Chipotle, Southern Oregon Style

If the above looks like a pile of sun-dried dog do, skip on over to another blog. But if you recognize these units as amazingly flavorful freshly smoked dead-ripe jalapeno peppers— better known as chipotle— you've come to the right place. What you see is the result of about 70 days of Rogue Valley, Oregon sun and soil and 15-20 hours in a little Chief Smoker loaded with smoldering cherry wood. Ohmigod! Chipotles can be purchased, but according to Dave DeWitt's Chile Pepper Encyclopedia, they will be inferior to the genuine article, which in all humility, is what you see here. You gotta start with RED RIPE jalapenos, which I have never seen in grocery stores, but then I've always lived in Podunk, USA, beginning with Minot, North Dakota, and ending, happily, with small acreage outside of Rogue River, Oregon.

Green jalapenos are great, especially in pico de gallo and other salsas, when you can't wait for red ones, but they don't have the deep flavor and sweetness necessary for the quintessential chipotle. Some farmers' markets sell red jalapenos, or you can make a special request to a grower, as a friend did, to let the peppers ripen before picking. Best yet is to grow them yourself. If you have a climate comparable to the Rogue Valley (or Southern New Mexico), no problem!

PK is a pepper addict whose passion I've come by through osmosis. I use chipotle —and about a dozen other peppers—year-round in my own kitchen, and love giving chipotle peppers as a special gift to friends and family. Here's what a smoker load of about-to-be chipotle peppers looks like. The stems are removed, but that's it for prep. So pretty!

Once the peppers come out of the smoker, they are anywhere from brittle to slightly pliable. If they're still tacky, they should be stored in the freezer. I put most in glass jars. This year, the first batch wasn't out of the smoker for 10 seconds—we had a pent-up demand for chipotle, nerves were frayed—before I snared enough to stuff a pint jar, fill it with scalding water, and wait a few hours for those babies to rehydrate so I could make chipotle cubes.

Backyard Biking on Birdseye Creek Road

Cycle Oregon riders departed from their adventure yesterday, but I remain in the Mythical State of Jefferson, which is perfect because this is exactly where I want to be. Having 2,000 visiting cyclists in the region—and right here in the neighborhood—last week inspired reflection about the place I accidentally landed 30-some years ago. It made me appreciate home territory anew, and I looked with special fondness at my personal neighborhood workout hill—Birdseye (pronounced Birds-eee) Creek Road, classic State of Jefferson terrain, which is minutes from my backdoor. It's three miles uphill, down in a flash, and about 30 minutes max, start to finish. Doable even when I "don't have time" or "don't feel like it." But always a challenge.

I've burned enough calories on that hill in the past 25 years to equal several barrels of cabernet sauvignon and a gymnasium-sized slab of dark chocolate. (These are my major vices, but by no means my only ones.) It is a contest about what is going to prevail: my exercise or my excesses. So far I think, it's neck and neck. I eat and drink what I want and credit Birdseye hill (and yoga), with keeping me more or less in line.

I never tire of Birdseye Creek Road. It's a mini-topo trip through State of Jefferson bioregions, and with almost no traffic, even an aging but earnest biker like me can enjoy the sights, sounds, and smells along the way. To get to Birdseye, I navigate .3 of a mile of Rogue River Highway, which is sometimes an annoyingly busy road, but still offers a good look at the Rogue Valley's claim to fame: the Rogue River.

Birdseye Creek Road is a right turn off the highway and takes a sweeping curve past the lower pasture of the Birdseye Creek Ranch, where cattle enjoy lush pasture. I've seen cattle in the eastern Oregon desert and worse, in feedlots. Those cattle can't imagine such luxury as this:

The road climbs to a higher pasture, still part of the original 360-acre Birdseye homestead, which is on the National Register of Historic Places and also for sale.

Already the terrain is drier and madrones and oaks dominate.

I love madrones and the mixed woodlands where they prevail. This time of year—late fall—after several hot dry months, their bark peels in characteristic fashion, and the forest smells fresh— sweet and astringent at the same time. If I walked in it, the forest duff would crackle and release sweet fragrant oils. Climb, climb, climb, and the hills close in and the creek can be seen and heard and the woods look like this:

And this—mixed pines, firs, big-leaf maple and much more:

I can't see worth a damn, so maybe my sense of smell is heightened. But I know that each of these patches along 3 miles of country road has its own distinct perfume. I suck it in on the way up, and catch snatches of it on the way down. Then I go home and eat chocolate.

Cycle Oregon- State of Jefferson!

I'm a Cycle Oregon wannabe, for sure. The big pulsating Power-bar-eating snake of 2,200 riders moved thru my State of Jefferson neighborhood today, and I couldn't resist cycling along part of the bike route. I had a noon meeting in Grants Pass and allowed time to ride the 10.5 miles from my home near Rogue River to the meeting place in time to change into civilian clothes and spare fellow Rotarians my spandexed thighs. En route I hoped to tuck into a pace line, put my head down, blur my legs into a spin, and reach Grants Pass in record time. And also pretend to be part of The Ride, of course.

Alas, the snake wasn't on the road yet. So my pretending had to be that the drivers who passed me, and who certainly knew to expect Cycle Oregon on this road, were in awe that this older broad was leading the pack! What a stud! I flashed cavalier smiles and did that cool finger wave that cyclists execute without removing their hands from the handlebars. On my way home, however, the snake was on the road, and I lamented those pace lines rocketing by in the opposite direction. Sigh. A sag wagon passed me and flashed a sign warning, "WRONG WAY!!!"
I yelled, "I live here!"

And you know what? On all kinds of levels, I'm glad I do. Take friends, for example. A few minutes later, I got a flat. I can't remember having had a flat in 20 years. I didn't have a spare tube, tools, or anything else that I needed except a cell phone. A few minutes later, a rescue was in motion. I can think of a half dozen people I could call who would come to my aid at a moment's notice, and one jumped into immediate action. That's a huge benefit of living in the same place for 30-some years. You can count on people when you need them. And they can count on you.

But then living in the State of Jefferson has it's own rewards. It is a West Coast region that is seriously different from images that the words "West Coast" conjure. PR folks call it a "state of mind." It is mostly rural, although we have a number of small cities and towns, some of which are culturally sophisticated and upscale. It is a mixed bag philosophically and politically, although we're historically more red than blue, and there are quite a few who are stockpiling guns. However, we share a common love of forests, rivers, mountains, and the rich but quirky agricultural scene that's developing in place of the historic logging and fishing industries—everything from bison ranches to organic farms to the ubiquitous vineyards. There are places here that time has touched only lightly, and just about anywhere in the S of J, you can be in wilderness within 30 minutes.