Oregon Home Grown Chef

When a roadside attraction turns into oven convection, it produces the perfect rhubarb pie.

Humble Homemade Rhubarb Pie Recipe

written by Thor Erickson | photography by Tambi Lane It was along that winding stretch of road that follows the McKenzie River—Highway 126—that we came across the place, though “came across” isn’t quite right. It felt like we were meant to stop there all along—as if the universe knew we hadn’t packed enough snacks. It had already been a full day. A warm one—the kind of late-spring day where the heat settles in early and lingers whether you invited it or not. I’d gone with my friend April to Eugene to pick up an espaliered pear tree she’d been hunting for, destined for the yard of her newly purchased house. We took her pickup, windows down, warm air rushing in—the Oregon road-trip smells: green grass, hot metal and just a hint of poor decision-making. April likes to talk—a lot—especially about landscaping plans for her new digs. By the time we’d…

A bowl of creamy clam chowder garnished with herbs, accompanied by fresh bread and a pot of clams, showcasing a comforting seafood dish from Oregon.

Oregon Coast Clam Chowder Recipe

written by Thor Erickson | photography by Tambi Lane “RUN FASTER!” our 8-year-old son, Jahn, yelled. “It’s not working!” “You can do it!” my wife, Cathy, cheered as the waves crashed behind us. I ran down the beach as fast as I could. Rain was coming in sideways. The wind gusted so hard it lifted sand into the air, stinging my face and filling my mouth with salt. It was spring break on the Oregon Coast, and we were trying—against all better judg-ment—to fly a kite. After a few more attempts, our cheerfully colored kite took a beating, pelted from the gray sky by wind, rain and sand. It never stood a chance. Eventually, we let it go, laughing as it collapsed onto the beach like a bright idea humbled by weather. We had planned this trip for weeks. We’d recently purchased a vintage Volkswagen EuroVan and were excited to…

Close-up of poached eggs on toast with fresh vegetables, including tomatoes and greens, served on a rustic plate with a bowl of eggs and a salad in the background.

How to Make the Perfect Poached Egg

written by Thor Erickson | photography by Tambi Lane It was a cold January morning washed in frozen fog—formed after warm air rode up over the Cascade Range and settled above colder air, trapping it like a blanket of hollandaise sauce. The ponderosa pines outside leaned into it, quiet and contemplative, waiting to see whether the sun was going to bother showing up. Standing in my kitchen, staring at the coffee maker as it bubbled away, it hit me—it’s time for a poached egg. After a shot of caffeine, I gathered the necessary tools—a large pot, a slotted spoon, an instant-read thermometer and a small cup. A friend whose hens lived lives of enviable luxury had just given me a dozen fresh eggs. Once I cooked them in perfectly heated water, white vinegar and salt, these beautiful brown orbs would make the perfect breakfast. As I prepared to poach my…

A close-up of a glazed ham with crispy exterior slices and pink interior, served with roasted potatoes, showcasing Oregon's culinary traditions and gourmet food scenes.

Why City Ham Is the Ultimate Holiday Ham

written by Thor Erickson | photography by Tambi Lane Years ago, while standing around a smoky fire pit in the Willamette Valley with a couple of chef and butcher friends, we got into it—a heated debate over the perfect holiday ham. One argued for the rustic charm of country ham, aged and cured like an Appalachian heirloom. The other, a devotee of European traditions, sang the praises of jamón ibérico, that nutty, air-dried marvel from Spain. I kept my poker face—then calmly played the city ham card. You see, while country ham and dry-cured European hams get all the gourmet glory, there’s something time-less and deeply comforting about a city ham—especially during the holidays. What’s the difference? A city ham is wet-cured, often brined or injected with a seasoned solution of water, salt, sugar and sodium nitrite. It’s typically sold fully cooked or smoked, and sometimes spiral-sliced for easy serving….

Chanterelle Sauté on toasted sourdough.

Foraging Oregon’s Golden Chanterelles

written by Thor Erickson | photography by Tambi Lane “I thought you’d never get here!” a booming voice exclaimed through my driver-side window as I pulled into the parking area. “I’ve been waiting for thirty minutes!” The voice was that of my brother-in-law, Pete. Pete and my sister Kaari live near Portland, and I live in Bend, so we’d arranged to meet about midway, at my secret/not-so-secret spot for finding chanterelle mushrooms. Pete, a retired army nurse, is adept at hunting and fishing, and for years I have been threatening to add foraging to his set of skills. I pulled out my field guide and showed him what we were looking for: Cantharellus formosus, the Pacific golden chanterelle, Oregon’s official state mushroom, and in my opinion the most delicious edible mushroom. After a mile walk, we came upon the place—a large stand of Douglas fir, spruce and hemlock casting long…

Oregon sunshine in a jar – strawberry jam.

Oregon Strawberry Jam With Vanilla Bean

written by Thor Erickson | photography by Tambi Lane “I hope you’ve got a plan for all these berries,” said Tom, the strawberry farmer helping me load six flats of strawberries into my truck. “Tomorrow these won’t be the same,” he added as he wiped the sweat from his brow with a bandana. “Oregon strawberries are delicate little babies. You gotta use ’em or lose ’em. This May heatwave will spoil ’em.” “Uh, yeah,” I replied, having absolutely no idea what I would do with them. “Uh, I’ll make jam,” I said as I got into the overheated cab of my truck and rolled down the window. “There’s a feed store back in Dundee; you can get your canning supplies there,” Tom said with a smile as I pulled away. Following Tom’s advice, I bought canning jars and lids at the feed store, and upon arriving home, began making jam….

A roasted carrot soup with miso butter is carrot comfort food for fall.

A Carrot by Any Other Name

written by Thor Erickson | photography by Tambi Lane It was a bone dry 95 degrees as our 1975 family van rolled into downtown Ashland. I was hot and thirsty, and my three sisters had been asking for hours for dad to turn on the air conditioning. “It uses too much gas.” He hollered back from the driver’s seat as he pulled over to a bank of granite-clad drinking fountains at Lithia Park near the center of town. “Go drink some cool water.” Following his instructions, we piled out of the van and raced to the fountains. As I took my first gulp, I almost gagged at the foul smell and taste of the warm water. Over my shoulder, I heard a laugh. I turned to see a balding middle-aged man in a dress. “Never drink the Lithia water!” he exclaimed in a British accent. He was holding a carrot…

Not all rye bread has sprung from a landfill, but this one has and it’s delicious.

The Seven Seas of Rye

written by Thor Ericksonphotography by Tambi Lane “I found a field of rye growing next to the Knott landfill!” my friend Hubert yelled into his cell phone with excitement. He continued talking with his thick German accent. “I am harvesting it now and will be over shortly.” A retired geophysicist and university professor, Hubert looks more like a mash up between Brian May, the guitarist of the rock band Queen, and jolly old St. Nick. Hubert, who rides his bicycle everywhere arrived at my house and quickly unpacked the harvested rye berries along with a bag of dirt. We ground the grains into a small bag of flour to be used for a sourdough starter and, due the location of where he found the rye, we packaged the dirt to be analyzed by Oregon State University. Second to wheat, rye is my grain of choice when baking bread. Often referred…

A chance encounter in Italy led to this egg yolk and ricotta ravioli recipe.

Uovo the Top

written by Thor Erickson photography by Tambi Lane “What to cook for dinner?” I thought to myself as I arrived home after a long day. I knew my fridge was looking a bit sparse, and I was at a loss as to what to prepare. Walking into the house, I noticed a box on the front step. I opened it to find two dozen fresh eggs from our friend, Darren, who has twelve chickens that he refers to as “the girls.” The eggs were so fresh that they were still warm. I suddenly knew what was on the dinner menu. As I cracked the delicate brown shells on the edge of a cup, I noticed the intense orange of the yolks. Suddenly I was transported back in time to a meal I had at a small hilltop restaurant just outside the northern Italian town of Piacenza. Upon my arrival, I…