farm were more stereotypical than I could have imagined, such as watching the sun set over the fields from my hand-built wooden porch while eating eggs that I had gathered just a few hours before. Time slowed down and many daily stressors seemed to be missing here.

Only a fraction of my day was spent working directly with the animals, despite them being the money makers. They were, however, the most fun. My favorite cow, already the odd chocolate-brown cow out, loved to lay in the shade with all four legs pointed straight out to the side. The eight cows that lived not more than 10 feet from where I stayed mooed at me every time I went outside. As I walked around the hens’ pasture to check for any holes in the fence, almost all of the 300 chickens would follow me; I was the point of our flying V formation.

I think it would have been hard for me to have been less qualified for this job. Isaac and Michael were kind enough to let me “help” in whatever they were doing. As Michael said, jokingly, “Fixing a combine is a part of the liberal arts education, right?” Wrong. In fact, my core curriculum at Davidson did not prepare me at all for this endeavor. I had never before used a ratchet or a socket; honestly, I didn’t know the difference between the two, let alone did I have a clue how to fix a radiator. Nonetheless, I organized, read the manual allowed, cleaned chains and pumped the breaks while the fluid was changed below. Believe it or not, slaughtering chickens had been a part of my freshman-year writing class, but slaughtering 100 birds that I had seen grow up was a bit more challenging.

I worked hard at whatever the task of the moment was, collecting eggs, grinding feed, harvesting hay or moving hen houses to new pasture. But I just don’t think I am meant for farm life. Just as I thought I was proving that I could hold my own, I had to go to the hospital after a nasty fall on a fence. Not only was I missing the hard skills, but I made cultural faux pas as well.  I brought up World Cup games, thinking that it would be a great way to bond with the boys. It turns out, though, no one has cable. Isaac dreams of one day taking college classes, perhaps in forest management or creative writing; meanwhile, all I know is academia. I so wanted to belong, but it was obvious I was inherently different – right down to my pink Sperry rain boots I wore to navigate the mud and muck after the rain.

As with most things in life, looking back I seem to remember that even with my troubles, things weren’t all that bad. I really enjoyed spending the day outside and talking with Isaac and Michael. As we worked, we talked about which superpowers we would choose if we could (Isaac chose the ability to learn anything), and Michael helped me brainstorm ideas for my thesis (the most interesting was the feasibility of sustainable farming on a medium to large scale). These guys were thought-provoking, while my friends back home just seem to talk about each other. After I learned the importance of going to the outhouse for the last time before dark, an outdoor toilet seemed the equivalent to one inside. And I had even perfected attracting bugs with my headlamp. Granted they fell into the bunk with me as they died, but it was better than them buzzing in my ear as I tried to fall sleep.

I almost miss the calluses on my fingers from lifting buckets; I guess the operative word is almost. I learned more from my time on the farm than I could from reading any book or from seeing any movie. Life there wasn’t bad – it was simply different, with a capital D. Isaac never went to college, yet to do what he does I would need numerous specialists – a mechanic, electrician, carpenter, vet … the list goes on.

Many people think that grass-fed beef or organic products have astronomical prices, but knowing the labor and time that goes into those animals, those prices are a steal. It is unbelievable how much I now value my food. If more people spent a little time on a sustainable farm, farmers would suddenly become the new doctors and professors of our society. They are invaluable. These farmers may not have cash, but they are richer for what they do – and that is improve the environment while offering precious nutrition. Can you imagine life without food?

~ Jenn Burns

Nothing went as planned.  Nothing was as expected.  Nothing could have been better. I suddenly wanted these people to like me more than I ever did my peers in high school, which is the kingdom of the unknown where the land is ruled by wanting to be liked and the currency is nervousness.  I had had the captain of the basketball team wrapped around my finger, but these guys turned me to mush.  I felt like a bird without feathers, naked and vulnerable.  To top things off, I knew nothing.  I didn’t even really care for most pizza.  Yet, I was to become a pizzaiola at Pie Town, Charlotte’s first “artisan” pizzeria, and I was terrified.

The problems began before I arrived.  What does a pizzaiola wear?  This was the least of my problems, as I also didn’t know how to make dough or bake a pizza.  As much as I would like to say that I prepared extensively by learning everything I could, I didn’t. I was going in blind.  I ate pizza for lunch that day, hoping to get in the mindset.  This later proved to be a detriment, as the pizza was soon flowing and I was already nearing my saturation point.

This adventure had begun when I had the opportunity to spend an afternoon in the kitchen of Pie Town.  Peter Reinhart, renowned baker and pizza expert, had traveled the world in search of the perfect pizza. As a result, Reinhart teamed with primary owner Pierre Bader on Pie Town. Reinhart is the executive pizzaiolo and consulting partner.
Pie Town’s professional pizzaiolos would teach me their ways so that I, too, could become a pizzaiola, or at least take one step down the path to perfection.  They enticed me with the promise of learning their secrets.  Normally, I would tell you that I play hard to get, but let’s be honest, I said yes before all the details were even finalized.  The staff’s T-shirts ask, “Could this be the best pizza in the world?”  I was ready to find out.

I arrived at 3 p.m. on a Saturday afternoon.  My only knowledge of restaurant kitchens came from “Kitchen Confidential,” by Anthony Bourdain.  He paints a descriptive picture of a kitchen as a brutal environment, filled with ex-cons and chaos – not a place for a young suburban co-ed.  After a round of formal introductions, the cooks went about their work of barbecuing chicken and slicing prosciutto, listening to my battery of questions but remaining a little distant.  As this was a new experience for everyone – my first time in a kitchen and their first time showing the ropes to an outsider – no one knew how to act.

We began by making dough.  Not just any dough of course, but a dough that is capable of creating “a crust that has balanced but complex flavors and a texture that contains both a crisp and smoky snap and a creamy texture inside the puffy edge,” as the menu touts.  I was quickly enrolled in Pizza 101.  We went over the precise ratio of water, flour and mixing.  My first lecture was a brief history of pizza and the differences among varieties.

I don’t know whether I proved myself by being an active listener or if they simply got tired of having a follower, but I was soon given an apron and cap and became part of the in crowd. I was a professional – or at least I looked like one.  It was the easiest initiation I had ever been a part of: no embarrassment, no pain. I helped slice pig jowl, a big hunk of creamy fat with some meat hidden inside, and immediately showed my amateur status by holding the meat with elongated fingers.  In a tone mixed with urgency, distress (he probably didn’t want any blood squirting into his bacon) and respect for a near-stranger, Austin Krum, the head of the Pie Town kitchen, explained that it would behoove me to hold the pig jowl with curled fingers curled and rounded knuckles.  “You wouldn’t want to lose a fingertip!”  I got the point and we made some delicious guanciale, cured bacon, from that jowl (not the belly, the source of regular bacon).

We then moved onto the true nuggets of pizza gold, the dough balls.  As my compatriots in white churned out ball after ball, I struggled to have any control over my pieces.  As dough quickly swam through their hands, it somehow got stuck in mine.  Each pizzaiolo offered his special tip.  Unfortunately, their three strategies did not meld into one perfect hybrid, but I did at least earn passing marks.  With so many hands, this task was quickly over, with all of the dough converted into pizza dough balls.  All that was left was to wait with baited breath for the diners to join us and order a pizza pie.

Most of the duties had been completed by this point, a classic case of hurry up and wait.  Conversation began to flow as we waited for the first customers of the evening.  The manager, bartender, wait staff – everyone – came into the kitchen to chat during this downtime.  Just like at a dinner party, everyone congregated in the kitchen.  Anecdotes were shared as we began to get to know one another. People shared stories about their past lives as culinary students or bulk food distributors. I was even able to add my two cents about my expertise in ice cream (see the September 2009 issue of Uptown for my ice cream initiation).  Food’s greatest strength was at work again – bringing people together.  These strangers suddenly began to become friends.

Like a medieval ball, I had been chained to Austin for the evening.  He had been at Pie Town since day one and had an amazing ability to move everyone forward; he was a team captain, not a dictator.  Chris Reinhart, Peter’s nephew, was the first to offer me a sample slice, so I liked him immediately.  I quickly realized this was no special treatment as I soon had whole pizzas coming my way, but he made a good first impression.  Gino was the new guy, despite being the oldest, at about 45.  He had been in the pizza business since he was 18, but wanted something new and extraordinary, so, he headed to Pie Town.  Gino took me under his wing as we manned the pizzas for the rest of night.  I knew it would be a fun night when Gino joked, “Now, that is G-I-N…” to ensure I spelled his name correctly in his Uptown debut.  These men were true pizza freaks, eating pizza nearly every day of the week, even on their days off.
At first I practiced with dough left over from the day before, waste dough. I was not yet trusted with the good stuff.  I felt like I was trying to entice a jellyfish to reshape itself.  Flour on my hands was key, in the right proportion. This wasn’t a case of more is better.  The dough was in a smooth half-dome about the circumference of a CD and a couple of inches thick.  I started in the middle, pressing down the dough with the pads of my fingertips, working my way to the edges.  The crust was to be as thin as four or five pieces of paper, but strong enough to hold all the goodies.  Meanwhile, what a layman (myself mere hours before) would refer to as the crust edge, the often-rejected bit, could be thicker.  In the world of artisan pizzas, the crust edge is the cornicione, and is the star of the show.

Just when I thought I was getting a handle on the finger pressing, it was time to move onto the next step.  Again, the three competing styles of each pizzaiolo showed their faces.  Austin told me to use my middle knuckles while I interpreted Gino’s method of choice as using the flat sides of his fingernails.  Gino told me, “Gravity is your friend,” while softly stretching the dough as long as the table still supported some of it.  At the same time, Austin encouraged me to free the dough of any outside support. Chris had his own tricks. I fused all of the styles to craft a new creature that at least appeared pizza-like in the end.  Toppings and sauce were the easy part.  A dollop of sauce in the middle was spiraled out with the bottom of a ladle.  Adding cheese, if you want to be efficient, is a two-handed endeavor.

The oven demands your respect.  It is the centerpiece of the kitchen, taking up most of the room and easily making its presence known by its constant heat.  The gas-fired brick oven kept a constant temperature of about 800 degrees.  With only a couple of feet between the oven and the production space, the back of my neck was treading the line between hot and uncomfortable.  My eyes burned as I kept a constant watch on the pizzas, but I could not tear them away from the cheese that boiled like rolling ocean waves.  Mere seconds were the difference between done and overdone.

A long-handled wooden board, a pizza peel, was used to transfer the pizzas from the assembly area to the oven and from the oven to the plate.  It took a delicate shimmy of the wrist to smoothly slide the pizza into the oven.  At this I proved to be a natural.  It may seem like a minor detail of the process, but without the proper transfer a pizza could be lost.  The outer edges of the oven are drastically warmer than the center, so the pizzas had to be rotated every 30 seconds to cook evenly.  This is done with a different peel – one that has a smaller metal disk at its head.

At last, mission accomplished: I made a pizza of customer quality!  From dough to finishing salt, I had a hand in every step of the process.  More important, I was proud to be a part of the operation.

Guests at Pie Town are welcomed back into the kitchen to see the process and ask questions.  They had no idea it was my first day, that I was just a visitor like them. By the end of the night, “Reinhart” (Chris and I were now on an informal footing) was taking pictures of me spinning dough in the air.  The rigidity of measurements and protocols had been replaced by laughter and fun.

As we were saying our goodbyes, I mentioned that this wasn’t at all the experience I had been expecting; it had far exceeded my expectations.  First off, I wasn’t planning on staying for nearly seven hours.  Secondly, I wasn’t expecting their kindness or patience.  And finally, I wasn’t expecting the calm and quiet of people working hard at what they do best.  Austin, the pizza guru, responded, “You exceeded our expectations too.”

As I reflected on these words, I realized that maybe they weren’t looking forward to my arrival, and now I certainly understand why I might first be perceived as a burden; they wouldn’t want someone coming into their space for a night, adding responsibility and work to an already full plate. But they told me that I did what I was supposed to, without even knowing it, and that I was even helpful.  I saw how this microcosm is representative of life. Is it human instinct to have low expectations of the unknown, of outsiders? Probably.  At the same time, it suggests that we are also willing to be proven wrong.  We may put up a guard initially and test newcomers, but relationships can be built quickly in the heat of fire.  Although I technically became a pizzaiola by making a customer-quality pizza, I think the true test was in being accepted by the community.  For one day I was able to become someone new, from restaurant guest to restaurant chef, from outsider to insider. I was a pizzaiola.

~ Jenn Burns

Ice cream has been my favorite food for as long as I can remember. When in a new location, my top priority is to try the local ice cream. A Spring Break trip introduced me to the soursop fruit flavor of the Caribbean islands of Turks and Caicos. During a tour of Italy I sampled more than a few of the gelaterias of Rome. I saw one-dollar American ice cream bars on every corner in China while there on a cultural tour, and just this summer, while visiting friends in San Francisco, I experienced salted caramel and balsamic strawberry ice cream. I have had the world’s ice cream. Could there be a better job for me?

This meant one thing to me—unlimited creamy mouthfuls of paradise.

Even better, believe it or not, the creamery I worked for this last summer makes the best ice cream I have ever tasted. After searching the world for that elusive flavor and texture, I found it right in my hometown, Indianapolis, at Trader’s Point Creamery. This small, family-owned farm is one of a kind, a Mecca for dairy lovers where there’s a passionate belief in grass-feeding cows to produce milk for the very best organic dairy products.

I believe Trader Point Creamery’s ice cream is the shining star of the operation, as I am sure an upcoming national competition will fully support. (Remember, you heard it here first!). Their ice cream is non-homogenized; meaning the fat in the milk has not been broken up into small particles. This is also the reason why a person, rather than a fully mechanized system, must oversee the freezing process, as the product can easily turn to butter during the freezing process. The finished ice cream is light, but coats your mouth. It’s creamy, but has substance. It tastes like biting into a banana or blackberry, or sucking on a caramel, depending on the flavor. It can turn around any bad day and mend a broken heart.

The dairy guru of the farm, Fons, trained me in the process and protocols of turning mix into ice cream. He is the man behind all of the creamery’s recipes. When he began, the farm produced only milk. Now, after just a few years, the farm produces a well-known brand of yogurt and cheese. I love listening to his stories of the creameries he has built from the ground up, from Mongolia to Tanzania. On my first day we discussed his past experiences, and dreamt big for my future. I took precise notes on everything we did from turning on the freezer to turning off the light. I was as prepared as I was ever going to be for my first day of flying solo. His final words were, “Find your own way of doing things, and don’t worry.”

In the beginning, nothing went right. My clothes were soaked from the spray produced by washing the implements. The mix-filled buckets were so heavy that I had to lean them against my legs and then do a quick shuffle from the massive refrigerator to my production area. My arms were shaking from the heavy lifting. I had to invent a two part process to break down the batches into smaller quantities in order to lift them above my head into the machine. Always lift from the legs not with the back—I learned the importance of that the hard way. I nearly fainted as the machines heated up my small ice cream making lair. I was sweating bullets, struggling to keep the machine full of mix. Yet, the final packing boxes were overflowing. The floor, the walls, and I were coated with chocolate mix. Somehow there was even ice cream in my shoes.

Aside from my personal dilemmas, I couldn’t get the thickness right—it was either soup or butter. The constant splat, splat, splat of too-soft ice cream was chiseling away at my sanity. I feared I had ruined numerous gallons of ice cream, my career down the drain. Most difficult of all was that once it started, the ice cream making didn’t stop until it was time for clean-up. Thankfully, each day was more controlled and cleaner than the last, and no ice cream ever had to be trashed.

Each new flavor was a challenge. All flavors must come out smooth and soft, but keep their shape when they fall into the tub. Caramel and chocolate can be a bit harder because they are made with more dry matter. The ice cream-sorbet crossover can be almost like custard, as there is significantly less cream in the mix, and therefore it is more difficult to turn it into butter. As with so much in life, I was trying to attain that perfect balance.

Soon, it was a completely different world. Friends I made would come by and chat as I packed the freezer full. I commandeered a radio so I could sing and dance as I washed tools and fill tubs. Perhaps I was most proud that I could walk out of work and not look like I just showered in milk. Rather than straining to keep up with my tasks, I was now able to get ahead on clean up, set up for the next day, and run tests such as how much air is being added to the mix while the ice cream peacefully flows.

People came in and were mesmerized by the perfect waved ribbon that flowed, and they would whisper, “It’s beautiful.” Outside and away from work, it was like name dropping, but more powerful: I would casually slip into conversations that I was the one producing everyone’s favorite ice cream. People turned in their tracks and deliver an onslaught of questions. Hey, I realized, I have a fan club!

~ Jenn Burns

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