Man, I love Hershey chocolate, even though to some that sounds like reaching for an old Twinkie when there’s a fresh French eclair nearby.

Ours is a world of insufferable chocolate stratification, where a bar of brown is judged by its cacao content, or the total amount of ingredients derived from the cacao bean, where real chocolate comes from.

Sixty percent cacao, at least according to the chocolate aristocracy, is considered conventional, like a girl who buys her first Jessica Simpson Collection handbag at Macy’s.

Seventy two percent cacao is for chocolate lovers of a slightly more discriminating stature — like the girl who splurges on a Coach satchel.

And eighty six percent cacao?   That’s Dutchess Kate Middleton to you.

And what’s the cacao content of Hershey milk chocolate?  It’s 11 percent.   Eleven percent – not even technically chocolate, at least according to chocolate snobs.

It’s come to my attention that eating a Hershey bar in public anymore is like walking out of the fitting room of the Dress Barn with the back of your skirt tucked into your mohogeny panty hose and asking the attendant “How do I look?” with a piece of spinach stuck in your teeth.

I’ve actually had people say to me while I try to quietly nibble even a fun-size Hershey bar:

- “Hershey? I thought you were an adult.”

- “Hershey? Really? Hershey?”

- “Hershey? Why not just eat a box of Nerds?”

I like Hershey chocolate.  I like that it’s “America’s chocolate.”  I like its standard size. I enjoy its slightly chalky texture.  It’s often accused of tasting cloyingly, one-dimensionally sweet,  but I find that is an accusation flung by people who haven’t eaten it in awhile.  A Hershey bar does not finish sweet, but “tangy,” due to a specific processing technique.   Its that characteristic sour finish I enjoy most, which distinguishes it from all the fancy chocolate out there, cacao content be damned.

My name is Jessie, and I eat Hershey.

What is that?, you may be asking.

It’s a bag of wild mushrooms, foraged by my friends Chad and Rachel, Brendan and Susan.  Chad is the expert in the group.

The bag contains maitake, chanterelles and black trumpets.

I don’t have many recipes for wild mushrooms.  But it will be fun figuring out how to cook them this weekend.

Thanks, guys!

I’ve been granted a “browsing permit” for foraging.

So that sound you hear?

That’s me, pilfering through your backyard.  (You weren’t going to eat that dandelion, were you?)

In case you’re wondering what I was doing in West Virginia over the weekend,  my friend Chin and I attended an annual wild food festival in North Bend State Park right outside the teeny tiny town of Cairo.

Foraging is quite trendy right now and it’s easy (for me, anyway) to forget that wild ingredients like fiddleheads (see pic above), pawpaws and purslane are not, in fact, solely enjoyed by ascetically-minded hipsters, but have been dietary mainstays of mountain people forever.  Foraging “the trend” never came to West Virginia because it never went out of style.

Accordingly, the weekend was a fascinating study in contrasts, a bumpy marriage of the pure and highly processed: Dessert made from wild raspberries….and boxed cake mix.  Wild mushrooms plucked from the forest sauteed in….margarine.  Just gathered purslane used as a garnish for…Ritz Crackers.

During foraging walks, I listened rapt as country women, faces slick with foundation, positively identified random weeds then detail their every last medicinal property.

Platters of wild pheasant garnished with…torn Wonder Bread.

This is squirrel,  battered and fried in corn oil, natch.  Will you think less of me when I tell you I sampled a bite and thought it was tasty?  TLC.  (That’s shorthand for “tasted like chicken.”)

While I can’t say for certain I’ll attend another foraging event of this type, I’m really glad I went. It was a reminder that wild food is — with a little education and know-how — open and accessible to everyone, from Whole Food-ies to the Hee Haw crowd.

June and I take a walk on the wild side in West Virginia. She eats a hickory nut brownie, I slurp wild grape ice cream.

Last night June and I made our way to the Homemaking section of the county fair where we saw all varieties of well tended, home grown deliciousness on display, from blue ribbon vegetables, award winning preserves and yummy cakes and confections.

Every single year I kick myself for forgetting to enter my own recipes into the competition….pretty pathetic considering I wrote a preserving cookbook!  Nice one, Knadler!  

Anyway, mark my words, gentle readers — summer 2012 is the year Rurally Screwed will spread its oily tentacles across the Homemaking competition in a variety of categories, and I hope some of my domestic friends —  young moms who find themselves reverting to the old ways of making and procuring food — will join me.   Why should our aunties and grandmothers have all the fun?

I was so inspired by what I saw: tender green beans, frothy wedges of fudge, jars tightly packed with dilly beans and coins of pickles.

Ribbons for vegetables were awarded based on color, tenderness, delicacy of flavor, ripeness (but not overripe), and uniformity of size.

Canned goods had to be in regulation canning jars featuring new, non-rusty sealing bands and labeled with contents, the type of processing, length of processing time, and date of preparation. Jams and pickles were evaluated according to flavor and appearance (appropriate headspace, lack of bubbles) and also whether the product retained its natural color, or near that of a standard cooked product.

Cakes, such as this blue ribbon banana cake below, was judged based on its pillowy, rounded appearance, uniform density and moistness (dry cakes have no place in Homemaking competitions!), smooth icing and a flavor appropriate to the type of cake in question; banana cake couldn’t taste overwhelmingly of chocolate, in other words.

(My friend, cheesecake maker extraordinaire and sometimes blog reader Karen, will be disappointed to know cheesecakes aren’t allowed in the Homemaking competition due to a higher risk of spoilage! It’s a good thing for the rest of us since I’m pretty sure she’d swiftly crush us all.)

Molded sunflower cookies, winner of the candy competition

You’ll catch me in the Homemaking Pavilion this time next year.  Bring it, ladies, bring it.

Fudge, fudge, fudge

Yesterday was not a good day.  Not a good day at all.  I recently bought a fancy new iPhone 4 at the behest of one of my more tech-savvy friends.  She  went on and on about this sleek, white piece of hardware. “You can snap millions of photos!” She said. “You can film for hours! You can upload those films directly to YouTube! You can video chat with your mom!”

I quickly discovered there’s only one thing I can’t do with this phone and that’s talk on the phone.  Maybe it’s time to accept I really do live in a hollow because I have to stand in one position near the kitchen window, leg extended 30 degrees, arm aloft, in order to get any reception.  ”Call Apple!” My friend advised,  ignoring the contradiction this action presented.

I can’t “call Apple!” because I don’t have a land line.  I tried to get a land line.  I’ve been trying to get a land line for a week.  The service guy even came over yesterday to “flip the switch,” or whatever it is service men do,  and lo and behold, I still don’t have a dial tone and my Internet was knocked out in the process.

But the highlight of my day was showing up to teach my Pilates class — a class I’ve taught in the same studio the same nights for the past five years — to find that the studio  had been taken over by some strange, cold, impervious woman who was leading a packed yoga class inexplicably taught in French.  When I tried to politely explain there must be some mistake — which I did by crouching down next to her as she performed an upward dog — she looked me up and down like I was a box of Hamburger Helper to her foie gras.  Not a word passed her lips.  Not a gesture.  Nothing but cold, hard contempt. Typical yogi, in other words.

“Alrighty then,” I feebly concluded, rising from my grovel position.  ”I’ll take my packed class to the sweltering gymnasium across the hall where we’ll listen to Vanilla Ice remixes on the studio’s ancient boom box because there are no other musical outlets in this building other than the iPod dock you’ve currently stolen.  And I really hope Dominque Strauss-Kahn chokes on a freedom fry.”

Okay, I didn’t really say that last part. But I thought about saying it, hours later, as I tossed and turned in my bed that night, going over all the offenses of the day and coming up with clever little put downs and retorts.

The class in the sweltering gymnasium didn’t turn out to be so bad, except for the Vanilla Ice remixes, the heat exhaustion and the badmiton game going on over our heads.  Other than that, it was sensational.

One of my more loyal students, Betty, must have sensed my exasperation because she gave me with a jar of her homemade wineberry juice right after class.

Fresh wineberries

I brought the juice home and tried to cheer myself up by making a homemade wineberry soda.

My precious SodaStream provided the fizz.

A bit of wineberry juice topped with seltzer and a straw.  Aaaaah!   The homemade soda didn’t exactly fix my day, but it definitely hit the spot. Thanks again, Betty!

Wineberries are like raspberries, juicy and sweet only without the seeds.  They grow wild all over this part of Virginia, dotted among the brush bordering old county highways. This time of year, it’s not uncommon to see families bent over holding buckets along roadsides picking their fill, with their station wagon practically parked in the ditch. Ordinarily, I’d venture to make a wineberry tart or jam from all the berries that grow all over my property, but involved cooking is a bit tricky when it’s only me and June.  I’ll have to put off my wineberry jam for next year.

I have two freezers full of pork, beef, chicken and beef and half the cuts I don’t even know what they are. What is an arm roast?  There are no recipes on Epicurious.com for a Beef Arm Roast. And a Deer Neck? Really?

Sometimes I have to wonder if our butcher is just some random guy in a shed with a chain saw.

Mine is a family of gamers—we barely know how to socialize without games. It’s simply not done.  We’d probably just stare at each blankly, shrug, pick our teeth, go home. So its no surprise there was plenty o’ gaming during my mom’s early Thanksgiving celebration on Saturday, which she generously scheduled to take advantage of June and me being in Montana this month. Twenty-three relatives showed up for turkey, mashed potatoes, Uncle Mike’s Apple Cheesecake (recipe below) and games. Sit with my mom for even five minutes and she’ll present you with some complicated brainteaser that will invariably highlight how un cerebral you are. Though I should probably speak for myself.

If you like games with your Thanksgiving celebration, here are a few good ones – ranked in order of preference — I picked up during this trip:

Liar’s Dice:            A betting game with dice that is won by being an exceptionally smooth liar.

Quiddler:            A Scrabble-like card game. Really fun.

Dominion:            This one is  supposed to be quite popular right now, even though it’s essentially Dungeons and Dragons in fast motion. Every game is new, depending on which action cards you choose.

Sequence:            Totally easy tic-tac-toe type board game with cards. Good for kids….or catching up on family gossip while playing.

Union Pacific:            A game about building and investing in railroads. The savviest investor wins, of course.

For dessert, my Uncle Mike brought this incredible Apple Cheesecake recipe.  Uncle Mike is quite the baker.  What I like about this dessert is that I’ve never heard of apples paired with cheesecake – though I’ve never eaten at the Cheesecake Factory so I’ll admit I’m a little behind on such matters –  but why not? The sweet tart flavor of the apples are made more intense by adding apple juice concentrate, though I believe Uncle Mike said he added orange juice concentrate, which made the flavors sock you in the face even more.  And the crust is made from oats and walnuts, not the usual (yawn!) graham crackers. Be forewarned: The pie needs to cool overnight so you can start it either Tuesday or Wednesday—just in time for Thursday’s gorgefest!  And the pie is so rich, it’s really more like 24 servings than 12.

CRUST

½ cup butter, softened

¼ cup packed brown sugar

1 cup all purpose flour

¼ cup quick cooking oats

¼ cup finely chopped walnuts

½ teaspoon ground cinnamon

FILLING

2 packages (8 ounces each) cream cheese, softened

1 can (14 ounces) sweetened condensed milk

½ cup apple juice concentrate

3 eggs, lightly beaten

TOPPING

2 medium apples, peeled and sliced

1 tablespoon butter

1 teaspoon cornstarch

¼ teaspoon ground cinnamon

¼ cup apple juice concentrate

Preheat oven to 325 degrees. In a small bowl, cream butter and brown sugar. Gradually add flour, oats, walnuts and cinnamon. Press into bottom and 1 ½ inch up the sides of a greased 9-inch springform pan. Place on a baking sheet.  Bake for 10 minutes until set. Cool on a wire wrack.  In a large mixing bowl, beat cream cheese until fluffy. Beat in milk and apple juice concentrate until smooth. Add eggs; beat on low speed just until combined (batter will be thin). Pour into crust.  Return pan to baking sheet. Bake at 325 for 40-45 minutes or until center is almost set. Cool on a wire rack for 10 minutes. Carefully run a knife around edge of pan to loosen; cool 1 hour longer. Refrigerate overnight.

In a large skillet, cook and stir apples in butter over medium heat until crisp-tender, about 5 minutes. Cool to room temperature. Arrange over cheesecake. In a small saucepan, combine cornstarch, cinnamon and apple juice concentrate until smooth.  Bring to a boil, stirring constantly. Boil for 1 minute or until thickened. Immediately brush over apples.  Refrigerate for 1 hour or until chilled. Remove sides of pan. Refrigerate leftovers. YIELD: 12 or 24 servings

No, you are not looking at a picture of my latest cold sore.

This is a mushroom, or fungus, if you want to get technical. I ate it for dinner.

Let me explain. We were out to dinner the other night with a group of friends at a very nice restaurant and the chef, a friend of ours, served us a most delicious piece of chicken. Except it wasn’t chicken.  It was a mushroom called “Chicken of the Woods.” This mushroom was foraged by one of our dinner mates Raleigh, who had presented 15 pounds of them to the chef earlier that afternoon.

Raleigh had just read about “Chicken of the Woods” in a local weekend insert — i.e. an excuse for a newspaper stuffed with ads for CVS and Kroger — and looked outside and saw a bunch of Chicken of the Woods growing on an old oak tree just outside his window.

“How did you know they weren’t poisonous?” I asked, biting into one.

“Because I tasted it and didn’t die,” he responded.

Raleigh has the makings of a fine mycologist.

It was only after he gave the mushrooms to the chef as a friendly present that he learned they sell for $29 per pound.

Chicken of the Woods grows on the wounds of trees, mostly oak, and are prized by foodies everywhere.

I was so enthralled by the idea of eating fungus that tasted exactly like chicken that Raleigh’s wife Chin brought me a few specimens the following day.

As you can see, the interior of the shroom looks exactly like chicken.

I wasn’t sure how to cook them so I followed Raleigh’s suggestion: slice them up (like chicken tenders!) and saute them in oil and herbs. Easy, simple and delicious.

Don’t they look like chicken tenders?

I sauteed them in oil, salt and pepper and rosemary, and they were so yummy! And I’m not dead yet!

For more Chicken of the Woods recipes, go here.